by Jerry
Two days since his swollen dry lips had drained the very ultimate, last drop of water. Not a bit of food had passed his mouth for over a week. Yet this he did not mind so much. But that dreadful thirst! Sometimes he was tempted to open the outer exit and let the inrushing cold end it all in merciful instantaneousness.
Two days yet ere the Meteor would reach the outermost molecules of the earth’s atmosphere. He must husband his fast-ebbing strength; felt he could hold out if only the air would last that long. He knew that when his vessel began rushing through the outer confines of the vacuous atmosphere, he must have sufficient strength to start the motors, must guide the craft safely to solid land—must not allow too swift a rush through the heavier layers of air to prevent burning up like a meteor. His great velocity must be retarded slowly, gradually, while still scores of miles up.
He husbanded every ounce of his strength, lying perfectly still most of the time to conserve the vitiated air. Now and then he continued his observations. The Meteor was now approaching the earth on a fast in-running spiral. The huge body of the planet now filled more than a quarter of the sky. Soon, soon, the crucial process of landing would tax his knowledge and skill.
WHILE still miles above the surface, he had started the engines—a supreme effort for his lone and wasted strength. But they were now going; the propellers spinning.
He made ready in plenty of time. The very sound and feel of the throbbing motors was like sweet music to his ears, a sweet caress to his tortured nerves.
Not a drop of water for nearly four days. He was gasping for the air, which was now almost unbreathable. Any unlooked for delay in landing would be fatal.
Summoning all his remaining reserve of strength through sheer power of will, he stood tense at the controls. Underneath, the surface of the earth loomed welcomingly, immense and wide, bathed in brilliant sunshine. He could make out no details even with his glass. Everything was completely obscured by a vast storm-area; the outerside of the cloud banks reflecting the dazzling rays of the sun.
He was moving through the silence with frightful speed. Any moment he would begin to feel the retarding pressure of the outposts of the planet’s atmosphere. He must be careful . . . careful . . . descend lower slowly, when resistance against the body and wings shall have reduced his terrific velocity to within safe limits; then proceed under his own controlled power to a safe landing place . . . life and happiness. . . .
At last he began to feel the cushioning effect of the resisting atmosphere. Moving as he was at the residual enormous velocity, the wings of the Meteor met sufficient resistance, even in the all but empty space, to control his rate of descent. As the friction against the body
The
and wings gradually reduced his velocity, he allowed the vessel to settle lower and lower.
Slowly he settled; still going at five thousand miles an hour—three thousand—two thousand—steadily decreasing. Lower and lower, slower and slower; the now cloudless vistas beneath drawing near. Thank God!
He was over land; too weak and dizzy to care where; anywhere so it was a safe place to land. Green fields, trees, roofs of houses, the landscape melting and swimming before his eyes. His knees sagged. . . . Ah, a large open field. He must land—land. . . .
A heavy thud. As if in a dream he felt the Meteor bump along the ground and come to rest . . . blessed land!
He felt himself going. With his last remaining strength he reeled drunkenly to the exit. With his last shred of will he unsealed the locks—shouts, voices . . . funny; things were getting dark . . . the floor rising toward him. . . .
A STRANGE face was bending over him; two faces—no, several, Who were these people? What was he doing in that bed?
He heard murmuring voices. Funny—he could not understand a word; such odd words. He turned his head and looked around. White room; white clothes—where in the devil was he!
Someone was holding his hand, feeling his wrist A pleasant-faced man, with a closely cropped beard, was leaning over him, talking with such senseless-sounding words in a strange language.
He closed his eyes; inhaled deeply of the blessed air; luxuriated in the sweetsmelling sheets. He opened his eyes again: the smiling face of a white-clad girl; a glass tube at his lips—cooling water . . . he sucked greedily.
He was in Holland, after thirteen days and twenty-one hours in space.
THE END.
THE BRAIN OF ALI KHAN
Lloyd Eshbach
l This story is unusual in the fact that it should satisfy nearly all of our readers.
Those who want science—good science and plenty of it, in their science-fiction, will find this tale their ideal. There are more medical facts—neurology—in this very short story than in many novels of the same type.
Those who want a thrilling tale will find this one unparalleled in weird, exciting incidents.
Those who want something new will find a plot never before used—one that lives up to our new policy in its refreshing originality.
Rarely has such a vivid, realistic story with plenty of good science and new ideas been written.
l There was an uneasy light in the pale blue eyes of Dr. Carl Selkirk, neurologist, as he studied the face of his patient. A momentary expression of annoyance crossed his countenance. That strange feeling of uneasiness had persisted throughout every contact with this case—yet there was no reason for it! For this was unquestionably a case of cerebrospinal meningitis,[*] exactly like many others he had attended—except for the fact that his present patient was a Hindu.
The prominent features of Ali Kahn, the Hindu, were distorted with pain; his ebony-colored skin was tightly drawn over protruding cheek bones; his long, narrow eyes, lying in deep, hollow sockets, were tightly closed; and his thin lips writhed and snarled as the faint, meaningless words of delirium stumbled from his disease-wracked brain.
Dr. Selkirk turned to the attending nurse, striving to rid himself of his inexplicable uneasiness.
“Miss Allen, what has been the patient’s condition since I last saw him?” Solemnly the nurse shook her head. “Until about an hour ago, he was in a state of intermittent delirium. Then, in the midst of a particularly violent seizure, he went into collapse; he lost all strength. He has been lying there practically motionless ever since.”
Dr. Selkirk nodded. “The disease is traveling its regular course, Dr. Arlington,” he said, addressing the interne who was accompanying him on his visit to his patients, “first delirium, then collapse, and finally a comatose condition from which they pass into death. He will sink into a coma in a short time, I believe—and nothing can be done for him.” He began moving toward the door.
“Dr. Selkirk!” There was hesitancy in Nurse Allen’s voice and manner. “This has no bearing on the case, but he—he said some of the queerest things in his delirium. Most of it was in his native tongue, but occasionally he spoke in English. Again and again he referred to Vishnu and Siva and Brahma. Then, finally, he said, very slowly and clearly, ‘The soul is the life of the body—the brain is the seat of the soul—the body dies, but the brain lives on! Brahma is all, and all is Brahma. And Brahma is the soul!’ I remember it because he repeated it several times.”
“Nonsense!” Dr. Selkirk exclaimed—more violently than the occasion demanded. “Eastern mysticism! The soul! Brahma! Utter nonsense—”
“Quick, Doctor!” the interne interrupted in a startled voice, “look at the Hindu! I thought he was helpless!”
Wide-eyed, they watched as Ali Kahn drew a single bony arm from beneath the bedspread and raised it slowly heavenward, fingers clutching feebly. His thin lips moved, and a faint, dry voice drifted through the room, a whisper like the rustle of dead leaves.
“Brahma is all—and all—all—is Brahma. The body dies—but the brain lives on. The soul is Brahma. Brahma be praised!”
Suddenly the face of the man changed. The pain vanished, was replaced by hatred. His eyes grew wide and staring, glittering coldly; his dark skin was drawn
into countless fine wrinkles; he drew down the corners of his mouth in an evil leer. The staring eyes and a quivering finger fixed themselves upon Dr. Carl Selkirk. And from the lips of Ali Kahn came the croaking words:
“I die—but you shall die as I die, Sahib! In the name of Siva the Destroyer, I promise it. The body dies—but the brain lives on, is it not so, Sahib? You—you shall commit murder!”
Abruptly all strength left Ali Kahn and his outstretched arm fell at his side. His eyes and lips closed; his facial muscles sagged. He had entered the coma from which there would be no awakening.
“Delirium!” Dr. Selkirk exclaimed. “Obviously delirium! . . . Come, Doctor, we must go.” Hastily he left the room, followed by the interne. A sickly pallor had overspread his face and he was chewing his lower lip nervously.
“How—how could he know?” he muttered slowly. “I thought I was the only one.”
“What did you say, sir?” Dr. Arlington inquired.
“Nothing—nothing, of course!” he answered sharply.
l Abruptly he paused, faced the interne.
“I had almost forgotten an urgent appointment for eleven o’clock, Doctor. If you will, I wish you’d see the other patients and do whatever may be necessary.
As for the Hindu, continue with the prescribed serum—even though death seems inevitable.” Turning, he hurried down the hall. A few minutes later he left the hospital, stepped into his waiting car, and sped away.
Reaching the building that housed his office and living quarters, he unlocked the door, entered, and relocked it. There would be no patients for the present; his office hours began at three that afternoon. Mechanically he removed his hat, then began to pace the floor.
The mind of Dr. Carl Selkirk was a chaotic, disordered thing. Back and forth, back and forth he paced, his brows gathered into tight furrows. The Hindu, Ali Kahn, had disturbed him more than he cared to confess, even to himself.
It wasn’t his curse; that was the madness of delirium. It was that damnable phrase, repeated with fiendish insistency: “The body dies, but the brain lives on.” For it was true!
But how had the Hindu known? He had thought that he alone possessed that knowledge. True, recently the medical world had begun to suspect that the brain might live a minute or two after bodily death—but they stopped far short of the truth. Actually, it remained alive for; hours, many hours in some cases.
He had made the discovery in his latex studies in Vienna. He could remember every detail of the events leading up to the revelation of this astounding truth. He and another medical student had become interested in the possibilities of thought transference, mental telepathy. They had experimented—had achieved their goal—had become quite adept at transmitting their thoughts. And the other student had died.
Hours after his death, an autopsy had been performed, and he, Selkirk, had been present. Suddenly, when they were sawing the skull to expose the brain, a stream of thoughts had flowed into his mind, thoughts from his dead friend—horrible shrieks of mental anguish—foul curses—frantic pleas for release from further torture! . . . He shuddered now as he recalled the scene.
It had ended with the first stroke of the scalpel through the grey matter—but it had left him with the knowledge that the mind lived after the body. The cause of that continued life? He didn’t know, but he strongly suspected that the pituitary gland, situated in the brain, was responsible.
During the years that followed, he had had to perform post mortems—many of them—and he hadn’t minded so long as the brain had remained untouched. But autopsies of the brain—they brought beads of cold perspiration upon his forehead; they sent tremors of nervous dread through his limbs. For always at such times, his senses seemed sharpened, seemed able to detect every horrifying thought of his human subjects. It was maddening.
Dr. Carl Selkirk shook his head impatiently. To think that he, a nerve specialist, had permitted his mind to assume such a disordered state! But he couldn’t help it!
His thoughts returned to Ali Kahn, the Hindu. If he died, as he probably would, an autopsy would have to be performed. And he would have to do it! That, in part, accounted for his discomfort in the presence of his dark skinned patient. But more than that, he had been annoyed by Ali Kahn’s reference to his discovery. How had he known?
Suddenly Dr. Carl Selkirk smiled. Absurd that it hadn’t occurred to him before. Mental telepathy, of course! He had accomplished it; why couldn’t another? And the intellectuals of India were reputed to have delved deeper into the mysteries of the mind than any other race. That accounted in full for his uneasiness. The man had been reading his thoughts.
Relieved, he paused in his pacing and sank into a chair. He was glad that the thing was settled. It had puzzled him, had shaken his nerves.
But—the cheeks of Dr. Carl Selkirk blanched—if the man could read his thoughts, he could probably transmit his own! And the autopsy lay before him! Gripping the arms of his chair, he stared into vacancy, unconsciously biting his lower lip. And after a time, he smiled, a distorted movement of his mouth, mirthless, grim.
He had discovered something unknown to medical science—a discovery of great import—yet he cursed the knowledge! It was all very droll!
At 2:20 p.m. Dr. Carl Selkirk was informed that Ali Kahn had died.
l The morgue was silent, as silent as death. No sound broke its somber stillness; no ray of light pierced the semidarkness of this abode of the departed.
Dr. Carl Selkirk entered the morgue with a fear unnatural in a physician. To his overwrought nerves and morbid imagination, the very silence of the place appeared a source of peril; and in the darkness there seemed to lurk a brooding secrecy, cloaking evil things.
Hastily he switched on the lights and drew a deep breath. He held out his hand; it trembled visibly. Steady! He must not betray his perturbation to his assistant. With a tremendous effort of will, he quieted his nerves. Then he put on a rubber apron and a pair of rubber gloves.
At that moment, Dr. Arlington, the interne, entered, an expression of deep interest in his dark eyes, and a half-smile of anticipation on his lean, earnest face.
“You know, Doctor,” he said as he put on gloves and an apron similar to Selkirk’s, “I consider post mortems most interesting. I think much can be learned by actual study of the anatomical changes that take place in relation to the diseases.”
“Yes,” Dr. Selkirk agreed brusquely. “Quite so!” But the interne could not possibly realize that the anatomical relationships were insignificant beside the fact that living brains were in those dead bodies! “And this will be a very instructive post mortem,” he continued. “I shall explain each pathological step as we go along.” That might aid in keeping his thoughts from dwelling on his obsession.
“Certainly, Doctor. Are we ready for the body?”
“Yes; I’ll help you.”
Crossing to a large electrical refrigerator, the interne swung open a wide door and drew out the nude body of Ali Kahn. Together they carried it to the center of the room and placed it face downward on a white marble slab in the middle of which was a circular opening, a drain to carry away the blood. After elevating the Hindu’s head with a block of wood, the interne stepped back.
Dr. Selkirk then secured the necessary instruments and approached the body, steeling his nerves for what he knew would be an ordeal.
“First,” he began, “we make an incision from the right articular process of the mandible, around the back of the head, to the left articular process.” He drew his blade from one point where the jaw bone joined the temple bone, to the other.
Grasping the scalp at the incision, he pulled it anteriorly down over the face, exposing the skull. Raising a saw, he remarked:
“You obtain your best opening to the cranial cavity by sawing about three inches above the base of the occipital bone horizontally across the skull.” He started sawing.
Every moment Dr. Selkirk expected a tide of malediction to sweep from the brain of Ali Kahn into h
is own. Thus far nothing had happened—but the silence could not continue much longer. His nerves were strained, tautened things.
Finally the first saw cut was finished, and still no thought had come. “Now, Doctor,” he said in a voice that was unnaturally quiet, “hold his head steady while we complete the opening.”
Slowly he began, sawing across the parietal bone. His fingers seemed weighted down with lead; his heartbeat had quickened; he had difficulty in breathing. Saw—saw—back and forth—-back and forth. Slower and slower moved his hands—and finally the ends were connected to form a semi-circular incision. A little prying with a chisel—and the brain lay bared before him!
“Fool! The brain is the seat of the soul—and the soul is Brahma! Think you, Sahib, that you can tamper with the All-wise and escape? Fool!” The thoughts of Ali Kahn were flooding his mind!
Hatred—God, what hatred filled his thoughts! Selkirk’s senses reeled under the power of hate incarnate. Jeering, screaming, mocking, shrieking, the thoughts continued, vibrating through his mind like a horrible requiem. Yet above it all he heard his own voice, faint, distant, almost unrecognizable.
“It is an easy matter to remove the brain from the cavity, but the many adhesions that in all probability will be present, may make it difficult to remove it intact. Still, I think we can do it if we exercise a little care.”
Could—could he force himself to touch that mass of grey matter, reeking with its hell-spawned thoughts of hatred? God, no! His entire being rebelled against the thought. Yet, in spite of himself, his hand was even then thrusting itself between the skull and the brain, breaking the connecting tissues.
“Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it, by Siva! May Vishnu desert you! May the blind eyes of the sky watch you and curse your soul!”
On and on and on, in a jumbled medley of hell and madness, Ali Kahn’s thoughts poured into the mind of Dr. Selkirk. And the Doctor’s thoughts became confused, terrified by the backwash of putrid curses that flooded his cringing reason. Yet he heard his own voice, strained and hoarse, continuing mechanically.
