by Earl
How much? Riker applied a simple technique to find out. He first pulled out his watch, then put it back with a sheepish snort. He couldn’t time it that way, obviously, since he couldn’t see the watch. So, when he closed his eyes, he began counting:
“One steam-engine—two steam-engine—three steam-engine—” This method of counting, if one enunciated clearly, seldom fell off the true minute by more than a few seconds.
At sixty steam-engine he started over again. He reached another sixty and had to start once more. This time, at fifty-three, the scene his brain saw flicked out. Thus, since he had closed his eyes two minutes and fifty-three steam-engines before, his brain-perception was approximately three minutes behind his eye-vision.
“Pete,” admonished Riker, trying to see some humor in the situation, “if yuh see a mouse, don’t bother to jump at it. You will be three minutes too late.”
A WHILE later, Pat Riker found himself on edge.
The phenomenon wasn’t going away. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was anything but a temporary condition. It was fascinating in a way, but he thought of the five men, down in the Antipodes, waiting to be rescued. Waiting, in the last analysis, for him! To all intents and purposes, he was as good as blind with his trick eyesight. He wouldn’t be able to see what his fingers were doing—till three minutes later. How could he repair the radio?
No, the thing would have to go. But obstinately, it didn’t, even after an hour. A gray worry made him nervous. He had the fantastic thought that if an intruder were now before him, ready to slit his throat with a sharp knife, he wouldn’t know of it! Then he reproved himself for such petty self-concern. What about the five stranded men, in snow-bound Antarctica? That burning thought drove him to make an attempt at repairing the radio.
It wasn’t the tubes he was worrying about. They were standard makes, and he had replacements. With a good deal of fumbling, and three-minute peerings at their numbers, he substituted twelve new tubes for the burned out ones. But turning on the switch brought no answering hum from the set. He felt among the wiring and found the source of the trouble three minutes before his eyes saw it. Of the welter of spidery wires leading to his newly invented “subether selector,” half were fused short. There were exactly 246 wires. Over a hundred must be replaced and soldered!
Heating the electric iron, he tried soldering some of the leads, performing operations that he saw only after three minutes. He saw that his blind fingers had made mistakes among the closely positioned lugs. And he had knocked three more wires loose, in his blundering. A blind man could do no worse. He gave up, with a nightmarish feeling of helplessness.
Worst of all, he couldn’t call in outside help. The most skilled radio technician would be baffled. Riker had only sketchy diagrams of his new circuit. The rest he carried in his head. He might explain—no, that would take days and days, for all those wires.
And the thin thread of voice from Antarctica would cease within 24 hours! What could be done? Riker’s brain began to ache. He wondered if in all history, a man had ever been placed in his dilemma. He sat down to think, biting his lips.
He jumped up suddenly. Half way to the phone, he decided he was going the wrong way—toward the radio—and turned. But he was still facing that way, as far as he could see. Confused, a derelict in the middle of the room, he cursed, stretched out his hands and made mincing steps forward, ignoring what his eyes told him. In this sleepwalker fashion, he finally touched a wall-shelf of books, knocking several to the floor, while his lying eyes told him he should be perched on top the radio, fifteen feet away.
Oriented by the bookshelf, feeling his way, he came to the wall phone and called information. He got the number of the low-wave radio station which, in conjunction with one in Australia, was keeping a 24-hour-a-day vigil for Admiral Gregg’s calls. After some shunting from person to person, Riker was finally connected with the key-man, Paul Gregory.
Riker wondered how to begin. He decided to come right out with it. “Admiral Gregg and his men Crashed!” he said bluntly.
“What!” Gregory’s voice was a shocked treble. “It’s true that they missed sending their last regular call, but that doesn’t necessarily mean—” He broke off and demanded, “Who are you?”
Riker told his story, except for the delayed vision, which was irrelevant at the moment.
“How could you have picked up that call?” said Gregory impatiently. “Neither we nor Australia did. And no one else has reported such a call. You must be a crank.”
He seemed about to hang up. “Wait!” pleaded Riker. “I just happened to pick it up,” he stated, as earnestly as he could. He decided against telling of his super-radio—then he would be taken as a crank. “You’ll simply have to believe me, that those men are stranded.”
“You didn’t get the position?”
“No. But if you send planes down there, equipped with radio, they might be able to pick up the call,” suggested Riker.
The official seemed to reflect. “We’ll have to send out at least one, just on the chance you’re right,” he returned finally. “Your set is damaged? Can we send a repair man around? We can’t overlook any possibilities—”
“It wouldn’t be any use,” responded Riker. “My set is completely burned out, because of the power I used.” He hung up, feeling a little better over the situation. It was more or less out of his hands now.
TWO hours later Pat Riker decided to go out, delayed vision or no. Besides, he was hungry. He shuddered just a little at the thought of venturing out, with little better optical equipment than a blind man. But he also thrilled a little. In a way, it would be an adventure.
“You stay here, Pete,” he admonished, feeling the cat rub against his ankles. “You’d be completely lost, with your lack of reasoning powers.” He pushed the animal away and slipped out of the door quickly, cutting off its protesting mews.
He couldn’t see the hall that stretched to the front vestibule. He was still seeing the room he had left. He felt his way along one wall, hoping no one else in the big rooming house would come along and see him groping like a blind man.
He stopped when he heard the front door creak open and close again. Someone coming in, just when he didn’t want it. He stood still, trying to look aimlessly composed, although why he should be standing in the hall like that would be a question.
Footsteps approached, two pairs of them. “This must be the place,” said feminine tones. A man’s voice answered in the affirmative.
Riker realized they must be staring at him, standing like a statue. His embarrassment made him decide to move, either forward or backward. He chose forward—and bumped squarely into the woman!
He could hear her stumble back with a sharp gasp. Now she must be glaring at him. “Hm—drunk!” she pronounced, and Riker couldn’t blame her for the accusation. He mumbled an apology.
Her voice changed. “Are you by any chance Mr. Riker, the man who called Paul Gregory at the radio station?”
“Yes!” returned Riker wonderingly.
“Oh!” Her voice held relief. “Then it isn’t true after all! When I went to the studio, alarmed that no call had come from Admiral Gregg’s expedition, Mr. Gregory told me of your message. He said you were probably a crank, but I wanted to make sure.” Her voice became reproving. “It was a mean thing to do, Mr. Riker, scaring us about those men being stranded. But I’m glad anyway, that it’s just a—a drunken prank.”
Riker half growled. His temper rose, with his nerves not in the best condition.
“I’m not drunk!” he denied angrily. “My eyes are a little—weak. Furthermore, it wasn’t a prank. It’s true, about the message. I did receive it, and Admiral Gregg’s party is stranded!” He wondered what the woman—he pictured her with a hatchet-face—
would say to that.
He heard her sharp gasp, and sensed that she had her hand at her throat. “John! He’s in danger!” It was the involuntary cry of a woman, hearing bad news of a loved one.
At that moment, Riker saw the previous scene unfolded, to his slowed sight. He saw the woman come in while he stood still, glance at him and approach, followed by a man with a black case. As she neared, Riker saw she was a young girl, and—far from being a hatchet-faced type—was pretty! Then the hall scene jerked forward, as he had moved before. Her shoulder struck his. She fell back. Then her lips gave out her denunciation. He heard nothing, of course, of words that had been uttered three minutes before.
RIKER came to the present as he heard a muffled sob. He felt suddenly sorry for her. “Your husband?” he asked.
“My brother,” returned the girl. Her voice became more controlled. “I’m Rita Caldwell. Mr. Riker, if you picked up one call, you must be able to do it again. I’ve brought a repair man along from the radio station.”
Riker shrugged but turned to lead the way to his room. He knew his course was unsteady, and felt the back of his ears turn red. At the doorway, by dint of careful mental plotting, he made a fairly straight course to the workbench and radio. The radio technician followed and bent over the exposed parts of the set.
Ten minutes later, after useless explanations by Riker, the man gave up without opening his kit of tools. “Queer outfit,” he declared, shaking his head. “It’s beyond me. It would take me a week to get somewhere with it. There’s only one man who can fix it, and that’s yourself.”
Riker agreed.
“Then why don’t you?” demanded the girl. “Instead of—drinking!” She had evidently been brooding about her brother; her face was drawn. “Five men are in danger of death down there! How can you waste even a minute—oh!” She turned away, half sobbing again.
“I tell you it’s my eyes,” protested Riker lamely. Should he go on and tell of the incredible delayed vision? He started to, but the girl interrupted.
“I’ll have to go,” she said. “My nerves are unsettled.” Her voice came from the doorway, pleadingly. “But please try to repair your radio. So much depends on it!” Then they left.
Pat Riker thought that over and felt miserable. If he only could repair the radio! But that was impossible with his damnable delayed vision. He would have to wait till it left him. If it didn’t soon, he would seek medical advice. For the second time he left. He felt he had to get away from the room, and the thought of the five men waiting—waiting—
He groped his way down the hall to the vestibule, this time without interruption, and stepped from the front door. Then someone came out, while he was standing and said cheerily, “Good morning, Riker!”
“Uh, same to you—” returned Riker. He had been about to add a name, but thought better of it. It sounded like Saunders, third floor roomer, but might be Tillson, second floor rear. They both had deep voices. Three minutes later Riker saw a figure give him a silent greeting, stare at him for a moment and then shrug and walk away. Tillson, after all.
THEN his vision had caught up, Riker looked over the familiar neighborhood in which he had lived for the past two years. Back of him was the large rooming house. The street was fairly quiet, though the next intersection was busy. He knew his way around, but would have to watch his step with his perplexing slow vision.
He judged his course nicely from the steps and reached the board fence along the sidewalk. He turned, hugging the fence.
Very slowly and deliberately he walked along, trust that people would step out of his way. He could hear quick sidesteps and feel stares at the back of his neck. He heard one lady’s voice, saying to another, “What a rude man! He wouldn’t step out of the way an inch!” The other said, “Looks like a sleepwalker, the way he holds his head stiff and doesn’t move his eyes.”
Riker didn’t dare move his head. If he did, the whole street scene before his mental vision would swing with it, and he’d be lost. He must be near now, to the restaurant on the corner. Suddenly disaster struck. A childish voice said, “Look out, mister!” and Riker’s shins were bumped by a boy on a tricycle.
Riker’s head moved, the whole scene shifted, and he was stranded. How could he know which way to turn and be sure he was right? All directions were right, as far as he could see. Blind? It was worse than being blind, he reflected in dismay.
He had to wait three minutes, with his head fixed in one position, till he found out which way he was turned. He put his hands in his pockets and whistled, so people would think he was waiting for someone, standing pointlessly in the middle of the sidewalk. Once again oriented, he aimed for the door of the restaurant. It was almost like aiming a cannon, and then becoming a human cannonball. But an appetite that had always been healthy could not be denied.
He reached the haven of the restaurant safely. He bumped a man going in, said “Pardon me,” and then felt himself jostled by others coming out. To Riker for a moment it seemed the universe was filled with elbows, knees and toe-crushing shoes. Belligerent voices told him to watch where he was going, or get glasses if he needed them. Half in a panic, Riker decided he should never have ventured into a small space filled with moving humanity. Shoved and sworn at by low voices, he finally felt a wall at his back and clung to it, flustered and a little miserable.
RIKER stood, waiting to see the tables. In the meantime, his mental eye was seeing the glares of the people in the previous episode. Also his vision had flicked over a clock and he saw the time. It was noon now. He tried to stifle the following thought—that in twenty-one hours or so the thin appeal from Antarctica would blink out into defeated silence. Stubbornly, he told himself not to let it spoil his appetite.
When he saw the tables, he moved for the nearest empty one. As he was about to sit down, some dim warning worked and he stopped. He heard a person’s breathing and realized that during the three-minute wait, the empty seat had been taken. With a muttered apology, he moved to the next table and sat down. Luckily, all was well this time. Three minutes later he saw that he had nearly sat down in a young lady’s lap, and wondered what pandemonium that would have created.
The process of eating brought up new complications. His mouth was not so easy to find. His first spoonful of soup—he was immediately sorry he had ordered it—touched his nose and spilled down his chin. The second spoonful spilled to the tablecloth, since he hadn’t been able to see that he had titled the spoon. He gave up the soup. The steak was tender but cutting it was nevertheless laborious. He had to gauge carefully and by instinct so the pieces wouldn’t be too large. Then, by placing his elbow on the table as an immovable fulcrum, he was able to get the forkfuls of food more or less accurately to his mouth. By these trial-and-error methods, he progressed slowly. He saw other diners watching him surreptitiously, and felt conspicuous, but was too hungry to care much.
An hour later he made his way out of the restaurant’s side door, which was less used, without mishap. Outside, he stood for a while, waiting till the cashier was counting out money in his hands, to his lagging vision. Never in his life had Riker failed to check his change from purchases. He wasn’t going to start now. The amount was correct. Without thinking, he began stuffing the imaginary bills in his pocket, then grinned ruefully. The money had been in his pocket for three minutes.
He made his way slowly down the street. Go back to his room, avoid all this madness? No! It was at least a unique enough adventure to keep his mind off the stranded Antarctic explorers. And from the thought of the girl and her last appeal. Besides, the queer delayed vision would undoubtedly go away soon.
A little chill went up his spine. Suppose the phenomenon didn’t go away, ever? Suppose all his life . . . he broke off the disquieting thought.
He saw a clock on a building front. A voice said, within his brain: “Twenty hours!” He began to hate clocks.
He was able to move down the sidewalk of this street with less fear of wandering. It was a traffic thoroughfare and the sound of moving cars at his right guided him. He was beginning to learn the value of sound in his sight-delayed world—like a blind man.
But when he came to the next intersection, where t
he cross street was also a busy boulevard, he wondered how he could cross without risking life and limb. Standing and listening for a while, he found it possible to judge when the traffic lights changed by the squeaks of brakes in one direction and the roars of starting cars in the other. Confident in this reasoning, he started across at the next change. He heard voices of people beside him, also crossing, so he had guessed correctly.
But when half way across, he heard the sudden squeal of brakes, and gasps behind him. Riker stood in a paralysis of fear. Was he in danger? It was ironic to reflect, as he did fleetingly, that he would see the danger in three minutes, but that was no help now. He was stiff as a post, holding his breath, waiting for it to happen.
A HAND clutched his arm and jerked him back three steps. He felt a fender brush his pants leg. There were excited voices.
“Are you drunk?” asked a man’s voice in his ear, obviously the one who had rescued him. “I ought to run you in! What’s the idea of trying to cross diagonally?”
Diagonally! So he had wandered, and nearly run into a car making a right turn. It was the traffic cop at the intersection who had spoken.
“I’m—I’m a little near-sighted and forgot my glasses,” mumbled Riker.
Still holding his arm, the policeman guided him to the sidewalk, lecturing him. Then he left. Riker clung to the corner lamp-post, shaken. Three minutes later he sidestepped a phantom car, his heart almost stopping. It had been close. He stood for a while longer, composing his nerves.
As he was about to move away, he heard again that hated squeal of brakes—then a sodden thump and a child’s scream. Somewhere before him, an accident had really happened! Almost immediately there was the roar of a departing car—a hit-and-run driver, escaping!
