by Don Wilcox
“Perhaps nothing,” said Blaine. “But on the other hand it may bring to light some unforeseen troubles. After all, since we can’t reduce our subjects to absolute zero we know their molecules are not completely at rest. Are the conditions we have created good for a period of years? Will even the delicate brain tissues come through unaltered? We think so, but we won’t be sure until time has done its worst. If those trained monkeys now lying in a frozen state in the Pit of Death will come back to life and do their same tricks twenty years from now, then I’ll be convinced we could take a man who is trying to catch a train, freeze him and leave him in cold storage for ten centuries, and when he comes out of it he’d still make a bolt for that train. But for the present we need to be patient—and cautious.”
“You’re too damned cautious,” said Borden sullenly.
CHAPTER II
What Is Keohane Doing?
The police appeared one morning, three weeks after Borden’s arrival, in search of a missing boy—an orphan lad who was thought to have applied for work at the Keohane Laboratories. No one in Laboratory Eleven could offer any helpful information. Borden Keohane had interviewed thirty applicants for the position of office boy and had chosen one, but he denied having any particular recollection of the orphan lad. The incident passed over.
However, Blaine’s distrust of the “superintendent” sharpened. He slackened his work and spent his daytimes over his desk in a moody study. The assistants grew idle. The word got about that Blaine and Borden were watching each other like hawks because of a long existing professional jealousy. Marcella came to Blaine and said: “We’re ready to go ahead with your work, Mr. Rising, if—”
“Why are you reporting to me? I’m not your superintendent,” said Blaine without looking up.
“That makes no difference to us,” said Marcella. Her reassuring words helped to clear the atmosphere for Blaine, as they often had in the past. She continued, “Listen to me, Blaine Rising—”
Her eye caught Blaine’s and he realized at the instant what a close understanding had developed between the two of them in the past three months. He knew that somewhere in the back of his mind there lurked a hidden hope that someday he would share his scientific honors with this beautiful, brilliant, dark-eyed girl. She made no attempt to conceal her honest devotion as she spoke.
“Blaine, are we going to let a mere superintendent spoil the work we have started? Don’t you know how eager your assistants are to carry your experiments forward? We have implicit faith—”
In the private conference that followed, Blaine swiftly laid before Marcella his plans for the coming weeks. He instructed her to order a new supply of guinea pigs and monkeys and told her how to go ahead with a completely new series of tests. This was his second long-dreamed-of experiment—the extension of life—to be attempted through a culture of hormones that might prolong the favorable balance between the constructive and the degenerating forces in the living tissues of animals—or humans.
“By all means keep these first serums out of Borden’s hands,” said Blaine, grinning. “He’d be wild to pour them down a human throat just to see what would happen—and they’re a bit too stout for that!”
As she was about to leave, Marcella asked, “But what of your first experiment—the suspension of life through freezing? Are you going to cease work on it entirely?”
Blaine rose abruptly and said, “Come with me.”
They walked across the end of the laboratory through a pathway among tables full of bottles and beakers toward the solid little room in the corner—the Trap Room.
“Securely locked,” said Blaine. “Good. We’ll leave it that way. For the present we’ll do nothing more in the freezing line. The Pit of Death already has nearly a hundred specimens—enough for a fair ten-year test. We’ll leave the rest to time. The Pit is securely sealed and it wouldn’t be an easy job to cut into it. But this trap room must also be kept locked day and night. Otherwise that trap door might do mischief.” In a significant tone he added, “We don’t want to lose any more office boys.”
Marcella gave a start. “Then you think—”
“You know what happened as well as I do,” said Blaine quietly. “I haven’t the slightest doubt that the missing Jimmie Brayton, who applied to Borden for work, is two hundred feet beneath us at this moment—a frozen rock on the floor of the Pit of Death.”
A thrill of terror went through Marcella. Blaine, touching her lightly on the arm, sensed the shudder that passed through her body. She was a girl of strong nerves—this Blaine knew—but this implication of treachery was a frightful thing. He tried to soothe her. But it was difficult to speak optimistically of Jimmie Brayton’s chances.
“How do you think Borden got away with it?” she asked.
“He probably had the boy come back late at night to go to work. There’s hardly ever anyone here at night. When the boy came, no doubt the rest was easy—for one of Borden’s stripe. He probably rapped the lad over the head to lay him out, and then removed his clothes and tossed him onto the trap door—and the rest was automatic. He knows there would be a better chance for a perfect freeze if the clothes were first removed. Then he no doubt destroyed the evidence to the last shoe nail. I’ve searched the ashes of the laboratory furnace but never found a trace.”
“Why do you think he chose Jimmie Bray ton?”
“Because he was homeless. No family to stir up a fuss. The only thing that puzzles me is—how did he get into the Trap Room? It is usually locked, and you and I have the only keys.” Marcella shuddered. “I’m going to turn my key back to you this very minute for safe keeping.”
She opened the inner compartment of her compact, and gave a stifled cry. “It’s gone,” she gasped.
“Lose something valuable, Miss Kingman?” came a sarcastic voice from a nearby doorway. It was Borden Keohane. He had just stepped in.
“A powder puff,” said Marcella quickly as she snapped shut her compact.
“Too bad,” said Borden, “but perhaps your kind friend Mr. Rising will get you another—particularly if it was your brass powder puff.”
Blaine stepped toward Borden, clenching his fists and biting his words. “You find Miss Kingman’s key and be quick about it!”
Borden grew red with anger, but there was no need to threaten him for he was already extending the key.
“You should be more careful with your property, Miss Kingman. It might fall into dangerous hands,” he said with mock politeness, and walked off.
Blaine muttered. “Ten to one he’s had a duplicate made. It’s a sure cinch there’s trouble ahead.”
CHAPTER III
The Life Serum
The trouble Blaine had predicted was not long in coming to a climax. A few swift months passed in which rapid progress was made in the second of the two great experiments—the extension of life. The staff members worked under the pressure of their own enthusiasm as they saw the rapid results they were achieving. Naturally there was some waste motion at first, for there were no easy paths to follow in working with hormones. But out of Blaine’s insight came competent directions, and before long a new hormone serum was being tried on the mice, monkeys, and guinea pigs.
It was a very stimulating medicine. Many of the subjects died during the early days of experimental treatment from excessive heart action. But those that did not die responded favorably in many ways and gave signs of carrying on the functions of life with more than normal vigor. This was a development in the right direction, Blaine said, but the serum was too shocking in its effects upon the constitutions of the subjects.
“Moreover,” he explained to the assembled staff, “we have by no means achieved a balanced concoction. This serum may stimulate a favorable metabolic balance in certain types of tissues and still fail to do the same for other types. From our present results, I believe the duration of life of the mice may be doubled or tripled—except for the fact that the composition of the bone appears to suffer. Our effects are not well prop
ortioned. To use a mechanical illustration, our best subjects still have the failing of some of the automobiles of a few years ago, whose engines were more powerful than their framework.”
Blaine concluded his staff meeting by calling for questions. Algo Walderstein, one of the most enthusiastic members of the group, spoke up.
“Isn’t our underlying purpose to be able to extend the normal life span of human beings?”
“That is our ultimate purpose,” said Blaine.
“Then I have a suggestion,” said Walderstein. “Although our most dilute serums are too concentrated for some of our animal subjects, are they necessarily too strong for humans? I think not.”
Blaine shot a glance at Borden Keohane, who did not look up. Blaine felt certain this idea had come from him, and he hated to see Walderstein taking up these crackpot notions. Walderstein was a fine fellow and a promising scientist.
“Continue,” said Blaine.
“Well, I—for one—have perfect confidence in this serum and I’m ready to give it a try—on myself.”
There was an instant of tense silence which Blaine quickly broke. “Walderstein, are you mad? This medicine might kill you!”
Walderstein smiled. “And if it doesn’t—I might live to be a hundred and fifty—and the Keohane Laboratories may become world famed for—”
“You’re talking wildly,” interrupted Blaine. “Why rush into the jaws of death? We’ve plenty of time to go on perfecting our hormone treatments. What’s gotten into you to make you say these things? Who’s been talking to you?”
Borden Keohane felt all eyes turn on him. He jumped to his feet and snarled, “Mr. Rising, I resent that question. As superintendent of Laboratory Eleven I have a right to expect results—as rapidly as they can be achieved. I admire Walderstein for his willingness to take a chance. He’s no coward. And let me tell you, Blaine Rising, I’m no coward either. Bring me some of that serum and I’ll take it this instant—and live to see the rest of you buried and forgotten. Bring it on. I’ll show you I mean it!”
Blaine remained cool under Borden’s heated glare. He knew Borden was no coward. He was simply a fool—a fool for quick results. Blaine spoke quietly.
“I appreciate your confidence in the serum. But let me remind you, I am the only one who knows just what its composition is. I have a fair idea of what it might do for the human body. For your own good, Mr. Keohane, I shall do my best to keep it out of your hands until it has been greatly improved. If I allowed you to take it in its present state—and you died—your uncle, the president of these laboratories, would quickly put an end to all our efforts. I’ll take no chances. My staff are hereby ordered to report to me their disposal of every drop of this medicine.”
As the staff dispersed Borden was still watching Blaine with sullen, half closed eyes. Blaine tightened his lips, tossed his head back confidently, and strode back to work. But he was more worried than ever. He could see that Borden’s appeal to scientific courage had made a deep impression on three or four of his assistants, and he foresaw that as the serum improved they would be more easily impressed. Borden had taken to fraternizing with them. This, to Blaine, was a sure sign of treachery.
That week, before Blaine had found a plan to avert the impending crisis, the first blow was struck. A telephone call announced that Algo Walderstein was dead. He had died suddenly as he was starting to work. The coroner’s verdict was heart failure.
Laboratory Eleven paid its respects to a beloved member and returned to work. A chill spirit pervaded the days that followed. Blaine’s orders became cold and harsh. Marcella’s cheery smile was withheld. Borden’s obvious efforts to whip up a congenial spirit were mere mockery. For Algo Walderstein was dead. He had taken a long chance and lost.
If Blaine had any written formulas for the new serum, no one knew where they were kept. He now went on a new schedule, working through the nights and catching a little sleep through the daytimes. In the mornings when his assistants arrived he presented each with the materials they needed and with a sheet of explicit orders for the work of the day. There was very little talk. It was as if the assistants were working under the silent system of a prison—but in spite of the silence there was one thing that every member of the staff knew: The serum was improving daily. The reactions of the animal subjects were proving that.
CHAPTER IV
Keohane’s Plans
Marcella missed Blaine’s companionship terribly. Once a few days ago he had kissed her for the first time. It had happened at the close of a long day, after the rest of the staff had gone. She and Blaine had stood at one of the windows watching the snow float down upon the roofs below them and the lights from the streets sparkle through the falling snow. They had exchanged confidences about their hopes and dreams of life, and several breathless kisses had passed between them.
Those moments were to have happened again and again—and then—Walderstein’s death—and this frigid atmosphere had suddenly swept down upon everyone. Now Marcella refrained from searching Blaine’s eyes for a reassuring look. If his genius could withstand the threatening pressures from Borden that was all she could hope for at present. But through the nights she would awaken and gaze from her apartment window toward the tiny squares of green light many blocks away where she knew Blaine was at work in Laboratory Eleven—and in such sleepless hours she dared to dream that those enraptured moments would soon return.
“All employees of the Keohane Laboratories are invited to attend an informal party on the evening of Saturday, February 27, eight o’clock, at the Morse Hotel. This party is given in observance of the thirty-third anniversary of the founding of the Keohane Research Laboratories. There will be dancing throughout the evening in the grand ball room, while elsewhere there will be several demonstrations and lectures, including a lecture on “Scientific Courage” by Borden Keohane, Superintendent of Laboratory Eleven. Come and enjoy—and inform—your self!—President R. H. Keohane.”
Blaine tossed the invitation and other items of the morning mail to one side of his desk and prepared to leave. Marcella came to him hastily. He read anxiety in her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Borden Keohane.”
Blaine was alarmed. “What has he done now?”
“He asked me to go with him—to the party.”
“Oh. What did you tell him?”
“That I’ve already promised to go with you. I—I hope you won’t be angry.”
Blaine pressed her hand. “You did the right thing. I wouldn’t have you go out with that devil for a million dollars.”
“Thank you, Blaine.”
“I’ll come by for you at any time you say. It will be my first night away from this laboratory for weeks, but under the circumstances it seems the best thing to do. Things will be safe here as long as Borden is at the party.”
Blaine and Marcella arrived at the party late. The few moments together in the taxi meant far more to them than the festivities, but they knew it was well to be present as a matter of form.
“Are your worries all brushed aside for the evening?” Marcella asked. Blaine smiled at her. She was a gorgeous thing in her yellow evening dress, her dark, liquid eyes smiling at him. It would have been only too easy to brush aside all cares and worries—to forget the bitter fight he was having to wage every minute of his life to protect his scientific dreams.
“Almost,” he said, taking her into his arms and gliding onto the floor among the other dancers. “If you’ll forgive one little precaution—I’ll feel perfectly at ease as soon as I’m sure Borden is here and not somewhere else.”
They danced to the far end of the room and walked over to one of the doors. The sign beside it announced continuous lectures throughout the evening by Borden Keohane. And the echo of Borden’s voice coming through the loud speaker could be heard at the door.
“There,” said Marcella with charming reassurance. “No more worries for the evening.” Yet even as she spoke she felt a fear
that her words would mock her before the evening was past. An hour later when the party was in full sway she urged that they pause before the door of the lecture room again. Blaine was only too willing. His growing suspicion was evident. They listened. Borden’s voice could be heard as before.
“I’m not convinced,” said Blaine. “Let’s go in.”
The doorman stopped them saying, “This lecture is almost finished. Wouldn’t you rather come back in ten minutes for the next one?”
Ten minutes later they were seated on the front row in the lecture room. The house lights went off. The murmurs of the scattered audience hushed. As the curtain rose, the figure of Borden Keohane was already standing there, perfectly motionless, at one side of the stage in a very dim light. There appeared to be a microphone nearby. At once the pictures flashed onto the screen and Borden’s voice accompanied them.
“Now see what we’ve let ourselves in for,” Marcella whispered. “We’ll have to listen for thirty minutes—or will we?”
Several seconds passed before Blaine answered. Then:
“Have you seen him move yet?”
“I haven’t noticed.” They watched intently. “It’s too dark to see his face,” Marcella whispered.
“Then watch closely,” said Blaine, drawing a small flashlight from his pocket. Light shot upon the figure. “Did you get it?”
“A dummy,” Marcella gasped. “What we hear must be a recording.”
“A hoax on me,” said Blaine, setting his teeth. “It’s a thousand to one he’s going through my formulas this very minute. I’ve got to get out of here!” They bolted for the nearest exit.
A taxi spun them across the city toward the Laboratories. Soon they caught sight of the building.
“Don’t I see a dim light in the windows?” said Blaine.
“Yes. Laboratory Eleven.”
