A Brilliant Void: A Selection of Classic Irish Science Fiction

by Jack Fennell

  ‘Ay, years!’ The Professor looked back at him, and his eyes shone. Old age seemed to slip from him, and for the moment a transient youth was his again. ‘This is but a beginning – a mere start; but if it succeeds – if life can be sustained by means of this drug alone for seven days, why not for months and years?’

  ‘You forget one thing,’ said the young man. ‘Who would care for it? Why should one care to lie asleep for years?’

  ‘Many!’ said the Professor slowly.

  He ceased, and a strange gloom shadowed his face. His thoughts had evidently gone backward into a long-dead past. ‘Have you no imagination?’ he said at last reproachfully. ‘Think, boy – think! When affliction falls on one, when a grievous sorrow tears the heart, who would not wish for an oblivion that would be longer than a sleeping-draught could give, and less pernicious than suicide?’

  ‘The same refusal in both cases to meet and face one’s doom,’ said the young man. ‘You would create a new generation of cowards.’

  ‘Pshaw! There will be cowards without me,’ said the Professor. ‘But here, again, take another case. A man, we will say, has had his leg cut off: let him sleep until the leg is well, and he will escape all the twinges, the agonising pains of the recovery. This is but one instance; all surgical cases could be treated so, and so much pain saved in this most painful world. To see the blossom of my labour bear fruit – that is my sole, my last demand from life. I have so short a time to live that I would hasten the fulfilment of my hopes.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘That I want to see the drug used on a human being. I have approached the matter with some of the authorities at Kilmainham, with a view to getting a condemned criminal to experiment upon; but I have been refused, and in such a presumptuous manner as leads me to fear I shall never receive a better answer. Surely a man respited for seven days, as has been the case occasionally, might as well risk those seven days in the cause of science.’

  Wyndham shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have never met that man,’ said he. But the Professor did not hear him.

  ‘The most humane people in the world,’ said he, ‘refuse help to the man who has devoted twenty years of his life to the cause of humanity. Such an anaesthetic as mine would work a revolution in the world of medicine. As I have told you, a man might not only be unconscious whilst a limb was being lopped off, but might remain so until the wound was healed, and then, made free of pain and perfectly well, be able to take his part in the world again.’

  ‘It sounds like a fairy-tale,’ said Wyndham, smiling. ‘You have, I suppose, made many experiments?’

  ‘On animals, yes – and of late without a single failure; but on a human body, no. As yet, no opportunity has been afforded me. Either jealousy or fear has stopped my march, which I feel would be a triumphal one were the road made clear. I tell you I have addressed many leading men of science on the subject. I have asked them to be present. I would have everything above board, as you who know me can testify. I would have all men look on and bear witness to the splendour of my discovery.’ Here again the Professor’s strange deep eyes grew brilliant, once again that queer flash of a youth long ago departed was his. ‘I would have it shown to all the world in a blaze of light. But no man will take heed or listen. They laugh. They scoff. They will not countenance the chance of my killing someone; as if the loss of one poor human life was to be counted, when the relief of millions is in the balance.’

  He sank back as if exhausted, and then went on, his tone hard, yet excited:

  ‘Now it has come to this. If the chance were given me of trying my discovery on man, woman, or child, I should take it, without the sanction of the authorities, and with it that other chance of being hanged afterwards if the experiment failed.’

  ‘You feel so sure as that?’ questioned Wyndham. The old man’s enthusiasm had caught him. He too was looking eager and excited.

  ‘Sure!’ The Professor rose, gaunt, haggard, and with eyes that flashed fire beneath the pent brows that overhung them. ‘I would stake my soul – nay, more, my reputation – on the success of my discovery. Oh, for a chance to prove it!’

  At this moment there was a low knock at the door.

  The door opened with a considerable amount of caution, and presently a man’s head appeared. The servant looked eagerly first at the younger man, who was his master, and then at the Professor, and then back again at Wyndham.

  ‘Well, Denis?’ said the latter, a little impatiently.

  ‘If ye please, sir, there’s an unfortunate young female on the steps below.’

  ‘If she is noisy or troublesome, you had better call a policeman,’ Wyndham said indifferently.

  ‘Noisy! Divil a sound out of her,’ said Denis. ‘She looks for all the world as if there wasn’t a spark o’ life left in her.’

  ‘I had better see to this,’ said the young man, rising. He left the room, followed by Denis, and went down to the cold, bare hall below.

  The light from the solitary gas-lamp scarcely lit it, but Wyndham saw the figure of a young and very slight girl. She was lying on the ground, her back supported against a chair, with the Professor’s coat under her head. Lifting her quickly in his arms, he carried her upstairs to the room he had just left, where the Professor sat lost in fresh dreams of the experiment. He had already forgotten why the young man had left the room.

  ‘She seems very ill,’ said Wyndham.

  The Professor came nearer and stared down at her. She was very young – hardly eighteen – but already Misery or Want, or both, had seized and laid their cruel hands upon her, dabbing in dark bistre shades beneath her eyes, and making sad hollows in her pallid cheeks. The face was so young, so free of hardness, vice, or taint of any kind, that Wyndham’s very heart bled for her. Misery alone seemed to mark it. That was deeply stamped. Looking at her, he almost hoped that she would never wake again; but even as this thought crossed his mind, she stirred, sighed softly, and opened her eyes.

  For a while she gazed at them, and then with a sharp, quick movement she released herself from the arm Wyndham had placed round her, raising herself to a sitting posture. There was such terror in her eyes as she did this that the younger man hastened to reassure her.

  ‘You are quite safe here,’ he said kindly.

  The girl looked at him, then cast a frightened glance past him, and over his shoulder, as though looking fearfully for some dreaded object.

  ‘My man found you on the steps outside. You were ill – fainting, he said – so he brought you in here to this gentleman’s house.’

  The girl looked anxiously at the Professor, who nodded as if duty bound, but who seemed unmistakably bored, for all that, and angry enough to frighten her afresh.

  ‘If you will tell us where you live,’ said Wyndham gently, ‘we shall see that you are taken back there.’

  The girl shrank visibly, then lifted her heavy eyes to his. ‘I shall not go back,’ she said. Her tone was low, but defiant, and very firm.

  ‘But where, then, are you going?’ asked Wyndham impulsively.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She drew her breath slowly, heavily. It was hardly a sigh. There was enough misery in it for ten sighs, but her passion was all gone, and a terrible indifference had taken its place. ‘I wish,’ said she, with a forlorn look, ‘that I had the courage to die.’

  The Professor had begun to study her. He was always studying people, and now a curious expression had crept into his face. He leaned forward and peered at her. There was no compassion in the glance, no interest whatever in her as a suffering human, but there was a sudden sharp interest in her as a means to a desired end.

  ‘Then why live?’ he asked. ‘Death is easy.’

  ‘No, it is hard,’ she said. ‘And I am afraid of pain.’

  ‘If there were no pain, you would risk it then?’

  To Wyndham, waiting, watching, it occurred that the Professor was like a spider creeping towards its prey. He shuddered, took the Professor by the shoulders and pushed him g
ently backwards and out of hearing.

  ‘If this drug of yours possesses the life-giving properties you claim, why speak to her of death? Do you honestly believe in this experiment? Or do you fear it – when you suggest this sort of suicide to her?’

  ‘I fear nothing,’ said the old man. ‘But we are all mortal. We can all err, even in our surest judgments. The experiment – though I do not believe it – might fail. For all that, I shall not lose this chance,’ said the Professor shortly. He turned and went back to the girl.

  She was sitting in the same attitude as when he left her – her hands clenched upon her knees, her eyes staring into the fire. God alone knew what she saw there. She did not change her position, but sat like that, immovable as a statue, as the Professor expounded his experiment to her, and then asked her the cold, unsympathetic question as to whether, now she knew what the risk was, she would accept it. It might mean death, but if not, it would mean safety and protection in the future.

  When he had finished, she turned her sombre eyes on his. ‘I will take the risk,’ she said.

  Wyndham made a movement as if to speak, but the Professor checked him.

  ‘Of course, if the experiment is successful,’ he said, ‘I shall provide for you for life.’

  ‘I hope you will not have to provide for me,’ she said.

  Wyndham started, his voice vibrating with horror. ‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘She does not understand, and neither do you. If this thing fails, it will mean murder. Think, I entreat you, before it is too late to think. Look at her!’ His voice shook. ‘Many a happier girl at her age would still be in her schoolroom. She is so young that, whatever her wrongs, her sorrows may be, she has still time before her to conquer or live them down. Professor, I implore you, do not go on with this.’

  The Professor rested a contemptuous glance on him for a moment, then addressed the girl.

  ‘You are willing?’

  ‘Yes.’ She spoke quite firmly, but she was looking at Wyndham. It was a strange look, made up of surprise and some other feeling hardly defined.

  ‘For God’s sake, Professor, think yet a moment!’ said the younger man, holding him in his grasp. ‘She is young – so young! To take a life like that!’

  ‘I am going to take no life. I see now that you never had any faith in me at all.’

  ‘I believe in you as no other man does,’ said Wyndham. ‘But to try so deadly an experiment here, at midnight – with no witnesses, as it were – great heavens! You must see the pitfall you are laying for yourself. If this experiment fails—’

  ‘It will not fail,’ said the Professor coldly. ‘In the meantime – if you are afraid of being called as a witness – it is still open to you to avoid such a disagreeability.’ He pointed to the door.

  Wyndham said nothing.

  ‘Stay, then,’ said the Professor. He went into an inner room and returned with a phial and glass, and advanced towards the girl with an almost buoyant step. There was, indeed, an exhilaration in his whole air, that amounted almost to madness. He looked wild – spectral, indeed – in the dim light of the solitary lamp, with his white hair thrown back and his eyes shining fiercely beneath the rugged brows.

  The Professor poured some of the pale fluid from the phial into the glass with a hand that never faltered, and the girl took it with a hand that faltered quite as little; but before she could raise it to her lips, Wyndham caught her arm.

  ‘Stop!’ cried he, as if choking. ‘Have you thought – have you considered that there is no certainty in this drug?’

  Her eyes rested for a moment on his. ‘I thought there was a certainty,’ she said.

  ‘A certainty of death, perhaps,’ said he, poignant fear in his tone. ‘At this last moment I appeal to you, for your own sake. Don’t take it. If you do, it is doubtful whether you will ever come back to life again.’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘I hope there is no doubt,’ she said. She raised the glass and drank its contents to the dregs.

  As she did so, some clock in the silent city outside struck the midnight hour.

  She sank into a slumber so profound, so representative of death, that Wyndham uttered an exclamation of despair. As he stood watching the Professor, a sound smote upon his ear. One! Again, the city clock was tolling the hour. The Professor rose; his face was ghastly. One, two, three, four, five, six!

  Could it be unreal? Wyndham rose once and bent over her. No faintest breath came from her lips or nostrils; the whole face had taken the pinched, ashen appearance of one who had lain for a full day dead. The hands were waxen, and the forehead too. He shuddered and drew back. At that moment he told himself that she was dead, and that he had undoubtedly assisted at a form of murder.

  He turned to the Professor, who was sitting watch in hand, counting the moments. He would have spoken, but the old man’s grim face forbade him. He was waiting. At twelve o’clock the girl had sunk into a slumber so profound, so representative of death, that Wyndham had uttered an exclamation of despair, and had told himself she was indeed struck down by the Destroyer. Six o’clock was about to strike – the hour when she ought to have risen from her strange slumbers, if the Professor’s drug possessed the powerful properties he attributed to it.

  As Wyndham stood watching the Professor, a sound smote upon his ear. One! Again the city clock was tolling the hour. The Professor rose, his face ghastly. One, two, three, four, five, six!

  Six! The Professor bent down over the girl, and Wyndham went near to him, to be ready to help him when the moment came – when the truth was made clear to him that his discovery had failed. Wyndham himself had long ago given up hope, but he feared for the old man, to whom his discovery had been more than life or love for over twenty years.

  The Professor still stood peering into the calm face. Six, and no sign, no change!

  Already the sun’s rays were beginning to peep sharply through the window; there was a slight stir in the street below. Six-thirty, and still the Professor stood gazing on the quiet figure, as motionless as it. Seven o’clock, and still no movement. The face, now lovely in its calm, was as marble, and the limbs lay rigid, the fingers lightly locked. Death … death alone could look like that!

  Half-past seven! As the remorseless clock recorded the time, the Professor suddenly threw up his arms.

  ‘She is dead!’ he said. ‘Oh, my God!’

  He reeled forward, and the young man caught him. He was almost insensible, and was gasping for breath. Wyndham carried him into an adjoining room and laid him on a bed, and, finding him cold, covered him with blankets. This, so far as it went, was well enough for the moment, but what was the next step to be? The old man lay gasping, and evidently there was but a short step between his state and that of his victim outside. Yet how to send for a doctor with that victim outside? To the Professor, whose hours were numbered, it would mean little or nothing; but to Wyndham, it would mean, if not death, eternal disgrace. He drew a long breath and bent over the Professor, who was now sensible again.

  ‘Shall I send for Marks or Drewd?’ he asked, naming two of the leading physicians in Dublin.

  The Professor grasped his arm; his face grew frightful.

  ‘No one! No one!’ he gasped. ‘Are you mad? Do you think I would betray my failure to the world? To have them laugh, deride—’ He fell back, gasping still, but menacing the young man with his eye. By degrees the fury of his glance relaxed, and he fell into a sort of slumber, always holding Wyndham’s arm, however, as if fearing he should go. He seemed stronger, and Wyndham knelt by the bed, wondering vaguely what was going to be the end of it all, and whether it would be possible to remove the corpse outside without detection. There was Denis; Denis was faithful, and could be trusted.

  Presently the Professor roused from his fit of unconsciousness. He looked up at the young man, and his expression was terrible. Despair in its worse form disfigured his features. The dream of a life had been extinguished. He tried to speak, but at first words failed him, then, ‘All the years –
all the years!’ he mumbled. Wyndham understood, and his heart bled. The old man had given the best years of his life to his discovery, and now …

  ‘I have killed her!’

  ‘Science has killed her,’ said Wyndham.

  ‘No; I, with my cursed pride of belief in myself – I have killed her,’ persisted the old man. ‘I would to God it were not so!’ He did not believe in anything but science, yet he appealed to the Creator occasionally, as some moderns still do to Jove. His lean fingers beat feebly on the blankets. ‘A failure … a failure,’ he kept muttering, his eyes vacant. ‘I go to my grave a failure! I set my soul on it. I believed in it, and it was naught.’ He fell into a violent fit of shivering, and Wyndham gently laid him back in his bed, and covered him again with the blankets, where he lay sullen, powerless.

  ‘Try not to think,’ implored the young man.

  ‘Think? Think! what else is left to me? Oh, Paul!’ He stretched out his arm and caught Wyndham. ‘That it should be a failure after all. I wish …’ He paused, and then went on: ‘I wish I had not tried it upon her. She was like … someone …’

  He broke off.

  ‘She was a mere waif and stray,’ said Wyndham, trying to harden his voice.

  ‘She was no waif or stray of the sort you mean,’ said the Professor. ‘Her face was not like that. There – go; look on her for yourself, and read the truth of what I say.’

  ‘It is not necessary,’ said the young man, with a slight shudder. And again, a silence fell between them. It was again broken by the Professor.

  ‘She was full of life,’ he said, ‘and I took it.’

  Wyndham roused himself with an effort from his horrible thoughts, and made a faint effort to withdraw his hand from the Professor’s. After a little while the Professor’s grasp relaxed, and Wyndham rose to his feet. A shrinking from entering the room beyond was combated by a wild desire to go there and look once again upon the girl lying in death’s sweet repose upon her couch. He went to the door, hesitated involuntarily for a second or two, and then entered.