by Anthology
Cerebelli spoke first. “I regret to inform you that your cousin Klaudio is dead. He was killed while he was delivering your message.”
“Dane does this!” cried Janko.
Cerebelli shook his head. “No, in actuality he was killed by an Austrian violinist named Lieb Zingler.”
“No, is Dane Tesla! He take body of this violinist to kill my cousin! Oh, poor Klaudio!”
At last we understood what had become of Zingler’s wayward corpse. Inhabited by the spirit of Dane Tesla, it had simply walked away. And it seemed quite likely that Tesla’s spirit would soon reappear, perhaps still inhabiting Zingler’s earthly vessel.
“Gentlemen,” said Dr. Hogalum. “I daresay we have no time to lose. Let us close that breach at once!”
Popović became even more agitated, his tears flowing. “I cannot close! This is problem! Please, you must help me!”
At our direction, Popović led us across the grounds to his stables, which had long ago been converted into a workshop of sorts. We stood in the rain as he removed a massive padlock from the first set of weather-beaten doors, unlatching the rusty hasp with some difficulty. The doors swung open, and I could scarcely believe my eyes.
A great, shimmering vortex of blinding white light shone from a corner of the workshop, perhaps six feet in diameter. The smell of ozone hung in the air, and an unearthly chorus of eerie voices drowned out my very thoughts. It was terrifying and repugnant as death itself, and yet, I felt drawn to it. I crept a bit closer, craning my neck to afford some vantage from which to peer into the luminous passageway, but it shifted and swayed, always remaining somewhat perpendicular to my gaze.
Suddenly, I fell backward, toppling to the ground, and I realized then that Dr. Hogalum had forcefully hauled me back to prevent me getting too close to the phenomenon. “Magnetron!” he exclaimed. “What in Lucifer’s conflagration were you thinking?”
I had no idea what distance might be deemed safe, but I observed that Popović assiduously remained outside a precautionary fifteen-foot radius. I endeavored to follow his example. We formed a rough semicircle around the breach, Satyros, Cerebelli, Valkusian, Popović and I, but Dr. Hogalum strolled toward the exit, announcing cheerily that he would sleep. “You have your assignment, gentlemen. Please be quick about it!”
We stayed up until well past dawn, discussing, arguing, and concocting speculative theories. Popović’s original transmitter apparatus had generated an electromagnetic wave at a frequency higher than any previous radio signal, nearly 500 million cycles per second, with a finely tuned audio signal modulated on this carrier frequency. Upon opening the breach, Popović had found that turning off the device did not close it, and indeed, he had destroyed his unprecedented creation in a desperate attempt to reverse the extraordinary phenomenon. Thankfully, he still had detailed drawings and an immense assortment of parts. Our plan was to repair the device and modify it so as to modulate the amplitude with frequencies calculated to disrupt and close the tunnel. We had all the components necessary — save an adequate supply of power.
Popović moaned a low, disapproving tone which gradually swelled to shrieking protest as Cerebelli and I removed a tarpaulin from an experimental auto-mobile. It was an extraordinary creation Popović claimed to have invented with the assistance of Siegfried Marcus and an Austrian mechanic called Christian Reithmann. “Please! Not my Benzinwagen!” cried Popović. “I beg you!”
I inspected the engine compartment and nodded smartly to Cerebelli. “Yes, I believe this will do nicely.”
Popović reluctantly returned to his demolished radio device and set about affecting repairs.
Valkusian and Cerebelli looked on and conjectured regarding such supernatural consequences as might arise from the application of the various frequencies under evaluation. Cerebelli shook his head dubiously. “I am well versed in the physics of electromagnetic radiation, but any paranormal aspect is quite outside my sphere of expertise, I’m afraid.”
Valkusian nodded in commiseration. “I have studied hundreds of texts on the spirit world, but I daresay none of them made mention of amplitude modulation.”
Popović sneered at both of them. “Seems I have famous Hogalum Society at disadvantage.”
As Satyros and I dismantled Janko’s prized auto-mobile, I took the opportunity to question Satyros again about his disappearance in Vienna during the operetta and his atypical desire to avoid the public eye. He was evasive at first, but eventually revealed that he had committed an extraordinary indiscretion after the final performance of his magic act. Austrian minister Prince Adolf and his wife had visited Satyros backstage and congratulated him, not on his performance as such, but on the cunning design of his sophisticated props. “With such clever accoutrements at my disposal, I daresay I might duplicate your act, although I would not risk transmuting myself into a fish. I would most certainly be devoured for lunch by some members of the Reichsrat!” The minister had laughed uproariously at this, but when he returned home, he found he was missing a priceless timepiece, and worse yet, Countess Johanna was missing much of her considerable undergarments. Satyros almost immediately regretted his impetuous act, but — like Popović’s breach — once done, it could not easily be undone. At the operetta, Satyros saw one of the Prince’s security detachments moving to arrest him and took his leave posthaste.
Dr. Hogalum refrained from visiting and interrupting our work, which progressed well despite our uncertainty regarding the many diaphanous postulates undergirding the design. Janko’s assistant Vuk appeared several times with an empty tray, gurgling some unintelligible remarks until Janko sent him away, and late in the morning, Janko’s postman also made his rounds. Evidently, the poor creature had dropped dead from a heart attack some weeks earlier, but his soul had inhabited his earthly vessel once again and pressed it back into service. He shambled to the front door carrying an empty sack, pulling nonexistent letters from it and placing them in Janko’s mailbox. I found this rather disquieting, but Janko had become inured to it. However, he pointed out several other reanimated corpses milling around on the grounds and slowly coalescing nearer to his workshop, a new and distressing development.
As dusk fell, final assembly of the new device was complete. We gathered around the ungainly apparatus as Janko fuelled the remarkable engine with a potent petroleum distillate and cranked the motor by hand. Soon, it was throbbing and turning the electrical generator at a full chisel. A deafening clap of thunder announced another impending electrical storm.
We were ready to fire the device.
Satyros returned to the house to retrieve Dr. Hogalum, and Popović adjusted the transmitter to 474 million cycles per second, the same frequency which had opened the breach initially. The tunnel brightened and pulsated in sympathy.
A pounding commenced upon the workshop door, and I opened it to permit Satyros and Hogalum entry. Much to my surprise, however, our visitor was Lieb Zingler, the dead violinist, leading a putrid throng of reanimated corpses in various stages of decomposition.
“Janko!” cried Zingler, “turn off that machine! You cannot stop us!” Clearly, Zingler’s body was yet inhabited by Dane Tesla’s retributive spirit and had returned most unpropitiously to thwart our efforts at closing the breach.
Popović froze in terror, one hand holding his makeshift helmet tight to his skull, the other clutching one of several knobs on the thrumming machine. He trembled with fear but held his ground. “Dane, I know you hate me, but this is not the way!” he squeaked. The two then carried on an angry disputation in Serbian as Popović adjusted controls on the device with his free hand, furiously and without apparent purpose. Valkusian pried his hand from the device, and Cerebelli hastily readjusted the several settings.
I had retrieved my experimental Blunder-Snare pistol from our airship, and I fingered the trigger in anticipation of a violent confrontation. Rain bega
n to fall outside again, pelting the workshop roof with astonishing intensity, but over this clatter I also heard metallic clanking, the grunting sounds of physical struggle — and several loud pops. Dr. Hogalum and Satyros had outflanked Tesla’s company of ambulating cadavers and disabled the bulk of them, barging past Dane Tesla’s host body into the workshop. They wore makeshift helmets of their own and carried sacks full of such protective headwear, quickly distributing them to each of us in turn.
Dane’s voice took on a wraithlike, otherworldly tenor as his anger rose. “Janko Popović, you killed me and never suffered the consequences. Nikola was only five when he saw me die, Janko. He suffers nightmares to this day, did you know that? No, of course, you did not! But now you will pay!”
“But Dane, it is accident!” Janko’s tears began to flow again.
“No, Janko. It was your fault. I fell only because you startled my horse as you scuttled away in fear of my father’s fury. But that is what you do, yes? You run from justice, run from your own depravity. But now there will be no more running, Janko.”
Evidently, Popović had not told us the entire story, and in truth, his sin was one of commission rather than of omission. Not only had Janko spooked Dane’s horse, causing it to rear up and throw him, he had gone so far as spread rumors that Nikola had been to blame. Cerebelli and Valkusian were transfixed by the unprecedented exchange, their attention wandering from the transmitter. The tunnel became larger and larger.
Dr. Hogalum wore an odd smile, stepping between Dane and Janko with a hand-forged brass chamber pot on his head. He faced Dane and thumped him on the chest. “Very well, Dane, you’ve had your cry, but now it’s time to shut your hole.” He turned and gave Popović a shove toward the transmitter device. “Do it, Janko! Close that breach!”
Dr. Hogalum turned again to face Dane. “I believe you would be wise to take this opportunity to return to the Hereafter while this, eh, ‘shortcut’ exists, no?”
Dane scoffed. “I’m quite confident I could find my way back, but I have no intention of leaving… and I will kill every last one of you rather than allow you to destroy the doorway.” He lunged at Dr. Hogalum, at which time I fired my Blunder-Snare pistol. Thankfully, the device functioned flawlessly, and Zingler’s body became intractably entangled in the fine netting. He lost his footing and fell to the ground, writhing and cursing in Serbian.
“Good show, Magnetron!” exclaimed Dr. Hogalum.
Popović increased the transmitter’s power level, and a great throbbing hum began to emanate from the device. However, the opening became still larger, as indeed, the machine seemed to be feeding the breach. “Engage the modulator,” shouted Cerebelli, “now!”
Popović actuated a large double-pole switch, activating the modulator. The breach began to fluctuate in size but still seemed to be getting larger. Cerebelli seized the modulator control and began stepping through a series of frequencies, but with each adjustment, the situation seemed to deteriorate. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he cried.
In desperation, he removed Janko’s helmet and placed it behind the transmitter antenna, which appeared to concentrate the electromagnetic energies into a narrower beam. He turned the modulator frequency and carrier signal output both as high as they would go. The breach was finally getting smaller, but I detected the acrid tang of overheated wires.
Lightning flashed, and through the pouring rain, I observed a squadron of disembodied spirits flying toward the open door of Janko’s workshop. To my profound relief, they drifted noiselessly past us and into the tunnel, returning to the afterlife. It seemed we were making progress, but I noticed then that our generator was wanting for fuel. However, as I reached for the jug, Janko snatched up a large wrench and leered menacingly at me. I deduced that Dane had quit Zingler’s body and taken up residence in Janko’s, but in the split-second turn of events, I had insufficient time to stop him from lunging at Cerebelli, wielding the wrench as a bludgeon.
Just then, a young man appeared in the doorway of Janko’s workshop, dripping wet and shouting, “Dane, stop!” Janko stopped cold, eyeing the young man in disbelief.
“Nikola?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, brother, it is I, and I am begging you to stop what you are doing. Janko is a fool, but he was good to us, and what happened to you was still an accident. And this,” he gestured at the tunnel, which now flared and wowed erratically, “this is an abomination.”
Seizing the opportunity, Satyros snatched the wrench from Janko’s hands and refueled the engine. The generator began to whine, as eerie voices from the other side moaned and nattered, but above this din I heard one voice rise above the others. It was my mother. “Don’t do it, my child!” she cried. “Leave the tunnel be, and I shall visit you by and by!”
I was transfixed by her voice. I nudged Cerebelli aside, my hands unconsciously reaching for the controls of Janko’s device, but Cerebelli seized my hand. Janko began to weep, speaking in Dane’s flat, hollow voice. “Phineas Magnetron, that is not your mother. Do not listen!” and with that, his body went limp, crumpling to the floor. Dane’s spirit rose from its host and lingered briefly. “I am sorry, my brother!” it said and crossed over through the tunnel.
The breach had shrunk to a few inches in diameter, but refused to close completely. The burning smell had intensified, and indeed, the machine had become too hot to touch. As Cerebelli and I backed away, it burst into flames. I scanned Janko’s workshop in desperation for some new stratagem, but it seemed all was lost. “Quickly, get out of here!” I cried, gesturing to the others. “I will stay with the machine!”
But Valkusian seized me by the arm and took me with him. “The machine is hopeless, Phineas. Come with us to safety.”
Dr. Hogalum scooped up Janko’s motionless body, and we hurriedly exited the doomed structure as the jug of petroleum fuel ignited.
We stood in the rain outside Janko’s workshop, watching as the ramshackle structure was consumed by fire. Janko remained limp and insensible, draped over Dr. Hogalum’s shoulder. The storm exploded with fathomless fury, raking the grounds with lightning and deafening cracks of thunder. Janko began to stir. I felt a prickling sensation, and the hair on the back of my neck rose, presaging a lightning strike. “On the ground!” I cried, jostling everyone within reach and finally falling to the ground. A great crackling bolt of blue-hot lightning struck Janko’s workshop, incinerating its roof and shattering the remaining structure.
When the smoke cleared, Janko cried out, “Is gone, is gone!” but he was not mourning the loss of his workshop; rather, he was rejoicing. The Smiljan Breach had finally closed — for good, we hoped.
* * *
Nikola Tesla disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared, but the remainder of Janko’s visitors yet littered the grounds, objectionable mementos of the extraordinary events which had just taken place. Leaving the corpses where they lay, we retired to Janko’s illusory manor house to dry off and warm ourselves with his liquor and peculiar hospitality. “I thank you all, from bottom of heart,” said Popović, toasting each of us in turn. His cousin Klaudio and Vuk were also the subjects of several grateful posthumous tributes. “I miss you, Vuk,” he sobbed.
Unable to contain my curiosity, I questioned Janko on the elaborate façade he had constructed upon his home. As I began, Dr. Hogalum sighed theatrically, and I gathered that he had already posed such a question to Janko and been dissatisfied with his response. I continued undeterred. “Surely you might have built a comparatively lavish home for yourself had you not expended your resources on such an ambitious but ultimately false and impractical appurtenance,” I said.
Janko nodded and smiled, waving his hands as if to sweep away my impertinent inquiry. “I do not need big house,” he replied. “Is only me here. But I hope Đuka will see giant house and think I am rich man. This is only true, how you say, aphrodisiac?”
Dr. Hogalum shook his head as I cross-examined Janko further, and indeed, the conversation bore no fruit. I attempted unsuccessfully to withdraw my question, but Janko evidently felt pressed to justify his peculiar behavior in a rambling soliloquy rife with circular logic and awkward admissions. At length, Janko shrugged and laughed, saying, “Nikola is right. I am fool.”
Dr. Hogalum seized the opportunity with a chipper rejoinder. “I’ll drink to that!” he said, and we all had a good laugh at Janko’s expense.
We were all exhausted, and quite inebriated, when I suggested it would be wise to retire for the night. To my intense consternation, Dr. Hogalum insisted we leave at once. “Dr. Hogalum,” I protested, “We are all quite fatigued and require a modicum of slumber before we travel.” Valkusian, Satyros, and Cerebelli all concurred fervently on this point, but Hogalum, who had slept peacefully as we worked through the night, abruptly vetoed my rather more prudent proposal.
“I must return to Vienna at once to prepare for my legal proceedings, as you know,” he said with a reproachful tone.
“But Doctor,” I replied, “your hearing is scheduled for two days hence, and I anticipate it will consist of little more than a magistrate summarily assessing a fine which you will be obliged to pay.”
Hogalum adopted a grating, solicitous tone, as if addressing a small child. “Yes, Magnetron, but I yearn to become scandalously intoxicated once more in the enchanting City of Music, and I shall require sufficient recuperation before my hearing commences. Besides, you promised to stop over on Antares on our return trip. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!”
Thus overruled, we made ready for our return voyage, bidding Popović goodbye, and boarding our airship. “I shall call her the Luftigel,” announced Dr. — or rather, Admiral — Hogalum as he took his seat.
