The Mad Scientist Megapack

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  TB: You said nearly all of the expedition’s members were afflicted. Who wasn’t?

  TRS: Two of the scientists, Professor Archibald Cooke, from a small New Hampshire university, and Dr. Karl Forbush of the Pacific Institute of Oceanographic Studies exhibited no sign of the brain growth seen in the others. Thad never talked with Cooke, but he managed one conversation with Forbush about his unusual resistance to whatever had affected the others and Forbush was quite unable to account for the anomaly. That evening at dinner, Forbush suggested some tests that could be performed to see what, if anything, could be learned about this phenomenon, but the others grew belligerent before the tests could be implemented and Forbush disappeared several days later.

  TB: Disappeared? Did your son have any idea how or to where Dr. Forbush had vanished?

  TRS: Thad indicated in his notes that he planned to speak with the man again the night he disappeared, but when he went to meet him on the rear observation deck, Forbush was nowhere to be found. The other scientists, excepting Cooke, were unconcerned by Forbush’s disappearance and it took Thad and Cooke several hours to convince crew members to aid in a search. Dr. Forbush’s cabin was undisturbed, there were no lifeboats or lifejackets missing and there was no sign of the doctor anywhere on the ship. They wanted to signal for help but at this point they found the ship’s radio had mysteriously ceased to function.

  Unfortunately, this was only the first of several disappearances, always of people who made their opposition to the expedition leaders known. They had no proof, of course, but they were certain the missing men were being killed or disabled, then thrown overboard.

  TB: Did your son have any idea of what these scientists were doing or planning?

  TRS: No, Thad watched their actions as closely as he dared, but their activities made no sense to him. They continued to visit the lower depths, apparently in an obsessive hunt for something, but Thad was unable to determine what they were after, except to note they continued to gather specimens of the kelp they had used to form their head coverings and also they kept catching more Pelgimbles, in spite of having thoroughly examined, catalogued and preserved a more than adequate number of specimens.

  TB: Did Thad know why they kept gathering Pelgimbles?

  TRS: It seems that after performing every test and examination they could think of, one of the scientists determined they should find out how it tasted. It was clearly edible and so each night the expedition members tried it in a variety of preparations. The consensus was that it was best served lightly fried with a lemon butter sauce, but Grimaldi preferred it baked with a mushroom and wine sauce.

  The night Morningstar vanished, one of the crew claimed to have seen Grimaldi and several of his colleagues performing some bizarre rite on the quarter deck, following which he watched them disembowel Morningstar and toss the remains overboard. This revelation led to open rebellion between the “Brains” as they had taken to calling the afflicted scientists and the rest of the crew and staff. But they were ill-equipped to cope with either the superior intellect or the superior strength of the “Brains” and their numbers were quickly decimated. It became clear that the “Brains” were becoming evermore egomaniacal and Thad had a horrifying conversation with one of the physicians, a Dr. Faberman of New York University Hospital.

  Faberman believed that the “Brains” were so dangerous that it might be necessary for the others to sacrifice themselves and destroy the ship to prevent these madmen from reaching land again. By that evening, Faberman was gone, thrown overboard one surmises. The remaining crew and staff barricaded themselves in the galley but the “Brains” easily breached their defenses and Thad believed that he was the only one to escape. He continued to document what he had seen, taking pains after each entry to conceal his notebook as best he could. The poor lad managed to elude a grisly death for nearly another week, long enough to see Grimaldi and Moss go through a final change.

  They lectured the others on the futility of corporeal existence, urged them to cast off the burden of earthly life and join their leaders in a “sort of mental continuance on another plane.” There was apparently more to their sales pitch but Thad found it to be above him and he was worried that the others might sense him listening, so he went back to his cabin to fill in the information in his journal. On his way back, he mentioned he was confronted by Cooke, who was now displaying some of the symptoms the others had shown at the start. This was noted in his last entry. I can only assume he was killed somehow by those fiends but I do not suppose I will ever know for certain…

  TB: Our condolences, sir. Do you need a moment?

  TRS: Thank you, gentlemen, no, let’s continue.

  TB: So, we have no clear information about the eventual fate of any of these men?

  TRS: No, we do not. However, the Coast Guard are quite certain there were no bodies on board, nor any living beings. So, we must conclude that they fell victim to the sea in some way or, perhaps, to the illness that was consuming them.

  TB: How did the circumstances arise that precipitated Sgt. Conover’s outburst?

  TRS: We were trying to put all the pieces together when the sergeant asked me a series of questions. I had no idea what he was getting at, but as he narrowed things down, the truth slowly dawned on me. He asked me to give him a listing of the men who had gone down in the submersible. When I finished, he asked why I had left out Cooke’s name. I assured him there was no mention of Cooke having gone down in the submersible. His specialty was chemical analysis so he spent all his time in the lab. Sgt. Conover said that this proved that going down in the chamber could not have been the cause of their affliction. We went back and forth making lists in the Sergeant’s notebook, when he asked me to reread the passage about Thad’s last confrontation. I reread it, with some difficulty as the boy’s writing had deteriorated to an alarming degree, and the sergeant asked me a question. He asked if it was possible that the reference I took to be concerning Professor Cooke could possibly be a reference to the ship’s cook.

  I reread the passage as carefully as I could and I concluded that it was indeed possible. In fact, if we took Thad at his word, Cooke had most likely been among those who perished in the fighting below decks a week earlier. I asked him why he thought that might be relevant. He asked me what all the afflicted had in common besides going down below in the chamber. I couldn’t think of anything, but young Detective Hawks spoke up. He said he thought they had all eaten the fish and that there had been no mention of anyone else eating it.

  Conover directed me back to the passage about the Pelgimble being served at dinner and, sure enough, Cooke had an acute seafood allergy. Thad noted it because he suffered from the same thing himself. Forbush had also refused to sample the fish, although his reasons went unrecorded. No one else was offered any, so it seemed likely that the fish had been a factor—which seems ironic in light of the fact that we so often refer to fish as brain food.

  Sgt. Conover then explained that the cook would likely have tasted the fish whilst preparing it but such small samples would have delayed the appearance of the symptoms in him until near the end. We all sat there quietly for a few moments, trying to come to terms with what we’d learned, when all of a sudden, the sergeant leapt to his feet and went charging out of the cabin, yelling “Oh, my God!” at the top of his lungs. We heard him banging his way up the stairs yelling to the men on deck, “Don’t let those cats off of the ship!”

  It was immediately after that, the shooting started.

  * * * *

  It is the conclusion of this trial board that Sgt. Michael F. X. Conover’s actions were justified in the attempt to prevent or at least control the threat to the City of New York. Considering the devastation we have seen in the streets of Manhattan so far, it is this Board’s strong recommendation that the sergeant be reinstated immediately and returned to the streets to assist in bringing this crisis to a speedy conclusion.

  D
R. VARSAG’S EXPERIMENT, by Craig Ellis

  Today I went to the funeral of Dr. Arnold Varsag and Dexter Montrex. I watched their simple black coffins lowered into the grave and shovelfuls of earth thrown down over them. I stood there until the boxes had been completely buried, then I turned away. Yes, Dexter Montrex and Dr. Arnold Varsag are dead, and how they died makes one of the strangest stories I have ever heard.

  It all started one evening when I was sitting alone in my study reading the proofs of my new book. The telephone rang and I went to answer it. It was Dr. Varsag speaking with a voice of unusual tenseness. “I want you to come over right away, Bert,” he said. “It’s extremely important.”

  I knew Varsag was excited about something, but he was usually in that state. But my proofs had to be in to the publisher within a week, and I told him so.

  “Curse those proofs!” Varsag exclaimed. “This is something that will make all your inane books out of date!” His voice rose to a high pitch.

  I was still reluctant to leave my work. “What’s this all about?” I insisted. “You can’t forever expect me to leave my work and come traipsing over to your place every time you get another one of your crazy notions.”

  Varsag’s voice was a whisper. “All I can tell you is that it’s about the Mongoose,” he said. “You’ve got to come right over.” And then he had hung up.

  After that, and probably according to Varsag’s expectations, it was impossible for me to continue with my own work. For weeks Varsag and Montrex had been talking about the Mongoose and all I had gleaned from their whispered conversation was that another one of Varsag’s amazing experiments was under way. And this one it seemed concerned a human life— and a Mongoose. Only one thing more I knew, and that at least partially explained the reason for secrecy. The Mongoose was an extremely dangerous animal in spite of its size, and it was illegal to import them or keep them anywhere in the country because they were so destructive to bird-life. I knew that Varsag had received his specimen illegally.

  I dressed hurriedly and drove over to Varsag’s laboratory. His work rooms were cleverly located in a section of the city that was devoted to chemists’ and physicians’ laboratories, so that any late work he would be doing would not arouse any comment.

  When I rang the bell the doctor himself answered it, almost immediately. His little intelligent black eyes were snapping with excitement. “I see you’ve got here, Bert,” he said, evidently pleased. “Follow me, quietly.”

  He led me quickly into his lab and closed the door. The room was high-ceilinged and very well lit. As always, it was filled with polished apparatus and tall and short and odd-shaped shining bottles full of queer liquids and potions, and as always, I had not the slightest idea as to what any of this equipment meant. The whole scene was so familiar and orderly that I forgot my mistrust.

  Just then I saw the apparatus table in the center of the room, and on it a recumbent form covered by a white sheet—

  Suddenly I heard a vicious animal snarl and a short burst of high-pitched humming come from a corner of the room. As I recoiled with surprise Varsag laughed indulgently, his black eyes watching me intently. “No cause for alarm,” he said. “I’ll show you the harmless little animal.”

  He led me to a corner of the room that had been curtained off and drew away the heavy cover from an ordinary case such as he used for experimental animals. There was nothing inside that case but a little black and white guinea pig.

  But what a guinea pig! Instead of the placid fat ball which never does anything but eat and sleep, the creature was fast and tricky as a fox. The animal was standing close to the front of the cage near the netting. Varsag slapped at it with a stick. Before the stick had reached halfway, the little thing was across the cage, crouched near the back, gazing at us out of its penetrating, shoe-button eyes. It was humming that high-pitched note which had first startled me.

  I looked to Varsag, but he had turned away toward a small, slanting table whose face was a maze of dials. On the largest dial a long red hand was revolving swiftly. Varsag was evidently studying it, and now he turned and faced me. “I think it’s time.”

  “Time for what? What the hell’s going on here?”

  Varsag smiled briefly. “You’ll find out in just about a minute,” he said. “Sit down here while I get my instruments together.”

  He went to a sterilizer and began to remove surgical instruments from it. Then he looked at me, and was smiling again. “You’d like to ask me about it, wouldn’t you?” he said.

  “Damned right I would. Who or what is that lying on that table under the white sheet?”

  The doctor exclaimed as one of the heated instruments slipped from the towel and burned his finger. Without looking up, he said quietly, “The object of your curiosity is our old and mutual friend, Dexter Montrex.”

  For a minute I was too stunned to speak. I simply sat there with my hands clenched and my mouth tightly shut, determined not to make any outbreak. And then by the time I had recovered sufficient composure to say something, it was unnecessary.

  I sat there watching Varsag prepare for something…

  Perhaps if you knew something of our past lives and relationships, it would be easier to understand what I felt.

  We three, Montrex, Varsag and I, had gone to college together, in one of those ivy-covered New England campuses. Our friendship had come about naturally, for in those early days we had all been students in the scientific departments; neurology, bio and zoology. In time we became inseparable, and when we were graduated, we went out together to lick the world.

  I did all right. Got myself a fair job in a research lab, then went out on my own as a consultant and kept going. The book I had on the presses right then was my third, and the others were almost standard texts.

  Arnold Varsag had done a good deal better. He was much the most brilliant of our group, and even in his early days he had blazed with the fire of fanaticism, a restless, never-satisfied thirst for experimentation. He had gone on to medicine, specialized in several fields, and became an extremely good surgeon; even then he went on, deeper always into science. He might have been one of the great scientists of this day, if his passion for work had not taken forms too strange for most men. Recently he had passed up a chance to make a barrel of money because he was deep in some cockeyed experiments on the neural systems of small mammals.

  Montrex followed the most bizarre career of all, for a scientist. After one or two bad breaks, and because he wanted to keep eating, he became a heavyweight prizefighter. Possibly to some extent this was conditioned by his love of physical activity and direct combat, which he had shown in college football days. He was a magnificently formed man. Life rushed through that fellow.

  And now he was lying under a white sheet, while Varsag wheeled over a high table with his tools on it. Then he came over to me and sat down. “You’re upset, Bert,” he said, simply.

  “That shouldn’t be so hard to understand,” I answered. “You call me away from work by mentioning that damned Mongoose that I know is around here somewhere—and then you tell me this. Why is Dexter lying there? What are you up to, Arnold?”

  “Hold on now,” said Varsag calmly. “There’s nothing to be excited about. There isn’t much time, but I think I can tell you something about this.”

  “It’s very decent of you,” I said.

  “Save your sarcasm, Bert.” There was a trace of bitterness and impatience in Varsag’s voice as he continued. “Some moments ago I showed you a guinea pig. I think it must have looked a little odd to you. I am sure you must have some idea of what I’ve done to that guinea pig.”

  “Only a vague one. I think you’ve worked out some insane scheme of cross-breeding between little animals and your infernal Mongoose.”

  “Cross-breeding?” There was real amusement in Varsag’s laughter. “Hardly that. I made it.”

  “You… made
it?”

  “Exactly. I made that guinea pig so fast by giving him the eyes and nervous system of a Mongoose! Here—”

  He rose abruptly from his chair and crossed the room. He slid open the door of one of the compartments under a laboratory table.

  There were several small cages inside, and as the door slid open, the blended humming of several animals’ voices filled the room. I followed Varsag and looked down. There were three Mongooses in the cages. Nasty looking little things they were, even for a man who had had cause to become familiar with all kinds of strange rodents. They couldn’t have been more than sixteen or eighteen inches long, with thin bodies which were made to look larger because their hair was standing on end. Now they were motionless, their beady little eyes taking everything in, watching us with a curious awareness.

  I felt Varsag’s hand on my arm and for the moment it was as if I had been in a trance. “If we can do all that for a guinea pig,” Varsag said. “Think what we could do for a human being.”

  “Arnold!” I began—

  He was walking toward the apparatus table. I followed him and grabbed him by the arm. With his free arm, Varsag reached out and pulled the white sheet away from Dexter Montrex’s face. I saw Montrex lying there on the table, breathing slowly and peacefully, but imperceptibly.

  “Look at him,” said Varsag. “What a magnificent specimen! He sleeps beautifully anywhere.”

  “What are you saying?” I said fiercely.

  Varsag looked at me for a moment before he said a word. “You and I have known Dexter a long time, haven’t we, Bert?” he said. “We stood by helplessly while he fought to make a place for himself in a highly competitive world, and as much as he tried, we haven’t helped him much.” Varsag walked away as he continued speaking. He stood by one of the large windows and looked down into the dark street below. “Have you ever watched the way he holds his head and shoulders when he walks? He has what one calls a regal air about him. Or what other people call the—look of an animal. That hasn’t helped him much either.”