Writers of the Future 32 Science Fiction & Fantasy Anthology (L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future)

by L. Ron Hubbard

  In some ancient Chinese traditions you will find reference to the Highest Clarity, a place beyond the sky, where live the Jade Women of the Luminous Star. Was I looking at such a woman right now, in my very own laboratory?

  “I am sorry, Doctor Gordon,” she said again. “You are not ready.”

  She closed the book and stepped back from the desk, and in her eyes I saw the certainty of her decision, the futility of all forms of protest I might offer, and a determination to leave.

  That was when I made the greatest mistake of my life.

  The prospect of losing her was intolerable. She possessed the secret I had pursued for so long; I would not let it slip through my grasp! I lunged for her and took her arm, but she had already begun the charm or spell she used to travel between worlds.

  The moment my skin touched hers, I felt a foglike ether envelop me, and all the light and heat was sucked out of the world. She gasped and tried to pull away, but I resisted, gripping so tightly I fear I hurt her—but not out of anger, I swear, or fear of losing her. A terrible sense of emptiness in the ether, of dissociation, had me mortally afraid for my life. If I let her go, I thought, I would be lost between worlds and surely die.

  We struggled back and forth, she beating at me with her fists, and me imploring her to return with me, or take me with her. Whether she heard my cries or not, I do not know. The laboratory faded from sight, and the features of a new world appeared, one with metallic columns and bright lights. The air was dry and smelled of spark-gaps. Shapes rose up around us, and I felt their hands gripping me, pulling us apart. They snarled and spat at me in a foreign tongue. I strained to hang on to her, but could not resist them.

  Finally, a stout blow to my forehead tore me loose. I was hurled back into the ether, where I tumbled for an instant, insensate, before landing with a bone-jarring impact on the floor of my laboratory.

  I lay there for perhaps a minute, stunned. My skin was cold. I felt frost on my eyelashes. The chill seemed to penetrate right to my bones. But for the hammering of my heart, I might have been frozen solid.

  Then the sound of smashing glass stirred me from my delirium.

  I sat up, feeling her eyes upon me: Abiha’s dark eyes, devoid of pity, demonically invisible. I staggered to my feet and stared wildly about the laboratory.

  One of my glass bells chose that moment to shatter. It exploded into a thousand crystalline pieces, struck powerfully by an invisible hand, and I gasped in alarm. What cruel sabotage was this? Denying me her secrets was punishment enough, surely. Why destroy my greatest work as well? If I died in error, wasn’t that my own business?

  A third bell disintegrated. I picked up a spirit level and went on a rampage of my own, striking at the empty air in an attempt to catch one of my spectral tormentors off-guard—to no avail, of course, although I raged and swore. I begged. My cries went unheard beneath the shattering of the bells. The ground was soon covered in tiny shards, as though an artificial snow had fallen from the roof. My feet crunched at every step.

  Soon just one glass bell remained, and I lunged for it, determined to save it at least from the slaughter. When I was barely a hand span away, it shattered in my face, and I thought I heard someone laughing.

  I threw the spirit level at the empty air and roared my frustration. And still I could feel her, in the laboratory, all around me, mocking my impotence in silence.

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  I spun around with fists upraised, ready to do battle with the Devil himself.

  Margaret fell back, white-faced. “Darling! I heard the noise and came down to see. What in God’s name are you doing?”

  I dropped my hands and fell back, imagining how this must look to her. To her senses, the laboratory was empty apart from me, and she must surely have witnessed me lunging at that last bell with spirit level in hand. She would of course imagine me the architect of this disaster.

  But what would she think had occurred in my mind to make such actions possible? What possession, what madness?

  In that moment of self-realization, I understood everything.

  “My darling,” I said to Margaret, striving my utmost to keep my tone level and my expression one of sincerest sanity, “do not be alarmed. I know how this must seem to you. Be assured that the reality is not as it seems. Our visitor—well, as you can see the haunting has got entirely out of hand, and we must leave immediately. It is not too late.”

  She looked at me without understanding, but with recognition. She knew me and trusted me. She would have left with me—I know it. She was my wife, and I had never before done anything to harm our happiness.

  It was then, Michaels, that the most terrible thing of all occurred. Margaret made a soft cry, like a child, and staggered forward. I supported her before she could fall to the ground and cradled her in my arms. Her head lolled backward, and I felt a vile rush of blood over my hands. Struck a fatal blow from behind, she was dead before I caught her.

  Only when I smelled smoke did I begin to fear for my own life.

  A second time, Doctor Gordon broke down, but this time he forswore all forms of chemical relief. He declared that he would finish or be damned—for damned he already seemed to be.

  DANIEL TYKA

  The demons from the other world, he said, had set about demolishing his reputation as well as his work, and in that he acknowledged they had totally succeeded.

  The rest of the story differs little from eyewitness testimony. Firemen attending the scene found him lying in the lane at the back of his library, spared by mere inches from flaming debris. He was liberally splashed with blood and in a state of maniacal frenzy. Several witnesses heard him cry out, “Come back to me! Come back!” When asked if he was referring to his wife, he clearly declared that he was not. “The other woman,” he said—“And if she can’t have me, she means to destroy me!” Upon which, he collapsed unconscious and was borne away for treatment.

  Only when investigators found Margaret’s charred skeleton in the remains of the house, the back of her head apparently staved in by a hammer, and he was formally accused of murder—only then did Doctor Gordon emerge from the catatonia that had gripped him since his discovery. But he remained stubbornly mute. Even when he was charged, he said nothing. He was transferred from the hospital to Exeter Vale and has remained here ever since, sleepless and to all appearances unrepentant, pending a proper psychological examination.

  On the fourth day, he seemed at last ready to talk.

  “And here we are,” he said when he had finished his sorry tale. “What do you think? Am I deluded? Depraved? Both?”

  I refrained from commenting on his condition. It seemed clear to me that the man had suffered a major breakdown. Perhaps he truly believed that someone else had killed Margaret, but the facts of the case are plain. He was alone in the laboratory when Margaret entered. He admits that himself, invisible spirits notwithstanding. She came upon him unexpectedly while he was in the midst of demolishing his recent work. Who knows what he imagined, in the grip of such ungovernable emotions? She intruded; he was discovered. So Margaret Gordon died a violent death in the house she had shared with her husband for twenty years, and only her husband could have killed her.

  I believe he understood my conclusions without requiring me to declare them. He was merely deluded, not deprived of his faculties. I knew that, Inspector Berkeley, but I nevertheless allowed him to get the upper hand.

  “If you will not release me,” he said, “then I would like to see Margaret. Where she lies, anyway. She must have been buried by now. We have adjacent vaults reserved in the Catacombs of the Lower Cemetery, and I hope to lie next to her when this grisly business is over. Do you think that might be arranged? If so, I will go quietly—plead guilty and of sound mind, confess whatever you like. You have heard my story, and if I cannot convince you of the truth of it, then I have no wish to cause further in
convenience to you or anyone else.”

  The request was not altogether surprising, nor the granting of it wholly unjustified. I will defend that conclusion to the grave. For a dangerous madman, there would have been no question of release. But he, who seemed sane enough, lacking only the honesty and good character to reveal the whole truth about what happened that ghastly night—him I could not deny. It seemed certain to me that, in a deranged state brought on by insomnia, and by romantic circumstances he was naturally wary of revealing, he had murdered the one person he had ever been a danger to, and that I or anyone else was therefore safe in his presence. Granting his request could ease the conclusion of his trial and leave the resources of both judiciary and asylum free for those in greater need.

  “Tell me just one thing,” I said, before taking my leave to obtain permission from Superintendent Gilfoyle.

  “Anything, Michaels.”

  “You said you felt something when you came here—an intangibility, a profundity, or words to that effect. What do you think that might have been?”

  He studied his hands as though looking for bloodstains.

  “Perhaps no more than my imagination,” he said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You will think it the nearness of the Creator, perhaps, or fate’s cold hand upon me, some such nonsense.”

  “Hardly,” I rebuffed him. “I am, as you say, a scholar, and I read extensively in the new theories of mind. My speculations on such matters lead me in very different directions—inward, not outward. The feeling came from part of you, I would say, from some unnoticed or suppressed corner of your mind. You felt it when the woman Abiha abandoned you, leaving you trapped in your marriage with Margaret, and you felt it again when locked in this cell. Could your dissociative impulse be nothing more than a method of achieving freedom by the only means available to you—via a fantasy? Could that be why a disturbed mental state accompanied each occurrence of that feeling, and why you seem compelled to expound this unlikely tale to the bitter end?”

  He regarded me with a critical eye for a good minute. I felt that he was surprised, and perhaps even slightly amused, by my claims.

  “You may be right,” he said, finally. “I was wrong to belittle you, Michaels. I’m sorry.”

  I dismissed his apology as unnecessary, but was secretly pleased to have earned it.

  On that encouraging note, I left him to see about the visit to Margaret’s resting place, in the hope that this would put the dreadful affair behind him for good, little knowing how complicit I was about to become in the conclusion of these events.

  I wish you to understand and accept, Inspector Berkeley, that I acted unknowingly, and in full faith of Doctor Gordon’s good intentions. I will swear before any judge you name, in this world or the next, that I thought him resigned to his fate, that this last concession would see him walk to the dock and ultimately to the gallows. He spoke no more of his work, or of the woman he felt had betrayed him. When I returned to his cell with the escorts assigned to him, he was already on his feet, his head bowed and his attire as neat as he could manage, given his circumstances. He seemed a gentleman fallen on hard times, not a villain.

  Constables Teale and Collison secured his wrists with handcuffs and led him from the cell. A small steam carriage awaited us at the exit from the administration wing, where the patient’s temporary release forms were properly signed and witnessed. I rode with the driver, while my unfortunate companion sat between the two constables in the locked cab. We made our way down the long drive and through the main entrance under a sky as gray and leaden as granite, its featureless expanse broken only by the oval silhouette of an airship rising in stately fashion from the station with propellers deeply droning—one of Gordon’s own designs, if I am not mistaken.

  The journey to Longbrook Valley and the catacombs of Exeter proceeded uneventfully. We were met, at the steps leading up through the Lower Cemetery to the entrance in the grim hillside, by the priest and, rather disconcertingly, the catacombs’ bricklayer, who was of the impression that we required his services. On the discovery that all of our party were living and no vaults needed to be sealed that day, he left muttering under his breath while Doctor Gordon and I ascended.

  The arrangement was that the two constables would wait without while I accompanied the patient to the vault. The priest unchained the gate and allowed us through, then secured the entrance behind us. The air was cool and close within the catacombs themselves, and I longed for more light than my meager lantern provided. The walls were made of heavy, dark stone and fashioned to convey a sense of Egyptian antiquity. I was reminded of Gordon’s alchemical fantasies and wondered what he made of them now.

  “I feel it again,” he told me, on that sepulchral threshold. “And I know now that it is fate, after all, brought me here.”

  He seemed feverish to my quick inspection. “Do you wish to proceed? There would be no dishonor in turning back.”

  “No,” he said. “I must see her. And I know now that I shall.”

  We walked into the catacombs and followed the priest’s directions to the Dissenters’ section. There we scoured the sealed vaults, looking for fresh brickwork and a new brass plaque. I found Margaret before he did and stood in silence before telling him, reading the graven message that marked out the record of her days.

  “Margaret Josephine Gordon, beloved wife, 1842–18—.”

  It seemed very little to me then, and still seems so now.

  “This is it,” said Gordon. He had come up behind me without making a sound. “Do you carry a journal with you, and a pen?”

  “Of course,” I said—and that is the last thing I remember. Constable Teale found me unconscious on the floor of the catacombs with a large bump protruding from the back of my skull, struck from behind just as Margaret had been—by her husband, Doctor Gordon.

  You might say that, if what I tell you is true, I am lucky to be alive. I assure you that I curse the error of my judgment with every breath, and I wish I could explain what happened that day with any more clarity than this.

  Certain facts are indisputable. The catacombs were sealed; the only entrance was attended by the two constables and the priest. No one entered or left until sufficient time had passed for them to come in search of us. When they found me unconscious and alone, reinforcements were summoned and the catacombs meticulously searched. Even Margaret’s vault, the most recently sealed, was opened, but her body was the only occupant.

  Of Doctor Gordon there was no sign. He vanished that day as thoroughly as any ghost, my notepad and pen with him, and I believe you when you assure me, Inspector Berkeley, that no trace of him has been found.

  I maintain that I had nothing to do with his disappearance, although I do not blame you for reaching the opposite conclusion. The only material way for the accused murderer to escape from the catacombs was with the assistance of an accomplice, and the constables’ solemn oath that they let no one enter or exit is supported by the priest’s eyewitness account. If these three are excluded from the list of possible collaborators, that leaves only me. Furthermore, I had the obvious opportunity to concoct this scheme, while supposedly interviewing him in Exeter Vale.

  I am, however, sanguine about my confinement, for it has provided me with the opportunity to write this full and frank testimony—and to make one small but possibly critical discovery that escaped my attention in the catacombs.

  In the inside pocket of my coat, folded carefully in four, I came upon a note written on one of my own note papers, but in a hand very unlike my own. I enclose it with this account as evidence of the fugitive’s state of mind, and its bearing on the matter of my innocence.

  Your conclusions must be your own, Inspector Berkeley. I have nothing left to reveal, and no further speculations to offer. (I presume, however, that you have interviewed the bricklayer, along with the porters of the asylum, and are doing everything in your power to find the
woman Abiha, about whom Doctor Gordon speaks so vehemently.)

  Yours most sincerely, et cetera,

  John Wesley Michaels, M.D.

  Michaels—

  I am sorry to have used you in this despicable way. On entering the catacombs, I find that hope has returned; for the attainment of another possibility, the one that has thus far eluded me, is now within my grasp.

  How much you believe of my story, I may never know. Perhaps none at all—in which case this short missive will provide yet more evidence to support a diagnosis of madness. If, however, you have detected the faintest ring of truth in my account, then you should attend carefully. The import of what I have to tell you has repercussions for not just this great empire, but all humanity on this world.

  Abiha told me that my experiments were flawed, and perhaps they were in application, but not in essence, for what else could possibly have drawn her to me? My machines sent ripples through the ether between worlds, alerting her and her allies to the existence of my work. They came to investigate; they misunderstood what they saw; they approached me, thinking me like them, free to wander the wondrous Helioverse she spoke of. Perhaps they hoped to recruit me. That I do not know—but now I know their cause, I can safely swear that I would never ally myself with such beings.

  You see, Michaels, it occurred to me that night to wonder: if so many alchemists in our world had made the same discoveries—how they could possibly have been forgotten. Why, when their conclusions are so openly discussed in their texts, isn’t this means of travel available to us all? The answer lies in how you yourself described them: “lunatics and misfits,” I believe, were your very words. Someone must have calculatedly driven them into disrepute—but, again, why?