“I’ll come,” Thomas said briefly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay. I’ve yet to see the event that makes me pass up an evening with you. See you tomorrow evening, dear.”
“Around seven. Goodbye.”
“’Bye, Beryl.”
Thomas hung up slowly, then shook himself.
“This won’t do, Rex, m’lad! Snap out of it! Grab yourself a shower, a bite, and some shut-eye. Then you’ll be all set.”
He followed out his own prescription accurately—but when it came to sleeping, he hit hard against a problem. The moment he started to doze something happened to him. It was as though he were dreaming while still awake.
A vision, hazy in outline but nonetheless distinguishable, insisted on hammering itself into his consciousness. He could have understood a strong recurrent reminder of his radio work, for he had been working until all hours on a new receiving set design for weeks—but this was something utterly different.
The scene represented some sort of laboratory, or else a surgery. It seemed to be filled with chemical and medical apparatus, electronic tubes, magnets, mazes of wire. In the centre of the room was a long surgical table, obviously for the purpose of major operations, if the arc lights, at present extinguished, hanging overhead were any guide.
But easily the most puzzling thing of all was the presence of six chairs, like those used by a dentist, with helmets on the top of each. Curious helmets, indeed, like those of an aviator’s outfit. On a rack nearby, shielded by glass screens, were numberless probes, scalpels, and saws....
Thomas woke up sweating, cramped his eyes shut, then opened them again. Convinced he was the victim of a nightmare, he tried to settle himself again. But the vision came back, in a slightly changed form. For a brief moment or so he saw his brother—his dead brother—lying on the formerly empty surgical table, gazing in sheer terror at something unknown.
Straps were about the other’s body, pinning him down. His head had been shaven as bald as a peeled egg. He seemed to be saying something, struggling to speak.
“Brian!” Rex Thomas screamed suddenly, sitting up. “Brian!”
He was shuddering all over. Shakily he switched on the bed light and gazed around the quiet, deserted room. Nothing was any different.
The events of the day, of course! The horrible things that had happened had all warped into his consciousness and produced this. It had to be a dream, because his brother was dead....
He waited a long time to calm himself, and thereafter slept at fitful intervals with visions here and there. He felt pretty washed out by the time he rose next morning. And sown deep in his mind was a profound bewilderment.
Many a time in the past his being a twin had given him unexpected visions of his brother, particularly in time of trouble—but how could it apply to this occasion when his brother was in the morgue?
A bad dream—nothing more.
* * * * * * *
Rex Thomas arrived to attend Beryl’s dinner party after a day of gradual recovery from his heavy night. The immense sweep of the girl’s home—the residence of Jonathan Clayton, famous inventor—the myriad lights, the efficient servants, the cordial voices, did much to clear Thomas’ mind. And the girl herself, an entrancing dark-haired, grey-eyed vision in evening dress, practically consummated the cure.
“Hello there, Rex!” Beryl came forward eagerly as he entered the great lounge and picked his way among the guests. “How’s tricks?”
She smiled at him impishly, then seeing his serious face she went on,
“Anything wrong, dearest? You look tired— Your brother, of course?”
“Yes—sort of preying on my mind.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I swore I’d leave my troubles at the front door, and I intend to.”
Someone else was greeting him then.
“Glad to see you, Rex.” It was the girl’s father who came up with extended hand. Big, grey-headed, strong-necked, he looked more like a champion athlete than an inventor—and probably the best inventor the United States Government had ever employed for regular service.
“Evening, sir.” Thomas returned the grip. “You seem to have quite a few people around here tonight. I—”
“Indeed, yes! Come along, I want you to meet some of them. See you later, Beryl.”
The girl nodded slowly, her face clearly disappointed at the sudden separation. But her father was determined. One by one Thomas found himself being introduced to some of the country’s leading scientific experts. Among them were the thin-faced, unpleasantly sharp Professor Eliman, wizard of brain surgery; and then a gnome-like little man under five feet in height, with an immense forehead down which curled a lock of hair shaped in a Napoleonic “J.”
This little man was talking in a surprisingly bass voice to Joseph Clough, the financier, when Jonathan Clayton tapped him on the shoulder.
“Lloyd—a moment. I want you to meet my prospective son-in-law. Rex, meet Dr. Brutus Lloyd. You can call him an expert in any branch of science and criminology, and be right every time.”
“Correct,” Lloyd beamed, extending his small hand. Then, his frosty blue eyes narrowing a little, he added,
“Clayton errs, my young friend. He should have said prospective stepson-in-law. Eh, Clayton?”
Clayton shrugged. “I regard Beryl as my own daughter.”
“Culpa levis—excusable negligence,” Lloyd sighed. “Unfortunately, my profession demands an accuracy of facts—even to daughters. If either of you think the less of me for the correction, it won’t make the least difference.”
Clayton said nothing. Rex Thomas gave a faintly puzzled smile, the smile of a man who hears the unexpected for the first time.
Then he said, “I seem to have heard of you before, Dr. Lloyd.”
“Seem to!” Lloyd echoed, glaring. “Before you, young man, you behold the greatest scientist of the day—teres atque rotundus, a man polished and complete.”
“Don’t mind him, Rex,” Clayton chuckled. “He got that way from reading Latin in his chemistry experiments, and—”
“Of course,” Lloyd said, changing the subject, “you’re the brother of the late Brian Thomas?”
“Yes, and there’s something I’d like to—”
Thomas broke off as Beryl came up in high spirits.
“So here you are, Rex! Dad, what do you mean dragging him off like this to meet your brain-bulging cronies? We’ve things to talk about.”
Thomas found himself whirled away, but for the life of him he could not find the inspiration necessary to rise to the intended jollity of the occasion.
“Sorry, Beryl,” he apologized, as the girl went in to dinner on his arm. “I’ve a heck of a lot of things on my mind. Tell me something—your last name isn’t really Clayton, is it? Dr. Lloyd let the cat out of the bag.”
Beryl shrugged. “I never thought it mattered. After all, you’re going to change my name anyway, so why worry?”
“I’m not worrying,” Thomas said. “You’re all that counts, anyway. Incidentally, is Dr. Lloyd here professionally or as a guest?”
“Guest, of course. He’s known dad quite a long time. Why?”
“Just wondered if he could explain something rather queer. It’ll do later.”
The girl glanced at him curiously, but said nothing. For some reason she spoke little during the dinner; and Thomas for his part ate little. He was aware of feeling rather out of the conversation, which seemed to shuttle back and forth between financial expositions on the part of Joseph Clough and scientific comments by hatchet-faced Professor Eliman.
Dr. Lloyd seemed to have little to say, but Thomas noticed his shrewd little eyes darting from one face to the other as he dug heartily into the well-prepared courses.
Rex Thomas felt thankful when the meal was over. Quietly he took Beryl to one side.
“I’m going to borrow Dr. Lloyd for a while. Mind?”
She sighed. “Seems I’ve little choice. You’re sure I can’t help you? I’m good at patching up troubles
.”
“You’d fail this time. See you later, darling.”
Thomas caught Dr. Lloyd in the hall as he was crossing with Jonathan Clayton to the lounge.
“Oh, doctor, a moment! I wonder would you mind very much if I consulted you?”
The little scientist halted and frowned. “I have hours for work and for play, Mr. Thomas. While appreciating your desire to utilize my vast powers, I must say—”
“But this is urgent!” Thomas cried. “Desperately urgent!”
“Well—” LIoyd stroked his “J” of hair pensively. “All right,” he agreed.
“Take the library,” Clayton invited, throwing open the door for them. “See you later.”
II. THE STAINED SCALPELS
“Now,” Dr. Lloyd snapped, as the door closed, “I have little time for trifles, Mr. Thomas. Please come to the point immediately.”
“Fair enough. It’s about my brother, Brian. He was murdered like three other great scientists before him, and nobody knows why, the police least of all.”
“Hah!” Lloyd snorted, his small face cynical.
“He was murdered,” Rex Thomas went on tensely, “and yet last night I had the strangest dream. In fact, it wasn’t a dream—more a kind of vision. In that vision my brother was still alive, yet only a few hours before I had seen him in the morgue.”
Lloyd gestured irritably. “I am not here to play games, Mr. Thomas. What is this? A new insight into nightmares, or what? I have no time for half a story. Qui timide rogat docet negare, young man—he who asks timidly courts denial! Be frank. I, Brutus Lloyd, order it.”
“Sorry, sir. I thought—” Thomas shrugged, puzzled by the scientist’s odd manner.
“You see,” he went on, “it struck me as strange that I should get a vision like that with Brian dead. We were twins and—well, twins often get visions of each other doing things. Common between them. Sort of telepathic link, you know.”
Lloyd’s eyelids lowered insolently. “I require no tutor in scientific matters, Mr. Thomas. However, the statement is interesting and—A, twinship with a dead body is intriguing, and—B, the problem of the recent murders has commanded my attention. So—continue!”
Thomas obeyed, and during the narrative Lloyd sat perched like a gnome on the edge of the desk, stroking his lock of hair thoughtfully. When it was over he raised an eyebrow.
“A laboratory, eh? Helmets? Dentist’s chairs? Hm-m! You are quite sure it was your brother’s body in the morgue?”
“But of course! I’d not be likely to mistake my own twin, would I?”
“Twinship of minds—twinship of motives,” Lloyd mused. “Hm-m—most interesting.”
“Again,” Rex Thomas said slowly, “I’m wondering if the murders will stop now. Suppose Dr. Clayton happened to be the next one.”
“If he did, grief would descend on Beryl, eh?” Lloyd asked dryly. “You want me to clear all this up in order to save your fiancée from distress.”
“Partly that, yes,” Thomas admitted. “It will take a detective of your ability to get to the bottom of the whole thing.”
Lloyd rose in scorn. “Detective!” he sneered. “I, sir, am a specialist! I do not work for gold, but for pleasure. God gave me a brain beyond the normal, and I use it. If, of course, the Government should reward me afterward— Well, exitus acta probat—the result justifies the deed.”
“You mean you’ll look into it?”
“For three reasons,” Dr. Lloyd responded. “A—I must find out for the sake of my psychology notes how a dead man can impress a living twin; B, I must find out why an unknown laboratory has chairs like those in a dentist’s surgery, and C,”—he smiled blandly—“the mightiest of brains needs relaxation. This case will provide it.”
“I don’t think so,” Thomas said nervously.
“What you think is mere foolishness, young man. Have you enough pull to get yourself a brief vacation?”
“I guess so.”
“Excellent! I shall need you probably for physical aid; I am no Hercules. Mentally, I am more than sufficient. You will be at my house at exactly nine tomorrow morning. And now, redire ad nuces—let us return to the ‘nuts’,” Dr. Lloyd punned.
He opened the door and marched briskly to rejoin the guests.
* * * * * * *
It was late in the evening when most of the dancing and fun were over that a knotty point of argument arose among the scientists. It led them finally, Rex Thomas and Brutus Lloyd included, into Jonathan Clayton’s own private laboratory.
“Here you are then, gentlemen—synthetic flesh!” Clayton cried triumphantly. “Does this convince you or not?”
He raised something that looked like pink rubber from a bowl and stretched it back and forth.
“The latest miracle for surgical work,” he added quietly. “Practically as good as the real thing, full of minute fibres to carry the bloodstream. Doubt it if you can!”
“You see, it doesn’t do to doubt the mind of Dr. Clayton,” observed Professor Eliman, smiling cynically. “I’ve known about this invention for some time, only it wasn’t ethical to reveal it without permission.”
“And I’m grateful for your confidence,” Clayton said seriously. “This is not a Government invention; I can use it privately and aid medical science immensely. I had hoped to create life—”
“Waste of time, in my opinion,” Joseph Clough commented. “I made my money soaking people, not helping them. However—”
“I suppose,” Lloyd remarked, “you financed this synthetic flesh idea, Clough?”
“Sure. I’ve financed dozens of Clayton’s private inventions. Plenty in ’em, on the side.”
“Auri sacra fames—accursed lust for gold,” Lloyd sighed. Then as the scientists gathered round to inspect the synthetic flesh, he wandered slowly around the laboratory, his keen eyes glancing up and down. Presently he stopped at a horizontal mirror lying directly under a massive telescopic tube.
The mirror was rather surprising. It was not polished and clear, but of unusual construction.
“My latest,” Clayton said proudly, hurrying up. “Not quite ready yet for offering to the astronomical field. It’s an element detector.”
“Can it be that I, who know all things scientific, am at a loss?” Lloyd mused, frowning.
“Probably, this time. This is a new idea. Watch!”
Clayton moved to a switchboard and busied himself with controls. The laboratory roof rolled open along a section to a clear moonlit sky. Upon the mirror there appeared the moon’s image, but instead of the usual craters and seas there was a multitude of network colours of every imaginable hue.
“The moon,” Clayton observed. “Ordinarily it is revealed as a white surface, of course. Only a tiny fraction of that surface has been excavated by the handful of astronauts who have reached it. What minerals and ores it may possess are unknown—or were unknown until I invented this.
“It is a well-known fact that different metals give off different light-values, ordinarily undetectable. But this instrument of mine, by a prismatic system, can detect different light-values by reflection instead of actual illumination.”
“Clear as mud,” one of the scientists laughed.
“I’ll make it clearer,” Clayton apologized. “We know the elements of any star by the flame colour we get through the prisms. Reflected light has defeated us so far—but I’ve solved it. Hence the reflection of light from the moon reveals clearly what elements it has.
“See”—he pointed his finger at a dull grey streak—“here is lead. Probably a great field of solidified lava. In turn, we have iron ore deposits, gold seams in considerable quantity, silver, oxides—”
“Remarkable!” Lloyd exclaimed, his eyes brightening. “A satellite worth a good deal, eh?”
“Definitely,” Clayton smiled, switching off. “A world of valued metals revealed for the first time through my invention—but unhappily a world two hundred and forty thousand miles off. We have space travel, of course�
��but the chemical rockets employed are astronomically expensive—no pun intended! Using existing rockets, it would actually cost more to get to the moon to mine them, than the metals themselves would sell for!”
“I’ve suggested ways and means of developing a new—and economical—way of crossing space—in fact, most of us here have—but our host won’t listen,” Professor Eliman said. “Sometimes I think you’re unprogressive, Clayton. A genius, and yet too conservative. You say that economical space travel would lead to war and conflict—a twenty-first-century gold-rush!”
“I do,” Clayton sighed. “That is one reason why I am rather reluctant to reveal the secret of this detector to any but my immediate friends. When men realize what is up there, in the sky—”
“And there are other dangers,” Thomas put in quietly. “A maniac is at work somewhere killing off brilliant scientists. Suppose you were singled out, once your profound knowledge became known?”
“Absurd!” exclaimed Professor Eliman, with a cynical grin. “The maniacal killings of scientists are not worth considering. At least, I am not afraid, and I’m sure Clayton is not.”
“’Course he isn’t!” exclaimed Joseph Clough reassuringly.
“I just happened to recall my brother’s murder, that’s all,” Thomas said quietly.
Clayton gave a shrug. “Isn’t this getting rather depressing, gentlemen?” he asked. “Suppose we repair to the lounge.”
Lloyd marked time with the group until Rex Thomas caught up with him.
“This is not the laboratory you saw in your vision, I suppose?” he asked softly, as they went through the doorway.
“No. And in any case I wouldn’t distrust Dr. Clayton. I know him too well.”
“Many of the dead scientists were his friends,” Lloyd murmured. “Fide, sed cui, vide, Mr. Thomas—trust, but see whom you are trusting.”
“You don’t think—” Rex Thomas stared, appalled; but Lloyd only gave an unfathomable smile and gently massaged his “J” of hair.
* * * * * * *
When Rex Thomas arrived at Dr. Brutus Lloyd’s suburban house next morning, he found the little scientist ready and waiting in his open roadster outside the gates. If anything, Lloyd’s big Derby hat and enormous overcoat made him look odder than ever.
A Case for Brutus Lloyd Page 5
