In silence the others looked upward, all unaware that at that identical moment in London Dr. Anderson had stopped the outflow of power from the vibrator. Instantly Sam’s counteracter was able to exert to its full effect.
“Yes—we win!” Sam said again, in a voice of triumph.
And those were the last words he ever uttered.
For, quite abruptly, as the blueness began to spread, it seemed as though the pink screen suddenly warped and bent downward. There came a blinding blue flash from the instruments and a terrific explosion that tore up the ground for a mile in every direction. Men, apparatus, planes, instruments—all vanished in fragments—but the blue sky still spread, bringing back normalcy to a tortured world.
For with all his careful calculations, with all the careful checking of his figures, Sam Brown had forgotten one thing. The hurling forth of the negative power to stop the explosion of atoms would entail a recoil effect thousands of times greater than that of firing a shell from a big gun. Hence the recoil had compressed itself into the useless confines of the instruments, and blown them—and the men—to fragments.
DESERTED UNIVERSE
I
My name, so far as I can interpret it into your language, is Moviz-Kaflo, and my home planet is that of Kroj, situated in the Fifth Galaxy, in a universe outside of your own.
I leave this manuscript in a sealed container within a silent metropolis, which I have found is called New York City. One day, perchance, life will return to this world of Earth. When it does, this manuscript—pieced together from my own individual experiences; the diaries of one Peter Conroy, engineer; Dr. Hugh Calthorpe, psychologist; and the newspaper columns of one James Bates, reporter on the New York Mirror—will be found and will explain the profound riddle that is bound to face future generations, if any should come.
How my fellows and I came to Earth is of little import. We came across it in the year 2062, Earth time, in the ordinary course of a space cruise. Beholding below us clear evidences of cities indicative of intelligent minds, we landed. We experienced some little difficulty with the terrestrial air and gravitation, but in time, with the apparatus at our command, were able to overcome these disadvantages.
Imagine our surprise, then, at finding, all over this world of Earth, distinct traces of activity stopped, as it were, in mid-air. Nowhere in the crumbling cities could we find a trace of life—no remains, no skeletons, nothing to explain the profound mystery that brooded over this obviously once-prosperous world.
We looked into rooms, where we found what were apparently meals, still laid out on dust-and-dirt-choked tables. We gazed upon machines, which had run of their own accord until their power had failed. Many times, too, we came across words which finished in mid-sentence; and upon the still flowing and ebbing seas were ships, rusted, and absolutely deserted from end to end; whilst the ship’s log, as I understand it is called, ended—like so many other strange messages—in mid-sentence—
What more natural than that we set ourselves to solve this uncanny mystery. It had added interest for us in that, in our travels through this particular universe we had not found a single planet possessing life, though we had come across evidences that intelligent life had once existed.
For months—which lengthened into Earthly years—we pursued our investigations. Though we found no trace of living soul or corpse, we did finally discover dusty, worn relics in the region of the once mighty city of New York known as Fifth Avenue. Here, I repeat, we found the clue to the problem—which, by further investigations in silent, empty newspaper offices was supported by further irrefutable writings.
These things I have pieced together in the nearest approach to an Earthly literary style. It has been difficult to master your language, so if this is ever read again by Earthly beings they must make allowances where necessary.
When it is ended I shall place it in an incorrodible container and leave it within the most predominant New York building I can see. I learn it is called the Empire State Building, according to your maps.
And now to the story, as I see it in the light of gathered facts. There come first the diary notes of Peter Conroy, the engineer, and Dr. Calthorpe, the psychologist, which exactly match up. And later comes the report of Bates, the reporter, written exactly as it appears the strange incidents must have happened.
Moviz-Kaflo.
*
II
*
The door of the immense library closed quietly and discreetly behind Peter Conroy, engineer. He walked slowly and deliberately across the thick pile carpet and paused at last before the massive desk. Dr. Hugh Calthorpe, famous psychologist, was sitting waiting for him. In silence he had studied his visitor’s advance.
Inwardly, Conroy was shocked by the change in the expert in five short years. No longer was he the bluff, red-faced savant whom he had consulted regarding some trifling mental trouble that had once afflicted him; instead he was pale, incredibly emaciated, his mouth drawn into tight lines from continuous battle with pain, his dark eyes staring from the midst of a creased parchment that had once been a face.
“Hello, Conroy,” he greeted, with a faint smile, holding out a hawk-like hand. “You’re wondering why I should pick on you to come here, eh?”
The young man dropped into the chair indicated to him, then nodded. “It comes as a surprise that you even remember me, sir,” he confessed. “After all, I was only in your care for two months, and during that time —”
“During that time you evinced an interest beyond the average, not only in your own complaint, which we soon cured, but in psychology and its countless ramifications. That interest of yours stimulated me, Conroy—came just at a time when I needed it.
“I have made some remarkable discoveries during these past years, of such a nature that I am unwilling to trust them to the medical faculty after my death, and therefore I am entrusting them to you. First, because you and I became such friends; second, because you are an engineer with a hobby of psychology, who will readily understand the facts I intend putting before you.”
“Did—did you say after your death?” Conroy asked quietly.
Calthorpe slowly nodded. “I did. It requires no particular brilliance to perceive that I am nearly dead now. Advanced phthisis—at the most I have only a month to live. But it is not until I am dead that the real experiment will commence.”
Calthorpe paused, watching the young man’s reactions—then, leaning across the desk, he resumed, in a lower, voice: “Conroy, I have made a discovery which, if I can prove it to be correct, will revolutionize nearly every known scientific theory concerning life on this planet of ours. You may remember, when under my care, remarking one day that life seems a silly business—so pointless? So very few of us leave our imprints on the sands of time. Life, as a whole, seems to drive to no purpose; we are surrounded by so many inexplicable enigmas. You remember saying that?”
“Certainly I do. I remember commenting upon the problem of where all life is to eventually lead us, and for what reason we are trying to progress. What is it for, anyhow? The thought of mere personal gratification seems impossible. There are so few really advanced thinkers.”
“Exactly.” Calthorpe nodded quickly. “As I reason it out, Conroy, it is not life that is our real existence—but death! Or rather what appears to be death to our blind, confined mortal senses.”
“But —” the young man began in protest; then he was waved into silence.
“Hear me out, Conroy, whilst the thing is fresh in my mind. Where, for instance, do our mental aims and purposes come from when we are born? Where do they go to when we die? During our life span the majority of us accomplish hardly anything; only about ten per cent of the world’s inhabitants—and that is a generous estimate!—prove to be geniuses enough to advance Earthly knowledge.
“When they die their abilities die with them and pass into—what? Something we do not know as yet. They have made their contribution to progress, yes, but with what aim in mind? It
is usually attributed to some inner sense of impulsion that they cannot control—genius will out, as the saying is.
“These rare beings care nothing for fame and fortune, only the powers that their minds can give. Yet they know that they are destined to die and probably never to see the ultimate fruition of their brilliance. So you see, the problem is left undone. The great purpose behind their efforts is unseen—unknown.”
“True enough,” Conroy nodded slowly. “For the same reason, what happened to those incredibly clever ancient civilizations whom we cannot even equal? What was their purpose? Why did they die out at the peak of achievement?”
“An excellent example,” the doctor responded keenly. “I believe, my boy—in fact, I have almost proved it—that the brilliance we give off in our lives is to some end which we cannot see. Further, I believe that from birth to death we are in a kind of trance, a dream, dictated to by some other power immovably linked to the vast complexity which we call universal thought. There is much to support the view.
“Assuming we are in a dream, obeying higher dictates, it is natural to assume that very few will have the correct mental apparatus to receive and fully utilize those commands, wherever they come from. Those few we term geniuses. The others form the mere useless background, adding a little to progress admitted, but nowhere near the vast attainments of the few isolated masterminds.
“Another thing is the comparative uselessness of the lives of average people. They get nowhere. They are hurrying toward some mythical goal. Only those who are masterminds can dimly foresee the real goal. The other struggle is exactly akin to the pointless wandering of a dream. That is but another reason why I suspect that life is a dream, an instant in the course of what is otherwise a vast and tremendous existence.”
“Then, sir, assuming our mortal frames are purely the carriers of brains that take orders, what do you imagine our real beings are like?” Conroy asked quietly.
“That I don’t know, but I am proposing to discover for myself. I cannot in all sanity believe, Conroy, that these piffling little bits of bodies constitute our real selves. Why, they’re absurd! They hover on a borderline of extinction. For instance, organized life, as we know it, cannot live above one hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit or below twenty below zero.
“Our life is so utterly preposterous, balanced as though some scientist had deliberately arranged it and was forced to conserve his material in so doing. Do you realize that the census of all life on this planet is proved, in proportion, to be less than one hundred millionth of the weight of Earth itself?”
“I didn’t know that,” Conroy admitted thoughtfully.
“We’re useless, Conroy! We can’t see a fourth dimension; we spend half of our lives asleep; we understand only the veriest edges of the cosmos; and usually in threescore years and ten it’s all over!” The psychologist smiled bitterly. “No, I can’t believe in that! Something must exist—beyond!”
“I agree with you, sir. But even so, I don’t quite see what can be done about it. After all, there’s no way to find what lies before birth and after death.”
“Before birth is a difficult problem, I admit—but after death is not so difficult. That is why I sent for you. When I die, Conroy, I shall want you to record my entire stock of impressions by means of machinery I have specially devised.”
The young man started—then stared. “You what?” he asked blankly.
“Sounds queer in cold words, I know; but I haven’t studied psychology all my life for nothing. Dreams, the perplex-subconscious region, sense perception, hypnotism—all these states have come directly under my notice. Upon the advent of death, however, the brain ceases to work mainly because of the setting in of mortification. I have made arrangements so that, upon my death, my body shall not mortify, it will lie in a perfectly normal state, dead so far as activity and motion are concerned, but so long as it is in that condition my brain will still be able to record impressions.
“I could not speak those impressions; I shall be unable to hear with my ears. It will all be a concept of thought. But in that way I believe I shall see beyond death. I have positive proof that the non-mortification of a body enables the brain to keep alive long after apparent death has set in.”
“Proof?”
“I have studied the methods of the ancient Egyptians. There was more in their crude body embalming than just love of perpetuation of a certain person, Conroy. Their brains functioned for centuries after their bodies died. So long as there was no mortification they continued to live, mentally. Deaths caused by the pillage of Egyptian tombs by explorers have not been so coincidental, either. Mummies, in an indirect way, provided the basis of my modern version.”
For a long time after that Conroy sat in silence, then he looked at the expert with a strange light in his eyes.
“Then you propose, after you die, doctor, to explain exactly what happens and prove to your satisfaction and everybody else’s exactly what we’re living for?” he asked incredulously.
“You have the idea exactly, and you will perceive therefore why I must have a trustworthy person to assist me to carry out the experiment, and one conversant with the methods of psychology. I remembered your interest and looked you up. Briefly, Conroy, I am prepared to will everything to you, if you in turn, upon my death, will take over control. You will have two assistants to aid you, both worthy men, but they are not the type to whom I would care to give a free hand.
“You may be assured that everything will be legally arranged; nothing will be left to chance. If you decide to accept the proposition we’ll start in tomorrow, and I’ll show you exactly how the machinery works. Your final duty will be merely to hand the record of my after-death experiences to the Institute of Psychology. They know already of my intentions, and are also frankly sceptical. Now, what do you say?”
“Well, I—er—hardly know what to say,” Conroy returned breathlessly.
“I know that, but the circumstances of my disease compel rapid action. However, think it over during today, and let me know first thing in the morning. How’s that?”
Conroy nodded quickly. “O.K.—that’s fine. I’ll be here tomorrow without fail, no matter what my answer.”
“I shall hope, sincerely, that it will be in the affirmative, my boy.”
*
III
*
It seems almost needless to record that Peter Conroy accepted the proposition. Two things influenced him very strongly; one that Calthorpe was the possessor of a considerable fortune, and the other the uncanny nature of the experiment itself.
All monetary considerations aside, it is probable that the enthusiastic young man would have accepted for the mystery of the thing alone. He forsook his engineering post—in any case, he reflected that he knew of another one he could almost certainly pick up if the thing fell through—and presented himself at the doctor’s Fifth Avenue residence for the first negotiations.
The legal technicalities were dispensed with in the first morning. Then, after lunch—at which Calthorpe himself ate hardly anything—they adjourned to the private laboratory where the doctor commenced a detailed description of the apparatus.
Undoubtedly his equipment spoke highly for his inventive capacity, and revealed how thoroughly he had gone into his subject. Many of the devices were familiar to Conroy as connected with surgery, but most amazing of all were the machines for the after-death transmission.
The main apparatus consisted of a long glass cylinder into which, Calthorpe explained, his body was to be slid upon death. It was then to be sealed up. Poised over this glass cylinder, at carefully measured angles, were objects resembling solar arcs—massive, curiously wrought filaments standing predominantly from the midst of brilliantly polished concave reflectors. Then came a series of air pipes, a pumping machine, and electric heating wires affixed to the base of the tube itself, all controlled by thermostatic devices.
“Here, of course, is the actual deathbed,” Calthorpe remarked with a gr
im smile, indicating the tube. “These arcs here utilize a form of energy fairly similar to that of the cosmic ray. Their exact purpose is to destroy chemical change the instant it forms in my dead body. Chemical change alone, as you will be aware, is the cause of putrefaction.
“So long as these arcs are in action there can be no mortification; under their influence no change can take place. I could, of course, have had my body sealed in a vacuum; but that wouldn’t do, because to function properly, my brain must have air. So I had to seek out this device of giving a body air and yet preventing it decaying. Here, though, is the more important part of the apparatus—in fact, the most important.”
He pointed to the termination of the cylinder, and Conroy observed for the first time that it ended in a device of flexible leather, shaped exactly like a diver’s helmet. To its exterior we attached a numberless series of differently colored wires, leading back to the remoter areas of the laboratory, where there stood a labyrinth of unorthodox apparatus.
“That helmet has been specially designed to fit my head as tightly as a glove fits a hand,” Calthorpe explained steadily. “I know it is efficient because I have already tested it. Inside it are a multitude of tiny wires, each one very carefully placed so as to be in exact juxtaposition with the sensory nerves of my brain—in actual contact indeed, save for the intervention of the skull bone, which makes not the slightest difference. A deaf man can hear by the bone of his ear; in a similar manner the nerves of the brain can pass their impressions through bone substances.
“You notice the major contacts at cerebellum, occipital lobe and frontal lobes? Those are the main seats of human intelligence. The nerve vibrations within my brain as I perceive—or conceive—fresh impressions will be conducted along the appropriate wires from the helmet. Those wires may actually be called extensions of the nerves themselves. The vibrations will be slight, but will be stepped up in power by automatic amplifiers and then transferred to that helmet over there.”
John Russell Fearn Omnibus Page 6
