Beyond the Barriers of Space and Time

by Judith Merril (ed. )

  Dr. Wilson came straight across to the desk. He leaned over, glanced at the top sheet, then picked it up, eagerly reading it. Then the second sheet, the third. Ten full minutes he stood there, scanning page after page. Finally he straightened to his full height, and the nod he threw me had an edge of triumph. There was an odd smile on his face.

  “You did it!” He was pleased—very pleased. “Man, you did it!”

  I drew a breath of relief. “Yes, Doctor,” I said. “But don’t ever count on my doing it again.” And I was telling him of those bad moments I had had with Charneel. There had been more than one, too, and the going had been tough at times.

  “You know. Doctor, this queer ability of mine,” I said, “came on me all of a sudden, and I guess it could go the same way it came.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that.” Dr. Wilson put his hand on my shoulder, and he said a strange thing, something I could not follow at all. He said, “Captain, I guess we might just as well clear up your end of the line first.”

  Then he had the sergeant step across and get a large envelope out of the desk, place the pages in it and seal it. I thought I was beginning to get an idea of what the doctor had in mind when he said to the sergeant, “All right, Sergeant; that’s in your possession now. Hang onto it; don’t let it out of your hands one minute.”

  But when we finally headed back toward the hospital, we had two large envelopes instead of just the one. The second we picked up at the coroner’s office. There’d been a little difficulty about that, but only momentarily. At the coroner’s office, the clerk had balked at first, but Dr. Wilson made a quick phone call, and a moment later we were sitting back while a stenographer got busy making a copy of some testimony the doctor had asked for.

  Back at Green Mills I began to get a measure of Dr. Wilson’s true stature. Evidently he wasn’t a man to do any fooling around anywhere or with anybody. I’d expected to be led right to my cell. But no; they didn’t do that. They marched me through the corridor, all right, but instead of turning left, we turned right and headed straight into a large bare room.

  Instantly I knew where I was. It was a dead giveaway—that long table and those few chairs. This was the hearing room. Evidently things were going to happen, and fast. Just inside the door, standing stiffly at attention, were the two nurses who had let Dr. Wilson into my cell that morning; alongside them, the two guards who had taken the trip with us.

  In a moment I could hear feet in the corridor. The door opened and a colonel stepped in. But he wasn’t alone, for behind him were four other medical officers. They filed straight to the table and seated themselves.

  And so, because of a doctor and a dog, I stood facing these five Army doctors, my case reopened.

  The colonel said, “Let the patient be seated.”

  At a time like that, somehow every little detail seems to stamp itself indelibly on your mind. I just couldn’t get myself away from that word, “patient.” He’d said, “Let the patient be seated.” That’s what I was, and that’s what I’d stay. I had a cornered feeling as I scanned the faces of my examiners. They were set; those doctors’ minds were already made up. They’d know no man could talk to a dog, and nothing Dr. Wilson would say could possibly matter. They’d sit there; they’d listen; then send me back to my cell.

  Of course, I was keyed up. And I kept wondering. What type of questions will Dr. Wilson ask me? What type those five examiners?

  Well, they didn’t ask me one. I guess it was about the strangest sanity hearing ever held in that room.

  The colonel said, “We are ready to hear you. Doctor, and we will listen to you with extreme interest.”

  Dr. Wilson’s gesture included the four other doctors as well as the colonel. “I want to thank you. Colonel Brownleigh,” he said, “and the members of your staff.” Then he got down to business, “Gentlemen, this man here, this patient. Captain Blanchard, is in Green Mills for one reason—because he claims he can talk to animals. There is no question that he could be suffering from a mental aberration. But this much is true, as I believe you gentlemen will agree: If Captain Blanchard can definitely be proved to have talked to an animal, and the proof is irrefutable, then indeed the captain may possess an unusual power, but its possession does not mean that he is not sane.”

  “Proceed,” said Colonel Brownleigh. But a mask had come over his face, and his eyes were fixed on the table. His hands on the chair arms were as still as death.

  Dr. Wilson had the two men nurses step forward, and then put to them a few questions about his visit in my room that morning. Quickly he established that in his conversation with me no place had been mentioned other than Coast Hospital, and certainly the names of no men.

  Next he had Sergeant Gates step forward, lay his sealed envelope on the table and tell what had taken place in the doctor’s office. Gates had an excellent memory, and when he came to the one name the doctor had mentioned, he quoted Dr. Wilson almost verbatim. He said, “Dr. Wilson told the captain, ‘I will now give you one key word: Habel.’ ”

  As the sergeant was stepping back, Colonel Brownleigh put in, “Just a moment. Sergeant! In this—er—ah—conversation between the patient and the dog, did the patient bark like a dog or the dog talk like a man?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Captain Blanchard had us get out of the room before he started.”

  “I see,” said the colonel, and no one could have missed the glance he threw to the officer at his right.

  Dr. Wilson’s jaw squared. “Colonel Brownleigh”—and he sounded quite vigorous—“may I be permitted to call you as a witness?”

  The colonel’s eyebrows shot up. Somehow I got a thrill. These men might be majors and colonels and captains, but they certainly weren’t going to jerk Dr. Wilson around.

  “Colonel, when my friend, Senator Denning,” Doctor Wilson went on, “made possible my visit to Green Mills this morning, wasn’t that the first time I ever set foot in this hospital or ever saw this patient?”

  “We’ll assume that’s true, Doctor.”

  “And in the ten weeks Captain Blanchard has been here, he has seen no newspapers, received no mail, talked to no visitors?”

  “I think we can go along with you there, Doctor. The patient’s malady is such that no disturbing influences would be permitted.”

  Dr. Wilson took a step closer to the table. “Eight days ago, gentlemen,” he said, “young Richard Holmhurst, Junior, the son of a dear friend of mine, was shot and severely wounded by the family chauffeur. A few minutes later the man who shot him, Habel Twilling, was dead. This occurred on the Holmhurst estate in Lambert County, seventy-six miles from this hospital. Now, Colonel Brownleigh, from what you have just said, it would have been utterly impossible for Captain Blanchard to know even one detail of this. Would you agree with me. Colonel?”

  “Doctor, will you please come to the point?” Colonel Brownleigh stirred impatiently in his chair. “What on earth has a shooting eighty miles from here to do with this patient’s sanity?”

  “Colonel Brownleigh,” Dr. Wilson spoke quietly, “let me assure you, I will not present one word this afternoon which is not entirely pertinent.” He held up a large envelope. “This envelope,” he continued, “came from the Lambert County Courthouse—the coroner’s office. It contains testimony offered by me in regard to the tragedy just mentioned. Colonel, would you read it, please?”

  The doctor certainly meant for it to be read aloud. But the colonel didn’t do that. Instead, he picked up the sheaf of papers, and for the next several minutes there was silence as he thumbed them through.

  “This testimony,” he finally said, for the benefit of his colleagues, “brings out that the Habel Twilling the doctor mentioned was killed by a dog, and that there was no question whatsoever in the coroner’s mind as to the identity of the dog.”

  “Is that all, Colonel?”

  “No, Dr. Wilson, it isn’t. The coroner thoroughly believed it was your dog and consistently re
fused to accept your story about a wild dog. For I note here”—and he referred to a particular page—“in his opening question he reminds you that fellow townsmen of yours, men who had often hunted in that area, already had testified that never once had they laid eyes on a dog running wild in those woods. Anyway, Doctor”—and the colonel smiled faintly—“even we find it hard to believe that any dog would be shot for saving his master’s life.”

  Dr. Wilson raised his shoulders. “Write it off to politics,” he said. “It’s just a case of some swampland that wasn’t bought for a county hospital, and this is the first chance a certain county official has had to get back at me, his first opportunity to discredit my word in the community. That, Colonel, I can take. But I can’t take my dog being shot simply because I stepped on a politician’s pocketbook. I will say this, though, gentlemen: if my dog, Charneel, could have had the power of speech and could have followed me on that witness stand, substantiating my testimony, there would have been no court order issued.” Dr. Wilson paused and rested his hand on the hearing table. “Right here and now,” he said, “my dog, my dog Charneel, through Captain Blanchard, is going to tell you what happened in those woods.”

  He reached out for the envelope lying on the table, opened it and fanned the sheets out, calling attention to the initials at the top of each. “In these pages—” he began.

  “Dr. Wilson,” Colonel Brownleigh interrupted, “is this the so-called interview the patient had with your dog?”

  “It is,” Dr. Wilson said crisply.

  “I’m afraid. Doctor, it cannot be considered as relevant.” Colonel Brownleigh was just as brusque. “No man can talk to an animal.”

  “But I have permission to read?”

  “Will it take long?”

  Dr. Wilson shook his head.

  “Let’s get on with it then!” And the colonel shifted his chair impatiently.

  So Dr. Wilson began reading aloud what Charneel had told to me.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the faces of those five men. My judges were sitting in different attitudes, but there was one attitude that could not be mistaken. Nothing Dr. Wilson could possibly say would make the slightest difference for me.

  But the first time the doctor came across the name “Buddy,” he paused. “I want you to note, gentlemen,” he said, “here is a brand-new name, a name the patient had never heard before. And I will tell you that it is the nickname of R. J. Holmhurst, Junior. Captain Blanchard is describing in exact detail people and places he has never seen or visited.” It had its impact.

  Presently Dr. Wilson came to the tragedy itself, to the point where he and Charneel had just stepped through the gap in the low stone wall bordering the woods. He read of Charneel’s warning growl, of himself picking up a club, and of their proceeding down a path in the woods. He read of the blast of the gun, and then the two of them. Dr. Wilson and Charneel, racing for the clearing.

  A change was coming over Colonel Brownleigh. For while the doctor was reading, I noticed the colonel had picked up the papers lying on the table before him—the ones he’d skimmed through so casually but a few moments ago. But this wasn’t casualness now; he seemed intent on them, almost as if he were comparing what was before him with what Dr. Wilson was reading aloud.

  “No, Doctor, wait!” he interrupted suddenly. “Wait!” And Colonel Brownleigh asked both the sergeant and the private, my guards, to step forward. He said to the sergeant, “You were outside the door of the doctor’s office. Sergeant. Did you leave that post even once?”

  “No, sir.”

  He turned to Private Howard. “You were on the lawn, looking through those windows. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you be willing to go on oath that while the patient and the dog were in that office, not once did the patient lift the telephone receiver from its cradle?”

  “Yes, sir, I would.”

  “All right. Doctor.” But now Colonel Brownleigh was sitting stiff as a ramrod in his chair. So were the other four.

  And as Dr. Wilson read on, they leaned forward so as not to miss a single word. He had come to the part just where Habel had shot Buddy. He lifted his eyes from the pages. “Before continuing,” he said, “perhaps, gentlemen, I better tell you a little about this man Habel. He was an ex-convict, a man whom Judge Holmhurst had paroled in his personal custody. But that’s not the point here. The crux of the matter is not what happened in the clearing where Habel forced me to leave Charneel with Buddy; the crux of the matter is what happened at the edge of the woods. For that’s where Habel tried to kill me.”

  Doctor Wilson paused a moment to let that sink in. “And, gentlemen, he certainly would have but for the dog that sprang from the bushes. In the darkness even I myself was fooled. I thought it was Charneel. And I tried to call him off. I shouted, ‘Charneel! Back! Back!’ trying to get him to release his hold on Habel’s throat.”

  That’s when I forgot myself. I was upon my feet. “It was Tolei!” I broke in. “Tolei! Read it. Doctor; read it. Tolei’s the one who leaped at Habel’s throat, not Charneel. For you know, you yourself had put Charneel on guard back by Buddy. Tolei, Charneel’s sister ”

  Suddenly I stopped, aware of what I had done. I had no right to be talking out this way; none of these officers had called on me.

  Colonel Brownleigh overlooked my outburst. He turned to Dr. Wilson. “Doctor, was that your first knowledge of Tolei?”

  “It was.”

  “Let me see those pages, please.”

  Dr. Wilson stepped up and handed them over. Colonel Brownleigh accepted them, lifted off the last page and studied it briefly, then quietly handed it to the officer next to him. One by one, each man read it, and when the last had finished, it was passed back to the colonel.

  Everything got quiet in the room.

  The colonel sat thinking; finally he spoke. “Collusion?” he shook his head. “No, I’ll have to rule that out. It couldn’t possibly be collusion. Coincidence? No, this isn’t coincidence.” He sat back heavily. “Gentlemen,” he said to his fellow officers, “I’d be glad to hear any comment you might care to make at this point.”

  The major at his right shifted his chair slightly. “Colonel, if the captain could talk to one dog, certainly he could talk to another.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Abruptly Colonel Brownleigh stood up, strode across the room. At the door he turned. “Dr. Wilson, the hearing is not over yet.”

  When he came back, he had with him a Great Dane. The colonel took his place at the table again, then turned to me. “Captain, this dog was with me yesterday. Suppose you have him tell you what we were doing.”

  I looked at Colonel Brownleigh, at the four other officers behind that table, at the two nurses and the private and the sergeant standing by the door, at Doctor Wilson. Every eye was upon me. I hadn’t forgotten the difficulty I had had with Charneel.

  “Will you grant permission, sir,” I said, “for me to take your dog to the far end of the room?”

  A quick nod was the colonel’s reply. So we walked the length of that room, to the farthest corner. At that distance no one would overhear. It was the next best thing to our being alone, and purposely I placed the dog so that his back was to the room, and started in.

  In a moment or two. Colonel Brownleigh raised his voice and called, a bit sharply, “Hadn’t you better get going. Captain?”

  “I have, sir,” I called back. “You were not here at the hospital yesterday. You went fishing; got up before dawn.” There was a stir in the room.

  To the dog I said, “Where did he fish?”

  The dog answered, but all I got was a word or two. The rest seemed to fade out, and suddenly I could feel a cold sweat on my forehead.

  “Say that again,” I said, and leaned closer.

  He said it again.

  “Again!”

  And now I was on my knees beside him, my ear almost against his snout. Three separate times he had repeate
d it, and not once had I got it. I was afraid.

  The dog shifted slightly. “The woman,” he said, and a few words were trickling through, “… out on the rocks. She was a golden tan.”

  In my excitement I fairly shouted it out to the colonel. “The woman,” I called, “came out on the rocks! She was a golden tan!”

  The effect was electric. Colonel Brownleigh was up out of his chair like a flash. “That will do. Captain!” he cut in, and called his dog to him.

  Officially I am still crazy, for the colonel said it would be Friday before the papers would come through. I have Dr. Wilson and Charneel to thank—and the colonel too. For it was a damn lucky break the colonel cutting in the way he did, and snapping me off with “That will do!” For had my life depended on it, I don’t believe I could have understood another word from that dog; it seemed as if a curtain had suddenly been drawn between us, and he was a dog and I was just a man.

  Meanwhile, I am a guest in Dr. Wilson’s home. But when those papers do come through, I’m sticking that discharge into my pocket and the doctor and I are heading straight to one place—the Lambert County Courthouse. Charneel is not going to be shot.

  So tonight I am not at Green Mills, and I can’t sleep. I guess, now, you understand why.

  Hypnotism has recently graduated from the ranks of the parapsychological, and has achieved full recognition as a demonstrable phenomenon, and an acceptable area of study in psychology proper. Still, for many people, the subject retains either the charlatan connotation or the terrifying implications of the Svengali legend.

  In this story a popular English author, best known in this country for his novel, The Day of the Triffids, combines new and old attitudes in two ways: his up-to-date Svengali is seeking knowledge, rather than power—just experimenting, you understand; and the not quite yet stodgy theme of hypnosis has been linked to the still uncharted area of telepathy.

  In one respect, Mr. Wyndham’s treatment is unmixedly modern: he has no illusions whatsoever about the possible Trilby-like behavior of the women in his story.