On the Brink of the World's End

by Brian Stableford

  He arranged an armchair with its back to the desk. “For Charfland.”

  Another armchair was placed on the other side of the desk. “For me.”

  He connected his apparatus to an electric socket. “For the reading.”

  He connected another apparatus to another socket. “To impose immobility if necessary.”

  Then, disposing another armchair: “For you, Monsieur le Juge. Like this, you’ll be able to look the accused and he’ll be able to see you. If I think it necessary for you to ask him questions, I’ll give you a signal simply by raising my hand; you’ll ask the questions that, in your opinion, ought to remind Charfland of the phases of the drama, if there was a drama; the order of the question ought to be the chronological order of the supposed events. If I don’t raise my hand, don’t interrogate—don’t say anything.”

  Then Nounlegos placed a large sheet of paper on the desk, next to the seat he had reserved for himself, secured by a heavy frame, equipped with two transversal rulers, and placed a kind of stylet on it. Casting one last glance over the ensemble, he said: “I’m ready.” As the magistrate leaned forward to ring the bell he added: “Above all, no witness.”

  “Send in the accused,” the magistrate ordered the usher

  Charfland soon made his entrance, framed by two municipal guards. The latter were dismissed by a gesture.

  The magistrate spoke: “Charfland, my investigation is on the brink of being closed, but before signing the order that will either send you for committal or set you free, I’ve summoned a savant phrenologist”—he indicated Nounlegos with his hand—“who knows how, by examining a skull, to determine whether or not the subject has criminal tendencies. Have you any objection to submitting yourself to that examination?”

  At that question, the other looked at the magistrate, then at Nounlegos, and then the bizarre apparatus that was there. After a few moments of reflection, Monsieur de Landré’s expectations were realized, and Charfland replied, tranquilly: “None.”

  “Let’s operate, then,” declared Nounlegos, indicating to the accused the chair prepared for him. “Will you please it here. Good. I’m going to place this apparatus on your head. Oh, it’s weight isn’t in proportion to its volume; you’ll be able to support it easily.”

  So saying, Nounlegos coiffed Charfland’s cranium with a kind of box.

  That box, almost cubical, had large gaps in two faces, with the result that the visage of the patient, once coiffed, remained visible except for the eyebrows. The sides of the head were covered, but for two openings corresponding to the ears; the rest of the head was enveloped. A strap passing under the chin secured the box; two props, adjustable in height, permitted almost all of the weight of the apparatus to rest on the patient’s shoulders, in such a way that the head was not subjected to any inconvenient pressure.

  “Relax your muscles. You don’t feel any discomfort? Good. I’m going to examine you. It might take some time; if the apparatus causes you any fatigue, tell us and we’ll take a few moments’ rest.”

  Monsieur de Landré had already taken his place in his armchair. Nounlegos turned a commutator placed on the electric wire connected to the socket, and then placed himself in front of the other apparatus, before a visor analogous to that of a stereoscope, which was incrusted, after a fashion, upon his forehead. With his left hand he stated to manipulate a series of switches disposed on a small inclined panel, while his right hand seized the stylet and supported itself on the metal rulers placed on the frame maintaining the piece of paper.

  For a few minutes, no substantial movement was made by the three participants in that mysterious scene. The magistrate looked alternately at Nounlegos and Charfland, wondering anxiously whether the man who said he was a scientist was really capable of reading that which he claimed to be decipherable for him alone.

  The accused, wary at first, soon appeared to adapt himself to the bizarre situation, casually resting on the arms of the chair, seemingly absorbed in his reflections.

  Nounlegos, his neck extended toward his apparatus, remained motionless, his left hand occasionally maneuvering a few switches; then, suddenly, his right hand agitated, making the stylet trace bizarre little symbols, closely packed, in the interval of white paper left visible by the two metal rulers. His hand arrived at the extremity of the lead; a click made the two rulers slide for a few millimeters, and he continued to inscribe the bizarre symbols, this time going from right to left. At the extremity of the new line, an analogous click caused a new displacement of the rulers, and the docile hand continued to write, but now in the conventional direction, from left to right.

  That singular session lasted for nearly an hour.

  Yes, for nearly an hour, Monsieur de Landré, prey to a cerebral agitation that nothing revealed, let his gaze wander from the examiner to the examinee, wondering whether the unknown science on which the so-called scientist was relying really did establish a current of unknown forces between the two men: a current so extraordinary that one could read what the other was thinking.

  Yes, for nearly an hour, Charfland, resigned to what he considered to be an ultimate formality, patiently supported the thick helmet, without a single complaint, without wanting to take advantage of the faculty that had been offered to him by the phrenologist of asking for a rest.

  Yes, for nearly an hour, Nounlegos’ forehead remained riveted to the visor of his apparatus. His left hand only rarely manipulated the switches at his disposal, but, by way of compensation, his right hand continued without interruption, alternating its direction, to trace hieroglyphs of some sort on the large white sheet. Only the click of the steel rulers as they were displaced on the metal frame of the white paper troubled the silence.

  Finally, Nounlegos’ right hand stopped. His face presenting his bulging eyes, he quit his observation post, threw his upper body backwards, rested his weary head on the back of his chair, remained there for a few moments with his eyes half-closed as if to contrive his transition between the immaterial world in which he had just been traveling and the real world to which he was returning, and then rose to his feet painfully and murmured: “I’ve finished.”

  Then he cut off the current and liberated Charfland from the yoke of sorts that he had borne for so long.

  The accused, his head teeming with sweat, mopped his brow. He could not help saying: “I’m thirsty.”

  “Me too,” added Nounlegos, unconsciously.

  At those words, the magistrate, excessively impressed, more by what he expected than what he had seen, without taking account of the strangeness of his decision, rang the bell and ordered the usher to bring a bottle of port and three glasses. Dumbstruck, the usher obeyed, and filled the three glasses he had brought.

  The three men, still silent, emptied their glasses rapidly. Their reflections, of very different orders, would have absorbed them for longer still, but Charfland, with a slightly mocking expression, said to Nounlegos: “Well, Monsieur Scientist, what are your conclusions?”

  “It’s necessary now for me to coordinate my observations. I’ll give the results to Monsieur le Juge.” As he said those words he looked at the magistrate with an expression that signified: It’s necessary now for the two of us to be alone.

  The magistrate rang; the municipal guards came in and Charfland resumed the road to his prison.

  “Well, Monsieur Nounlegos?” pronounced Monsieur de Landré, in a voice that probably did not have all the firmness he would have liked.

  “Monsieur le Juge,” Nounlegos replied gravely, “the man who has just left is definitely guilty; the proofs abound here.” And he pointed at the large sheet of white paper, now covered with a multitude of symbols, each as strange as the next. Then, without waiting to be asked a question, he added: “But it’s necessary for me to translate my secret language for you; it’s better to do that right away. Give me paper and a pen; it will take me some time.”

  For nearly three hours, Nounlegos covered numerous sheets of paper with rapid writing
.

  When he had finished, he began to dismantle his apparatus.

  Monsieur de Landré interrupted him. “Haven’t you promised to give me indisputable proof, for myself, of your science?”

  “Oh, that’s true—I’d forgotten. Sit down here; I’ll put the helmet on. As I’m tired from that long session, I hope five minutes will suffice or you. In any case, to simplify things, I’ll translate immediately, aloud, what I read in your mind. I warn you that I can’t read proper names.”

  A few moments later, Nounlegos, his forehead against the apparatus once again, announced:

  “My wife…waiting…lunch…knows very well…affair five victims…so no anxiety…I find my wife very agreeable…twenty years together…still young…seems like big sister…our children...

  “Strange man divining my thought…try to think about something else...

  “Politics…often opposed…general interests…country…recommendations…bad lots…discourage good...will I arrive…superior post...”

  Breathless, Monsieur de Landré uttered a cry: “Enough!” And, taking off the mysterious box: “Yes, yes, I believe you. It’s true, you read all that I was thinking—but who are you, then, to dispose of a power that humankind has never dared glimpse? Aren’t you trying to play God?”

  While dismantling his apparatus and carefully arranging the pieces in his valises, the scientist replied: “I’m simply Nounlegos, unknown, as you know; my work will revolutionize the world one day, because it will impose sincerity. But I came here for something else: here is the confession of the wretch Charfland; you’ll find a host of indications therein, which will permit you to confound him.

  “Now, remember out agreement; I consider that your word of honor has been given; you will not reveal to anyone either our first conversation or what has just happened.”

  The examining magistrate renewed his promise and politely showed the little man out. He left, bowed down by his diabolical apparatus.

  III

  It was in a small sub-prefecture of France that the individual who was later to become Nounlegos was born, under a banal name that has not reached us.

  The new-born was not handsome; he seemed sickly, and gave many anxieties to his parents, who were well-off shopkeepers in the small town. They surrounded him with the most delicate cares, trembling for their only son, all the more beloved because he had arrived late in life.

  If his physique left much to be desired, however, intelligence was manifest early. While very young, bearing on his young head the air of reflection that is generally the prerogative of children of aged parents, he quickly astonished those around him with his repartee—rare, it is true, for he had a reserved temperament, but denoting an observant wit well beyond his years.

  At school, although not very assiduous at first, he immediately outshone all his comrades by virtue of his extraordinary faculties of assimilation.

  Later, he acquired a taste for study and then became a source of astonishment for his teachers; he could, without any apparent intellectual fatigue, follow two classes at the same time, or even three in the same school year. As it was impossible to obtain the enormous dispensation of age that would have been necessary for him to pass his first baccalaureate when he was ready, he prepared for others and, with the required legal dispensation, he passed three in the same session.

  At that moment, the perplexity of his parents reached its maximum. What might such a prodigious young man do? They could not follow the idea they had caressed for so long of making him their successor in running the business, healthy as its profits were. All the great Schools would have been open to him; in view of his physique they could not think of a military career, but the parents thought that he might be a brilliant civil servant—the eternal dream of prosperous petty bourgeois.

  When they talked to him for the first time about those future projects, he responded curtly, like a man who knows what he wants: “I shall practice medicine.”

  The parents gave in; the only son was installed in Paris, with all the usual recommendations. The success continued; the young student passed all his examinations brilliantly, in the minimal time. He had just come first in the competition for young hospital interns when his parents died.

  Informed by the family’s notary of his exact situation, which was financially secure, he simply replied: “I shall be able to work.”

  Then commenced a period of intense study, which only a brain out of proportion with those of the epoch could have supported and assimilated.

  As a hospital intern, once he was familiar with a service he asked to change it; his merit was so real, and his professors recognized it so clearly, that in a matter of months they had nothing more to teach him. But he was no longer preoccupied with examinations; pressed to complete a thesis that would have obtained him a doctorate, he replied: “I have other things to do.”

  Knowing all the Medicine could teach him, he threw himself into the sciences. Having assured himself a slid grounding in mathematics, physics, chemistry and natural sciences, he followed, with ease, specialist courses embracing all present scientific knowledge. He even went to spend a few months in provincial and foreign universities where, in accordance with indications, he was able to make new discoveries: a foretaste of what the Science of tomorrow might be.

  His mind admirably furnished, he then undertook stints, in the capacity as an aide, in the foremost research laboratories in the world. When he had familiarized himself with the work of one he went to another, refusing the most advantageous and flattering offers that the scientists, recognizing him as an elite intelligence, made him to attach himself to their studies as an associate.

  At thirty he knew, thoroughly, what the whole of the scientific world knew; by means of the most specialized journals he kept up to date with current research, and often prognosticated, on the basis of experimental results, what would follow them and what the final outcomes would be.

  Outside of his studies life had, so to speak, no purchase on him..

  He lived in the heart of the student quarter in a small street on the left bank, in an apartment comprising a small bedroom and a large desk on which books and pamphlets multiplied by the day. The concierge of the building took care of his modest housekeeping. He generally took his meals in a high quality restaurant, not for love of luxury or the attraction of good food, but because he found that the tranquility there permitted him to continue in his mind the elevated speculations with which he was occupied; he had fled modest restaurants because of the noise made by the boisterous youth that frequented them. He had no friends; the frivolous instinctively steered clear of him, and he did not see them, but when serious young people attracted by his intelligence had tried to enter into closer relationship with him he abstained, without brutality, from responding to advances that he appeared not to notice, and discourages all good intentions.

  It was at the age of thirty, as we have said, that he considered his studies to be terminated; from the scientific point of view, he had nothing more to learn, and for him, the era of research began.

  It was at that point that the learned man took the steps necessary to change his name. By the name he took, he was bold enough to define the problem that was agitating his superior intelligence: Nounlegos, from the Greek noun, thought, and lego, I read. That was the first manifestation of his nascent genius.

  Having obtained that change of name, he returned to the town of his birth, which he had not seen since the death of his parents; he liquidated his entire fortune, invested it in reliable stocks and bonds, and deposited them with a Parisian banker. After a few visits to that suburb of Paris he bought a detached house in Bondy, isolated in a large garden, situated outside the agglomeration.

  He spent a considerable sum fitting out a first-rate laboratory, installed an aged maidservant as his housekeeper, and set to work.

  His life was henceforth that of a recluse; his laboratory absorbed him for twelve, fourteen or fifteen hours a day. He only went out to go to
Paris in order to supervise the construction and take delivery of bizarre items of apparatus whose plans he drew up himself. His door was irremediably closed to all visitors. For some time he occupied the curiosity of the inhabitants of Bondy, who, finally making up their minds, left him to his chimeras and referred to him an eccentric.

  As the name he had chosen suggested, it was to the study of the brain that he devoted himself. Firstly, he wanted to clarify certain doubtful points related to the composition of that organ, and he dissected a quantity of human heads that he procured at a high price.

  Certain that nothing regarding the dead brain was unknown to him, he passed on to the study of the living brain, but there he was soon arrested. The examination of the cranium could not, in his view, lead to anything; he knew the various symptoms of a nervous order produced when a particular part of an animal brain was excited, via an opened skull, but what he wanted to determine was not the relationship between the superior nervous centers and the various organs of the body, but whether the phenomenon of thought was accompanied by physical phenomena in the brain.

  He rapidly arrived at the conclusion that that question could only be studied on condition of being able to see into the interior of the organ under examination. The question therefore passed from physiology to physics; he dared to follow it.

  He found the solution to it after a few years, by means of the emissions of two radioactivities obtained exclusively from electrical phenomena. Those two emissions, projected at a certain angle, produced a kind of fluorescence that rendered visible, to a distance of about thirty centimeters, all the substances, organic as well as mineral. The emitted waves, without bringing any permanent modification to the atoms and cells subjected to their action, perhaps deforming them in part, doubtless acted upon their index of refraction in such a way that the cells and atoms passed through all the degrees of translucency and transparency, all the way to invisibility. By the regulation of these emissions, the respective positions of their planes of emission and the angle of those planes, one could obtain the various degrees and determine, over a well-defined section, a clarification permitting a detailed examination.