Classic Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories

by Stephen Brennan

  What this trick was I could never uncover. I hung on and dug into great tomes of wisdom. I became interested and gradually took up with his speculation; for all my love of action I found that I had a strong subcurrent for the philosophical.

  Now I roomed with Hobart. When I would come home with some dry tome and would lose myself in it by the hour he could not understand it. I was preparing for the law. He could see no advantage to be derived from this digging into speculation. He was practical and unless he could drive a nail into a thing or at least dig into its chemical elements it was hard to get him interested.

  “Of what use is it, Harry? Why waste your brains? These old fogies have been pounding on the question for three thousand years. What have they got? You could read all their literature from the pyramids down to the present sky-scrapers and you wouldn’t get enough practical wisdom to drive a dump-cart.”

  “That’s just it,” I answered. “I’m not hankering for a dump-cart. You have an idea that all the wisdom in the world is locked up in the concrete; unless a thing has wheels, pistons, some sort of combustion, or a chemical action you are not interested. What gives you the control over your machinery? Brains! But what makes the mind go?”

  Hobart blinked. “Fine,” he answered. “Go on.”

  “Well,” I answered, “that’s what I am after.”

  He laughed. “Great. Well, keep at it. It’s your funeral, Harry. When you have found, it let me know and I’ll beat you to the patent.”

  With that he turned to his desk and dug into one of his everlasting formulas. Just the same, next day when I entered Holcomb’s lecture-room I was in for a surprise. My husky roommate was in the seat beside me.

  “What’s the big idea?” I asked. “Big idea is right, Harry,” he grinned. “Just thought I would beat you to it. Had a dickens of a time with Dan Clark, of the engineering department. Told him I wanted to study philosophy. The old boy put up a beautiful holler. Couldn’t understand what an engineer would want with psychology or ethics. Neither could I until I got to thinking last night when I went to roost. Because a thing has never been done is no reason why it never will be; is it, Harry?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t know just what you are driving at. Perhaps you intend to take your notes over to the machine shop and hammer out the Secret of the Absolute.”

  He grinned.

  “Pretty wise head at that, Harry. What did you call it? The Secret of the Absolute. Will remember that. I’m not much on phrases; but I’m sure the strong boy with the hammer. You don’t object to my sitting here beside you; so that I, too, may drink in the little drops of wisdom?”

  It was in this way that Hobart entered into the study of philosophy. When the class was over and we were going down the steps he patted me on the shoulder.

  “That’s not so bad, Harry. Not so bad. The old doctor is there; he’s got them going. Likewise little Hobart has got a big idea.”

  Now it happened that this was just about six weeks before Dr. Holcomb announced his great lecture on the Blind Spot. It was not more than a week after registration. In the time ensuing Fenton became just as great an enthusiast as myself. His idea, of course, was chimerical and a blind; his main purpose was to get in with me where he could argue me out of my folly.

  He wound up by being a convert of the professor.

  Then came the great day. The night of the announcement we had a long discussion. It was a deep question. For all of my faith in the professor I was hardly prepared for a thing like this. Strange to say I was the sceptic; and stranger still, it was Hobart who took the side of the doctor.

  “Why not?” he said. “It merely comes down to this: you grant that a thing is possible and then you deny the possibility of a proof—outside of your abstract. That’s good paradox, Harry; but almighty poor logic. If it is so it certainly can be proven. There’s not one reason in the world why we can’t have something concrete. The professor is right. I am with him. He’s the only professor in all the ages.”

  Well, it turned out as it did. It was a terrible blow to us all. Most of the world took it as a great murder or an equally great case of abduction. There were but few, even in the university, who embraced the side of the doctor. It was a case of villainy, of a couple of remarkably clever rogues and a trusting scholar.

  But there was one whose faith was not diminished. He had been one of the last to come under the influence of the doctor. He was practical and concrete, and not at all attuned to philosophy; he had not the training for deep dry thinking. He would not recede one whit. One day I caught him sitting down with his head between his hands. I touched him on the shoulder.

  “What’s the deep study?” I asked him.

  He looked up. By his eyes I could see that his thoughts had been far away.

  “What’s the deep study?” I repeated.

  “I was just thinking, Harry; just thinking.”

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking, Harry, that I would like to have about one hundred thousand dollars and about ten years’ leisure.”

  “That’s a nice thought,” I answered; “I could think that myself. What would you do with it?”

  “Do? Why, there is just one thing that I would do if I had that much money. I would solve the Blind Spot.”

  This happened years ago while we were still in college. Many things have occurred since then. I am writing this on the verge of disaster. How little do we know! What was the idea that buzzed in the head of Hobart Fenton? He is concrete, physical, fearless. He is in South America. I have cabled to him and expect him as fast as steam can bring him. The great idea and discovery of the professor is a fact, not fiction. What is it? That I cannot answer. I have found it and I am a witness to its potency.

  Some law has been missed through the ages. It is inexorable and insidious; it is concrete. Out of the unknown comes terror. Through the love for the great professor I have pitted myself against it. From the beginning it has been almost hopeless. I remember that last digression in ethics. “The mystery of the occult may be solved. We are five-sensed. When we bring the thing down to the concrete we may understand.”

  Sometimes I wonder at the Rhamda. Is he a man or a phantom? Does he control the Blind Spot? Is he the substance and the proof that was promised by Dr. Holcomb? Through what process and what laws did the professor acquire even his partial control over the phenomena? Where did the Rhamda and his beautiful companion come from? Who are they? And lastly—what was the idea that buzzed in the head of Hobart Fenton?

  When I look back now I wonder. I have never believed in fate. I do not believe in it now. Man is the master of his own destiny. We are cowards else. Whatever is to be known we should know it. One’s duty is ever to one’s fellows. Heads up and onward. I am not a brave man, perhaps, under close analysis; but once I have given my word I shall keep it. I have done my bit; my simple duty. Perhaps I have failed. In holding myself against the Blind Spot I have done no more than would have been done by a million others. I have only one regret. Failure is seldom rewarded. I had hoped that my life would be the last; I have a dim hope still. If I fail in the end, there must be still one more to follow.

  Understand I do not expect to die. It is the unknown that I am afraid of. I who thought that we knew so much have found it still so little. There are so many laws in the weave of Cosmos that are still unguessed. What is this death that we are afraid of? What is life? Can we solve it? Is it permissible? What is the Blind Spot? If Hobart Fenton is right it has nothing to do with death. If so, what is it?

  My pen is weak. I am weary. I am waiting for Hobart. Perhaps I shall not last. When he comes I want him to know my story. What he knows already will not hurt repeating. It is well that man shall have it; it may be that we shall both fail-there is no telling; but if we do the world can profit by our blunders and guide itself—perhaps to the mastery of the phenomenon that controls the Blind Spot.

  I ask you to bear with me. If I make a few mistakes or I am a bit loose, remember the stres
s under which I am writing. I shall try to be plain so that all may follow.

  CHICK WATSON

  Now to go back.

  In due time we were both of us graduated from college. I went into the law and Hobart into engineering. We were both successful. There was not a thing to foreshadow that either of us was to be jerked from his profession. There was no adventure, but lots of work and reward in proportion.

  Perhaps I was a bit more fortunate. I was in love and Hobart was still a confirmed bachelor. It was a subject over which he was never done joking. It was not my fault. I was innocent. If the blame ran anywhere it would have to be placed upon that baby sister of his.

  It happened as it happened since God first made the maiden. One autumn Hobart and I started off for college. We left Charlotte at the gate a girl of fifteen years and ten times as many angles. I pulled one of her pigtails, kissed her, and told her I wanted her to get pretty. When we came home next summer I went over to pull the other pigtail. I did not pull it. I was met by the fairest young woman I had ever looked on. And I could not kiss her. Seriously, was I to blame?

  Now to the incident.

  It was a night in September. Hobart had completed his affairs and had booked passage to South America. He was to sail next morning. We had dinner that day with his family, and then came up to San Francisco for a last and farewell bachelor night. We could take in the opera together, have supper at our favourite cafe, and then turn in. It was a long hark back to our childhood; but for all that we were still boys together.

  I remember that night. It was our favourite opera—“Faust.” It was the one piece that we could agree on. Looking back since, I have wondered at the coincidence. The old myth of age to youth and the subcurrent of sin with its stalking, laughing, subtle Mephistopheles. It is strange that we should have gone to this one opera on this one evening. I recall our coming out of the theatre; our minds thrilling to the music and the subtle weirdness of the theme.

  A fog had fallen—one of those thick, heavy, grey mists that sometimes come upon us in September. Into its sombre depths the crowd disappeared like shadows. The lights upon the streets blurred yellow. At the cold sheer contact we hesitated upon the pavement.

  I had on a light overcoat. Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no such protection. It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring from the north was unusually cutting. Hobart raised his collar and dug his hands into his pockets.

  “Brr,” he muttered; “brr, some coffee or some wine. Something.”

  The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the lights had the effect of drizzle. I touched Hobart’s arm and we started across the street.

  “Brr is right,” I answered, “and some wine. Notice the shadows, like ghosts.”

  We were half across the street before he answered; then he stopped.

  “Ghosts! Did you say ghosts, Harry?” I noted a strange inflection in his voice. He stood still and peered into the fog bank. His stop was sudden and suggestive. Just then a passing taxicab almost caught us and we were compelled to dodge quickly. Hobart ducked out of the way and I side-stepped in another direction. We came up on the sidewalk. Again he peered into the shadow.

  “Confound that cab,” he was saying, “now we have gone and missed him.”

  He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His favourite trick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street.

  “Didn’t you see him? Harry! Didn’t you see him? It was Rhamda Avec!”

  I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda. Neither did he.

  “The Rhamda? You don’t know him.”

  Hobart was puzzled.

  “No,” he said; “I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a fat man.”

  I whistled. I recalled the tale that was now a legend. The man had an affinity for the fog mist. To come out of “Faust” and to run into the Rhamda! What was the connection? For a moment we both stood still and waited.

  “I wonder—” said Hobart. “I was just thinking about that fellow tonight. Strange! Well, let’s get something hot—some coffee.”

  But it had given us something for discussion. Certainly it was unusual. During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr. Holcomb; and for the last few hours the tale had clung with reiterating persistence. Perhaps it was the weirdness and the tremulous intoxication of the music. I was one of the vast majority who disbelieved it. Was it possible that it was, after all, other than the film of fancy? There are times when we are receptive; at that moment I could have believed it.

  We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear. It was a contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glasses clinking, laughter and music. A few young people were dancing. I sat down; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my blood. Hobart took a chair opposite. The place was full of beauty. In the back of my mind blurred the image of Rhamda. I had never seen him; but I had read the description. I wondered absently at the persistence.

  I have said that I do not believe in fate. I repeat it. Man should control his own destiny. A great man does. Perhaps that is it. I am not great. Certainly it was circumstance.

  In the back part of the room at one of the tables was a young man sitting alone. Something caught my attention. Perhaps it was his listlessness or the dreamy unconcern with which he watched the dancers; or it may have been the utter forlornness of his expression. I noted his unusual pallor and his cast of dissipation, also the continual working of his long, lean fingers. There are certain set fixtures in the night life of any city. But this was not one. He was not an habitue. There was a certain greatness to his loneliness and his isolation. I wondered.

  Just then he looked up. By a mere coincidence our eyes met. He smiled, a weak smile and a forlorn one, and it seemed to me rather pitiful. Then as suddenly his glance wandered to the door behind me. Perhaps there was something in my expression that caught Hobart’s attention. He turned about.

  “Say, Harry, who is that fellow? I know that face, I’m certain.”

  “Come to think I have seen him myself. I wonder—”

  The young man looked up again. The same weary smile. He nodded. And again he glanced over my shoulder toward the door. His face suddenly hardened.

  “He knows us at any rate,” I ventured.

  Now Hobart was sitting with his face toward the entrance. He could see anyone coming or going. Following the young man’s glance he looked over my shoulder. He suddenly reached over and took me by the forearm.

  “Don’t look round,” he warned; “take it easy. As I said—on my honour as a fat man.”

  The very words foretold. I could not but risk a glance. Across the room a man was coming down the aisle—a tall man, dark, and of a very decided manner. I had read his description many times; I had seen his likeness drawn by certain sketch artists of the city. They did not do him justice. He had a wonderful way and presence—you might say, magnetism. I noticed the furtive wondering glances that were cast, especially by the women. He was a handsome man beyond denying, about the handsomest I had ever seen. The same elusiveness.

  At first I would have sworn him to be near sixty; the next minute I was just as certain of his youth. There was something about him that could not be put to paper, be it strength, force or vitality; he was subtle. His step was prim and distinctive, light as shadow, in one hand he carried the red case that was so often mentioned. I breathed an exclamation.

  Hobart nodded.

  “Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has business with our wan friend yonder. See!”

  And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young man straightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not place him. His lips were set; in their grim line—determination; whatever his exhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a respect for this weak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was not so sure that he was not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the waiter. The Rhamda began talking. I noted the poise i
n his manner; it was not evil, rather was it calm—and calculating. He made an indication. The young man drew back. He smiled; it was feeble and weary, but for all of that disdainful. Though one had a pity for his forlornness, there was still an admiration. The waiter brought glasses.

  The young man swallowed his drink at a gulp, the other picked his up and sipped it. Again he made the indication. The youth dropped his hand upon the table, a pale blue light followed the movement of his fingers. The older man pointed. So that was their contention? A jewel? After all our phantom was material enough to desire possession; his solicitude was calmness, but for all that aggression. I could sense a battle, but the young man turned the jewel to the palm side of his fingers; he shook his head.

  The Rhamda drew up. For a moment he waited. Was it for surrender? Once he started to speak, but was cut short by the other. For all of his weakness there was spirit to the young man. He even laughed. The Rhamda drew out a watch. He held up two fingers. I heard Hobart mumble.

  “Two minutes. Well, I’m betting on the young one. Too much soul. He’s not dead; just weary.”

  He was right. At exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the Rhamda closed his watch. He spoke something. Again the young man laughed. He lit a cigarette; from the flicker and jerk of the flame he was trembling. But he was still emphatic. The other rose from the table, walked down the aisle and out of the building. The youth spread out both arms and dropped his head upon the table.

  It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I exchanged glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us both back to the Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the young man with the life sapped out? I had a recollection of a face strangely familiar. Hobart interrupted my thoughts.