The Blind Spot

by Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint

  V

  FRIENDS

  My name is Harry Wendel.

  I am an attorney and until recently boasted of a splendid practice andan excellent prospect for the future. I am still a young man; I havehad a good education and still have friends and admirers. Such being thecase, you no doubt wonder why I give a past reference to my practice andwhat the future might have held for me. Listen:

  I might as well start 'way back. I shall do it completely and go back tothe fast-receding time of childhood.

  There is a recollection of childish disaster. I had been makingstrenuous efforts to pull the tail out of the cat that I might useit for a feather duster. My desire was supreme logic. I could notunderstand objection; the cat resisted for certain utilitarian reasonsof its own and my mother through humane sympathy. I had been scratchedand spanked in addition: it was the first storm centre that I remember.I had been punished but not subdued. At the first opportunity, I stoleout of the house and onto the lawn that stretched out to the pavement.

  I remember the day. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, andeverything was green with springtime. For a minute I stood still andblinked in the sunlight. It was beautiful and soft and balmy; theworld at full exuberance; the buds upon the trees, the flowers, and thesongbirds singing. I could not understand it. It was so beautiful andsoft. My heart was still beating fiercely, still black with perversityand stricken rancour. The world had no right to be so. I hated with thefull rush of childish anger.

  And then I saw.

  Across the street coming over to meet me was a child of my age. He wasfat and chubby, a mass of yellow curls and laughter; when he walked heheld his feet out at angles as is the manner of fat boys and his armsaway from his body. I slid off the porch quietly. Here was somethingthat could suffer for the cat and my mother. At my rush he stopped inwonder. I remember his smiling face and my anger. In an instant I hadhim by the hair and was biting with all the fury of vindictiveness.

  At first he set up a great bawl for assistance. He could not understand;he screamed and held his hands aloft to keep them out of my reach. Thenhe tried to run away. But I had learned from the cat that had scratchedme. I clung on, biting, tearing. The shrill of his scream was music: itwas conflict, sweet and delicious; it was strife, swift as instinct.

  At last I stopped him; he ceased trying to get away and began tostruggle. It was better still; it was resistance. But he was strongerthan I; though I was quicker he managed to get my by the shoulders,to force me back, and finally to upset me. Then in the stolid way, andafter the manner of fat boys, he sat upon my chest. When our startledmothers came upon the scene they so found us--I upon my back, clinchingmy teeth and threatening all the dire fates of childhood, and he waitingeither for assistance or until my ire should retire sufficiently toallow him to release me in safety.

  "Who did it? Who started it?"

  That I remember plainly.

  "Hobart, did you do this?" The fat boy backed off quietly and clung tohis mother; but he did not answer.

  "Hobart, did you start this?"

  Still no answer.

  "Harry, this was you; you started it. Didn't you try to hurt Hobart?"

  I nodded.

  My mother took me by the hand and drew me away.

  "He is a rascal, Mrs. Fenton, and has a temper like sin; but he willtell the truth, thank goodness."

  I am telling this not for the mere relation, but by way of introduction.It was my first meeting with Hobart Fenton. It is necessary that youknow us both and our characters. Our lives are so entwined and sorelated that without it you could not get the gist of the story. Inthe afternoon I came across the street to play with Hobart. He met mesmiling. It was not in his healthy little soul to hold resentment. I waseither all smiles or anger. I forgot as quickly as I battled. That nightthere were two happy youngsters tucked into the bed and covers.

  So we grew up; one with the other. We played as children do and foughtas boys have done from the beginning. I shall say right now that thefights were mostly my fault. I started them one and all; and if everybattle had the same beginning it likewise had the same ending. The firstfight was but the forerunner of all the others.

  Please do not think hardly of Hobart. He is the kindest soul in theworld; there never was a truer lad nor a kinder heart. He was strong,healthy, fat, and, like fat boys, forever laughing. He followed meinto trouble and when I was retreating he valiantly defended the rear.Stronger, sturdier, and slower, he has been a sort of protector from thebeginning. I have called him the Rear Guard; and he does not resent it.

  I have always been in mischief, restless, and eager for anything thatwould bring quick action; and when I got into deep water Hobart wouldcome along, pluck me out and pull me to shore and safety. Did you eversee a great mastiff and a fox terrier running together? It is a homelyillustration; but an apt one.

  We were boys together, with our delights and troubles, joys and sorrows.I thought so much of Hobart that I did not shirk stooping to help himtake care of his baby sister. That is about the supreme sacrifice ofa boy's devotion. In after years, of course, he has laughed at me andswears I did it on purpose. I do not know, but I am willing to admitthat I think a whole lot of that sister.

  Side by side we grew up and into manhood. We went to school andinto college. Even as we were at odds in our physical builds and ourdispositions, so were we in our studies. From the beginning Hobart hashad a mania for screws, bolts, nuts, and pistons. He is practical; helikes mathematics; he can talk to you from the binomial theorem upinto Calculus; he is never so happy as when the air is buzzing witha conversation charged with induction coils, alternating currents,or atomic energy. The whole swing and force of popular science is hiskingdom. I will say for Hobart that he is just about in line to be kingof it all. Today he is in South America, one of our greatest engineers.He is bringing the water down from the Andes; and it is just about likethose strong shoulders and that good head to restore the land of theIncas.

  About myself? I went into the law. I enjoy an atmosphere of strife andcontention. I liked books and discussion and I thought that I would likethe law. On the advice of my elders I entered law college, and in duetime was admitted to practice. It was while studying to qualify thatI first ran into philosophy. I was a lad to enjoy quick, pithy,epigrammatic statements. I have always favoured a man who hits from theshoulder. Professor Holcomb was a man of terse, heavy thinking; he spokewhat he thought and he did not quibble. He favoured no one.

  I must confess that the old white-haired professor left his stamp uponme. I loved him like all the rest; though I was not above playing atrick on the old fellow occasionally. Still he had a wit of his own andseldom came out second best, and when he lost out he could laugh likethe next one. I was deeply impressed by him. As I took course aftercourse under him I was convinced that for all of his dry philosophy theold fellow had a trick up his sleeve; he had a way of expounding thatwas rather startling; likewise, he had a scarcely concealed contempt forsome of the demigods of our old philosophy.

  What this trick was I could never uncover. I hung on and dug into greattomes of wisdom. I became interested and gradually took up with hisspeculation; for all my love of action I found that I had a strongsubcurrent for the philosophical.

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

  "Of what use is it, Harry? Why waste your brains? These old fogies havebeen pounding on the question for three thousand years. What have theygot? You could read all their literature from the pyramids down to thepresent sky-scrapers and you wouldn't get enough practical wisdom todrive 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 lo
cked up in theconcrete; unless a thing has wheels, pistons, some sort of combustion,or a chemical action you are not interested. What gives you the controlover 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 youhave 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 everlastingformulas. Just the same, next day when I entered Holcomb's lecture-roomI was in for a surprise. My husky room-mate 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 withDan Clark, of the engineering department. Told him I wanted to studyphilosophy. The old boy put up a beautiful holler. Couldn't understandwhat an engineer would want with psychology or ethics. Neither could Iuntil I got to thinking last night when I went to roost. Because a thinghas 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 youintend to take your notes over to the machine shop and hammer out theSecret of the Absolute."

  He grinned.

  "Pretty wise head at that, Harry. What did you call it? The Secret ofthe Absolute. Will remember that. I'm not much on phrases; but I'm surethe strong boy with the hammer. You don't object to my sitting herebeside 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 onthe shoulder.

  "That's not so bad, Harry. Not so bad. The old doctor is there; he's gotthem going. Likewise little Hobart has got a big idea."

  Now it happened that this was just about six weeks before Dr. Holcombannounced his great lecture on the Blind Spot. It was not more than aweek after registration. In the time ensuing Fenton became just asgreat an enthusiast as myself. His idea, of course, was chimerical anda blind; his main purpose was to get in with me where he could argue meout 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 longdiscussion. It was a deep question. For all of my faith in the professorI was hardly prepared for a thing like this. Strange to say I was thesceptic; and stranger still, it was Hobart who took the side of thedoctor.

  "Why not?" he said. "It merely comes down to this: you grant that athing is possible and then you deny the possibility of a proof--outsideof 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 theworld why we can't have something concrete. The professor is right. I amwith 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. Mostof the world took it as a great murder or an equally great case ofabduction. There were but few, even in the university, who embraced theside of the doctor. It was a case of villainy, of a couple of remarkablyclever rogues and a trusting scholar.

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

  "What's the deep study?" I asked him.

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

  "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 hundredthousand dollars and about ten years' leisure."

  "That's a nice thought," I answered; "I could think that myself. Whatwould you do with it?"

  "Do? Why, there is just one thing that I would do if I had that muchmoney. I would solve the Blind Spot."

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

  Some law has been missed through the ages. It is inexorable andinsidious; it is concrete. Out of the unknown comes terror. Through thelove for the great professor I have pitted myself against it. From thebeginning it has been almost hopeless. I remember that last digressionin 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 hecontrol the Blind Spot? Is he the substance and the proof that waspromised by Dr. Holcomb? Through what process and what laws did theprofessor acquire even his partial control over the phenomena? Wheredid the Rhamda and his beautiful companion come from? Who are they? Andlastly--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 notbelieve in it now. Man is the master of his own destiny. We are cowardselse. Whatever is to be known we should know it. One's duty is ever toone's fellows. Heads up and onward. I am not a brave man, perhaps, underclose analysis; but once I have given my word I shall keep it. I havedone my bit; my simple duty. Perhaps I have failed. In holding myselfagainst the Blind Spot I have done no more than would have been done bya million others. I have only one regret. Failure is seldom rewarded. Ihad hoped that my life would be the last; I have a dim hope still. If Ifail 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 afraidof. 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 ithas 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 notlast. When he comes I want him to know my story. What he knows alreadywill not hurt repeating. It is well that man shall have it; it may bethat we shall both fail-there is no telling; but if we do the world canprofit by our blunders and guide itself--perhaps to the mastery of thephenomenon 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 stress under which I am writing. I shall try to be plain sothat all may follow.