His jell colored with uncertainty, Kama-Loo spun toward the ship into which Fo-Peta had vanished. Then he wheeled again, decision replacing doubt. Fo-Peta would not relish an interruption; and the astronomer’s duty was clear. Rapidly his deft feelers charted a metal map pointing to the position where the Neptunian vessel would be in two minutes—inserted it in the control table. A carefully timed pause—moments of anxious experimenting—a flood of golden light emanating from an abruptly visible spiral that completely encircled the great sphere—further manipulation of intricate devices—then blackness indescribable. A whirling vertigo that swept thru all the giant craft and those within it—dizzying disintegration—and their flight thru the fifth dimension was ended.
Mighty gravity laid clutching feelers on the astronomer, gravity exceeding even that of Ern. With laboring teeba he resisted, managing to remain afloat.
Senses clearing, ignoring his increased weight, Kama-Loo inspected the surrounding space with a powerful magna plate. Star-pointed blackness. . . lonely infinity. . . then burning crimson madness flashed before his vision. A sea of swirling clouds, lacerated by lances of red flame that lashed up from the hidden surface of a vast world like snapping whips of an angry god. Beyond its curving edge speeding gas strata rushed on tempestuously. The Red Spot of Jupiter, Kama-Loo realized in a flash.
And silhouetted against its glare, a lone space ship was hurtling in a long slanting plunge toward that awful inferno, helpless in its remorseless grip.
The astronomer watched in fascination for an instant, conscious of a feeling of awe at the tremendous spectacle he beheld; conscious too that something was sending prickling points of torment through his jell. Tearing his gaze away at length, he adjusted the range of the magna plate till the other vessel completely filled its surface, till he could see thru a port hole three motionless figures lying within the ship.
Hopefully he stared at a chart above the magna plate. The position of the vessel, changing every instant, was there. He watched for many interminable minutes, carefully calculating their speed, the rate of change. Figuring with infinite care despite the burning sensation which seemed to grow momentarily more intense, despite the burden of the increased weight which strained his teeba almost to the limit.
Now he had it! A minute to cast another map—the dimensional spiral again—vertigo of interdimensional travel—and the giant sphere of Hava materialized about the tiny space craft of Neptune! Materialized and sped with it on its downward course, drawn by the mighty gravity of Jupiter—and the greater pull of the Red Spot.
As the enormous, flaming inferno leaped up toward them, Kama-Loo, fully aware of their danger, worked with rapid, unfaltering precision. Zeera, Fo-Peta, and the other virs were struggling excitedly out of the ships now, but the astronomer ignored them. From memory he charted another map—fitted it in place—and in a dervish gyration of golden radiance the ship of Elo Hava sped instantaneously a million miles away, where the giant planet, Jupiter, was only another light in the void—where they were safe.
Kama-Loo, ever the scientist, was eagerly trying to explain to Zeera and Fo-Peta exactly what had happened. Several hours had elapsed since he had rescued the Neptunian ship; and during the interim some of the bewilderment which had followed the appearance of the strange vessel had been dispelled. Now the space fleet of Ern and the Neptunian survivor were anchored side by side along an empty section of the wall. The crews of the vessels of Ern were busy removing the effects of the battle with the monsters.
Within the smaller glassite craft two of the beings from Tridentia were striving somewhat weakly to revive the third, who now showed signs of returning consciousness.
“This Elo Hava, I believe,” the scientist was saying, “is a being from another dimension, mortal as you and I. The similarity of his dimensional car, screenophotoscope, and the like, to ours, leads me to believe that his race has discovered a means of looking from their dimension into ours. And now they have crossed the barrier between the worlds. No doubt another of their kind accomplished the same feat ages ago, and by their miraculous appearance from nowhere, started the legend of the god, Elo Hava. And this being, knowing of the legend, decided to take advantage of our superstition to make his conquest of our worlds easier.” He paused, his jell tinted with smug self-satisfaction.
“As for our friends from Neptune—there’s nothing very mysterious about what happened to them. The Neptunian fleet must not have received the warning from the Darthans—probably because of interference from the Red Spot—and naturally they were caught in the trap laid by the Wrongness of Space. I believe that Red Spot is the remains of some space-wanderer composed chiefly of some exceedingly heavy element beyond uranium—an element extraordinarily radioactive. What we see as the spot is largely light caused by the impact of the element’s radiation on Jupiter’s cloud-sheath.
“it’s easy to understand how the radiation must have affected the Neptunians. Ionizing their gases, it disrupted their entire mental and physical structure. Away from the radiations now, their vital organs are slowly reorganizing and reasserting themselves.
“We with our sensible, solid bodies, were little affected. Beyond an unpleasant burning sensation and our apparent increase in weight, we weren’t even uncomfortable. I suppose continual exposure to the short destructive radiations would result disastrously but that we need not consider.
“As for the future—” Kama-Loo stopped short, his eye fixed rigidly on his audience. Slowly a tinge of indignation colored his jell. Fo-Peta and Zeera floated to one side, their feelers twined about each other, totally oblivious to anything but their reunion and their love. They had not heard a single word of his lucid explanation, he thought in disgust.
Mechanically he gazed at the occupants of the Neptunian ship. The older figure, Tranda, had risen and was moving feebly about on trembling tubes. And close to the glassite wall stood Steepa and Teena, their pads stroking each other caressingly, their auras united, their tubes intertwined amorously!
Sudden amusement lighted Kama-Loo’s jell. It was natural, inevitable—the love-making of these young creatures. He knew—from experience! With a gesture of resignation he turned and floated toward the screen of the screenophotoscope. It was time that they renewed their flight for the gathering place of the fleets. They could get there instantly in the dimensional sphere and could get out and fight in their own space ships—since it would be impossible to guide the dimensional craft.
Throwing on power and turning various dials, he sent his voice thru the void, calling the fleets of Darth, calling Mea-Quin and Dos-Tev, calling long on every frequency band. But tho he waited interminably, calling again and again—there was no response.
They were cut off—alone—isolated in the emptiness of space, powerless to aid in the battle against Ay-Artz, the invader from Lemnis.
THE WANDERER
Through vaults of blackest night a flaming globe
Sweeps by, majestic, like a star set free
To wander on the endless, spacial sea,
With golden lace its train, a kingly robe.
The worlds it passes in its careless flight
Glare after it in jealous rage, for they
Can never leave their dull and weary way—
The speeding comet vanishes from sight.
Long years go by; in space appears a glow—
A sphere of light; the wanderer comes back.
And as it speeds upon its destined track,
The circling planets smile, for now they know
The comet is not free to wander far,
’Tis bound by cosmic laws like every star.
THE BRAIN OF ALI KHAN
l This story is unusual in the fact that it should satisfy nearly all of our readers.
Those who want science—good science and plenty of it, in their science-fiction, will find this tale their ideal. There are more medical facts—neurology—in this very short story than in many novels of the same type.
Those who want a thrilling tale will find this one unparalleled in weird, exciting incidents.
Those who want something new will find a plot never before used—one that lives up to our new policy in its refreshing originality.
Rarely has such a vivid, realistic story with plenty of good science and new ideas been written.
l There was an uneasy light in the pale blue eyes of Dr. Carl Selkirk, neurologist, as he studied the face of his patient. A momentary expression of annoyance crossed his countenance. That strange feeling of uneasiness had persisted throughout every contact with this case—yet there was no reason for it! For this was unquestionably a case of cerebrospinal meningitis,[*] exactly like many others he had attended—except for the fact that his present patient was a Hindu.
The prominent features of Ali Kahn, the Hindu, were distorted with pain; his ebony-colored skin was tightly drawn over protruding cheek bones; his long, narrow eyes, lying in deep, hollow sockets, were tightly closed; and his thin lips writhed and snarled as the faint, meaningless words of delirium stumbled from his disease-wracked brain.
Dr. Selkirk turned to the attending nurse, striving to rid himself of his inexplicable uneasiness.
“Miss Allen, what has been the patient’s condition since I last saw him?” Solemnly the nurse shook her head. “Until about an hour ago, he was in a state of intermittent delirium. Then, in the midst of a particularly violent seizure, he went into collapse; he lost all strength. He has been lying there practically motionless ever since.”
Dr. Selkirk nodded. “The disease is traveling its regular course, Dr. Arlington,” he said, addressing the interne who was accompanying him on his visit to his patients, “first delirium, then collapse, and finally a comatose condition from which they pass into death. He will sink into a coma in a short time, I believe—and nothing can be done for him.” He began moving toward the door.
“Dr. Selkirk!” There was hesitancy in Nurse Allen’s voice and manner. “This has no bearing on the case, but he—he said some of the queerest things in his delirium. Most of it was in his native tongue, but occasionally he spoke in English. Again and again he referred to Vishnu and Siva and Brahma. Then, finally, he said, very slowly and clearly, ‘The soul is the life of the body—the brain is the seat of the soul—the body dies, but the brain lives on! Brahma is all, and all is Brahma. And Brahma is the soul!’ I remember it because he repeated it several times.”
“Nonsense!” Dr. Selkirk exclaimed—more violently than the occasion demanded. “Eastern mysticism! The soul! Brahma! Utter nonsense—”
“Quick, Doctor!” the interne interrupted in a startled voice, “look at the Hindu! I thought he was helpless!”
Wide-eyed, they watched as Ali Kahn drew a single bony arm from beneath the bedspread and raised it slowly heavenward, fingers clutching feebly. His thin lips moved, and a faint, dry voice drifted through the room, a whisper like the rustle of dead leaves.
“Brahma is all—and all—all—is Brahma. The body dies—but the brain lives on. The soul is Brahma. Brahma be praised!”
Suddenly the face of the man changed. The pain vanished, was replaced by hatred. His eyes grew wide and staring, glittering coldly; his dark skin was drawn into countless fine wrinkles; he drew down the corners of his mouth in an evil leer. The staring eyes and a quivering finger fixed themselves upon Dr. Carl Selkirk. And from the lips of Ali Kahn came the croaking words:
“I die—but you shall die as I die, Sahib! In the name of Siva the Destroyer, I promise it. The body dies—but the brain lives on, is it not so, Sahib? You—you shall commit murder!”
Abruptly all strength left Ali Kahn and his outstretched arm fell at his side. His eyes and lips closed; his facial muscles sagged. He had entered the coma from which there would be no awakening.
“Delirium!” Dr. Selkirk exclaimed. “Obviously delirium! . . . Come, Doctor, we must go.” Hastily he left the room, followed by the interne. A sickly pallor had overspread his face and he was chewing his lower lip nervously.
“How—how could he know?” he muttered slowly. “I thought I was the only one.”
“What did you say, sir?” Dr. Arlington inquired.
“Nothing—nothing, of course!” he answered sharply.
l Abruptly he paused, faced the interne.
“I had almost forgotten an urgent appointment for eleven o’clock, Doctor. If you will, I wish you’d see the other patients and do whatever may be necessary.
As for the Hindu, continue with the prescribed serum—even though death seems inevitable.” Turning, he hurried down the hall. A few minutes later he left the hospital, stepped into his waiting car, and sped away.
Reaching the building that housed his office and living quarters, he unlocked the door, entered, and relocked it. There would be no patients for the present; his office hours began at three that afternoon. Mechanically he removed his hat, then began to pace the floor.
The mind of Dr. Carl Selkirk was a chaotic, disordered thing. Back and forth, back and forth he paced, his brows gathered into tight furrows. The Hindu, Ali Kahn, had disturbed him more than he cared to confess, even to himself.
It wasn’t his curse; that was the madness of delirium. It was that damnable phrase, repeated with fiendish insistency: “The body dies, but the brain lives on.” For it was true!
But how had the Hindu known? He had thought that he alone possessed that knowledge. True, recently the medical world had begun to suspect that the brain might live a minute or two after bodily death—but they stopped far short of the truth. Actually, it remained alive for; hours, many hours in some cases.
He had made the discovery in his latex studies in Vienna. He could remember every detail of the events leading up to the revelation of this astounding truth. He and another medical student had become interested in the possibilities of thought transference, mental telepathy. They had experimented—had achieved their goal—had become quite adept at transmitting their thoughts. And the other student had died.
Hours after his death, an autopsy had been performed, and he, Selkirk, had been present. Suddenly, when they were sawing the skull to expose the brain, a stream of thoughts had flowed into his mind, thoughts from his dead friend—horrible shrieks of mental anguish—foul curses—frantic pleas for release from further torture! . . . He shuddered now as he recalled the scene.
It had ended with the first stroke of the scalpel through the grey matter—but it had left him with the knowledge that the mind lived after the body. The cause of that continued life? He didn’t know, but he strongly suspected that the pituitary gland, situated in the brain, was responsible.
During the years that followed, he had had to perform post mortems—many of them—and he hadn’t minded so long as the brain had remained untouched. But autopsies of the brain—they brought beads of cold perspiration upon his forehead; they sent tremors of nervous dread through his limbs. For always at such times, his senses seemed sharpened, seemed able to detect every horrifying thought of his human subjects. It was maddening.
Dr. Carl Selkirk shook his head impatiently. To think that he, a nerve specialist, had permitted his mind to assume such a disordered state! But he couldn’t help it!
His thoughts returned to Ali Kahn, the Hindu. If he died, as he probably would, an autopsy would have to be performed. And he would have to do it! That, in part, accounted for his discomfort in the presence of his dark skinned patient. But more than that, he had been annoyed by Ali Kahn’s reference to his discovery. How had he known?
Suddenly Dr. Carl Selkirk smiled. Absurd that it hadn’t occurred to him before. Mental telepathy, of course! He had accomplished it; why couldn’t another? And the intellectuals of India were reputed to have delved deeper into the mysteries of the mind than any other race. That accounted in full for his uneasiness. The man had been reading his thoughts.
Relieved, he paused in his pacing and sank into a chair. He was glad that the thing was settled. It had puzzled him, had shaken his nerves.
> But—the cheeks of Dr. Carl Selkirk blanched—if the man could read his thoughts, he could probably transmit his own! And the autopsy lay before him! Gripping the arms of his chair, he stared into vacancy, unconsciously biting his lower lip. And after a time, he smiled, a distorted movement of his mouth, mirthless, grim.
He had discovered something unknown to medical science—a discovery of great import—yet he cursed the knowledge! It was all very droll!
At 2:20 p.m. Dr. Carl Selkirk was informed that Ali Kahn had died.
l The morgue was silent, as silent as death. No sound broke its somber stillness; no ray of light pierced the semidarkness of this abode of the departed.
Dr. Carl Selkirk entered the morgue with a fear unnatural in a physician. To his overwrought nerves and morbid imagination, the very silence of the place appeared a source of peril; and in the darkness there seemed to lurk a brooding secrecy, cloaking evil things.
Hastily he switched on the lights and drew a deep breath. He held out his hand; it trembled visibly. Steady! He must not betray his perturbation to his assistant. With a tremendous effort of will, he quieted his nerves. Then he put on a rubber apron and a pair of rubber gloves.
At that moment, Dr. Arlington, the interne, entered, an expression of deep interest in his dark eyes, and a half-smile of anticipation on his lean, earnest face.
“You know, Doctor,” he said as he put on gloves and an apron similar to Selkirk’s, “I consider post mortems most interesting. I think much can be learned by actual study of the anatomical changes that take place in relation to the diseases.”
“Yes,” Dr. Selkirk agreed brusquely. “Quite so!” But the interne could not possibly realize that the anatomical relationships were insignificant beside the fact that living brains were in those dead bodies! “And this will be a very instructive post mortem,” he continued. “I shall explain each pathological step as we go along.” That might aid in keeping his thoughts from dwelling on his obsession.
Forgotten Fiction Page 33
