I seemed to have been watching the scene for minutes yet—as we knew later—it was less than ten seconds before it began to fade to grow dim, as though a thin gauze veil had been drawn across it. Then; more rapidly, it blurred, the forms and colors merged, and like a dissolving view it vanished. Before my eyes the masses of green vapor billowed and rolled down the face of the dyke.
A deep half-groan, half-sigh came from the assembled Indians, Harris, with a sharp exclamation, sprang to the camera and swung a switch. Hardly conscious of my surroundings, I stood spellbound, my eyes still fixed upon the spot where the vision had been.
"Wonderful!" gasped Harris, and at his words I came back to earth "A perfect image! But I can't understand why it vanished—why it didn't continue as long as the ray was operating and the fumes well present. I'll—"
"It may come back," I suggested "Something may have interrupted it. Don't shut off the machines. Let's wait."
Harris nodded, and silently, with eyes fixed on the eddying mass of vapor, we waited and watched for a reappearance of the miraculous-seeming vision. But nothing appeared. The sun swung towards the west, the shadows lengthened, and at last, satisfied that there would be no second manifestation of the marvel, Harris shut off the apparatus, and slowly the clouds of vapor drifted away.
"Well," he sighed, as he drew a reel of film from the camera and another from the rotating-mirror machine, "we'll have a record of it unless —"
"Unless what?" I queried, half-suspecting what was in his mind.
He laughed, a forced hoarse sort of laugh. "Well, unless—unless the darned thing wasn't there!" he finished.
"Nonsense!" I cried. "We both saw it. The Indians saw it. It was there."
"Hurrah!" he exclaimed joyously. "At last the Doubting Thomas is convinced! Of course it was there and I’ll wager any amount I've got a bang-up picture of it."
Harris was right. The film, when developed, showed everything—the cloud of vapor, the great groove cut in the cliff, the unfolding of the vision, and every detail of the scene exactly as we had seen it. And Harris was jubilant when, having developed the photographic records of the rotating mirror, the results proved beyond a doubt that the vision we had seen had been no artificially projected picture from some mysterious and incredible cinematograph-like machine on another planet, but an actual happening, as real as though it had been transported into the past for a thousand years or more and had watched living pre-Incans dancing at Huaro-Yana.
Harris, however, was greatly puzzled and perturbed. He was at a total loss. The picture had come and gone exactly as had the first, and he freely admitted that he didn't believe his carefully designed instruments had had any effect upon its appearance. And he didn't attempt to account for the detached view—the single fleeting glimpse—having burst upon the vapor and then vanished.
"If the thing worked right, we'd see a continuous performance," he declared. "There's no reason why we shouldn't see everything that was going on from the time the picture appeared until the ray ceased to function. It ought to continue without interruption all through the afternoon. But instead, we just get one flash, like a snapshot, of what was taking place. However, I've accomplished something. I've got a photographic record to prove the thing, and when I've worked out my spectroscopic and other records, I'll know a lot more about the phenomenon than I do now.
"As a matter of fact I didn't really expect my instruments to help much. As I said, I was working largely by guesswork. But still I do think the picture was clearer, sharper than the first time."
The next day we mounted the platform again and repeated the operation of the preceding day, but nothing appeared, and at last, wholly at a loss, we gave up at noon; utterly baffled we returned to the house.
As we were eating our midday meal, Harris suddenly dropped his knife and fork and leaped to his feet.
"By Jove, I have it!" he fairly shouted. "Why didn't I think of it before!"
"Got what?" I demanded. "The reason we didn't see a picture today; the reason the thing vanishes. It's a question of time. Remember, we saw the first picture between two and three o'clock. It was between two-thirty and three that we saw the next. Then, today, we waited until noon and saw nothing. I'll wager, if we go back between two and three, we'll see another view. It—"
"Possibly you may be right." I agreed, without waiting for him to complete his sentence. "But honestly I fail to see why time should have anything to do with it. In the first place, whatever it is, or rather, however the thing is brought about, the rays that carried the scene in the first place must have been going on continuously—not confined to any one hour. In the second place, the place—Huaro-Yana—and the people, must have been here right along. And in the third place, if the scenes—the impressions—are somewhere, stored away in space or on another planet as you claim, why shouldn't the Inti-ray or the fumes or whatever it is, bring them back to us at one time as well as another?"
"You overlook the most important thing," Harris told me. "I explained that the rays are strictly rectilinear—that they go straight and parallel, as I might say, as I even stated that I feared we could only secure revisualizations of events that occurred here at Huaro-Yana for that reason. So the way I look at it is this: Just as the scenes we can restore are local, so the area whereon they were stored or recorded must be restricted. It's as if they'd been reflected in a mirror at a distance and that mirror reflected them back to a mirror set up here. Unless the two mirrors were in line and placed at the proper angle or plane to each other, there wouldn't be any reflection visible. And as the earth is rotating on its axis, there would be but one short period of time when it would possible to 'line up' the rays so the scenes would appear. Of course that's a crude way of putting it, but it's the only way I can make it clear to you."
"Thanks for your opinion of my mentality," I laughed. "But I think I see your point. However, another idea has just occurred to me—or rather several ideas. First: If you assume, the scenes were recorded on another sphere and that sphere is rotating as it must be, it seems to me the chance of getting the two points upon the surface of this earth and that sphere 'lined up’ as you say, would be infinitesimal And if both spheres are rotating and have been for thousands of years, wouldn't the time when the two points come into line vary daily? Finally, how does this theory strike you? Isn't it possible that on that other sphere there is a similar dyke to the one here and that the phenomenon is the result of some chemical peculiarity of the rocks, so that it would not be possible on any other portion of earth or on that other planet? Your simile of the two mirrors gave me that theory."
“Yes, I'd thought of that myself," declared Harris. "But I can't find any peculiarity of the basalt here. It's in no way different from any other basaltic dyke. But there is a possibility that on another planet there may be fumes—vapors— identical with that which we produce by the ray, and that the scenes were impressed or recorded on that. I don't think the theory tenable, however. Such vapor must move, must be tenuous, and hence any scenes recorded upon it would be broken up, would disappear. As for your other arguments, I admit there would be a constant change of time, but how do we know that the other sphere's rotational speed may not be such that it compensates for the earth's lag? But we're talking on theories, mere vague suppositions. We don't actually know anything about the matter—we don't even know if there is another sphere in the problem. But come on—let's see if my idea of the time isn't correct."
So once more we went to the platform and prepared for the reception of the phenomenon. And this time, just as Harris had prophesied, the picture appeared—-precisely at two forty-eight. It is unnecessary to repeat the description of its materialization. In fact, we had now become somewhat accustomed to it, and watched it with less excitement and more analytically. In fact, the only manner in which the view that was vividly developed before us differed from those we had seen was in the actions of the people. We had seen them cutting the stone with the Inti-ray; we had seen them dancing; and n
ow we saw them at their everyday duties. Some were cultivating the ground; in the distance, herders were tending flocks of llamas and alpacas; in the shadow of a building, women were weaving cloth on crude looms; and under a shed a potter was moulding earthenware vessels. I even caught a glimpse of a metal smith working over a little furnace, but he was soon hidden from sight by a group of men who gathered about him, apparently interested in watching him at his art.
Harris was elated. Not only had his time theory worked out—for no other vision appeared, although we waited throughout the afternoon— but he insisted that the length of time the scene had been retained was due to his instruments and the manipulation of the controls.
"I'm making headway at last, thank heaven!" he cried, "I'm beginning to get the hang of the thing. The next time I'll keep the impression before us for at least fifteen minutes—perhaps more. Eventually I may be able to hold it for an hour—perhaps keep it continually there."
"In that case your time theory will be shattered," I reminded him. "Besides, you’ll exhaust your supply of the ray-producing minerals."
"Don't worry about that," he advised me. "I've found how to make the stuff artificially. And as for my time theory—that's the key to the success of the thing. I kept this view ten minutes by adjusting my instruments to compensate for the movement of the earth. Now, if I can only calculate the speed of the other sphere—if there is one—I can adjust the instrument to keep pace with that, and so retain the views in perfect alignment continuously. It's not such a difficult problem after all; a good deal on the principle of taking photographs of the sun or any other planet in doing which we have to keep the telescope focused on a certain spot regardless of the fact that both the earth and the other planet are moving. But, hang it all, in this case I don't know what the other planet is, or where it is, or if there is a planet in the case. But I'm going to find out before another day has passed."
Whether or not the unusually long period of time that the scene had endured was due to Harris's instruments, I did not know. But if he was right, if he could so adjust his apparatus as to keep accurate pace with the planetary movements, then I could see no reason why he should not be able to do as he claimed and retain a continuous picture for some hours upon the vapor.
I saw nothing more of him that evening. He did not come to dinner and it was not until nearly noontime the next day that he put in an appearance. His haggard face and the dark circles under his keen eyes told me of all night work even before he spoke. "I've got it!" he ejaculated, throwing himself into a chair and gulping down a cup of strong black coffee.
"Got what?" I asked. "You'll get nervous prostration or something worse if you keep this up old man."
He shook his head. "I'd get a lot worse lying awake and trying to puzzle it out in my brain, than by going at it with paper and pencil," he declared. "But it's done. I've worked it all out—the question of the other sphere, you know—the place where the impressions are stored away, and now I've got that determined I can work out the rest. Today, tomorrow, we'll be the first human beings to look upon the surface of another planet as clearly as though we stood upon its surface. Think of that! Think of what marvels we may see!"
"But what is the planet?" I asked, half-convinced that Harris had overworked his brain and was suffering from an hallucination.
"What is it?" he repeated. "Guess!"
"Hmm, I presume it's Mars or perhaps Venus or Mercury," I replied "Let's see. I'm no astronomer, but if I'm not mistaken Venus would be visible in the afternoon."
"Wrong!" cried Harris. "It's Eros!”
"Eros!” I reiterated. "But Eros is an asteroid—it's outside Mars."
"Yes, ordinarily," admitted Harris. "But if you were as familiar with astronomy as with archeology, you'd know that although the orbit of Eros —and other asteroids— is outside that of Mars, still, at certain times, owing to the nature of its orbit, Eros —and probably other asteroids as well—approach to within fifteen million miles of the earth, whereas thirty-five million is the nearest we ever get to Mars as in 1909 and 1924. And it happens that at the present time, Eros is at its nearest point to our old earth." "But, but," I objected. "Isn't Eros small—a tiny sphere? Why—"
"Don't ask me why!" cried Harris petulantly. "I don't know why anything. But it's Eros, I'm positive. Yes, Eros is small—a mere pin-point in the ordinary telescope. We don't know anything about it and that'll make it all the more marvelous to look upon. Why, man alive, it may be inhabited! And think what the denizens may be like! No one can think, no one can imagine. On Eros you, I, any normal man could easily lift a ton in one hand. We could fly for miles through the air by using muscular energy required to take a step here on earth! Talk about Columbus! Talk about explorers, discoverers! Why, we're about to go on the most amazing voyage of discovery in the entire history of mankind!"
"Provided," I reminded him, hoping to calm him, for he was becoming almost feverishly excited, provided you can succeed and can produce a scene from Eros upon the vapor. I don't believe you can, Harris. I’m willing to admit that the ray impressions of past scenes on earth may be stored or recorded on Eros or on any other heavenly body, and that you may be able to 'tune' them in, as you once aptly put it. I've seen the visions and astounding, incredible as they are, I cannot doubt the evidence of our senses. But I don't see that that proves that it is possible to bring in a scene that exists on another planet or planetoid today. In fact, it would seem to me that scenes from Eros must be impressed invisibly here, and that the people of Eros—if there are any—would find it much easier to bring scenes of their past back from here than for you to bring scenes from Eros to earth. So far, we haven't had a hint of anything, aside from scenes that took place here. If your scheme were possible, why shouldn't we have had glimpses of Eros already?"
"Why, why, why?" cried Harris jumping up and pacing back and forth, "You're forever asking "Why?' How the devil should I know? Nobody knows. Perhaps nobody ever will know! Why does the earth rotate? Why do we live? Why are we here? Why life anyway?" Then, suddenly calming himself, "I'm sorry, old friend," he said apologetically, "I didn't intend to be rude or impatient, but the thing's got under my skin and that infernal "WHY?" is hammering in my brain continually. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go get a bit of sleep. I can't do anything today—haven't had time to prepare the instruments I want. But tomorrow—well—we’ll see what we shall see."
Chapter IX
The Battle Scene Retained on Eros
Harris slept soundly for several hours and arose much refreshed and once again his normal, good-natured self. During the afternoon he busied himself in his laboratory and workshop. He worked late that night, and he was up and deep in his work when I arose the next morning, But he came to the house for lunch, and with a deep sigh of satisfaction announced that he was ready for another demonstration.
"This time," he stated, "I believe we'll get a glimpse of Eros itself, unless I'm off in my calculations."
I had, however, been improving my knowledge by reading the works on astronomy that were in Harris's library, and I had assiduously studied everything I could find that related to Eros. So I was ready to ask a question that, I flattered myself, would rather surprise him.
"I don't exactly see how you can accomplish that today," I observed. "Isn't the dark side of Eros presented to the earth this afternoon? In that case how can you see anything upon it?"
Harris laughed. "Been studying up on Eros, eh?" he observed. "Yes, you're right, but why should darkness have anything to do with the matter? You forget that we are not seeing things with light-rays, and the Inti-ray is present in darkness as well as in light. By the way, as you have shown you have an increasing interest in astronomical phenomena, let me ask you a few questions and—as I’m quite sure you cannot reply— give you the answers. You speak of 'darkness.' I suppose you picture space (so-called) as being dark?"
"Yes, why not," I replied promptly. "Wrong!" he cried in much the same tone a boy will use when playing a gu
essing game. "If you were in what is commonly called 'space' you’d find light—blinding light—in fact such light as neither you not any human being can imagine or conceive of; a glare like that from a vast furnace. And the most amazing feature of it would be that it would be cold light—practically absolute zero."
"I can't believe it," I told him frankly. "If space is light, how is it that after the sun sets we have darkness?"
"Our own earth shadow," he replied, "thrown upon our atmosphere. If you should step into an airplane and go up a few hundred feet, you'd find it light enough."
"Naturally," I said, "for I would then be in sight of the sun."
"Or rather out of the earth's shadow," he retorted. "But if you could get off into space beyond all shadows, you'd find the blinding glare perpetual. There'd he nothing to interrupt it, nothing to absorb it and no atmosphere to soften and filter it. Now, for another question. If you were off there in space, how would Mars appear? What color would the sun be?"
"I suppose Mars would appear as a great red sphere," I replied. "And the sun would be a fiery, glowing, incandescent mass."
Harris chuckled. There was nothing he enjoyed more than tripping up people on scientific questions and then setting them right. Not that he ever bothered doing so with men who made no claims to scientific knowledge. He didn't expect them to know the answers. Neither would he amuse himself in this manner with specialists in other lines than his own; but he believed thoroughly that a "little knowledge is a dangerous thing," and having discovered that I had attempted to brush up on astronomy he was having a little harmless amusement at my expense, incidentally adding to my knowledge.
“You're entirely wrong," he assured me, "If you were beyond the atmosphere of the earth, the sun would appear as a brilliant blue sphere and Mars would be green."
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