A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  He was apparently not more than five feet in height, with proportions suggesting those of a gorilla—a tremendous breadth of shoulders, thick, short neck and broad, squat head, which had a tangled growth of black hair and was topped with a crimson fez. A tunic of the same colour, belted tightly to the waist, reached the seat—apparently a box—upon which he sat; his legs and feet were not seen. His left forearm appeared to rest in his lap; he moved his pieces with his right hand, which seemed disproportionately long.

  I had shrunk back and now stood a little to one side of the doorway and in shadow. If Moxon had looked farther than the face of his opponent he could have observed nothing now, except that the door was open. Something forbade me either to enter or to retire, a feeling—I know not how it came—that I was in the presence of an imminent tragedy and might serve my friend by remaining. With a scarcely conscious rebellion against the indelicacy of the act I remained.

  The play was rapid. Moxon hardly glanced at the board before making his moves, and to my unskilled eye seemed to move the piece most convenient to his hand, his motions in doing so being quick, nervous and lacking in precision. The response of his antagonist, while equally prompt in the inception, was made with a slow, uniform, mechanical and, I thought, somewhat theatrical movement of the arm, that was a sore trial to my patience. There was something unearthly about it all, and I caught myself shuddering. But I was wet and cold.

  Two or three times after moving a piece the stranger slightly inclined his head, and each time I observed that Moxon shifted his king. All at once the thought came to me that the man was dumb. And then that he was a machine—an automaton chess-player! Then I remembered that Moxon had once spoken to me of having invented such a piece of mechanism, though I did not understand that it had actually been constructed. Was all his talk about the consciousness and intelligence of machines merely a prelude to eventual exhibition of this device—only a trick to intensify the effect of its mechanical action upon me in my ignorance of its secret?

  A fine end, this, of all my intellectual transports—my “endless variety and excitement of philosophic thought”! I was about to retire in disgust when something occurred to hold my curiosity. I observed a shrug of the thing’s great shoulders, as if it were irritated: and so natural was this—so entirely human—that in my new view of the matter it startled me. Nor was that all, for a moment later it struck the table sharply with its clenched hand. At that gesture Moxon seemed even more startled than I: he pushed his chair a little backward, as in alarm.

  Presently Moxon, whose play it was, raised his hand high above the board, pounced upon one of his pieces like a sparrow-hawk and with the exclamation “check-mate!” rose quickly to his feet and stepped behind his chair. The automaton sat motionless.

  The wind had now gone down, but I heard, at lessening intervals and progressively louder, the rumble and roll of thunder. In the pauses between I now became conscious of a low humming or buzzing which, like the thunder, grew momentarily louder and more distinct. It seemed to come from the body of the automaton, and was unmistakably a whirring of wheels. It gave me the impression of a disordered mechanism which had escaped the repressive and regulating action of some controlling part—an effect such as might be expected if a pawl should be jostled from the teeth of a ratchet-wheel. But before I had time for much conjecture as to its nature my attention was taken by the strange motions of the automaton itself. A slight but continuous convulsion appeared to have possession of it. In body and head it shook like a man with palsy or an ague chill, and the motion augmented every moment until the entire figure was in violent agitation. Suddenly it sprang to its feet and with a movement almost too quick for the eye to follow shot forward across table and chair, with both arms thrust forth to their full length—the posture and lunge of a diver. Moxon tried to throw himself backward out of reach, but he was too late: I saw the horrible thing’s hand close upon his throat, his own clutch its wrists. Then the table was overturned, and candle thrown to the floor and extinguished, and all was black dark. But the noise of the struggle was dreadfully distinct, and most terrible of all were the raucous, squawking sounds made by the strangled man’s efforts to breathe. Guided by the infernal hubbub, I sprang to the rescue of my friend, but had hardly taken a stride in the darkness when the whole room blazed with a blinding white light that burned into my brain and heart and memory a vivid picture of the combatants on the floor, Moxon underneath, his throat still in the clutch of those iron hands, his head forced backward, his eyes protruding, his mouth wide open and his tongue thrust out; and—horrible contrast!—upon the painted face of his assassin an expression of tranquil and profound thought, as in the solution of a problem in chess! This I observed, then all was blackness and silence.

  Three days later I recovered consciousness in a hospital. As the memory of that tragic night slowly evolved in my ailing brain I recognized in my attendant Moxon’s confidential workman, Haley. Responding to a look he approached, smiling.

  “Tell me about it,” I managed to say, faintly—“all about it.”

  “Certainly,” he said; “you were carried unconscious from a burning house—Moxon’s. Nobody knows how you came to be there. You may have to do a little explaining. The origin of the fire is a bit mysterious, too. My own notion is that the house was struck by lightning.”

  “And Moxon?”

  “Buried yesterday—what was left of him.”

  Apparently this reticent person could unfold himself on occasion. When imparting shocking intelligence to the sick he was affable enough. After some moments of the keenest mental suffering I ventured to ask another question:

  “Who rescued me?”

  “Well, if that interests you—I did.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Haley, and may God bless you for it. Did you rescue, also, that charming product of your skill, the automaton chess-player that murdered its inventor?”

  The man was silent a long time, looking away from me. Presently he turned and gravely said:

  “Do you know that?”

  “I do,” I replied; “I saw it done.”

  That was many years ago. If asked to-day I should answer less confidently.

  THE MASTER OF THE OCTOPUS

  Edward Olin Weeks

  The inventor seemed to be too trusting; was it a trick?

  THE CONSOLIDATED Lighting Company of America was well-known to inventors all over the land. Indeed, its offices were in a continual state of siege; yet it must be confessed that many a man only entered its portals to leave behind him the ribs and thighbones of his business projects. So distinctly was this understood, that a sinister Legend was attached to the transactions of the company with men of inventive skill, and it came to be called the Octopus.

  The man of all others that the Inventors were most anxious to meet was the masterful President, who owned and operated a vast majority of the shares of the company’s stock.

  He was a remarkable man—everybody admitted that. His name was a synonym of commercial skill. Having consolidated everything, he had become consolidated himself, and was certainly a rare example of complete ossification of heart and head. That the “old man”—as he was often spoken of by his able assistants—should ever be unable to cope with any other man, or men, was a matter beyond actual belief.

  Now, on a certain eventful afternoon the President sat in his office in the falling light. A tap on the half-open door made him look up, and a youth with a card in his hand entered. He laid the bit of pasteboard in front of the great man, and then with a quick motion turned on the electric current above his desk.

  It was a neat little card, and had on it the simple address:—

  H. Morehurst.

  Inventor of the Perpetual Lamp,

  New York.

  “The gentleman desires an interview,” said the clerk.

  The President glanced at the superscription and then at the clerk with an Incredulous smile. “This is too much,” he said; “yesterday I had a perpetual motion fiend, a
nd now I have another with a lamp. Does he look dangerous, or is he like the other one: mild, vague, and easily rattled?”

  “No,” replied Masters, the clerk, “he isn’t of the same sort; he is tall, well dressed, dignified, and exceedingly polite—a remarkable man I should say, one way or another.”

  “Well,” replied the President, “tell the man to call again; impossible to see him this evening. Better tell him to call about two weeks later on. They often forset by that time to come at all.”

  The President leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful.

  His day’s work was done, his mind was free for the morrow; but he sometimes wondered whether his lightning dispatch hi business could keep pace with his ever widening schemes. Coming just at this particular hour, after a day of unusual mental activity, this crazy idea of a perpetual lamp, with all its grotesque possibilities, loomed up before him.

  He was oppressed by the fact that he mid not quite dismiss it from his mind. He felt an irritable suspicion that his nerves were getting out of order. It was, therefore, with no very good humour that he saw the clerk returning, as if with a second message. He looked sharply at the young man, who, he saw, carried in his hands a small black casket about five inches square.

  “What’s that thing?” he asked harshly. “I don’t want to see it. Take it up to Waxham—he’s always experimenting with diabolical machines—and let him tell me what it is.”

  The clerk turned to do as he was directed.

  “Hold on!” was the second order, given briskly, and showing that the big man was coming into command of himself again, for no one had ever called him a coward. “Put that box down on my desk, and ask Waxham to come here, and my secretary, too.”

  He leaned over and looked at the little black casket.

  It was exquisitely made of wood, inlaid with pearl, but showed some signs of having been used and handled.

  The President drew it towards him very gingerly, and put his ear down to listen. There was no sound of clockwork, or other moving mechanism. A simple little silver hasp, staple, and pin kept the lid closed.

  In a moment, Waxham, the secretary, and the clerk came up to his desk.

  The President gave the inventor’s card to his righthand men and pointed to the box. “This is the very latest.” was his sarcastic comment.

  “Perpetual motion isn’t in it,” said Waxham, the Company’s Expert; “if it were, we’d hear a noise.”

  “May be full of acids and thunderite,” said the secretary; “the noise may come when the acids eat up the thunderite.”

  “Now what did H. Morehurst, Inventor of the Pertual Lamp, say about his box?” asked the President of the clerk.

  “He said: ‘If you would open the box you would see the lamp.’ ” was the answer.

  “The inventor is downstairs; I would propose to invite him up,” said Waxham.

  “Very good,” replied the President; “four brave men ought to be able to face one idiot.”

  IN A MINUTE the clerk returned with H. Morehurst.

  That he was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and in full possession of his rightful faculties, no one could have questioned for a moment.

  The chief and his lieutenants were entirely unprepared for this apparition of a cultivated man, vigorous, easy in manners, with clear gray eyes shining finely under a compact and decidedly inventive forehead.

  Mr. Morehurst caught the situation in an instant. He laughed with perfect good humor.

  “This isn’t any bomb business, gentlemen,” he said; “it is all straight, innocent, and to the point. The construction of the lamp, the materials used, and how you may make another one like it will be fully explained by the inventor—for a consideration,” he added abruptly, and with businesslike candor.

  The President and Mr. Waxham looked at one another in stupefied wonder.

  The former was the first to recover.

  “Mr. Morehurst,” he said, “how did a man of your evident intelligence ever come to apply such a foolish designation to any mortal invention as perpetual?”

  “Because,” replied Mr. Morehurst with perfect composure, “it is exactly the term to apply to my lamp; for, unless broken by accident or otherwise, it will continue to shine for a thousand years, or, to speak more accurately, will shine perpetually.”

  “How long has it been burning without interruption?” asked the President sharply.

  “For three years,” answered the inventor, “although ‘burning’ is not quite the word to use, for that would imply consumption, and my lamp consumes nothing, neither gas, nor oil, nor spirits; nor is it electrical. To speak correctly, I should say that my lamp has been shining since I made it three years ago.”

  “And is it shining now under that cover, without heat?” inquired the Master of the Octopus.

  “Certainly,” said the inventor.

  The President shook himself and rubbed his hands. “I would like to see your lamp,” said he; “all this seems incredible.”

  “If you will allow me to turn out the light above your desk, I will show it to you with pleasure,” Mr. Morehurst answered.

  The inventor bent over his lamp, removed the little silver pin, and threw open the lid.

  Contrary to all known rules or principles, the perpetual lamp filled the room with light—clear, silvery light, charming to the eyes.

  The Master, the Expert, and Haler, the private secretary—men who thought they knew everything about the science of lighting—were all equally amazed.

  They stood up, and pressing closely about the desk, examined the lamp minutely. It seemed (like all wonderful inventions) to be a very simple affair.

  The casket was of ebony, with a deep lid, and to the solid bottom of the box was securely fastened a beautiful drum of silver, capped by a dome of crystal glass. Inside the dome was a bulb, also of glass, and firmly attached to the crown of the silver drum; and in this bulb, hermetically sealed, a radiant vapor, emitting a flood of light.

  The experts looked and wondered, and were silent. But the Master rubbed his hands with positive pleasure. All the latent resources of his mind became alert and active, and while Waxham was still in the fog of wonder, he was mapping out and planning the conquest of the industrial and commercial world. At length, almost unwillingly, he turned his eyes from the Perpetual Lamp, and looked with sparkling interest at its inventor.

  “This is very good, very good indeed, Mr. Morehurst,” said he; “and is your invention covered by patents?”

  “Not yet,” the inventor answered; “it is simply a secret, known only to myself.”

  “And what method can you take to satisfy me that this light is perpetual?”

  “I will leave it in your hands until you are fully convinced.”

  “Very well, that will be satisfactory,” assented the President.

  “I will call for it after a time,” said the inventor, with careless in difference, rising to take his departure. “But let me warn you first that this is the only model I have, and, therefore, great care should be taken that it may not get broken. And let me add,” he continued, “that there is nothing in that drum to generate the vapor. If the drum or glass should break, the vapor would escape, and that would end the exhibition of light.”

  “Have you no more definite address to give than that on your card?” asked the Master of the Octopus. “New York is a big place, you know.”

  “It is not necessary; I will surely come for my pet;” and, with a polite good evening to all in the office, the man who had stolen the sun’s light passed quietly down the stars.

  The great establishment was closed as usual for the night; and yet for several hours thereafter the chief and his aids continued to discuss the wonders of the Perpetual Lamp.

  Eventually the President directed that a compartment should be cleared in his huge fireproof safe for the special reception of the lamp.

  The others observed that he set the combination for the lock himself, instead of leaving it to Haler, as w
as usually the case.

  The fact was significant of the value he placed upon the discovery, for he always left the enormous secrets of the safe in Haler’s charge; however, he was perfectly frank about the matter. He wrote the combination on a slip of paper, and then told Haler to make note that he had placed the slip in one. of the pockets of his memorandum book for personal safe keeping.

  He did this, he said, because he thought the precaution was justly due to the inventor of the lamp.

  The time to go had come, and the chief paused for a moment while he looked around him upon the expectant faces of his assistants. They knew that on an occasion like this it was often his habit to do them some unusual favor, perhaps to bind them more securely to his purposes.

  “Haler,” he said, “tell the cashier tomorrow morning to increase you salary and Waxham’s and Masters’ by ten percent;” and then, with a hearty goodnight, he hurried down to the coupe, which had been waiting for him, and was driven home in an unusually exalted frame of mind.

  ON THE following day, with his office door closed and locked, and Haler and Waxham at his elbow, the President looked once more at the shining bulb, and marvelled over the simplicity of the invention.

  He saw clearly enough that the constructive cost was small, and that the selling price, even at an enormous percentage of profit would still make it the most economical light in the world. He had wrestled with the giants—the gas companies, the electrical concerns, the oil magnates—but, with this thing assured, how could their battalions face his fire?

  The perpetual lamp in private houses, public buildings, cars, steamships, streets, municipalities, would make all the great lighting companies stagger and fall. He gloried in his chances, and gloated over the little lamp, which was to make his fame even more widespread.

  In a few days, somehow, the news, more or less vague, got abroad. The stock of the Consolidated Lighting Company of America rose in the market at a fabulous rate. There were bidders by the thousand, and no sellers. The gas companies, the electrical concerns, and oil magnates, all heard rumors of impending doom.