Hypnotism according to some psychologists, is an established science and capable of far-reaching effects. We do not know, for the truth of these assertions has certainly not been proved. For those who are seriously interested in this branch, our new author offers a tale of unusual interest.
I Doctor Michael Claybridge, living in the year 1926, have listened to a description of the end of the world from the lips of the man who witnessed it; the last man of the human race. That this is possible, or that I am not insane, I cannot ask you to believe: I can only offer you the facts.
For a long time my friend, Prof. Mortimer, had been experimenting with what he termed his theory of mental time; but I had known nothing of the nature of this theory until one day, in response to his request, I visited him at his laboratory. I found him bending over a young medical student, whom he had put into a state of hypnotic trance.
“A test of my theory, Gaybridge,” he whispered excitedly as I entered. “A moment ago I suggested to Bennet that this was the date of the battle of Waterloo. For him, it accordingly became so; for he described for me—and in French, mind you—a part of the battle at which he was present!”
“Present!” I exclaimed. “You mean that he is a reincarnation of—?”
“No, no,” he interrupted impatiently. “You forget —or rather, you do not know—that time is a circle, all of whose parts are coexistent. By hypnotic suggestion, I moved his materiality line until it became tangent with the Waterloo segment of the circle. Whether in physical time the two have ever touched before, is of little matter.”
Of course I understood nothing of this; but before I could ask for an explanation, he had turned back to his patient.
“Attila, the Hun, is sweeping down upon Rome with his hordes,” he said. “You are with them. Tell me what you see.”
For a moment, nothing happened; then before our very eyes, the young man’s features seemed to undergo a change. His nose grew beak-shaped, while his forehead acquired a backward slant. His pale face became ruddy, and his eyes changed from brown to grey-green. Suddenly he flung out his arms; and there burst from his lips a torrent of sounds of which Mortimer and I could make nothing except that they bore a strong resemblance to the old Teutonic languages.
Mortimer let this continue for a moment or so before he recalled the boy from his trance. To my surprise,
young Bennet was, upon awakening, quite his usual self without any trace of Hun feature. He spoke, however, of a feeling of weariness.
“Now,” I said when Mortimer and I were alone, “would you mind telling me what it is all about ?”
He smiled. “Time,” he began, “is of two kinds; mental and physical. Of these, mental is the real; physical the unreal; or, we might say, the instrument used to measure the real. And its measurement is gauged by intensity, not length.”
“You mean—?” I asked, not sure that I followed him correctly.
“That real time is measured by the intensity with which we live it,” he answered. “Thus a minute of mental time may, by the standards devised by man, be three hours deep, because we have lived it intensely; while an eon of mental time may embrace but half a day physically for reverse reasons.”
“ ‘A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night/ ” I murmured.
“Exactly,” he said, “except that in mental time there is neither past nor future, but only a continuous present. Mental time, as I remarked a while ago, is an infinite circle with materiality a line running tangent to it. The point of tangency interprets it to the physical senses, and so creates what we call physical time. Since a line can be tangent to a circle at only one point, our physical existence is single. If it were possible, as some day it may be, to make the line bisect the circle, we shall lead two existences simultaneously.
“I have proven, as you saw in the case of Bennet just now, that the point of tangency between the time circle and the materiality line can be changed by hypnotic suggestion. An entirely satisfactory experiment, you must admit; and yet,” he became suddenly dejected, “as far as the world is concerned, it proves absolutely nothing.” “Why not ?” I asked. “Couldn't others witness such a demonstration as well as I ?”
“And deem it a very nice proof of reincarnation,” he shrugged. “No, Claybridge, it won't do. There is but one proof the world would consider; the transfer of a man's consciousness to the future.”
“Cannot that be done?” I queried.
“Yes,” he said. “But there is connected with it an element of danger. Mental status has a strong effect upon the physical being, as was witnessed by Bennet’s reversion to the Hun type. Had I kept him in the hypnotic state for too long a period, the Teutonic cast of features would not have vanished with his awakening. What changes a projection into the future would bring, I cannot say; and for that reason he is naturally unwilling that I experiment upon him in that direction.” He strode up and down the floor of his laboratory as he talked. His head was slumped forward upon his breast, as if heavy with the weight of thought.
‘Then satisfactory proof is impossible ?” I asked. “You can never hope to convince the world ?”
He stopped with a suddenness that was startling, and his head went up with a jerk. “No!” he cried. “I have not given up! I must have a subject for my experiments, and I shall proceed to find one.”
This determined statement did not particularly impress me at the time, nor, for that matter, did the time-theory itself. Both were recalled to me a week or so later, when, in answer to his summons, I again visited Mortimer at the laboratory, and he thrust a newspaper into my hands, pointing to an item among the want ads.
“Wanted—” I read, “A subject for hypnotic experiment. $5,000 for the right man. Apply Pro. Alex Mortimer, Mortimer Laboratories, City.”
“Surely,” I exclaimed, “you do not expect to receive an answer to that?”
“On the contrary,” he smiled, “I have received no less than a dozen answers. From them I chose the one who is most likely to prove the best subject. He will be here in a few minutes to sign the documents absolving me from any responsibility in case of accident. That is why I sent for you.”
I could only stare at him.
“Of course,” he went on, “I explained to him that there would be a degree of personal risk involved, but he appeared not to care. On the contrary, he seemed almost to welcome it. He—”
A knock at the door interrupted him. In response to his call, one of his assistants looked in.
“Mr. Williams is here, Professor.”
“Send him in, Gable.” As the assistant disappeared, Mortimer turned back to me. “My prospective subject,” he explained. “He is prompt.”
A thin, rather undersized man entered the room. My attention was at once drawn to his eyes, which seemed too large for his face.
“Mr. Williams, my friend, Dr. Claybridge,” Mortimer introduced us. “The doctor is going to witness these articles we have to sign.”
Williams acknowledged the introduction in a voice that sounded infinitely tired.
“Here are the papers,” Mortimer said, pushing a few sheets of paper across the table toward him.
Williams merely glanced at them, and picked up a pen. “Just a minute,” Mortimer rang for Gable. The assistant and I witnessed the signature, and affixed our names below it.
“I am ready to begin immediately, if you like,” Williams said when Gable had gone.
Mortimer eyed him reflectively for a moment. “First,” he said, “there is a question I should like to ask you, Mr. Williams. You need not answer if you feel disinclined. Why are you so eager to undergo an experiment, the outcome of which even I cannot foresee?”
“If I answer that, will my answer be treated as strictly confidential ?” asked Williams, casting a sidelong glance in my direction.
“Most certainly,” Mortimer replied. “I speak for both myself and Dr. Claybridge.” I nodded affirmation.
“Then,” sa
id Williams, “I will tell you. I welcome this experiment because, as you pointed out yesterday, there is a possibility of its resulting in my death. No, you did not say so in so many words, Prof. Mortimer, but that is the fear at the back of your mind. And why should I wish to die ? Because, gentlemen, I have committed murder.”
“What!” We barked out the word together.
Williams smiled wanly at our amazement. “That is rather an unusual statement; isn’t it?” he asked in his tired voice. “Whom I murdered does not matter. The police will never find me out, for I was clever about it in order that my sister, to whom your $5,000, Professor, is to be paid, need not suffer from the humiliation ofmy arrest. But although I can escape the authorities, I cannot escape my own conscience. The knowledge that I have deliberately killed a man, even while he merited death, is becoming too much for me; and since my religion forbids suicide, I have turned to you as a possible way out. I think that is all.”
We stared at him in silence. What Mortimer was thinking, I do not know. Most likely he was pondering upon the strange pyschology of human conduct. As for me, I could not help wondering in what awful, perhaps pitiable tragedy this little man had been an actor.
Mortimer was the first to speak. When he did so, it was with no reference to what we had just heard. “Since you are ready, Mr. Williams, we will proceed with our initial experiment at once,” he said. “I have arranged a special room for it, where there will be no other thought waves nor suggestions to disturb you.” He rose, and was apparently about to lead the way to this room when the telephone rang.
“Hello,” he called into the transmitter. “Dr. Claybridge? Yes, he is here. Just a minute.” He pushed the instrument towards me.
My hospital was on the wire. After taking the message, I hung up in disgust. “An acute case of appendicitis,” I announced. “Of course I’m sorry for the poor devil, but he certainly chose an inopportune time for his attack.”
“I will phone you all about the experiment,” Mortimer promised as I reached for my hat. “Perhaps you can be present at the next one.”
True to his promise, he rang me up that evening. “I have had wonderful success!” he cried exultantly. “So far, I have experimented only in a small way, but at that my theory has been proven beyond the possibility of doubt. And there was one most interesting feature, Claybridge. Williams told me what would be the nature of my experiment tomorrow afternoon.” “And what will it be?” I asked.
“I am to make his material consciousness tangent with the end of the world,” was the astonishing answer.
“Good heavens!” I cried in spite of myself. “Shall you do it?”
“I have no choice in the matter,” he replied. “Mortimer, you fatalist! You—”
“No, no,” he protested. “It is not fatalism. Can’t you understand that—”
But I interrupted him. “May I be present ?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “You will be there. Williams saw you.”
I had a good mind to deliberately not be there, just to put a kink in his precious theory; but my curiosity was too great, and at the appointed time, I was on hand.
“I have already put Williams to sleep,” Mortimer said as I came in. “He is in my especially prepared room. Come and I will show him to you.”
He led me down a long hall to a door which, I knew had originally given upon a storeroom. Inserting a key in the lock, he turned it, and flung the door open.
In the room beyond, I could see Williams seated in a swivel chair. His eyes were closed and his body relaxed, as in sleep. However, it was not he that awakened my interest, but the room itself. It was windowless, with only a skylight in the ceiling to admit light and air. Aside from the chair in which Williams sat, there was no furniture save an instrument resembling an immense telephone transmitter that a crane arm held about two inches from the hypnotized man’s mouth, and a set of ear phones, such as a telephone operator wears, which were attached to his ears. But strangest of all, the walls, floors, and ceiling of the room were lined with a whitish metal.
“White lead,” said Mortimer, seeing my eyes upon it; “the substance least conductive of thought waves. I want the subject to be as free as possible from outside thought influences, so that when he talks with me over that telephonic device, which is connected with my laboratory, there can be no danger of his telling me any but his own experiences.”
“But the skylight,” I pointed out. “It is partially open.”
“True,” he admitted. “But thought waves, like sound waves, travel upwards and outwards; rarely, if ever, downwards. So, you see, there is little danger from the skylight.”
He closed and locked the door, and we went back to the laboratory. In one corner was what looked like a radio loud speaker, while near it was a transmitter similar to the one in the room with Williams.
“I shall speak to Williams through the transmitter,” explained Mortimer, “and he shall hear me by means of the ear phones. When he answers into his transmitter, we will hear him through the loud speaker.”
He seated himself before the apparatus and spoke: “Williams, do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” The reply came promptly, but in the heavy tones of a man talking in his sleep.
“Listen to me. You are living in the last six days of the earth. By Mays/ I do not mean periods of twenty-four hours, but such lengths of time as are meant in the first chapter of the book of Genesis. It is now the first day of the six. Tell me what you see.”
After a short interval, the answer came in a strange, high key. While the words were English, they were spoken with a curious intonation that was at first difficult to understand.
“This is the year 46,812,” said the voice, “or, in modern time, 43,930 A. I. C. After Interplanetary Communication. It is not well upon the earth. The Polar Ice Cap comes down almost to Newfoundland. Summer lasts but a few weeks, and then its heat is scorching. What in early time was known as the Atlantic Coastal Plain has long ago sunken into the sea. High dykes must be used to keep the water from covering the island of Manhattan, where the world’s government is located. A great war has just been concluded. There are many dead to bury.”
“You speak of interplanetary communication,” said Mortimer. “Is the world, then, in communication with the planets ?”
“In the year 2,952,” came the answer, “the earth succeeded in getting into communication with Mars. Radio pictures were sent back and forth between the two worlds until they learned each other’s languages; then sound communication was established. The Martians had been trying to signal the earth since the beginning of the twentieth century, but were unable to set up a system of communication because of the insufficient scientific advancement of the Earthmen.
“About a thousand years later, a message was received from Venus, which had now advanced to the earth’s state of civilization, when Mars was signalled. For nearly five hundred years they had been receiving messages from both the earth and Mars, but had been unable to answer.
“A little over five thousand years later, a series of sounds was received which seemed to come from somewhere beyond Venus. Venus and Mars heard them too; but, like us, were able to make nothing of them. All three worlds broadcasted their radio pictures on the wave length corresponding to that of the mysterious sounds, but received no answer. At last Venus advanced the theory that the sounds had come from Mercury, whose inhabitants, obliged to live upon the side of their world farther from the sun, would be either entirely without sight or with eyes not sufficiently developed to see our pictures.
“Recently something dire has happened to Mars. Our last messages from her told of terrible wars and pestilences, such as we are now having upon earth. Also, her water supply was beginning to give out, due to the fact that she was obliged to use much of it in the manufacture of atmosphere. Suddenly, about fifty years ago, all messages from her ceased; and upon signalling her, we received no answer.”
Mortimer covered the transmitter with his hand
. “That,” he said to me, “can mean only that intelligent life upon Mars had become extinct. The earth, then, can have but a few thousand years yet to go.”
For nearly an hour longer he quizzed Williams upon conditions of the year 46,812. All the answers showed that while scientific knowledge had reached an almost incredulous stage of advancement, the race of mankind was in its twilight. Wars had killed off thousands of people, while strange, new diseases found hosts of victims daily in a race whose members were no longer physically constituted to withstand them. Worst of all, the birth rate was rapidly diminishing.
“Listen to me.” Mortimer raised his voice as if to impress his invisible subject with what he was about to say. “You are now living in the second day. Tell me what you see.”
There was a moment or so of silence; then the voice, keyed even higher than before, spoke again.
“I see humanity in its death-throes,” it said. “Only a few scattered tribes remain to roam over the deserted continents. The cattle have begun to sicken and die; and it is unsafe to use them for food. Four thousand
years ago, we took to the manufacture of artificial air, as did the Martians before us. But it is hardly worth while, for children are no longer born. We shall be the last of our race.”
“Have you received no recent word from Mars?” asked Mortimer.
“None. Two years ago, at her proper season, Mars failed to appear in the heavens. As to what has become of her, we can only conjecture.”
There was a horrible suggestiveness about this statement. I shuddered, and noticed that Mortimer did, also.
“The Polar Ice Cap has begun to retreat,” resumed the voice. “Now it is winters that are short. Tropical plants have begun to appear in the temperate zones. The lower forms of animal life are becoming more numerous, and have begun to pursue man as man once pursued them. The days of the human race are definitely numbered. We are a band of strangers upon our own world.”
“Listen to me,” said Mortimer again. “It is now the third day. Describe it.”
The End of the World Page 11