The Mad Scientist Megapack
Page 59
It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice; and yet even to these, habit brought—no, not alleviation—but a certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have gone on for years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face and nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed since the date of the first experiment, began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply and mixed the draught; the ebullition followed, and the first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had London ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy to the draught.
About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed the doom that is closing on us both has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and forever reindue that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most strained and fearstruck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.
THE MAN WHO STOPPED THE EARTH, by Henry J. Kostkos
Solemnly the three grey-bearded old men filed through the door into the dim interior of the laboratory. The grim lines on their faces did not relax as they gathered around the amazing combination of coils, wires, motors, tanks and tubes that filled the large room in studied disorder. The bluish glow from a mercury vapor lamp illuminated the meter dials on the dull black switchboard and cast a weird tint over the wrinkled faces of the three scientists. A musty odor, that might have come from a newly opened tomb, hung like a blanket of death over the scene.
As his stooped frame bent low over the galvanometer of the electron gun Markrum said: “There is much danger, Rizzurt, in performing the Great Experiment.”
The man he addressed pushed his long hawklike features close to Markrum’s face. His eyes were alive with a thousand pinpoints of fire and his sallow skin reddened into an angry flush.
“Did I not tell you that not a single inhabitant of the Earth will be harmed? Must I repeat the test over and over again to convince you? Wirrtel has no childish doubts, why should you have any?” Wirrtel looked sidelong at Markrum, his white beard sweeping across his chest.
“Rizzurt is right. I have no doubts. But to convince yourself, make your own tests.”
Markrum dropped his head in resignation. With a heavy heart he started the small high-tension generators which lit up the tubes of the atom isolagraph. There was a silvery tinkle of broken glass as his nervous old hand knocked over a small flask, then taking a grip on himself he dexterously made a series of adjustments.
Then he straightened up and shuffled towards the control board, the nails in his shoes scraping audibly over the titles of the laboratory floor. Rapidly he threw a switch in and out and swiftly read the oscillating needle on the galvanometer dial. Each reading he entered in a scrawly hand on a pad of paper, while his two colleagues watched with glaring impatience.
Finally Markrum was satisfied. He sat down at a bench, and lost himself in intricate calculations. The two waited but said nothing. Then Markrum glanced up; his voice was harshly discordant:
“I have repeated your experiment, Rizzurt. Much of your wave atomic theory I am in perfect agreement with. But there is a serious error in your atom equation. The complex quantity psi that you interpret as...”
“Enough of your insults, Markrum. How dare you make me out as an incompetent dabbler? I am the great scientist Kirkland Rizzurt; take care how you speak to me,” he bellowed, his beard bristling as he thrust his chin pugnaciously towards the other. Then with a toss of his head he added defiantly. “The Great Experiment will take place at once! I have locked the door; you cannot get out.” Rizzurt stood upright under the mercury vapor lamp, his face sinister with a fanatic light. Then like one pronouncing a sentence of doom he shouted above the banging of the shutter as the night wind outside whistled under the eaves of the frame building. A flash of lightning foretold the coming of a storm and distant thunder rumbled menacingly above the tearing of the wind.
“There must be no further delay. The time for the Great Experiment has come. I WILL NOW STOP THE EARTH!”
Markrum’s rheumatic old frame shivered as if he were cold. Wirrtel tightened his grasp on the edge of the laboratory table; beyond this he showed no emotion. But Rizzurt had been transformed into a creature of eyes, great fiery red, flaming, fanatic orbs; they became quizzical, inquiring, more rational, then pleading, as the man lowered himself heavily to a stool, more like a tired old man, weary of the world, burned out, unhappy...
“Ah, Markrum, Markrum, if you would only understand. Here in our hands we have the means of doing a wonderful thing. Our Earth moves in a complex path; it rotates, travels in its orbit around the sun, the sun carries us through the galactic system, the galactic system speeds us amid the spiral nebulae... How fast are we going, what is our destination, what is gravity, can we exist outside of the orbit of the sun? These questions—think, man, just think—these problems, these unknowns, we can now answer.”
By this time the storm outside raged with fury. The laboratory was lit up brilliantly by flashes of lightning. The three old men instinctively drew closer together.
Then Markrum said quietly with resignation, “You are right, Rizzurt. We are old men. All our lives we have labored with you to find the answer. And we grow older; see how my hand shakes as those minute cells of muscle and nerves become feeble, and are soon to die. We are not long for this world. Now I also say that the Great Experiment must be performed!”
He sat down heavily. The other two nodded their heads silently, sympathetically. With a quick practiced hand, Rizzurt pushed some buttons. In the distance the solenoid-operated remote-control switches responded. Then the great generators below began to hum ponderously. Another series of switches operated and the row of giant tubes glowed fiery red. Rizzurt drew a test arc fifty feet long, and the air was filled with the pungent odor of ozone.
Wirrtel scrutinized the meters through his silver rimmed spectacles.
“The voltage is constant, Rizzurt, and the tubes are all behaving beautifully. Now—any time—you can apply the Atomic Brake,” he informed his chief.
“Good. The instruments that will measure our speed and direction of motion are ready. They will register as soon as I throw this switch, which will indicate that in this universe of billions of stars and planets, that tiny speck we call the Earth, has stopped in its mad flight to nowhere and is content to view the aimless motions of the others,” Rizzurt said philosophically.
Now, as if the elements had of a sudden become aware of these mites of men who were bold enough to tamper with the secrets of the universe, the crashing of thunder died away in a sullen rumble. The wind became soft and whining. The black thunder clouds passed swiftly across the face of t
he piteous white moon.
Markrum moved to the window and looked out. The clash of the last switch did not disturb him as he gazed out over a landscape now made luminous by the light of the moon. He could hear Rizzurt’s labored breathing as the man bent low over his instruments.
Then without warning the orb of the moon streaked like a flash across the sky! Markrum gave a low cry and clutched his head; he was dizzy. But when he turned suddenly towards his companions he felt eased, his head did not bother him nor did his eyes. He looked outside again.
The moon was gone! And in the sky thousands of points of light had become streaks of fire!
“We have done it! We have done it! The movement of the Earth is ceasing! All the stars and planets of the universe are rushing madly by. See, here on this dial.” Rizzurt’s voice was hoarse and the words came from his mouth, as if after great effort.
With a cry Markrum slumped to the floor. He had seen! That which he had feared had come true. The solid walls of the laboratory were crumbling into fine dust! The metal column against which his head was resting had become soft and yielding. And with horror he realized that the very flesh of his hands was wasting away, even as he gazed at them with slowly dimming eyes. He tried to see his companions; though they were but a few feet distant they were beyond the range of his vision.
“Rizzurt, Wirrtel,” he called in a hoarse whisper for his throat was dry and it was agony to speak. Yet he knew that it was too late.
As if from far off came the faint answer. Was it Rizzurt’s voice, or was it the voice of his own soul? He would never know. But he heard it, and with calm satisfaction he listened, listened as the roof of the laboratory crumbled and crashed down upon him, as the very floor under him became powder, as the Earth itself trembled violently and slowly crumbled into dust.
“Markrum. Markrum, you were right! Did you not warn me that the atom obeyed but one law? That the atoms and the electrons are kept within their orbits by electromagnetic force that is generated only when all matter, everything in the universe, is hurling through the magnetic field of space at incredible speeds. What happens when you stop turning an electric generator? The magnetic forces cease and there is no current generated. It is thus likewise with the Earth.
“You have truly evolved a stupendous theory. And I have unwittingly proved it for you, though there be none left to profit by it.”
Then as Markrum’s old body shriveled until nothing but the eyes seemed to be alive, those eyes flashed out for the last time over the world that had ceased to be. Those eyes had looked upon the breaking down of matter into its molecules, then the molecules became atoms, and as the chemicals of his flesh and bone united with the soft plastic substance that was once the Earth and the fullness thereof, these atoms broke into their constituent protons and electrons and then like a puff of smoke under the open sky, these charges, too, ceased to be.
Where the planet Earth was but a few minutes before, now there was nothing but void.
* * * *
Far out in interstellar space, beyond the galaxy of stars that included the solar system, an observer might have witnessed a strange and inexplicable phenomenon. Not that the complete annihilation of such a minute speck as the Earth would have been noticeable at such a great distance, but a star, the Sun, changed its position in the constellation of which it was a part and assumed a new location, while its solar system unbalanced by the loss of a planet, sought erratically to heal its wound. For the cosmic systems must balance.
SYMPATHY FOR MAD SCIENTISTS, by John Gregory Betancourt
Dear Dr. Schmidt:
It is with great pleasure that I received your invitation to address the Hammelberg Conference. That you deem my research of interest gives me great encouragement. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I shall be happy to attend.
Yours in science,
Baron Victor Frankenstein.
* * * *
Dear Dr. Schmidt:
The train tickets have arrived. I am, however, forced to return one set to you. My assistant, Igor, has suffered an unfortunate accident. Until the pitchfork-punctures and torch-burns are healed, I have forbidden him to travel.
I anticipate no change in my own schedule, however. Indeed, I find myself keenly anticipating the company of open-minded scientists such as yourself. Here, in the lowlands, one is forced to suffer the boorish pranks and pryings of those who would suppress the sciences.
I remain,
Your humble & obedient servant,
Victor
* * * *
Dear Heinrich:
Pardon my boldness in addressing you by your Christian name, but I feel that I have grown to know you through our correspondence as a friend—as a brother. Your letters offer such support that, at times, I feel they are all that keeps me going.
My assistant, Igor, remains quite ill. I plan to operate on him tonight; perhaps some small part can be saved. Do not worry; nothing will prevent me from attending your conference!
Yours in science,
Victor
* * * *
Dear Heinrich:
Thank you for asking about poor Igor. Alas, despite my best efforts, all I managed to save was his brain. He will be accompanying me after all, but in freight, as one of the displays for my lecture. (Although a crippled hunchback, he had a good mind. I find his disposition much improved now that he no longer suffers the constant physical agony his old body caused.)
You will understand fully when I unveil my exhibits.
Yours,
Victor
* * * *
Dear Heinrich:
Pay no attention to rumors spread by rabble such as Dr. Andersen. Although he was my professor some years ago, I have long outstripped his teachings. Rather than blackening the good name of Frankenstein, he should look to me for leadership and guidance. I would not scorn him, despite how he persists in treating me. If I have learned one thing from my research here, it is that the quest for knowledge must never be blocked. I am sure you agree.
There are peasants at the castle gates again. I have prepared a cauldron of a particularly noxious-smelling liquid to pour on them from the ramparts. I have had enough of them, and so has Igor!
If only Andersen could be dealt with so easily. I note from the programme you enclosed that I am scheduled to follow his paper on brain chemistry. Thank you for that favor, my friend. I shall show him up for the fool he is.
Yours in science,
Victor
* * * *
Heinrich:
I am bewildered. How can you revoke my invitation to speak at the Conference? The programme has been printed! Can Dr. Andersen be the cause? Has he spread such vile lies about me that you fear to invite me lest I be assaulted? I can assure you that Igor makes a fine bodyguard. He is somewhat over seven feet tall, with the strength of any ten men. That is the extent of my genius. You will understand when you see him.
Andersen is such a small man.
Still, I return my train ticket herewith, as requested.
I hear the peasants again. Pray that my wrath does not extend beyond them to your Conference and its attendees.
Yours,
Baron Victor Frankenstein
* * * *
Dear Heinrich:
It seems Igor overheard me reading my last letter to you aloud, and he has run off. His disappointment at not being able to visit your noble city—how eloquently I spoke of its gardens and architecture!—knew no bounds.
Another feather in the cap of Dr. Andersen. Had I wished to attend your conference now, I would not be able to—my chief exhibit has fled.
Yours,
Victor
* * * *
Dear Heinrich:
I was saddened to hear of the death of Dr. Andersen. A beast tore him apart? How odd! I cannot imagine how such a thing could ha
ppen in this day and age. However, I am pleased to accept your apology. I will attend the conference.
More good news: Igor has returned. Perhaps he just needed some time alone.
I look forward to finally meeting you.
Yours,
Victor
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JOHN GREGORY BETANCOURT, Wildside Press’s publisher, used to write science fiction in his misspent youth. (These days, when he can be enticed to write at all, it’s usually a mystery short story. He has a series running in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine featuring Peter “Pit Bull” Geller, an amateur detective.)
HUGH BARNETT CAVE (1910–2004) was a prolific writer of pulp fiction who also excelled in other genres. He authored more than a thousand short stories over his long and prolific career.
THEODORE R. COGSWELL, (1918–1987), was an American science fiction author. His first published short story, “The Spectre General” in the magazine Astounding (June 1952), was a humorous tale in which a long-forgotten maintenance brigade of the Imperial Space Marines holds the promise of reinvigorating a declining Galactic empire. Cogswell wrote nearly 40 science fiction stories, most in the same lighthearted vein as his first, and was co-author of a novel in the Star Trek franchise.