A Case for Brutus Lloyd

by John Russell Fearn

  Ralph did not catch the answer, but he got to his feet and entered the living room suddenly. He sensed the sudden expectancy his arrival created.

  “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I think there is something you should know. I can see.” He took off his dark glasses. “I see, but I do not see you! I do not even see New York. No, I see another world, another city, another race of people. At this very moment I am looking down the main street.”

  Still there was silence.

  “Well, have you nothing to say?” Ralph demanded. “Aren’t you even going to try and find out what is wrong? I suppose I should have told you this sooner, but I was waiting for you to tell me. Only you didn’t! If you can’t find out the truth, then let me get a man who will. There’s Dr. Brutus Lloyd, for instance. He was with me at college once—”

  “I hardly think we need to consider the so-called merits of Dr. Lloyd at this moment,” broke in Flint’s curt voice. Then in a more conciliatory tone he went on, “We are well able to take care of you, Mr. Marshall. If you will accompany us back to the hospital where we have all the instruments we will see what we can do.”

  “It’s obviously an optical defect,” Ralph said, as he put back his glasses and was helped into his coat. “You know—embracing an angle in space which we cannot see under normal conditions. These other people do exist, and their city is much improved on ours.”

  “Of course—of course.” Dr. Flint sounded as though he was humouring a lunatic.

  Ralph was full of inner doubts as he was driven through the streets. Dimly through his dark glasses he could see apparent buildings whirling towards him, through which the car passed like vapour. The whole mad other-plane was careening round in dizzying circles. He felt himself sway a little when he finally alighted from the car. He was taken up in an elevator and seemed to rise up the face of a building. He became stationary halfway up and fell into a chair. Once his glasses were removed, he found himself gazing over a futuristic square with waving trees lining either side of it. Silent, as ever.

  Then Dr. Flint said, “Now for a few tests, Mr. Marshall.”

  This time the tests were not entirely confined to the eyes. For an hour or more Ralph found himself taken from chair to chair, felt unseen instruments at work upon him, heard muttered consultations. Then at last Flint spoke out clearly.

  “Mr. Marshall, our tests reveal no change whatever in your eyes since the previous examination. Whatever you believe you see cannot be at all connected with your eyes. It is, to be perfectly frank, the outcome of brain pressure from your accident. Delusions, if you will. Once you asked for the truth—now you shall have it. So far as we can tell there is no chance of your eyes ever recovering sight. Further, the strange visions you speak of, together with the queer behavior noted by your friend Mr. Rutter, lead us to one definite conclusion....”

  “You mean you think I’m crazy?” Ralph snapped.

  “We believe,” Flint said, “that you would certainly be better under observation here until you lose your delusions. We can no doubt soon cure you. It is what your firm would wish.”

  “Now listen!” Ralph exclaimed earnestly. “You think I’m going insane. I tell you I’m as sane as you are, only my vision’s gone haywire. Didn’t it ever occur to any of you that a shock might cause the optic nerves to become hyper-sensitive or something?”

  “Are you an optician, Mr. Marshall?” Flint inquired coldly.

  “You know I’m not; but I have some scientific knowledge, and I know plenty of things can happen to a person after a shock. Take—take lightning, for instance. Haven’t you ever heard of people being able to see through solids after being struck by lightning? Is it not possible, then, that I—”

  “We don’t think so!” Flint broke in curtly. “We are dealing with facts, not fantasies. You require treatment and close supervision, examination by other specialists, in our psychopathic department.”

  “But look here—”

  “You may rest assured we are acting from the best interests,” Flint concluded implacably. Then aside, “Attend to it!”

  A door slammed.

  Ralph swore openly, started to struggle as strong hands took hold of him—obviously those of male nurses. Finally he gave up the battle as useless. His dark glasses were replaced on his nose and he was led out into the corridor. The next thing he knew he was in a room, alone.

  He knew after a while that it was well-furnished, comfortable enough—but his hands found bars on the windows and the door was securely locked. From rage his emotions changed to deep wonder. Flint must surely know he was not insane. Why, then, the captivity?

  II. DR. BRUTUS LLOYD

  Once he realized how ruthlessly the medicos had put Ralph Marshall into virtual imprisonment, Ed Rutter’s fury knew no bounds. He bitterly regretted ever having mentioned the matter.

  He ranted and raved at the callous Dr. Flint, and got nowhere. He tried to make the newspapers take it up, but editors were chary of it. As a last hope Ed recalled the name of Dr. Brutus Lloyd, and looked up his address and occupation from the directory. He was listed as a research chemist, but his degrees filled two small columns, and other remarks spoke of proficiency in the fields of optics, physics, medicine, and criminology.

  “In plain words, a dabbler,” Ed mused. “Might do worse, though.”

  So he tracked Dr. Lloyd down to his out-of-town house—a rather old-fashioned place in its own grounds, well free of the city bustle, yet connected with the metropolis by a wide main road.

  Inside, as a manservant took his card, Ed found evidences of unexpected opulence about the residence. His feet sank into rich carpet; the walls were lined with armoury, costly brasses, rare antiques. Clearly Brutus Lloyd was not short of cash by any means.

  The manservant came back noiselessly. “If you will step into the laboratory, Mr. Rutter?”

  Ed found himself conducted through a door at the end of the hall. He passed into one of the most completely equipped laboratories he had ever seen. The glass roof was fitted with slanted mirrors so that shadowless daylight was cast in every direction. For a while he stood looking round on beakers, retorts, electric engines, switchboards. Of Dr. LIoyd himself there seemed to be no sign—until suddenly a tiny figure came from behind a bench, wiping his hands down his smock.

  For a moment Ed stared in surprise. Lloyd was no more than four feet ten inches tall, an amazingly gnome-like man. He was not a dwarf or a freak, simply vest-pocket size. The most surprising thing about him was his head. It was squarish with a brow like a baby cliff, capped on top by a tuft of jet-black hair that permitted one lock to curl in a “J” down the immense forehead. The eyes were small and piercing, almost masked by black eyebrows and lashes. The face, though overbalanced by the brow, was powerful for all its smallness. Possibly Lloyd was forty; certainly no less.

  “I presume you came for a reason other than to gape, Mr. Rutter?”

  Brutus Lloyd’s voice was the biggest shock of all. It was deep bass.

  “I’m—I’m sorry, doctor,” Ed hastened to apologize. “I sort of expected to—”

  “To find a big man with a white beard dabbling in hellish alchemy?” Lloyd asked, with a babyish smile. “Well you didn’t, and I’m not.... What’s your trouble?”

  “I believe you’re a criminologist and scientist? Also connected with optics, physics, and medicine?”

  “Dolus versatur in generalibus,” Lloyd rumbled. “A snare lurks in generalities.... Just what concern is it of yours what I do? What are you—a reporter? If so—out!”

  “No—no, wait a minute. I want your help—from the criminal and optical side.”

  “Really?” Lloyd stroked his forelock for a moment. Then with his sharp little eyes narrowed a little he said slowly, “It will have to be something of surpassing interest to drag me from my research into subatomic cultures. What have you done, my friend? Robbed a bank?”

  Rather uncertain how to take the man Ed saíd quietly, “It’s not me at all. I’m wor
rying over one Ralph Marshall, a friend of mine. He’s in a hospital for supposed lunacy. He mentioned you just before they took him away. But actually he’s no more insane than you are.”

  “I am indebted for the compliment. Ralph Marshall, you say? Not ‘Stinker’ Marshall who nearly blew me up in the college lab, and who’s now working on the Atlantic Shaft?”

  “The same—only he isn’t working any more. This is serious, Dr. Lloyd, really it is....” Ed went on to relate the full details. Then he finished earnestly, “You’ve got influence. You’re an expert in optics, medicine, and all the rest. You know more than all those darned sawbones put together. And since you know a thing or two about crime too, you might be able to discover if there is a special reason, other than a medical one, for detaining Ralph.”

  “Frankly, Mr. Rutter, I am not a police officer. My stature is against it. As to Ralph, the situation is little short of preposterous!”

  “I thought a true scientist never called anything preposterous! I really believe Ralph can see a city or something that we can’t. I thought he had a neurosis at first. Now I know differently....”

  “Hm!” Lloyd flattened his “J” on his brow again. He stood thinking.

  “The firm will back up whatever measures you see fit to take,” Ed went on earnestly. “If you can prove to medical satisfaction that Ralph is perfectly sane, you will at least get him out of imprisonment. At least you should do so. If you can’t, then maybe you can find the right legal means. Ralph has got to be released. He’s a master engineer, and valuable.”

  “I suppose you are aware that despite my brilliant reputation, I am not at all in favour with the regular doctors, specialists, and patchers of human framework generally?” Lloyd asked calmly. “My methods are unorthodox. At times, surprisingly enough, I have been called mad. My chemical work, leading me to deal in Latin so much, has led me to call many a man worse than a fool in a language he does not understand.

  “I may, for instance, know optics inside out, but I am not a registered optician. However, the law entitles you to call in a specialist if you wish—and though not registered, I am certainly a specialist. For two reasons—A, my regard for old ‘Stinker’ Marshall, and—B, my desire to see a proper engineer finish the Atlantic Shaft, I will look into the business. Experto crede, my friend—trust one who has had experience.”

  “Quite,” Ed nodded, uncertainly.

  “I have another reason—C,” Lloyd went on in his rumbling voice. “If Ralph has somehow gotten his vision bent into another line of light waves, he can be of invaluable assistance to science generally through his revelations. I’ll see him.

  “First, however, I shall have to prepare. Instruments are needed to try a case like this, and I shall have to bring influence to bear to get permission to make the examination. I’ll advise you when I’m ready.”

  Ed caught the small hand and shook it warmly. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for—”

  “Then don’t waste my time and your own,” the little scientist replied briefly. “Good morning!”

  * * * * * * *

  It took a week, overcoming professional prejudice, for Brutus Lloyd to secure permission to examine. It was Ralph Marshall’s firm, urged by Ed, who finally ordered it, and against that Flint could do nothing. Ed accompanied the diminutive, Latin-spouting scientist to the hospital in his small but powerful car, and helped him to carry in a variety of instruments. There were moments when he felt inclined to smile at Lloyd’s Derby hat, long overcoat, and neatly rolled umbrella. He had a remarkable gift for carrying that umbrella on his arm and thereafter apparently forgetting its presence.

  Ralph Marshall was finally brought into the wide, light room singled out for the examination, and after a few words sat in the high-backed chair. Dr. Flint and the summoned specialists, some of them smiling tolerantly, sat in a half circle round the instruments. Only Flint looked impatient, his fingers drumming on his bony knees.

  Skipping round like a goblin in his overcoat, hat carefully laid on the surgical table, Lloyd first set up a curious object like a shimmering ball, connected to electrical devices on the tripod stand beneath it. It started to coruscate with startling radiance when the current was turned on. At times it filled the room with bewildering incandescence, then at others faded rapidly through the spectrum colours into invisibility. The spectators blinked. Flint stared hard.

  Lloyd said in his rumbling voice, “Did you see anything then, Ralph?”

  “At the moment, sir, I’m looking at some—some sort of ball,” Ralph answered slowly. “Solid-looking piece of work. It comes and goes.”

  “Hah!” Lloyd pressed a button with the ferrule of his umbrella. The ball seemed to vanish entirely, but Ralph became excited.

  “Now it’s quite distinct! It’s hovering over the city streets!”

  “Such rubbish!” Flint cried, leaping up. “Dr. Lloyd, this is sheer absurdity!”

  Lloyd surveyed him, eyelids drooping. “Ex nihilo nihil fit—from nothing nothing comes,” he observed. “And I haven’t finished yet, Flint. Sit down!”

  Flint slowly obeyed, his lips a tight line.

  “You and your tests!” the little scientist went on sourly; then he pushed his ball instrument to one side and proceeded to get to work with a needle-recording apparatus, shafts of crisscrossing light, and finally a prism device radiating all the colours of the rainbow.

  “What did you see, Ralph?” he asked finally, stroking his “J.”

  “I saw a ball, a prism, and something like a torch beam.”

  “That,” Lloyd said, “is exactly what I thought you’d see. You can relax for a moment. Now, gentlemen!” He spun round like a top and pointed his umbrella at the group in sudden accusation. “Gentlemen,” he rumbled, “I have pleasure in telling you that Ralph Marshall is not mad! On the contrary, he is as sane as you are—saner probably. He is also one of the most useful acquisitions to science yet known.”

  “Proven, of course, by this—this hardware of yours?” Flint asked sarcastically.

  Lloyd was unabashed. His frosty blue eyes were bright with triumph.

  “We all know—at least I know because I am a scientist of the first order—that the human eye is only capable of seeing within the ranges encompassed between ultraviolet and infrared at opposite ends of the spectrum scale. Also there are sixty octaves of light, of which we see only one! Only one, gentlemen!” Lloyd raised his umbrella aloft dramatically. “This ball instrument of mine is designed to cover the whole range of invisible light fields. By altering its light-reflecting capacity, it gives off either the light waves we see, or the light waves beyond our range. In the latter instance it becomes invisible to us—but it becomes visible to Mr. Marshall! In other words, his vision has slipped into an octave higher than our own. So slender a margin, gentlemen—so unusual for it to happen. This is the first real case I have encountered. The other three instruments verified, prismatically, that he is indeed looking into a plane an octave above normal visual range.”

  “From which,” Flint asked with deadly calm, “you deduce what?”

  “I deduce—A, that people move and have their being in this other plane; and that—B, an accident caused Mr. Marshall’s vision to be warped into that plane.”

  Flint snapped, “Then these people are all around us? These—others?”

  “Naturally!” Lloyd stood challengingly erect.

  “Then in that case,” Flint said, smiling maliciously, “you infer that these people occupy the same space as we do? That their city is superimposed over New York? Even you should know that no two bodies can occupy the same space at the same time.”

  Lloyd’s fingers quivered down his “J” of hair. Only the slightly higher pitch of his voice revealed his exasperation.

  “Nemo me impune lacessit—no one affronts me with impunity,” he breathed. “Your ignorance surpasses my highest expectations! Any expert physicist will confirm the fact that our space is only one of thousands of spaces! A molecule i
s made up of empty space in much the same fashion as the universe is mainly empty space. It is highly probable that the apparently empty spaces are filled with other matter working at a different pitch of vibration and therefore completely invisible to us.

  “Matter dovetails and interlocks, and each section is at a pitch of vibration which makes it invisible to its immediate neighbour. Nature has so designed her so-called empty space that other molecules move about it in the apparent emptiness—hence the belief of Mr. Marshall that he walks through buildings and that people walk through him!”

  “Fictional nonsense, Dr. Lloyd,” Flint commented sourly. “We are only concerned with facts. In my opinion Mr. Marshall is still completely blind and a victim of mental perturbations. I think I speak for my colleagues, too...?” He glanced round sharply and there was a solemn nodding of heads.

  “In other words,” Lloyd said slowly, “you do not want to believe?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “But I do!” Lloyd bellowed, thumping his umbrella on the floor. “The whole lot of you—you in particular, Flint—are either a collection of conservative, unimaginative boneheads, or else you prefer to believe the dementia theory for your own purposes. Don’t interrupt me, Flint! You have the authority here, certainly. What you say goes in this hospital, and you might possibly scare other men into obeying you. But you don’t scare me. I am Brutus Lloyd! I cannot legally force you into releasing Marshall—but I can, and will, do other things.”

  “Such as?” FIint inquired calmly.

  Lloyd put his Derby back on his head. “Cadit quaestio—discussion is at an end. Let’s go, Mr. Rutter.... I’ll be seeing you again, Ralph.”

  Lloyd gathered up some of his instruments and departed. Ed looked after him, then back at Flint.

  “Listen, doctor, you’re not taking Ralph back into imprisonment without plenty of opposition!” he snapped. “I’m warning you—”

  “Take it easy, Ed,” Ralph himself broke in quietly, rising from the chair. “Causing a scene won’t do any good.”