Mad Science Cafe

by Ross, Deborah J.

  “Had you even any medical degree yet?” Ian asked.

  “I…still have nothing but the degree in general sciences I took at Cambridge,” Shrewsbury admitted with chagrin. It was as if the tale were telling him now, rather than the other way ’round, but Wendell felt compelled to make Ian see this was no mere madness to be coddled and contained at some gentle sanatorium. If even his old friend could not be made to see the truth, then what purpose had there been to this whole exercise?

  “Under the devious influence of my invasive parasite, I had become convinced that practical experience trumped any mere certificate bestowed by tired, old, wine-soaked dons. I imagined myself Lord Frost’s right hand man, and merely sought to help others, including himself, recognize the fact.” He shook his head in self-disgust.

  “On the fateful night in question, I arrived at the laboratory hours earlier than necessary—as had been my overeager practice for so many months by then—and, predictably, found myself alone there. I lit the lamps, reviewed Lord Frost’s most recent notes, and set about preparing the materials and devices for that evening’s procedure. It was to be a challenging extraction. The subject was a deeply troubled young woman.” Wendell shook his head sadly. “She had sought us out on the advice of Lord Frost’s cousin in Dorset where they both resided. Her dreadful and relentless nightmares had brought her to fear sleep itself. Much like…” He trailed off with a small shudder. “We were, of course, earnestly determined to free her of this affliction.

  “As I ignited the device’s engines, and adjusted output levels, it suddenly seemed to me that stronger frequencies than normally applied were surely called for in a case of this severity.” As the dreadful reminiscence grew more vivid, Shrewsbury became all but unaware of his rapt audience. “I can still recall how the machine hummed to life under my fingers, as if eager for my commands…I turned the knobs higher, strangely convinced that the apparent strength of that night’s quarry demanded strength in return, and that my employer’s usual practices were overly cautious, perhaps to the point of endangering our subject.” The recollection filled Wendell with an urge to sob, which he manfully suppressed. “I assured myself that Lord Frost would examine the machine himself, once he arrived, and override my decisions if he chose to.

  “My preparations were barely concluded, however, when I heard a tentative knock at the laboratory’s inner door. I went to see who it could be and found Miss Ingleside, our unfortunate client, arrived at least an hour early. The housekeeper, it seemed, had simply escorted her up and left her at the laboratory door. I remember thinking she should be reprimanded for such conduct. In retrospect, Miss Ingleside’s premature arrival seems uncannily well timed to facilitate what was about to happen. I have sometimes wondered since if these creatures may be capable of some communication over distance with others of their kind. Could her parasite have conspired with mine?” Wendell bowed his head. “This is yet another question we will likely never answer, now.” He sighed deeply.

  “I recall that Miss Ingleside was dreadfully pale. There were dark, greenish patches below her sallow eyes. Her dress hung off her thin, brittle frame as if off a broomstick. She asked timidly if I were Lord Frost, and I told her, no, that I was his associate. Flooded with compassion for the poor creature, I invited her to sit down in the room’s only chair, to which she would be later strapped for the procedure.” Wendell reached once more for his brandy glass, which Ian had quietly topped up. “She sat there shivering, though the laboratory was quite comfortable. Only when she declined the offer of a blanket did I realize that she was trembling with fright, if not exhaustion too, rather than from cold.

  “My heart filled with the tender, urgent desire to assist her at once. I felt bizarrely certain that Lord Frost would heartily approve of my decision not to make her wait a moment longer for relief. I had performed this sort of procedure countless times by then, or, at any rate, assisted Frost in doing so, which seemed much the same thing to me at that ill-fated moment.”

  Ian made a small, apprehensive noise, and rose to set a few more coals onto the fire himself, nudging them into place with a long, wrought-iron poker.

  “Have I been wrong to tell you this?” Shrewsbury asked.

  “Of course not,” his host replied, settling back into his chair. “It is just…not the kind of tale to be listened to in darkness.”

  “Of course. Quite right,” said Shrewsbury, so thoroughly engrossed in his own account by then that he’d not even noticed the fire had finally died. “It was foolishness,” he went on. “Utter madness. Lord Frost was a meticulous researcher, always careful to maintain precise records and complete control of each experiment. Though I’d been permitted to maintain and calibrate the engines and delivery systems, and pump out the collection jars upon capture of an organism, there was never to be any hand but his on that final switch…He had made that very clear.” Shrewsbury gripped his glass, fairly quivering with outrage at his own disastrous arrogance. “Yet, after months, I now surmise, of my nightmarish handler’s grooming, I somehow felt myself perfectly qualified to help this poor girl without waiting for Lord Frost, whom I did not expect for some time yet.”

  Ian sat in silence, his face blank of any readable reaction to such hubris.

  “I bade Miss Ingleside make herself as comfortable as possible, and adjusted the chair’s restraining belts to her small frame, then fastened her delicate arms into the leather straps upon its own. Lord Frost and I had quickly discovered how forcefully the distressed parasites could cause our subjects to thrash about in pursuit of escape once the procedure began.

  “She quavered a bit, as I finished my work, but I had explained the treatment to her very carefully before strapping her in, so she did not complain. I placed the extraction bell over her head, and sealed it around her neck, made sure her breathing-tube was functioning properly, and, after giving her a final, reassuring pat, stepped to the controls.”

  Shrewsbury put his head into his hands in abject misery. “I wish I could claim to have hesitated before placing my hand upon that lever…but I did not. All was ready and checked two or three times over. I was fully confident of all my calculations.

  “I threw the master switch.

  “Steam billowed from exhaust portals just outside the laboratory windows, as usual. Miss Ingleside gave a small shriek, muffled by the diving bell and breathing tube, which, as I’ve mentioned, was not unusual either. I cautioned her to be still, but she responded by writhing even more aggressively against her constraints. Seeing how mercilessly the beast within drove her, I surmised it must be very powerful indeed. Motivated by this speculation, I increased the frequencies yet another notch—hoping to drive her tormentor out the faster.”

  “I do not think I like where this tale seems to lead,” Ian murmured.

  “Nor should you,” Wendell answered sadly. “As you’ve clearly guessed, guided by my own still undiscovered passenger, I kept finding reasons to turn the dials further up, just the merest nudge. Miss Ingleside began to thrash about so wildly, that she actually managed to free one of her wrists from its strap, and, a second later, her upper arm. So much strength in such a tiny frame! I thought, rushing to stop her as she began to rip the other straps away with her freed hand. I grappled with her, but her strength proved truly superhuman, and I found no way of gaining ground against her efforts without risking harm to her myself. I had no idea what to do.

  “Even more unfortunately, the panel of controls was close enough to the chair that as we struggled with each other, she was able to reach out and slap frantically at its knobs and dials, apparently attempting to stop the procedure. All she succeeded at was boosting half the frequencies to levels I would never have employed in any state of mind. Worse yet, as they were knocked completely out of calibration, the sonic instruments began to generate dissonant vibrations that rattled half the objects in the room, including my own teeth.

  “I still see that moment, with such dreadful clarity, as the bell jars began to shat
ter from the sound.”

  “The nightmares!” Ian gasped. “Did they escape?”

  “Oh yes. But not just to flee, I soon discovered. Abandoning the struggling woman, I leapt for the collection of vibrating jars, attempting to contain the damage, but had hardly started before the air seemed filled with terrifying sounds.” Wendell brought his hands up to the sides of his head. “I barely heard Miss Ingleside begin to scream anew as the room filled suddenly with monstrous forms. I felt pressed about with filthy, sweating, stinking bodies. I cried out, trying to push them back, but they simply pressed in harder.

  “Panic turned to terror in my head and chest. The air became rank, entering my lungs like viscous, septic syrup. I no longer saw the laboratory at all—but the interior of a crowded passenger-coach, loaded with convulsing corpses. It careened down a narrow, winding street, rocking wildly as all of us inside it cried in panic, gouging, scratching, kicking to get out. I tasted blood, felt it coat and clog my throat!

  “Gasping, I groped desperately around me for a pull-cord to alert the driver—but everywhere I reached, I just felt more putrescent flesh, more rotting, blood-drenched clothing, matted hair, ragged fingernails…When my hand at last found what I was sure must be the cord, I yanked upon it with all my strength, and was rewarded with a flash of light and heat, as if the very coach around me had exploded.

  “Amidst this maelstrom, I heard the shouts of my employer. As if punctured by his voice, the illusory coach vanished, and I found myself lying on the floor as Lord Frost struggled nearby to free the now unconscious Miss Ingleside from her remaining restraints. The laboratory was engulfed in flames! Hoses had been torn away, spewing the highly combustible experimental fuels we used to heat our boilers all about. These had somehow ignited. Gazing about in horror, I saw that all of the laboratory’s accoutrements had been scattered and demolished! Had I caused all this damage flailing at imagined corpses?

  “Lord Frost bellowed something at me, seeming angry and confused. I drew breath to explain myself, but my lungs were stung by smoke and searing heat, and I was merely wracked with coughing.

  “‘Get up, man! Help me get her out of here!’ he cried, trying to drag me to my feet.

  “Still influenced by my internal foe, I heard only blame and outrage in my mentor’s voice. After all my efforts to win his admiration, he clearly now felt nothing but contempt for me. I found his censure quite unfair. He had no idea of the trials that had befallen me. With his help, I pulled myself upright at last, still intent upon explaining. But before I could, his face became that of the Devil itself—twisted, red and leering. I shrieked and scrambled back, shoving him away…quite forcefully…” Shrewsbury’s restraint failed at last, and the anguished sob that had been building in his chest—for years—erupted. “I pushed him…straight into the conflagration!”

  “Wendell!” Ian exclaimed. “Calm yourself!”

  “Oh, dear God!” Shrewsbury wailed, rising from his chair. “Dear God, I killed him, Ian!”

  “It is but a memory!” Ian shouted, rising now as well to grab Wendell’s arms as if to keep him from destroying the study as Wendell knew he’d ruined Frost’s laboratory in his panic. “No one seeks to hurt you here! Be calm, old friend!…be calm.”

  “I could have saved him, Ian,” Wendell sobbed, collapsing into his friend’s bewildered embrace. “I could have saved them both, but I just stood there, frozen, immobilized by the sudden understanding of what I had done—not just then, but all along.” He wrenched himself from Ian’s arms, and staggered back to fall into his chair. “That is when the demon within me finally made its presence known. It started whispering accusations, audibly gloating at how easily I had allowed myself to be manipulated—as it still does…to this very night.”

  “How could you have known?” his friend insisted, trying feebly to comfort him.

  “How should I have not?” moaned Wendell. “In all the world, I was one of just a handful who could have known…Who should have known…”

  “Ian, dear friend,” his host insisted, “what is gained by such self-torment?”

  “I saw him die,” Shrewsbury whimpered. “It was too terrible…I ran, Ian.” He buried his face in his hands again. “I left them both, and ran to save myself…It is only right that each night now I am required to return…Unable to run…Forced to watch…”

  “There are doctors who can help you,” Ian pled. “There is no demon in your brain, my friend. Only guilt and horror, for which no one, least of all myself, could blame you after such an ordeal.”

  “They are free!” Shrewsbury rasped. “Do you not understand? With cause to fear us now—to hate us even—and the only man who might have stopped them dead! By my hand!”

  Ian seemed about to speak again, but they were interrupted by a loud banging at the front door of his residence. Startled, Ian looked at Wendell, as if wondering whether it were safe to leave him there, then headed for the study door. Before he reached it, however, Mrs. Lamblittle burst in, followed by two burly constables.

  “There he is!” the housekeeper cried, pointing at Shrewsbury. Wendell made no effort to resist as the men hurried past her to seize him. Well-drunk on brandy, and quite depleted from so many months of such badly interrupted sleep, he just collapsed into their grasp.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ian demanded. “Unhand him! He is my guest here.”

  “He’s no proper guest, Mr. Rutherford, no he ain’t!” Mrs. Lamblittle broke in shrilly. “It was treason he were talking! Said so himself. Treason and murder. I heard him, I did! I were listening in the hall the whole time, and glad of it.” At the scowl this brought to her employer’s face, she added, “I’m saving us all, and you’ll thank me for it later, I’ve no doubt.”

  Wendell watched his host struggle to frame some response, and lose that struggle. Quite wise, old friend, he thought. An up and coming barrister might not want to be heard defending a murderer caught in the act of treason. And just as well. If I am lucky, they will hang me now. Then again, to sleep, perchance to dream…Aye, there’s the rub…

  As the constables carted Wendell toward the door, he felt the thing within him seize his body, and a shrill, unnatural laughter burst involuntarily from his mouth. Wendell screwed his eyes shut, trying to suppress this violation of his sovereign self, but to no avail. The thing inside him pried his lips apart once more, and a voice that he had never heard before outside of dreams screeched, “Self-destructive fools!!! You think yourselves so wise, your science so indomitable, but without us there can be no dreams! And what will England be without its dreams?” it cackled. “What will England be?”

  The Stink of Reality

  Irene Radford

  “Frivolous,” Dr. Pretentious, head of the Tenure Committee declared.

  Dr. Wallace Beebee Ph.D., Associate Professor of Bio-Physics, cringed.

  “Impractical,” chimed in Dr. Beta.

  Wallace leaned over his data flow charts protectively.

  “Demeaning,” finished Dr. Shallow.

  Wallace set his jaw in affront.

  “Is Bio-Physics even a recognized discipline at universities other than Vasco da Gama?” Dr. Pretentious asked rhetorically.

  And that was the crux of the matter for the Tenure Committee. Never making a decision until they knew it would be applauded by other universities, never hiring anyone who didn’t have at least two other offers, denying tenure to any but the most staid and conservative candidates.

  And yet they claimed that VDGU had to take the forefront in prestige.

  “Tenure denied.” If Dr. Pretentious had a gavel, the old fart would have pounded it. Instead he picked up his thick file on Wallace Beebee and retreated.

  “If only they could smell their own hypocrisy…” Wallace said as he gathered up his charts and graphs and vials of petroleum eating bacteria. That wasn’t exactly a new idea. Using their natural by-products to replace diminishing supplies of helium was new.

  “I wonder what hypocrisy sme
lls like?” he wondered. A dash of umbrage, a pinch of outrage, and a great deal of anger…and perhaps an undernote of fear.

  He shook his head, dismissing the idea. And yet…human bodies created subtle odors in reaction to emotions that animals could detect. How would people react if they could smell what other people were thinking?

  His mind twisted and churned all the way back to his lab.

  Two weeks later, Wallace carefully placed each item from atop his wife Evelyn’s dresser into a shoebox. Deodorant, perfume, hairspray, cosmetics, anything with a fragrance. He needed a clean room at the lab but dared not book usage until he knew if his premise could be made viable.

  When the dresser was empty, he moved into the adjacent bathroom and collected shampoos, soaps, his own shaving cream and aftershave, and the candle on the toilet tank. When a second box was full, he slapped the lid on it, secured it with a rubber band, and took them both to the laundry room at the opposite end of their ranch style rental home on the campus fringes.

  The University had named their teams “The Explorers” What a bunch of bullshit! (Which might smell better than the Tenure Committee.) “They haven’t taken a chance or had an original idea in fifty years,” Wallace grumbled. He’d been on faculty seven years, always promised tenure the next semester, then the next, and the next, always denied because his ideas were just a little too revolutionary. The University itself had little grant money. Everything they collected was controlled by major corporations who dictated that new projects must be marketable by them. Pure Research was left hanging and openly discouraged, decried as worthy only of science fiction novels.

  How could he and Evelyn ever hope to afford children living on the pittance the university paid untenured—and therefore disposable—professors?