Life Everlasting and Other Tales of Science, Fantasy, and Horror

by David Henry Keller

  There were some changes made in the main building of the Manor. The most startling was the conversion of the ballroom and the rooms adjoining it into a library. Books were brought to the Manor by the truckload, books by the thousand, almost hundreds of thousands. The placing of the shelves, the arrangement of the books, the card cataloguing, were all done rapidly and efficiently by a trained company of librarians. When the work was done, the workmen left a perfect library. It was by no means the largest library in the United States, but few could compare with it in the scope of information which it covered.

  The kitchen was opened; and servants, well-trained and efficient, were installed. The golf course and tennis courts were put in perfect order. A lounge was fitted for a moving picture hall. There was everything for comfort, but there was no post office.

  One by one the young men arrived at Pennsylvania Manor. They were assigned to comfortable bedrooms. Verbal instructions of a very simple nature were given them. Additional data was obtained from them concerning the courses they had majored in while at college and their preferences in reading material. The three librarians, arriving, expressed delight at the perfect order of their workshop and at once arranged their part of the five-year program. Assignments were made to each man in such a variety that the entire range of human knowledge would be covered by their reading. Each man was to read three hundred books a year. That meant fifteen hundred books per man, or a total of 750,000 books for the five years.

  That number of books, three quarters of a million, was by no means the largest collection in the world. The Library of the British Museum contained two million books and over five million separate pieces of printed matter, while the Imperial Library in Petrograd contained nearly two million books. Even the New York Public Library held one million, eight hundred thousand books and hundreds of thousands of pamphlets.

  But it was a remarkable collection of books, considering the fact that it was most hastily gathered together for an unknown purpose. It had been purchased mainly from second-hand book stores, which, with a thrill that comes once in a lifetime, emptied their treasuries into the Pennsylvania Manor.

  Quiet days followed. The activity was constantly present, but almost noiseless. Following breakfast, the readers went in different groups to various sections of the library and handed in the read volume of the day before, in order to receive a new book for the new day's reading. Some read in the morning and evening and exercised in the afternoon, while others devoted the morning hours to exercise. The time during which the book was read was optional with the individual, the only requirement being that the book must be diligently and slowly read during the course of the twenty-four hours.

  The young men had been carefully selected. They were all of the methodical, studious type, who took life seriously, and who would have felt insulted had anyone dared keep a watch on them. Each day five hundred books were read, each day five hundred were returned, and five hundred more issued in their places.

  The library was being regularly and systematically used. The librarians were busy; the readers were busy. It was by no means the largest library in the world, but it was a well used one.

  The work done by these men was monotonous in its nature, but diversified in its scope. The daily book was a new book, and it meant one less book to have to read before the new freedom could be won at the end of five years. One year passed, and then two. Pennsylvania Manor ceased to be a novelty to the casual summer visitor. It no longer was a curiosity; it almost ceased to exist as far as Monroe County was concerned. The summer sun burned the Pocono Mountains; the winter winds swept them clear of snow only to bring more snow; season followed season, but the readers read on.

  For some years, the activities at Pennsylvania Manor had attracted the attention of the Chief of the Secret Service of the United States, headquarters Washington, D.C. He was a man who believed in the prevention of crime rather than in the detection of crime, and nothing pleased him more than to look forward into the future, see that a crime was premeditated, and then prevent the completion of the conspiracy by prompt action.

  Among his various boxes of card indexes, was one which he called his question box. Here, each on a separate card, were listed the details of extraordinary occurrences and happenings in the national life which he could not explain. He claimed that behind each of these lay a crime against society, and he spent long hours in two forms of study with these cards, going over them slowly, one at a time, trying to prepare for the future, first, by their story, and second, by comparing the details of unsolved felonies by going backward to the story told in the cards.

  He was at this kind of work when a caller was announced. He looked at the card: Taine of San Francisco.

  "I wonder who he is and what he wants? Some crank, judging by his card," he said.

  "What do you want?" he asked, "This is my busy day, and I cannot give you much time."

  "You sent for me. I thought you would know by my visiting card."

  "Hmm! That doesn't tell me anything."

  "It should. You wired the Chief of the San Francisco Secret Service for the loan of his best man; and here I am."

  "So, the best they have out there is Taine?"

  "It looks that way."

  "I never heard of you."

  "That may be true. But some of my best work has not been broadcast. I married the Chief's daughter. He likes me. Of course, she does too, but she is busy now, so the old man sent me. Want me?"

  The Chief looked at the little man standing on the carpet in front of him. A trifle more than five feet tall, rather stockily built, with baby features and buxom cheeks, blue eyes and blond hair. It was a face hard to describe and harder to remember. There was no force of character there, and but little intellectual gleam in the eyes.

  The Chief wanted to say something, but did not know how. At last he blurted out:

  "Not the killer type, are you?"

  "Is that what you wanted? And so sent to our city for it?"

  "Just a joke," apologized the Washington man, "and I suppose not in the best of taste. Sit down and have a smoke."

  "Thanks, I never smoke. I find that the nicotine injures the delicate enamel of the teeth, and when that is gone, all soon follows."

  The Chief went to his files and came back with a folder of papers. He pulled one card out of his question box.

  "Read this stuff over, and tell me what you think about it."

  Taine started to read. An hour passed, and then two. The Chief went ahead with his work, while the San Francisco man assorted and read the newspaper clippings.

  At last, the Chief could not stand it any longer.

  "What do you think about it?" he asked. "About all those books, and the fence, and those young men?"

  "There must be someone back of it with lots of money and fond of books," said Mr. Taine.

  "Quite original! You really think things like that?"

  "I think worse things than that sometimes."

  "How would you like to go up there for a year or two, and find out what it is all about?"

  "Will it take that long?"

  "How do I know? You might have to stay a lifetime, I honestly believe that there is something wrong going on up there, but all the information we receive makes it look perfectly harmless. At the same time, it will not do any harm for you to go up in some disguise, and give me a report on it."

  "I have the very idea. The proper disguise for a case like that would be something literary, something like the Encyclopaedia Brittanica. Well, I guess I had better go. If I have any trouble, I will let you know. Otherwise, I will report when the case is ended."

  He was out of the office before the Chief had time even to reply.

  The Chief took it out in thinking:

  "Either he is a fool, or I am!"

  Taine had a harder time than he expected in crashing the gate of the Pennsylvania Manor. He had expected that it would be easy to obtain employment in some way, but his polite questionings at the main entran
ce concerning work simply met with equally polite refusals. He watched that main gate for three days, but the only persons to go in were a few truck drivers, and they came out as soon as they unloaded their trucks. Taine finally was almost convinced that the only way he could go in was to enter disguised as a package of books.

  But luck was with him. A little Italian came out on the fourth day, holding his jaw. He was bound for a dental office in Stroudsburg. Taine asked for a ride to town in the same automobile with the Italian, and was granted his request. The extraction of a tooth and the chance of a trip to New York with a hundred dollar bill in his pocket was too much for the little foreigner to resist. The exchange of clothing and credentials was an easy matter. Taine asked a hundred questions in Italian as he made up his face, not much, but all that was necessary.

  The Italian took the first train for New York. Taine met the automobile from the Manor and returned in it to the gate, but this time he passed through. His papers were satisfactory. He was the new bus boy for six tables in the dining room of the Pennsylvania Manor.

  He held that position for six weks, and then developed a severe attack of appendicitis. Humanity demanded his release from the bondage which held all the men within the fence. He was sent to Scranton for the operation. In the hospital, he disappeared. Twenty-four hours later, he was in conference with the Chief in Washington.

  "I have spent six weeks inside the Manor," he said, "and I have perfected myself in the work of a bus boy. I do not think that I should care to spend a lifetime at that kind of work, but for a variation it is a very pleasant pastime. When the time came, I left. And some other bus boy is 'bus-boying' for me now, or, at least, I suppose so."

  The Chief looked at him with a rather perplexed gaze, as he asked him in somewhat of a harsh tone:

  "What did you find out?"

  "There are five hundred young men there, Chief, and each one reads a book a day. It seems that they have a motto—'A book a day keeps ignorance away.' There are three men who simply act as librarians and keep tabs on the books that each reader reads each day. They are just reading books. Of course, they eat, and sleep, and golf, but their great business in life is reading books. Think of it! It is not much of a library, mostly second-hand books, but think of five hundred books being read day after day! I mean a different five hundred each day."

  "Are you sure of that?"

  "Absolutely. I tell you why I am so sure. As fast as a book is read it is burned. They have kept the Pennsylvania Manor warm for over four years now with the books they have destroyed, and you should see that library! Four-fifths of the shelves empty; in fact, they are taking many of them down, and putting up new partitions."

  "That is damn queer! Man must be a fool!"

  "Must be. Tell you what I think. He is burning the books, because he has no more use for them. That is what a book is for, you know, to read. Of course, I always keep my books or give them away for Christmas presents, but his way is the best."

  "Who is back of it?"

  "No one knows; at least, no one will tell. Here is another point—the men were engaged on a five-year contract, but they are going to start turning them loose sooner, at the end of the fiftieth month, if they have finished reading the fifteen hundred books called for in the contract. They are going to start next March, and let readers go at the rate of five a day. That means that some time next July the place will be empty, and all the books burned."

  "Are they going to be paid?"

  "They think they are. Fifty thousand to each man, payable in New York City."

  "That is going to run into money."

  "It certainly is; so much that I doubt if the poor readers will collect. But they have been having a good time and their education has certainly been on the up-and-up."

  The Chief looked puzzled, as he said:

  "Something back of this."

  "I am sure of it, and I am sure of another thing."

  "What?"

  "That I am going to find out what it is. This is the most interesting case I have been on, and I am going to stay with it till I solve it. I guess I had better leave you now. Busy man and all that."

  This was Taine's ultimatum.

  "What are your plans?"

  "Haven't any. Just going to drift till I get into the main current, and then I will be swept onward into the Great Unknown."

  He walked out without another word. The Chief gave him credit for being at least unusual, probably a crank bordering on the insane.

  Wing Loo may not have been the greatest surgeon of all times, yet he thought he was, and that is about the same thing. He was not on his way to America for the money which had been offered him, but because of the opportunity which he had to share in one of the greatest experiments of all ages. He might have performed it in China. However, he was a surgeon and not an electro-scientist, and the man who was to furnish the larger part of the machinery lived in the United States. So to the land of the barbarian Wing Loo went. He did not know the full details of the experiment, but what he had learned through correspondence convinced him that he was in for a pleasant time.

  On the voyage to San Francisco, an able-bodied seaman fell and fractured his skull. Wing Loo, hearing of the accident, offered his assistance and operated in a gale. It was a dangerous operation, performed under the greatest difficulties, so attracting the attention of a newspaper reporter on board ship, that he radioed an account of it to a San Francisco paper. In that article he called the Chinaman "the greatest living brain surgeon" and intimated that he was on his way to America to give a series of lectures before the various national surgical organizations.

  The article was published while Wing Loo was on the high seas. He promptly repudiated much of it when he had his attention called to it in San Francisco. His negation was laid to modesty.

  Without loss of any time, he took the Trans-Continental to New York. There he changed to European dress, went to Hoboken, took the D., L. & W. to Stroudsburg, and an auto from there to the Pennsylvania Manor. He had dinner there with the three librarians, looked over the card indexes, and by dark was in Philadelphia.

  Darkness anywhere is unpleasant, in Philadelphia, it is more so. It was drizzling in Chinatown and dirty on Eighth Street. Without the loss of a single moment, Wing Loo went into the Hoop Sing tea store, went into the main room, and back through a door where a man was waiting for him.

  "Are you Wing Loo?" asked the man.

  "I am, if you are Charles Jefferson."

  "I am Jefferson. Sit down. I have not had supper; let us eat. I have ordered the best there is, and I hope that it will suffice. Shall I talk?"

  "I wait for your words as a bride awaits the footfall of her loved one."

  "I hope that she does not have to wait long. Life is so short under the best of circumstances. I have millions, but I cannot prolong my life. That has been my thought. The shortness of life and the inability to accomplish what I desire in my alloted days."

  "Some day a man can be so treated that he will never die."

  "You think so?" asked Jefferson. "I have been told that you can keep tissues alive for years. Is it true?"

  "It is. I have a kidney in glass. It has been working for twenty years. I believe it will keep on."

  "You can do it with other parts of the body?"

  "I can."

  "So I was informed. I want you to help me with an experiment. If it is successful, we—you and I—will go down in history as the greatest scientists known."

  "That would be wonderful!"

  "It would. Now here is what I want you to do—" and Charles Jefferson, the greatest specialist in electricity in the world, and also the queerest scientist of his age, outlined his plan for the world-revolutionizing experiment. He ended with:

  "I will be responsible for everything except the operations and the keeping of the tissues alive. That will be your province. I will finance the glassware and any supplies you need, and when the experiment is finished and you have done your part, I will give
you one million dollars."

  "You spoke of adding to the money the Empress' black pearls?"

  "I will add them."

  "And only five hundred operations! Five a day?"

  "Yes, but you must keep them alive."

  "That will be my greatest desire. I understand that the whole plan fails if one of them dies. When can I start?"

  "Very soon. I have a place prepared in New York. The young men will come there for their money. As they are paid, they will pass from one room to another. You will be ready for them. The specimens can be brought to the Manor, five or six at a time, according to the size of the glassware you will need. If you give me the specifications, I will have my shelves built and all the pumping machinery installed. I do not want to begin the real experiment till your work is finished. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Very. The clouds covering my doubt have been removed by the sunshine of your intelligence. What I do not know I can guess, and always I have faith in your wisdom. When will the feet of the young men hasten toward their reward?"

  "The first five will arrive on the first of March. After that they will come at the rate of five a day."

  "And each man will be paid fifty thousand dollars?"

  "Yes, but the same money can be used over and over."

  "Naturally. I can readily see that the young men will not have any desire to use their gold. Really clever, Mr. Jefferson."

  "It has cost me enough, and they have had several very wonderful years—and to be permitted to take part in this experiment "

  "That," murmured the Oriental surgeon, "is the greatest reward."

  On the first of March, five of the young readers left the Pennsylvania Manor, and five more followed on the second day. And so, day after day, the young men left, confident that life was very much worth while, and all eager for new and more active fields of mental activity. They collected the money, and then passed through the door.

  On the seventh of July, the Chief of the National Secret Service received a message in code. Deciphered, it read like this: