“Don’t—don’t you think I had better have another shot of cocaine? I need it—badly!” There was a plaintive, whining note in his voice.
Koszarek shook his head and frowned. “No! I think you’ve taken your last dose of the drug. After tonight you won’t need it!”
Ovington shot a startled glance at the other.
“What do you mean? You—you—”
“Oh, I’m going to cure you! It’ll be painless and very thorough.” And his lips, strangely, twisted in a crooked smile. “Come, we have work to do tonight.”
After extinguishing the headlights, Koszarek led the way through the darkness into the house. The lights clicked on; and they moved through the richly-furnished living quarters, up the stairs to the second floor—the laboratory.
Ovington stared in admiration around the completely-equipped laboratory—the tiled walls, the long white tables, the shelves upon shelves of bottled chemicals, the glass tubes, retorts, the surgical instruments—then he fixed his eyes on a strange device close at hand. It consisted of a long, rectangular, silver tank upon which rested a large, hollow, crystal globe, filled with a transparent, green-tinted liquid.
Four small, silver tubes led from the tank into the sphere on one side, broke to form a six-inch gap in the middle, and led out, down into the tank on the other side. At each end of the tank was a small, powerful pump which was likewise connected with the rectangular block. These were evidently driven by a small electric motor on a platform a few feet distant. An auxiliary motor stood beside it.
Ovington stepped toward the device to inspect it more closely—then suddenly he whirled at the sound of a key grating in the lock of the only door the laboratory possessed! His eyes dilated with sudden fear as he stared at Koszarek. The latter’s deep-set eyelids were narrowed to mere slits, and his lips were curled in a faint, mocking smile.
Striving hard to keep his voice steady, Ovington asked slowly: “Why did you lock that door?”
“To prevent your leaving suddenly, of course,” Koszarek replied coolly. “You might not find my experiment to your liking, and might wish to depart at the very beginning—and that would be most annoying! But don’t let that trouble you. Sit down; we still have a few details to discuss.”
UNCERTAINLY Ovington sank into the chair that the other proffered. There was a terrified look on his face, and the pallor of his sallow cheeks had increased perceptibly.
For a few moments Koszarek studied his prisoner thoughtfully; then abruptly his face assumed a semblance of cordiality. He arose from his chair.
“I think I had better give you another injection after all. One more dose can do no harm. Let me have my hypodermic.”
Wordlessly Ovington returned the little instrument; and Koszarek turned and moved quickly across the laboratory.
The instant the other’s face was averted, Ovington arose stealthily; and his fingers closed on a heavy metal weight that lay on a nearby table. His arm drew back, and with mad strength he hurled it at the retreating figure. Straight and true it sped toward its mark—until suddenly Koszarek, as though warned by some sixth sense, leaped sharply to one side. The missile flashed harmlessly over his shoulder to crash with destructive force into a row of bottles and jars.
With the crash, Koszarek spun around, his hands extended like talons. His eyes burned through narrowed lids like coals of fire; and his lips were drawn back over clenched teeth in a beast-like snarl. His face was pale with anger. He was a thing of monstrous, inhuman rage as he sprang toward Ovington.
Shrieking wildly, incoherently, the little man scrambled back, terror filling his brain with riot. But Koszarek was like a striking serpent; in an instant he caught Ovington’s throat, and with the other fist, swung a brutal blow against his jaw. His body sagged; his mind became blank; consciousness left him.
When his senses returned he was bound firmly to a chair, his hands tied behind him. Koszarek was seated directly opposite him, eyeing him balefully.
“I hope you’re satisfied now,” he said in a harsh voice. “It had been my intention to be merciful and spare you the knowledge of what I am going to do to you—but now you’ll know everything. I told you that you’ll help me in spite of yourself—and now you can do nothing else.
“Why do you suppose I chose you to assist me—you, a hopeless drug addict? Why didn’t I hire some one with greater knowledge than yours, some scientist in good standing? The answer is simple. I don’t want you, I want your brain! I had to have someone with scientific training who would not be missed if he vanished suddenly! Someone who was valueless to organized society, whose body I could destroy with impunity. Your brain, that mass of grey matter in your skull, Ovington, is all I desire! And I’ll have it!”
Ovington’s face was a dreadful thing to behold. The skin had become a sickly yellow, stretched tight over protruding cheek bones. His brows were drawn far up, compressing his forehead into fine wrinkles. His eyes, dilated in a madness of fear, seemed to protrude from his head. And his mouth, half open, was set rigidly, with lips tensely compressed. But Koszarek ignored his fear and continued talking steadily. The little man heard him faintly, as though he were almost beyond the range of hearing.
“But what possible use could I have for your brain, Ovington; what connection is there between your brain and the fourth dimension? That question, too, can be answered; it forms the foundation of my experiment.
“We are in the fourth dimension, in time, are we not, Ovington? Yet we can sense only that which we call the present. Why? Simply because our five senses are not capable of detecting more than that. But how can we hope to enable our minds to go beyond the power of the five senses? Ah, Ovington, that is the question—and the thought of our experiment for tonight. I believe that we need only deprive the mind of its five senses, keeping it alive during the process, and it will develop a sixth sense as a substitute for all the others, a sense that will be aware of the hyper-world!
“I’m certain, Ovington, that you’ve been in contact with blind men, and have observed what remarkable powers of touch and hearing are usually theirs. The law of compensation! And I’m certain that the same law will act as I’ve suggested, when all the senses are destroyed.
“The brain thus treated will be able to rise far above this slum of space, will be able to see far beyond the limits of the sphere enlightened by its usual consciousness. It will see the past and future, lying together and existing simultaneously!
“And you, Ovington—Ah! I see that you have guessed your part in my plans! Yours is the brain that will be deprived of its five sensory organs, and allowed to develop its sixth sense! You will make the sojourn into hyper-space—you, the most favored of mortals.
“I’ll remove your brain from your skull, and keep it alive in the liquid in that hollow crystal globe. Incidently, don’t you recognize that liquid? It’s the serum you discovered, which, modified by your special process, prevents decay and death in animal tissue. The serum that, through use in surgery and medicine, has cut the death rate in half—and that gave me my fortune. I knew you’d recognize it.”
SUDDENLY Ovington found his voice; and the pent-up hatred, the rampant terror in his mind burst from him in a stream of invectives.
“Yes, by God, I recognize it! And I curse you to the bottom of the blackest pit of Hell! First you rob me of my discovery, taking the honor and money for yourself; then, to discredit me if I talk, you make me a cocaine addict—and now you would take my life! Oh, that monsters like you should be created!” His voice broke in a choking sob; and he sank into a hunched-up mass in his chair, shivering and moaning and weeping.
“But you’re mistaken, Ovington,” said Koszarek in a voice that was mockingly solicitous. “I’m not going to kill you. Your body will die, it’s true, but it’s a worthless wreck anyway. But with its death your mind—ah, that will rise into a fulness of life that is infinitely superior to that of the body!”
He stepped over to the silver tank and crystal sphere. “Here, Oving
ton, is your future body. See,” he pointed toward the silver tubes leading into the globe, “these will be connected with the arteries leading into your brain, and bear a liquid substitute for blood into all parts of the brain-substance. And these,” indicating the other tubes, “lead back into the tank, where the various oxy-compounds of carbon, hydrogen, phosphorus, and the rest, that have been formed, as you know, by a process analogous to combustion are replaced by free oxygen, and the artificial blood is prepared for its return to the brain . . . Never fear, Ovington—I’ve taken every possible precaution to insure the success of my experiment.
“My only fear is that you will not be able to communicate with me—though for that I’m depending on the hope that together with your new four-dimensional sense, you’ll develop the power to transmit your thoughts—mental telepathy. Of course, I can only hope that this is so. But I think I had better start the operation.”
He moved toward the huddled figure of Ovington; then suddenly he paused and shrugged his shoulders. The little man was senseless. He had fainted.
With a faint, satisfied smile wreathing his lips, Koszarek turned away from the unconscious man and began preparing for the task before him. He moved a long, white, glass-topped operating table close to the tank and hollow globe, rolled the three tanks on wheels and the little curved cone that formed the anesthetizing apparatus to a position beside it, and placed the necessary surgical instruments in a tall, cylindrical sterilizing cabinet. Then, freeing the senseless Ovington from the chair, he placed him on the table and began making him ready for the operation. His head had to be shaved and sterilized, and he had to be rendered unconscious by means of an anesthetic, then all would be ready.
Finally, clad in a long, white robe, his hands cleansed and sterile, Koszarek set to work. The brain of John Ovington was to be prepared for its conquest of hyper-space.
CHAPTER III
The Awakening of the Brain
DR. LEO KOSZAREK clenched his fists impotently and glared in helpless rage at the apparatus before him. The hollow crystal globe with its ghastly, grey-white occupant was the object of his wrath. Suddenly he seized a metal—the same that Ovington had thrown at him—and drew back his arm. He hesitated an instant—then dropped the weight and started pacing the floor like a caged lion.
“Damn!” he ground through his teeth. “Will it never speak?” His only answer was the steady, even throb, throb, throb of the pump that sent the artificial blood coursing through the brain that had been John Ovington’s.
For eleven seemingly endless days that throbbing and the whirring of the motor had been the only sound to emanate from the contrivance. He had not been certain of success, of course; but somehow it didn’t seem possible that he must accept failure. His arguments had been sound—though there was always the thought that the Brain might not be able to communicate with him even though it lived, and perceived the fourth dimension. Eleven days! If nothing occurred in the very near future he’d have to admit defeat. The body and clothes he had destroyed long ago; the Brain, apparently, would have to follow.
He paused in his pacing and stared at the globe again, as though by his staring he could wrest some thought from the imperturbable mass of grey matter. Steadily his eyes were fixed upon the thing—and abruptly, as though it were a message from some vaster world, he heard, or thought he heard his name. An uncomfortable premonition of fear passed over him—and he put it away from him impatiently. He leaned forward tensely—listening.
The room seemed to have caught a deep and solemn quietude, a silence that, paradoxically, was not broken by the sounds of the pump and motor. That silence alone answered him. But he persisted, eager for communication with the Brain.
With maddening slowness the minutes dragged by. He thought, after a time, that he could hear the beating of his heart, mingling with the throb, throb, throb of the machine—and then he realized that it was the pulsation of his own mind. And still he persisted, listening—silently listening.
And finally he was rewarded! He became aware of the subtle emanation of some other, greater intellect—a formless thought that seemed to be a crushing weight. There was no question in his mind: it was the first groping attempt of the Brain to communicate with him—yet he felt no joy in the knowledge of success; he was only conscious of a chill and unearthly foreboding! He wanted to leave the place, to escape the Brain—but somehow he was powerless to move.
A struggle took place within Koszarek, his scientist’s interest in his experiment striving to overcome his inexplicable fear. The scientist won, and though fear remained lurking in the background, he centered his consciousness upon the Brain to the exclusion of all else.
Again he became aware of the weight of formless thought, stronger now, more powerful. Slowly, insidiously, it seemed to merge with his own mind. In his utter and complete concentration, it seemed to be drawing his life from his body, seemed to be drawing him forth into an infinity of emptiness, to participate in thought with the struggle of the Brain for supremacy over nonexistence! Dimly at first, but with ever increasing certainty, Koszarek realized that that struggle was taking place, knew that somewhere in infinity the Brain fought with Titanic power for escape from the inert, unconscious heart of oblivion; fought for the power of articulation and expression—and was slowly, inexorably gaining it! And now he was a part of that struggle!
Above, below, on either side—nothing! Only thought and the power of thought, assailed by myriads of clutching hands of nonentities, of formlessness, of non-existence. The five senses gone—blinded, deafened, devoid of feeling—yet a vague cognizance of life.
Stronger thought grew, groping, still formless—but mounting steadily toward the light of knowledge. Ages long, the struggle seemed—endless the striving for understanding.? Endless? No; for suddenly knowledge came like a prodigious, jetting stream.
With a mind-destroying force that tore asunder the tenuous threads binding him to the Brain, there crashed upon Koszarek’s intellect a tempestuous, clamorous ocean of sound, a withering, unimaginable torrent of light, a blasting, chaotic madness of understanding that almost destroyed his reason. The flood-gates of eternity opened wide—the sight and sound, the knowledge and comprehension of all ages revealed in an immeasurable instant! The past and future co-existing with the present; aeons upon aeons of time, infinity upon infinity of space—made one!
With senses shriveled in an ecstacy of torment, Koszarek fell back from the Brain, his arms twitching jerkily before him like the anguished movements of the feelers of a crushed ant. There was a roaring chaos in his head, an infinity of blackness before his eyes; and slowly he sank into unconsciousness.
“LEO KOSZAREK! Leo Koszarek! Awaken!” Through the black folks of senselessness that shrouded his mind, he heard his name. There was an imperative quality in the thought that brooked no disobedience. Stiffly, painfully he stirred, and struggled to rise. He was lying on his back; and his blinking eyes rested on a crystal globe that held a quantity of green-tinted liquid and a human brain.
That Brain—he remembered now; it had belonged to John Ovington! And that voice calling his name—it had existed only in his mind, a telepathic message from the Brain!
“Yes,” came the thought at that instant, “it was a message from me—and I demand obedience. Arise—at once!”
“At once,” Koszarek mumbled, hastily getting to his feet. Swaying unsteadily, he stared in wonder at the Brain. That same inexplicable fear that he had experienced before was upon him. He could not rid himself of it.
“I should hate you for your treatment of the body of John Ovington,” the Brain pursued coldly, “but hatred, like all the other emotions, is a creation of the sensory organs, and is impossible outside of the body. Justice, however, is of the mind—but we’ll not consider that now.
“But forget your fears, Leo Koszarek; your experiment is a success; why should you fear?
Why should he fear, Koszarek asked himself. A disembodied brain, and that, the brain of the drug add
ict, John Ovington, could be no menace to his safety! That was obvious—nor did he fear it! A flood of courage, as from some extraneous source, had banished the disquieting dread.
“Of course my experiment is a success,” he replied loftily, with the return of his customary arrogance. “I knew it would not fail when I sensed your struggle to speak. But it had to be successful, for my basic assumptions were correct . . . But tell me, what do you see?” His voice became eager, excited.
The Brain seemed to hesitate. And when the answer came, there were breaks and pauses between the phrases, as though the Brain were groping to express itself.
“There is much that I cannot tell you—your mind with its meagre strength would break under the weight of knowledge. There is much that even I cannot yet comprehend—though my knowledge and understanding is steadily growing.
“I see our universe in all its myriad stages of development—a flat, whirling spiral of nebular flame, then a mass of contracting suns; I see them condense. I see our own little sun spinning in space with its countless fellows—a diminutive thing, whirling alone. I see another star, larger, pass by—they come within the gravitational pull of each other—but their speed is such that they do not collide; they swing in a great arc around each other, and the Wanderer passes on into endless night.
“I see our sun, her surface of flaming gases torn into raging billows of fire that leap millions of miles high, whirling endlessly until she casts from her the, plumes of flame. I see them contracting to form the sun’s family of planets—one of them our Earth.
“I see the Earth cooling by radiation, and slowly contracting. I see a hardened crust forming on her surface, see that crust warping and buckling to form mighty, jagged mountain ranges. I see moisture condensing and falling, and rising again to blanket Earth with a sea of clouds. I see Earth cooling to a greater degree—seas are forming, and the planet is cloaked with mists.
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