“Prebble,” I said without preamble and, I fear, somewhat harshly, “what have you done to me?”
There was nothing of the surprise which should normally have appeared on his fat face as he asked in supercilious tones, “Now, Widdie, what seems to be the trouble?”
“Trouble!” I rasped, stung, as it were, to the quick. “Trouble! You know full well what is the trouble! Ever since you began your—your damned treatment for my headache, I’ve been seeing things.” Regrettably I cursed, but I was beside myself. “Now, tell me what you’ve done. And cease calling me Widdie!” The diminutive of my surname, always distasteful, now filled me with ungovernable wrath.
“Of course, Biddie, I’ll tell you,” Prebble said, employing a shortened version of “Bidwell,” just as annoying as “Widdie.” There was leering triumph in his voice. “I’ve given you a sixth sense—a hyper-sense!”
“A—what!” I was, to say the least, taken aback.
“A hyper-sense,” he repeated. “A faculty which enables you to perceive the fourth dimension of space, the hyper-world!”
Prebble assumed his best classroom manner, and while I listened, half-dazed, he explained:
“It is a well known physiological fact, Biddie, that in the human brain there are large numbers of nerve cells that remain undeveloped because they are never excited to activity. At birth the neurones—nerve-cells to you, Biddie—are structurally perfect, yet they will remain inert and undeveloped until awakened by their special stimulant. For example, to one born blind, the cells of the center of sight will remain in a rudimentary state until excited by light. If through an operation light reaches the sight neurones, they begin to enlarge, their blood supply is increased, and all related nerve centers begin to develop.
“It has been asserted, Biddie, that if the apparatus by which the nerve centers of the five senses receive impressions from the external world were destroyed at birth, the thousands of millions of nerve-cells would remain inert and undeveloped during the individual’s lifetime. The neurones would be there, perfect in every way, but to that individual there would be—nothing. To him the world would not exist.
“Now, Biddie, I reasoned thus: If to the born-blind there is no world of light, and to the born-deaf there is no world of sound, may it not be a fact that around us exist other worlds than those revealed by the five senses—worlds we do not recognize because the special nerve-centers for that purpose have not been stimulated to activity? May not the mental phenomena of dreams, telepathy, hypnotism, and the like, be traced to the stimulation of nerve-centers aroused only under special conditions?” He paused.
I said somewhat haughtily: “One would think, Prebble, that I were one of the more stupid undergraduates! All this is quite elementary and, I dare say, rather obvious. But you referred to a hyper-sense, a sense of the fourth dimension.”
PREBBLE shrugged, and his smile was most exasperating. “That should be equally obvious to you, Biddie, a mathematician. Do you not in some of your calculations use a fourth variable, time? Need I draw for you the analogy of the point moving into the line, one dimension; the line moving into the surface, two dimensions; and the surface moving outside itself to form the solid, three dimensions; and the three-dimensional body moving in still another direction—a direction not contained within itself—to form the fourth dimension? And what would that direction be but time? Time, the distance separating events, distance lying in a direction not contained in three-dimensional space—therefore the fourth dimension!
“To quote Minkowski, with whom you should be familiar: ‘Space in itself and time in itself dissolve into a shadow, and only a kind of union of the two can maintain an independent existence.’ Really, Biddie—”
Nettled, I cut him short. “Prebble,” I snapped, “I don’t like your manner! And don’t quote Minkowski to me! Palagyi preceded Minkowski by a goodly number of years and said everything for which he later became famous.” Which remark, I am confident, revealed to Prebble that I knew more about the subject than he did.
Despite my brave front, Higgsby, I was annoyed. Indeed, to be more precise, I was disconcerted. And a belief and understanding of what Prebble had done were growing upon me. Once in a lighter moment I had read a book called “An Experiment With Time,” written by an Englishman, J. W. Dunne, in which he had recorded numerous prophetic dreams. He likened the entire course of events to a cinema film being shown. The actual picture on the screen was our present, but that which was yet to come was already there on the film. His dreams, he declared, peeped into the film ahead.
And Prebble had developed this ability in me—only to a far greater degree!
“Prebble,” I asked, “how did you do it?” And, Higgsby, I must confess, my voice trembled.
“You recall that radio-active compound which I mentioned some time ago?” Prebble’s tones were almost feline in their softness. “That did the work. Purely by accident, while studying its effects on one of the boys—unknown to him, of course—I discovered that the emanations of this compound stimulated the brain to unwonted activity, giving it what some would term the faculty of second-sight.
“But my subject was rather a stupid sort, so I switched to you. By dint of much experimentation I discovered a method whereby I could focus the—ah—impulses upon you at a considerable distance; and this, coupled with those periodic treatments, enabled me to work wonders. Ever since your headache started, every moment you spent before your classes, Biddie-Widdie—”
It was at that point, Higgsby, that I struck him. My ire had been mounting with every word he said, and that final crowning insult, that unspeakable double diminutive of my name—well, it was more than I could bear! As he rolled across the room to crash into a table and bring a rack of beakers, test tubes, and the like showering down upon him, I heard—don’t smile, Higgsby! I may be rather thin, but I assure you, a blow from my fist is not a thing to be scorned!
AS I was saying, when I hit him, I heard a step behind me. I turned—and there stood the dean! For the moment, as you may well imagine, I was speechless. Dean Hinkle is a gentlemen of the old school, a confirmed and ardent foe of physical violence. As I saw the horror and unbelief cross his face, it—it sort of kicked me in the teeth, as my friend Rozelli would say.
“What is the meaning of this disgusting scene, Professor Dinwiddie?” he demanded sternly. “Can it be that there is truth in the reports I have been receiving?”
Hurriedly and in some confusion I explained. As I related in full detail my harrowing experience, my truly scandalous mistreatment at the hands of my colleague, I saw with mounting perturbation that my narrative was not having its desired effect. Indeed, Higgsby, Dean Hinkle gave every indication of doubting my veracity!
As I concluded, Prebble, who by this time had arisen, shedding bits of broken glass, commented in a deceitfully solemn voice:
“Dean Hinkle, it is truly deplorable that a man of Professor Dinwiddie’s accomplishments should be losing his mind! You will note the delusion of persecution—unmistakable evidence of paranoia. Totally without warning, sir, he burst in just as I dismissed my class, hurled his wild accusation, and attacked me!”
Groping, as it were, in a fog of incredulity, I watched the Dean’s expression change to one of pity, saw him slowly shake his head—and, Higgsby, for the moment I believe I actually was unbalanced. The injustice of it, the vile perfidy of Professor Prebble—it all destroyed my mental equilibrium. My teeth bared in a—pardon the melodramatic term, Higgsby, but no other will suffice—I bared my teeth, I say, in a wolfish snarl, and sprang at him.
I was astride his body, my fingers sinking deep into his throat, when students, summoned by Dean Hinkle’s shrieks, came upon the scene and wrenched us apart.
I will not recount the distressing details of that which followed. The arrival of the police, the boring and quite ridiculous examinations by asinine psychiatrists, and my final incarceration in that horrible mental institution—all that has little bearing on the case.
<
br /> But, oh—the injustice of it! They shaved my beard—my beard that no barber had touched during all my thirty years at Bluegill. They cropped my hair close so, as they informed me, the other inmates, moved to violence, might grasp it less readily. And I became a—a creature. I, Cyrus Bidwell Dinwiddie, Ph.D., became a mere number in an insane asylum!
The first few weeks were not as intolerable as one might imagine. Despite the indignities to which I was subjected, and despite the nostalgia which beset me with every thought of dear old Bluegill, I found much of interest in my new environment. Ever the scientist, I rather welcomed the opportunity to study the various types of mental aberration with which I was associated.
THE ward in which they confined me consisted of a wide, high-ceilinged corridor, half a city block in length, and lined on both sides with the small identical rooms of the—guests. At the center of the corridor lay a great room, studded with chairs, benches and a few scattered tables. It was here that most of my waking hours were spent. And it was here that I met Nick Rozelli.
After the first few weeks my study of the inmates began to pall, for, after all, their eccentricities were interesting only to a certain point, and if it had not been for two things, Higgsby, I fear my own reason might have foundered, as it were, in the sea of common insanity. And those two things—the development of my hyper-sense, and Nick Rozelli—were inextricably bound together.
As for the former—since I had this ability to see past and future, and since there seemed to be no chance of my escaping it, I began experimenting with it. And I found it a not-uninteresting diversion. With practice, I discovered, I could roam at will along the stream of time, or, to follow Dunne’s analogy, I could study as I chose the film of events. It became quite fascinating, this study of living history, or of the life which is yet to come, and I would have enjoyed it had it not been for my infernal headache. But that persisted, hammering at my brain with, shall I say, mathematical regularity.
Yet I learned a lot during those interminable hours. Higgsby, if I were to tell you all that awaits the human race—but I shall not. It is enough that I should be burdened with the weight of knowledge, the feeling of utter futility. No, Higgsby, on that subject I must remain silent . . .
Oh, yes, Rozelli. Our association began in this manner. I had been seated in the great hall, staring with unseeing eyes into vacancy while my hypersense transported me to some future realm—the third Ganymedian invasion, I believe, was taking place—when a voice penetrated my subconscious mind.
“Hello, Pop,” it said.
Blotting out future sight—a feat I had finally mastered—I saw a tall, powerfully built individual with smooth black hair, carefully combed, and with obviously Latin features, grinning at me. I recognized him as a newcomer in the ward. There was a friendly light in his eyes, and surprisingly, I took no offense at his interruption.
“Seein’ things again?” he inquired, and there was interest in his voice.
For some strange reason I was drawn to this young man, so, permitting a faint smile to curve my lips, I answered:
“Yes—I was seeing things.”
“My name’s Rozelli, Pop,” he said, offering his hand, “Nick Rozelli. The dicks framed me—tried to plant me on the hot seat for bumpin’ off a frail, but me mouthpiece pulled a fast one, and here I am! In a couple months they’ll spring me—and I’ll have me trigger-men snag a couple flatties for gettin’ smart. But right now I’m here—and I figured I might as well meet some of the boys.”
The greater part of this quaint speech was, as you no doubt realize, somewhat bewildering. The term “pop,” I knew, was a friendly diminutive of the word “father”; and a “frail,” as I somewhere had learned, was, surprisingly, a woman. But were it not for the ability of my hyper-sense to recall the scene in full detail, I know I could not repeat his remarks verbatim. During my later associations with Rozelli my vocabulary increased tremendously, but at the moment I could only take his smile as an indication of his good intentions, and I grasped his proffered hand.
AFTER I had introduced myself—and I noted my new friend was duly impressed when he heard my name—I decided in a sudden burst of confidence to tell him my story. At the conclusion of the painful tale, he put his hand on my shoulder and said solemnly:
“Pop, some of those guys over there along the wall are crazy! They told me you were nuts, see? I came over here expectin’ to get a laugh. I read a lot, Pop—high-brow stuff, you know, stories where birds like you visit Mars and such places—and I can see now that this guy Prebble played you for a sucker!” At this juncture, Higgsby, Rozelli’s manner became quite savage. “When I get outa here, Pop, I’ll give him a damn’ big dose of lead poison—and the guys in the know, Pop, will tell you that Nick Rozelli don’t shoot off his mouth!”
After that Nick and I were much in each other’s company. My new friend found great delight in having me recount my visions of future events, and I discovered that I, by sharing my knowledge with another, gained some relief from the despondency which came with the consciousness of life’s utter hopelessness.
So affairs remained until just four days ago when Nick approached me with a newspaper in his hand. He was one of the few inmates who was permitted to receive uncensored copies of the news journals. “Pull,” he had said, was responsible just as “pull” was responsible for having him transferred from the “criminal” ward to quarters reserved for those with less violent forms of dementia. I could see that he was greatly disturbed.
“Look at this, Pop!” he exclaimed. “Somethin’ big is breakin’.”
I followed his pointing finger, and saw a short, yet most startling article in an obscure comer of the journal. I read it with a feeling akin to panic.
I need but look back now, Higgsby, with my hyper-sense, and I can again see that scene and that article. I shall read it to you. You will note the facetious tone of the reporter.
WHAT A HEADACHE!
Clearwater, Pa., May 17. Aspirin is in great demand today in this little college town, the site of venerable Bluegill Academy. According to latest reports, everybody in Clearwater at about 11:00 A.M. today became suddenly afflicted with a terrific headache. Men and women, young and old, rich and poor alike—all have headaches.
A reporter on the staff of the Clearwater Clarion interviewed the town’s leading and only physician, Dr. Benjamin Trupp, who is declared to have said:
“Son, this is the worst headache I’ve run up against in forty years as a medical practitioner. I’ve had headaches myself in that time, believe me, but nothing like this. We are doing our best, but if we don’t soon get relief, we’ll have to appeal to the Health Department at Harrisburg.”
The same reporter, between doses of aspirin and baking soda, braved the perils of Bluegill Hall, and gained a short interview with Dean Hinkle, one of the country’s leading educators. The Dean is reported to have made the following statement:
“I have nothing to say for publication.”
We await with interest further reports from Clearwater.
I need not tell you, my dear Higgsby, that I saw little of the so-called humor with which some stupid scribbler had tried to cloak his effort. I had room in my mind for but one thought. Prebble had done this! Prebble and his accursed experiments. In some way he had learned how to send out the emanations of his new compound to cover a large territory.
“What’s the dope, Pop?” Nick demanded anxiously.
I could only shake my head. A pang of fear had stilled by tongue.
Two days passed in what I might call a state of tense expectancy. I could only await Prebble’s next move while I figuratively gnawed my nails. Then on the morning of the third day I awakened to find the world toppling about my head. I had my usual headache, of course, so I had no inkling of disaster until at breakfast I learned that everyone in the institution was similarly afflicted—inmates, guards, doctors—everyone!
Even you, Higgsby, I suppose, had a headache . . .
What’
s that? . . . you still have one? Well, it will leave you very shortly . . .
You doubtless noted the unprecedented flood of publicity which swept the country. I quote an article in the New York Times; and I trust you will mark the complete lack of jocularity.
STRANGE MALADY SWEEPS
NORTH AMERICA
Epidemic of Headaches Puzzles Nation
New York City, May 20. America awoke with a headache this morning, a headache which, so far as we can determine, affects everyone on the North American continent. Doctors everywhere are being besieged by patients seeking relief from headaches which have refused to yield to the usual home remedies. And the doctors, themselves victims of the strange malady, are baffled.
So far as physicians have been able to learn, there is no fever, and no indication of any other ailment—only a strangely persistent thudding and throbbing at the temples which, even under the strongest opiates, fails to yield entirely.
The President, speaking from the White House, and smiling his usual broad smile, is quoted as saying:
“I’ve had plenty of headaches since taking office, but this one is the most severe. I trust that the people of America will bear with the inconvenience of this strange affliction for a short while, for with the best medical minds of the nation working on the problem, a solution will be found.”
There is more to the article, Higgsby, but it is merely repetitious emphasis on the fact that the doctors were butting their heads against the proverbial stone wall. Strangely enough, no one seemed to have noticed the most important feature of the entire mystery—the headaches in Clearwater; at least, there was no mention of it in the news journals.
To say that I was disturbed by this latest development, would be an obvious understatement of the facts. I was, Higgsby, nonplussed. I knew quite certainly that that demented fool, Prebble, had found a means of broadcasting his radio-active emanations over a vast area, or had found some other method of stimulating the hyper-sense, and was trying to develop that sense in the minds of the nation—and doubtless after that, in the minds of the world! It would mean universal madness, for none but exceptionally well balanced intellects such as my own could bear hyper-sight without the complete loss of sanity.
Forgotten Fiction Page 60