Fugitive of Time. John Russell Fearn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ directed downwards into the brain, and according to the wavelength of the vibration used, higher or lower portions of the accumulated layer of brain-cells are penetrated. I have said that in the normal process they shed themselves, which is true. In this instance they are not shed, because that would create permanent injury and make you only capable of seeing the particular period that had been exposed. So, then, the vibration strikes through the top cell layers and photographs whatever image is in the cells below.”

      “Photographs?” Gordon repeated, astonished.

      “Just so. You don’t marvel at an X-ray photographing the inside of a body without harming the outside, do you? Why marvel at this striking through the upper layers of cells to photograph the scenes beneath?”

      “The marvel to me, sir, is that anything can photograph what must really be only abstract! Surely you can’t get a picture of a future scene, or any scene at all, by just photographing a bunch of brain cells?”

      “No, of course not.” Dr. Royd looked contrite. “Forgive me, young man, but I get in the habit of accepting things and not explaining the parts between. The point is: brain cells give forth vibrations which, when interpreted by the nervous system, form into pictures, sensations, sight, hearing, and so on. Correct?”

      “I can gather that much, yes.”

      “Then there is still hope. Very well; if you have an instrument which duplicates the system used by the human body for interpreting brain sensations, what do you get?”

      “A similar effect as a body would, I suppose.”

      “Exactly. And here is the main instrument.”

      Royd moved across to a rotund tower of complicated apparatus.

      To Gordon’s wondering eyes it even looked vaguely human in outline.

      Royd said: “Duplicating the functions of a human body mechanically is one of the simplest things to science. I have done that and added inventions of my own. Summing up, when my vibrations penetrate the brain, it takes a reading of the cells being examined and their vibrations are transmitted to this machine. They interpret the vibrations as the body would, and produce the same result. But instead of a picture forming mentally, it is finally produced visibly by specially designed transformers, so that what an eye would normally see is instead photographed, camera-wise.”

      “And you get a sort of snapshot of the scene ‘penetrated’?”

      “Yes. For example—”

      Dr. Royd moved to a filing cabinet, shuffled a series of manilla folders for a while, and then returned with half-a-dozen matte-surfaced prints in full plate size. Gordon took them, studied them, and still wondered what he ought to think. They showed Royd in various postures, in various surroundings, but there was certainly nothing to suggest but what the photographs could have been taken in the ordinary way. They were remarkably clear too, very much like the ‘stills’ put out by a film studio.

      “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? That these photographs are so many red herrings?” Royd gave a dry smile. “I can assure you that they are perfectly genuine and have been photographed directly from my own brain. I appear each time because I cannot escape holding my body in my thoughts. Nobody can. We would vanish if we didn’t.”

      “Uh-huh,” Gordon agreed, and handed the prints back.

      “These photos,” Royd added, “illustrate scenes from my future life where, at one time or another, I shall find myself doing exactly as the scenes depict. I don’t expect you to believe me, but you can prove it by letting me take a scene from your future life. If it works, then anybody on this planet can see a scene from their future life if they wish.”

      There was a long silence, and it persisted even after Royd had put the photographs back in their folders. Gordon paced about the laboratory, studying the apparatus, all the time watched by the scientist’s half-amused gray eyes.

      “What is the pay for this experiment?” Gordon asked finally.

      “How much did you anticipate? Name your figure.”

      “That’s difficult: but for nerve strain, expenses, and being unable to rid myself of the fear of death, I’d say it’s worth five thousand pounds.”

      “I’ll make it ten, payable now to show you I keep faith.”

      Gordon opened his mouth and then closed it again. By the time he had finished another circuit of the laboratory, he found the check was being thrust into his hand.

      “Thanks,” he said, nodding. “Now, do I strip or anything?”

      “Gracious, no! Just sit in that chair. I don’t even have to darken the room.”

      Gordon sat down slowly and found the chair no more uncomfortable than that of a hairdresser’s. There was, however, a certain anguish as he waited whilst Royd fussed about with his apparatus.

      “Twenty-five, you say? Right: that means an expectation of life of say fifty years. We’ll have a look at fifty years hence and see what there is.”

      Generators hummed, switches sizzled and snapped, then Gordon found himself in a brief golden glare which dazzled him. His scalp crawled as though mites were creeping in his hair.

      “Fortunately,” Royd said, switching off again, “I have devised an instantaneous developing and printing system so there will be no waiting.”

      Gordon glanced. “There’s no more to it than this?”

      “No more. I told you it was perfectly safe.”

      Gordon sat back happily. Ten thousand pounds in his pocket and a glorified sun-ray treatment. Money for jam!

      “Mmmm,” said Royd presently. “You’ll evidently be dead at seventy-five.”

      Gordon sat up again with a jerk. “Eh?”

      The scientist came over with a damp print in his fingers. It was totally black.

      “This means your brain doesn’t register at the age of seventy-five,” he explained, “which inevitably means it’s got no impressions. At seventy-five you will be dead.”

      Gordon shrugged. “Oh, well, that’s fifty years off, so I’m not bothered. Try something else.”

      “Yes.... Let me see— We’ll try sixty-five.”

      Again the golden glow, the fast developing process, and a totally black print.

      “Sorry,” Royd sighed. “You’ll be dead at sixty-five, too.”

      “This,” Gordon said uneasily, “is getting a bit too much for me! Sure the thing’s working?”

      “Definitely! We’ll try ten years earlier.”

      They did. But fifty-five and forty-five were both blank. By this time Gordon was perspiring freely.

      “Are you sure I’m alive at all?” he demanded.

      “Eh?” Royd peered over his spectacles. “Oh, yes. You’re alive but you won’t be СКАЧАТЬ