 Mr. Spaceship by Philip K. Dick. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Mr. Spaceship by Philip K. Dick. A human brain-controlled spacecraft would mean mechanical perfection. This was accomplished. And something unforeseen. A strange entity called Mr. Spaceship. Humor leaned back. You can see the situation. How can we deal with a factor like this? The perfect variable. Perfect. Prediction should still be possible. The living thing still acts from necessity. Same as inanimate material, but the cause-effect chain is more subtle. There are more factors to be considered. The difference is quantitative, I think. The reaction of the living organism parallels natural causation, but with greater complexity. Gross and Kramer looked up at the board plates suspended on the wall, still dripping the images hardened into place. Kramer traced a line with his pencil. See that? It's a pseudopodium. They're alive, and so far a weapon we can't beat. No mechanical system can compete with that simple or intricate. We'll have to scrap the Johnson control and find something else. Meanwhile, the war continues as it is. Stale meat. Checkmate. They can't get to us, and we can't get through their living minefield. Kramer nodded. It's a perfect defense for them, but there still might be one answer. What's that? Wait a minute. Kramer turned to his rocket expert sitting with the charts and files. The heavy cruiser that returned this week, it didn't actually touch, did it? It came close, but there was no contact. Correct. The expert nodded. The mine was twenty miles off. The cruiser was in space-drive moving directly toward Proxima, line straight, using the Johnson control, of course. It had deflected a quarter of an hour earlier for reasons unknown. Later it resumed its course. That was when they got it. It shifted, Kramer said. But not enough. The mine was coming along after it, trailing it. It's the same old story, but I wonder about the contact. Here's our theory, the expert said. We keep looking for contact, a trigger in the pseudopodium, but more likely we're witnessing a psychological phenomenon. A decision without any physical correlative. We're watching for something that isn't there. The mine decides to blow up. It sees our ship, approaches, and then decides. Thanks. Kramer turned to gross. Well, that confirms what I'm saying. How can a ship guided by automatic relays escape a mine that decides to explode? The whole theory of mine penetration is that you must avoid tripping the trigger. But here the trigger is a state of mind in a complicated, developed life form. The belt is 50,000 miles deep, gross added. It solves another problem for them, repair and maintenance. The damn things reproduce, fill up the spaces by spawning into them. I wonder what they feed on. Probably the remains of our first line. The big cruisers must be a delicacy. It's a game of wits between a living creature and a ship piloted by automatic relays. The ship always loses. Kramer opened a folder. I'll tell you what I suggest. Go on, gross said. I've already heard ten solutions today. What's yours? Mine is very simple. These creatures are superior to any mechanical system, but only because they're alive. Almost any other life form could compete with them. Any higher life form. If the yaks can put out living minds to protect their planets, we ought to be able to harness some of our own life forms in a similar way. Let's make use of the same weapon ourselves. Which life form do you propose to use? I think the human brain is the most agile of known living forms. Do you know of any better? But no human being can withstand out-space travel. A human pilot would be dead of heart failure long before the ship got anywhere near Proxima. But we don't need the whole body, Kramer said. We need only the brain. What? The problem is to find a person of high intelligence who would contribute in the same manner that eyes and arms are volunteered. But a brain? Technically it could be done. Brains have been transferred several times when body destruction made it necessary. Of course, to a spaceship, a heavy out-space cruiser instead of an artificial body. That's new. The room was silent. It's quite an idea, Gross said slowly. His heavy square face twisted. But even supposing it might work, the big question is whose brain? It was all very confusing. The reasons for the war, the nature of the enemy. The Yukone had been contacted on one of the outlying planets of Proxima Centauri. At the approach of the Terran ship, a host of dark, slim pencils had lifted abruptly and shot off into the distance. The first real encounter came between three of the Yuk pencils and a single exploration ship from Terra. No Terran survived. After that it was all out-war with no holds barred. Both sides feverishly constructed defense rings around their systems. Of the two the Yukone belt was the better. The ring around Proxima was a living ring superior to anything Terra could throw against it. The standard equipment by which Terran ships were guided in out-space, the Johnson control was not adequate. Something more was needed. Automatic relays were not good enough. Not good at all. Kramer thought to himself as he stood looking down the hillside at the work going on below him. A warm wind blew along the hill, rustling the weeds and grass. At the bottom, in the valley, the mechanics had almost finished. The last elements of the reflex system had been removed from the ship and crated up. All that was needed now was the new core, the new central key that would take the place of the mechanical system. A human brain. The brain of an intelligent, wary human being. But would the human being part with it? That was the problem. Kramer turned. Two people were approaching him along the road. A man and a woman. The man was gross, expressionless, heavy-set, walking with dignity. The woman was—he stared in surprise and growing annoyance. It was Dolores, his wife. Since they'd separated, he had seen little of her. Kramer, Gross said, Look who I ran into. Come back down with us. We're going into town. Hello, Phil, Dolores said. Well, aren't you glad to see me? He nodded. How have you been? You're looking fine. She was still pretty and slender in her uniform. The blue gray of internal security, gross organization. Thanks, she smiled. You seem to be doing all right, too. Commander Gross tells me that you're responsible for this project. Operation head, as they call it. Whose head have you decided on? That's the problem. Kramer lit a cigarette. This ship is to be equipped with a human brain instead of the Johnson system. We've constructed special draining baths for the brain, electronic relays to catch the impulses and magnify them, a continual feeding duct that supplies the living cells with everything they need, but— But we still haven't got the brain itself. Gross finished. They began to walk back toward the car. If we can get that, we'll be ready for the tests. Will the brain remain alive? Dolores asked. Is it actually going to live as part of the ship? It will be alive, but not conscious. The very little life is actually conscious. Animals, trees, insects are quick in their responses, but they aren't conscious. In this process of ours, the individual personality, the ego, will cease. We only need the responsibility, nothing more. Dolores shuddered. How terrible! In time of war everything must be tried, Kramer said absently. If one life sacrificed will end the war, it's worth it. This ship might get through. A couple more like it, and there wouldn't be any more war. They got into the car. As they drove down the road, Gross said, Have you thought of anyone yet? Kramer shook his head. That's out of my line. What do you mean? I'm an engineer. It's not my department. But all this was your idea. My work ends there. Gross was staring at him oddly. Kramer shifted uneasily. Then who is supposed to do it, Gross said. I can have my organization prepare examinations of various kinds to determine fitness, that kind of thing. Listen, Phil, Dolores said suddenly. What? She turned toward him. I have an idea. Do you remember that professor we had in college? Michael Thomas? Kramer nodded. I wonder if he's still alive, Dolores frowned. If he is, he must be awfully old. Why, Dolores? Gross asked. Perhaps an old person who didn't have much time left, but whose mind was still clear and sharp. Professor Thomas. Kramer rubbed his jaw. He was a wise old duck, but could he still be alive? He must have been seventy then. We could find that out, Gross said. I could make a routine check. What do you think, Dolores said? If any human mind could outwit those creatures. I don't like the idea, Kramer said. In his mind an image had appeared. The image of an old man sitting behind a desk. His bright, gentle eyes moving about the classroom. The old man leaning forward, a thin hand raised. Keep him out of this, Kramer said. What's wrong? Gross looked at him curiously. It's because I suggested it, Dolores said. No, Kramer shook his head. It's not that. I didn't expect anything like this. Somebody I knew, a man I studied under. I remember him very clearly. He was a very distinct personality. Good, Gross said. He sounds fine. We can't do it. We're asking his death. This is war, Gross said, and war doesn't wait on the needs of the individual. You said that yourself. Surely he'll volunteer. We can keep it on that basis. He may already be dead, Dolores murmured. We'll find that out, Gross said, speeding up the car. They drove the rest of the way in silence. For a long time the two of them stood studying the small wood house overgrown with ivy, set back on the lot behind an enormous oak. The little town was silent and sleepy. Once in a while a car moved slowly along the distant highway, but that was all. This is the place, Gross said to Kramer. He folded his arms. Quite a quaint little house. Kramer said nothing. The two security agents behind them were expressionless. Gross started toward the gate. Let's go. According to the cheque he's still alive but very sick. His mind is agile, however. That seems to be certain. It's said he doesn't leave the house. A woman takes care of his needs. He's very frail. They went down the stone walk and up onto the porch. Gross rang the bell. They waited. After a time they heard slow footsteps. The door opened. An elderly woman and a shapeless wrapper studied them impassively. Security, Gross said, showing his card. We wish to see Professor Thomas. Why? Government business. He glanced at Kramer. Kramer stepped forward. I was a pupil of the professors, he said. I'm sure he won't mind seeing us. The woman hesitated uncertainly. Gross stepped into the doorway. All right, mother. This is war time. We can't stand out here. The two security agents followed him and Kramer came reluctantly behind closing the door. Gross stalked down the hall until he came to an open door. He stopped, looking in. Kramer could see the white corner of a bed, a wooden post and the edge of a dresser. He joined Gross. In the dark room a withered old man lay propped up on endless pillows. At first it seemed as if he were asleep. There was no motion or sign of life. But after a time Kramer saw with a faint shock that the old man was watching them intently, his eyes fixed on them, unmoving, unwinking. Professor Thomas, Gross said, I'm Commander Gross of Security. This man with me is perhaps known to you. The faded eyes fixed on Kramer. I know him, Philip Kramer. You've grown heavier, boy. The voice was feeble, the rustle of dry ashes. Is it true you're married now? Yes, I married Dolores French. You remember her. Kramer came toward the bed. But we're separated. It didn't work out very well. Our careers. What we came here about, Professor, Gross began, but Kramer cut him off with an impatient wave. Let me talk. Can't you and your men get out of here long enough to let me talk to him? Gross swallowed. All right, Kramer. He nodded to the two men. The three of them left the room going out into the hall and closing the door after them. The old man in the bed watched Kramer silently. I don't think much of him. He said at last. I've seen his type before. What's he want? Nothing. He just came along. Can I sit down? Kramer found a stiff upright chair beside the bed. If I'm bothering you... No, I'm glad to see you again, Phillip, after so long. I'm sorry your marriage didn't work out. How have you been? I've been very ill. I'm afraid that my moment on the world stage has almost ended. The ancient eyes studied the younger man reflectively. You look as if you've been doing well like everyone else I thought highly of you. You've gone to the top in this society. Kramer smiled. Then he became serious. Professor, there's a project we're working on that I want to talk to you about. It's the first ray of hope we've had in this whole war. If it works, we may be able to crack the yuck defenses, get some ships into their system. If we can do that, the war might be brought to an end. Go on, tell me about it if you wish. It's a long shot, this project. It may not work at all, but we have to give it a try. It's obvious that you came here because of it, Professor Thomas Murmur. I'm becoming curious. Go on. After Kramer finished, the old man lay back in the bed without speaking. At last he sighed. I understand a human mind taken out of a human body. He sat up a little, looking at Kramer. I suppose you're thinking of me. Kramer said nothing. Before I make my decision, I want to see the papers on this, the theory and outline of construction. I'm not sure I like it, for reasons of my own, I mean, but I want to look at the material if you'll do that. Certainly, Kramer stood up and went to the door. Gross and the two security agents were standing outside, waiting tensely. Gross, come inside. They filed into the room. Give the professor the papers, Kramer said. He wants to study them before deciding. Gross brought the file out of his coat pocket, a manila envelope. He handed it to the old man on the bed. Here it is, Professor. You're welcome to examine it. Will you give us your answer as soon as possible? We're very anxious to begin, of course. I'll give you my answer when I've decided. He took the envelope with a thin, trembling hand. My decision depends on what I find out from these papers. If I don't like what I find, then I will not become involved with this work in any shape or form. He opened the envelope with shaking hands. I'm looking for one thing. What is it? Gross said. That's my affair. Leave me a number by which I can reach you when I've decided. Silently Gross put his card down on the dresser. As they went out, Professor Thomas was already reading the first papers, the outline of the theory. Kramer sat across from Dale Winter his second in line. What then? Winter said. He's going to contact us. Kramer scratched with a drawing pen on some paper. I don't know what to think. What do you mean? Winter's good-natured face was puzzled. Look, Kramer stood up, pacing back and forth, his hands in his uniform pockets. He was my teacher in college. I respected him as a man, as well as a teacher. He was more than a voice, a talking book. He was a person, a calm, kindly person I could look up to. I always wanted to be like him someday. Now look at me. So? Look at what I'm asking. I'm asking for his life as if he were some kind of laboratory animal kept around in a cage. Not a man, a teacher at all. Do you think he'll do it? I don't know. Kramer went to the window. He stood looking out. In a way, I hope not. But if he doesn't, then we'll have to find somebody else. And I know. There would be somebody else. Why did Dolores have to? The vid-phone rang. Kramer pressed the button. This is gross. The heavy features formed. The old man called me, Professor Thomas. What did he say? He knew he could tell already by the sound of Gross's voice. He said he'd do it. I was a little surprised myself, but apparently he means it. We've already made arrangements for his admission to the hospital. His lawyer is drawing up the statement of liability. Kramer only half-heard. He nodded wearily. All right. I'm glad. I suppose we can go ahead then. You don't sound very glad. I wonder why he decided to go ahead with it. He was very certain about it. Gross sounded pleased. He called me quite early. I was still in bed. Well, this calls for a celebration. Sure, Kramer said. It sure does. Toward the middle of August, the project neared completion. They stood outside in the hot autumn heat, looking up at the sleek metal sides of the ship. Gross thumped the metal with his hand. Well, it won't be long. We can begin the test any time. Tell us more about this. An officer in gold braids said, It's such an unusual concept. Is there really a human brain inside the ship? A dignitary asked. A small man in a rumpled suit. And the brain is actually alive? Gentlemen, this ship is guided by a living brain instead of the usual Johnson relay control system. But the brain is not conscious. It will function by reflex only. The practical difference between it and the Johnson system is this. A human brain is far more intricate than any man-made structure. And its ability to adapt itself to a situation to respond to danger is far beyond anything that could be artificially built. Gross paused, cocking his ear. The turbines of the ship were beginning to rumble, shaking the ground under them with a deep vibration. Kramer was standing a short distance away from the others, his arms folded, watching silently. At the sound of the turbines he walked quickly around the ship to the other side. A few workmen were clearing away the last of the waste. The scraps of wiring and scaffolding. They glanced up at him and went on heredly with their work. Kramer mounted the ramp and entered the control cabin of the ship. Winter was sitting at the controls with a pilot from Space Transport. How's it look? Kramer asked. All right. Winter got up. He tells me that it would be best to take off manually. The robot controls. Winter hesitated. I mean, the built-in controls can take over later on in Space. That's right, the pilot said. It's customary with the Johnson system, and so in this case we should. Can you tell anything yet? Kramer asked. No, the pilot said slowly. I don't think so. Going over everything it seems to be in good order. There's only one thing I wanted to ask you about. He put his hand on the control board. There are some changes here I don't understand. Changes? Alterations from the original design. I wonder what the purpose is. Kramer took a set of the plans from his code. Let me look. He turned the pages over. The pilot watched carefully over his shoulder. Changes aren't indicated on your copy, the pilot said. I wonder... He stopped. Commander Gross had entered the control cabin. Gross, who authorized alterations? Kramer said. Some of the wiring has been changed. Why? Your old friend. Gross signaled to the field tower through the window. My old friend? The professor. He took quite an active interest. Gross turned to the pilot. Let's get going. We have to take this out past gravity for the test, they tell me. Well, perhaps it's for the best. Are you ready? Sure. The pilot sat down and moved some of the controls around. Any time. Go ahead then, Gross said. The professor, Kramer began, but at that moment there was a tremendous roar and the ship leaped under him. He grasped one of the wall holds and hung on as best he could. The cabin was filling with a steady throbbing, the raging of the jet turbines underneath them. The ship leaped. Kramer closed his eyes and held his breath. They were moving out into space, gaining speed each moment. Well, what do you think? Winter said nervously. Is it time yet? A little longer, Kramer said. He was sitting on the floor of the cabin, down by the control wiring. He had removed the metal covering plate, exposing the complicated maze of relay wiring. He was studying it, comparing it to the wiring diagrams. What's the matter, Gross said? These changes, I can't figure out what they're for. The only pattern I can make out is that for some reason... Let me look, the pilot said. He squatted down beside Kramer. You were saying? See this lead here? Originally it was switch controlled. It closed and opened automatically according to the temperature change. Now it's wired so that the central control system operates it. The same with the others. A lot of this was still mechanical, worked by pressure, temperature, stress. Now it's under the central master. The brain, Gross said. You mean it's been altered so that the brain manipulates it? Kramer nodded. Maybe Professor Thomas felt that no mechanical relays could be trusted. Maybe he thought that things would be happening too fast. But some of these could close in a split second. The brake rockets could go on as quickly as... Hey! Winter said from the control seat. We're getting near the moon stations. What'll I do? They looked out the port. The corroded surface of the moon gleamed up at them. A corrupt and sickening sight. They were moving swift toward it. I'll take it, the pilot said. He eased winter out of the way and strapped himself in place. The ship began to move away from the moon as he manipulated the controls. Down below them they could see the observation stations dotting the surface and the tiny squares that were the openings of the underground factories and hangars. A red blinker winked up at them and the pilot's fingers moved on the board in answer. We're past the moon, the pilot said after a time. The moon had fallen behind them. The ship was heading into outer space. Well, we can go ahead with it. Kramer did not answer. Mr. Kramer, we can go ahead any time. Kramer started. Sorry, I was thinking. It's all right, thanks. He frowned, deep in thought. What is it? Gross asked. The wiring changes. Did you understand the reason for them when you gave the OK to the workmen? Gross flushed. You know I know nothing about technical material. I'm in security. Then you should have consulted me. What does it matter? Gross grinned riley. We're going to have to start putting our faith in the old man sooner or later. The pilot stepped back from the board. His face was pale and set. It's done, he said. That's it. What's done, Kramer said. We're on automatic. The brain. I turned the board over to it. To him, I mean, the old man. The pilot lit a cigarette and puffed nervously. Let's keep our fingers crossed. The ship was coasting evenly in the hands of its invisible pilot. Far down inside the ship carefully armored and protected a soft human brain lay in a tank of liquid. A thousand minute electric charges playing over its surface. As the charges rose, they were picked up and amplified, fed into relay systems advanced, carried on through the entire ship. Gross wiped his forehead nervously. So he is running it now? I hope he knows what he's doing. Kramer nodded enigmatically. I think he does. What do you mean? Nothing. Kramer walked to the port. I see we're still moving in a straight line. He picked up the microphone. We can instruct the brain orally through this. He blew against the microphone experimentally. Go on, Winter said. Bring the ship around half right, Kramer said. Decrease speed. They waited. Time passed. Gross looked at Kramer. No change. Nothing. Wait. Slowly the ship was beginning to turn. The turbines missed, reducing their steady beat. The ship was taking up its new course, adjusting itself. Nearby some space debris rushed past, incinerating in the blasts of the turbine jets. So far so good, Gross said. They began to breathe more easily. The invisible pilot had taken control smoothly, calmly. The ship was in good hands. Kramer spoke a few more words into the microphone and they swung again. Now they were moving back the way they had come, toward the moon. Let's see what he does when we enter the moon's pole, Kramer said. He was a good mathematician, the old man. He could handle any kind of problem. The ship veered, turning away from the moon. The great, eaten away globe fell behind them. Gross breathed a sigh of relief. That's that. One more thing. Kramer picked up the microphone. Returned to the moon and landed the ship at the first space field, he said into it. Good Lord! Winter murmured. Why are you— Be quiet! Kramer stood listening. The turbines gasped and roared as the ship swung full around, gaining speed. They were moving back, back toward the moon again. The ship dipped down, heading toward the great globe below. We're going a little fast, the pilot said. I don't see how he can put down at this velocity. The port filled up as the globe swelled rapidly. The pilot hurried toward the board, reaching for the controls. All at once the ship jerked, the nose lifted, and the ship shot out into space away from the moon, turning at an oblique angle. The men were thrown to the floor by the sudden change in course. They got to their feet again, speechless, staring at each other. The pilot gazed down at the board. It wasn't me. I didn't touch a thing. I didn't even get to it. The ship was gaining speed each moment. Kramer hesitated. Maybe you had better switch it back to manual. The pilot closed the switch. He took hold of the steering controls and moved them experimentally. Nothing. He turned around. Nothing. It doesn't respond. No one spoke. You can see what has happened, Kramer said calmly. The old man won't let go of it now that he has it. I was afraid of this when I saw the wiring changes. Everything in this ship is centrally controlled, even the cooling system, the hatches, the garbage release. We're helpless. Nonsense. Gross strode to the board. He took hold of the wheel and turned it. The ship continued on its course, moving away from the moon, leaving it behind. Release. Kramer said into the microphone. Let go of the controls. We'll take it back. Release. No good, the pilot said. Nothing. He spun the useless wheel. It's dead. Completely dead. And we're still heading out. Winter said, grinning foolishly. We'll be going through the first line defense belt in a few minutes if they don't shoot us down. We better radio back. The pilot clicked the radio to send. I'll contact the main bases, one of the observation stations. Better get the defense belt at the speed we're going, we'll be into it in a minute. And after that, Kramer said, we'll be in outer space. He's moving us toward outspace velocity. Is this ship equipped with baths? Baths? Gross said. The sleep tanks. For space drive, we may need them if we go much faster. But good God, where are we going, Gross said? Where's he taking us? The pilot obtained contact. This is Dwight, on ship, he said. We're entering the defense zone at high velocity. Don't fire on us. Turn back. The impersonal voice came through the speaker. You're not allowed in the defense zone. We can't. We've lost control. Lost control? This is an experimental ship. Gross took the radio. This is Commander Gross, security. We're being carried into outer space. There's nothing we can do. Is there any way that we can be removed from this ship? A hesitation. We have some fast pursuit ships that could pick you up if you wanted to jump. The chances are good they'd find you. Do you have space flares? We do, the pilot said. Let's try it. Abandon ship? Kramer said. If we leave now, we'll never see it again. What else can we do? We're gaining speed all the time. Do you propose that we stay here? No. Kramer shook his head. Damn it. There ought to be a better solution. Could you contact him? Winter asked. The old man tried a reason with him. It's worth a chance, Gross said. Try it. All right. Kramer took the microphone. He paused a moment. Listen, can you hear me? This is Philip Kramer. Can you hear me, Professor? Can you hear me? I want you to release the controls. There was silence. This is Kramer, Professor. Can you hear me? Do you remember who I am? Do you understand who this is? Above the control panel, the wall speaker made a sound. A sputtering static. They looked up. Can you hear me, Professor? This is Philip Kramer. I want you to give the ship back to us. If you can hear me, release the controls. Let go, Professor. Let go. Static, a rushing sound like the wind. They gazed at each other. There was silence for a moment. It's a waste of time, Gross said. No. Listen. The sputter came again. Then, mixed with the sputter, almost lost in it, a voice came. Toneless, without inflection, a mechanical lifeless voice from the metal speaker in the wall above their heads. Is it you, Philip? I can't make you out. Darkness. Who's there with you? It's me, Kramer. His fingers tightened against the microphone handle. You must release the controls, Professor. We have to get back to Terra. You must. Silence. Then the faint, faltering voice came again. A little stronger than before. Kramer. Everything so strange. I was right, though. Consciousness result of thinking. Necessary result. Cognito ergo sum. Retain conceptual ability. Can you hear me? Yes, Professor. I altered the wiring control. I was fairly certain. I wonder if I can do it. Try. Suddenly the air conditioning snapped into operation. It snapped abruptly off again. Down the corridor a door slammed. Something thudded. The man stood listening. Sounds came from all sides of them. Switches, shutting, opening. The lights blinked off. They were in darkness. The lights came back on. And at the same time the heating coils dimmed and faded. Good God! Winter said. Water poured down on them. The emergency firefighting system. There was a screaming rush of air. One of the escape hatches had slid back and the air was roaring frantically out into space. The hatch banged closed. The ship subsided into silence. The heating coils glowed into life. As suddenly as it had begun, the weird exhibition ceased. I can do everything. The dry, toneless voice came from the wall speaker. It is all controlled, Kramer. I wish to talk to you. I've been... been thinking. I haven't seen you in many years. A lot to discuss. You've changed, boy. We have much to discuss. Your wife. The pilot grabbed Kramer's arm. There's a ship standing off our bow. Look! They ran to the port. A slender, pale craft was moving along with them. Keeping pace with them. It was signal blinking. A Terran pursuit ship, the pilot said. Let's jump. They'll pick us up. Suits! He ran to a supply cupboard and turned the handle. The door opened and he pulled the suits out onto the floor. Harry, Gross said. A panic seized them. They dressed frantically, pulling the heavy garments over them. Winter staggered to the escape hatch and stood by it, waiting for the others. They joined him one by one. Let's go, Gross said. Open the hatch. Winter tugged at the hatch. Help me. They grabbed hold, tugging together. Nothing happened. The hatch refused to budge. Get a crowbar, the pilot said. Hasn't anyone got a blaster? Gross looked frantically around. Damn it! Blast it open! Pull, Kramer grated. Pull together. Are you at the hatch? The toneless voice came, drifting and eddying through the corridors of the ship. They looked up, staring about them. I sensed something nearby, outside. A ship. You are leaving, all of you? Kramer, you are leaving too? Very unfortunate. I had hoped we could talk. Perhaps at some other time you might be induced to remain. Open the hatch, Kramer said, staring up at the impersonal walls of the ship. For God's sake, open it! There was silence, an endless pause. Then, very slowly, the hatch slid back. The air screamed out, rushing past them into space. One by one they leaped. One after the other, propelled away by the repulsive material of the suits. A few minutes later they were being hauled aboard the pursuit ship. As the last one of them was lifted through the port, their own ship pointed itself suddenly upward and shot off at tremendous speed. It disappeared. Kramer removed his helmet gasping. Two sailors held onto him and began to wrap him in blankets. Gross zipped a mug of coffee, shivering. It's gone, Kramer murmured. I'll have an alarm sent out, Gross said. What's happened to your ship? A sailor asked curiously. It sure took off in a hurry. Who's on it? We'll have to have it destroyed, Gross went on, his face grim. It's got to be destroyed. There's no telling what it, what he has in mind. Gross sat down weakly on a metal bench. What a close call for us. We were so damn trusting. What could he be planning? Kramer said half to himself. It doesn't make sense. I don't get it. As the ship sped back toward the moon base, they sat around the table in the dining room, sipping hot coffee and thinking. Not saying very much. Look here, Gross said at last. What kind of a man was Professor Thomas? What do you remember about him? Kramer put his coffee mug down. It was ten years ago, I don't remember much, it's vague. He let his mind run back over the years. He and Dolores had been at Hunt College together in physics and the life sciences. The college was small and set back away from the momentum of modern life. He had gone there because it was his hometown and his father had gone there before him. Professor Thomas had been at the college a long time, as long as anyone could remember. He was a strange old man, keeping to himself most of the time. There were many things that he disapproved of, but he seldom said what they were. Do you recall anything that might help us? Gross asked. Anything that would give us a clue as to what he might have in mind? Kramer nodded slowly. I remember one thing. One day he and the professor had been sitting together in the school chapel talking leisurely. Well, you'll be out of school soon, the professor had said. What are you going to do? Do work at one of the government research projects, I suppose. And eventually, what's your ultimate goal? Kramer had smiled. The question is unscientific. It presupposes such things as ultimate ends. Suppose instead along these lines then, what if there were no war and no government research projects? What would you do then? I don't know, but how can I imagine a hypothetical situation like that? There's been war as long as I can remember. We're geared for war. I don't know what I'd do. I suppose I'd adjust, get used to it. The professor had stared at him. Oh, and do you think you'd get accustomed to it, eh? Well, I'm glad of that. And you think you could find something to do? Gross listened intently. What do you infer from this, Kramer? Not much, except that he was against the war. We're all against the war, Gross pointed out. True, but he was withdrawn, set apart. He lived very simply, cooking his own meals. His wife died many years ago. He was born in Europe, in Italy. He changed his name when he came to the United States. He used to read Dante and Milton. He even had a Bible. Very anachronistic, don't you think? Yes, he lived quite a lot in the past. He found an old phonograph and records, and he'd listened to the old music. You saw his house, how old-fashioned it was. Did he have a file? Winter asked Gross. With security? No, none at all. As far as we could ever tell, he never engaged in political work. Never joined anything, or even seemed to have strong political convictions. No, Kramer agreed. About all he ever did was walk through the hills. He liked nature. Nature can be of great use to a scientist, Gross said. There wouldn't be any science without it. Kramer, what do you think his plan is? Taking control of the ship and disappearing, Winter said. Maybe the transfer made him insane, the pilot said. Maybe there's no plan, nothing rational at all. But he had the ship rewired, and he had made sure that he would retain consciousness and memory before he even agreed to the operation. He must have had something planned from the start. But what? Perhaps he just wanted to stay alive longer, Kramer said. He was old and about to die. Or... Or what? Nothing, Kramer stood up. I think as soon as we get to the moon base I'll make a vid-call to Earth. I want to talk to somebody about this. Who's that? Gross asked. Dolores, maybe she remembers something. That's a good idea, Gross said. Where are you calling from? Dolores asked when he succeeded in reaching her. From the moon base. All kinds of rumors are running around. Why didn't the ship come back? What's happened? I'm afraid he ran off with it. He? The old man, Professor Thomas, Kramer explained what had happened. Dolores listened intently. How strange! And you think he planned it all in advance from the start? I'm certain. He asked for the plans of construction and the theoretical diagrams at once. But why? What for? I don't know. Look, Dolores, what do you remember about him? Is there anything that might give a clue to all this? Like what? I don't know. That's the trouble. On the vid-screen, Dolores knitted her brow. I remember he raised chickens in his backyard. And once he had a goat, she smiled. Do you remember the day the goat got loose and wandered down the main street of town? Nobody could figure out where it came from. Anything else? No. He watched her struggling, trying to remember. He wanted to have a farm sometime, I know. All right, thanks. Kramer touched the switch. When I get back to Terra, maybe I'll stop and see you. Let me know how it works out. He cut the line and the picture dimmed and faded. He walked slowly back to where Gross and some officers of the military were sitting at a chart-table talking. Any luck? Gross said, looking up. No, all she remembers is that he kept a goat. Come over and look at this detail chart. Gross motioned him around to his side. Watch. Kramer saw the record tabs moving furiously, little white dots racing back and forth. What's happening, he asked. A squadron outside the defense zone has finally managed to contact the ship. They're maneuvering now for position. Watch. The white counters were forming a barrel formation around a black dot that was moving steadily across the board, away from the central position. As they watched, the white dots constricted around it. They're ready to open fire. A technician at the board said, Commander, what shall we tell them to do? Gross hesitated. I hate to be the one who makes the decision when it comes right down to it. Not just a ship, Kramer said. It's a man, a living person. A human being is up there, moving through space. I wish we knew what. But the order has to be given. We can't take any chances. Suppose he went over to them, to the yawks. Kramer's jaw dropped. My God, he wouldn't do that. Are you sure? Do you know what he'll do? He wouldn't do that. Gross turned to the technician. Tell him to go ahead. I'm sorry, sir, but now the ship has gotten away. Look down at the board. Gross stared down. Kramer over his shoulder. The black dot had slipped through the white dots and had moved off at an abrupt angle. The white dots were broken up, dispersing in confusion. He's an unusual strategist, one of the officers said. He traced the line. It's an ancient maneuver, an old Prussian device, but it worked. The white dots were turning back. Too many yuck ships out that far, Gross said. Well, that's what you get when you don't act quickly. He looked up coldly at Kramer. We should have done it when we had him. Look at him go. He jabbed a finger at the rapidly moving black dot. The dot came to the edge of the board and stopped. It had reached the limit of the chartered area. See? Now what? Kramer thought watching. So the old man had escaped the cruisers and gotten away. He was alert all right. There was nothing wrong with his mind or with ability to control his new body. Body. The ship was a new body for him. He had traded in the old dying body, withered and frail for this hulking frame of metal and plastic turbines and rocket jets. He was strong now, strong and big. The new body was more powerful than a thousand human bodies. But how long would it last him? The average life of a cruiser was only ten years. With careful handling he might get twenty out of it before some essential part failed and there was no way to replace it. And then, what then? What would he do when something failed and there was no one to fix it for him? That would be the end. Some place far out in the cold darkness of space the ship would slow down, silent and lifeless to exhaust its last heat into the eternal timelessness of outer space. Or perhaps it would crash on some barren asteroid burst into a million fragments. It was only a question of time. Your wife didn't remember anything? Gross said. I told you only that he kept a goat once. Hell, a lot of help that is. Kramer shrugged. It's not my fault. I wonder if we'll ever see him again. Gross stared down at the indicator dot still hanging at the edge of the board. I wonder if he'll ever move back this way. I wonder too, Kramer said. That night Kramer lay in bed tossing from side to side unable to sleep. The moon gravity even artificially increased was unfamiliar to him and it made him uncomfortable. A thousand thoughts wandered loose in his head as he lay fully awake. What did it all mean? What was the professor's plan? Maybe they would never know. Maybe the ship was gone for good. The old man had left forever shooting into outer space. They might never find out why he had done it. What purpose if any had been in his mind? Kramer sat up in bed. He turned on the light and lit a cigarette. His quarters were small, a metal lined bunk room part of the moon station base. The old man had wanted to talk to him. He had wanted to discuss things, hold a conversation. But in the hysteria and confusion all they had been able to think of was getting away. The ship was rushing off with them, carrying them into outer space. Kramer said his jaw. Could they be blamed for jumping? They had no idea where they were being taken or why. They were helpless, caught in their own ship and the pursuit ship standing by waiting to pick them up was their only chance. Another half hour and it would have been too late. But what had the old man wanted to say? What had he intended to tell him in those first confusing moments when the ship around them had come alive? Each metal strut and wire suddenly animate, the body of a living creature, a vast metal organism. It was weird, unnerving. He could not forget it, even now. He looked around the small room uneasily. What did it signify? The coming to life of metal and plastic. All at once they had found themselves inside a living creature in its stomach, like Jonah inside the whale. It had been alive and it had talked to them, talked calmly and rationally as it rushed them off, faster and faster into outer space. The wall speaker and circuit had become the vocal cords and mouth, the wiring, the spinal cord and nerves, the hatches and relays and circuit breakers, the muscles. They had been helpless, completely helpless. The ship had, in a brief second, stolen their power away from them and left them defenseless practically at its mercy. It was not right, it made him uneasy. All his life he had controlled machines, bent nature and the forces of nature to man and man's needs. The human race had slowly evolved until it was in a position to operate things, run them as it saw fit. Now all at once it had been plunged back down the ladder again, prostrate before a power against which they were children. Kramer got out of bed. He put on his bathrobe and began to search for a cigarette. While he was searching the vid-phone rang, he snapped the vid-phone on. Yes, the face of an immediate monitor appeared. A call from terror, Mr. Kramer. It's an emergency call. Emergency call? For me? Put it through. Kramer came awake, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. Alarm plucked at him. From the speaker a strange voice came. Philip Kramer? Is this Philip Kramer? Yes, go on. This is General Hospital, New York City, Terra. Mr. Kramer, your wife is here. She has been critically injured in an accident. Your name was given to us to call. Is it possible for you to... How badly? Kramer gripped the vid-phone stand. Is it serious? Yes, it's serious, Mr. Kramer. Are you able to come here? The quicker you can come, the better. Yes, Kramer nodded. I'll come. Thanks. The screen died as the connection was broken. Kramer waited a moment, then he tapped the button. The screen re-lit again. Yes, sir? The monitor said. Can I get a ship to Terra at once? It's an emergency. My wife? There's no ship leaving the Moon for eight hours. You'll have to wait until the next period. Isn't there anything I can do? We can broadcast a general request to all ships passing through this area. Sometimes cruisers pass by here returning to Terra for repairs. Will you broadcast that for me? I'll come down to the field. Yes, sir, but there may be no ship in the area for a while. It's a gamble. The screen died. Kramer dressed quickly. He put on his coat and hurried to the lift. A moment later he was running across the general receiving lobby past the rows of vacant desks and conference tables. At the door the sentries stepped aside and he went outside onto the great concrete steps. The face of the Moon was in shadow. Below him the field stretched out in total darkness, a black void, endless, without form. He made his way carefully down the steps and along the ramp, along the side of the field to the control tower. A faint row of red lights showed him the way. Two soldiers challenged him at the foot of the tower, standing in the shadows, their guns ready. Kramer? Yes, a light was flashed in his face. Your call has been sent out already. Any luck? Kramer asked. There's a cruiser nearby that has made contact with us. It has an injured jet and is moving slowly back toward Terra, away from the line. Good! Kramer nodded, a flood of relief rushing through him. He lit a cigarette and gave one to each of the soldiers. The soldiers lit up. Sir, one of them asked. Is it true about the experimental ship? What do you mean? It came to life and ran off? No, not exactly, Kramer said. It had a new type of control system instead of Johnson units. It wasn't properly tested. But, sir, one of the cruisers that was there got up close to it and a buddy of mine says this ship acted funny. He never saw anything like it. It was like when he was fishing once on Terra in Washington State, fishing for bass. The fish were smart, going this way and that. Here's your cruiser, the other soldier said. Look! An enormous, vague shape was setting slowly down onto the field. They could make nothing out but its row of tiny green blinkers. Kramer stared at the shape. Better hurry, sir, the soldier said. They don't stick around here very long. Thanks! Kramer loped across the field toward the black shape that rose up above him, extended across the width of the field. The ramp was down from the side of the cruiser and he caught hold of it. The ramp rose and a moment later Kramer was inside the hold of the ship. The hatch slid shut behind him. As he made his way up the stairs to the main deck, the turbines roared up from the moon, out into space. Kramer opened the door to the main deck. He stopped suddenly, staring around him in surprise. There was nobody in sight. The ship was deserted. Good God! He said, realization sweeping over him, numbing him. He sat down on a bench, his head swimming. Good God! The ship roared out into space, leaving the moon and Terra farther behind each moment. And there was nothing he could do. So it was you who put the call through. He said at last, it was you who called me on the vid-phone, not any hospital on Terra. It was all part of the plan. He looked up and around him. And Dolores is really? Your wife is fine. The wall-speaker above him said tonelessly. It was a fraud. I am sorry to trick you that way, Phillip, but it was all I could think of. Another day, and you would have been back on Terra. I don't want to remain in this area any longer than necessary. They have been so certain of finding me out in deep space that I have been able to stay here without too much danger. But even the perloined letter was found eventually. Kramer smoked his cigarette nervously. What are you going to do? Where are we going? First, I want to talk to you. I have many things to discuss. I was very disappointed when you left me along with the others. I had hoped that you would remain. The dry voice chuckled. Remember how we used to talk in the old days? You and I? That was a long time ago. The ship was gaining speed. It plunged through space at tremendous speed, rushing through the last of the defense zone and out beyond. A rush of nausea made Kramer bend over for a moment. When he straightened up, the voice from the wall went on. I'm sorry to step it up so quickly, but we are still in danger. Another few moments and we'll be free. How about yuck ships? Aren't they out there? I've already slipped away from several of them. They're quite curious about me. Curious? They sense that I'm different, more like their own organic minds. They don't like it. I believe they will begin to withdraw from this area soon. Apparently they don't want to get involved with me. They're an odd race, Phillip. I would have liked to study them closely, try to learn something about them. I'm of the opinion that they use no inert material. All their equipment and instruments are alive in some form or another. They don't construct or build at all. The idea of making is far into them. They utilize existing forms, even their ships. Where are we going? Kramer said. I want to know where you're taking me. Frankly, I'm not certain. You're not certain? I haven't worked some details out. There are a few vague spots in my program still, but I think that in a short while I'll have them ironed out. What is your program? Kramer said. It's really very simple, but don't you want to come into the control room and sit? These seats are much more comfortable than that metal bench. Kramer went into the control room and sat down at the control board. Looking at the useless apparatus made him feel strange. What's the matter? The speaker above the board grasped. Kramer gestured helplessly. I'm powerless. I can't do anything, and I don't like it. Do you blame me? No. No, I don't blame you. But you'll get your control back soon. Don't worry. This is only a temporary exponent taking you off this way. It was something I didn't contemplate. I forgot that orders would be given out to shoot me on sight. It was Gross's idea. I don't doubt that. My conception, my plan came to me as soon as you began to describe your project that day at my house. I saw at once that you were wrong. You people have no understanding of the mind at all. I realized that the transfer of a human brain from an organic body to a complex artificial spaceship would not involve the loss of the intellectualization faculty of the mind. When a man thinks, he is. When I realized that, I saw the possibility of an age-old dream becoming real. I was quite elderly when I first met you, Philip. Even then, my lifespan had come pretty much to its end. I could look ahead to nothing but death and with it the extinction of all my ideas. I had made no mark on the world, none at all. My students, one by one, passed from me into the world to take up jobs in the great research project, the search for better and bigger weapons of war. The world has been fighting for a long time. First with itself, then with the Martians, then with these beings from Proxima Centauri, whom we know nothing about. The human society has evolved war as a cultural institution, like the science of astronomy or mathematics. War is a part of our lives, a career, a respected vocation. Bright, alert young men and women move into it, putting their shoulders to the wheel as they did in the time of Nebuchadnezzar. It has always been so. But is it innate in mankind? I don't think so. No social custom is innate. There were many human groups that did not go to war. The Eskimos never grasped the idea at all, and the American Indians never took to it well. But these dissenters were wiped out, and a cultural pattern was established that became the standard for the whole planet. Now it has become ingrained in us. But if some place along the line, some other way of settling problems had arisen and taken hold, something different than the massing of men and materials to... What's your plan, Kramer said? I know the theory it was part of one of your lectures. Yes, buried in a lecture on plant selection, as I recall. When you came to me with this proposition, I realized that perhaps my conception could be brought to life after all. If my theory were right that war is only a habit, not an instinct, a society built up apart from terror with a minimum of cultural roots might develop differently. If it failed to absorb our outlook, if it could start out on another foot, it might not arrive at the same point to which we have come. A dead end. With nothing but greater and greater wars in sight until nothing is left but ruin and destruction everywhere. Of course, there would have to be a watcher to guide the experiment at first. A crisis would undoubtedly come very quickly, probably in the second generation. Cain would arise almost at once. You see, Kramer, I estimate that if I remain at rest most of the time on some small planet or moon, I may be able to keep functioning for almost a hundred years. That would be time enough, sufficient to see the direction of the new colony. After that, well, after that it would be up to the colony itself. Which is just as well, of course. Man must take control eventually on his own. One hundred years, and after that they will have control of their own destiny. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps war is more than a habit. Perhaps it is a law of the universe that things can only survive as groups by group violence. But I'm going ahead and taking the chance that it is only habit. That I'm right. That war is something we're so accustomed to that we don't realize it is a very unnatural thing. Now, as to the place. I'm still a little vague about that. We must find the place still. That's what we're doing now. You and I are going to inspect a few systems off the beaten path. Planets where the trading prospects are low enough to keep tern ships away. I know of one planet that might be a good place. It was reported by the Fairchild Expedition in their original manual. We may look into that for a start. The ship was silent. Kramer sat for a time, staring down at the metal floor under him. The floor throbbed duly with the motion of the turbines. At last he looked up. You might be right. Maybe our outlook is only habit. Kramer got to his feet. But I wonder if something has occurred to you. What is that? If it's such a deeply ingrained habit going back thousands of years, how are you going to get your colonists to make the break, leave Tara and Taran customs? How about this generation, the first ones, the people who found the colony? I think you're right in that the next generation would be free of all this if there were an... He grinned. An old man, above, to teach them something else instead. Kramer looked up at the wall speaker. How are you going to get the people to leave Tara and come with you if, by your own theory, this generation can't be saved? It all has to start with the next. The wall speaker was silent. Then it made a sound. The faint, dry chuckle. I'm surprised at you, Phillip. Settlers can be found. We won't need many, just a few. The speaker chuckled again. I'll acquaint you with my solution. At the far end of the corridor a door slid open. There was a sound, a hesitant sound. Kramer turned. Dolores? Dolores Kramer stood uncertainly looking into the control room. She blinked in amazement. Phil, what are you doing here? What's going on? They stared at each other. What's happening? Dolores said. The vid call that you had been heard in a lunar explosion. The wall speaker rasped into life. You see, Phillip, that problem is already solved. We don't really need so many people, even a single couple might do. Kramer nodded slowly. I see, he murmured thickly, just one couple, one man and woman. They might make it all right if there were someone to watch and see that things went on as they should. There will be quite a few things I can help you with, Phillip. Quite a few. We'll get along very well, I think. Kramer grinned riley. You could even help us name the animals, he said. I understand that's the first step. I'll be glad to. The toneless impersonal voice said. As I recall, my part will be to bring them to you one by one. Then you can do the actual naming. I don't understand. Dolores faltered. What does he mean, Phil, naming animals? What kind of animals? Where are we going? Kramer walked slowly over to the port and stood, staring silently out. His arms folded. Beyond the ship, a myriad fragments of light gleamed. Countless coals glowing in the dark void. Stars, suns, systems. Endless without number. The universe of worlds and infinity of planets waiting for them gleaming and winking from the darkness. He turned back, away from the port. Where are we going? He smiled at his wife, standing nervous and frightened, her large eyes full of alarm. I don't know where we're going, he said, but somehow that doesn't seem too important right now. I'm beginning to see the professor's point. It's the results that count. For the first time in many months he put his arm around Dolores. At first she stiffened, the fright and nervousness still in her eyes, but then suddenly she relaxed against him and there were tears wetting her cheeks. Phil, do you really think we can start over again, you and I? He kissed her tenderly, then passionately, and the spaceship shot swiftly through the endless, tractless eternity of the void. End of Mr. Spaceship by Philip K. Dick. The Murder Machine by Hugh B. Cave. It was dusk on the evening of December 7, 1906 when I first encountered Sir John Harmon. At the moment of his entrance I was standing over the table in my study, a lighted match in my cupped hands and a pipe between my teeth. The pipe was never lit. I heard the lower door slam shut with a violent clatter. The stairs resounded to a series of unsteady footbeats and the door of my study was flung back. In the opening, staring at me with quiet dignity, he stood a young, careless fellow about five feet ten in height and decidedly dark of complexion. The swagger of his entrance branded him as an adventurer. The ghastly pallor of his face, which was almost colorless, branded him as a man who has found something more than mere adventure. Dr. Dale, he demanded. I am Dr. Dale. He closed the door of the room deliberately, advancing toward me with slow steps. My name is John Harmon, Sir John Harmon. It is unusual, I suppose, he said quietly with a slight shrug. Coming at this late hour, I won't keep you long. He faced me silently. A single glance at those strained features convinced me of the reason for his coming. Only one thing can bring such a furtive, restless stare to a man's eyes. Only one thing. Fear. I've come to you, Dale, because... Sir John's fingers closed heavily over the edge of the table. Because I am on the verge of going mad. From fear? From fear, yes. I suppose it is easy to discover. A single look at me. A single look at you, I said simply, would convince any man that you are deadly afraid of something. Do you mind telling me just what it is? He shook his head slowly. The swagger of the poise was gone. He stood upright now with a positive effort, as if the realization of his position had suddenly surged over him. I do not know, he said quietly. It is a childish fear. Fear of the dark, you may call it. The cause does not matter, but if something does not take this unholy terror away, the effect will be madness. I watched him in silence for a moment, studying the shrunken outline of his face and the unsteady gleam of his narrowed eyes. I had seen this man before. All London had seen him. His face was constantly appearing in the sporting pages, a swaggering member of the upper set, a man who had been engaged to nearly every beautiful woman in the country, who sought adventure in sport and in nightlife merely for the sake of living at top speed. And here he stood before me, whitened by fear, the very thing he had so deliberately laughed at. Dale, he said slowly. For the past week I have been thinking things that I do not want to think and doing things completely against my will. Some outside power, God knows what it is, is controlling my very existence. He stared at me and leaned closer across the table. Last night, some time before midnight, he told me, I was sitting alone in my den. Alone, mind you, not a soul was in the house with me. I was reading a novel, and suddenly, as if a living presence had stood in the room and commanded me, I was forced to put the book down. I fought against it, fought to remain in that room and go on reading, and I failed. Failed? My reply was a single word of wonder. I left my home because I could not help myself. Have you ever been under hypnotism, Dale? Yes, well, the thing that gripped me was something similar, except that no living person came near me in order to work his hypnotic spell. I went alone the whole way, through back streets, alleys, filthy door yards, never once striking a main thoroughfare, until I had crossed the entire city and reached the west side of the square. And there, before a big grey townhouse, I was allowed to stop my mad wandering. The power, whatever it was, broke. I—well, I went home. Sir John got to his feet with an effort and stood over me. Dale, he whispered hoarsely, what was it? You were conscious of every detail, I asked? Conscious of the time, of the locality you went to? You were sure it was not some fantastic dream? Is it a dream to have some damnable force move me about like a mechanical robot? But you can think of no explanation? I was a bit skeptical of his story. He turned on me savagely. I have no explanation, Doctor, he said curtly. I came to you for the explanation. And while you were thinking over my case during the next few hours, perhaps you can explain this. When I stood before that grey mansion on After Street, alone in the dark, there was murder in my heart. I should have killed the man who lived in that house had I not been suddenly released from the force that was driving me forward. Sir John turned from me in bitterness. Without offering any word of departure, he pulled open the door and stepped across the sill. The door closed and I was alone. That was my introduction to Sir John Harmon. I offer it in detail because it was the first of a startling series of events that led to the most terrible case of my career. In my records I have labelled the entire case The Affair of the Death Machine. Twelve hours after Sir John's departure, which will bring the time to the morning of December 8th, the headlines of the Daily Mail stared up at me from the table. They were black and heavy, those headlines and horribly significant. They were... Franklin White Jr. found murdered. Midnight Marauder strangles young society man in West End Mansion. I turned the paper hurriedly and read. Between the hours of one and two o'clock this morning, an unknown murderer entered the home of Franklin White Jr., well-known West End sportsman, and escaped, leaving behind his strangled victim. Young White, who is a favourite in London Upper Circles, was discovered in his bed this morning, where he had evidently lain dead for many hours. Police are seeking a motive for the crime, which may have its origin in the fact that White only recently announced his engagement to Margot Verne, young and exceedingly pretty French debutante. Police say that the murderer was evidently an amateur and that he made no attempt to cover his crime. Inspector Thomas Drake of Scotland Yard has the case. There was more, much more. Young White had evidently been a decided favourite and the murder had been so unexpected, so deliberate, that the Mail reporter had made the most of his opportunity for a story. But aside from what I have reprinted, there was only a single short paragraph which claimed my attention. It was this. The White home is not a difficult one to enter. It is a huge grey townhouse situated just off the square in After Street. The murderer entered by a low French window, leaving it open. I have copied the words exactly as they were printed. The item does not call for any comment. But I had hardly dropped the paper before she stood before me. I say she. It was Margot Verne, of course, because for some peculiar reason I had expected her. She stood quietly before me. Her cameo face set in the black of morning, staring straight into mine. You know why I have come, she said quickly. I glanced at the paper on the table before me and nodded. Her eyes followed my glance. That is only part of it, Doctor, she said. I was in love with Franklin very much, but I have come to you for something more, because you are a famous psychologist and can help me. She sat down quietly, leaning forward so that her arms rested on the table. Her face was white, almost as white as the face of that young adventurer who had come to me on the previous evening, and when she spoke her voice was hardly more than a whisper. Doctor, for many days now I have been under some strange power, something frightful that compels me to think and act against my will. She glanced at me suddenly as if to note the effect of her words, then. I was engaged to Franklin for more than a month, Doctor, yet for a week now I have been commanded, commanded by some awful force to return to—to a man who knew me more than two years ago. I can't explain it. I did not love this man. I hated him bitterly. Now comes this mad desire, this hungering to go to him, and last night— Margot Verne hesitated suddenly. She stared at me, searchingly. Then, with renewed courage, she continued, Last night, Doctor, I was alone. I had retired for the night, and it was late, nearly three o'clock, and then I was strangely commanded by this awful power that has suddenly taken possession of my soul to go out. I tried to restrain myself, and in the end I found myself walking through the square. I went straight to Franklin White's home. When I reached there it was half past three. I could hear Big Ben. I went in through the wide French window at the side of the house. I went straight to Franklin's room, because I could not prevent myself from going. A sob came from Margot's lips. She had half risen from her chair and was holding herself together with a brave effort. I went to her side and stood over her, and she, with a half-crazed laugh, stared up at me. He was dead when I saw him, she cried. Dead! Murdered! That infernal force, whatever it was, had made me go straight to my lover's side to see him lying there with those cruel finger marks on his throat. Dead, I tell you. I—oh, it is horrible. She turned suddenly. When I saw him, she said bitterly, the sight of him and the sight of those marks broke the spell that held me. I crept from the house as if I had killed him. They—they will probably find out that I was there, and they will accuse me of the murder. It does not matter, but this power, this awful thing that has been controlling me, is there no way to fight it? I nodded heavily. The memory of that unfortunate fellow who had come to me with the same complaint was still holding me. I was prepared to wash my hands of the whole horrible affair. It was clearly not a medical case, clearly out of my realm. There is a way to fight it, I said quietly. I am a doctor, not a master of hypnotism, or a man who can discover the reasons behind that hypnotism. But London has its Scotland Yard, and Scotland Yard has a man who is one of my greatest comrades. She nodded her surrender. As I stepped to the telephone, I heard her murmur in a weary, troubled voice. Hypnotism? It is not that. God knows what it is, but it has always happened when I have been alone. One cannot hypnotize through distance. And so, with Margot Verne's consent, I sought the aid of Inspector Thomas Drake of Scotland Yard. In half an hour Drake stood beside me, the quiet of my study. When he had heard Margot's story he asked a single significant question. It was this. You say you have a desire to go back to a man who is once intimate with you. Who is he? Margot looked at him dullly. It is Michael Strange, she said slowly. Michael Strange of Paris, a student of science. Drake nodded. Without further questioning he dismissed my patient and when she had gone he turned to me. She did not murder her sweetheart, Dale, he said. That is evident. Have you any idea who did? And so I told him of that other young man, Sir John Harmon, who had come to me the night before. When I had finished Drake stared at me, stared through me, and suddenly turned on his heel. I shall be back, Dale, he said, curtly. Wait for me. Wait for him? Well, that was Drake's peculiar way of going about things, impetuous, sudden, until he faced some crisis. Then in the face of danger he became a cold, indifferent officer of Scotland Yard. And so I waited. During the twenty-four hours that elapsed before Drake returned to my study I did my best to diagnose the case before me. First Sir John Harmon, his visit to the home of Franklin White, then the deliberate murder, and finally young Margot Verne and her confession. It was like the revolving whirl of a pinwheel, this series of events, continuous and mystifying, but without beginning or end. Surely somewhere in the procession of horrors there would be a loose end to cling to, some loose end that would eventually unravel the pinwheel. It was plainly not a medical affair, or at least only remotely so. The thing was in proper hands then, with Drake following it through, and I had only to wait for his return. He came at last and closed the door of the room behind him. He stood over me with something of a swagger. Dale, I've been looking into the records of this Michael Strange, he said quietly. They are interesting, those records. They go back some ten years when this fellow Strange was beginning his study of science. And now Michael Strange is one of the greatest authorities in Paris on the subject of mental telegraphy. He has gone into the study of human thought with the same thoroughness that other scientists go into the subject of radio telegraphy. He has written several books on the subject. Drake pulled a tiny black volume from the pocket of his coat and dropped it on the table before me. With one hand he opened it to a place which he had previously marked in pencil. Read it, he said significantly. I looked at him in wonder and then did as he ordered. What I read was this. Mental telegraphy is a science, not a myth. It is a very real fact, a very real power which can be developed only by careful research. To most people it is merely a curiosity. They sit, for instance, in a crowded room at some uninteresting lecture and stare continually at the back of some unsuspecting companion until that companion, by the power of suggestion, turns suddenly around. Or they think heavily of a certain person nearby, perhaps commanding him mentally to hum a certain popular tune until a victim, by the power of their will, suddenly fulfills the order. To such persons the science of mental telegraphy is merely an amusement. And so it will be until science has brought it to such a perfection that these waves of thought can be broadcast, that they can be transmitted through the ether precisely as radio waves are transmitted. In other words, mental telegraphy is at present merely a mild form of hypnotism. Until it has been developed so that those hypnotic powers can be directed through space and directed accurately to those individuals to whom they are intended, this science will have no significance. It remains for scientists of today to bring about that development. I closed the book. When I looked up, Drake was watching me intently as if expecting me to say something. Drake, I said slowly, more to myself than to him, the pinwheel is beginning to unravel. We have found the beginning thread. Perhaps if we follow that thread, Drake smiled. If you'll pick up your hat and coat, Dale, he interrupted, I think we have an appointment. This Michael Strange, whose book you have just enjoyed so immensely, is now residing on a certain quiet little side street about three miles from the square in London. I followed Drake in silence until we had left Cheney Lane in the gloom behind us. At the entrance to the square my companion called a cab, and from there on we rode slowly through a heavy darkness which was blanketed by a wet penetrating fog. The cabbie, evidently one who knew my companion by sight and what London cabbie does not know is Scotland Yardmen, chose a route that twisted through gloomy uninhabited side streets, seldom winding into the main route of traffic. As for Drake he sank back in the uncomfortable seat and made no attempt at conversation. For the entire first part of our journey he said nothing, not until we had reached a black, unlighted section of the city did he turn to me. Dale, he said at length, have you ever hunted tiger? I looked at him and laughed. Why, I replied, do you expect this hunt of ours will be something of a blind chase? It will be a blind chase, no doubt of it, he said. And when we have followed the trail to its end I imagine we shall find something very like a tiger to deal with. I have looked rather deeply into Michael Strange's life and unearthed a bit of the man's character. He has twice been accused of murder, murder by hypnotism, and has twice cleared himself by throwing scientific explanations at the police. That is the nature of his entire history for the past ten years. I nodded, without replying. As Drake turned away from me again our cab poked its laboring nose into a narrowing gloomy street. I had a glimpse of a single unsteady street lamp on the corner and a dim sign, mate-lane. And then we were dragging along the curb. The cab stopped with a groan. I had stepped down and was standing by the cab door when suddenly from the darkness in front of me a strange figure advanced to my side. He glanced at me intently, then, seeing that I was evidently not the man he sought, he turned to Drake. I heard a whispered greeting and an undertone of conversation. Then, quietly, Drake stepped toward me. Dale, he said, I thought it best that I should not show myself here tonight. No, there is no time for explanation now. You will understand later, perhaps, significantly, sooner than you anticipate. Inspector Hartnett will go through the rest of this pantomime with you. I shook hands with Drake's man, still rather bewildered at the sudden substitution. Then, before I was aware of it, Drake had vanished and the cab was gone. We were alone, Hartnett and I, in mate-lane. The home of Michael Strange, number seven, was hardly inviting. No light was in evidence. The big house stood like a huge unadorned vault set back from the street, some distance from its adjoining buildings. The heavy steps echoed to our footbeats as we mounted them in the darkness, and the sound of the bell as Hartnett pressed it came sharply to us from the silence of the interior. We stood there, waiting. In the short interval before the door opened, Hartnett glanced at his watch, it was nearly ten o'clock, and said to me, I imagine, doctor, we shall meet a blank wall. Let me do the talking, please. That was all. In another moment the big door was pulled slowly open from the inside, and in the entrance, glaring out at us, stood the man we had come to see. It is not hard to remember that first impression of Michael Strange. He was a huge man, gaunt and haggard, molded with the hunched shoulders and heavy arms of a gorilla. His face seemed to be unconsciously twisted into a snarl. His greeting, which came only after he had stared at us intently for nearly a minute, was curt and rasping. Well, gentlemen, what is it? I should like a word with Dr. Michael Strange, said my companion quietly. I am Michael Strange. And I, replied Hartnett, with a suggestion of a smile, am Raoul Hartnett from Scotland Yard. I did not see any sign of a motion on Strange's face. He stepped back in silence to allow us to enter. Then, closing the big door after us, he led the way along a carpeted hall to a small, ill-lighted room just beyond. Here he motioned us to be seated, he himself standing upright beside the table, facing us. From Scotland Yard, he said, and the tone was heavy with dull sarcasm. I am at your service, Mr. Hartnett. And now, for the first time, I wondered just why Drake had insisted on my coming here to this gloomy house in Mait Lane. Why, he had so deliberately arranged a substitute so that Michael Strange should not come face to face with him directly. Evidently, Hartnett had been carefully instructed as to his course of action, but why this seemingly unnecessary caution on Drake's part? And now, after we had gained admission, what excuse would Hartnett offer for the intrusion? Surely he would not follow the bull-headed role of a common policeman. There was no anger, no attempt at dramatics in Hartnett's voice. He looked quietly up at our host. Dr. Strange, he said at length, I have come to you for your assistance. Last night, some time after midnight, Franklin White was strangled to death. He was murdered according to substantial evidence by the girl he was going to marry, Margot Vernet. I come to you because you know this girl rather well and can perhaps help Scotland Yard in finding her motive for killing White. Michael Strange said nothing. He stood there, scowling down at my companion in silence. And I, too, I must admit, turned upon Hartnett with a stare of bewilderment. His accusation of Margot had brought a sense of horror to me. I had expected almost anything from him, even to a mad accusation of Strange himself, but I had hardly foreseen this cold-blooded declaration. You understand, doctor, Hartnett went on, in that same ironical drawl, that we do not believe Margot Vernet did this thing herself. She had a companion, undoubtedly, one who accompanied her to the house on After Street, and assisted her in the crime. Who that companion was, we are not sure, but there is decidedly a case of suspicion against a certain young London sportsman. This fellow was known to have prowled about the White mansion both on the night of the murder and the night before. Hartnett glanced up casually. Strange's face was a total mask. When he nodded, the nod was the most even and mechanical thing I've ever seen. Certainly this man could control his emotions. Naturally, doctor, Hartnett said, we have gone rather deeply into the past life of the Lady in question. Your name appears, of course, in a rather unimportant interval when Margot Vernet resided in Paris. And so we come to you in the hope that you can perhaps give us some slight bit of information. Something that seems insignificant, perhaps, to you but which may put us on the right track. It was a careful speech. Even as Hartnett spoke it I could have sworn that the words were drakes and had been memorized. But Michael Strange merely stepped back to the table and faced us without a word. He was probably, during that brief interlude, attempting to realize his position and to discover just how much Raoul Hartnett actually knew. And then, after his interim of silence, he came forward sullenly and stood over my comrade. I will tell you this much, Mr. Hartnett of Scotland Yard, he said bitterly. My relations with Margot Vernet are not an open book to be passed through the clumsy fingers of ignorant police officers. As to this murder, I know nothing. At the time of it I was seated in this room and company with a distinguished group of scientific friends. I will tell you, on authority, that Margot did not murder her lover. Why? Because she loved him. The last words were heavy with bitterness. Before they had died into silence Michael Strange had opened the door of his study. If you please, gentlemen, he said quietly. Hartnett got to his feet. For an instant he stood facing the guerrilla-like form of our host, then he stepped over the sill without a word. We passed down the unlighted corridor in silence while Strange stood in the door of his study watching us. I could not help but feel as we left that gloomy house that Strange had suddenly focused his entire attention upon me and had ignored my companion. I could feel those eyes upon me and feel the force of the will behind them, a decided feeling of uneasiness crept over me and I shuddered. A moment later the big outer door had closed shut after us and we were alone in mate lane, alone that is until a third figure joined us in the shadows and Drake's hand closed over my arm. Capital, Dale, he said triumphantly. For half an hour you entertained him, you and Hartnett, and for half an hour I've had the unlimited freedom of his inner rooms with the aid of an unlocked window on the lower floor. Those inner rooms, gentlemen, are significant, very. As we walked the length of mate lane the gaunt sinister home of Michael Strange became an indistinct outline in the pitch behind us. Drake said nothing more on the return trip until we had nearly reached my rooms, then he turned to me with a smile. We are one up on our friend, Dale, he said. He does not know just now which is the bigger fool, you or Hartnett here. However I imagine Hartnett will be the victim of some very unusual events before many hours have passed. That was all, at least all of significance. I left the two Scotland yard men at the opening of Cheney Lane and continued alone to my rooms. I opened the door and let myself in quietly, and there some few hours later began the last and most horrible phase of the case of the murder machine. It began, or to be more accurate, I began to react to it at three o'clock in the morning. I was alone and the rooms were dark. For hours I had sat quietly by the table considering the significant events of the past few days. Sleep was impossible with so many unanswered questions staring into me, and so I sat there wondering. Did Drake actually believe that Margot Verne's simple story had been a ruse, that she had in truth killed her lover on that midnight intrusion of his home? Did he believe that Michael Strange knew of that intrusion, that he had possibly planned it himself and aided her in order that Margo might be free to return to him? Did Strange know of that other intrusion and of the uncanny power which had driven Sir John Harmon and supposedly driven Margot to that house on After Street? Those were the questions that still remained without answers, and it was over those questions that I pondered while my surroundings became darker and more silent as the hour became more advanced. I heard the clock strike three and heard the answering drone of Big Ben from the square. And then it began. At first it was little more than a sense of nervousness. Before I had been content to sit in my chair and doze, now in spite of myself I found myself pacing the floor back and forth like a caged animal. I could have sworn at the time that some sinister presence had found entrance to my room, yet the room was empty, and I could have sworn too that some silent power of will was commanding me with undeniable force to go out, out into the darkness of Cheney Lane. I fought it bitterly, I laughed at it, yet even through my laugh came the memory of Sir John Harmon and Margo and what they had told me, and then unable to resist that unspoken demand I seized my hat and coat and went out. Cheney Lane was deserted, utterly still. At the end of it the street lamp glowed dully throwing a patch of ghastly light over the side of the adjoining building. I hurried through the shadows, and as I walked a single idea had possession of me. I must hurry, I thought, with all possible speed to that grim house in Mate Lane, number seven. Where that deliberate desire came from I did not know, I did not stop to reason. Something had commanded me to go at once to Michael Strange's home, and though I stopped more than once deliberately turning in my tracks, inevitably I was forced to retrace my steps and continue. I remember passing through the square and prowling through the enlightened side streets that lay beyond. Three miles separated Cheney Lane from Mate Lane, and I had been over the route only once before in a cab, yet I followed that route without a single false turn, followed it instinctively. At every intersecting street I was dragged in a certain direction and not once was I allowed to hesitate. It was as though some unseen demon perched on my shoulders as the demon of the sea rode sin-bad and pointed out the way. Only one disturbing thing occurred on that night journey through London. I had turned into a narrow street hardly more than a quarter mile from my destination, and before me in the shadows I made out the form of a shuffling old man, and here as I watched him I was conscious of a new, mad desire. I crept upon him stealthily without a sound. My hands were outstretched, clutching for his throat. At that moment I should have killed him. I cannot explain it. During that brief interval I was a murderer at heart. I wanted to kill, and now that I remember it, the desire had been pregnant in me ever since the lights of Cheney Lane had died behind me. All the time that I prowled through those black streets, murder lurked in my heart. I should have killed the first man who crossed my path. But I did not kill him. Thank God as my fingers twisted toward the back of his throat that mad desire suddenly left me. I stood still while the old fellow, still unsuspecting, shuffled away into the darkness. Then, dropping my hands with a sob of helplessness, I went forward again. And so I reached Mait Lane and the huge grey house that awaited me. This time as I mounted the stone steps the old house seemed even more repulsive and horrible. I dreaded to see that door open, but I could not retreat. I dropped the knocker heavily. A moment passed and then precisely as before the huge door swung inward. Michael Strange stood before me. He did not speak. Perhaps if he had spoken that fiendish spell would have been broken and I should have returned even then to my own peaceful little rooms in Cheney Lane. No, he merely held the door for me to enter, and as I passed him he stood there watching me with a significant smile. Straight to that familiar room at the end of the hall I went, with Strange behind me, when we had entered he closed the door cautiously, for a moment he faced me without speaking. You came very close to committing a murder on your way here, did you not, Dale? I stared at him. How in God's name could this man read my thoughts so completely? You would have completed the murder, he said softly, had I wished it. I did not wish it. I did not answer. There was no reply to such a mad declaration. As for my companion he watched me for an instant and then laughed. He was not mad. I am doctor enough to know that. But the laugh was not long in duration. He stepped forward suddenly and took my arm in a steel grip, dragging me toward the half-hidden door at the farther end of the room. I shall not keep you long, Dale, he said harshly. I could have killed you, could have made you kill yourself, and in fact I intended to do so, but after all you are merely a poor stumbling fool who has meddled in things too deep for you. He pulled open the door and pushed me forward. The room was dark and not until he had closed the door again and switched on a dim light could I see its contents. Even then I saw nothing, at least nothing of importance to an unscientific mind. There was a low table against the wall with a profusion of tiny wires emanating from it. I was aware that a cup-shaped microphone or something very similar hung over the table about on a level with my eyes had I been sitting in the chair. Beyond that I saw nothing until strange had moved forward and drawn aside a curtain that hung beside the table. I made you come here tonight, Dale, he murmured, because I was a bit afraid of you. Your comrade, Hartnett, was an ignorant police officer. He has not the intellect to connect the series of events of the past day or two, and so I did not trouble myself with him. But you are an educated man. You have made no demonstrations of your ability in the field of science, but... He stopped speaking abruptly. From the room behind us came the sound of a warning bell. Strange turned quickly and went to the door. You will wait here, doctor, he said. I have another caller tonight, another one who came the same way as you. He vanished. For a short interlude I was alone with that peculiar radio-like apparatus before me. It was, for all the world, like a miniature control room in some small broadcasting station. Except for the odd shape of the microphone, if it was such, I could detect no radical difference in equipment. However I had little time for conjecture. A patter of footsteps interrupted me from the next room and a frightened, feminine voice broke the stillness of the outer study. Even before the owner of that voice stepped into my presence I knew her. And when she came, with white, fearful face and trembling body, I could not withhold a shudder of apprehension. It was the young woman who had come to my office, Margot Vernet. Evidently at last she had yielded to the horrible impulse that had drawn her back to Michael Strange, an impulse which I now understood had originated from the man himself. He pressed her forward. There was nothing tender in his touch. It was cruel and triumphant. So you have succeeded at last, I said bitterly. He turned to me with a sneer. I have brought her here, yes, he replied, and now that she has come she shall hear what I have to tell you. It will perhaps give her a respect for me, and this time she will not have the power to turn me away. He pointed to the table, to the apparatus that lay there. I'm telling you this, Dale, he said, because it gives me pleasure to do so. You are enough of a scientist to appreciate and understand it. And if, when I have finished, I have told you too much, there is a very easy way to keep your tongue silent. You have heard of hypnotism, Dale? You have heard also of radio? Have you ever thought of combining the two? He faced me directly. I made no effort to reply. Radio, he said quietly, is broadcast by means of sound waves, that much you know, but hypnotism too can be transmitted through distance if an instrument delicate enough to transmit thought waves can be invented. For twenty years I have worked on that instrument, and for twenty years I have studied hypnotism. You understand, of course, that this instrument is worthless unless it is operated by a master mind. Thought waves are useless. They will not control the actions of even a cat. But hypnotic waves or concentrated thought waves will control the world. There was no denying him. He faced me with the savage triumph of a wild beast. He was glorying in his power and in my amazement. I wanted Franklin White to die, he cried. It was I who murdered him. Why? Because he was about to take the girl I desired. Is that not reason enough for murder? And so I killed him. It was not Margot Vernet who strangled her lover. It was a complete stranger, a London sportsman, who had no reason for committing the murder, except that I wished him to. He died on the night of December 7th, murdered by Sir John Harmon, the sportsman. Why? Because of all London Sir John would be the last man to be suspected. I have a keen appreciation for the irony of fate. White would have died the night before, Dale, except that I lacked the courage to kill him. His murderer was standing, under my power, outside his very house. And then I suddenly thought it best that I should have an alibi. Your Scotland yard is clever, and it was best that I have protection. And so on the following night I sent Sir John to the house once again. This time, while I sat here and controlled the actions of my puppet, a group of men sat here with me. They believed that I was experimenting with a new type of radio receiver. Michael Strange laughed, laughed harshly, and utter triumph as a cat laughs at the antics of his mouse victims. When that murder was done, he said, I sent Margot to the scene so that she might see her lover strangled, dead. I repeat, Dale, that I enjoy the irony of fate, especially when I can control it. And as for you, I brought you here tonight merely so that you would realize the intensity of the powers that control you. When you leave here you will be unharmed, but after the exhibition I shall give you, I am sure that you will make no further attempt to interfere with things out of your realm of understanding. I heard a sob from Margot. She had retreated to the door and clung there. For myself I did not move. Strange's recital had revealed to me the horrible lust that gripped him, and now I watched him in fascination. He would not harm the girl that much I was sure of. In his distorted fashion he loved her. In his crazed, murderous way he would attempt to win her love even though she had once scorned him. I saw him step toward the table, saw him drop heavily into the chair, and stare directly into that microphonic thing that hung before his eyes. As he stared he spoke to me. Science in its intricate forms is probably above the mind of a common medical man, Dale, he said. It would be useless to explain to you how my thoughts and my will can be transmitted through space. Perhaps you have sat in a theater and stared at a certain person until that person turned to face you. You have? Then you will perhaps understand how I can control the minds of any human creature within the radius of my power. You see, Dale, this intricate little machine gives me the power to transform London into a city of stark murder. I could bring about such a horrible wave of crime that Scotland Yard would be scorned from one end of the world to the other. I could make every man murder his neighbor until the streets of the city were running with blood. Strange turned quietly to look at me. He spoke deliberately. And now for the little exhibition of which I spoke, Dale, he murmured. Your detective friend, Hartnett, has been under my power for the past three hours. You see, it was safer to control his movements and be sure of him. And now, to be doubly sure of him, perhaps you would like to see him kill himself. I stepped forward with a sudden cry. Strange said nothing. His eyes merely burned into mine. Once again I felt that strange, all-powerful control forcing me back. I retreated, step by step, until the wall stopped me. Yet even as I retreated, a childish hope filled me. How could Strange, working his terrible murder machine, concentrate his power on any individual when the whole of London lay before him? He answered my question. He must have read it as it came over me. Have you ever been in a crowd, Dale, and watched a certain individual intently until that particular individual turned to look at you? The rest of the crowd pays no attention, of course, but that one man. And now we shall make that one man murder himself. Strange turned slowly. I saw his fingers creep along the rim of the table, touching certain wires that came together there. I heard a dull, droning hum fill the room, and over it, Strange's penetrating voice. When I am finished, Dale, I shall probably kill you. I brought you here merely to frighten you, but I believe I have told you too much. With that new horror upon me, I saw my captor's lips move slowly. And then, from the shadows at the other end of the small room came a low, unemotional voice. Before you begin, Strange... Michael Strange whipped about in his chair like a tiger, his hand dropped to his pocket so swiftly that my eyes did not follow it, and as it dropped, a single staccato shot split the darkness of the room. The scientist slumped forward in his chair. The dull, whirring sound of that hellish machine had stopped abruptly, cut short by the sudden weight of Strange's lunging body as he fell upon it. I saw the livid, fiery snake of white light twist suddenly upward through that coil of wires, and in another moment the entire apparatus shattered by a blinding crash of flame. After that I turned away. Whether the bullet killed Strange or not, I do not know, but the sight of his charred face hanging over that table of destruction told its own story. It was Inspector Drake who came across the room toward me and took my arm. The smoking revolver still lay in his hand, and as he led me into the adjoining room I saw that Margo had already found refuge there. You see now Dale, Drake said quietly, why I let Hartnett go with you before? If Strange had suspected me I should have been merely another victim. As for Hartnett he has been kept under constant guard down at headquarters. He's safe. They've kept him there at my instructions in spite of all his terrific efforts to leave them. I was listening to my companion in admiration, even then I did not quite understand. I was wrong in just one thing Dale. I left you alone without protection. I believed Strange would ignore you because after all you are not a Scotland yard man. Thank God I had the sense to follow Margo to trail her here and get here soon enough. And so ended the horrible series of events that began with Sir John Harmon's chance visit to my study. As for Harmon he was later cleared of all guilt upon the charred evidence in Michael Strange's house in Mait Lane. The girl I believe has left London where she can be as far as possible from memories that are all too terrible. As for me I am back once again in my quiet rooms in Cheney Lane where the routine of common medical practice has wiped out many of those vivid horrors. In time I believe I shall forget unless Inspector Drake of Scotland Yard insists upon bringing the affair up again. End of The Murder Machine by Hugh B Cave Recording by Nick Number