I
The transitory mental aberration of Sidney Davidson, remarkable
enough in itself, is still more remarkable if Wade’s explanation is
to be credited. It sets one dreaming of the oddest possibilities of
inter-communication in the future, of spending an intercalary five
minutes on the other side of the world, or being watched in our most
secret operations by unsuspected eyes. It happened that I was the
immediate witness of Davidson’s seizure, and so it falls naturally to
me to put the story upon paper.
When I say that I was the immediate witness of his seizure, I mean
that I was the first on the scene. The thing happened at the Harlow
Technical College, just beyond the Highgate Archway. He was alone in
the larger laboratory when the thing happened. I was in a smaller
room, where the balances are, writing up some notes. The thunderstorm
had completely upset my work, of course. It was just after one of the
louder peals that I thought I heard some glass smash in the other room.
I stopped writing, and turned round to listen. For a moment I heard
nothing; the hail was playing the devil’s tattoo on the corrugated zinc
of the roof. Then came another sound, a smash--no doubt of it this
time. Something heavy had been knocked off the bench. I jumped up at
once and went and opened the door leading into the big laboratory.
I was surprised to hear a queer sort of laugh, and saw Davidson
standing unsteadily in the middle of the room, with a dazzled look
on his face. My first impression was that he was drunk. He did not
notice me. He was clawing out at something invisible a yard in front
of his face. He put out his hand, slowly, rather hesitatingly, and
then clutched nothing. ‘What’s come to it?’ he said. He held up his
hands to his face, fingers spread out. ‘Great Scott!’ he said. The
thing happened three or four years ago, when every one swore by that
personage. Then he began raising his feet clumsily, as though he had
expected to find them glued to the floor.
‘Davidson!’ cried I. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ He turned round in
my direction and looked about for me. He looked over me and at me and
on either side of me, without the slightest sign of seeing me. ‘Waves,’
he said; ‘and a remarkably neat schooner. I’d swear that was Bellow’s
voice. _Hallo!_’ He shouted suddenly at the top of his voice.
I thought he was up to some foolery. Then I saw littered about his feet
the shattered remains of the best of our electrometers. ‘What’s up,
man?’ said I. ‘You’ve smashed the electrometer!’
‘Bellows again!’ said he. ‘Friends left, if my hands are gone.
Something about electrometers. Which way _are_ you, Bellows?’ He
suddenly came staggering towards me. ‘The damned stuff cuts like
butter,’ he said. He walked straight into the bench and recoiled. ‘None
so buttery that!’ he said, and stood swaying.