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
intercommunication 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 the 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 Bellows’s
voice. _Hullo!_” 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.