Practically all those letters remaining in the alphabet after Augustus
S. F. X. Van Dusen was named were afterward acquired by that gentleman
in the course of a brilliant scientific career, and, being honorably
acquired, were tacked on to the other end. His name, therefore, taken
with all that belonged to it, was a wonderfully imposing structure. He
was a Ph.D., an LL.D., an F.R.S., an M.D., and an M.D.S. He was also
some other things--just what he himself couldn't say--through
recognition of his ability by various foreign educational and
scientific institutions.
In appearance he was no less striking than in nomenclature. He was
slender with the droop of the student in his thin shoulders and the
pallor of a close, sedentary life on his clean-shaven face. His eyes
wore a perpetual, forbidding squint--the squint of a man who studies
little things--and when they could be seen at all through his thick
spectacles, were mere slits of watery blue. But above his eyes was his
most striking feature. This was a tall, broad brow, almost abnormal in
height and width, crowned by a heavy shock of bushy, yellow hair. All
these things conspired to give him a peculiar, almost grotesque,
personality.
Professor Van Dusen was remotely German. For generations his ancestors
had been noted in the sciences; he was the logical result, the master
mind. First and above all he was a logician. At least thirty-five
years of the half-century or so of his existence had been devoted
exclusively to proving that two and two always equal four, except in
unusual cases, where they equal three or five, as the case may be. He
stood broadly on the general proposition that all things that start
must go somewhere, and was able to bring the concentrated mental force
of his forefathers to bear on a given problem. Incidentally it may be
remarked that Professor Van Dusen wore a No. 8 hat.
The world at large had heard vaguely of Professor Van Dusen as The
Thinking Machine. It was a newspaper catch-phrase applied to him at
the time of a remarkable exhibition at chess; he had demonstrated then
that a stranger to the game might, by the force of inevitable logic,
defeat a champion who had devoted a lifetime to its study. The
Thinking Machine! Perhaps that more nearly described him than all his
honorary initials, for he spent week after week, month after month, in
the seclusion of his small laboratory from which had gone forth
thoughts that staggered scientific associates and deeply stirred the
world at large.
It was only occasionally that The Thinking Machine had visitors, and
these were usually men who, themselves high in the sciences, dropped
in to argue a point and perhaps convince themselves. Two of these men,
Dr. Charles Ransome and Alfred Fielding, called one evening to discuss
some theory which is not of consequence here.
"Such a thing is impossible," declared Dr. Ransome emphatically, in
the course of the conversation.
"Nothing is impossible," declared The Thinking Machine with equal
emphasis. He always spoke petulantly. "The mind is master of all
things. When science fully recognizes that fact a great advance will
have been made."
"How about the airship?" asked Dr. Ransome.
"That's not impossible at all," asserted The Thinking Machine. "It
will be invented some time. I'd do it myself, but I'm busy."
Dr. Ransome laughed tolerantly.
"I've heard you say such things before," he said. "But they mean
nothing. Mind may be master of matter, but it hasn't yet found a way
to apply itself. There are some things that can't be thought out of
existence, or rather which would not yield to any amount of thinking."
"What, for instance?" demanded The Thinking Machine.
Dr. Ransome was thoughtful for a moment as he smoked.
"Well, say prison walls," he replied. "No man can _think_ himself out
of a cell. If he could, there would be no prisoners."
"A man can so apply his brain and ingenuity that he can leave a cell,
which is the same thing," snapped The Thinking Machine.
Dr. Ransome was slightly amused.
"Let's suppose a case," he said, after a moment. "Take a cell where
prisoners under sentence of death are confined--men who are desperate
and, maddened by fear, would take any chance to escape--suppose you
were locked in such a cell. Could you escape?"
"Certainly," declared The Thinking Machine.
"Of course," said Mr. Fielding, who entered the conversation for the
first time, "you might wreck the cell with an explosive--but inside, a
prisoner, you couldn't have that."
"There would be nothing of that kind," said The Thinking Machine. "You
might treat me precisely as you treated prisoners under sentence of
death, and I would leave the cell."
"Not unless you entered it with tools prepared to get out," said Dr.
Ransome.
The Thinking Machine was visibly annoyed and his blue eyes snapped.
"Lock me in any cell in any prison anywhere at any time, wearing only
what is necessary, and I'll escape in a week," he declared, sharply.
Dr. Ransome sat up straight in the chair, interested. Mr. Fielding
lighted a new cigar.
"You mean you could actually _think_ yourself out?" asked Dr. Ransome.
"I would get out," was the response.
"Are you serious?"
"Certainly I am serious."
Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding were silent for a long time.
"Would you be willing to try it?" asked Mr. Fielding, finally.
"Certainly," said Professor Van Dusen, and there was a trace of irony
in his voice. "I have done more asinine things than that to convince
other men of less important truths."
The tone was offensive and there was an undercurrent strongly
resembling anger on both sides. Of course it was an absurd thing, but
Professor Van Dusen reiterated his willingness to undertake the escape
and it was decided upon.
"To begin now," added Dr. Ransome.
"I'd prefer that it begin to-morrow," said The Thinking Machine,
"because----"
"No, now," said Mr. Fielding, flatly. "You are arrested, figuratively,
of course, without any warning locked in a cell with no chance to
communicate with friends, and left there with identically the same
care and attention that would be given to a man under sentence of
death. Are you willing?"
"All right, now, then," said The Thinking Machine, and he arose.
"Say, the death-cell in Chisholm Prison."
"The death-cell in Chisholm Prison."
"And what will you wear?"
"As little as possible," said The Thinking Machine. "Shoes, stockings,
trousers and a shirt."
"You will permit yourself to be searched, of course?"
"I am to be treated precisely as all prisoners are treated," said The
Thinking Machine. "No more attention and no less."
There were some preliminaries to be arranged in the matter of
obtaining permission for the test, but all three were influential men
and everything was done satisfactorily by telephone, albeit the prison
commissioners, to whom the experiment was explained on purely
scientific grounds, were sadly bewildered. Professor Van Dusen would
be the most distinguished prisoner they had ever entertained.
When The Thinking Machine had donned those things which he was to wear
during his incarceration he called the little old woman who was his
housekeeper, cook and maid servant all in one.
"Martha," he said, "it is now twenty-seven minutes past nine o'clock.
I am going away. One week from to-night, at half-past nine, these
gentlemen and one, possibly two, others will take supper with me here.
Remember Dr. Ransome is very fond of artichokes."
The three men were driven to Chisholm Prison, where the Warden was
awaiting them, having been informed of the matter by telephone. He
understood merely that the eminent Professor Van Dusen was to be his
prisoner, if he could keep him, for one week; that he had committed no
crime, but that he was to be treated as all other prisoners were
treated.
"Search him," instructed Dr. Ransome.
The Thinking Machine was searched. Nothing was found on him; the
pockets of the trousers were empty; the white, stiff-bosomed shirt had
no pocket. The shoes and stockings were removed, examined, then
replaced. As he watched all these preliminaries--the rigid search and
noted the pitiful, childlike physical weakness of the man, the
colorless face, and the thin, white hands--Dr. Ransome almost
regretted his part in the affair.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.
"Would you be convinced if I did not?" inquired The Thinking Machine
in turn.
"No."
"All right. I'll do it."
What sympathy Dr. Ransome had was dissipated by the tone. It nettled
him, and he resolved to see the experiment to the end; it would be a
stinging reproof to egotism.
"It will be impossible for him to communicate with anyone outside?" he
asked.
"Absolutely impossible," replied the warden. "He will not be permitted
writing materials of any sort."
"And your jailers, would they deliver a message from him?"
"Not one word, directly or indirectly," said the warden. "You may rest
assured of that. They will report anything he might say or turn over
to me anything he might give them."
"That seems entirely satisfactory," said Mr. Fielding, who was frankly
interested in the problem.
"Of course, in the event he fails," said Dr. Ransome, "and asks for
his liberty, you understand you are to set him free?"
"I understand," replied the warden.
The Thinking Machine stood listening, but had nothing to say until
this was all ended, then:
"I should like to make three small requests. You may grant them or
not, as you wish."
"No special favors, now," warned Mr. Fielding.
"I am asking none," was the stiff response. "I would like to have some
tooth powder--buy it yourself to see that it is tooth powder--and I
should like to have one five-dollar and two ten-dollar bills."
Dr. Ransome, Mr. Fielding and the warden exchanged astonished glances.
They were not surprised at the request for tooth powder, but were at
the request for money.
"Is there any man with whom our friend would come in contact that he
could bribe with twenty-five dollars?" asked Dr. Ransome of the
warden.
"Not for twenty-five hundred dollars," was the positive reply.
"Well, let him have them," said Mr. Fielding. "I think they are
harmless enough."
"And what is the third request?" asked Dr. Ransome.
"I should like to have my shoes polished."
Again the astonished glances were exchanged. This last request was the
height of absurdity, so they agreed to it. These things all being
attended to, The Thinking Machine was led back into the prison from
which he had undertaken to escape.
"Here is Cell 13," said the warden, stopping three doors down the
steel corridor. "This is where we keep condemned murderers. No one can
leave it without my permission; and no one in it can communicate with
the outside. I'll stake my reputation on that. It's only three doors
back of my office and I can readily hear any unusual noise."
"Will this cell do, gentlemen?" asked The Thinking Machine. There was
a touch of irony in his voice.
"Admirably," was the reply.
The heavy steel door was thrown open, there was a great scurrying and
scampering of tiny feet, and The Thinking Machine passed into the
gloom of the cell. Then the door was closed and double locked by the
warden.
"What is that noise in there?" asked Dr. Ransome, through the bars.
"Rats--dozens of them," replied The Thinking Machine, tersely.
The three men, with final goodnights, were turning away when The
Thinking Machine called:
"What time is it exactly, warden?"
"Eleven seventeen," replied the warden.
"Thanks. I will join you gentlemen in your office at half-past eight
o'clock one week from to-night," said The Thinking Machine.
"And if you do not?"
"There is no 'if' about it."