INTO THE SHADOWS
There were few preparations to make, for Wilton Grant had planned this
thing very carefully. Our chief difficulty was with Bee. The girl was
quite distraught; illness, the fear which for weeks had been dragging
her down, completely submerged the scientist in her. And then abruptly
she mastered herself, smiled through her tears.
"That's more like it, Bee." Will glanced aside at me with relief. "I
couldn't understand you. Why Bee, we've been working at this thing for
years."
"I'm all right now." She smiled at us--a brave smile though her lips
were still trembling. "You're--about ready, aren't you?"
They had set aside a small room on the lower floor of the house--a sort
of den which now was stripped of its accustomed hangings and furniture.
It had two windows, looking out to the garden and lawn about the house.
They were some six feet above the ground. It was a warm mid-summer
evening; we had the lower sashes opened, but the shades fully drawn
lest some neighbor or passerby observe us from without. On the floor of
this room lay a mattress. There was a small table, a clock, two easy
chairs. For the rest it was bare. Its white plaster walls, devoid of
hangings, gave it somewhat the sanitary look of a room in a hospital.
We had been so occupied with Bee that Will had as yet given me no
word of explanation. He left the little room now, returning in a
moment with some articles which he deposited on the table. I eyed
them silently; a shiver of fear, apprehension, awe--I could not define
it--passed over me. Will had placed on the table a carafe of water; a
glass; a small vial containing a number of tiny pellets; a cylindrical
object with wires and terminal posts which had the appearance of a
crude home-made battery--four wires each some ten feet in length,
terminating each in a circular metallic band.
I glanced at Bee. Outwardly now she was quite composed. She smiled at
me. "He'll explain in a moment, Rob. It's quite simple."
We were ready. By the clock on the table it was twenty minutes of ten.
Will faced us.
"I'd like to start by ten o'clock," he began quietly. "The time-factor
will be altered--I want to compute the difference--when I return--as
closely as I can."
I had the ill grace to attempt an interruption, but he silenced me.
"Wait, Rob--twenty minutes is not a long time for what I have to say
and do." He had motioned us to the easy chairs, and seated himself
cross-legged on the mattress before us. His gaze was intent upon my
face.
"This is not the moment for any detailed explanation, Rob. I need only
say this: As I told you a while ago, the fundamental substance of
which our bodies are composed is--not substance, but a mere vortex.
A whirlpool, a vibration let me term it. And the quality of this
vibration--this vortex--the time-factor controlling it, governs the
material character of our conscious universe. From birth to death--from
the beginning to the end--we and all the substance of our universe move
along this unalterable, measured flow of time.
"Do I make my meaning clear? From--nothing but a vibrating whirlpool
the magic of chemistry has built with this unalterable time-factor
what we are pleased to call substance--material bodies. These material
bodies have three varying dimensions--length, breadth and thickness.
But each of them inherently is endowed also with the same basic
time-factor. The rate of time-flow governing them, let me say, is
identical."
He spoke now more slowly, with measured words as though very carefully
to reach my understanding.
"You must conceive clearly, Rob, that every material body in our
universe is passing through its existence at the same rate. Now if we
take any specific point in time--which is to say any particular instant
of time--and place in it two material bodies, those two material bodies
must of necessity occupy two separate portions of space. That's obvious,
isn't it? Two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time.
"Now Rob, I have spoken of this unalterable measured flow of time along
which all our substance is passing. But it is not unalterable. I have
found a way of altering it."
He raised his hand against my murmur, and went on, carefully as before.
"What does this do? It gives a different basic vibration to matter. It
gives a different rate of time-flow, upon which, building up from a
fundamental vortex of changed character, we reach substance--a state
of matter--quite different from that upon which our present universe
reposes. A different state of matter, Rob--it still has length, breadth
and thickness--but a different flow of time.
"You follow me? Now, if we take a material body of this--call it
secondary state--and place it in the same space with a body of our
primary state, they can and do occupy that space without conflict at
the same instant of time.
"Why? Ah Rob, it would take a keener mind than mine or yours to
answer that, or to answer the why of almost anything. The knowledge
we poor mortals have is infinitesimal compared to the knowledge we
have not. I can conceive vaguely, however, that two primary bodies,
placed in identical points of space and time would be moving through
time at identical rates and thus stay together and conflict. Whereas,
with a primary and secondary body, their differing time-flows would
separate them after what we might call a mere infinitesimal instant of
coincidence."
* * * * *
His gesture waved away that part of the subject. He rose to his feet.
"I have particularized even more than I intended, Rob. Let me say now,
only that the pellets in this little vial contain a chemical which
acts upon the human organism in the way I have pictured. It alters the
fundamental vibration upon which this substance--these bones, this
flesh we call a body--this substance of my being, is built.
"Just a moment more, Rob, then you shall question me all you like.
So much for the transmutation of organic substance. Inorganic
substance--that table, my shirt, that glass of water--theoretically all
of them could be transmuted as well. I have not, however, practically
been able to accomplish that. But I have--invented, if you like, an
inorganic substance which I can transmute. It is nameless; it is this."
He was coatless, and now he stripped off his white linen shirt. Like
a bathing suit, he had on a low-cut, tight-fitting garment. It seemed
a fabric thin as silk, yet I guessed that it was metallic, or akin to
metal. A dull putty-color, but where the light struck it there was a
gleam, a glow as of iridescence.
"This substance," he added, "I can--take with me." He indicated the
wires, the battery if such it were. "By momentarily charging it, Rob,
with the current I have stored here. It is not electrical--though
related to it of course--everything is--our very bodies themselves--a
mere form of what we call electricity."
He was disrobing; the gleaming garment fitted him from shoulder to
thigh. About his waist was a belt with pouches; in the pouches small
objects all of this same putty-colored substance.
I burst out, "This is all very well. But how--how will you get back?"
"The effect will wear off," he answered. "The tendency of all matter,
Rob, is to return to its original state. I conceive also that in
the case of the human organism, the mind--the will--to some extent may
control it. Indeed I am not altogether sure but that the mind,
properly developed, might control the entire transmutation. Perhaps
in this secondary state, it can. I am leaving that to chance, to
experimentation."
I said, "How long will you be gone?"
He considered that gravely. "Literally, Rob, there is no answer to
that--but I know what you mean, of course. I may undergo a mental
experience that will seem a day, a week, a month--measured by our
present standards. But to you, sitting here waiting for me--" He
shrugged. "By that clock there, an hour perhaps. Or five hours--I hope
no more."
My mind was groping with all that he had said. I was confused. There
was so much that I no more than vaguely half understood; so much that
seemed just beyond the grasp of my comprehension. I seemed to have a
thousand questions I would ask, yet scarce could I frame one of them
intelligently. I said finally:
"You say you may be gone what will seem a day, yet by our clock here
it will be only a few hours. This--This other state of existence then
moves through time faster?"
"I conceive it so, yes."
"But then--are you going into the future, Will? Is that what it will
be?"
He smiled, but at once was as grave as before. "Your mind is trying
to reconcile two conditions irreconcilable. You may take an apple and
try to add it to an orange and think you get two apple-oranges. But
there is no such thing. Our future--let us call it that which has not
yet happened to us but is going to happen. I cannot project myself
into that. If I could--if I did--at once would the future be for me no
longer the future, but the present.
"The conception is impossible. Or again--in this other state--I
must of necessity exist always in the present. Nor can you compare
them--reconcile one state of existence with the other." He stopped
abruptly, then went on with his slow smile. "Don't you see, Rob, there
are no words even, with which I can express what I am trying to make
you realize. That being reclined there in the other room a while ago
and watched us. Perhaps for what it conceived to be what we would
conceive a day were we to experience it."
His smile turned whimsical. "The words become futile. Don't you see
that? The future of that being is merely what has not yet happened to
it. To compare that with our own consciousness is like trying to add an
apple to an orange."
* * * * *
During all this Bee had sat watching us, listening to our talk, but
had not spoken. And as, an hour before in the other room I had noticed
her glancing fearsomely around, again now her gaze drifted away; and I
heard her murmur.
"Oh, I hoped it would be gone--not come to us in here!"
We followed her gaze. Standing perhaps a foot lower than the floor of
our room and slightly behind the side wall was that self-same spectral
figure. The intent to watch us, to enter perhaps into a frustration
of our plans, with which my imagination now endowed its purpose, made
me read into its attitude a tenseness of line; an alertness, even a
guarded wariness which had not seemed inherent to it before. Was this
thing indeed aware of our purpose? Was it waiting for Wilton Grant to
come into the shadows to meet it upon its own ground? With an equality
of contact, was it then planning to set upon him?
Bee was murmuring, "It's waiting for you. Will, it's waiting for you
to come--" Shuddering words of apprehension, of which abruptly she
seemed ashamed for she checked them, going to the table where she began
adjusting the apparatus.
"I'm coming," said Will grimly. "It will do well to wait, for I
shall be with it presently." He stood for a moment before the thing,
contemplating it silently. Then he turned away, turned his back to it;
and a new briskness came to his manner.
"Rob, I'm ready. Bee knows exactly what we are to do. I want you to
know also, for upon the actions of you two, in a measure depends
my life. I shall sit here on the mattress. Perhaps, if I am more
distressed than I anticipate, I shall lie down. Bee will have charge of
the current. There will come a point in my departure when you must turn
off the current, disconnect the wires from me. If I am able, I will
tell you, or sign to you when that point is reached. If not--well then,
you must use your own judgment."
"But I--I have no idea--" I stammered. Suddenly I was trembling. The
responsibility thrust thus upon me seemed at that moment unbearable.
"Bee has," he interrupted quietly. "In general I should say you must
disconnect when I have reached the point where I am--" He halted as
though in doubt how to phrase it--"the point where I am half substance,
half shadow."
To my mind came a mental picture which then seemed very horrible; but
resolutely I put it from me.
"You're ready, Bee?" he asked.
"Quite ready, Will." She was counting out a number of the tiny pellets
with hands untrembling. The woman in Bee was put aside; she stood there
a scientist's assistant, cool, precise, efficient.
"I think I should like less light," he said; and he turned off all the
globes but one. It left the room in a flat, dull illumination. He took
a last glance around. The window sashes were up, but the shades were
lowered. A gentle breeze from outside fluttered one of them a trifle.
Across the room the spectre, brighter now, stood immobile. The clock
marked one minute of ten.
"Good," said Will. He seated himself cross-legged in the center of the
mattress. In an agony of confusion and helplessness I stood watching
while Bee attached the four wires to the garment he wore. One on each
of his upper arms, and about his thighs where the short trunks ended.
Again I stammered, "Will, is this--is this all you're going to tell us?"
He nodded. "All there is of importance.... A little tighter, Bee.
That's it--we must have a good contact."
"I mean," I persisted, "when you are--are shadow, will we be able to
see you?"
He gestured. "As you can see that thing over there, yes."
His very words seemed unavoidably horrid. Soon he would be--a thing, no
more.
"Shall you stay here, Will, where we can see you?"
He answered very soberly, "I do not know. That, and many other things,
I do not know. I will do my best to meet what comes."
"But you'll come back here--here to this room, I mean?"
"Yes--that is my intention. You are to wait here, in those chairs. One
of you always awake, you understand--for I will need you, in the coming
back."
* * * * *
There seemed nothing else I could ask, and at last the moment had
come. Bee handed him the pellets, and held the glass of water. For
one brief instant I had the sense that he hesitated, as though here
upon the brink the human fear that lies inherent to every mortal must
have rushed forth to stay his hand. But an instant only, for calmly he
placed the pellets in his mouth and washed them down with the water.
"Now--the current, Bee."
His voice had not changed; but a moment after I saw him steady himself
against the mattress with his hands; momentarily his eyes closed as
though with a rush of giddiness, but then they opened and he smiled at
me while anxiously I bent over him.
"All right--Rob." He seemed breathless. "I think--I shall lie down."
He stretched himself at full length on his back; and with a surge of
apprehension I knelt beside him. I saw Bee throw on the little switch.
She stood beside the table, and her hand remained upon the switch. Her
face was pale, but impassive of expression. Her gaze was on her brother
and I think I have never seen such an alert steadiness as marked it.
A moment passed. The current was on, but I remarked unmistakably that
no sound came from it. The room indeed had fallen into an oppressive
hush. The flapping shades momentarily had stilled. Only the clock gave
sound, like the hurried thumping of some giant heart, itself of all in
the room most alive.
Wilton Grant lay quiet. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling; he had gone
a trifle pale and moisture was on his forehead, but his breathing,
though faster, was unlabored.
I could not keep silent. "You--all right, Will?"
At once his gaze swung to me. A smile to reassure me plucked at his
parted lips. "All--right, yes." His voice a half-whisper, not stressed,
almost normal; and yet it seemed to me then that a thinness had come to
it.
Another moment. The putty-colored garment he wore had lost the vague
sheen of its reflected light and was glowing with an illumination now
inherent to it. A silver glow, bright like polished metal; then with
a greenish cast as though phosphorescent. And then, did I fancy that
its light, not upon it or within it, but behind it, showed the garment
turning translucent?
I became aware now of a vague humming. An infinitely tiny sound--a
throbbing hum fast as the wings of a hummingbird, near at hand, very
clear, yet infinitely tiny. The battery--the current; and yet in a
moment with a leaping of my heart, I knew it was not the current but
a humming vibration from the body of Wilton Grant. A sense of fear--I
have no memory adequately to name it--swept me. I rose hastily to my
feet; as though to put a greater distance between us I moved backward,
came upon a leather easy chair, sank into it, staring affrighted,
fascinated at the body recumbent before me.
* * * * *
The change was upon it. A glow had come to the ruddy pink flesh of
the arms and legs, bared chest, throat and face. The pink was fading,
replaced, not by the white pallor of bloodlessness but by a glow of
silver. A mere sheen at first; but it grew into a dissolving glow
seeming progressively to substitute light for the solidity of human
flesh.
And then I gasped. My breath stopped. For behind that glowing,
impassive face I saw the solid outlines of the mattress taking form,
saw the mattress through the face, the chest, the body lying upon it.
Wilton's eyes were closed. They opened now, and his arm and hand with
a wraith-like quality come upon them, were raised to a gesture. The
signal. I would have stammered so to Bee, but already she had marked it
and shut the current off. And very quietly, unhurried, she bent over
and disconnected the wires, casting them aside.
The humming continued; so faint, so rapid I might have fancied it was
a weakness within my own ears. And presently it ceased.
Bee sat in the chair beside me. The body on the mattress was more
than translucent now; transparent so that all the little tufts of the
mattress-covering upon which it lay were more solidly visible than
anything of the shadowy figure lying there. A shadow now; abruptly to
my thought it was Wilton Grant no longer.
And then it moved. No single part of it; as a whole it sank gently
downward, through the mattress, the floor, until a foot or so beneath,
it came to rest. With realization my gaze turned across the room. The
silent spectre was still there, standing beneath the floor, standing I
realized, upon the same lower level where the shadow of Wilton Grant
now was resting.
I turned back, saw Bee sitting beside me with white face staring at the
mattress; and I heard myself murmur. "Is he all right do you think? He
hasn't moved. Shouldn't he move? It's over now, isn't it?"
She did not answer. And then this wraith of Will did move. It seemed
slowly to sit up; and then it was upright, wavering. I stared. Could
I see the face of my friend? Could I mark this for the shadow of his
familiar figure, garbed in that woven suit? It seemed so. And yet I
think now that I was merely picturing my memory of him; for surely
this thing wavering then before me was as formless, as indefinable, as
elusive of detail as that other, hostile spectre across the room.
Hostile! It stood there, and then it too was moving. It seemed to
sweep sidewise, then backward. Ah, backward! A thought came to me that
perhaps now fear lay upon it. Backward, floating, walking or running I
could not have told. But backward, beyond the walls, the house, smaller
into the dimness of distance.
Was the shadow of Wilton Grant following it? I could not have said
so. But it too was now beyond the room. Moving away, growing smaller,
dimmer until at last I realized that I no longer saw it.
We were alone, Bee and I; alone to wait. The mattress at my feet was
empty. I heard a sound. I turned. In the leather chair beside me Bee
was sobbing softly to herself.