Sure, true, and full the tones filled the big room, and in Crane’s vision there rose a home filled with happy work, with laughter and companionship. Sensing the girl’s dreams as the music filled his ears, he realized as never before in his busy and purposeful life what a home with the right woman could be like.
No thought of love for Dorothy entered his mind—he knew that the love existing between her and Dick was of the sort that only death could alter—but he knew that she had unwittingly given him a great gift. Often thereafter in his lonely hours he saw that dream home, and knew that nothing less than its realization would ever satisfy him.
Chapter 4
RETURNING to his boarding house, Seaton undressed and went to bed, but not to sleep. He knew that he had seen what could very well become a workable space-drive that afternoon. . . . After an hour of trying to force himself to sleep he gave up, went to his desk, and started to study. The more he studied, the more strongly convinced he became that this first thought was right—the thing could become a space-drive.
By breakfast time he had the beginnings of a tentative theory roughed out, and also had gained some idea of the nature and magnitude of the obstacles to overcome.
Arriving at the Laboratory, he found that Scott had spread the news of his adventure, and his room was soon the center of interest. He described what he had seen and done to the impromptu assembly of scientists, and was starting in on the explanation he had deduced when he was interrupted by Ferdinand Scott.
“Quick, Dr. Watson, the needle!” he exclaimed. Seizing a huge pipette from a rack, he went through the motions of injecting its contents into Seaton’s arm.
“It does sound like a combination of science-fiction and Sherlock Holmes,” one of the visitors remarked.
“‘Nobody Holme,’ you mean,” Scott said, and a general chorus of friendly but skeptical jibes followed.
“Wait a minute, you hidebound dopes, and I’ll show you!” Seaton snapped. He dipped a short piece of copper wire into his solution.
It did not turn brown; and when he touched it with his conductors, nothing happened. The group melted away. As they left, some of the men maintained a pitying silence, but Seaton heard one half-smothered chuckle and several remarks about “cracking under the strain.”
Bitterly humiliated at the failure of his demonstration, Seaton scowled morosely at the offending wire. Why should the thing work twice yesterday and not even once today? He reviewed his theory and could find to flaw in it. There must have been something going last night that wasn’t going now . . . something capable of affecting ultra-fine structure. . . . It had to be either in the room or very close by . . . and no ordinary generator or X-ray machine could possibly have had any effect. . . .
There was one possibility—only one. The machine in DuQuesne’s room next to his own, the machine he himself had, every once in a while, helped rebuild.
It was not a cyclotron, not a betatron. In fact, it had as yet no official name. Unofficially, it was the “whatsitron,” or the “maybetron,” or the “itaintsotron” or anyone of many less descriptive and more profane titles which he, DuQuesne, and the other researchers used among themselves. It did not take up much room. It did not weigh ten thousand tons. It did not require a million kilowatts of power. Nevertheless it was—theoretically—capable of affecting super-fine structure.
But in the next room? Seaton doubted it.
However, there was nothing else, and it had been running the night before—its glare was unique and unmistakable. Knowing that DuQuesne would turn his machine on very shortly, Seaton sat in suspense, staring at the wire. Suddenly the subdued reflection of the familiar glare appeared on the wall outside his door—and simultaneously the treated wire turned brown.
Heaving a profound sigh of relief, Seaton again touched the bit of metal with the wires from the Redeker cell. It disappeared instantaneously with a high whining sound.
Seaton started for the door, to call his neighbors in for another demonstration, but in mid-stride changed his mind. He wouldn’t tell anybody anything until he knew something about the thing himself. He had to find out what it was, what it did, how and why it did it, and how—or if—it could be controlled. That meant time, apparatus and, above all, money. Money meant Crane; and Mart would be interested, anyway.
Seaton made out a leave-slip for the rest of the day, and was soon piloting his motorcycle out Connecticut Avenue and into Crane’s private drive. Swinging under the imposing porte-cochère he jammed on his brakes and stopped in a shower of gravel, a perilous two inches from granite. He dashed up the steps and held his finger firmly against the bell button. The door was opened hastily by Crane’s Japanese servant, whose face lit up on seeing the visitor.
“Hello, Shiro. Is the honorable son of Heaven up yet?”
“Yes, sir, but he is at present in his bath.”
“Tell him to snap it up, please. Tell him I’ve got a thing on the fire that’ll break him right off at the ankles.”
Bowing the guest to a chair in the library, Shiro hurried away. Returning shortly, he placed before Seaton the Post, the Herald, and a jar of Seaton’s favorite brand of tobacco, and said, with his unfailing bow, “Mr. Crane will appear in less than one moment, sir.”
Seaton filled and lit his briar and paced up and down the room, smoking furiously. In a short time Crane came in.
“Good morning, Dick.” The men shook hands cordially. “Your message was slightly garbled in transmission. Something about a fire and ankles is all that came through. What fire? And whose ankles were—or are about to be—broken?”
Seaton repeated. “Ah, yes, I thought it must have been something like that. While I have breakfast, will you have lunch?”
“Thanks, Mart, guess I will. I was too excited to eat much of anything this morning.” A table appeared and the two men sat down at it. “I’ll just spring it on you cold, I guess. Just what would you think of working with me on a widget to liberate and control the entire constituent energy of metallic copper? Not in little dribbles and drabbles, like fission or fusion, but one hundred point zero zero zero zero per cent conversion? No radiation, no residue, no by-products—which means no shielding or protection would be necessary—just pure and total conversion of matter to controllable energy?”
Crane, who had a cup of coffee half-way to his mouth, stopped it in mid-air, and stared at Seaton eye to eye. This, in Crane the Imperturbable, betrayed more excitement than Seaton had ever seen him show. He finished lifting the cup, sipped, and replaced the cup studiously, meticulously, in the exact center of its saucer.
“That would undoubtedly constitute the greatest technological advance the world has ever seen,” he said, finally. “But, if you will excuse the question, how much of that is fact, and how much fancy? That is, what portion have you actually done, and what portion is more or less justified projection into the future?”
“About one to ninety-nine—maybe less,” Seaton admitted. “I’ve hardly started. I don’t blame you for gagging on it a bit—everybody down at the lab thinks I’m nuttier than a fruitcake. Here’s what actually happened,” and he described the accident in full detail. “And here’s the theory I’ve worked out, so far, to cover it.” He went on to explain.
“That’s the works,” Seaton concluded, tensely, ”as clearly as I can put it. What do you think of it?”
“An extraordinary story, Dick . . . really extraordinary. I understand why the men at the Laboratory thought as they did, especially after your demonstration failed. I would like to see it work, myself, before discussing further actions or procedures.”
“Fine! That suits me down to the ground—get into your clothes and I’ll take you down to the lab on my bike. If I don’t show you enough to make your eyes stick out a foot , I’ll eat that motorsickle, clear down to the tires!”
As soon as they arrived at the Laboratory, Seaton assured himself that the “whatsitron” was still running, and arranged his demonstration. Crane remained silent, but watched closely every movement Seaton made.
“I take a piece of ordinary copper wire, so,” Seaton began. “I dip it into this beaker of solution, thus. Note the marked change in its appearance. I place the wire upon this bench—s0—with the treated end pointing out of the window. . . . ”
“No. Toward the wall. I want to see the hole made.”
“Very well—with the treated end pointing toward that brick wall. This is an ordinary eight-watt Redeker cell. When I touch these lead-wires to the treated wire, watch closely. The speed is supersonic, but you’ll hear it, whether you see what happens or not. Ready? “