Time Travel Omnibus, page 76
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It was outwardly a gay little gathering, having dinner in a„ small private room of the Scientific Club in New York City two weeks later. But underneath all the laughter there was a note of tenseness; and two of the people—a man and a woman—laughed infrequently with gayety that was forced.
The man was Rogers; the woman, Lylda, his wife, mother of Loto. She was the only woman in the room. At first glance she would have seemed no more than thirty-five, though in reality she was two or three years older—a small, slender figure in a simple black evening dress that covered her shoulders, but left her throat bare. Her beauty was of a curious type. Her face was oval, her features delicately molded and of pronounced Grecian cast. Yet there seemed on her also an indefinable look of the woman of our Orient—her eyes, perhaps, which were slate gray, large and very slightly upturned at the corners, with long, very dark lashes. Her complexion was milk-white and rose, her skin smooth as satin. Her hair was thick, wavy and coal black, and worn coiled on her head.
No one could have said to what race Lylda might belong, but that she was a woman of intellect, culture and refinement was obvious. There was about her, too, an inherent look of tenderness—a gentle sweetness which in a woman and a mother could be nothing less than charming. Her eyes, as she met those of her men friends around her, were direct and honest. But when she regarded Loto this evening, a yearning melancholy sprang into them, with a mistiness as though the tears were restrained only by an effort.
“HONOR to Loto,” cried the Big Business Man. “The youngest and greatest scientist of all time!”
“There’s a double meaning in that,” laughed the Doctor, amid the applause. “The greatest scientist of time! He is, indeed.”
The laughter about the table died out. “Well,” said the Banker out of a silence, “now let us hear it. If every one is as curious as I am—”
“More,” put in Georgie. “I’m more curious.”
“You’re right,” agreed Rogers. “We must get on.”
“First,” the Big Business Man interrupted, “I want to know more about that screen behind which you saw that other time world of the future.”
“I know very little myself,” Rogers answered. “So little that Loto and I could never duplicate it. But the theory is understandable. The space where Central Park now is has a certain time factor allied to its other properties. The light, the rays, from that screen, whatever may have been their character, altered the time factor of that space.
“As Loto told you, the modern conception of the reality of things is that the future exists—but with a different time dimension. We have a familiar axiom, ‘No two masses of matter can occupy the same space—at the same time.’ That is just another way of saying it. To reason logically from that, an infinite number of masses of matter can, and do, occupy the same space—at different times.”
“I’d rather hear about this new experiment,” the Banker said. “You made the statement—”
“So would I,” agreed Georgie. “That girl out there—”
“You shall,” said Rogers. His grave, troubled glance went to his wife’s face, but she smiled at him bravely. “You shall have all the facts as briefly as I can give them to you.
“Loto became obsessed—I can hardly call it anything less—with the idea that he could alter the time factor of human consciousness. In theory it was perfectly possible—I had to admit that. And so I let him go ahead. He has worked feverishly, with an energy I feared would injure his health, for nearly two years. But—and, gentlemen, this is all that counts—he has succeeded. I’m sure of that; he and I have already made a test. The apparatus is ready—upstairs now—and—”
“Let Loto tell it,” grumbled the Banker.
“Go on, boy, can’t you tell us how you did it?”
“Yes, sir. I can in principle.” Loto hesitated, then added with a quaint mixture of sarcasm and deference, “I can explain it to you in a general way, but the details are—very technical.”
He paused until the waiter had left the room; then he began speaking slowly, evidently choosing his words with the utmost care.
“Matter, as we know it now, has four dimensions—the three so-called planes of space, and one of time. But what is matter? The new science tells us it is molecules, composed of atoms. And atoms? An atom is a ring of electrons—which are particles of negative, disembodied electricity, revolving at enormously high speeds around a central nucleus. Am I clear?”
Loto’s gaze rested on the Banker, who nodded somewhat dubiously.
“Then,” Loto went on, “we have resolved all matter to one common entity—that central nucleus of positive electricity which is sometimes called the proton. All this is now generally known and accepted. But of what substance—what character—is the proton? As long ago as 1923, or perhaps even before that, the theory was fairly accepted that the proton is merely a vortex, or whirlpool. And the electron was conceived to be something very similar. Do you grasp the significance of that? It robs matter of what I personally always instinctively feel is its chief characteristic—substance. We drive into matter—resolving its complexities to find one basic substance—and we find, not substance but a whirlpool—electrical, doubtless—in space!”
“That—makes you rather gasp!” the Big Business Man exclaimed, gazing about the table.
“It is quite correct,” affirmed Rogers. “It transforms our conception of substance to motion. Of what? Motion of something intangible—the ether, let us say. Or space itself.”
“I can’t seem to get a mental grip on it,” the Big Business Man declared. “You—”
“Think of it this way,” Rogers went on earnestly. “Motion can easily change our impression of solidity. This is not an analogous case, perhaps, but it will give you something to think about. Water is normally a fluid. You can pass your hand through a stream of water from a garden hose. But set that water in more rapid motion, and what physical impression do you get? At Fully, Switzerland, water for a turbine emerges from a nozzle at a speed of four hundred miles per hour. What would happen If you tried to pass your hand through that? I have seen a jet no more than three inches in diameter of such rapidly moving water, and you cannot cut through it with the blow of a crowbar. There you have a physical substance—an impression of solidity—derived from motion.”
“But what has all this to do with time?” the Banker objected, after a moment of silence.
“Everything, sir,” said Loto quickly. “Since we are changing the time-dimension of matter, without altering its space-dimensions, you must have some conception of what matter really is. When once you realize the real intangibility of even our own bodies—of this house we are in—you will be able to understand us a lot better.”
The Banker relaxed. “Go on, boy; let’s hear it.”
“Yes, sir. Changing the time-dimension of substance amounts merely to a change in the rate and character of the motion that constitutes the electrical vortex we call a proton.”
LOTO looked at Rogers somewhat helplessly, with a faint quizzical smile twitching at his lips.
“I seem to talk very ponderously, father. I don’t mean to. I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier for us to show them the apparatus?”
Rogers rose from his chair. “By all means. Gentlemen, Loto has completed his apparatus on the roof of the club here. You may have noticed for the past month that one end is boarded in, and has a canvas roof over it. That is where Loto has been working. Will you come up with us?”
The building that houses the New York Scientific Club Is a full block in depth and twenty stories high. Its flat roof is surrounded by a parapet of stone. One end of I the roof is a garden, with pergolas, trellised vines and flowers, and beds of flowers with white gravel walks between. At the other end, on this sultry August evening in 1932, a twenty-foot rough board wall inclosed a space about a hundred feet square, with a canvas roof above it.
The night was calm and moonless, with a purple sky all brilliantly studded with I stars. At this height the hum of the great city was stilled. A hush seemed in the air. Near by, many buildings towered still higher, but for the most part the roofs lay below—with their chimneys and potbellied water tanks set upon spindly legs like huge, grotesque bugs on guard. A block away a great hotel blazed with a roof garden of red and green lights. Spots of light crawled through the streets below, with black blobs that were pedestrians scurrying between them. Occasionally the drone of an aerial motor overhead would break the silence.
Rogers led his four men friends across the roof top, and unlocked a tiny door that gave into the temporary board inclosure. Lylda and Loto entered last, the woman clinging to her son’s hand. The turn of a switch flooded the place with light.
At first glance one would have said It was a modern passenger airplane that was standing there under the canvas—a huge, glistening dragonfly of aluminum color—a long, narrow streamline cabin below, the size of a small Pullman car, with windows of glass; a triplane above, flexible-tipped, and twin propellers behind, with four small horizontal ones on top.
“There,” said Rogers, “is the product of Loto’s work. What you see from here is merely an adaptation of the Frazia plane—and the Frazia Company built it for us. The apparatus flies as any other Frazia plane does. It has the same motors, the same equipment. Its other mechanism—by which the time-dimension, the basic electrical nature of the whole apparatus and everything or everybody within its cabin can be changed at will—that mechanism Loto constructed and Installed himself.”
“There you go again,” growled the Banker. “Yet Loto tell it, won’t you?”
Rogers bridled a little. “I’ll tell you this, George. That is the apparatus in which Loto is going to cross time into the future. At least you can understand that—If you keep your mind on it.”
There was a general laugh at the Banker’s expense. But Lylda did not laugh. She was leaning against a wooden post, clinging to her son’s hand, and staring at that sleek, shining thing with wide, terrified eyes.
“Come, Loto,” said Rogers. “They want you to show it to them.”
The young man disengaged himself from his mother and went forward. In a moment the men were scattered about, examining the plane.
“You may not understand the Frazia model,” Loto was saying. “It was only put on the market in 1930. It Is slightly larger than the average of the older types—more stable in the air—but no faster. It differs from the old styles chiefly in its employment of the helicopter principle for taking off and landing.”
The Doctor had been stretching up to peer into one of the cabin windows; he turned to Loto.
“Just what is the helicopter principle?” he asked.
“The employment of horizontal propellers. They lift the machine straight up, vertically into the air. As you know, the main defect of an airplane ten years ago was the necessity for a broad level space from which to start and on which to land. A horizontal velocity of some forty to seventy miles an hour was necessary before taking the air. And on landing the ground was struck at the same speed.
“The Frazia model changes all that. The horizontal propellers lift it straight up from the ground. At a height, say, of two or three thousand feet, these horizontal propellers are stopped, and by a very ingenious device they are folded up to be out of the way. The machine, released from their support, drops downward, and after a few hundred feet begins to glide. The vertical propellers are started and the flight proceeds as in the older models.” The Big Business Man had joined them. “I’ve read about the Frazias—they’re advertising extensively. And in landing?”
“In landing, if a level space is available, the helicopters are not used. If not, the vertical propellers are shut off—at a considerable altitude—and the machine put into a spiral. The helicopters are opened slowly, and when they begin revolving they pick up the weight of the machine, allowing it to float downward at the will of the operator. In a strong wind this type of landing is not satisfactory, but if danger threatens below, the plane may be raised and lowered again at some other place. It is not yet perfect, but it is a big improvement over the older forms.”
The Banker called to them. He was standing on a box, looking into one of the windows. “You’ve got different rooms in here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Loto. “I’ve divided it into three small compartments according to my own needs.”
“Can we get inside?”
“I think perhaps it would be better not to,” said Rogers, coming forward. “At least, not tonight. Loto wants to get started. There is—”
“You plan to operate this—tonight?” the Doctor asked.
“Yes,” answered Loto. “I am going forward in time, to—”
“To find that girl,” Georgie finished eagerly. “To rescue her. Don’t you remember he saw her in that—”
“Be quiet, boy,” the Banker commanded. “Loto, what is this other mechanism your father mentioned?”
“It is not particularly complicated,” the young man answered readily. “In general principle, that is. The Frazia mechanism which I have explained causes the machine to travel through space—to change its space-factors at the will of the operator. That’s clear, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is,” said the Banker impatiently.
“It’s clear because you’ve always been able to travel through space yourself,” interjected the Big Business Man. “Don’t be so self-satisfied, George. If you’d been rooted to one spot all your life—like a tree—you wouldn’t have a chance on earth of understanding an airplane.”
“That’s what I mean exactly,” said Loto quickly. “My other mechanism changes the time-factor of the entire apparatus. I can explain it best this way: Every particle of matter in that machine—and my own body in its cabin—is electrical in its basic nature. My mechanism circulates a current through every particle of that matter. Not an electrical current, but something closely allied to it. The nature of this, father, and I do not yet know. But it causes the inherent vibratory movements of the protons of matter to change their character. The matter changes its state. It acquires a different time-factor, in other words.”
“Is this change instantaneous?” the Doctor asked.
“No, sir. It is progressive. To reach the time-factor of tomorrow night, take the first few minutes of time as it seems to us to pass. The time-factor of next week would be reached during the succeeding two or three minutes.”
“In other words, it picks up speed,” said the Big Business Man.
“Yes. How long the acceleration will last, I do not know. I have a series of dials for registering the time-movement. By altering the strength—the intensity—of the current, I can vary the speed, or check it entirely.”
“But why have this apparatus in the form of an airplane?” asked the Banker. “You’re going through time, not space.”
Rogers answered, “In a hundred years from now this building will not be here. If we were to stop his tlme-movement at that point, he would drop twenty stories through space to the ground.”
“Why, of course!” exclaimed the Big Business Man. “But in the air—”
“Exactly,” said Loto. “I shall not start the propellers until later—until I am launched into future time, and need them.” Rogers looked at his watch.
“Have you much to do before you start, Loto?”
“No, sir—nothing. I have food and water, clothing, and everything else I need. I filled our list very carefully, and checked over everything this afternoon. I could have started then; I’ve left nothing to do tonight.”
“Then you might as well get away at once. You’ll remember everything I’ve told you, Loto? You’ll come back here, as quickly as possible? Here to this rooftop?”
The strain of anxiety under which Rogers was subconsciously laboring came out suddenly in his voice. “You’ll be careful, lad?”
“Yes, sir—of course. I—well, I might as well say good-by now, father.”
They shook hands silently, and Rogers abruptly turned away.
Loto shook hands with the others.
“I say, Loto, you’ll bring that girl back, won’t you?” Georgie asked anxiously. “I want to meet her. Tell her I said that, will you?”
“Yes,” said Loto gravely. “If I find her, I will, Georgie.”
The Banker had withdrawn to the farthest corner of the inclosure, where he stood regarding the airplane fearfully. Loto went to him.
“Good-by, sir.”
“Good-by, boy.” The Banker’s voice was gruff and a trifle unsteady. “Take it easy. Don’t be a reckless fool just because you’re young.”
“No, sir; I won’t.”
Loto met his mother a few paces away. He stood head and shoulders above her, and her arms went around him hungrily as he bent down to kiss her.
“You’ll come back to me, little son?” she whispered. “You’ll come back—safely?”
“Yes, mother. Of course.”
He met her eyes, with the terror lurking in their gray depths.
“Don’t look like that, mamita. I’ll be all right, of course.”
Rogers was calling to them. With the thoughtlessness of youth, Loto disengaged himself hurriedly.
“Good-by, mamita. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day. Don’t worry—it’s nothing.”
He left her.
The last preparations took no more than a moment or two. Loto climbed to the cabin and disappeared within it.
“Be sure and take off the canvas roof later tonight,” he called down to them. “And leave it off so I can get back.”
“Yes,” said Rogers, “we will. And one of us, at least, will be here watching all the time you’re away. Good-by, Loto.”
“Good-by, sir.” The cabin door closed upon him.
At a distance of twenty feet the men stood in a little group, watching, wide-eyed and with pounding hearts.
