Astounding Stories of Super-Science 14

Astounding Stories of Super-Science 14

"You consciously retract your will by concentrating your mind upon the

thing which you know I wish to accomplish. Gradually while we continue

in this position your vibrations speed up or slow down until they

acquire exactly the same frequency as my own. We are then in accord, and

when your mind is liberated in the tank it is in a state which admits

absorption into my body. And it is subject to my will because you have

purposely attuned it to my peculiar frequency. Immediately after the

transfer there will be a brief conflict, due to the instinctive desire

of your will to obtain the ascendancy. But of course mine will gain the

upper hand at once, since both wills will be in my frequency."

 

Quest felt, rather than saw, a wall of alarm closing in on him. He tried

to avert his eyes, to withdraw his hand from Clason's grasp. With a

nostalgic pang in the pit of his stomach he suddenly realized that he

could not do so. He had gone too far--farther than any man in his

position had a right to go. Having deliberately weakened his will, it

seemed now to have deserted him entirely. A prickling sensation coursed

up his spine, his extended arm went numb, his hand trembled violently.

 

"Splendid!" said Clason, suddenly releasing both eye and hand. "Just as

I foresaw, you will be able to attune yourself to my vibration-frequency

with hardly an effort. Now please remain seated; I'll be back in a

moment."

 

* * * * *

 

For a second after the door closed, Quest remained slumped in his chair.

Then he was on his feet, shaking himself like a wet dog to free himself

from the spell under which he had fallen. Something about Clason

attracted and at the same time repelled him, fraying his nerves like an

irritant drug and confusing his mind at the moment when he needed the

full alertness of every faculty.

 

Invisible light--disembodied minds--will vibrations! Nothing there to

get hold of. Were these things real or imaginary? Was Keane Clason a

great inventor, or a madman? Would Philip prove to be a real or an

imaginary scoundrel? Should he summon help, or go on alone?

 

Professional pride said: wait, don't be an alarmist! With his knuckles

Quest tapped the table, half expecting it to melt under his fingers. The

feeling and sound of the contact gave him a peculiar start. On the

farther end of the table stood a letter-box--an invitation. From his

pocket Quest snatched a slip of paper, and wrote:

 

6 stroke 4--9:45A--Hired. If no report in 48 hours, clamp down

hard.

 

To address a stamped envelope and slip it in with the outgoing mail was

the work of seconds. But he was none too quick. He had just dropped back

into a lounging attitude when the door burst open and Clason flew into

the room?

 

"We must act instantly," hissed the inventor. "Philip plans to close the

transaction within a day."

 

In spite of himself, Quest jumped upright in his chair. Clason tapped

him on the shoulder reassuringly.

 

"It's all right," he smiled, "I'm ready for him. We'll make our move

this afternoon and beat him by eighteen hours.

 

"Let's see." He paused. "Oh! yes. I was about to explain to you that as

soon as the will of the Agent enters the body of his Control, the latter

can again transfer it into the body of still another person.

 

"Now you understand why I advertised for a man of exceptional character?

As my Agent, I want you to enter the body of Philip, and your will must

be strong enough to conquer his in the battle for mastery which will

begin the instant you intrude into his body. You will still be under my

control, but your will must be strong enough on its own merits to

overcome his. I can direct you, but your strength must be your own.

That's clear, isn't it?"

 

* * * * *

 

"I think so," said Quest slowly. "But what becomes of me after you have

frustrated Philip's plot?"

 

"That's the easy part of the process," smiled Clason; "but naturally you

feel some anxiety about it. I simply withdraw your will from Philip,

return it to your own body, and pay you a reward of ten thousand

dollars."

 

"You're sure you can?"

 

"Perfectly. I have merely to touch Philip's hand to recapture your will.

Then I immerse myself in the tank with the switch at plus. The osmotic

action will extract both wills momentarily from my body. But the

presence of two bodies and two wills in the solution together forces a

balance, and each will seeks out and enters its own body. Then you and

I climb out of the tank exactly as we are this minute."

 

"If it weren't for my belief that anything is possible," Quest shook his

head, "I'd say that your claims for this invention were ridiculous."

 

"And you couldn't be blamed," admitted Clason readily. "This toy of a

model is hardly convincing. But come along with me and I'll show you how

the Liberator looks in actual operation."

 

* * * * *

 

The office rug concealed a trap door which gave upon a spiral stair.

Below, Clason unlocked another door and led the way through a narrow and

tremendously long passage lighted at intervals by small electric bulbs.

Presently another door yielded to the inventor's deft touch and closed

behind them with a portentous chug. Here the darkness was so utter and

intense that Quest imagined he could feel the weight of it on his

shoulders. From the slope of the passageway and the muffled beat of

machinery that had come to his ears on the way along, he guessed that he

was below ground in some chamber at the rear of the factory.

 

He gave a low exclamation as Clason switched on the toplight. No wonder

the darkness had seemed of almost supernatural quality! Even the hard

white glare of the daylight arc was grisly. Its rays rebounded from the

liquids of the great circular tank in a blinding dazzle of color, while

the dull black walls and ceiling were so perfectly absorptive that

beyond arm's length they became to all effects invisible. Even the ledge

on which he stood--the shoulder of the vat--gave Quest the feeling that

to move would be to step off into a bottomless pit.

 

But Clason took his attention at once, pointing here and there in his

quick, nervous way to indicate how faithfully the Liberator had been

reproduced from the model. In all respects the arrangements were the

same, with the addition that here a long plank like a spring-board

extended out from a wall-mount as far as the central compartment of the

tank, and that from its end a narrow ladder hung down to the surface of

the Chartreuse liquid. A double-throw switch fixed to the wall above the

base of the plank was evidently the source of electrolytic control.

 

"When you throw the switch to plus," said Clason, pointing to the

chalk-marked sign above, "you produce the violent electrolytic action

needed to bring about a liberation. All the rest of the time it should

be closed at minus, in order to maintain the anti-action which I

explained to you.

 

"Now let's rehearse, so that when the time for the real performance

arrives we can be sure of running it off without a hitch."

 

"All right, sir," nodded Quest, so dazed by the glittering light that he

was hardly conscious of what he said.

 

* * * * *

 

"First," said Clason, running lightly up the steps to the plank, "you

walk out to the end, like this, and start down the ladder. Then you

lower yourself into the tank. The liquid is at body temperature; it's

neither strongly acid nor caustic; it will cause you no injury or

discomfort whatever.

 

"Meanwhile I keep in contact with your hand until the instant that you

become submerged. Now your mind is in me, see?--ready for transfer into

Philip, where it will act as my Agent. That's how simple it is! Come on

up and we'll go through the motions."

 

Quest experienced a shiver as he mounted the bridge. Annoyed with

himself, he shrugged the feeling off. There was no risk here. Moreover,

it was a part of his daily work to take chances; he had done so a

hundred times without hesitation. Now he moved all the more quickly, as

if to belie the squeamishness that possessed him in spite of himself.

 

Swinging past Clason on the plank, he lowered himself without a pause

to the bottom rung of the ladder, while the inventor, hanging head

down, maintained contact with him.

 

"No need to stay here," he said in sudden irritation. "I understand

perfectly what I am to do."

 

"I'm testing my own acrobatic ability," grunted Clason amiably. "Just a

minute now."

 

He wriggled as if trying to adjust himself to a better balance, but in

reality to mask the motion of his free hand with which he reached up and

pressed a button in the side of the plank. Instantly the structure,

pivoting downward on its wall-socket, plunged Quest to his waist in the

osmotic solution.

 

"For God's sake get out of the way!" he shouted, trying to wrench his

hand out of Clason's sinewy grip. "Let go, I tell you!"

 

But Clason clung like a leech, his teeth gritted under the strain. Again

the plank lurched downward, and with a violent splash Quest vanished

below the surface.

 

Quick as a cat, Clason scrambled up the ladder and back to the base of

the plank, where he erased and interchanged the chalk-marked signs with

which he had misled Quest. Then with a sinister twist of a smile he

threw the switch to minus, and turned to watch as the plank slowly

righted itself and the vacant ladder came clear of the liquid.

 

For some time he stood staring at the gleaming colored rings of his

dissociation-vat like some witch over her cauldron, his lips working,

his hands clasping and unclasping like the tentacles of some sub-sea

monster. Then, as if the spell had suddenly broken, he turned on his

heel and switched off the light. As he hastened down the passageway

toward his office, the airlock sucked the door against its jamb with an

ominous whistle.

 

* * * * *

 

In a twinkling, as Quest's shackled spirit writhed in its new housing,

he knew that he was in bondage to a scoundrel. Formless and voiceless,

he still fought madly for the freedom which the instinct of ten

thousand generations made necessary to him.

 

At the same time he was furious at himself for having been tricked like

an innocent schoolboy. The plank socket, the button which had tripped

the supporting spring, the fake rehearsal, the tuning of his will to

that of Clason--step by step the whole cunning scheme unfolded itself to

him now.

 

But what could be the purpose behind this villainy? Only one answer

seemed possible. Keane must be the one bent on selling the Death

Projector, Philip the one who wished to frustrate the fiendish

transaction! And Quest of the Secret Service--he was to be the tool to

force the sale.

 

With the soundless scream of rage Quest's will hurled itself against

Keane's. The two met like infuriated bulls, and for an instant too brief

to be pictured as a lapse of time they poised immovable. But two wills

can not exist on equal terms in a single body, and in this case the

vibration of both was that of Clason. Quest had challenged the Master

Will. He could do no more. It hurled him back, crushed him like foam,

compressed him to the proportions of an atom in the background of his

consciousness. So brief and unequal was the conflict that in the next

breath Clason had all but forgotten the presence of the stolen will

within him. When he was ready to use his Agent, that would be time

enough to summon him!

 

Despite this suppression, Quest began to see dimly through strange eyes,

and to hear vaguely with ears that were not his own. Feelers, tentacles,

some intangible kind of conduits carried thought impulses to him from

the Master Will. He received these impressions vividly, but those which

he gave off in return were so weak, due to the subjection of his will,

that Clason was entirely unconscious of any response. Quest was not

enough of a scientist to be astonished at the ability of a disembodied

mind to experience sense impressions in the body of another. He was

only glad that the darkness and silence were growing less. Very, very

slowly he was awakening to a new kind of consciousness--the

consciousness of another person's Self. He hated and loathed that Self,

yet it was better than the awful blankness that had gone before.

 

* * * * *

 

Suddenly, as light grew brighter and sound more clear and definite, a

new element entered--the element of hope. At first it was feeble: its

only suggestion was that sometime, somehow, he might escape this prison.

But it was like water to a parched plant. It caused his will to expand,

to extend its feelers, to press up a little more bravely against the

crushing pile of the Master Will.

 

Now another surprise sprang upon him. He was moving! That is, Clason's

body was moving in some kind of a conveyance, which was threading its

way through crowded streets. Stores, buildings, buses, people--Quest

remembered them all distantly as things he had known thousands of years

ago. The driver turned his head, and his profile seemed vaguely

familiar.

 

Now a rush of foreign thoughts drowned out his own. They were a sort of

overflow from the mind of Clason. They thronged along the conduits that

bound the two wills together, but only Quest was conscious of the

movement.

 

Keane's mind was on his brother Philip: that much was particularly

clear. And there was something about a telephone call. Yes, Keane had

telephoned to the police, disguising his voice, refusing to divulge his

name. He had said that a man by the name of Philip Clason was in trouble

and had told them where to find him. Then the police had telephoned the

factory, and Keane had pretended astonishment and alarm at the news.

That's why he was here now--he was on the way to confer with the police.

And he was chuckling--chuckling because he had fooled Quest and the

police, and because now the hundred million dollars was almost in his

grasp.

 

Cutting in close, the car turned a corner and drew up before one of a

row of loft buildings in a section of the city which Quest failed to

recognize. As Clason stepped to the sidewalk, Quest was more painfully

aware than ever of his powerlessness to influence by so much as the

twitch of a muscle the behavior of this hostile body in which he had

permitted himself to be trapped. In his weakness he felt himself

shrinking, contracting almost to nothingness under the careless pressure

of the Master Will.

 

* * * * *

 

Clason glanced casually at his watch, and three men converged toward him

from as many directions. There was nothing to distinguish them from

anyone else in the street, but along the conduits it came to Quest that

they were detectives and that they were there by appointment with Keane

Clason.

 

"What floor?" asked the latter, with an excitement which Quest felt

instantly was pure pretense. "Are you sure they haven't spirited him

away?"

 

"Don't worry," replied the leader of the detectives. "The alley and roof

are covered. We'll take care of the rest ourselves."

 

On tiptoe they climbed three long flights of stairs in the half-light.

Clason held back as if in fear. He was a good actor, and Quest felt the

shrinking and hesitation of his body as he crouched and slunk along in

the wake of the detectives, pretending terror at what was about to

happen, though he knew--and Quest knew he knew--that there would be no

resistance up there--that Philip would be found alone exactly as he had

been left by Keane's hired thugs.

 

On the top landing Burke, the leader, paused to count the doors from

front to rear.

 

"This is it," he whispered to the bull-necked fellow just behind him.

 

The other nodded, and crouched back against the opposite wall while his

companions placed themselves in position to cross-fire into the room the

moment the door gave way.

 

* * * * *

 

Quest longed for the power to kick his hypocrite of a master as he still

held back, cowering on the stairs, playing his fake to the limit. Then

the door flew in with a splintering shriek under the charge of the human

battering ram, and across it hurtled the other two detectives in a cloud

of ancient dust.

 

"Here he is!" someone shouted.

 

"Phil! Phil!" Keane Clason's voice fairly quavered with sham emotion as

he ran into the room and threw himself at a man tightly bound to an

upholstered chair, which in turn was wedged in among other articles of

stored furniture.

 

But Philip was too securely gagged to reply, and as Burke slashed the

ropes from across his chest he dropped forward in a state of collapse.

Stretched on a couch, he soon gave signs of response as a brisk massage

began to restore the circulation to his cramped limbs. Suddenly he sat

up and thrust his rescuers aside.

 

"What time is it?" he demanded with an air of alarm.

 

"One o'clock," replied Keane before anyone else could answer, patting

his brother affectionately on the shoulder while within him Quest

writhed with indignation. "By Jove! Phil, it's wonderful that we got to

you in time. Really, how--you're not injured?"

 

"No," grunted Philip, "just lamed up. I'll be as fit as ever by

to-morrow."

 

"If you feel equal to it," suggested Burke, "I wish you'd tell me

briefly how you arrived here. Do you know the motive behind this affair?

Did you recognize any of the body-snatchers?"

 

* * * * *

 

Philip frowned and shook his head.

 

"Yesterday noon," he said slowly, "I took the eight-passenger Airline

Express to Cleveland on business. There were three other passengers in

the cabin--two men and a woman. Right away I got out a correspondence

file and was running over some letters. The next thing I knew I was

approaching the ground in the strangest state of mind I ever

experienced. My head was splitting, and everything looked unreal to me.

Seemed as if I was coming down on some new planet."

 

"You mean the ship was gliding down to land?"

 

"No, no. I was dangling from a parachute.... By the way, where am I

now?"

 

"In a Munson Avenue loft."

 

"In Chicago?"

 

Burke nodded.

 

"I guessed as much," frowned Philip. "You see, I came down in a field,

and then before I could free myself from my trappings I was pounced

on--trussed up and blindfolded--by a gang of men. I knew they had taken

me a long distance by automobile, but I saw nothing more until they tore

the blindfold from my eyes when they left me here."

 

"And they were all strangers to you?"

 

"Yes--those that I saw."

 

"Isn't this enough for just now, Burke?" interrupted Keane, and Quest

received an impression of uneasiness that was not apparent in the

inventor's tone. "After a good rest he's sure to recall things that

escape him now."

 

"Just one minute," nodded the detective, turning back to Philip. "Can

you think of no plausible reason for this attack? Is there no one who

might possibly benefit by putting you temporarily out of the way?"

 

Philip gave a frightened start. Then he was on his feet, clutching at his brother's arm.