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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Tales of Wonde and Super-Sciencer, Atumn 1941
with "Lady of the Atoms"
Amazing Stories, July 1930
with "The Driving Power"
With That Astounding Machine He Created
For Himself An Artificial Paradise...
WHEN Professor Grimm laid down his work and decided to go home, he changed into a different man.
"Seven o'clock. Time to quit."
He sighed with regret at having to leave his beloved apparatus. He picked up some pieces again, fitted them into the big machine, lingered awhile, then tore himself resolutely away.
All day, while he worked in the laboratory, he was keen, alert, full of enthusiasm. His pencil drove swiftly over sheet after sheet of paper, leaving them covered with calculations too abstruse for ordinary mortals, or his eyes and fingers searched busily among the leaves of his library. But, most of the time, he hovered devotedly all around that vast and complex mass of apparatus at one end of the big room.
He had as much energy as the great waterfall whose roar could, just be heard through the windows, and which supplied him with inexhaustible power for his experimental work in intra-atomic physics. His eyes shone brightly; he never seemed to tire. It was evident that he loved the work.
Then came quitting time. A vacant, discouraged expression came into his face, and his figure drooped, as though there was nothing else in the world for him. He was like a lover driven from the side of his fair lady into the wilderness.
To look at him, as he went slowly down the street, you would think he was one of those dry, lifeless scientists who cafe for nothing, know of nothing hot archaeopteryx or eclipsing variables. The careless hang of his clothes, his unshaven chin and his general air of absent-mindedness seemed to suggest that he was a man so absorbed in his work that, indeed, it was all that existed for him.
But Professor Grimm was not that dry. There was, in fact, a good deal of the adventurous and romantic in his makeup. What else could account for the wistful look that came into his, eyes, and his lagging steps, when he passed the cinema where exotic scenes from some romantic epic were pictured on the billboards? He almost stopped before the colourful poster depicting the hero, in doublet and hose, defending a lovely lady's honour with flashing sword; but he pulled himself together, shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his walk homeward.
Again he forgot himself for a moment when a young man and a girl passed him, arm in arm, blissfully unconscious of everything but each other. He hesitated, too, at the window of a travel agency full of views of picturesque scenery and bathing beauties. But each time he braced himself and went on, resolutely.
He reached home dejected and weary. The house was full of bright resplendent rooms, in one of which was a glittering dinner-table.
His wife appeared, a vision of artificial glory, product of all the modern arts designed to enhance feminine beauty, and delightful to look at.
"Hurry, dear," she said, in a voice that tinkled like a silver bell. "Our guests will be here soon."
But, to Professor Grimm, the tinkle in her voice was cold and distant; arid the tone of it conveyed to him, if the words did not, that he was late again and that his appearance would not be presentable to the distinguished social captures his wife expected.
SO IT was every evening, except that sometimes her impatience at his tired condition and unkempt look was scarce concealed. On occasions, he would make his appearance among the guests; on others, he would not. It did not seem to matter, either way, for he was hardly noticed as long as he did not get in the way.
The gaiety always lasted until late, and he would leave the guests and go to bed early, because he had work to do in the morning. His wife would sleep until noon, and he would never see her again until evening, dressed for another function.
When they had opportunity for conversation, which was rarely, it was always dominated by her intense social ambitions and a pouting impatience at the work which kept him so occupied, and prevented her from showing him off to her guests.
"I'll come over to the laboratory one of these days, and smash up those silly machines," she complained. "You never seem to have any time for me."
If he had not been a scientist, accustomed to shaping intangible ideas and putting them to practical use, he might have retorted that it was her social-climbing nonsense that kept her away from him, and that his work was of more importance. But because he dealt in nebulous things, which did not always materialise, he had to excuse himself by explaining:
"I have a rather big idea to work out, and it needs a lot of time. But, if it does work out, it will bring in a lot of money."
That usually contented her, for money was necessary for beautiful clothes and entertaining. But Professor Grimm was far from being contented. His wife was no wife at all. He had no constant companion with whom he could share his problems, his ambitions and successes. He had only his work, to which he clung with such tenacity. His researches into the ionisation of solid bodies, and his concrete realisation of perfect high-density gases—these were his wife and love, and took the place of the romance which was missing from his life.
"Still," he reflected, "perhaps it's just as well. People who have all they want never give much to life. There is no incentive to further effort. If I were as happy as Puckner is with his wife, going off on one honeymoon after another, I suppose I should never have worked out my Integrator."
What was this Integrator, which filled the Professor's days, which occupied his thoughts at night, and at which he worked so enthusiastically? It was a truly astonishing thing, before which its own creator sometimes stood in awe, scarcely able to credit the miraculous powers it vested in him as reward for his strenuous labours.
That day, he had tested it out again, and witnessed its amazing performance. While the huge generators were starting up and the glowing platinum targets were warming, he had sat at his desk working his slide-rule and jotting down figures, his "pattern" equations. Then, with his eye on a stop-watch that showed fifths of a second, he had moved switches and pressed keys. In the centre of the big room, the air had swirled in a spiral and become a nebulous cloud. The cloud had condensed—and there had been a brick of clay, a bar of gold, a piece of ivory, or a mass of fibre or jelly.
NEXT morning he was practising on more complex things. He spent more time with his pencil and slide-rule, and got a blooming rose, and a wriggling worm, by substituting different values for the terms of his equation and setting his experimental quantities, according to the resulting "pattern." A bold attempt resulted in a little monkey, which scampered chattering about the room until the Professor shut off the power, whereupon the animal melted away and vanished into thin air.
He tried another combination, and there appeared a tiny, machine of whirring wheels and clicking levers, working away merrily; and when he opened the switches again, it dimmed and was gone, with a rush of air through the windows and an electrification of everything remaining in the room by the dissipated charges.
To the ordinary man, such feats as these would seem to be explained only in terms of magic. But, to Professor Grimm, they were a matter of intra-atomic physics, very accurate and complicated; so highly complex, indeed, that it would spoil any pleasure which the average reader may derive from this account if the full technical details of the process were to be included here. However, it will be sufficient if he is assured that certain electromagnetic vibrations have the property of displacing electrons from the outer orbits within the atom, leaving an unsaturated atom with an intense avidity to combine; and that Professor Grimm had accomplished more in the generation of large volumes of these short-wave X-rays than any man of his time, with the aid of the power available from the great waterfall near his laboratory.
So, with his streams of short waves, he had an unparalleled opportunity of observing the behaviour of these unsaturated atoms. By condensing the vast numbers of ions he obtained, he turned gases into solids of differing composition. He worked with air in his early experiments, and so produced masses of marble—marble, perhaps because the cloud of loose atoms that wander about in space consists mostly of calcium. But his blocks of marble were shapeless. Could he determine before-hand what shape they would assume? Could he produce substances other than marble? Could he manufacture a complex mass of a dozen or more elements?
From those first steps to the finished Integrator is a long story. The relation between the components of a complex body and their evolution from simple ions; the accurate control of the bombardment of free atoms by short-wave X-rays; the ability to separate one electron from an atom of nitrogen, or two or three—it is tedious, mathematical stuff. Curious indeed were the bodies he built up by rearranging and condensing the ions; fantastic blobs of stuff that twisted and writhed, then changed into something else.
No wonder the fascinating work absorbed him so intensely; yet he could not have endured that long, nerve-racking concentration unless he had been driven from the distractions of the outside world by his inner despair. Still, the final achievement was worth all of the effort. He had a sense of god-like power, of limitless potency, when he thought of what those rows of short-wave tubes could accomplish at his touch.
For, now that he had worked, out the proton bases and the electron patterns, he had achieved automatic control of wavelengths and radiation densities, and was learning to make what he pleased out of his condensed ions. It was merely a matter of getting the pattern right to start with; and the object would then develop itself, providing there was a sufficient supply of energy.
THAT evening, he walked home in a daze. He did not even glance at the cinema posters; the laughing couples passed by unheeded. For, just as he had been leaving the laboratory, an idea had suddenly occurred to him; an idea so tremendous that the force of it had stunned him. It was something that the Integrator could do for him—and it was something even bigger than the Integrator itself.
When at length he came out of his daze, he looked abound at the grey world that had left him so forlorn, and his heart leaped wildly with anticipation. Now, he could have the happiness he craved—he could make it for himself!
His wife was all ready to set out for a theatre party. Her beautiful gown and tinkling voice invited him. No; he didn't want to go. He never did want to go, and to-night he wasn't even in the same world. So, his wife went off alone; while he, with head throbbing and heart racing with excitement, went back to the laboratory.
The Integrator, with which he was to work the miracle, stood at one end of the vast room, which otherwise was almost empty, leaving large areas of bare floor, walls and ceiling. He opened all the windows wide: he would have to draw on the atmosphere for large quantities of matter. Then he sat down at the pattern-board of the machine.
A whole hour's calculation was necessary. His pencil, slide-rule and book of integrals were fully employed. His results came out in milliamperes and spark-gap lengths, and he manipulated the switches and rheostats accordingly. Then, before his eager eyes, grew his dream.
First, swirling nebulae. Then vague shapes took form in the depths of the fog. They rolled like smoke, and changed. Soon, he could see trees; soft, green grass in their shade; flowers, and a gravel path. Then there was a picturesque cottage, and through its windows, glimpses of a bright, cosy room with lamps, draperies and a divan. And last—and best—of all, a beautiful woman!
She materialised in the doorway of the cottage, in a simple gown of soft silk, a gentle smile on her lips. She seemed to be waiting for him. He made certain that the machinery would continue its smooth running, and walked towards her up the gravel path.
"Are you real?" He could not help but ask the question, though it sounded foolish, and he did not under-estimate the capacities of the Integrator. She held out her hands towards him.
"Real—and waiting for you."
They entered the cottage and sat down on the divan together. She was real enough. Her hands were soft, but there was a firmness in their grasp that he liked. He touched her shoulder, and her cheek. They were real. She smiled at his doubts.
"Do you believe I'm here, now?" she asked.
"What is your name?" He felt he must know.
"Amaranth."
"It's a nice name. Sounds just like I feel."
She brought him some lemonade. He began to wish he were more carefully dressed, for she seemed interested in him; her eyes were always on him. They talked a good deal, in the process of getting acquainted. She was intelligent, and talked well; she had a good sense of humour, and her radiant cheerfulness made him feel rested. As the evening passed, he forgot all his troubles, and the grey world without. He was happy.
"I shall see you again, of course," they both said when he took his leave.
BEFORE he shut off the power, he checked his patterns most carefully, so that he would be sure of their accuracy when he wanted to repeat them, and that everything would be just the same again. Then he shut off the generators, gradually, one after another. There was a dimming of the scene of paradise before him; and he had a vague, fleeting feeling that he was killing, destroying somebody, but he reassured himself with the thought that he could reproduce it all to-morrow.
It faded, and was gone. There was a momentary sense of extreme pressure in the room as the disintegrating molecules expanded, and before the open windows released the excess atmospheric density. Then the room was empty again, except for the Integrator; and the Professor went home through the night, a feeling of supreme contentment inside him.
THE next day seemed endless to Professor Grimm. A blaze of bronze hair and a pair of soft, round arms would not stay out of his mind. Even when he was at his busiest, he could hear in the background the low, musical tones:
"I shall see you again, of course."
When at last evening came, he dressed carefully, and sallied forth spruce as any young swain. Back in the laboratory, he sat before his switches and patterns. The idyllic scene materialised again at his touch: the trees, the green grass, and the country cottage, with the lovely Amaranth at the door. Everything was exactly the same as before.
As Amaranth gazed with large, blue eyes at her creator, the eager pressure of her soft, warm hand on his sleeve thrilled him through and through. She brought him a grape-fruit, this time, with some slices of sponge-cake, and a luxurious cushion to make him more comfortable on the divan. To add to his bliss, she sang a lilting air at the piano, while he feasted his eyes on her.
And so the electron patterns were repeated many times, and much power was used from the waterfall. Day after day, the Professor, after a hard day's work, would make a brief appearance at his home, then hurry back to the laboratory and the artificial paradise which awaited him. There were long hours of sweet companionship, soft arms about his neck, and rapturous communions of perfect understanding. Professor Grimm knew all the happiness he had ever craved, and more. He was a changed man. His friends noticed the difference in him—and so did his wife.
"Your work must be going well," she suggested. "You seem livelier than you used to. What is it this time?"
"Oh, just a little machine," he told her evasively. "That idea I told you about. It's quite a success, and if I can sell it to somebody like Amalgamated Amusements, there, should be a few thousand dollars in it, I fancy."
It sounded good to her. She wanted to see it for herself. He took her to the laboratory, and made flowers, gorgeous gowns and motor-cars appear out of nothingness before her startled eyes.
But the wonder of it was not so impressive as the figure it would sell for.
"It's worth a million dollars—no less," she decided.
WEEKS lengthened into months, and Professor Grimm was still full of happiness. But he was still without the cheque for a million dollars. His wife grew impatient.
"Haven't you seen those people about selling that machine yet?" she asked, more than once.
"No," he told her. "I'm still working on it. I'm not satisfied to let it go as it is. Besides, I'm thinking of offering it to somebody else—to a manufacturing firm. It's worth more as a producing machine than it would be as a mere novelty to give amusement."
"You're too particular. It doesn't matter whom you sell it to, as long as you get a good price for it. It's taking up more of your time than ever. I'll come over there one evening and drag you away from it, if you don't stay home a bit more. You're making me jealous of your old machine!"
The Professor felt a little guilty, after that. People thought he was working terribly hard, when all the time he wasn't. And, really, he should be. He had an idea on solar power to tackle, and he couldn't seem to get down to it. He was happy and satisfied. He didn't want to work.
Some of his friends, with whom he had grown so popular now that he was such a bright and breezy fellow, began to talk. While they were delighted at the transformation in him, they were rather disappointed in the effect it seemed to have had on his work.
"He's full of ideas about solar power, and I've been waiting for something big, but he doesn't seem to be doing anything. He's still got the same apparatus in his lab that he's had for months."
So they commented; and Professor Grimm could not help hearing these complaints, by roundabout paths. He sighed, and the world seemed almost grey again.
"Obviously, progress and contentment do not go together," he mused. "Men who are happy can't accomplish much."
He brooded, and was sunk deep in melancholy for several days, during which he never touched his patterns. Then, one evening, he returned to the laboratory and started the generators. Things had gone all wrong. He was miserable, and depressed. He had to see her again...
In her arms, in the little cottage, his tortured soul was soothed. He forgot everything but Amaranth; her bronze hair, her melting smile, her sweet devotion to him. Until, somewhere in the background, a dull pounding, hammering sound intruded. He tried to ignore it, but it persisted. Then he realised what it was. Someone was at the laboratory door, and was banging on it furiously. Had he locked it? An awful, guilty fear seized him. He didn't want to be caught like this.
"Charles!" came a voice that, on this occasion, did not tinkle as it usually did. He leaped up, and ran to the switches; shut off all the generators in, a single sweep of his hand. Then he hurried to open the door. There was his wife and, behind her, two men, looking very business-like.
BEHIND him, the paradise created by the Integrator had faded; the hum of the generators was dying down. But he had shut off the power so abruptly that the big room was full of swirls and currents. A blast of air blew out of the opened door, and the windows rattled. His ear-drums clicked with the sudden pressure. Papers blew about; a stack of them went sailing off his desk, and his hat flew through the nearest window. His wife gasped, and clung to the door-handle for support, as the cyclone whirled about her. But, when the rush of air died down, she regained her supreme calm at once.
"Darling," she said sweetly. "These gentlemen are Mr. Rosenthal and Mr. Laskey, of Amalgamated Amusements. They say they never got your letters about the machine at all, but they were quite excited when I told them all about it. They have a cheque for a million dollars all ready for you. Isn't that nice? I know you won't mind the interruption, will you, dear?"
The Professor stood and stared at her, blankly. There was a confused roaring in his head, and he could not speak. Sell the Integrator? Lose Amaranth? Be miserable again—for ever? Was it worth a million dollars—which his wife would spend for him? The prospect seemed appalling. Then, on the other hand, he really ought to be working on that solar power idea. Great things were expected of him; his fellows were talking, and it was only the Integrator that kept him from making a start. He groaned. He couldn't decide.
His wife stood there gazing at him, puzzled, while the two business men waited respectfully. He passed his hand over his forehead, as though to clear his fuddled thoughts, then sat down at the Integrator. He reached for his patterns, and realised with a shock that they were not there. He rushed to the window, through which his papers had flown on the swirling air. He leaned out, peering through the darkness. There were white-sheets floating on the river below. He sank back. All his patterns, those careful calculations.... Then, with a sudden movement, he shrugged his shoulders and pulled himself together. He turned to the two men. "Would you like a demonstration?" he asked quietly.
"It doesn't matter, now. We know you. Let's close the deal right up, and you can show us how it works to-morrow."
Professor Grimm signed the paper, and took the cheque from the fat, red-faced man. His wife looked on, beaming. He passed the cheque to her without even looking at it. His eyes were far away.
"H-m-m," he was saying. "Solar power... To-morrow, I must look up Langley's stuff on the pressure of light."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.