Saturday's Good Reading: "Rapunzel" by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (translated into English by D.L. Ashiiman)

First edition, 1812

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman who had long wished for a child but had never received one.

Finally, however, the woman came to be with child.

Through the small rear window of these people's house they could see into a fairy's garden that was filled with flowers and herbs of all kinds.

No one dared enter this garden.

One day the woman was standing at this window, and she saw the most beautiful rapunzel in a bed.

She longed for some, but not knowing how to get any, she became miserably ill.

Her husband was frightened, and asked her why she was doing so poorly.

"Oh, if I do not get some rapunzel from the garden behind our house, I shall surely die," she said.

The man, who loved her dearly, decided to get her some, whatever the cost.

One evening he climbed over the high wall, hastily dug up a handful of rapunzel, and took it to his wife.

She immediately made a salad from it, which she devoured greedily.

It tasted so very good to her that by the next day her desire for more had grown threefold.

The man saw that there would be no peace, so once again he climbed into the garden.

To his horror, the fairy was standing there.

She scolded him fiercely for daring to enter and steal from her garden.

He excused himself as best he could with his wife's pregnancy, and how it would be dangerous to deny her anything.

Finally the fairy spoke, "I will accept your excuse and even allow you to take as much rapunzel as you want, if you will give me the child that your wife is now carrying."

In his fear the man agreed to everything.

When the woman gave birth, the fairy appeared, named the little girl Rapunzel, and took her away.

This Rapunzel became the most beautiful child under the sun, but when she was twelve years old, the fairy locked her in a high tower that had neither a door nor a stairway, but only a tiny little window at the very top.

When the fairy wanted to enter, she stood below and called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair to me.

 

Rapunzel had splendid hair, as fine as spun gold.

When the fairy called out, she untied it, wound it around a window hook, let it fall twenty yards to the ground, and the fairy climbed up it.

One day a young prince came through the forest where the tower stood.

He saw the beautiful Rapunzel standing at her window, heard her sing with her sweet voice, and fell in love with her.

Because there was no door in the tower and no ladder was tall enough to reach her, he fell into despair.

He came to the forest every day, until once he saw the fairy, who said:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair.

 

Then Rapunzel let down her strands of hair, and the sorceress climbed up them to her.

"If that is the ladder into the tower, then sometime I will try my luck."

He remembered the words that he would have to speak, and the next day, as soon as it was dark, he went to the tower and called upward:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair!

 

She let her hair fall. He tied himself to it and was pulled up.

At first Rapunzel was frightened, but soon she came to like the young king so well that she arranged for him to come every day and be pulled up. Thus they lived in joy and pleasure for a long time.

The fairy did not discover what was happening until one day Rapunzel said to her, "Frau Gothel, tell me why it is that my clothes are all too tight. They no longer fit me."

"You godless child," said the fairy. "What am I hearing from you?" She immediately saw how she had been deceived and was terribly angry.

She took Rapunzel's beautiful hair, wrapped it a few times around her left hand, grasped a pair of scissors with her right hand, and snip snip, cut it off.

Then she sent Rapunzel into a wilderness where she suffered greatly and where, after a time, she gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl.

On the evening of the same day that she sent Rapunzel away, the fairy tied the cut-off hair to the hook at the top of the tower, and when the prince called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair!

 

she let down the hair.

The prince was startled to find the fairy instead of his beloved Rapunzel.

"Do you know what, evil one?" cried the angry fairy. "You have lost Rapunzel forever."

The prince, in his despair, threw himself from the tower.

He escaped with his life, but he lost his eyesight in the fall.

Sorrowfully he wandered about in the forest weeping and, eating nothing but grass and roots.

Some years later he happened into the wilderness where Rapunzel lived miserably with her children.

He thought that her voice was familiar.

She recognized him instantly as well and threw her arms around his neck.

Two of her tears fell into his eyes, and they became clear once again, and he could see as well as before.

 

 

 

Final edition, 1857

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman who had long, but to no avail, wished for a child.

Finally the woman came to believe that the good Lord would fulfill her wish.

Through the small rear window of these people's house they could see into a splendid garden that was filled with the most beautiful flowers and herbs.

The garden was surrounded by a high wall, and no one dared enter, because it belonged to a sorceress who possessed great power and was feared by everyone.

One day the woman was standing at this window, and she saw a bed planted with the most beautiful rapunzel.

It looked so fresh and green that she longed for some. It was her greatest desire to eat some of the rapunzel. This desire increased with every day, and not knowing how to get any, she became miserably ill.

Her husband was frightened, and asked her, "What ails you, dear wife?"

"Oh," she answered, " if I do not get some rapunzel from the garden behind our house, I shall die."

The man, who loved her dearly, thought, "Before you let your wife die, you must get her some of the rapunzel, whatever the cost."

So just as it was getting dark he climbed over the high wall into the sorceress's garden, hastily dug up a handful of rapunzel, and took it to his wife.

She immediately made a salad from it, which she devoured eagerly.

It tasted so very good to her that by the next day her desire for more had grown threefold.

If she were to have any peace, the man would have to climb into the garden once again.

Thus he set forth once again just as it was getting dark. But no sooner than he had climbed over the wall than, to his horror, he saw the sorceress standing there before him.

"How can you dare," she asked with an angry look, "to climb into my garden and like a thief to steal my rapunzel? You will pay for this."

"Oh," he answered, "Let mercy overrule justice. I came to do this out of necessity. My wife saw your rapunzel from our window, and such a longing came over her, that she would die, if she did not get some to eat."

The sorceress's anger abated somewhat, and she said, "If things are as you say, I will allow you to take as much rapunzel as you want. But under one condition: You must give me the child that your wife will bring to the world. It will do well, and I will take care of it like a mother."

In his fear the man agreed to everything.

When the woman gave birth, the sorceress appeared, named the little girl Rapunzel, and took her away.

Rapunzel became the most beautiful child under the sun. When she was twelve years old, the sorceress locked her in a tower that stood in a forest and that had neither a door nor a stairway, but only a tiny little window at the very top.

When the sorceress wanted to enter, she stood below and called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair to me.

 

Rapunzel had splendid long hair, as fine as spun gold.

When she heard the sorceress's voice, she untied her braids, wound them around a window hook, let her hair fall twenty yards to the ground, and the sorceress climbed up it.

A few years later it happened that a king's son was riding through the forest.

As he approached the tower he heard a song so beautiful that he stopped to listen. It was Rapunzel, who was passing the time by singing with her sweet voice.

The prince wanted to climb up to her, and looked for a door in the tower, but none was to be found.

He rode home, but the song had so touched his heart that he returned to the forest every day and listened to it. One time, as he was thus standing behind a tree, he saw the sorceress approach, and heard her say:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair.

 

Then he knew which ladder would get him into the tower.

And the next day, just as it was beginning to get dark, he went to the tower and called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair.

 

The hair fell down, and the prince climbed up.

At first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man such as she had never seen before came in to her. However, the prince began talking to her in a very friendly manner, telling her that his heart had been so touched by her singing that he could have no peace until he had seen her in person. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she would take him as her husband, she thought, "He would rather have me than would old Frau Gothel." She said yes and placed her hand into his. She said, "I would go with you gladly, but I do not know how to get down. Every time that you come, bring a strand of silk, from which I will weave a ladder. When it is finished I will climb down, and you can take me away on your horse." They arranged that he would come to her every evening, for the old woman came by day.

The sorceress did not notice what was happening until one day Rapunzel said to her, "Frau Gothel, tell me why it is that you are more difficult to pull up than is the young prince, who will be arriving any moment now?"

"You godless child," cried the sorceress. "What am I hearing from you? I thought I had removed you from the whole world, but you have deceived me nonetheless."

In her anger she grabbed Rapunzel's beautiful hair, wrapped it a few times around her left hand, grasped a pair of scissors with her right hand, and snip snap, cut it off.

And she was so unmerciful that she took Rapunzel into a wilderness where she suffered greatly.

On the evening of the same day that she sent Rapunzel away, the sorceress tied the cut-off hair to the hook at the top of the tower, and when the prince called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair.

 

she let down the hair.

The prince climbed up, but above, instead of his beloved Rapunzel, he found the sorceress, who peered at him with poisonous and evil looks.

"Aha!" she cried scornfully. "You have come for your Mistress Darling, but that beautiful bird is no longer sitting in her nest, nor is she singing any more. The cat got her, and will scratch your eyes out as well. You have lost Rapunzel. You will never see her again."

The prince was overcome with grief, and in his despair he threw himself from the tower.

He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell poked out his eyes.

Blind, he wandered about in the forest, eating nothing but grass and roots, and doing nothing but weeping and wailing over the loss of his beloved wife.

Thus he wandered about miserably for some years, finally happening into the wilderness where Rapunzel lived miserably with the twins that she had given birth to.

He heard a voice and thought it was familiar.

He advanced toward it, and as he approached, Rapunzel recognized him, and crying, threw her arms around his neck.

Two of her tears fell into his eyes, and they became clear once again, and he could see as well as before. He led her into his kingdom, where he was received with joy, and for a long time they lived happily and satisfied.

Saturday's Good Reading: “O Grilo” by Monteiro Lobato (in Portuguese)

 

Os papéis, recém - redigidos, são 'envelhecidos' na fumaça do fogão ou segundo um método bem mais perfeito: são postos em gavetas junto com centenas de grilos vivos; com o tempo, os grilos morrem, apodrecem e liberam toxinas, que provocam manchas no papel, “envelhecendo-o”- vem daí o termo “grileiro”.

 *

Insistente nas palestras como certas moscas em dia de calor, é, nas regiões do Noroeste, a palavra "grilo". "Grilo" e seus derivados, "grileiro", "engrilar", em acepção muito diversa da que devem ter entre os nipônicos, onde grileiros engrilam grilos de verdade em gaiolinhas, como fazemos aqui com o sabiá, o canário, o pintassilgo e mais passarinhos tolos que morrem pela garganta.

Em certas zonas chega a ser obsessão. Todo mundo fala em terras griladas e comenta feitos de grileiros famosos.

E agora que o grilo penetrou na arte, e vai perpetuar-se em mármore e bronze no monumento da Independência, (1) vem a talho de foice um apanhado geral sobre a conspícua instituição - viveiro onde se fermenta a aristocracia dinheirosa de amanhã. As velhas fidalguias da Europa entroncam no banditismo dos cruzados. Ter na linhagem um facínora encoscorado de ferro, que saqueou, queimou, violou, matou à larga no Oriente, é o maior padrão de glória de um marquês de França. Ter entre os avós um grileiro de hoje vai ser o orgulho supremo dos nossos milionários futuros. Matarás, roubarás, são os mandamentos de alto bordo do decálogo humano, eternos e irredutíveis, que a ingênua lei de Moisés tentou inverter, antepondo-lhes um inócuo "não".

Grilo é uma propriedade territorial legalizada por meio de um título falso; grileiro é o advogado ou "águia" qualquer manipulador de grilos; terras "grilentas" ou "engriladas", as que têm maromba de alquimia forense no título.

Como o grilo proliferou na Noroeste mais do que o permite o coeficiente tolerável da patota humana, as conversas ressentem-se ali de muita insistência no assunto.

- Vou comprar terras do grilo do doutor Honestino dos Anjos.

- Não caia nessa! O Honestino é um grileiro sujo. Qualquer dia escangalham-lhe com a patota. Grilo de primeiríssima, que dá gosto, é o do Pizarro! Esse, sim... Porque há grilos geniais, obra de verdadeiros Cagliostros encarnados nos bacharéis do "venerando mosteiro"; e os há ineptos, mancos, fabricados aí por meros "curiosos" da trampolinagem, sem dedo para a coisa. Aqueles gozam de toda a consideração social devida aos mestres de vistas largas, ao passo que estes o povo os cobre de irrisão.

- Ali vai o senador Pizarro, um grileiro macota!

- E que me diz do Dr. Cunha?

- Um sujo. Borrou-se com aquele grilinho indecente da Pedra Azul e anda agora a tentar outro mais inepto ainda. É um crime deixar a polícia soltos pelas ruas tipos dessa ordem...

- Não tem a pinta! . . .

- É isso.

O grileiro é um alquimista. Envelhece papéis, ressuscita selos do Império, inventa guias de impostos, promove genealogias, dá como sabendo escrever velhos urumbebas que morreram analfabetos, embaça juízes, suborna escrivães - e, novo Jeová, tira a terra do nada. Seu laboratório lembra as espeluncas dos Faustos medievais; mais prático, porém, não procura ali a pedra filosofal ou o elixir da longa vida. Fausto virou rábula: manipula a propriedade. Envelhecer um título falso, "enverdadeirá-lo", é toda uma ciência. Mas conseguem-no. Dão-lhe a cor, o tom, o cheiro da velhice, fazem-no muitas vezes mais autêntico do que os reais. Expõem-no ao fumeiro, a tal distância da fumaça conforme o grau de ancianidade requerido, e conseguem assim a gama dos amarelidos, segredo até aqui do Tempo.

Enquanto o papel se defuma, fazem-lhe aspersões sábias, que lhes dêem a rugosidade peculiar às celuloses d’antanho.

Finalmente, para impregná-lo do cheirinho, do bouquet dos decênios, passeiam-no a cavalo, metido entre o baixeiro e a carona...

E mais coisas fazem que os leigos não pescam e constituem o segredo do "ponto de bala".

Mas tudo isso às vezes é pouco. Veste o lobo a pele da velhice e fica com o rabo da mocidade de fora...

Conta-se de um grilo superiormente engenhado que faliu por artes de um raio de sol. O documento engrilado era perfeito, sem o mínimo cochilo por onde o advogado contrário, preposto a destramar a marosca, pudesse levantar a perdiz. Por mais que virasse e revirasse o papel, e analisasse a letra, e cotejasse os dizeres, e cheirasse, e apalpasse, não atinava com o calcanhar de Aquiles. Já com dor de cabeça ia pôr de parte o grilo, quando Apolo intervêm. Um raio de sol entra pela janela e dá de chapa contra o título. Àquela súbita e intensa iluminação o perito pôde vislumbrar as letras d’água com que a fábrica marcara o papel. Lá estava a estrela da República naquele documento do século dezessete...

Ao trabalhinho de laboratório aliam-se ao ar livre os atos anexos e complementares - violências, suborno, incêndio de cartórios, sumiço de autos, etc.

Porque o grilo é proteiforme e para completar-se sobe até a ótica, subornando até os teodolitos dos engenheiros.

Que prodígios não opera neste campo! O primeiro é substituir a corrente, o podômetro, o teodolito, a trigonometria e o mais por um instrumento só, de alta engenhosidade: o olhômetro.

Só o olhômetro merece fé aos grileiros, esse aparelho maravilhoso, de criação nossa, e já muito usado pelos governos em estudos estatísticos.

Por intermédio do olhômetro mudam-se os cursos dos rios, passa-se um afluente da margem esquerda para a direita, criam-se cachoeiras em sítios onde o nível é manso, e operam-se quantas mais revoluções geográficas se fazem mister à patota.

Um grileiro está na posse do nome de um rio que a natureza esqueceu de criar; se ele consegue localizar esse rio no mapa, o grilo sairá de primeiríssima. E lá vai ele, com o rio às costas, em procura de colocação...

A outro fazia grande conta uma cachoeira em certo ponto das divisas.

O homem não pestaneja: constrói a cachoeira. Os contrários protestam.

Há intervenção judiciária. Na vistoria chamam para perito o morador mais antigo das redondezas. O caboclo chega, defronta-se com a cachoeira fantástica e abre a boca. Há cinqüenta anos que vive ali, conhece a zona como a palma de sua mão - como é que nunca viu aquele "poder d’água", barulhento e atravancador? Mas desconfia – e entrando na água desfaz com dois pontapés a cachoeira de mentira, que lá rola, rio abaixo, transformada em tranqueira de galhaça e cipós

. . . Era uma cachoeira grilo . . .

O grilo come nas terras apossadas pelos caboclos mal apetrechados contra os percevejos da lei, tanto quanto nas terras devolutas, as quais, engriladas a Norte, Sul, Leste e Oeste, estão se derretendo como torrão de açúcar n’ água.

Calcula uma autoridade no assunto em três milhões de alqueires a área das terras griladas na Noroeste. E esses milhões caminham para quatro, visto como agora a indústria do grilo passou a interessar os altos paredros da política, verdadeiras piranhas em matéria de voracidade.

Não há exagero no cálculo de três milhões, sabendo-se que há grilos de 200, 300 e 400 mil alqueires – territórios equivalentes à metade da Bélgica, quase à Saxônia, e tamanhos como antigos ducados principados alemães!...

Verdade seja que estes grilos são os grilos-mães, os canhões 420 da espécie.

Um existe de 480 mil alqueires - o rei dos grilos - notável não só pelo tamanho como pela perfeição da sua gênese.

É o grilo recorde, e merece publicidade para lição dos que querem enriquecer depressa mas andam por aí a malbaratar o engenho com  patotinhas vagabundas.

Na posse de um título autêntico que lhe dava domínio sobre três mil alqueires, um dos nossos águias resolve tomá-lo como base para um grilo. Estuda bem o caso e um dia requer cópia dos autos onde vinha a partilha da gleba em questão, delimitada de um lado nestes termos "... e daí em linha reta de duas léguas, até encontrar o rio tal".

Ao chegar neste ponto, o escrevente do cartório, que tirava a cópia, sofre uma alucinação ótica e escreve "vinte e duas léguas" onde estavam "duas". Mesmo fora das bebedeiras é comum esta visão dupla das coisas, que há de ter em medicina um nome grego.

Concluída a cópia, vai ela ao juiz para os sacramentos. Juiz, promotor e coletor subscrevem-na, depois de lançados o "conferido e concertado" do estilo. Mas nenhum deles realmente conferiu nem concertou coisa nenhuma, de acordo com a mais louvável das praxes, porque é preciso ter confiança no escrivão, que diabo! E destarte o grileiro entrou na posse duns autos tão autênticos perante a lei quanto os originais.

Intervalo de quinze minutos.

Um advogado surge no cartório e pede vista dos autos originais.

Obtém-na, passa recibo e leva para casa o calhamaço.

Terceiro quadro: dias depois o grileiro denuncia esse advogado como tendo perdido o papelório. O juiz se assanha e intima o advogado a entregá-lo sob as penas da lei: prisão ou reconstrução dos autos perdidos. O advogado, consternadíssimo, alega que de fato os perdeu, - e segue para o xadrez como um verdadeiro mártir da urucubaca. E lá, entre grades, antes de meditar Silvio Pelico e Dostoievsky, sente na cabeça o famoso estalo de Arquimedes:

- Eureka!...

Lembra-se que em mãos de um amigo existe cópia conferida e concertada, e compromete-se a dá-la em troca do original que o saci (evidentemente o saci! . . . ) lhe furtara da gaveta.

Quarto ato: deferimento do juiz, soltura do advogado preso e solene entrada em cartório do grilo triunfante, com as 22 léguas em vez de apenas 2. Cai o pano. Reacendem-se as luzes e o grileiro de gênio entra na posse de 400 e tantos mil alqueires de terra em vez dos miseráveis três mil primitivos.

É ou não um rasgo yankee, merecedor dum filme? Não se conhecem os nossos progressos lá fora. Não imaginam o galope do nosso cavalo.

Galope tão grande que já se reflete na língua. Todos os dias o povo surge com palavras novas que dêem medida à evolução da esperteza. Para batismo destes "looping-the-loop" da aviação forense só entre os bichos que voam encontra o povo analogias competentes: águias, grilo, aguismo.

Mas não basta. Há necessidade de formas novas, combinações estapafúrdias, conúbios de rapinagem de alta envergadura com ruminantes de pé ultra-ligeiro. Só estas cabriolas vocabulares têm força expressiva no caso.

Ouvimos uma vez, em roda onde se comentavam estes tremendos malabarismos, cair em crise de entusiasmo um dos ouvintes; piscou, faiscou os olhos e improvisou este soberbo jato de impressionismo zoológico, única forma capaz de dizer toda a imensidade da sua admiração:

- Que cabras águias!

 

(1) Alusão ao projeto do escultor Ximenes, que venceu no concurso para o monumento e que Monteiro Lobato muito combateu em "Idéias de Jéca Tatú."

 in  "A onda verde". In: Obras completas,Vol. 5, Editora Brasiliense, 1948.

 

 

Wednesday's Good Reading: "Whispering Ether"by Charles S. Wolfe (in English)

 

I'm not a scientist. "Cans" is my line. Safes, you know. "Soup," nitro-glycerine, that kind of thing, get me? "Shoe-maker stick to your last." Them is my sentiments, and I stick to my own trade. But now that they got me tied up in this confounded jail, and I ain't got much to do with my spare time I got a notion to jot down what I know about that Proctor affair that you maybe read about in the papers. Reporters was after me thick when it happened, but I was the silent kid. It pays to keep your mouth shut in the circles I move in.

Proctor's in the bug house. Three alienists, or whatever you call those ginks that admit they're sane and prove you're not, pronounced him hopelessly insane. I ain't disputing no jury of my peers. If they say he's a nut, he's a nut, that's all. But——

I didn't get introduced to Proctor in the regular way. We didn't have no mutual acquaintances to slip us the knock-down. It all came about thru me droppin' in one night, casual like, to blow his safe. You might wonder what a yegg would want out of a laboratory safe. Maybe you'll wise up when I tip you it was a contract job. Not my own, see? I'm namin' no names, but there was a gang of big guys that wanted old Proctor's formula for Chero, and thought it would be cheaper to buy it off me than him. Anyway, I'm after the paper with the makeup of this explosive when I jimmied the laboratory window.

I'm sayin' this right here: Proctor may be a nut, but he's no boob. I was expecting burglar alarms, scientific thief traps, all that kind of stuff. And I was all fixt for an electrified box. Proctor put one over on me just the same. And if he didn't do it with the mind machine, how in Hell else do you account for it?

I was workin' on the old can. She was a fairly respectable affair, and I make up my mind to blow her. I was drillin' away when click goes a switch and the sudden flare of light dazzled me. Were you ever caught working on a guy's safe, brother? No? Well, take it from Oscar, it's like nothing you ever felt before.

Even before I can see right my mind's workin' overtime hunting for a way out. And then I can see again, and there stands Proctor, a long cord trailing behind him and 'phones over his ears like the wireless men. And I notice with joy that he ain't got a gat—not that I can see.

Anyway, I risk it. Just as quick as I can draw I flashes my automatic. I point it right at his head, and makin' my voice as hard as I can I says, tense-like, "You speak one word and you'll eat your breakfast in Hell."

And Proctor smiles. Get that? With my gat at his head he smiles. And, fellow, when Proctor smiles it gives you the creeps. And then he says—s' help me—I'm not bullyin' you—"Put your gun away, my man, its not loaded."

Can you beat that? It wasn't either, but how did he know it? Bluffing? That's what I thought, and I sees his bet and raises him. "You move," I growls, "and you'll discover you're a bad guesser."

He smiles again. Say, I can feel my flesh creep yet. "It's not loaded," he says, very calm, and he walks a few steps toward me. I don't shoot. You can't you know, with an empty gun, and I see that he's called my bluff.

"You win," I says. "It ain't. But I can beat the life out of you with it."

That smile again. His hand goes to his pocket. He pulls out a little bottle, just about the size they sell you pills in. "That, my friend," he says, "is full of Chero. If I just toss it at your feet, you'll never attempt to steal a formula again on this planet."

Does he win? He owns the building. "Call the officer," and I chucks the gun on the floor, "I'll go quietly."

"Sensible," he remarks; "very sensible. You possess judgment, even if you do lack courage. Who sent you here?"

"Call in the bulls," I growls. "I'm not squealing."

He takes no notice, "I know who sent you, I knew you were coming."

"Look here," I blurts, "if that gang framed me, I'll talk. They sent for me, I didn't go to them. I——"

"No one informed me, if that's what you mean," he says, coldly. "It is not necessary for any one to inform me of anything. The world is an open book to me."

(That's just what he told that gang of saw-bones afterwards, and they said he was looney. But if they had seen him as I seen him——)

He was talking again. "My man," I wriggled when he spoke, "the men for whom you work are imbeciles. I have named my price for Chero, and they don't want to pay it. They believe they can wrest it from me by force or trickery. You are their first emissary, and it is my wish that you be their last. I am going to convince them that it is useless to attempt anything of the kind with me. I am not going to turn you over to the police. I am going to show you something, and then I am going to send you back to your masters to tell them what you have seen. After that," he smiled, "I don't think I shall be troubled by them. Come!"

He stalked into the next room, me at his heels. There wasn't much in that room—just a table covered with apparatus. I have seen a wireless set. It looked something like that, only—well there was something different about it.

He pointed to it. Oh! I can see him yet, with his flashing eyes, and his big dome. "There," says he, "is the mind machine. And you, a criminal, are the first man to see it except its creator."

I'm getting on my feet again, and not so scared, and so I gazes at it curious. "What is it, Doc?" I asks.

"It reads your thoughts," he says, just as solemn as an owl.

That's right, laugh, I don't blame you. I grinned myself. He saw me grin, and he turned on me like a tiger.

"Dolt," he hollers. "Clod! You doubt. Pig! Your type has retarded the progress of mankind throughout the ages. You sneer—you imbecile!"

Well, just then I'm like the doctors. "A nut!" I thinks, "and loose with that bottle of Chero in his pocket!" And it's up to me to soothe him.

"How does it work?" I asks, to gain time. When you're in a room with a nut that's nursin' a bottle of H. E. your one thought is to go away from there. And this particular nut don't want me to. But I have hopes.

By dumb luck I hits the right chord. "How does it work?" gets results. Right away he seems to forget he's mad. He seems to forget I'm a yegg, he gets kind of dreamy, and he runs a caressin' hand over the shiny brass of the nearest instrument.

"Simple," he says, "very simple. It is based on the electro-magnetic wave and the conducting ether theories." It's over my head, but I listen. "Have you ever considered just what happens when you think intensely? By an effort of what you call the Will, you concentrate on what you are thinking. Emotion, too, plays its part. You are intensely angry, intensely worried, intensely interested. This concentrating acts physically on the brain. There is a call on the heart for more blood. And the heart responds, sending a thicker, faster stream to the affected locality. Now what happens?" He turns to me like my teacher used to do in school when there was a question to be answered.

"Search me," I murmurs.

But he doesn't even see me, I guess. "The increased stream, rushing at an unusual rate, rubs against the walls of the veins and arteries of the head, producing friction."

"I see," I says, politely. But I don't.

"This friction is the physical result of the mental action. Your purely mental process has, by the membership of the rushing blood and its attending friction, been transformed into, or has produced, a physical manifestation."

His voice sank to a whisper. "It is this fact that makes my great invention possible. The friction set up produces faint currents of electricity. It is Nature's own generator. The currents are faint, weak, but they are there. And they vary in intensity in proportion as the rushing blood stream surges and ebbs. Thus they have imprinted on them all the characteristics of the thought that gives rise to them. They vary in the individual. Some minds can generate a current one hundred—yes, one thousand—times greater than others, but all minds generate to some extent.

"And these electrical impulses are thrown out into space in wave trains, exactly as the radio telegraph throws them out. This accounts for the phenomena of mental telepathy. If conditions are just right, the receiving mind in perfect tune with the transmitting mind, and sensitive enough to interpret the received impulses, you have accomplished telepathy. All that remained for me to do was to measure the intensity and characteristics of the generated current, its frequency—and it is high—and——"

He paused and fixt me with that fishy stare. I didn't know just what to say, so I took a Brody. "And what, Doc? Slip it to me quick."

"And the length of the emitted wave," he comes back at me, triumphantly, "It might be one millionth of a meter or it might be one million meters. Or it might be any length between those extremes. Or beyond them, for that matter. I succeeded in making these measurements."

He laughed. Or, rather, he laughed and snarled all at once. I'm telling you straight, fellow, your hair stands on end when Proctor laughs like that.

"I fancy some of your radio experts would gape if they were permitted to see my wave meter. I believe it would cause some excitement in the laboratories of Lodge or Marconi. I—Proctor—I measured these waves which, of course, means that I found a detector for them. Our friend DeForest thinks that he has a monopoly on ultra-sensitive detectors. Proctor's detector is to the audion what a stop watch is to a wheel barrow!

"And the frequency. It is beyond the limits of audibility, as that term is understood. I wound phones that will render the received signals audible. And the task was done."

Most of that stuff had gone over, but like a lightning flash the big idea burst thru' my shrapnel-proof cranium. I fairly stuttered as I got his drift. I'll bet my eyes popped as I gaped at that machine. "Good God!" I spluttered. "Do you mean that that thing can hear you think?"

Proctor smiled the nearest to a human smile that I ever saw on his mug. "You have glimmerings of intelligence," he said, in a gratified way; "I mean just that."

And then he went off his handle again. "And I mean," he roared, "that you are to go back to the scum that sent you and tell them that it is useless for them to plot against me, for I can hear then very thoughts as they think them. I can read their miserable souls! That's how I knew you were coming here to-night! That's how I knew that your lethal weapon contained no charge! And," he seized me and shook me until my heels nearly broke my neck, "And that's how I know, you swine, that even now you don't know whether to believe me or not."

He released me and tore the telephone things from off his ears. "Here!" he bellowed, clamping them over my ears, "here! Listen, and be convinced."

He wheeled to the table and whirled knobs and dials. A continuous humming and buzzing sounded in the 'phones.

And then it happened. Listen to me close, I know they labeled Proctor "squirrel food" for telling them less than this, but—— This was July of 1914. Get that?

Suddenly something like a voice—no, not like a voice, either—like a voice inside my own head, if you can get me, said masterfully, with a strong German accent, "Serbia will, because she dare not submit. France must, because she will see my hand behind it. England must as a last desperate effort to save herself. But my armies will grind them like grain in the mill. And then——"

Proctor tore the 'phones from me. I was like a stuffed doll and I never raised a mitt. He grabbed me, and it was just like being caught in the jaws of a vise. "You have heard," he thundered. "Now go."

The last thing I remember was that he heaved me toward the door. I remember spinning toward it. And that's all.

The next thing I remember is waking up in that hospital ward. It was July of 1914 when Proctor chucked me, and it was late August when I found myself in that hospital.

As near as I can learn I missed the door, hit the wall and a bottle of that Chero stuff got knocked off a shelf. They dug Proctor and I out of the ruins, and we were both pretty well messed up.

Proctor raved about his ruined mind machine, and it got him a pass to the squirrel cage.

If you read the papers at the time you'll remember Proctor wanted me to back him up, but I wouldn't talk. Least said, easiest remedied.

Now you got all I know about it. I spilled it once to Gentleman Joe, a high-browed crook, who soaked up all they pass you at Harvard when he was young. Joe said maybe Proctor fooled me with a camoflaged phonograph.

Maybe he did. I might think so myself if it had happened in September instead of July, 1914. Get me?

 

The End