Chapter 5 of The Clockwork Man by E. V. Odle This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Clockwork Man. Chapter 5. The Clockwork Man Investigates Matters. ONE Whatever inconveniences the Clockwork Man suffered as a result of having lapsed into a world of strange laws and manifestations, he enjoyed at least one advantage. His power of traveling over the earth at an enormous speed rendered the question of pursuit almost farcical. While Allingham's car sped over the neighboring hills, the object of the chase returned by a circuitous route to Great Wymering, slowed down, and began to walk up and down the High Street. It was now quite dark, and very few people seemed to have noticed that odd figure ambling along, stopping now and again to examine some object that aroused his interest or got in his way. There is no doubt that during these lesser perambulations he contrived somehow to get the silencer under better control so that his progress was now muted. It is possible also that his faculties began to adjust themselves a little to his strange surroundings, and that he now definitely tried to grasp his environment. But he still suffered relapses. And the fact that he again wore a hat and wig, although not his own, requires a word of explanation. It was this circumstance that accounted for the vickers' late arrival at the entertainment given an aid of the church funds that night. He lingered over his sermon until the last moment, and then hurried off with only a slight pause in which to glance at himself in the hall of error. He walked swiftly along the dark streets in the direction of the Templars Hall, which was situated at the lower end of the town. Perhaps it was because of his own desperate hurry that he scarcely noticed that other figure approaching him and in a straight line. He swerved slightly in order to allow the figure to pass and continued on his way. And then he stopped abruptly, aware of a cool sensation on the top of his head. His hat and wig had gone. Aghast he retraced his steps, but there was no sign of the articles on the pavement. It seemed utterly incredible, for there was only a slight breeze and he did not remember knocking into anything. He had certainly not collided with the stranger. Just for a moment he wondered. But duty to his parishioners remained uppermost in the conscientious vickers' mind, and it was not fair to them that he should catch his death of cold. He hurried back to the vicarage. For a quarter of an hour he pulled open drawers, ransacked cupboards, searching everywhere for an old wig that had been discarded and a new hat that had never been worn. He found them at last and arrived breathless and out of temper in the middle of the cinematograph display which constituted the first part of the performance. "'My dear,' he gasped, as he slid into the seat reserved for him next to his wife, I couldn't help it. Someone stole my hat and wig.' "'Stole them, Herbert,' she expostulated. "'Not stole them.' "'Yes, stole them. I'll tell you afterwards. Is this the Palestine picture?' "'Oh yes. Two.' And so the clockwork man was able to conceal his clock from the gaze of a curious world, and the grotesqueness of his appearance was heightened by the addition of a neatly trimmed chestnut wig and a soft round clerical hat. His perceptions must have been extraordinarily rapid, and he must have acted upon the instant. Nor did it seem to occur to him that in this world there are laws which forbid theft. Probably in the world from which he came such restrictions are unnecessary, and the exigency would not have arisen, every individual being provided by parliamentary statute with a suitable covering for that blatant and too obvious sign of the modus operandi in the posterior region of their craniums. It was shortly after this episode that the clockwork man experienced his first moment of vivid illumination about the world of brief mortal span. He had become entangled with the lamppost. There is no other way of describing his predicament. He came to rest with his forehead pressed against the post, and all his efforts to get round it ended in dismal failure. His legs kicked spasmodically, and his arms revolved irregularly. There were intermittent explosions, like the backfiring of a petrol engine. The only person who witnessed these peculiar antics was P. C. Hawkins, who had been indulging a quiet smoke beneath the shelter of a neighboring archway. At first it did not occur to the constable that the noise proceeded from the figure. He craned his head forward, expecting every moment to see a motor-bicycle come along. The noise stopped abruptly, and he decided that the machine must have gone up a side street. Then he stepped out of his retreat and tapped the clockwork man on the shoulder. The latter was quite motionless now and merely leaning against the lamppost. "'You go home,' suggested the constable. "'I don't want to have to take you. This is one of my lenient nights, lucky for you.' "'Wala-baloo!' said the clockwork man, faintly. "'Wum! Wum! Yes, we know all about that,' said the constable. "'But you take my tip and go home. And I don't want any back answers, neither.' The clockwork man emitted a soft whistling sound from between his teeth and rubbed his nose thoughtfully against the post. "'What is this?' he inquired presently. "'Lamp-post,' rejoined the other, clicking his teeth. "'L-A-M-P. P-O-S-T. Lamp-post.' "'I see. Curious, only one lamppost, though. In my country they grow like trees, you know. Whole forests of them. Galaxy of lights. Necessary. Illuminate multi-form world.' The constable laughed gently and stroked his mustache. His theory about the condition of the individual before him slowly developed. "'You'll get along,' he persuaded, before there's trouble. "'I don't want to be harsh with you.' "'Wait!' said the clockwork man, without altering his position. "'I want to see things of lucidity, see things as they are, begin to understand. Finite world. Only one thing at a time. Now we've got it. A place for everything and everything in its place.' "'Just what I'm always telling my misses,' reflected the constable.  "'I want to grasp things,' he resumed. "'I want to grasp you. So far as I can judge, I see before me a constable. Minion of the law. Curious relic. Primitive stage of civilization. Order people about finite world. Lock people up. Finite cell.' "'That's my job,' agreed the other, with a warning glint in his red eye. "'Finite world,' proceeded the clockwork man. Fixed laws. Limited dimensions. Essentially limited. Now, when I'm working properly, I can move about in all dimensions. That is to say, in addition to moving backwards and forwards, and this way and that, I can also move x and y and x squared and y squared.' The corners of the constable's eyes wrinkled a little. "'Of course,' he ruminated. "'If you're going to drag algebra into the discussion, I shall have to cry off. I never got beyond decimals.' "'Let me explain,' urged the clockwork man, who was gaining in verbal ease and intellectual elasticity every moment. "'Supposing I was to hit you hard. You would fall down. You would become supine. You would assume a horizontal position at right angles to your present perpendicularity.' He gazed upwards at the tall figure of the constable. But if you were to hit me, I shall have an alternative. I could, for example, fall into the middle of next week.' The constable rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as though he thought this highly likely. "'What do you mean by that?' he demanded. "'I said, next week,' explained the other, in order to make my meaning clear. Actually, of course, I don't describe time in such arbitrary terms. But when one is in Rome, you know, what I mean to convey is that I am capable of going not only somewhere, but also some when.' "'Ah, stow that gemmon,' broken the constable, impatiently. Snuff of that sort of talk. You come along with me.' He spat determinately and prepared to take action. But at that moment, as the constable afterwards described it to himself, it seemed to him that there came before his eyes a sort of mist. The figure leaning against the lamppost looked less obvious. He did not appear now to be a palpable individual at all, but a sort of shadowy outline of himself, blurred and indistinct. The constable rubbed his eyes and stretched out a hand. "'All right,' he heard a tiny, remote voice. "'I'm still here. I haven't gone yet. I can't go. That's what's so distressing. I don't really understand your world, you know, and I can't get back to my own. Don't be harsh with me. It's so awkward. Between the devil and the deep sea.' "'What's up?' exclaimed the constable, startled. "'What are you playing at? Where are you?' "'The thin voice echoed faintly. The constable wheeled round sharply and became aware of a vague, palpitating mass, hovering in the dark mouth of the archway. It was like some solid body subjected to intense vibration. There was a high-pitched spinning noise. "'There,' said the constable, cut that sort of caper. What's the little game?' He made a grab at where he thought the shadowy form ought to be, and his hand closed on the empty air. "'God,' he gasped. It's a blooming ghost.' He fancied he heard a voice very indistinctly begging his pardon. Again he clutched wildly at a shoulder and merely snapped his fingers. "'Strike a light,' he muttered, under his breath. This ain't good enough. It ain't nearly good enough.' Reaching forward he stumbled, and to save himself from falling, placed a hand against the wall. The next moment he leapt backwards with a yell. His hand and arm had gone clean through the filmy shape. "'God! It's spirits! That's what it is!' "'It's only me,' remarked the clockwork man, suddenly looming into palpable form again. "'Don't be afraid. I must apologize for my eccentric behavior. I tried an experiment. I thought I could get back. You said I was to go home, you know, but I can't get far.' His voice shook a little. It jangled like a badly struck cord. "'I'm a poor maimed creature. You must make allowances for me. My clock won't work properly.' He began to vibrate again, his whole frame quivering and shaking.  He lifted one leg up as though to take a step forward, and then his ears flapped wildly, and he remained with one leg in mid-air and a finger to his nose. The constable gave way to panic. He temporized with his duty. "'Stow it!' he begged. "'I can't take you to the station like this. They'll never believe me.' He took off his hat and rubbed his tingling forehead. "'Say it's a dream, mate,' he added, in a whining voice. "'How can I go home to the Mrs. with a tail like this? She'll say it's the gin again. It's always my luck to strike something like this. When the ghost came to Bapchurchchurchyard it was me what saw it first, and nobody believed me. You go along quietly, and we'll look over it this time.' But the clockwork man made no reply. He was evidently absorbed in the effort to restart some process in himself. Presently his foot went down on the pavement with a smart bang. There followed a succession of sharp explosions, and the next second he glided smoothly away. The constable returned furtively to his shelter beneath the arch, hitched himself thoughtfully and found a half-cigarette inside his waistcoat pocket. "'It's the gin,' he ruminated, half-out-loud. "'I'll have to knock it off. Tain as though I ain't had warnings enough. I've seen things before, and I shall see them again.' He lit the cigarette end and puffed out a cloud of smoke. "'I never see him,' he soliloquized. "'Not really.' Three.' Perhaps it was the strong glare of light issuing from the half-open door of the Templars Hall that attracted the attention of the clockwork man as he wandered along towards the lower end of the town. He entered and found himself in a small lobby curtained off from the main body of the hall. He must have made some slight noise as he stepped upon the bare boards, for the curtain was swept hastily back, and the curate, who was acting as chief steward of the proceedings, came hurriedly forward. As he approached the figure standing beneath the incandescent lamp, the clerical beam upon the curate's clean-shaven features deepened into a more secular expression of heartfelt relief. "'I'm so glad you have come at last,' he began in a strong whisper. "'I was beginning to be afraid you were going to disappoint us. "'I am certainly late,' remarked the clockwork man, about eight thousand years late, so far as I can judge.' The curate scarcely seemed to catch this remark. "'Well, I'm glad you've turned up,' he went on. "'It's so pitiful when the little ones have to be disappointed, and they have been so looking forward to the conjuring. Your things have arrived.' "'What things?' inquired the clockwork man. "'Your properties,' said the curate, the rabbits and mice and so forth. "'They came this afternoon. I had them put on the stage.' He fingered nervously with his watch, and then his eye rested for a second upon the other's headgear. "'Excuse me? But you are the conjurer, aren't you?' he inquired a trifle anxiously. Before the clockwork man had time to reply to this embarrassing question, the curtain was again swiftly drawn, and an anxious female face appeared. "'James, has the conjurer—oh, yes, I see he has. Do be quick, James, the picture is nearly over.' The face disappeared, and the curate's doubts evaporated for the moment. "'Will you come this way?' he continued, and led the way through a long, dark passage to the back of the hall. In the screen, upon which the picture was being shown, there was a small space, and here a stage had been erected.  The curate adjusted the small gas-chat so as to produce an illumination sufficient to move about. "'We must talk low,' he explained, pointing to the screen in front of them. "'The cinematograph is still showing. We shall be ready in about ten minutes. Can you manage in that time?' But the clockwork man made no reply. He stood in the middle of the stage, and slowly lifted a finger to his nose. The curate's doubts returned. Something seemed to occur to him as he examined his companion more closely. "'You haven't been taking anything, my good man, have you? Anything of an alcoholic nature?' "'Conjuring,' said the clockwork man slowly. "'Obsolete form of entertainment. Quickness of the hand deceives the eye.' "'Uh, yes,' murmured the curate. He laughed rather hysterically, and clasped his hands behind his back. "'I suppose you do the, uh, usual things, gold watches, and so forth out of, uh, hats, the children have been so looking forward.' He paused and unclasped his hands. The clockwork man was looking at him very hard, and his eyes were rolling in their sockets in a most bewildering fashion. There was a long pause. "'Dear me,' the curate resumed at last, "'there must be some mistake. You don't look to me like a conjurer. You see, I wrote to gammages, and they promised they would send a man. Naturally, I thought when you—' "'Gammages,' interrupted the clockwork man. "'Wait. I seem to understand. It comes back to me. Universal providers. Cash account. Nine and nine pence, nine and nine pence, nine and nine pence. I beg your pardon.' "'Really?' the curate's jaw dropped several inches. "'I must apologize. You see, I really rather flurried. I have the burden of this entertainment upon my shoulders. It was I who arranged the conjuring. I thought it would be so nice for the children.' He started rubbing his hands together vigorously as though to cover up his embarrassment. "'Then—then you aren't the man from gammages?' "'No,' said the clockwork man, with a certain amount of dignity. I am the man from nowhere.' The curate's hands became still. "'Oh, dear!' he wrestled with a blankness in his mind. "'You're certainly—forgive me for saying it—rather an odd person. I'm afraid we both made a mistake, haven't we?' "'Wait!' said the clockwork man, as the curate walked hesitatingly towards the door. I begin to grasp things. Conjuring—' "'But are you the conjurer?' asked the curate, coming back. "'Where I come from,' was the astonishing reply. "'We are all conjurers. We are always doing conjuring tricks.' The curate's hands were busy again. "'I really am quite at a loss,' he murmured. "'It was a characteristic of the early stages of the human race,' said the clockwork man, as though he were addressing a class of students upon some abstruse subject. "'But they exercised the arts of ledger domain—magic, illusion, and so forth—purely as forms of entertainment in their ledger hours.' "'Now, that sounds interesting,' murmured the curate, as the other paused, although rather for matter than for breath. "'It's so authoritative, as though it were a quotation from some standard work. All the same, and much as I should like to hear more. "'It is a quotation,' explained the clockwork man solemnly, "'from a work I was reading when I—when the thing happened to me. "'It is published by gammages, and the price is nine and nine pence—nine and nine pence. Oh, bother!' "'I'll make a note of it,' said the curate. "'But you must really excuse me now. I have so much to see to. "'There's the refreshments. The sandwiches are only half-cut.' "'But not until the 59th century,' continued the clockwork man speaking with a just perceptible click, that man became a conjurer in real life. We have here an instance of the complete turning over of human ideas. Ancient man conjured for amusement. Modern man conjures as a matter of course. Since the invention of the clock and all that its action implies, including the discovery of at least three new dimensions, or fields of action, man's simplest act of unutilitarian nature may be regarded as a sort of conjuring trick. Certainly our forefathers, if they could see us as we are now constituted, would regard them as such. "'So frightfully interesting,' the curate managed to interpose, but I really cannot spare the time.' He had reverted now to the alcoholic diagnosis. "'The work in question,' continued the clockwork man, without taking any notice at all of the other's impatience, is of a satirical nature. Its purpose is to awaken people to a sense of the many absurdities in modern life that result from a too mechanical efficiency. It is all in my head. I can spin it all out, word for word.' "'Not now,' hastily pleaded the curate. Some other time I should be glad to hear it. I am,' his mouth opened very wide. "'A great reader myself, and, of course, as a professional conjurer, your interest in such a book would be twofold.' "'When you asked me if I were a conjurer,' said the clockwork man, I at once recalled the book. You see, it's actually in my head. That is how we read books now. We wear them inside the clock in the form of spools that unwind. What you have said brings it all back to me. It suddenly occurs to me that I am indeed a conjurer, and that all my actions in this backward world must be regarded in the light of magic.' The curate's eyebrow shut up in amazement. "'Magic?' he queried, with a short laugh. Oh! We didn't bargain for magic, only the usual sleight of hand. "'You see, I had lost faith in myself,' said the clockwork man plaintively. I had forgotten what I could do. I was so terribly run down.' "'Ah!' said the curate kindly. Very likely that's what it is. The weather has been very trying. One does get these aberrations, but I do hope you will be able to struggle through the performance for the children's sake. Dear me, how did you manage to do that?' The curate's last remark was wrapped out on a sharp note of fright and astonishment, for the clockwork man, as though anxious to demonstrate his willingness to oblige, had performed his first conjuring trick. IV Now the curate, apart from a tendency to lose his head on occasion, was a perfectly normal individual. There was nothing myopic about him. The human mind is so constituted that it can only receive certain impressions of abnormal phenomena slowly and through the proper channels. All sorts of fantastic ideas, intuitions, apprehensions, and vague suspicions had been dancing upon the floor of the curate's brain, as he noticed certain peculiarities about his companion. But he would probably not have given them another thought if it had not been for what now happened. It would require a mathematical diagram to describe the incident with absolute accuracy. The curate, of course, had heard nothing about the clockwork man's other performances, yet scarcely heeded the hints thrown out about the possibility of movement in other dimensions. It seemed to him, in the uncertain light of their surroundings, that the clockwork man's right arm gradually disappeared into space. There was no arm there at all. Afterwards, he remembered a brief moment when the arm had begun to grow vague and transparent. It was moving very rapidly, in some direction, neither up nor down, nor this way or that, but along some shadowy plane. Then it went into nothing, evaporated from view, and just as suddenly it swung back into the plane of the curate's vision, and the hand of the end of it grasped the silk hat. The curate's heart thumped slowly. "'But how did you do it?' he gasped.  So far as the clockwork man's features were capable of change, they're passed across them a faint expression of triumph and satisfaction. "'I perceive,' he remarked, that I have indeed lapsed into a world of curiously insufficient and inefficient beings. I have fallen amongst the unclocked. They cannot perceive nowhere. They do not understand no when. They lack senses and move about on a single plane. Henceforth I shall act with greater confidence.' He threw the hat into infinity and produced a parrot cage with parrot. "'Stop it,' the curate gasped. "'My heart, you know, I have been warned. Sudden shocks!' He staggered to the wall and groped blindly for an emergency exit, which he knew to be there somewhere. He found it, forced the door open, and fell limply upon the pavement outside. The clockwork man turned slowly and surveyed the prostrate figure. "'A rudimentary race,' he soliloquized with his finger nose-wards, half-blind and painfully restricted in their movements. "'Evidently they have only a few senses, five at the most.' He passed out into the street, carefully avoiding the body. "'They have a certain freedom,' he continued, still nursing his nose, with narrow limits. But they soon grow limp, and when they fall down or lose balance, they have no choice but to embrace the earth.' He waddled along with his head stuck jauntily to one side. "'I have nothing to fear,' he added, from such a rudimentary race of beings. Five.' "'Evidently,' his thoughts ran on, they must regard me as an extraordinary being, and, of course, I am, and far superior. I am a superior being suffering from a nervous breakdown.' He stopped himself abruptly, as though his view of the matter solved a good many problems. "'I must get myself seen to,' he mused, because, of course, that accounts for everything. My laps into this defunct order of things and my inability to move about freely in the usual, multi-form manner. And it accounts for my absurd behavior just now.' He turned slowly, as though considering whether to return and explain matters to the curate. "'I must have frightened him,' he whispered, almost audibly. But I only wanted to show him, and the parrot-cage happened to be handy.' He troubled forward again and lurched into the middle of the street. "'Death,' he reflected. "'That was death, I suppose. They still die.' End of Chapter 5, Chapter 6 of The Clockwork Man, by E. V. Odle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Clockwork Man, Chapter 6. It was not so, it is not so, and, indeed, God forbid it should be so. 1 At the foot of a hill, about five miles from Great Wymering, Dr. Ellingham suddenly jammed down the brake of his car, got out, and began pacing the dusty road. Greg remained seated in the car with his arms folded. "'Aren't you going any further?' he inquired anxiously. "'No, I'm not,' grumbled the doctor. "'I've had enough of this wild goose-chase. And besides, it's nearly dinner-time.' "'But just now you were inclined to think differently,' said Greg reproachfully. "'Well, I admit I was rather mystified by that hat and wig. But when you come to rationalize the thing, what is there in it?' The doctor was taking long strides and flourishing his leather gloves in the air. How could such a thing be? How can anybody in his right senses entertain the notion that Dunbrothers are still in existence two thousand years hence? And the clerks in business, it's absurd on the face of it.' "'I admit it's ludicrous, but we both agree that it's inexplicable. We have to fall back on conjecture. To my mind there is something suggestive about that persistency in the future of things familiar to us. Supposedly a found a way of keeping things going just as they are. Hasn't the aim of man always been the permanence of his institutions? Wouldn't it be characteristic of man, as we know him today, that he should hold on to purely utilitarian things, conveniences? In this age we sacrifice everything to utility. That's because we're getting somewhere in a hurry. Modern life is the last lap in man's race against time.' He paused as though to adjust the matter in his mind. "'But suppose time stopped.  That would account for the names being the same. Dun still breathes, and clerks and endures, or their descendants. At any rate, the idea of them persists, perhaps this clock that they wear abolished death and successive generations. Of course it seems like a joke to us, but we've got to drop our sense of humour for the time being.' "'But how could it be?' exclaimed Allingham, kicking a loose stone in his walk. "'This clock, I mean. It's,' he fumbled hopelessly for words with which to express new doubts. "'What is this clock?' "'It's an instrument,' rejoined Greg, leaning over the side of the car. Evidently it has some sort of effect upon the fundamental processes of the human organism. That's clear to me. Probably it replaces some of the ordinary functions and alters others.  They would have all sorts of second sights and subsidiary senses. They would feel their way about in a larger universe, creep into all sorts of niches and corners unknown to us because of their different construction. "'Yes, yes, I can follow all that,' said Allingham, biting his mustache. "'But let's talk sense.' "'In a matter like this,' put in Greg, sense is at a premium. "'What we have to do is to consult our intuitions.' Allingham frowned. His intuitions, nowadays, were few and far between. "'When you get to my age, Greg, you'll have something else to do besides consult your intuitions. The fact is, you want all these wonderful things to happen. You have a flair for the unexpected, like all children and adolescents. But I tell you, the clockwork man is a myth, and I think you ought to respect my opinion. Even if he's a myth,' interrupted Greg, he is still worth investigating. "'What annoys me is your positive antagonism to the idea that he might be possible. "'You seem to want to go out of your way to prove me in the wrong. I may add that once a man has ceased to believe in the impossible, he is damned.' Allingham shot a look of veiled anger at the other and prepared to re-enter the car. "'Well, you prove yourself in the right,' he muttered, and then I'll apologize. I'm going to let the clockwork man drop. I've got other things to think about, and I don't mind telling you that if the clockwork man turns out to be all that you claim for him, I shall still wish him at the other end of the earth.'" "'Which is probably where he is now,' remarked Greg, with a slight bantering note in his voice.  Let someone else bother their heads about him. I don't want him. I tell you, I don't care a brass farthing about the future of the human race.  Greg beat his fist into his open palm. "'But that's just what has happened,' he exclaimed. They found a way of keeping on just the same. That explains the Clarkson business. If the clock is what I think it is, that precisely is its function." Allingham shouted out some impatient rejoinder, but it was drowned in the rising roar of the engine as they sped along the road. Two. So the argument had waged since the telling of Tom Driver's story. Greg's chief difficulty was to get Allingham to see that there really might be something in this theory of a world in which merely trivial things had become permanent, whilst the cosmos itself, the hitherto unchanging outer environment of man's existence, might have opened up in many new directions. Man might have tired of waiting for a so long heralded eternity and made one out of his own material tools. The clockwork man, now crystallized in Greg's mind as an unforgettable figure, seemed to him to stand for a sort of rigidity of personal being as opposed to the fickleness of mere flesh and blood. But the world in which he lived probably had widely different laws, if indeed it had humanly comprehensible laws at all. The clock, perhaps, was the index of a new and enlarged order of things. Man had altered the very shape of the universe in order to be able to pursue his aims without frustration. That was an old dream of Greg's. His dream and space were the obstacles to man's aspirations, and therefore he had invented this cunning device, which would adjust his faculties to some mightier rhythm of universal forces. It was a logical step forward in the path of material progress. That was Greg's dimly conceived theory about the mystery, although, of course, he read into the interpretation a good deal of his own speculations. His imagination ceased upon the clock as the possible symbol of a new counterpoint in human affairs. In his mind he saw man growing through the ages, until, at last, by the aid of this mechanism he was able to roll back the skies and reveal the vast other worlds that lay beyond, the unthinkable mysteries that lurked between the stars, all that had been sealed up in the limited brain of man since creation. From that extreme postulate it would be necessary to work backward until some reasonable hypothesis could be found to explain the working of the clock mechanism. That difficulty, even, might be overcome if only an opportunity occurred to examine this strange being from the future, or if he could be prevailed upon to explain matters himself. As the car sped swiftly along, Greg sat back with folded arms and gazed upwards at the new crystalline skies, wondering, as he had never wondered before, about that incomprehensible immensity which for centuries of successive generations man had silently respected. No authoritative voice had ever claimed to penetrate that supreme mystery. Priests had evoked the gods from that starry depth, poets had sung of the swinging hemispheres, scientists had traced comets and knew the quality of each solar earth. But still, that vast arch spanned all the movements of crawling mankind, and closed him in like a basin placed over a colony of ants. True, it was an illusion, and man had always known that. For generations he had known that the universe contained more than his limited faculties could perceive, and beauty. There had always been the consoling fact of beauty, lulling the race of man to content, while every now and again a great mind arose and made one more effort to sweep aside the bejeweled splendor that hung between man and his final destiny. To know. And yet a slight alteration in man's perceptive organs and that wide blue shell might shatter and disclose a thousand new forms, like fantastic cities shaped in the clouds at sunset. Physiologists claim that the addition of a single lobe to the human brain might mean that man would know the future as well as the past. What if that miracle had been performed? By such means man might have come to know not only the future, but other dimensions as yet unnamed or merely sketched out by the mathematician in brief arbitrary terms. Until that time came, man's deepest speculations about ultimate reality brought him no nearer to the truth than the child whirring himself to sleep over the problem of what happened before God made the universe. Man remained in that sense as innocent as a child from birth to death. Until the actual structure of the cells in his brain suffered a change man could not actually know. Einstein could say that we were probably wrong in our basic conceptions. But could he say how we were to get right? The clockwork man might be the beginning. And then, when that change had been wrought, that physical reconstruction, what else might follow in its train? The truth that lasts, an end to all suffering and pain, a solution of the problems of civilization, such as overpopulation and land distribution, the beginning of human sovereignty in the universe. But Greg had this sense to admit to himself that his generalization was no more than a faint aurora hovering around the rumored dawn of the future. It was necessary, in the first place, to posit an imperfect thinking apparatus. After all, the clockwork man was still a mystery to be solved. And even if he failed to justify a single theory born of merely human conjecture, there still remained the exhilarating task of finding out what actually he was and how he had come to earth. III Leaving Greg at his rooms in the upper part of the town, the doctor drove slowly along the high street in the direction of his own house. Everything was quiet now, and there was no sign of further disturbance, no indication that a miracle had taken place in the prosaic town of Great Wymering. The doctor noted the fact with quiet satisfaction. It helped him to simmer down, and it was necessary, for the sake of his digestion, that he should feel soothed and comforted. Still, if Greg's conjectures were anywhere near the mark, in a very few hours it would be known all over England that the jaws of the future had opened and disclosed this monstrosity to the eyes of the present. There would be a great stir of excitement. The newspapers would be full of the event. Indeed, the whole course of the world might be altered as a result of this astounding revelation. He would be dragged into the affair. In spite of himself, he would be obliged to go into some sort of witness-box and declare that from the first he had thought the clockwork man phenomenal, when, as a matter of fact, he had merely thought him a nuisance. But as one of those who had first seen the strange figure on the hill and as a medical man, he would be expected to make an intelligent statement. One had to be consistent about such things. And the real truth was that he had no desire to interest himself in the matter. He disturbed his mental equilibrium and threatened the validity of that carefully considered world of assumptions which enabled him to make light, easy jests at its inconsistencies and incongruities. Besides, it was distressing to discover that, in middle life, he was no longer in the vanguard of human hopes and fears, but a miserable backslider, dating back to the time when thought and serious living had become too difficult for comfort. But in this way, nothing could ever compensate for the wasted years, the ideals extinguished, the rich hopes bargained for cheap doubts, unless indeed it was the reflection that such was the common lot of mankind. The comfortable old world rolled on from generation to generation, and nothing extraordinary happened to startle people out of their complacent preoccupation with passions, desires, and ambitions. Miracles were supposed to have happened at certain stages in world history, but they were immediately obliterated by a mass of controversial comment, or hushed up by those whose axes were ground in a world that could be relied upon to go on repeating itself. A comfortable world. Of course there were malcontents. When the shoe pinched, anybody would cry out for fire from heaven. But if a plebiscite were to be taken, it would be found that an overwhelming majority would be in favor of a world without miracles. If, for example, it could be demonstrated that this clockwork man was a being in many ways superior to the rest of mankind, he would be hounded out of existence by a jealous and conservative humanity. But the clockwork man was not. He never had been, and indeed, God forbid, he ever should be. With that reflection illuminating his mind, the doctor ran his car into the garage, and with some return of his usual debonair manner, with something of that abiding confidence in a solid earth which is a necessary prelude to the marshaling of digestive juices, opened the front door of his house. IV Mrs. Masters was standing in the sitting-room awaiting him. The doctor strode in without stopping to remove his hat or place his gloves aside, a peculiar mannerism of his upon which Mrs. Masters was want occasionally to admonish him. For the good lady was not slow to give banter for banter when the opportunity arose, and she objected to these relics of a doctor's earlier bohemian ways. But for the moment her mood seemed to be rather one of blandishment. A young lady called to see you this evening, she announced, smilingly. The doctor removed his hat as though in honor of the mere mention of his visitor. Did you give her my love? Was his light rejoinder, hat still poised at an elegant angle. She would know, retorted Mrs. Masters, it wouldn't be my place to give such messages, not as though she weren't inquisitive enough, with asking questions about this and that, as though it were any business of hers how you choose to arrange your household. On the contrary, I am flattered, said the doctor, inwardly chafing at this new example of a Lillian's originality. But tell me, Mrs. Masters, am I not becoming more successful with the ladies? As he spoke, he flicked with his gloves the reflection of himself in the mirror. You don't need to be reminded of that fact, I'm sure, sighed Mrs. Masters. Life sits lightly enough on you. I fear too lightly. If I might venture to say so, a man in your position ought to take life more seriously. My patients would disagree with you. Ah, well, I grant you that. They say you cure more with your tongue than with your physique. I certainly value my wit more than my prescriptions, laughingly agreed the doctor. But tell me, what was the ladies' impression of my menage? And that reminds me, you have not told me her name yet. Did she carry a red parasol, or was it a white one? I'm sure I never noticed, frowned Mrs. Masters. Such things don't interest me. But her name was Miss Lillian Payne. The doctor interrupted with a guffaw. Calm, Mrs. Masters, we need not beat about the bush. I'd rather fancy you are aware of our relationship. Do you find her agreeable? Pretty middling, said Mrs. Masters reluctantly. Although at first I was put out by her manners. Such heirs these modern young women give themselves. But she got round me in the end with her pretty ways, and I found myself taking her all round the house, which of course I ought not to have done without your permission. Tell me, said the doctor, without moving a muscle in his face, was she satisfied with her tour of my premises? There now, exclaimed Mrs. Masters, hastily arranging an anti-McHasser on the back of a chair. I won't tell you that, because, of course, I don't know. She retreated towards the door. But did she leave any message? inquired the doctor, fixing her with his eyeglass. Botheration, ejaculated Mrs. Masters in aggrieved tones. Now you've asked me, and I've got to tell you. I wanted to keep it back. Oh, I do hope you're not going to be disappointed. I'm sure she didn't really mean it. What did she say? Demanded the doctor irritably. He says to me, she says, tell him there's nothing doing. There was a pause. Mrs. Masters drew in her lip and folded her arms stiffly. The doctor stared hard at her for a moment and almost betrayed himself. Then he threw back his head and laughed with the air of a man to whom all issues of life, grade and small, had become the object of a graduated hilarity. Then upon some other lady will fall the supreme honor. He observed. "'You mean,' began Mrs. Masters, and then eyed him with the meaning expression of a woman senting danger or happiness for some other woman. "'That young lady is not suited to you at all events,' she continued, shaking her head. "'Evidently not,' replied the doctor carelessly. "'But it is not of the slightest importance. As I have said, the honor. "'Ah,' broken Mrs. Masters, there's only one woman for you and you have yet to find her. "'There's only one woman for me and that is the woman who will marry me.' "'Nay, don't lecture me, Mrs. Masters. I perceive the admonishment leaping to your eye. I am determined to approach this question of matrimony and the spirit of levity, which you admit is my good or evil genius. Life is a comedy, and in order to shine it one must assume the role of the buffoon who rollocks through the seams, poking fun at those sober-minded folk upon whose earnestness the very comedy depends. I will marry in jest, and repent in laughter.' "'Incorrigible man,' said Mrs. Masters. "'But the doctor had turned his back upon her, unwilling to reveal the sudden change in his features. Even as he spoke those light words, there came to him the reflection that he did not really mean them, and his pose seemed to crumble to dust. He had lived up to these nothings for years, but now he knew that they were nothings. As though to crown the irritations of a trying day, there came to him the conviction that his whole life had been an affair of study gestures, of meticulous gesticulations. V. Over an unsatisfactory meal he tried to think things out, conscious all the time that he was missing gastronomical opportunities through sheer inattention. Of course Lillian's impression of his menage would have been unsatisfactory, even though he had escorted her over the house himself, but it was highly significant that she should have preferred to come alone. Holding advanced opinions about the simplification of the house and of the woman's duties therein, she would regard his establishment as unwieldy, overcrowded, old-fashioned, even musty. It would represent to her unnecessary responsibilities, labor without reward, meaningless ostentation. The doctor's own tastes lay in the direction of massive ornate furniture, rich carpets and hangings, a multiplicity of ornaments. He liked a house filled to the brim with expensive things. He was a born collector and accumulator of odds and ends, of things that had become necessary to his varying moods. He was proud of his house, with its seventeen rooms, including two magnificent reception rooms, four spare bedrooms in a state of constant readiness, like fire stations, for old friends who always said they were coming and never did, its elaborate kitchen arrangements and servants quarters. Then there were cozy little rooms which a woman of taste would be able to decorate according to her whim, work rooms, snugaries, halls and landings. There was much in the place that ought to appeal to a woman with right instincts. Was Lillian going to destroy their happiness for the sake of these modern heresies? Surely she would not throw him over now, and yet her message left that impression. Nowadays women were so led by their sensibilities. Lillian's hypersensitive nature might revolt at the prospect of living with him in the surroundings of his own choice. He would look such a fool if the match did not come off. He had made so many sacrifices for her sake, sacrifices that were undignified but necessary in a country town where every detail of daily life speedily becomes common knowledge. That was why he would appear so ridiculous if the marriage did not take place. It had been necessary in the first place to establish himself in the particular clique favored by Lillian's parents, and although this maneuver had involved a further lapse from his already partly disestablished principles and an almost palpable insincerity, the doctor had adopted it without much scruple. He had resigned his position as vicar's churchwarden at the rather Eucharistic parish church and become a mere worshipper in a back pew at the Baptist Chapel, for Lillian's father favored the humble religion of self-made men. He had subscribed to the local temperance society and contributed medical articles to the local paper on the harmful effects of alcohol and the training of midwives. In the winter evenings he gave lantern lectures on the wonders of science. He organized a PSA, delivered addresses to young men only, and generally did all he could to advance the Baptist cause, which in great wymering stood not only for simplicity of religious belief, but also for the simplification of daily life aided by scientific knowledge and common sense. All that had been necessary in order to become legitimately intimate with the pain family, for they enjoyed the most aggravating good health, and the doctor had grown tired of awaiting an opportunity to dispense anti-toxins in exchange for tea. But the cles to which the pains belonged were not really humble. They were urban in origin, and the semi-aristocratic tradition of great wymering was opposed to them. They had come down from the London suburbs in response to advertisements of factory sites, and their enterprise had been amazing. Within a few years great wymering had ceased to be a pleasing country town, with historic associations dating back to the first Roman occupation. It was merely known to travelers on the south-eastern and Chatham-Raeway as the place where pains' dog-biscuits were manufactured. The doctor, in establishing himself in the right quarter, had forgotten to allow for the fact that the force that had lifted the pains out of their urban obscurity had descended to their daughter. Urban had been expensively educated, and although the doctor denied it to himself a hundred times a week, there was no evading the fact that an acute brain slumbered behind her rather immobile beauty. True, the fruits of her learning languished a little in great wymering, and that beyond a slight permanent frown and a disposition to argue about modern problems, she betrayed no revolt against the narrowness of her existence, but appeared graceful and willowy at garden parties or wist drives. It was the development of her mind that the doctor feared, especially as, all unconsciously at first, he had acted as its chief stimulant. During their talks together, he had spoken too many a true word ingest, and his witticisms had revealed to Lillian a whole world about which to think and theorize. He glanced up at her photograph on the mantelpiece. If there was a flaw in the composition of her fair Saxon beauty, it was that the mouth was a little too large and opened rather too easily, disclosing teeth that were not as regular as they should be. But nature's blunder often sets the seal on man's choice, and to the doctor this trifling fault gave warmth and vivacity to a face that might easily have been cold and impassive, especially as her eyes were steel-blue, and she had no great art in the use of them. Her voice too often startled the listener by its occasional note that suggested an excitability of temperament barely under control. In vain the doctor tried to throw off his heavy reflections and assumed the air of gaiety usual to him when drinking his coffee and thinking of Lillian. Such an oppression could hardly be ascribed to the malady of love. He was not Romeo's heavy-lightness, serious vanity. It was a deep perplexity, a grave foreboding that something had gone hideously wrong with him, something that he was unable to diagnose. It could not be that he was growing old. As a medical man he knew his age to an artery, and yet in spite of his physical culture and rather deliberate chastity he felt suddenly that he was not a fit companion for this young girl with her resilient mind. He had always been fastidious about morals without being exactly moral, but there was something within him that he did not care to contemplate. It almost seemed as though the sins of the mind were more deadly than those of the flesh, for the latter expressed themselves in action and reaction, while the former remained in the mind, there to poison and corrupt the very source of all activity. What was it then, this feeling of a fixation of himself, of a slowing down of his faculties? Was it some strange new malady of the modern world, a state of mind as yet not crystallized by the poet or thinker? It was difficult to get a clear image to express his condition, yet that was his need. There was no phrase or word in his memory that could symbolize his feeling. And then there was the clockwork man, something else to think about, to be wondered at. At this point in the doctor's reflections the door opened suddenly and Mrs. Masters ushered in the curate, very disheveled and obviously in need of immediate medical attention. His collar was all awry, and the look upon his face was that of a man who has looked long and fixedly at some object utterly frightful and could not rid himself of the image. I've had a shock, he began, trying pathetically to smile recognition. Sorry, disturb you, mealtime. He sank into a saddle-bag chair and waved limp arms expressively. There was a man, he got out. The doctor wiped his mouth and produced a stethoscope. His manner became soothingly professional. He murmured sympathetic phrases and pulled a chair closer to his patient. There was a man, continued the curate, in ancient mariner-like tones, at the Templar's Hall. I thought he was the conjurer, but he wasn't, at least I don't think so. He did things. Impossible things! What sort of things, inquired the doctor slowly as he listened to the curate's heart. You must make an effort to steady yourself. He... He made things appear, gasped the curate, with a great effort. Out of nowhere, positively. Well, isn't that what conjurers are supposed to do? Observed the doctor blandly. But the curate shook his head. Fortunately, in his professional character there was no need for the doctor to exhibit surprise. To the contrary, it was necessary, for his patient's sake, to exercise control. He leaned against the mantelpiece and listened attentively to the curate's hurried account of his encounter with the clockwork man, and shook his head gravely. Well, now, he prescribed, complete rest for a few days in a sitting posture. I'll give you something to quieten you down. Evidently, you've had a shock. It's very hard," the curate complained, that my infirmity should have prevented me from seeing more. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. Very likely, the doctor suggested, someone has played a trick upon you. Perhaps your own nerves are partly to blame. Men with highly strong nerves like you are very liable to... hallucinations. I wonder, said the curate, grasping the edge of his chair, I wonder now if Moses felt like this when he saw the burning bush. Ah, very likely, rejoined the doctor, glad of the opportunity to enforce his analogy. There's not the least doubt that many so-called miracles in the past had their origin in some pathological condition improperly understood at the time. Moses probably suffered from sort of hysteria, a sort of hypnosis. Even in those days there was the problem of nervous breakdown. His voice died away. The curate was not actually shaking his head, but there was upon his features an expression of incredulity, the like of which the doctor had not seen before upon a human face, for it was the incredulity of a man to whom all arguments against the incredible are in themselves unbelievable.  I'm afraid your explanation won't hold water, he rejoined. I can't bring myself not to believe in what I saw. You see, all my life I have been trying to believe in miracles, in manifestations. I have always said that if only we could bring ourselves to accept what is not obvious. My best sermons have been upon that subject, of the desirability of getting ourselves into the receptive state. Sometimes the vicar has objected. He seems to think I was piling it on deliberately. But I assure you, Dr. Allingham, that I have always wanted to believe, and in this case it was only my infirmity and my unfortunate nervousness that led me to lose such an opportunity. The doctor drew himself up stiffly and just perceptibly indicated the door. I think you need a holiday, he remarked, and a change from theological pursuits. And don't forget, rest for a few days in a sitting posture. Thank you, the curate beamed. I'm afraid the vicar will be very annoyed, but it can't be helped. They were in the hall now, and the doctor was holding the street door open. But it happened, the curate whispered. It really did happen, and we shall hear and see more. I only hope I shall be well enough to stand it. We are living in great days. He hovered on the doorstep, rubbing his hands together and looking timidly up at the stars, as though half expecting to see a sign. It distressed me at first, he resumed, because he was such an odd-looking person, and the whole experience was really on the humorous side. I wanted to laugh at him, and it made me feel so disgraceful. But I'm quite sure he was a manifestation of something, perhaps an apotheosis. Don't hurry home, warned the doctor. Take things quietly. Oh yes, of course. The buddy is a frail instrument. One forgets that. So good of you.  Good night. He glided along the deserted High Street. The doctor held the door ajar for a long while and watched that frail figure nursing a tremendous conviction and hurrying along in spite of instructions to the contrary. End of chapter 6 Chapter 7 of The Clockwork Man by E. V. Odle This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Clockwork Man. Chapter 7 The Clockwork Man Explains Himself. 1 Late that evening, the doctor returned from a confinement case, which had taken him to one of the outlying villages near Great Wimering. The engine was grinding and straining as the car slowly ascended a steep incline that led into the town, and the doctor leaned forward in the seat, both hands gripped the wheel, and his eyes peered through the windscreen at the stretch of welded road ahead of him. He had almost reached the top of the hill and was about to change his gear, when a figure loomed up out of the darkness and made straight for the car. The doctor hastily jammed his breakdown, but too late to avert a collision. There was a violent bump, and the next moment the car began running backwards down the hill, followed by the figure, who had apparently suffered no inconvenience from the contact. There that his brakes were not strong enough to avert another disaster, the doctor deftly turned the car sideways and ran backwards into the hedge. He leapt out into the road and approached the still-moving figure. What, the devil? The figure stopped with startling suddenness, but offered no explanation. What are you playing at? The doctor demanded, glancing at the crumpled bonnet of his car.  And then, as he approached nearer to that impassive form, staring at him with eyes that glittered luridly in the darkness, he recognized something familiar about his appearance. At the same moment, he realized that this singular individual had actually run into the car without apparently incurring the least harm. The reflection rendered the doctor speechless for a few seconds. He could only stare confusedly at the clockwork man. The latter remained static, as though in his turn, trying to grasp the significance of what had happened. It occurred to the doctor that here was an opportunity to investigate certain matters. Look here, he broke out after a collected pause. Once and for all, who are you? A question, sharply put, generally produced some kind of effect upon the clockwork man. It seemed to release the mechanism in his brain that made coherent speech possible, but his reply was disconcerting. Who are you? He demanded, after a preliminary click or two. I am a doctor, said Ellingham, rather taken aback, a medical man, if you are hurt at all. An extra gleam of light shone in the other's eye, and he seemed to ponder deeply over this statement. Does that mean that you can mend people? He inquired at last. Why, yes, I suppose it does, Ellingham admitted, not knowing what else to say. The clockwork man sighed, a long whistling sigh. I wish you would mend me. I'm all wrong, you know. Something has got out of place, I think. My clock won't work properly. Your clock, echoed the doctor. It's rather difficult to explain, the clockwork man continued. But so far as I remember, doctors were people who used to mend human beings before the days of the clock. Now they are called mechanics, but it amounts to the same thing. If you will come with me to my surgery, the doctor suggested, with as much calmness as he could assume, I'll do my best for you. The clockwork man bowed stiffly. Thank you. Of course, I'm a little better than I was, but my ears still flap occasionally. The doctor scarcely heard this. He had turned aside and stooped down in order to rewind the engine of his car. When he looked up again, he beheld an extraordinary sight. The clockwork man was standing by his side, a comic expression of pity and misgiving animating his crude features. With one hand he was softly stroking the damaged bonnet of the car. Poor thing, he was saying. It must be suffering dreadfully. I am so sorry. Ellingham paused in the turning of the handle and stared aghast at his companion. There was no mistaking the significance of the remark, and it had been spoken in tones of strange tenderness. Rapidly, they're swept across the doctor's mind, a sensation of complete conviction. If there was any further proof required of the truth of Greg's conjecture, surely it was expressed in this apparently insane and yet obviously sincere solicitude on the part of the clockwork man for an inanimate machine. He recognized in the mechanism before him a member of his own species. The thing was at once preposterous and rational, and the doctor almost yielded to a desire to laugh hysterically. Then with a final jerk of the handle he started the engine and opened the door of the car for the clockwork man to enter. The latter, after making several absurd attempts to mount the step in the ordinary manner, stumbled and fell head foremost into the interior. The doctor followed, and picking up the prostrate figure, placed him in a sitting posture upon the seat. He was extraordinarily light, and there was something about the feel of his body that sent a thrill of apprehension down the doctor's spine. He was thoroughly frightened by now, and the manner in which his companion took everything for granted only increased his alarm. I know one thing, the clockwork man remarked as the car began to move. I'm devilish hungry. Two. That the clockwork man was likely to prove a source of embarrassment to him in more ways than one was demonstrated to the doctor almost as soon as they entered the house. His masters, who was laying the supper, regarded the visitor with a slight huffiness. He obtruded upon her vision as an extra meal for which she was not prepared, and the doctor's manner was not reassuring. He seemed, for the time being, to lack the urbanity which usually enabled him to smooth over the awkward situations in life. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that he should have allowed Mrs. Masters to develop an attitude of distrust, but he was nervous, and that was sufficient to put the good lady on her guard. Lay an extra place, will you, Mrs. Masters? The doctor had requested as they entered the room. I'm afraid you'll have to make do, was the sharp rejoinder, for there was not much on the table, and the doctor favored a light supper. There's water-cress, she added defensively. Care for water-cress? inquired the doctor, trying hard to glance casually at his guest. The clockwork man stared blankly at his interrogator. Water-cress, he remarked, is not much in my line. Something solid, if you have it, and as much as possible. I feel a trifle faint. He sat down rather hurriedly on the couch, and the doctor scanned him anxiously for symptoms. But there were none of an alarming character. He had not removed his borrowed hat and wig. Bring up anything you can find, the doctor whispered in Mrs. Masters' ear. My friend has had a rather long journey. Anything you can find. Surely we have things in tins. His further suggestions were drowned by an enormous hyena-like yawn coming from the direction of the couch. It was followed by another, even more prodigious. The room fairly vibrated with the clockwork man's uncouth expression of omnivorous appetite. Bless us, Mrs. Masters could not help saying. Manners. Is there anything you particularly fancy? inquired the doctor. Eggs, announced the figure on the couch. Large quantities of eggs. Infinite eggs. See what you can do with a matter of eggs, urged the doctor, and Mrs. Masters departed, with the light of expedition in her eye, for to feed a hungry man, even one whom she regarded with suspicion was part of her religion. I am afraid I put you to great inconvenience, murmured the visitor, still yawning and rolling about on the couch. The fact is, I ought to be able to produce things, but that part of me seems to have gone wrong again. I did make a start, but it was only a flash in the pan. So sorry if I am a nuisance. Not at all, said the doctor, endeavouring without much success to treat his guest as an ordinary being. I am to blame. I ought to have realised that you would require nourishment. But of course I am still in the dark. He paused abruptly, aware that certain peculiar changes were taking place in the physiognomy of the clockwork man. His strange organism seemed to be undergoing a series of exceedingly swift and complicated physical and chemical processes. His complexion changed colour rapidly, passing from its usual pallor to a deep greenish hue, and then to a hectic flush. Concurrent with this, there was a puzzling movement of the corpuscles and cells just beneath the skin. The doctor was scarcely as yet in the mind to study these phenomena accurately. At the back of his mind there was the thought of Mrs. Masters returning with the supper. He tried to resume ordinary speech, but the clockwork man seemed abstracted, and the unfamiliarity of his appearance increased every second. It seemed to the doctor that he had remembered a little dimple on the middle of the clockwork man's chin, but now he couldn't see the dimple. It was covered with something brownish and delicate, something that was rapidly spreading until it became almost obvious.  It's also unexpected. I'm afraid I shan't be able to render you much assistance until I know the actual facts, and even then.' He gripped the back of a chair. It was no longer possible for him to deceive himself about the mysterious appearance on the clockwork man's chin. He was growing a beard, swiftly and visibly. Already some of the hairs had reached to his collar. "'I beg your pardon,' said the clockwork man, suddenly becoming conscious of the hirsut development. Irregular growth, most inconvenient. It's due to my condition. I'm all to peace, as you know. Things happen spontaneously.' He appeared to be struggling hard to reverse some process within himself, but the beard continued to grow. The doctor found his voice again. "'Great heavens!' he burst out in a hysterical shout. Stop it! You must stop it! I simply can't stand it!' He had visions of a room full of golden brown beard. It was the most appalling thing he had ever witnessed, and there was no trickery about it. The beard had actually grown before his eyes, and it had now reached the second button of the clockwork man's waistcoat. And at any moment Mrs. Masters might return.  He appeared to set in action some swift, depilatory process. The beard vanished as if by magic. The doctor collapsed into a chair. "'You mustn't do anything like that again,' he muttered hoarsely. "'You must let me know when you feel it coming on.'" Despite of his agitation, it occurred to him that he must be prepared for worse shocks than this. It was no use giving way to panic. Incredible as had been the cricketing performance, the magical flight, and now this ridiculously sudden growth of beard, there were indications about the clockwork man that pointed to still further abnormalities. The doctor braced himself up to face the worst. He had no theory at all with which to explain these staggering manifestations, and it seemed more likely that the most ghastly, serial comic figure seated on the couch would presently offer some explanation of his own. A few moments later Mrs. Masters entered the room bearing a tray with the promised meal. True to her instinct, the good soul must have searched the remotest corners of her pantry in order to provide what she evidently regarded as but an apology of her past. Still did she know for what brobding neggy and appetite she was catering. At the sight of the six gleaming white eggs in their cups, the ghast made a movement expressive of the direction of his desire, if not of very sanguine hope of their fulfillment. Besides eggs, there were several piles of sandwiches, bread and butter, and assorted cakes. Mrs. Masters had scarcely murmured her apologies for the best she could do at such short notice and retired, than the clockwork man set to with an avidity that appalled and disgusted the doctor. The six eggs were cracked and swallowed in as many seconds. The rest of the food disappeared in a series of jerks, accompanied by intense vibration of the jaws. The whole process of swallowing resembled the pulsations of the cylinders of a petrol engine. So rapid were the vibrations that the whole of the lower part of the clockwork man's face was only visible as a multiplicity of blurred outlines. The commotion subsided as abruptly as it had begun, and the doctor inquired, with as much grace as his outraged instincts would allow, whether he could offer him any more. "'I have still,' said the clockwork man, locating his feelings by placing a hand sharply against his stomach, and emptiness here. "'Dear me,' muttered the doctor, "'you'll find us rather short at present. "'I must think of something.' He went on talking as though to gain time. "'It's quite obvious, of course, that you need more than an average person. I ought to have realized. There would be exaggerated metabolism, naturally, to sustain exaggerated function. But of course the, er, motive force behind this extraordinary efficiency of yours is still a mystery to me. Am I right in assuming that there is a sort of mechanism?' It makes everything go faster,' observed the clockwork man, and more accurately. "'Quite,' murmured the doctor. He was leaning forward now, with his elbows resting on the table and his head on one side. "'I can see that. There are certain things about you that strike one as being obvious. But what beats me at present is how and where.' He looked figuratively speaking at the inside of the clockwork man. "'I mean, in what part of your anatomy the, er, motive force is situated?' "'The functioning principle,' said the clockwork man, is distributed throughout. But the clock,' his words ran on incoherently for a few moments and ended in an abrupt explosion that nearly lifted him out of his seat. "'Beg pardon. What I mean to say is that the clock, wala-baloo, wum, wum, I am prepared to take that for granted,' put in the doctor, coughing slightly. "'You must understand,' resumed the clockwork man, making a rather painful effort to fold his arms and look natural, "'You must understand, click, click, that it is difficult for me to carry on conversation in this manner. Not only are my speed-centres rather disordered, grrrr, but I am not really accustomed to expressing my thoughts in this way. Here there was a loud spinning-noise, like a sewing-machine, and rising to a rapid crescendo. My brain is, so constituted, that action, except in a multi-form world, is bound to be somewhat spasmodic, pfft, pfft. In fact, pfft, it is only pfft, because I am in such a hopeless condition that I am able to converse with you at all.' "'I see,' said Allingham, slowly. "'It is because you are, so to speak, temporarily incapacitated, that you are able to come down to the level of our world.' "'It's an extra-ordinary world,' exclaimed the other, with a sudden vehemence that seemed to bring about a spasm of coherency. "'I can't get used to it. Everything is so elementary and restricted. I wouldn't have thought it possible that even in the 20th century things would have been so backward. I always thought that this age was supposed to be the beginning. History says the 19th and 20th centuries were full of stir and inquiry. The mind of man was awakening. But it is strange how little has been done. I see no signs of the great movement. Why, you have not yet grasped the importance of the machines.' "'We have automobiles and flying machines,' interrupted Allingham weakly. "'And you treat them like slaves,' retorted the clockwork man. That fact was revealed to me by your callous behavior towards your motor-car. It was not until man began to respect the machines that his real history begun. What ideas have you about the relation of man to the outer cosmos?' "'We have a theory of relativity,' Allingham ventured. "'Einstein,' the clockwork man's features altered just perceptibly to an expression of faint surprise, is he already born?' "'He is beginning to be understood. And some attempt is being made to popularize his theory. But I don't know that I altogether agree.' The doctor hesitated, aware of the uselessness of dissension upon such a subject where his companion was concerned. Another idea came into his head. "'What sort of a world is yours? To look at, I mean. How does it appear to the eye and touch?' "'It is a multi-form world,' replied the clockwork man. He had managed to fold his arms now and apart from a certain stiffness his attitude was fairly normal. Now your world has a certain definite shape. That is what puzzles me so. There is one of everything. One sky and one floor. Everything is fixed and stable. At least so it appears to me. And then you have objects placed about in certain positions, trees, houses, lamp-posts, and they never alter their positions. It reminds me of the scenery they used in the old theaters. Now in my world everything is constantly moving, and there is not one of everything, but always there are great many of each thing. The universe has no definite shape at all. The sky does not look like yours does, simply a sort of inverted bowl. It is a shapeless void. But what strikes me so forcibly about your world is that everything appears to be leading somewhere, and you expect always to come to the end of things. But in my world everything goes on forever. But the streets and houses, hazarded Ellingham, aren't they like ours? The clockwork man shook his head. We have houses, but they are not full of things like yours are, and we don't live in them. They are simply places where we go when we take ourselves to pieces or overhaul ourselves. They are, his mouth opened very wide, the nearest approach to fixed objects that we have, and we regard them as jumping off places for successive excursions into various dimensions. Streets are of course unnecessary, since the only object of a street is to lead from one place to another, and we do that sort of thing in other ways. Again, our houses are not placed together in the absurd fashion of yours. They are anywhere and everywhere, and nowhere and no when. For instance, I live in the day before yesterday, and my friend in the day after tomorrow. I begin to grasp what you mean," said Ellingham, digging his chin into his hands. As an idea, that is, it seems to me that, to borrow the words of Shakespeare, I have long dreamed of such a kind of man as you. But now that you are before me, in the—er—flesh, I find myself unable to accept you. The unfortunate doctor was trying hard to substitute a genuine interest in the clockwork man for a feeling of panic, but he was not very successful. You seem to me, he added rather leanly, so very theoretical. And then he remembered the sudden growth of Beard, and decided that it was useless to pursue that last thin thread of suspicion in his mind. For several seconds he said nothing at all, and the clockwork man seemed to take advantage of the pause in order to wind himself up to a new pitch of coherency. It would be ridiculous, he began, after several thoracic bifurcations, for me to explain myself more fully to you.  But I hope I have made it clear that my world is a multi-form world. It has a thousand manifestations as compared to one of yours. It is a world of many dimensions, and every dimension is crowded with people and things. Only they don't get in each other's way like you do, because there are always other dimensions at hand. That I can follow, said the doctor wrinkling his brows. That seems to me fairly clear. I can just grasp that as the hypothesis of another sort of world. But what I don't understand, what I can't begin to understand, is how you work, how this mechanism which you talk about functions. He delivered this last sentence rather in the manner of an ultimatum, and the clockwork man seemed to brood over it for a few seconds. He was apparently puzzled by the question, and hard mechanical lines appeared upon his forehead and began slowly chasing one another out of existence. It reminded the doctor of Venetian blinds being pulled up and down very rapidly. Well, the reply was shot out at last. How do you work? The repartee of the clockwork man was none the less effective for being suspended, as it were, for a second or two before delivery. The doctor gasped slightly and released his hold upon a mustard pot. He came up to the rebound with a new suggestion. Now that's a good idea. We might arrive at something by comparison. I never thought of that. He grasped the mustard pot again and tried to arrange certain matters in his mind. It's a little difficult to know where to begin, he temporized. Begin at the end, if you like, suggested the clockwork man affably. It's all the same to me. First and last, upside or inside, front or back, it all conveys the same idea to me. We are creatures of action, hazarded the doctor, with the air of a man embarking upon a long mental voyage. We act from certain motives. There is a principle known as cause and effect. Everything is related. Every action has its equal and opposite reaction. Nobody can do anything, or even think anything, without producing some change, however slight, in the general flow of things. Every movement that we make, almost every thought that passes through our minds, starts another ripple upon the surface of time, upon this endless stream of cause and effect. Ah! Interrupted the clockwork man, placing a finger to the side of his nose. I begin to understand. You work upon a different principle, or rather, an antiquated principle. You see, all that has been solved now. The clock works all that out in advance. It calculates ahead of our conscious selves. No doubt we still go through the same processes subconsciously, all such processes that relate to cause and effect. But we, that is, ourselves, are the resultant of such calculations, and the only actions we are conscious of are those which are expressed as consequence. Allingham passed a hand across his forehead.  But what I don't understand! Here however the discussion came to an abrupt conclusion, for something was happening to the clockwork man. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of the Clockwork Man by E. V. Odle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Clockwork Man. Chapter 8. The Clock. 1. At first it seemed to the doctor that his companion was about to explain matters further. There was still something vaguely communicative about his manner, and a kind of noise issued from his rapidly moving jaws. But it was not a human noise. It began with a succession of deep-toned growls and grunts, and ended abruptly in a distinct bark. Hydrophobia flashed through the doctor's mind, but he dismissed the idea immediately. He had lit a cigarette in order to soothe his nerves. He was trying so hard to rationalize the whole proceeding, to fit the clockwork man into some remotely possible order of things. But it was a difficult process, for no sooner had he grouped certain ideas in his head than some fresh manifestation took place which rendered all previous theories futile. At the present moment, for instance, it was obvious that some new kind of structural alteration was taking place in the clockwork man's physiognomy. The phenomenon could hardly be classed in the same category as the sudden growth of beard, although there were points in common. Hair was again visible. This time spread all over the rounded face and on the jaw. The nose was receding and flattening out. The eyes were dwindling in size, and the expression in them changed into a dull stare. The bark was repeated and followed by an angry rumbling. The doctor dropped his cigarette on the plate before him and grasped the edges of the table. His eyes were riveted upon the ghastly spectacle of transmutation. "'Oh, God!' he cried out at last, and shivering from head to foot. "'Are you doing these things on purpose to frighten me? Or can't you—can't you help it? Do you think I don't believe you? Do you think I can keep on deceiving myself?  I capitulate. I only ask you to let me down lightly. I'm only human, and human nerves weren't made to stand this.' "'Grrr!' growled the clockwork man. "'Wow! Wow! Can't help it! Woof! Woof! Most regrettable! Wow! Wow! Activism! Tendency to return! Remote species!' Moments noticed. Family failing. Darwinism! Better in a moment! I'm going wrong with the controls! There! That's done it! Phew!' His face suddenly cleared, and all trace of the canine resemblance vanished as if by magic. He got up and took two or three jerk-like strides up and down the room. "'Must keep going. When I feel like this, either food or violent stimulus, otherwise the confounded thing runs down, and there you are!' He paused and confronted Ellingham, who had risen from his chair and was still trembling. "'How can I help it?' implored the clockwork man in despair. They made me like this. I don't want to alarm you, but you know it alarms me sometimes. You can't imagine how trying it is to feel that at any moment you might change into something else, some horrible tree-climbing ancestor. The thing ought not to happen, but it's always possible. They should have thought of that when they made the clock!' "'It mustn't happen,' said the doctor, recovering slightly. That's the flat fact. If it's food you require, then food you shall have!' It had suddenly flashed across his fevered mind that downstairs in the surgery there lay a collection of tin foods and patent medicines, samples that had been sent for him to test. Rather than risk a further manifestation of collapse in the part of the clockwork man, he would sacrifice these. II He was only just in time. On the way down the stairs that led to the basement surgery, the clockwork man began to flap his ears violently, and it was then that the doctor noticed for the first time this circumstance that had so puzzled Arthur Withers. But the faculty seemed, in comparison with other exhibitions, a mere trifle, a sort of mannerism that one might expect from a being so strangely constituted. Pushing his companion into the surgery, the doctor commenced opening tins for all he was worth. The process calmed him, and he had time to think a little. For half an hour he opened tins, and passed them over to the clockwork man, without noticing very much what the latter did with them. Then he went on to bottles containing patent foods, phosphates, glycerophosphates, all the phosphates in fact, combined with malt or other substances which might be considered almost necessary as an auxiliary diet for the clockwork man. At least the latter seemed grateful to receive whatever was given to him, and his general manner became decidedly more possible. There seemed less chance now of a drastic relapse. The doctor had locked the door of the surgery. It would be embarrassing to be discovered in such circumstances, and Mrs. Masters might faint with horror at the sight of the empty tins and bottles on the gorging visitor. It was symptomatic of the doctor's frame of mind that even now the one thing he dreaded more than anything else was the intrusion of a curious world into this monstrous proceeding. He had been forced into accepting the evidence of his own eyes, but there still remained in him a strong desire to hush up the affair, to protect the world at large from so fierce a shock to its established ideas. The surgery was a low-pitched apartment, and it was approached by patients from the outside by way of the area's steps. One door communicated with the dark passage that led to the kitchen quarters, and the other opened directly upon the area. A double-rove shelves, well-stocked with bottles, occupied the center of the room and divided it into two halves. Right the window stood the doctor's neat bureau, and to the left of this was a low couch beside the wall. A shaded lamp on the desk was sufficient to light the room for ordinary purposes, but there was a gas burner near the further door, which had to be lit when the doctor was engaged upon some very close examination or had to perform a slight operation. Directly underneath this burner there stood an armchair of ample proportions, and it was here that the clockwork man had seated himself at the beginning of his orgy. The doctor sat upon the couch, with his hands limply hanging between his knees. He was conscious of perspiration, but made no attempt to wipe his forehead. His heart was knocking hard against his ribs, and occasionally missed a beat. He noticed this fact also, but it caused him little concern. Now and again he looked swiftly at the clockwork man and studied his extraordinary method of mastication, the rapid vibratory movement of the jaws, the apparent absence of any kind of voluntary effort. Uppermost in the doctor's mind was the reflection that he of all persons should have been selected by an undiscriminating providence to undergo this distressing and entirely unprecedented experience. It was an ironic commentary upon his reactionary views and his comfortable doctrine of common sense. He had been convinced in spite of himself, and the effort to resist conviction had strained his mental powers uncomfortably. He felt very strongly his inability to cope with the many problems that would be sure to arise in connection with the clockwork man. It was too much for one man's brain. There would have to be a convocation of all the cleverest men in Europe in order to investigate such an appalling revelation. He pictured himself in the act of introducing this genuine being from a future age, and the description he would have to give of all that had happened in connection with him. Even that prospect set his brain reeling. He would like to be able to shirk the issue. It was enough to have looked upon this archetype of the future. The problem now was to forget his existence. But that would be impossible. The clockwork man was the realization of the future. There was no evading that. The future. Man had evolved into this. He had succeeded somehow in adding to his normal powers some kind of mechanism that opened up vast possibilities of action in all sorts of dimensions.  But the indefagatable spirit of man had triumphed in the end. He had arisen at last superior to time and space, and taken his place in the center of the universe. It was a fulfillment of all the prophecies of the great scientists since the discovery of evolution. Such reflections flitted hazely through the doctor's mind as he strove in vain to find a practical solution of the problem. What was the clock? He knew, from hearsay, that it was situated at the back of this strange being's head. Tom Driver had seen it and described it in his clumsy fashion. Since that episode the doctor had visualized something in the nature of an instrument affixed to the clockwork man's head, and perhaps connected with his cerebral processes. Was it a kind of superbrain? Had there been found some means of lengthening the convolutions of the human brain so that man's thought traveled further and so enabled him to arrive more swiftly at ultimate conclusions. That seemed suggestive. It must be that in some way the cerebral energy of man had been stored up as electricity in a battery and then released by mechanical processes. At least that was the vague conclusion that came into the doctor's mind and stuck there. It was the only theory at all consonant with his own knowledge of human anatomy. All physiological action could be traced to the passage of nervous energy from one center to another, and it was obvious that in the case of the clockwork man such energy was subjected to enormous acceleration and probably distributed along especially prepared paths. There was nothing in the science of neuropathy to account for such disturbances and reactions. There were neural freaks. The doctor had himself treated some remarkable cases of nervous disorder, but the behavior of the clockwork man could not be explained by any principle within human knowledge. Not the least puzzling circumstance about him was the fact that now and again his speech and manner made it impossible to accept the supposition or mechanical origin, while said other times his antics induced a positive conviction that he was really a sort of highly perfected toy. Presently the clockwork man got up and began walking up and down the room in his slow, flat-footed manner. How do you feel now? ventured the doctor, arousing himself with an effort. Oh, so-so! sighed the other. Only so-so! I can't expect to feel myself, you know. He reached to the end of the room and jerking himself round started on the return journey. The doctor arose slowly and remained standing. There was barely room for two people to walk up and down. Anything might happen. The clockwork man continued plaintively. I feel as though I might slip again, you know, slip back another thousand years or so. He turned again. I've got to get worse before I get better," he sighed, and then stopped to examine the rows of bottles arranged along the shelves. What are these? he inquired. Medicines, said the doctor, without enthusiasm. Do they help people to work? Hmm, yes. Chemical action, tonics. People get run down, and I have to give them something to stimulate the system. I see the clockwork man nodded sagely. But they wouldn't be any use to me. What I need is adjustment, regulation. He looked hard at the doctor with a pathetic expression of inquiry. My clock! He began and stopped abruptly. They were facing one another now. The doctor swallowed hard several times, and he felt the blood tingling in his temples. The dreaded moment had come. He had got to see this strange instrument that distinguished the clockwork man from ordinary mortals. There was no shrinking from the eerie experience. Underneath that borrowed hat and wig there was something, something utterly strange and outside the pale of human ingenuity.  He felt no trace of curiosity, no feverish anxiety to investigate this mystery of the future. His knees trembled violently. He did not want to see the clock. He would have given a hundred pounds to be spared the ordeal before him. Slowly with this customary stiffness of movement the clockwork man raised his arms upwards and removed the soft clerical hat. He held it aloft as though uncertain what to do with it, and the doctor took it from him with a shaking hand. Next moment the wig came off, and there was disclosed to the doctor's gaze a bald cranium. Then the clockwork man turned himself slowly round. The doctor shot out a hand and gripped the framework of the shelves. As his eyes rested upon the object that now confronted him he swung slowly round until his body was partly supported by the shelves. His mouth opened wide and remained stretched to its limit. At first what he saw looked like another face. Slowly it was round and polished. A second glance made it quite plain that, instead of a back to the clockwork man's head, there was a sort of glass dial, beneath which the doctor dimly made out myriads of indicators, tiny hands that move round a circle marked with inconceivably minute divisions. Some of the hands moved slowly, some only just visibly, whilst others spun round with such speed that they left only a blurred impression of a vibrant and morotary movement. Besides the hands there were stops, queer-shaped knobs and diminutive buttons, each one marked with a small, neat number. Little metal flaps fluttered quickly and irregularly, like the indicators on a telephone switchboard. There was a faint throbbing and commotion, a suggestion of power at high pressure. Just for a moment the doctor tried to realize that he was looking upon the supreme marvel of human ingenuity. He made an effort to stretch his brain once more in order to grasp the significance of this paragon of eight thousand years hence. But he did not succeed. The strain of the past hour reached its first climax. He began to tremble violently.  He made little whimpering noises in his throat. "'Oh, God!' he whispered hoarsely, and then again, as though to comfort himself, "'Oh, God!' three.' "'If you open the lid,' explained the clockwork man, and at the sound of that human voice the doctor jumped violently, "'you will see certain stops marked with numbers.' Obedient in spite of himself, the doctor discovered a minute hinge and swung open the glass lid. The palpitating clock, with its stir of noises slightly accentuated, lay exposed to his touch. "'Stop, X-1,' continued the clockwork man in tones of sharp instruction. "'Press hard, then wind Y four three times.' Slowly, with a wildly beating heart, the doctor inserted a trembling finger among the interstices of those multitudinous stops and hands, and as slowly withdrew it again. He could not do this thing. For one thing, his finger was too large. It was a ridiculously clumsy instrument for so fine a purpose. What if he failed? Press the knob too hard, or set a hand spinning in the wrong direction. The least blunder.' "'I can't do it,' he gasped. "'I can't really. You must excuse me.' "'Be quick,' said the clockwork man in a squeaky undertone. Something is about to happen.' So it came about that the doctor's final action was hurried and ill-considered.  Actually, he succeeded in pressing the knob marked X-1, and the immediate result was a sort of muffled ringing sound arising from somewhere in the depths of the clockwork man's organism. "'Registered,' exclaimed the latter triumphantly. "'Now the hand.' The doctor found the hand and tried to twist it very slowly and carefully. He had expected the thin piece of metal to resist his touch, but it swung round with a fatal facility, five and a half times. The clockwork man suddenly turned round. Immediately afterwards the doctor became aware of a series of loud popping noises, accompanied by the sound of tearing and rending. Simultaneously some hard object hit him just over the eye, and the walls and ceiling of the little room were struck sharply by something violently expelled. And then he felt himself being pushed gently away by some pressure that was steadily insisting upon more space. It was in effect in startling disproportion to the cause, or at least so it seemed to the doctor, who was, of course, totally ignorant about the mechanism with which he was experimenting. "'Reverse,' exclaimed the clockwork man in thick, suity tones. "'Reverse!' Already he was several times stouter than his original self. He had burst all his buttons, which accounted for the sudden explosions, and his clothes were split all the way down back and front. Great pouches and three new chins appeared upon his face, and lower down there was visible an enormous stomach. The doctor seized hold of the other's collar and turned the huge body round. His hand fumbled wildly among the stops. "'Which one?' he gassed, his face livid with fright. "'Tell me what to do! In Heaven's name, do you expect me to know?' "'Z five!' came the faint rejoinder. "'And reverse, Y four! Most important, reverse, Y four!' It followed upon this experiment that the clockwork man presently emitted a faint, quavering protest. He had certainly dwindled in bulk. His clothes hung upon him, and there was a distressing feebleness of frame. Slowly it dawned upon the doctor that the face peering up at him was that of a very old and decrepit individual. Painful lines crossed his forehead, and there were roomy lodgements in the corner of each eye. The change was rapidly progressive. By this time the doctor's condition of hysteria had given way to a sort of desperate recklessness. He had somehow to restore the clockwork man to some semblance of passable humanity. He pressed stops and twisted hands with an entire disregard for the occasional instructions betted at him by the unfortunate object of his random experiments. He felt that the very worst could scarcely surpass what had already taken place. And it was obvious that the clockwork man had but the haziest notions about his own mechanism. Evidently, he was intended to be adjusted by some other person. He was not, in that sense, autonomous. It was also manifest that the clockwork man was capable of almost limitless adaptability. Several of the stops produced only slight changes or the first beginnings of some fundamental alteration of structure. Usually these changes were of a sufficiently alarming character to cause the doctor immediately to check them by further experiments. The clockwork man seemed to be an epitome of everything that had ever existed. After one experiment he developed gills. Another produced frightful, atavistic snortings. There was one short-lived episode of a tale. By the end of another five minutes the doctor had sacrificed all scruple. His fingers played over that human keyboard with a recklessness that was born of sheer horror of his own actions. He almost fancied that he might suddenly arrive at some kind of mastery of the stunning instrument. He alternated between that delusion and trusting blindly to chance. It was, indeed, by accident that he discovered and pressed hard home a large stop marked simply zero. The next second he found himself contemplating what was apparently an empty heap of clothes lying upon the floor at his feet. The clockwork man had vanished. Ah! screamed the doctor, dancing round the room and forgetting even God in his agony. What have I done? What have I done? He knelt down and searched hastily among the clothes. There was a lump moving about very slightly in the region of the waistcoat, a lump that was strangely soft to the touch. Then he felt the hard surface of the clock. Before he could remove the mass of clothing there broke upon the stillness a strange little cry to the doctor curiously familiar. It was the wail of an infant, long-drawn and pitiful. When the doctor found him he appeared to be about six weeks old and rapidly growing smaller and smaller. Only the promptest and most fortuitous action upon the doctor's part averted something inconceivably disastrous. Chapter 8