The Plane Compass

In which a man plots carefully to lose another in a strange darkness and abandon him to the mercy of fate—

by Marl Vincent

WHATEVER else he might be, Hannishaw was no fool. He knew that he was slipping, and realized that the time had come when he must do something about it. That is if he was to retain his envied position and obtain the thing he had come to want most in life.

Amalgamated Electric continued in its costly indirect advertising to ballyhoo him as the greatest scientist of all time, as the star whose light dimmed to insignificance all the Newtons, Edisons, and Einsteins of past generations. For nearly two decades they had been building up this reputation of his, using radio interviews, syndicated newspaper features, and high-class magazine articles which cleverly avoided the appearance of publicity matter.

To the public he was the “Master of Science,” outstanding in genius, eccentric in habits, scornful of personal fortune and of love, interested only in the benefit to mankind of his own marvelous discoveries. All of which Hannishaw knew was untrue.

He posed for photographers, waved his long-haired wig before the scanning apparatus of the television news casts, spouted bombastically into microphones, and gloried in the publicity that accrued to himself. But in his heart he knew all of this for the commercial scheme it represented, and he knew himself for the fraud he was.

Hannishaw was not entirely without ability as a scientist, but was too lazy and self-centered ever to be a genius. The discoveries and scientific marvels credited to him by his canny employers actually had been the work of numbers Of his subordinates in the huge laboratory on Oak Hill.

No one man, however great a genius, could possibly accomplish in a lifetime what Hannishaw was supposed to have done in a few short years. But to create the mythical figure of such a superman and master of science was good business for a great corporation like Amalgamated. It put them in a class by themselves and strengthened the world-wide belief that they were supreme in the manufacture of technical and electrical apparatus of all kinds. It had made them just that, and so they kept on fostering the illusion that was Hannishaw.

Nevertheless, he was losing his grip. He knew it, and certain of Amalgamated’s directors knew it. Something would have to be done to reestablish the prestige that was slowly but surely waning. A great and momentous new discovery must be announced from the laboratory on Oak Hill within the fortnight. Today Hannishaw had been so warned by the chairman of the board.

For the first time in years he went, at night, to his office in the laboratory building, although it had been firmly implanted in the public mind that he ate and slept in the place, if indeed such commonplaces were necessary at all to so great a man. Now he had a definite motive for being there after hours, one that had to do with papers he suspected were in the desk of his most attractive Titian-haired secretary.

And that is the way they were found when the cubicle was returned. Hannishaw was beaten!

When he sat in Cora Deane’s chair he almost forgot the reason for his coming. The faint perfume left by her personal belongings affected him so headily when he opened the first drawer that he hunched there for a minute motionless, his pale eyes staring dreamily into space. He, the “Master of Science,” scornful of love?

Hannishaw grimaced when he thought of the fiction they had built around him, the fiction he had almost believed himself until the coming of the Deane girl. Now she was the object of his greatest desire, aloof and unattainable seemingly, but—well, time would tell. Already a scheme was beginning to take shape in Hannishaw’s covetous mind. He went on with his search.

THE PAPERS were there, in the second drawer he opened. Many pages of Miss Deane’s painstakingly neat typewritten copy, stapled in a paper folder which was labeled with only a name and the date. The name brought a growl from Hannishaw’s throat, but this was immediately succeeded by a series of gloating chuckles as he skimmed swiftly over the first few pages of manuscript.

His growl was occasioned by the knowledge that Cora Deane was interested in this young whippersnapper Sherwood, whose name adorned the manuscript cover, his chuckles by the revelations of the typed pages. This was just what he wanted. Of course, he had known in a vague way that Sherwood was working on this experiment. By right of his superior position, he could have demanded a report on it whenever he wanted it. But Hannishaw did not work that way. He gave a man all the rope he needed, let him bring an important work almost to the point of successful conclusion, then, by some underhanded method such as this, anticipated the fruition of the subordinate’s labors, thereby managing to make it appear that the final credit was his own.

But this thing of Sherwood’s was stupendous. Hannishaw’s eyes narrowed to slits as he read on and on long into the night, and when he had finished the reading, they gleamed with excitement such as he had not known in his life. It was better than he could have hoped in the fondest of imaginings; the thing not only would startle layman and scientist alike, it would completely upset all previously conceived theories of the constitution of matter and the universe itself. It would— Hannishaw’s thoughts strayed away from scientific matters and became selfish.

He visioned Cora Deane’s tawny loveliness and was shaken by the emotions that swept through him. She had not entirely frowned upon his suit, but had held him off, he believed, because of the importunities of the younger Sherwood. If Sherwood, now, were only out of the way, he was sure that his own exalted position and his money would outweigh any other considerations she might have. He, the “Master of Science,” scornful of personal fortune ? It was to laugh.

The Deane girl, as his confidential secretary, had full knowledge of the princely sum in cash and securities which was deposited monthly to his account by Amalgamated while they told the public he would accept only enough for his meager necessities. Being a woman, and, therefore, aware of the luxury and position in society he could give her, she would be certain to listen to reason. Perhaps she might do so even if young Sherwood were not out of the way, if Hannishaw pressed the point strongly enough. But it would be better and surer to remove him as a possible rival.

The scientist’s tongue clucked loudly against his palate, almost frightening him by the way it resounded in the big room. He knew that he now had in his power a means of getting rid of Sherwood with entire safety to himself. At the same time he could clinch fast his position with Amalgamated and secure world prestige for himself which would far outshine anything that had gone before. He’d be killing two birds with the one stone.

Hannishaw darted from his office into the vast dimly lighted canyon that was the main aisle of the laboratory. The watchman was not in sight, evidently being at the far end of the great building in the course of his nightly rounds. Unobserved, the science master of Oak Hill slipped into Section K, where Sherwood’s apparatus had been set up.

He would be fully armed with knowledge before morning came.

CORA DEANE faced young Sherwood accusingly a week later in her own tiny Shadyside apartment. It was evening—long after regular working hours —and a dozen commuting miles lay between them and the great Amalgamated laboratory which overlooked the factories in the Turtle Creek valley. They could speak freely.

“Bill,” she asked, “have you told Hannishaw all about it?”

The young research engineer replied dismally: “It wasn’t necessary, Corrie. He seemed to know everything. At least he knew all that he needed to know—said he’d been working on the same thing for years, on the mathematics anyway. He had it all down pat, and besides made some constructive suggestions.”

“Pooh! You mean he put through the appropriation and started work on a full-size machine like your scale model. I still think he stole the idea from you.”

“But how?” Something caught at Bill Sherwood’s throat as the girl’s head moved into the circle of light from the table lamp. Her hair was a copper-gold halo. He had hoped that this research would bring him recognition and an increased salary so they could marry.

Cora Deane’s eyes widened with comprehension. She remembered the night she had left a copy of the thesis in her desk. Hannishaw must have seen it then. She told Sherwood.

“Can’t help it now,” he shrugged. “And even if he did steal the idea there’s no proof. What good is our word against his?”

The girl said no more. She knew some things that Bill did not know—yet. It was dangerous knowledge under present conditions; much as she disliked keeping anything secret from Bill, she would have to wait her time to use it. Looking at the clock, she said: “It’s almost time for his speech.”

Sherwood switched on the television radio. “A world-wide hook-up, Corrie. Think of the millions who’ll hear and see the master—and believe.”

“It isn’t fair.” The girl curled up on the arm of his chair, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief not much bigger than a postage stamp. Awkwardly, Sherwood cradled the golden head on his shoulder.

Hannishaw’s image and voice came on the air at the scheduled time. Cora sniffed and sat stiffly erect when he tossed the long hair back from his face. She knew it was not his own. Other things, too, she knew. She always bridled somehow when he put on one of these acts; now she was more resentful than ever before.

“Friends of the radio audience,” the master was saying. “I come before you tonight to upset long-accepted theories of science. All of you have been witnesses to the remarkable strides of science during the past few years; many of you have, perhaps, thought that the ultimate in knowledge and advancement had been reached.

“But I tell you tonight that only the surface has been scratched. In less than five years we shall have finished with the twentieth century and entered the twenty-first century. We shall enter it with a completely altered conception of the constitution of matter and of the universe in which we live; in fact, we shall begin this very day to alter our ideas along these lines. I shall try to put this first discussion of what I shall call the superuniverse in understandable language, but first I want all of you to put aside definitely all notions of time and space and matter as set forth in the older theories of such worthy savants as Einstein and Eddington.”

“Of course they didn’t know anything,” sniffed Cora Deane as the master paused for effect and smiled in a superior manner from the vision disk.

The radio voice rattled on: “In our new ideas of a superuniverse, we must begin with the premise that the forms which matter takes depend on human perception. Creatures of a differently constituted universe would be certain to have different perceptions and be unable to conceive of matter in the forms with which we are familiar; conversely we could have no conception of matter as known to them.

“My worthy predecessors have instilled in us the idea that the true universe is a continuum of four dimensions, finite though unbounded because curved, an expanding universe, perhaps, but yet finite. I maintain, and have proved in the laboratory, that this seeming finity of the universe is indicated only by the limits of normal human perceptions, that the true or superuniverse is infinite, multidimensioned, and comprises an infinite number of what I shall refer to as planes.

“These are planes of perception, and existence in the multitude of other planes is of form imperceptible and inconceivable to ordinary mortals of our own plane. In the fifth and higher dimensions there are differing oscillation intervals, as there are varying configurations in the curvature and warping of space time in the universe of four dimensions we are accustomed to call our own.

“The elements of matter as we perceive it in our own limited universe, or more properly in our own plane of existence, are ninety-two in number. There can be no more elements in our own plane of perception; neither are these same elements existent in other planes, where matter is constituted along entirely different lines and in in finite variety. The only phenomenon which is common to all planes of the many-dimensional, all-encompassing, or true universe, is the phenomenon of light. And it is in this regard that my predecessors have most seriously erred.

“They have assigned a finite velocity of light; some have seemingly proved this to be the limiting or unsurpassable velocity for any moving matter, and have propounded theories to suit, such as the old Lorenz-Fitzgerald transformation.

“As a matter of fact, the velocity of light is not finite but infinite, and therefore cannot be assigned any such value as the generally accepted figure of approximately one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second. Actually this value would better be termed the critical velocity or the velocity of human perception in a universe perceived as finite. Its determinations as the speed of light have been entirely fictitious, the apparently finite velocity being produced by distortions in our own space time continuum in the neighborhood of the solar system. In outer space, even in our own universe, where there is a minimum of distortion of this sort, the transmission of light has been observed as practically instantaneous.

“This is evidenced by the fact that the so-called velocity of light remains identical whether an observer is traveling toward or away from the source of light and regardless of the speed at which he travels. It is further proved by reference to observational data on the recent nova which was born in the constellation Ophiuchus. Astronomers have told us that the dark nebula in Ophiuchus is sixty light years long and five light years wide. But the new star lighted this immense area instantly when it appeared; its light did not require as much as sixty seconds to traverse the length of the nebula, let alone sixty years.

“You understand that all perception is relative—that much of my predecessors’ theories I concede. But they failed to relate perception to a superuniverse where the velocity of light is infinite and where there are multitudinous planes of existence, in each of which planes matter is moving at a definite harmonic or even multiple of the critical velocity of perception. It is, one might say, like a succession of octaves such as are encountered in the vibrations corresponding to musical tones or in the electromagnetic spectrum. For each octave a new plane of existence and of perception.”

THE “Master of Science” paused once more for the effect this invariably had on his listeners.

Cora Deane spoke in a voice that was like splintering glass. “A parrot, that’s what he is. Your words exactly, Bill.”

Hannishaw went on in hushed, mysterious accents: “Friends, I have seen into numbers of these planes, using a new instrument that functions at multipies of our critical velocity of perception. There is plant and animal life in some of the planes, intelligent animal life, even. Humanlike creatures, living in unimaginably different environments. An apparatus I now have under construction will enable us to visit these other planes of the superuniverse. In a very few days I shall use the apparatus. An assistant is to accompany this—”

Galvanized into sudden activity, Sherwood had snapped off the television radio.

“Bill!” the girl objected. “There is more, much more. I wanted to hear.”

“It’s the same old stuff you typed for me, Corrie. Just the old proofs that there’s no limiting velocity for moving matter—and—and—all that sort of thing.”

Cora slipped from the arm of the chair and stood waggling a pink finger tip just under Sherwood’s nose. “You’re holding out on me,” she accused. “Bill, I just know you’re planning to go traveling in these horrible p-planes, or whatever they are. And I won’t have it. It’s dangerous.”

She was sorry as soon as she had spoken. Bill had no alternative if Hannishaw wanted it that way, she knew. If he refused to do as his chief ordered he would lose his job, and jobs were mighty hard to find these days. Besides, she had a couple of cards up her sleeve that she might be able to play before this was over.

Sherwood’s rather sheepish grin was admission enough that she had guessed correctly as to the plans. All he said was: “It isn’t at all dangerous; I’ve explained that. And what else could I do?”

“Anyway,” the girl capitulated, “you said you’d take me to see the apparatus and tell me more about it. Make it tomorrow night; I’ll vamp the watchman into letting us in. Promise.”

He promised, and that was how they let the matter stand.

HANNISHAW’S speech went over in a big way. It set the world of science by the ears and startled the general public out of its usual aplomb. The academies of science and the engineering societies both here and abroad seethed with congratulatory and denunciatory argument. The science master was the recipient of seven new honorary degrees in the space of twenty-four hours. To the man on the street, “Hannishaw’s Theory” became a byword, although it is doubtful if one per son in every million was able to comprehend it. In any event the results in the way of valuable publicity were all that could be desired.

Ordinarily, Hannishaw would have been content to bask in the limelight, doing nothing but attend the round of banquets and receptions always arranged in his honor on similar if lesser occasions. But this time the thing was too big; he had too many irons in the fire, too much at stake, to risk leaving what he was doing. The executives of Amalgamated, overjoyed and amazed at his sudden success and fresh accession of energy, canceled all engagements for his public appearance and agreed to let him work alone and unhindered in the laboratory. They put through, without question, all his requisitions on the great factories in the valley below for expensive material and overtime work on the apparatus he needed. So far, everything was plain sailing.

Although admittedly no genius at all, Hannishaw had the faculty of deceiving almost everybody into belief in his greatness. His memory was excellent, and he had a fair understanding of the fundamentals of science, besides having in his younger days become almost expert in the design of alternating current electrical machinery.

Expert, that is, in making working drawings of such apparatus from the calculations of one of Amalgamated’s corps of mathematicians: The point is, he did have an idea of polyphase currents, wave forms, power factor, synchronization, and the like. It is, therefore, not surprising that his own understanding of the “Hannishaw Theory” was somewhat different from that of young Sherwood, its originator. Nevertheless, it was understanding, and in the main not far from correct,

The mathematics of the theory, of course, were far too deep for the master to grasp. The high points, and the possibilities, however, did not escape him. Perhaps he even thought of possibilities that had not occurred and would not occur to Bill Sherwood. He accepted young Sherwood’s proofs of the infinitude of light’s velocity. This seemed simple enough and easy to believe; no one had ever seen light traversing empty space; one could observe its source and the illumination of the body it strikes, but never its passage unless it might be through a dust-filled atmosphere, a gas, or a liquid. It was reasonable to suppose that its actual passage was between the planes of perception and at an infinite velocity. It was likewise easy to believe in the formerly supposed finite velocity of light as actually a limit of perception, and to conceive of Sherwood’s “planes” as harmonics of this critical speed.

Hannishaw envisioned the superuniverse which he had adopted as his own to resemble the sine wave of a single-phase alternating current. There were an infinite number of peaks and valleys of equal spacing and magnitude, the spacing being equivalent to one critical velocity, the peaks corresponding to the infinite number of planes of perception or existence.

He thought of a material body which was to pass from one plane of the superuniverse to another as propelled in a similar sine wave of superspatial motion which was then synchronized with the wave of superspace itself. It was like the paralleling or synchronization of one alternating-current generator with another, or like the “phasing in” of a synchronous motor with the source of alternating current supply. If either apparatus was “out of step” with the other it could not operate on the same power line. Sometimes, even, serious wrecks of large power-plant machinery had resulted from the attempt to parallel a huge generator only a few degrees out of phase with those already operating and feeding the same main busses or superpower transmission line.

It was this last which had given him his idea. He had no thought of accompanying young Sherwood on the first trip to other planes of the superuniverse. Sherwood would be the first voyager—alone—and the “Master of Science” would contrive to send him into superspace on a sine wave slightly out of phase with the basic wave of infinity. The youngster who stood in his way would never reach any of the other planes because the peaks of the two sine waves could never coincide. He would be forever lost between the planes, in the “interdimensional void.” Hannishaw congratulated himself on his own coinage of this last term. It sounded like a good place for Sherwood to be.

Work on the apparatus necessary to the final stage of the experiment was already along toward completion. The enormous transformers and regenerative projector mechanisms were in place within the confines of the huge pit in Section K of the laboratory. The cubicles which were to be used for the transportation of human beings from one plane of superspace to another were almost completed. The management of Amalgamated, and young Sherwood, of course, thought only one of these was being constructed. It was in this respect that Hannishaw had been most clever. It was essential to his scheme that there be two cubicles, and equally essential that no one except himself should know of the existence of more than one. One cubicle was being constructed in the great valley factories of Amalgamated, the other Hannishaw himself was assembling in an abandoned old machine shop from parts he had ordered under an assumed name from half a dozen widely separated factories of competitive corporations. No one of the independent manufacturers could possibly know the use of the particular part he had produced, no one of them could trace it to the science master of Oak Hill.

These cubicles were simple enough, being merely hermetically sealed rooms with oxygen apparatus and a number of sensitive recording devices. The walls and the single door were of laminated construction, comprising alternate layers of insulating material and a special metal alloy which was made to the specifications Sherwood had given to Hannishaw.

The swift progress of the work and the ease with which he had been able to perfect all details of his nefarious scheme were most gratifying to Hannishaw. It had been almost too easy. Sherwood, enthusiastic in the extreme because the final stage of his dream was to be realized much sooner than he had anticipated, and buoyed up by the master’s lying promises of official recognition and financial gain, was more than tractable. He was indefatigable in his labors toward the very end his superior had planned. Hannishaw thanked his lucky stars for the gullibility which went with youth.

Even Miss Deane was acting differently. She seemed to have given up her interest in young Sherwood to a degree and was more receptive to the half-fearful advances of the older man. He was exultant and more than ever intoxicated with her nearness when in the office. But he did not swerve from his purpose. Perhaps there had been nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel which might easily be mended. He must allow no maudlin sentiment to creep in now to change his plans.

Sherwood must go! After that the permanence of his own fame and the possession of delectable little Miss Deane would be assured.

ALL was in readiness. The official try-out of the final experiment was set for eight o’clock that night. It was not to be a public affair, but was to be witnessed by Amalgamated officials, three disinterested outside scientists, and representatives of the printed news syndicates. The radiovision news casters were not to be there at all; that would come later when the success of the transportation between planes had been proved. Tomorrow, perhaps, a repetition of the scene would go over the air waves; then would start the greatest ballyhooing campaign of the ages. Hannishaw had arranged it all.

It was the unofficial try-out in which he was for the present most interested. He had been careful that no one should learn of this, for it was in this try-out that Sherwood was to disappear.

He had told the young research engineer to meet him in Section K promptly at seven o’clock, and meanwhile, had sent him to Pittsburgh on an errand which would keep him from communicating with any one who might later remember his early appointment. There could be no leak anywhere. Even the night watchman would not know, for Hannishaw had contrived to effect his removal from the scene by means of a drug in his coffee.

Seven o’clock came. Promptly on the hour, Bill Sherwood descended into the pit of Section K. Hannishaw was already there, standing before the transport cubicle, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Evening, sir,” he greeted his superior.

“Hello, Sherwood.” The master saw that the younger man’s lean and angular form was tense with excitement, that an eager flush mantled his high-boned cheeks. His black eyes were alight.

All of which looked very good to Hannishaw. “I’ve been thinking, Sherwood,” he continued, “that it might be well to try the cubicle in advance. Before the witnesses arrive. That is why I arranged for you to be here now.”

“I suspected as much, and I agree with the thought. Not that I have any doubts, you understand, but—well, I am anxious for the experience.”

Better and better. “One of us must stay behind to operate the controls of the projectors,” murmured Hannishaw. “Let me be the first to go, sir,” begged Sherwood. “There will be a certain amount of physical discomfort, and I—” He hesitated, knowing that his superior would resent the suggestion that a younger man was better able to stand the strain.

Hannishaw smiled hypocritically, the while his fingers were itching to be on the controls which would send the young meddler into the void from which he could not return. “Oh, very well,” he agreed in a casual manner. “You may go first. I’ll take the next trip.” This was perfect. From the corner of his eye he saw the dark bulk of the second cubicle where it reposed in the shadows beyond the rim of the pit. Good thing he had got it there before the arrival of his victim.

Sherwood had no doubts at all. He knew that human life was safe in his method of transport. He had sent mice and guinea pigs into planes eighty-six and ninety-three, which were both in the same space-time location as the earth in the superuniverse. He had returned them safely dozens of times, breathing a little hard, perhaps, but otherwise unaffected. He knew that the tremendous energies of the regenerators, multiplying electronic velocities thousands and millions of times, would convert the substance of which his body was made up into different and inconceivable forms of matter for each plane he might visit.

He knew that, to the perceptions of an observer, this would appear to be actual dissociation of his being, but he knew as well the limitations of these perceptions and knew that the transposition of the unknown elements back into known and unchanged elements when he was returned to his own plane of existence would be accomplished instantly and without change in his life processes.

And so no thought of suspicion or fear entered his mind when he slipped down the side of the great concave bowl to the cubicle which reposed in its center. Had he looked up at the fiendish gargoyle that was Hannishaw’s face, he might have entertained some misgivings. As it was, he ducked into the door of the cubicle and shouted: “Let her go,” before closing himself in.

Hannishaw treated himself to a derisive guffaw as soon as he was sure the sound could not reach his victim. “Now I’ve got him where I want him,” he gloated, and the harsh voice echoed eerily in the vastness of the deserted laboratory building.

He closed the main switch which sent a surge of power into the transformers, then swiftly energized the coils of the regenerators. In the fraction of a second tens of millions of volts of energy built up into billions. The pit resounded boomingly to the enormity of the charge. The platform on which Hannishaw stood thrummed musically and with vibration so powerful as to blur his vision slightly. Before him was the battery of indicating instruments Sherwood had so carefully calibrated for extreme accuracy. The “Master of Science” peered at the synchronoscope and adjusted a control knob until its hand was just a fraction of a degree off the vertical position. That would be enough.

Then he depressed the activating button and there was the heavy thump of an oil switch beneath the platform. Lightnings flashed and thunders clapped in the pit, sending a chill of fear up his spine. He hadn’t thought of the noise. What if some one in the valley heard?

But the cubicle had vanished from sight. In the trillionth part of a second its every subatomic particle and those of the man inside had been accelerated to eighty-six times the critical velocity, to the eighty-sixth multiple of what had been thought of as the speed of light. With reference to earthly space perception, it could hardly have moved in that short period of time, even at this tremendous and inconceivable velocity. Nevertheless, it was gone.

Hannishaw darted to the ultraperceptional viewer and flicked on its vision screen. There flashed into view the misty outworldly hues of the eighty-sixth plane, the twisted valleys and spired mountains. There was no sign of the cubicle. He shifted the plane synchronizer a hair and the unearthly colors vanished from the screen. There was only the blackness of the void between planes. He shifted the synchronizer again and saw the cubicle. His mounting chuckle merged into a bestial shriek. In the viewer the cubicle was completely transparent and in it he saw there were two figures. Two. The second figure was that of Cora Deane. It was clinging to the tall form of young Sherwood.

All of Hannishaw’s carefully-built personal universe crashed about him. His scheming had been in vain. Without the reward he had promised himself in the person of this girl all the rest meant nothing.

“Good Lord!” he screeched. “I’ve killed her.”

Bright lights flashed on and Hannishaw stared into a ring of faces up there at the edge of the pit. Bradley, he saw, the chairman of the board of Amalgamated. Other Amalgamated officials. Police officers. With a despairing cry he flung himself from the platform and across the secondary terminals of one of the huge transformers. His life was snuffed out in a blaze of pyrotechnics, of hot rushing gases.

WHEN Bill Sherwood shut himself into the transport cubicle, his sole anxiety was to be off into those realms he had hitherto only seen on the screen of the viewer. He knew there was something queer about Hannishaw’s appropriation of his discovery, but had given up hope of doing anything about it. The master was too solidly entrenched in his position. Besides, Sherwood was essentially a scientist, and with the opportunity of actually visiting the planes so soon had forgotten his original resentment in the work of preparation into which he was plunged. He was positively gleeful now with anticipation.

There came the throb which accompanied the pouring of vast energy into the primaries of the transformers outside the cubicle, and with it the flickering of needles in the instruments set in the cabinet at his side. Sherwood slumped into the cushioned seat which was there in case of weakness or nausea of the passenger.

In another moment, he knew every fiber of his being was to be, seized upon by tremendous forces, that each individual subatomic particle would accelerate to the inconceivable velocity of something like sixteen million miles in each second. But there would be only the briefest, infinitesimal part of a second to endure it, and consequently no appreciable movement in relation to his own observation. The movement was related only to the superuniverse, incalculable in its swing along the enormous arcs of the space time coordinates.

Strange how many thoughts could be crowded into so short a time. A vista of perceptional heights, infinite in extent Cra-ash! The twisting and warping of all space

But Sherwood had not lost consciousness. He thought he was out of his mind for a moment, though; Cora Deane was in his arms sobbing. Real, live—not a mental or optical illusion, after all. She had hidden-in the cabinet.

“Corrie! Why did you?” But Sherwood was really glad. There wasn’t any danger, of course, and it was good to have her here. He had hardly seen her these past days; now they’d be together to see the wonders. He switched on the viewer so they might observe where they had landed before venturing outside the cubicle.

A groan escaped him when he saw the thick blackness on the screen, an utter absence of light that was interrupted only by swift flashes of gray. Dead grayness flipping across his vision in sweeping arcs like the turning over one after another of huge pages in the book of infinity. And that was what it represented; they were driving between the planes, utterly and hopelessly lost in the infraperceptional regions of superspace. A glance at the instruments convinced him. There was no chance —unless Hannishaw, the blunderer, learned how to slip the phase.

His arms tightened convulsively around the girl as he went cold with fear for her. His lips moved soundlessly; he tried desperately to hurl mental instructions through the illimitable reaches of superspace. Had he known that the master was dead he would have despaired altogether.

“I’ve failed,” the girl was moaning. “I tried to stop it, Bill, but couldn’t. Now—”

“What do you mean?” Sherwood held her at arm’s length, and for an instant forgot her peril in what he saw in the depths of her eyes.

“Hannishaw. He tried to do away with you, and now he’s done it—or something terrible. I should have known they’d be late.”

“They! Who?” It all seemed so impossible, so irrelevant.

Cora Deane dabbed at her eyes as she told him: “You wouldn’t take me seriously, but I knew. At first I only wanted to prove to them that he’d stolen your invention, and they wouldn’t take me seriously, even though I had a witnessed carbon of your first notes. So I hired detectives. They used dictographs—you see I knew Hannishaw had a habit of talking to himself, aloud. Then they believed. And more, they knew he was plotting to—to lose you. They got busy; officers of the company, police and everybody, and arranged to stop him in whatever it was he planned to do to you. After you had showed me the apparatus that night, I planned to be with you when it happened. I only wanted to surprise you—being here when their caught him. But now—where are we?”

SO Hannishaw had deliberately contrived this thing! Many things became clear to Sherwood; definitely he gave up hope. His long arms infolded the girl once more. He couldn’t tell her just yet that they had no chance, that they couldn’t go outside because there wasn’t any outside. That there was only imponderability out there, and—just nothingness. And that their oxygen inside here was good only for two hours.

“We’re lost, aren’t we, Bill.” It was a statement, not a question. She knew, it seemed, but not the horrible details.

From the corner of one eye, Sherwood saw the pages move over more speedily across the screen. Then, unbelievably, there came a change. Leaves of white alternated with the gray and the ebony. “Corrie!” he blurted. “You had a carbon copy of the final thesis. What became of that—what did you do with it?”

“I—I gave it to Mr. Bradley. He had Conlon studying it all this afternoon. I thought

‘Hope flared anew. “You thought just right. Conlon is the smartest engineer in the lab. He’ll dope it out. He’ll get us back.”

Those interleafed white pages meant that some one was trying to synchronize the lagging wave with the superuniverse characteristic. Hannishaw was licked, far more conclusively than either of them knew.

“I don’t care if he does or not, as long as I’m with you.” Little Miss Deane moved closer into the protecting arms for comfort.

And that was the way they were found by the anxious ones in Section K when at length Conlon had returned the cubicle and opened its door. It was some little time before the chairman of the board, Bradley, was sure that Amalgamated’s new chief research engineer and the bride-to-be had actually returned to their normal plane of perception.

“The Son of Old Faithful” is a carefully constructed sequel to a very popular story. Raymond Z. Gallun reaches a point in this creation which places him in the stellar grouping. A thought-variant method of interplanetary communication is detailed—and the story itself is vitally interesting in the July ASTOUNDING.

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