Telepathic Pick-up

The Telepathic Pick-Up

Samuel M. Sargent Jr.

 Copyright © 1926 by Samuel M. Sargent Jr.

This edition published in 2014 by eStar Books, LLC.

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ISBN 9781612107738

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The gripping story — worthy of a Poe — is based in a degree, upon radio. A machine developed by the hero of the story, can be tuned in to the wave-lengths of any given person's thoughts, thus giving the possessor a wonderful power. And this story, with its tragic termination, tells not only of the possibilities of radio in the future, but also touches on — and elaborates — the fantastic theory that the electric shock sustained by the human system while in the electric choir, does not really kill, but simply puts the victim into a state of unconsciousness with a temporary cessation of organic function. But this is not a mere set scientific treatise on the possibilities of the future for radio or capital punishment, it is a story full of human interest, though not without a touch of the ghastly. Anyhow, you will be glad to have read it. 

Samuel M. Sargent Jr.

There sounded a wild scream. Dr. Spaulding leaped upon the machine, gibbering incoherently, end smashed the mechanism into thousand pieces. 

There was a strange light in Doctor Spaulding's eyes. His face was immobile, but the lines were set in an expression of jubilance and triumph. "Come on, Brant," he said quietly, "I have something interesting to show you." 

With that remark, he wheeled, and strode into the gloom of the hall. I followed, and our footsteps echoed with hollowness in that spacious, blank space. 

I had always felt a certain timidity when with Doctor Spaulding. We had been friends for years, and yet strangers. His was a personality which had seemingly been fashioned for dominance over me. I had never been able, in our long acquaintance, to raise my head squarely, and hold the gaze of his eyes. My fount of conversation dried up beneath the queer influence of him, and I was re served and stumbling in my speech. 

I admired, with no malice, his genius — his eccentric and versatile genius that had placed him at the head of his profession, had made him an eminent scientist, and had allowed him to conquer the field of electricity. He had performed, during his career, many marvelous feats of surgery, had made important advances in both astronomy and chemistry, and had given countless electrical inventions to the world. Of late years, he had devoted himself entirely to electrical research. 

I had seen him but once in the last year and a half. At that meeting he had hinted to me that he was at work on a radio apparatus that would startle the world. 

"It won't be called radio though, Brant," he had told me with a dry, rasping chuckle. "It shall have another name. When it is finished, I shall explain it all first to you." 

So when I received his phone call I concluded that he had completed the invention, and I was burning with curiosity as I followed him down the hall. 

He turned into the living room. That chamber was no darker, no emptier, and no more gloomy than any other room in his house, but I loathed it even more than the other. For always as I entered, I was brought face to face with a portrait of the doctor's brother, and the tragedy was forcibly recalled to me. It had been many years ago, but time had not dulled it in my friend's mind, nor my own. I could well remember that night, and Tom Spaulding's flight, a jump ahead of the law, because he was wanted for embezzlement of fifty thousand dollars. The disgrace of it had crushed the doctor, and because it was his beloved brother, the blow was even greater. It had aged and changed him, and sent him into the life of a recluse. That it was responsible for his many invaluable discoveries was probable, but not any less regrettable, at least to me. As for Tom Spaulding, we had not heard of him since that night, but perhaps that was just as well, for we learned later that he had sunk to the lowest level of the underworld. 

I gave the picture as fleeting a glance as possible, but the doctor stood for a long while gazing up at it. He seemed lost in reverie. At last he recovered himself with a start, motioned me to a chair, and turned to the huge mahogany table. He bent over a large, box-like cabinet of dark wood, like and yet unlike the ordinary radio set. He tinkered for a few minutes with the knobs and dials. Then he faced me again. 

"This is the invention," he said. "Remember, the last time I saw you I told you I was working on a super-radio? This is it, a telepathy radio. I have succeeded in trapping those elusive emanations — thought-waves. I won't bore you with any explanation of the inner workings of the machine. It is enough that I went to the radio and the seismograph to produce it. I called you so that I could give you a demonstration, as I promised. You are the first person to whom I have shown it. Of course, I have given it a number of tests. It seems to be a success." 

His eyes had lighted with ardor, and his voice had risen to an unusual pitch. But almost simultaneously this enthusiasm waned, and his face became very grave. 

"You know, Brant," he said slowly. "I have never given up hope of finding Tom. I believe he is still living. I am sure of it. I want to find him. That was the incentive for this invention. I can locate him with this apparatus. That is what I am going to try to do tonight. If he lives, his mind will speak through this loud speaker. You understand the radio. Well, this machine is similar. It must be tuned into the thought-wave length of the man you wish to reach. But the machine must broadcast to receive, that is, the tuning consists of the broad casting of a key thought. If you were seeking a murderer: you would broad cast some thought concerning the crime, where upon the receiving section of the machine would draw in every unspoken reflection on it, and convert each into words. If your key thought were something known to many, perhaps published in the papers, the machine would utter a jumble of tones and voices, blurred by one another. It would be a Babel, so many thoughts, each from a different head. But then the operator would continue his broadcasting, thinking into the machine. With these pseudo-receiving phones, varying reflections on the crime, gradually leading to some clue, some phase known only to the police and the criminal. The million voices would instantly dwindle to a dozen or so, whereupon it would be easy to vary the wave-length a millionth part of a hairsbreadth, and so bring in the felon's thoughts, alone and clear. You may see then that I have a very dangerous contraption here, the more so since the mind is unaware that it is being tapped. I could accomplish great evil or great good with it. But, as I said before, I made it only that I might find Tom, and now I shall make the attempt. There is a key thought that only he can respond to, an incident of our boy hood known, I believe, only to us." 

He seated himself at the apparatus and adjusted the head-phones. He became intent, lapsing into a deep study. I sat silent, tense with curiosity and awe. There was a long stillness, broken only by the ticking of the hall clock. The methodical sound of its mechanism so frayed my nerves that I got up, and stopped it. Then I tiptoed back to my seat. Dr. Spaulding had not noticed my move. 

Presently, with an abruptness that made me start, the loud speaker began to utter sounds. The doctor removed his headpiece, and we leaned forward tautly. The sounds were unintelligible at first. Then they became clear. 

"It's Tom," murmured the doctor, as he recognized the voice, and he looked happy for the first time in years. 

"Dawn is coming," said the machine. "The first hint of light. Oh God!" 

There came a confusion of sounds, a jumble of Incoherent words, then clearly: 

"Here they come. I see the guards and the priest. Oh God! They are coming! They are coming! 

"They walk so slowly, so solemnly. The guards and the priest. He is in his robe. I see his crucifix. It is swaying on its chain as he walks. The heels are beating so regularly. So perfectly in time. Oh God! The guards. They look grim, grim as the law! Law! It is law! There is no escape. Can I beat them down ? The window. The door. A gun. Rush them when they open the door. They'll kill me. Kill me! The chair!" 

The doctor's face had gone white and drawn. He seemed turned to stone. His fingers were tight. The machine went on in its monotonous monotone. 

"A rat is watching. Its eyes are bright. It is a gray rat. How long its nose is. Long and sharp. It is laughing. There. The key is turning. How slowly it grits. The bolt is drawn. The door is opening. It is opening slowly, so slowly. How gray everything is. How strange they look. The chair! There is no chance. Is there a chance? A chance? They are in ... in a group. The guards have many buttons, one, two, three. The priest: how deep his eyes are. His face is very grave. He is talking. The rat is watching. Its eyes are bright, so bright. God save me!" 

The sounds became incoherent and jangling. The doctor had not moved. The voice became audible again: 

"Now, walk, walk, walk. Click, click, click. Guards, so grim. I'll run. Useless. There's so much steel. Steel everywhere. I'm caught. I'm caught in the steel. The chair! Death! What will it be? Will it hurt? I must be quiet. I must not tremble. I must be brave. Walk, walk, walk. Now the little door. We are going through. The chamber. How gray it is. Who are these men? There is a crowd. They are grim and sober. Some are white, and trembling. I am trembling. I must be brave. I must smile. But I am going to die! How silent it is. Oh God! 

"They are strapping me into the chair. I am putty. They are strapping me in. It is cold — so cold. I must be brave. I must smile and joke. But I am going to die. How still it is. They have strapped me in. He has his hand on a lever. He is waiting to kill me. The current is going to be shot. God save me! It is cold. It is so dim. His hand is moving the lever — 

"Oh Christ! Christ! I am bruised. I am burning. I am burning up. Oh God! . . . Now I am numb. My flesh is sizzling and burning. I can feel it. I am writhing in the chair. But it doesn't hurt now. I can't move. My muscles won't move. I can't close my eyes. My mouth is dropped open. My jaws won't move. Am I paralyzed? Am — am I . . . dead? Dead? No. Everything is the same. I can't be dead. The doctor is examining me. He says, 'I pronounce this man dead.' " 

There was a pause. The doctor had not moved a muscle. His face was the hue of the grave. His eyes were indescribable, frozen. 

He had not seized the significance of the last words, apparently, but I had. In spite of the horror I was sunk in, I realized that a theory of Dr. Spaulding's had been proven. 

It was fully ten years since the doctor had aroused much interest with his attack on the use of the electric chair. It was his theory that in no case did electricity actually kill — that it merely brought on a paresis that simulated death, striking dormant the entire organism. He had cited instances of men struck by lightning, who had recovered, after many days, of total paralysis during which they retained only sight, hearing, and consciousness. Strange it was, and hideous, that tonight the doctor's own brother was proving the theory. The machine spoke again: 

"The fool. He says I am dead. The fool. I wish I could talk. I would call him a fool. I would laugh at him. But I can't move. 

"The men are leaving. The guards are unstrapping me. They catch me as I fall. They are taking me out, through the little door. They are taking me down a long hall.