The Jacques Futrelle Megapack. Jacques Futrelle
to the utter blackness, and gradually the sinister fascinating crystal ball appeared, faintly visible by its own mystic luminosity. It rested on a pedestal of black velvet.
Varick was accustomed to his surroundings—he had been in the cabinet many times. Now he dropped down on a stool in front of the table whereon the crystal lay and leaning forward on his arms stared into its limpid depths. Unblinkingly for one, two, three minutes he sat there with his thoughts in a chaos.
After awhile there came a change in the ball. It seemed to glow with a growing light other than its own. Suddenly it darkened completely, and out of this utter darkness grew shadowy, vague forms to which he could give no name. Finally a veil seemed lifted for the globe grew brighter and he leaned forward, eagerly, fearfully. Another veil melted away and a still brighter light illumined the ball.
Now Varick was able to make out objects. Here was a table littered with books and papers, there a chair, yonder a shadowy mantel. Gradually the light grew until his tensely fixed eyes pained him, but he stared steadily on. Another quick brightness came and the objects all became clear. He studied them incredulously for a few seconds, and then he recognized what he saw. It was a room—his study—miles away in his apartments.
A sudden numb chilliness seized him but he closed his teeth hard and gazed on. The outlines of the crystal were disappearing, now they were gone and he saw more. A door opened and a man entered the room into which he was looking. Varick gave a little gasp as he recognized the man. It was—himself. He watched the man—himself—as he moved about the study aimlessly for a time as if deeply troubled, then as he dropped into a chair at the desk. Varick read clearly on the vision-face those emotions which he was suffering in person. As he looked the man made some hopeless gesture with his hands—his hands—and leaned forward on the desk with his head on his arms. Varick shuddered.
For a long time, it seemed, the man sat motionless, then Varick became conscious of another figure—a man—in the room. This figure had come into the vision from his own view point. His face was averted—Varick did not recognize the figure, but he saw something else and started in terror. A knife was in the hand of the unknown, and he was creeping stealthily toward the unconscious figure in the chair—himself—with the weapon raised.
An inarticulate cry burst from Varick’s colourless lips—a cry of warning—as he saw the unknown creep on, on, on toward—himself. He saw the figure that was himself move a little and the unknown leaped. The upraised knife swept down and was buried to the handle. Again a cry, an unintelligible shriek, burst from Varick’s lips; his heart fluttered and perspiration poured from his face. With incoherent mutterings he sank forward helplessly.
How long he remained there he didn’t know, but at last he compelled himself to look again. The crystal glittered coldly on its pedestal of velvet but that hideous thing which had been there was gone. The thought came to him to bring it back, to see more, but repulsive fear, terror seized upon him. He rose and staggered out of the cabinet. His face was pallid and his hands clasped and unclasped nervously.
Jadeh was lying on a divan sobbing. She leaped to her feet when he entered, and looking into his face she knew. Again she buried her face in her hands and wept afresh. Adhem stood with moody eyes fixed on the great god Budd.
“I saw—I understand,” said Varick between his teeth, “but—I don’t believe it.”
“The crystal never lies, Sahib,” said the seer, sorrowfully.
“But it can’t be—that,” Varick declared protestingly.
“Be careful, Sahib, oh, be careful,” urged the girl.
“Of course I shall be careful,” said Varick, shortly. Suddenly he turned to the crystal gazer and there was a menace in his tone. “Did such a thing ever appear to you before?”
“Only once, Sahib.”
“And did it come true?”
Adhem inclined his head, slowly.
“I may see you tomorrow,” exclaimed Varick suddenly. “This room is stifling. I must go out.”
With twitching hands he drew on a light coat over his evening dress, picked up his hat and rushed out into the world of realities. The crystal gazer stood for a moment while Jadeh clung to his arm, tremblingly.
“It is as the gods will,” he said sadly, at last.
* * * *
Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen—The Thinking Machine—received Howard Varick in the small reception room and invited him to a seat. Varick’s face was ashen; there were dark lines under his eyes and in them there was the glitter of an ungovernable terror. Every move showed the nervousness which gripped him. The Thinking Machine squinted at him curiously, then dropped back into his big chair.
For several minutes Varick said nothing; he seemed to be struggling to control himself. Suddenly he burst out:
“I’m going to die some day next week. Is there any way to prevent it?”
The Thinking Machine turned his great yellow head and looked at him in a manner which nearly indicated surprise.
“Of course if you’ve made up your mind to do it,” he said irritably, “I don’t see what can be done.” There was a trace of irony in his voice, a coldness which brought Varick around a little. “Just how is it going to happen?”
“I shall be murdered—stabbed in the back—by a man whom I don’t know,” Varick rushed on desperately.
“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate,” commented the scientist. “Tell me something about it. But here—” He arose and went into his laboratory. After a moment he returned and handed a glass of some effervescent liquid to Varick, who gulped it down. “Take a minute to pull yourself together,” instructed the scientist.
He resumed his seat and sat silent with his long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Gradually Varick recovered. It was a fierce fight for the mastery of emotion.
“Now,” directed The Thinking Machine at last, “tell me about it.”
Varick told just what happened lucidly enough, and The Thinking Machine listened with polite interest. Once or twice he turned and looked at his visitor.
“Do you believe in any psychic force?” Varick asked once.
“I don’t disbelieve in anything until I have proven that it cannot be,” was the answer. “The God who hung a sun up there has done other things which we will never understand.” There was a little pause, then: “How did you meet this man, Adhem Singh?”
“I have been interested for years in the psychic, the occult, the things we don’t understand,” Varick replied. “I have a comfortable fortune, no occupation, no dependents and made this a sort of hobby. I have studied it superficially all over the world. I met Adhem Singh in India ten years ago, afterwards in England where he went through Oxford with some financial assistance from me, and later here. Two years ago he convinced me that there was something in crystal gazing—call it telepathy, self hypnotism, sub-conscious mental action—what you will. Since then the science, I can call it nothing else, has guided me in every important act of my life.”
“Through Adhem Singh?”
“Yes.”
“And under a pledge of secrecy, I imagine—that is secrecy as to the nature of his revelations?”
“Yes.”
“Any taint of insanity in your family?”
Varick wondered whether the question was in the nature of insolent reproof, or was a request for information. He construed it as the latter.
“No,” he answered. “Never a touch of it.”
“How often have you consulted Mr. Singh?”
“Many times. There have been occasions when he would tell me nothing because, he explained, the crystal told him nothing. There have been other