The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

“Why not? Didn't we see it? I know a deal of material science; but nothing like this. I always had faith in Dr. Holcomb. After all, it's not impossible. First we must go over the house thoroughly.”

We did. Most of all, we were interested in that bell. We did not think, either of us, that so much noise could come out of nothing. It was too material. The other we could credit to the occult; but not the sound. It had drowned our consciousness; perhaps it had saved us from the Rhamda. But we found nothing. We went over the house systematically. It was much as it had been previously described, only now a bit more furnished. The same dank, musty smell and the same suggestive silence. We returned to the lower floor and the library. It was a sorry sight. We straightened up the shelves and returned the books to their places.

It was getting along toward morning. Hobart sailed at nine o'clock. We must have new clothing and some coffee; likewise we must collect our wits. I had the ring, and had given my pledge to Watson. I was muddled. We must get down to sane action. First of all we must return to our rooms.

The fog had grown thicker; one could almost taste it. I couldn't suppress a shudder. It was cold, dank, repressive. Neither of us spoke a word on our way downtown. Hobart opened the door to our apartment; he turned on the lights.

In a few moments we had hot, steaming cups of coffee. Still we did not speak. Hobart sat in his chair, his elbows on the table and his head between his hands. My thoughts ran back to that day in college when he said “I was just thinking, Harry, if I had one hundred thousand dollars, I would solve the Blind Spot.”

That was long ago. We had neither of us thought that we would come to the fact.

“Well,” I spoke, “have you got that hundred thousand dollars? You had an idea once.”

He looked up. “I've got it yet. I am not certain. It is merely a theory. But it's not impossible.”

“Well, what is it?”

He took another drink of coffee and settled back in his chair.

“It is energy, Harry—force. Nothing but energy—and Nature.”

“Then it's not occult?” I asked.

“Certainly it is. I didn't say that. It is what the professor promised. Something concrete for our senses. If the occult is, it can certainly be proven. The professor was right. It is energy, force, vibration. It has a law. The old doctor was caught somehow. We must watch our step and see that we aren't swallowed up also. Perhaps we shall go the way of Watson.”

I shuddered.

“I hope not. But explain. You speak in volumes. Come back to earth.”

“That's easy, Harry. I can give you my theory in a few short words. You've studied physiology, haven't you? Well, that's where you can get your proof—or rather let me say my theory. What is the Blind Spot?”

“In optics?”

“We'll forgo that,” he answered. “I refer to this one.”

I thought for a moment.

“Well,” I said, “I don't know. It was something I couldn't see. Watson went out before our eyes. He was lost.”

“Exactly. Do you get the point?”

“No.”

“It is this. What you see is merely energy. Your eye is merely a machine. It catches certain colours. Which in turn are merely rates of vibration. There is nothing to matter but force, Harry; if we could get down deep enough and know a few laws, we could transmute it.”

“What has it to do with the occult?”

“Merely a fact. The eye machine catches only certain vibration speeds of energy. There are undoubtedly any number of speeds; the eye cannot see them.”

“Then this would account for the Blind Spot?”

“Exactly. A localised spot, a condition, a combination of phenomena, anything entering it becomes invisible.”

“Where does it go to?”

“That's it. Where? It's one of the things that man has been guessing at down the ages. The professor is the first philosopher with sound sense. He went after it. It's a pity he was trapped.”

“By the Rhamda?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Who is he?”

Hobart smiled.

“How do I know? Where did he come from? If we knew that, we would know everything. 'A phantom,' so Watson says. If so, it only strengthens our theory. It would make a man and matter only a part of creation. Certainly it would clear up a lot of doubts.”

“And the ring?”

“It controls the Blind Spot.”

“In what way?”

“That's for us to find out.”

“And Watson? He is in this land of doubt?”

“At least he is in the Blind Spot. Let me try the ring.”

He struck a match.

It was much as it had been in the restaurant, only a bit more startling. Then the blue faded, the colour went out, and it became transparent. For a moment. There was an effect of space and distance that I had not noted before, almost marvellous. If I could describe it at all, I would say a crystal corridor of a vastness that can scarcely be imagined. It made one dizzy, even in that bit of jewel: one lost proportion, it was height, distance, space immeasurable. For an instant. Then the whole thing blurred and clouded. Something passed across the face; the transparency turned to opaqueness, and then—two men. It was as sudden as a flash—the materialisation. There was no question. They were alive. Watson was with the professor.

It was a strange moment. Only an hour before one of them had been with us. It was Watson, beyond a doubt. He was alive; one could almost believe him in the jewel. We had heard his story: “The screen of the occult; the curtain of shadow.” We had seen him go. There was an element of horror in the thing, and of fascination. The great professor! The faithful Watson! Where had they gone?

It was not until the colour had come back and the blue had regained its lustre that either of us looked up. Could such a thing be unravelled? Fenton turned the stone over thoughtfully. He shook his head.

“In that jewel, Harry, lies the secret. I wish I knew a bit more about physics, light, force, energy, vibration. We have got to know.”