Chapter 3: A New Force

“SIR,
“I have read your article on the possibility of travelling to the
other members of the Solar system with much interest. It is a
problem at which I, myself, have been working for a great many
years, and I believe that I have now discovered a means of solving
it in a practical manner. If you would care to see my experiments,
and will do me the honour of coming here, I shall be glad to show
them in confidence any time you may appoint.--Yours truly,
“NASMYTH CARMICHAEL.”

The above letter, marked “Private,” was forwarded to me through the editor of The Day After To-morrow. The writer of it was a total stranger to me, even by report, and at first I did not know what to make of it. Was the man a charlatan, or a “crank?” There were no signs of craziness or humbug in his frank and simple sentences. Had he really found out a way of crossing the celestial spaces? In these days it is better not to be too sceptical as to what science will accomplish. It is, in fact, wise to keep the mind open and suspend the judgment. We are standing on the threshold of the Arcana, and at any hour the search-light of our intellect may penetrate the darkness, and reveal to our wondering gaze the depths of the inner mechanism of Nature.

I resolved to accept his invitation.

A few days later I presented myself at the home of my unknown correspondent. It was a lonely little cottage, in the midst of a wild flat or waste of common ground on the outskirts of London. I should say it had once been the dwelling of a woodman engaged in the neighbouring forest. A tall, thick hedge of holly surrounded the large garden, and almost concealed it from the curiosity of an occasional wanderer on the heath.

Certainly it did not look the sort of place to find a man of science, and the old misgivings assailed my mind in greater force than ever. Half regretting that I had come, and feeling in a dubious element, I opened the wicket, and knocked at the door.

It was answered by a young woman, in a plain gown of some dark stuff, with a white collar round the neck. In spite of her dress I could see that she was not an ordinary cottage girl. Pretty, without being beautiful, there was a distinction in her voice and manner which bespoke the gentlewoman. With a pleasant smile, she welcomed me as one who had been expected, and ushered me into a small sitting-room, poorly furnished, but with a taste and refinement unusual in a workman’s home. A large piano stood in one of the corners, and a pile of classical music lay on a chair beside it. The mantelpiece was decorated with cut flowers, and the walls were hung with portraits and sketches in crayons and water-colour.

“My father will be down in a moment,” she said, with a slight American accent. “He is delighted to have the pleasure of meeting you. It is so kind of you to come.”

Before I had time to respond, Mr. Carmichael entered the parlour. He was a man of striking and venerable presence. His long white locks, his bulging brow, pregnant with brain, his bushy eyebrows and deep blue-grey eyes, his aquiline nose and flowing beard, gave an Olympian cast to his noble head. Withal, I could not help noticing that his countenance was lined with care, his black coat seamed and threadbare, his hands rough and horny, like those of a workman. If he appeared a god, it was a god in exile or disgrace; a Saturn rather than a Jove.

“Now to the matter,” said he, after a few words of kindly welcome. “Evidently the question of inter-planetary travel is coming to the front. In your article you suggest that a locomotive car, that is to say, a car able to propel itself through what we, in our ignorance, call empty space, though, in reality, it is chock-full, and very ‘thrang’ as the Scotch say, might yet be contrived, and even worked by energy drawn from the ether direct. When I read that, sir, I sat up and rubbed my eyes.”

“Your spectacles, father,” said Miss Carmichael.

“Well, it’s the same thing,” went on the old man. “For like many another prophet, sir, you had prophesied better than you knew.”

“How do you mean?” I inquired, with a puzzled air.

“If you will step with me into the garden I will show you.”

I rose and followed him into a large shed, which was fitted up as a workshop and laboratory. It contained several large benches, provided with turning lathes and tools, a quantity of chemicals, and scientific apparatus.

“I am going to do a thing that I have never done in my life before,” said Mr. Carmichael, in a sad and doubtful tone; “I have kept this secret so long that it seems like parting with myself to disclose it, to disclose even the existence of it. I have fed upon it as a young man feeds on love. It has been my nourishment, my manna in the wilderness of this world, my solace under a thousand trials, my inspiration from on High. I verily believe it has kept my old carcase together. Mind!” he added, with a penetrating glance of his grey eyes, which gleamed under their bushy brows like a pool of water in a cavern overhung with brambles, “promise me that whatever you see and hear will remain a secret on your part. Never breathe a word of it to a living soul. You are the only person, except my own daughter, whom I have ever taken into my confidence.”

I gave him my word of honour.

“Very well,” he continued, lifting a small metal box from one of the tables, and patting it with his hand. “I have been working at the subject of aerial navigation for well-nigh thirty years, and this is the result.”

I looked at the metal case, but could see nothing remarkable about it.

“It seems a little thing, hardly worth a few pence, and yet how much I have paid for it!” said the inventor, with a sigh, and a far-away expression in his eyes. “Many a time it has reminded me of the mouse’s nest that was turned up by the ploughshare.

“‘Thy wee bit heap o’ strae and stibble

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble.’

Of course this is only a model.”

“A model of a flying machine?” I inquired, in a tone of surprise.

“You may call it so,” he answered; “but it is a flying machine that does not fly or soar in the strict sense of the words, for it has neither wings nor aeroplane. It is, in fact, an aerial locomotive, as you will see.”

While he spoke, Mr. Carmichael opened the case of the instrument, and adjusted the mechanism inside. Immediately afterwards, to my astonishment, the box suddenly left his hands, and flew, or rather glided, swiftly through the air, and must have dashed itself against the wall of the laboratory had not its master run and caught it.

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed, forgetting the attitude of caution and reserve which I had deemed it prudent to adopt.

The inventor laughed with childish glee, enjoying his triumph, and stroking the case as though it were a kitten.

“It would be off again if I would let it. Whoa, there!” said he, again adjusting the mechanism. “I can make it rise, or sink, or steer, to one side or the other, just as I please. If you will kindly hold it for a minute, I will make it go up to the ceiling. Don’t be afraid, it won’t bite you.”

I took the uncanny little instrument in my hands, whilst Mr. Carmichael ascended a ladder to a kind of loft in the shed. It only weighed a few pounds, and yet I could feel it exerting a strong force to escape.