Chapter 1

Mr. Bedford Meets Mr. Cavor at Lympne

23 min

As I sit down to write here amidst the shadows of vine-leaves under the blue sky of southern Italy, it comes to me with a certain quality of astonishment that my participation in these amazing adventures of Mr. Cavor was, after all, the outcome of the purest accident. It might have been any one. I fell into these things at a time when I thought myself removed from the slightest possibility of disturbing experiences. I had gone to Lympne because I had imagined it the most uneventful place in the world. “Here, at any rate,” said I, “I shall find peace and a chance to work!”

As I sit down to write here, in the shade of vine leaves under the blue sky of southern Italy, I find it somewhat astonishing that I took part in Mr. Cavor’s amazing adventures purely by chance. It could have been anyone. I stumbled into these events when I thought there was not the slightest chance of anything disturbing happening to me. I had gone to Lympne because I thought it was the most uneventful place in the world. “Here, at least,” I said, “I’ll find peace and a chance to work!”

And this book is the sequel. So utterly at variance is destiny with all the little plans of men. I may perhaps mention here that very recently I had come an ugly cropper in certain business enterprises. Sitting now surrounded by all the circumstances of wealth, there is a luxury in admitting my extremity. I can admit, even, that to a certain extent my disasters were conceivably of my own making. It may be there are directions in which I have some capacity, but the conduct of business operations is not among these. But in those days I was young, and my youth among other objectionable forms took that of a pride in my capacity for affairs. I am young still in years, but the things that have happened to me have rubbed something of the youth from my mind. Whether they have brought any wisdom to light below it is a more doubtful matter.

And this book is what followed. Destiny is so utterly at odds with all our little plans. I might mention here that I had recently come to grief in some business ventures. Now, surrounded by all the trappings of wealth, I can enjoy admitting how desperate my situation was. I can even admit that my disasters may have been partly my own doing. I may have some ability in other areas, but running a business is not one of them. In those days, though, I was young. Among other objectionable signs of my youth, I took pride in my ability to handle business affairs. I am still young in years, but what has happened to me has worn some of the youth from my mind. Whether it has revealed any wisdom beneath is more doubtful.

It is scarcely necessary to go into the details of the speculations that landed me at Lympne, in Kent. Nowadays even about business transactions there is a strong spice of adventure. I took risks. In these things there is invariably a certain amount of give and take, and it fell to me finally to do the giving reluctantly enough. Even when I had got out of everything, one cantankerous creditor saw fit to be malignant. Perhaps you have met that flaming sense of outraged virtue, or perhaps you have only felt it. He ran me hard. It seemed to me, at last, that there was nothing for it but to write a play, unless I wanted to drudge for my living as a clerk. I have a certain imagination, and luxurious tastes, and I meant to make a vigorous fight for it before that fate overtook me. In addition to my belief in my powers as a business man, I had always in those days had an idea that I was equal to writing a very good play. It is not, I believe, a very uncommon persuasion. I knew there is nothing a man can do outside legitimate business transactions that has such opulent possibilities, and very probably that biased my opinion. I had, indeed, got into the habit of regarding this unwritten drama as a convenient little reserve put by for a rainy day. That rainy day had come, and I set to work.

There is hardly any need to explain the business ventures that landed me in Lympne, in Kent. These days, even business deals have a strong element of adventure. I took risks. In such matters there is always a certain amount of give and take, and in the end, I was the one who had to give, though reluctantly. Even after I had settled everything, one difficult creditor chose to be nasty. Perhaps you have encountered that blazing sense of offended virtue, or perhaps you have only felt it yourself. He pursued me relentlessly. At last, it seemed I had no choice but to write a play, unless I wanted to earn my living toiling as a clerk. I have some imagination and expensive tastes, and I meant to put up a vigorous fight before that fate caught up with me. In those days, I believed in my abilities as a businessman. I had also always thought I could write a very good play. I believe that is quite a common notion. I knew that, outside legitimate business deals, nothing a man can do offers such rich possibilities. Very likely that influenced my opinion. In fact, I had grown used to thinking of this unwritten play as a handy little reserve for a rainy day. That rainy day had come, and I set to work.

I soon discovered that writing a play was a longer business than I had supposed; at first I had reckoned ten days for it, and it was to have a pied-à-terre while it was in hand that I came to Lympne. I reckoned myself lucky in getting that little bungalow. I got it on a three years’ agreement. I put in a few sticks of furniture, and while the play was in hand I did my own cooking. My cooking would have shocked Mrs. Bond. And yet, you know, it had flavour. I had a coffee-pot, a sauce-pan for eggs, and one for potatoes, and a frying-pan for sausages and bacon—such was the simple apparatus of my comfort. One cannot always be magnificent, but simplicity is always a possible alternative. For the rest I laid in an eighteen-gallon cask of beer on credit, and a trustful baker came each day. It was not, perhaps, in the style of Sybaris, but I have had worse times. I was a little sorry for the baker, who was a very decent man indeed, but even for him I hoped.

I soon discovered that writing a play took longer than I had expected. At first, I thought it would take ten days. I came to Lympne to have a place to stay while I worked on it. I was lucky to get that little bungalow. I rented it on a three-year agreement. I put in a little furniture and cooked for myself while I worked on the play. My cooking would have shocked Mrs. Bond. And yet, you know, it had flavor. I had a coffee pot, a saucepan for eggs, another for potatoes, and a frying pan for sausages and bacon. These were the simple tools of my comfort. One cannot always live magnificently, but simplicity is always an option. I also bought an eighteen-gallon cask of beer on credit, and a trusting baker came each day. It was not, perhaps, the luxurious life of Sybaris, but I have had worse times. I felt a little sorry for the baker, who was a very decent man indeed, but even for him I hoped.

Certainly if any one wants solitude, the place is Lympne. It is in the clay part of Kent, and my bungalow stood on the edge of an old sea cliff and stared across the flats of Romney Marsh at the sea. In very wet weather the place is almost inaccessible, and I have heard that at times the postman used to traverse the more succulent portions of his route with boards upon his feet. I never saw him doing so, but I can quite imagine it. Outside the doors of the few cottages and houses that make up the present village big birch besoms are stuck, to wipe off the worst of the clay, which will give some idea of the texture of the district. I doubt if the place would be there at all, if it were not a fading memory of things gone for ever. It was the big port of England in Roman times, Portus Lemanis, and now the sea is four miles away. All down the steep hill are boulders and masses of Roman brickwork, and from it old Watling Street, still paved in places, starts like an arrow to the north. I used to stand on the hill and think of it all, the galleys and legions, the captives and officials, the women and traders, the speculators like myself, all the swarm and tumult that came clanking in and out of the harbour. And now just a few lumps of rubble on a grassy slope, and a sheep or two—and I. And where the port had been were the levels of the marsh, sweeping round in a broad curve to distant Dungeness, and dotted here and there with tree clumps and the church towers of old mediæval towns that are following Lemanis now towards extinction.

Certainly, if anyone wants solitude, Lympne is the place. It is in the clay country of Kent. My bungalow stood on the edge of an old sea cliff, looking across the flats of Romney Marsh toward the sea. In very wet weather, the place is almost impossible to reach. I have heard that the postman sometimes used to cross the muddier parts of his route with boards on his feet. I never saw him doing it, but I can easily imagine it. Large birch brooms stand outside the doors of the few cottages and houses that make up the present village. They are there to wipe off the worst of the clay, which gives some idea of the ground here. I doubt the place would still exist if it were not a fading memory of things gone forever. In Roman times it was England’s great port, Portus Lemanis. Now the sea is four miles away. Boulders and masses of Roman brickwork lie all down the steep hill. From the hill, old Watling Street, still paved in places, runs straight as an arrow to the north. I used to stand on the hill and think of it all. I pictured the galleys and legions, the captives and officials, the women and traders, the speculators like myself. I imagined the whole swarm and bustle, clanking in and out of the harbour. And now there are just a few lumps of rubble on a grassy slope, a sheep or two, and I. Where the port had been, the flat marsh stretched in a broad curve toward distant Dungeness. Here and there were clumps of trees and the church towers of old medieval towns, now following Lemanis toward extinction.

That outlook on the marsh was, indeed, one of the finest views I have ever seen. I suppose Dungeness was fifteen miles away; it lay like a raft on the sea, and farther westward were the hills by Hastings under the setting sun. Sometimes they hung close and clear, sometimes they were faded and low, and often the drift of the weather took them clean out of sight. And all the nearer parts of the marsh were laced and lit by ditches and canals.

The view over the marsh was indeed one of the finest I have ever seen. I suppose Dungeness was fifteen miles away. It lay like a raft on the sea. Farther west, the hills near Hastings lay beneath the setting sun. Sometimes the hills seemed close and clear. Sometimes they looked faint and low, and often the changing weather hid them completely. Ditches and canals crisscrossed and brightened all the nearer parts of the marsh.

The window at which I worked looked over the skyline of this crest, and it was from this window that I first set eyes on Cavor. It was just as I was struggling with my scenario, holding down my mind to the sheer hard work of it, and naturally enough he arrested my attention.

The window where I worked overlooked the skyline of the ridge. It was from this window that I first saw Cavor. I was struggling with my scenario, forcing myself to concentrate on the hard work. Naturally enough, he caught my attention.

The sun had set, the sky was a vivid tranquillity of green and yellow, and against that he came out black—the oddest little figure.

The sun had set, and the sky was a peaceful, vivid green and yellow. Against it, he appeared black, the oddest little figure.

He was a short, round-bodied, thin-legged little man, with a jerky quality in his motions; he had seen fit to clothe his extraordinary mind in a cricket cap, an overcoat, and cycling knickerbockers and stockings. Why he did so I do not know, for he never cycled and he never played cricket. It was a fortuitous concurrence of garments, arising I know not how. He gesticulated with his hands and arms, and jerked his head about and buzzed. He buzzed like something electric. You never heard such buzzing. And ever and again he cleared his throat with a most extraordinary noise.

He was a short little man with a round body, thin legs, and jerky movements. He had chosen to dress his extraordinary mind in a cricket cap, an overcoat, cycling knickerbockers, and stockings. I do not know why, because he never cycled or played cricket. The clothes had somehow come together by chance. I do not know how. He waved his hands and arms, jerked his head about, and buzzed. He buzzed like something electric. You never heard such buzzing. And every so often, he cleared his throat with a most extraordinary noise.

There had been rain, and that spasmodic walk of his was enhanced by the extreme slipperiness of the footpath. Exactly as he came against the sun he stopped, pulled out a watch, hesitated. Then with a sort of convulsive gesture he turned and retreated with every manifestation of haste, no longer gesticulating, but going with ample strides that showed the relatively large size of his feet—they were, I remember, grotesquely exaggerated in size by adhesive clay—to the best possible advantage.

It had rained, and the extremely slippery path made his jerky walk even more erratic. Just as he passed in front of the sun, he stopped, pulled out a watch, and hesitated. Then, with a sudden, jerky movement, he turned and hurried back. He no longer waved his arms, but took long strides that showed his relatively large feet to their best advantage. I remember that sticky clay had made them look grotesquely large.

This occurred on the first day of my sojourn, when my play-writing energy was at its height and I regarded the incident simply as an annoying distraction—the waste of five minutes. I returned to my scenario. But when next evening the apparition was repeated with remarkable precision, and again the next evening, and indeed every evening when rain was not falling, concentration upon the scenario became a considerable effort. “Confound the man,” I said, “one would think he was learning to be a marionette!” and for several evenings I cursed him pretty heartily. Then my annoyance gave way to amazement and curiosity. Why on earth should a man do this thing? On the fourteenth evening I could stand it no longer, and so soon as he appeared I opened the french window, crossed the verandah, and directed myself to the point where he invariably stopped.

This happened on the first day of my stay, when my energy for writing plays was at its height. I saw the incident as nothing more than an annoying distraction, a waste of five minutes. I returned to my outline. But the man appeared again the next evening, doing exactly the same thing. He did it again the evening after that, and indeed every evening when it was not raining. Concentrating on the outline became a real effort. “Damn the man,” I said, “you’d think he was learning to be a puppet!” For several evenings I cursed him quite heartily. Then my annoyance gave way to amazement and curiosity. Why on earth would a man do this? On the fourteenth evening I could stand it no longer. As soon as he appeared, I opened the French window, crossed the veranda, and headed for the spot where he always stopped.

He had his watch out as I came up to him. He had a chubby, rubicund face with reddish brown eyes—previously I had seen him only against the light. “One moment, sir,” said I as he turned. He stared. “One moment,” he said, “certainly. Or if you wish to speak to me for longer, and it is not asking too much—your moment is up—would it trouble you to accompany me?”

He had his watch out as I came up to him. He had a chubby, red face and reddish brown eyes. Until then, I had only seen him with the light behind him. “One moment, sir,” I said as he turned. He stared. “One moment,” he said, “certainly. Or, if you wish to speak to me longer, and it’s not too much to ask, your moment is up. Would you mind coming with me?”

“Not in the least,” said I, placing myself beside him.

“Not at all,” I said, taking my place beside him.

“My habits are regular. My time for intercourse—limited.”

“My habits are regular. My time for conversation is limited.”

“This, I presume, is your time for exercise?”

“I assume this is your time to exercise?”

“It is. I come here to enjoy the sunset.”

“You don’t.”

“Sir?”

“You never look at it.”

“Never look at it?”

“No. I’ve watched you thirteen nights, and not once have you looked at the sunset—not once.”

“No. I’ve watched you for thirteen nights, and you haven’t looked at the sunset once. Not once.”

He knitted his brows like one who encounters a problem.

He frowned like someone facing a problem.

“Well, I enjoy the sunlight—the atmosphere—I go along this path, through that gate”—he jerked his head over his shoulder—“and round—”

“Well, I enjoy the sunlight, the atmosphere. I go along this path, through that gate,” he jerked his head over his shoulder, “and around...”

“You don’t. You never have been. It’s all nonsense. There isn’t a way. To-night for instance—”

“You don’t. You never have been. It’s all nonsense. There’s no way. Tonight, for example...”

“Oh! to-night! Let me see. Ah! I just glanced at my watch, saw that I had already been out just three minutes over the precise half-hour, decided there was not time to go round, turned—”

“Oh! Tonight! Let me see. Ah! I glanced at my watch and saw that I had been out for exactly thirty-three minutes. I decided there wasn't time to go round, and turned...”

“You always do.”

He looked at me—reflected. “Perhaps I do, now I come to think of it. But what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

He looked at me and thought for a moment. “Perhaps I do, now that I think about it. But what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Why, this!”

“This?”

“Yes. Why do you do it? Every night you come making a noise—”

“Yes. Why do you do it? Every night you come making noise...”

“Making a noise?”

“Like this.” I imitated his buzzing noise. He looked at me, and it was evident the buzzing awakened distaste. “Do I do that?” he asked.

“Like this.” I imitated his buzzing noise. He looked at me, and it was clear the buzzing annoyed him. “Do I do that?” he asked.

“Every blessed evening.”

“Every single evening.”

“I had no idea.”

He stopped dead. He regarded me gravely. “Can it be,” he said, “that I have formed a Habit?”

He stopped suddenly. He looked at me seriously. “Could it be,” he said, “that I’ve formed a habit?”

“Well, it looks like it. Doesn’t it?”

He pulled down his lower lip between finger and thumb. He regarded a puddle at his feet.

He pulled down his lower lip with his finger and thumb. He looked at a puddle at his feet.

“My mind is much occupied,” he said. “And you want to know why! Well, sir, I can assure you that not only do I not know why I do these things, but I did not even know I did them. Come to think, it is just as you say; I never have been beyond that field.... And these things annoy you?”

“My mind is very busy,” he said. “And you want to know why! Well, sir, I can assure you that I don’t know why I do these things. I didn’t even know I did them. Now that I think about it, you’re right. I have never been beyond that field.... And these things annoy you?”

For some reason I was beginning to relent towards him. “Not annoy,” I said. “But—imagine yourself writing a play!”

For some reason, I was beginning to soften toward him. “Not annoy,” I said. “But imagine yourself writing a play!”

“I couldn’t.”

“Well, anything that needs concentration.”

“Ah!” he said, “of course,” and meditated. His expression became so eloquent of distress, that I relented still more. After all, there is a touch of aggression in demanding of a man you don’t know why he hums on a public footpath.

“Ah!” he said, “of course,” and thought for a moment. He looked so distressed that I softened even more. After all, it is a little aggressive to demand why a stranger is humming on a public footpath.

“You see,” he said weakly, “it’s a habit.”

“Oh, I recognise that.”

“Oh, I recognize that.”

“I must stop it.”

“I have to stop it.”

“But not if it puts you out. After all, I had no business—it’s something of a liberty.”

“But not if it inconveniences you. After all, I had no right to ask. It’s a bit presumptuous.”

“Not at all, sir,” he said, “not at all. I am greatly indebted to you. I should guard myself against these things. In future I will. Could I trouble you—once again? That noise?”

“Not at all, sir,” he said, “not at all. I’m very grateful to you. I should protect myself against these things. I will from now on. Could I trouble you once again? That noise?”

“Something like this,” I said. “Zuzzoo, zuzzoo. But really, you know—”

“Something like this,” I said. “Zuzzoo, zuzzoo. But really, you know...”

“I am greatly obliged to you. In fact, I know I am getting absurdly absent-minded. You are quite justified, sir—perfectly justified. Indeed, I am indebted to you. The thing shall end. And now, sir, I have already brought you farther than I should have done.”

“Thank you very much. In fact, I know I’m becoming absurdly absent-minded. You’re quite right, sir. Perfectly right. Indeed, I owe you thanks. I’ll put a stop to it. And now, sir, I’ve already brought you farther than I should have.”

“I do hope my impertinence—”

“I do hope my rudeness...”

“Not at all, sir, not at all.”

We regarded each other for a moment. I raised my hat and wished him a good evening. He responded convulsively, and so we went our ways.

We looked at each other for a moment. I raised my hat and wished him a good evening. He responded with a sudden jerk, and then we went our separate ways.

At the stile I looked back at his receding figure. His bearing had changed remarkably, he seemed limp, shrunken. The contrast with his former gesticulating, zuzzoing self took me in some absurd way as pathetic. I watched him out of sight. Then wishing very heartily I had kept to my own business, I returned to my bungalow and my play.

At the stile, I looked back at him as he walked away. His manner had changed dramatically. He seemed limp and shrunken. Compared with the way he had been gesturing and zuzzoing before, he seemed pathetic to me in some absurd way. I watched until he disappeared from sight. Then, wishing very much that I had minded my own business, I returned to my bungalow and my play.

The next evening I saw nothing of him, nor the next. But he was very much in my mind, and it had occurred to me that as a sentimental comic character he might serve a useful purpose in the development of my plot. The third day he called upon me.

I didn't see him the next evening or the one after that. But I thought about him a lot. It occurred to me that he might be useful as a sentimental comic character in developing my plot. On the third day, he visited me.

For a time I was puzzled to think what had brought him. He made indifferent conversation in the most formal way, then abruptly he came to business. He wanted to buy me out of my bungalow.

For a while, I wondered what had brought him there. He made polite small talk in a very formal way. Then he suddenly got down to business. He wanted to buy my bungalow from me.

“You see,” he said, “I don’t blame you in the least, but you’ve destroyed a habit, and it disorganises my day. I’ve walked past here for years—years. No doubt I’ve hummed.... You’ve made all that impossible!”

“You see,” he said, “I don’t blame you at all, but you’ve destroyed a habit, and that disrupts my day. I’ve walked past here for years. Years. I’ve probably hummed.... You’ve made all that impossible!”

I suggested he might try some other direction.

I suggested he try another direction.

“No. There is no other direction. This is the only one. I’ve inquired. And now—every afternoon at four—I come to a dead wall.”

“No. There’s no other direction. This is the only one. I’ve asked. And now, every afternoon at four, I come to a dead end.”

“But, my dear sir, if the thing is so important to you—”

“But, sir, if it’s so important to you...”

“It’s vital. You see, I’m—I’m an investigator—I am engaged in a scientific research. I live—” he paused and seemed to think. “Just over there,” he said, and pointed suddenly dangerously near my eye. “The house with white chimneys you see just over the trees. And my circumstances are abnormal—abnormal. I am on the point of completing one of the most important—demonstrations—I can assure you one of the most important demonstrations that have ever been made. It requires constant thought, constant mental ease and activity. And the afternoon was my brightest time!—effervescing with new ideas—new points of view.”

“It’s vital. You see, I’m, I’m a researcher. I’m doing scientific research. I live,” he paused and seemed to think. “Just over there,” he said, suddenly pointing dangerously close to my eye. “The house with white chimneys, just over the trees. And my circumstances are unusual, unusual. I’m about to complete one of the most important, demonstrations. I assure you, it’s one of the most important demonstrations ever made. It requires constant thought, constant mental ease and activity. And the afternoon was my brightest time! I was bubbling with new ideas, new points of view.”

“But why not come by still?”

“But why not still come by?”

“It would be all different. I should be self-conscious. I should think of you at your play—watching me irritated—instead of thinking of my work. No! I must have the bungalow.”

“It would be completely different. I would feel self-conscious. Instead of thinking about my work, I would think about you playing and watching me with irritation. No! I must have the bungalow.”

I meditated. Naturally, I wanted to think the matter over thoroughly before anything decisive was said. I was generally ready enough for business in those days, and selling always attracted me; but in the first place it was not my bungalow, and even if I sold it to him at a good price I might get inconvenienced in the delivery of goods if the current owner got wind of the transaction, and in the second I was, well—undischarged. It was clearly a business that required delicate handling. Moreover, the possibility of his being in pursuit of some valuable invention also interested me. It occurred to me that I would like to know more of this research, not with any dishonest intention, but simply with an idea that to know what it was would be a relief from play-writing. I threw out feelers.

I thought it over. Naturally, I wanted to consider the matter carefully before saying anything decisive. In those days I was usually ready enough to do business, and selling always appealed to me. But first, the bungalow was not mine. Even if I sold it to him at a good price, I might have trouble handing it over if the owner heard about the deal. Second, I was, well, an undischarged bankrupt. Clearly, the business needed delicate handling. I was also interested in the possibility that he was pursuing some valuable invention. I thought I would like to know more about his research. I had no dishonest intention. I simply thought that finding out what he was working on would be a relief from writing plays. I asked a few tentative questions.

He was quite willing to supply information. Indeed, once he was fairly under way the conversation became a monologue. He talked like a man long pent up, who has had it over with himself again and again. He talked for nearly an hour, and I must confess I found it a pretty stiff bit of listening. But through it all there was the undertone of satisfaction one feels when one is neglecting work one has set oneself. During that first interview I gathered very little of the drift of his work. Half his words were technicalities entirely strange to me, and he illustrated one or two points with what he was pleased to call elementary mathematics, computing on an envelope with a copying-ink pencil, in a manner that made it hard even to seem to understand. “Yes,” I said, “yes. Go on!” Nevertheless I made out enough to convince me that he was no mere crank playing at discoveries. In spite of his crank-like appearance there was a force about him that made that impossible. Whatever it was, it was a thing with mechanical possibilities. He told me of a work-shed he had, and of three assistants—originally jobbing carpenters—whom he had trained. Now, from the work-shed to the patent office is clearly only one step. He invited me to see those things. I accepted readily, and took care, by a remark or so, to underline that. The proposed transfer of the bungalow remained very conveniently in suspense.

He was quite willing to share information. Indeed, once he got going, the conversation became a monologue. He spoke like a man who had been holding it all in for a long time, going over it again and again in his own mind. He talked for nearly an hour, and I must admit I found it hard to listen. But throughout, I felt that quiet satisfaction you get from neglecting work you’ve set yourself. During that first conversation, I understood very little about the direction of his work. Half his words were technical terms I had never heard before. He explained a point or two using what he chose to call elementary mathematics. He worked out the calculations on an envelope with a copying-ink pencil. He did it in a way that made it hard even to pretend I understood. “Yes,” I said, “yes. Go on!” Still, I understood enough to see that he was no mere crank playing at making discoveries. Despite his crank-like appearance, he had a force about him that made that impossible. Whatever his work was, it had mechanical possibilities. He told me about his work shed and his three assistants. They had originally been carpenters who took on odd jobs, but he had trained them. Now, from the work shed to the patent office is clearly only one step. He invited me to see these things. I accepted readily and made a remark or two to emphasize my interest. The proposed transfer of the bungalow remained very conveniently undecided.

At last he rose to depart, with an apology for the length of his call. Talking over his work was, he said, a pleasure enjoyed only too rarely. It was not often he found such an intelligent listener as myself, he mingled very little with professional scientific men.

At last he stood up to leave, apologizing for staying so long. He said he rarely had the pleasure of discussing his work. He did not often find a listener as intelligent as I was. He spent very little time with professional scientists.

“So much pettiness,” he explained; “so much intrigue! And really, when one has an idea—a novel, fertilising idea—I don’t want to be uncharitable, but—”

“So much pettiness,” he explained. “So much intrigue! And really, when you have an idea, a new, inspiring idea, I don’t want to be unkind, but...”

I am a man who believes in impulses. I made what was perhaps a rash proposition. But you must remember, that I had been alone, play-writing in Lympne, for fourteen days, and my compunction for his ruined walk still hung about me. “Why not,” said I, “make this your new habit? In the place of the one I spoilt? At least, until we can settle about the bungalow. What you want is to turn over your work in your mind. That you have always done during your afternoon walk. Unfortunately that’s over—you can’t get things back as they were. But why not come and talk about your work to me; use me as a sort of wall against which you may throw your thoughts and catch them again? It’s certain I don’t know enough to steal your ideas myself—and I know no scientific men—”

I believe in acting on impulse. I made what was perhaps a rash suggestion. But you must remember that I had been alone in Lympne for fourteen days, writing plays. I also still felt guilty about ruining his walk. “Why not,” I said, “make this your new habit, in place of the one I spoiled? At least until we can settle the matter of the bungalow. You need to think over your work. You have always done that during your afternoon walk. Unfortunately, those walks are over. You can’t get things back as they were. But why not come and talk to me about your work? Use me as a sort of wall to throw your thoughts against and catch them again. I certainly don’t know enough to steal your ideas myself, and I don’t know any scientists.”

I stopped. He was considering. Evidently the thing attracted him. “But I’m afraid I should bore you,” he said.

I stopped. He was thinking it over. Clearly, the idea interested him. “But I’m afraid I’d bore you,” he said.

“You think I’m too dull?”

“Oh, no; but technicalities—”

“Oh, no, but the technical details...”

“Anyhow, you’ve interested me immensely this afternoon.”

“Anyway, you’ve really interested me this afternoon.”

“Of course it would be a great help to me. Nothing clears up one’s ideas so much as explaining them. Hitherto—”

“Of course it would be a great help to me. Nothing clears up your ideas as much as explaining them. Until now...”

“My dear sir, say no more.”

“Sir, please, say no more.”

“But really can you spare the time?”

“But can you really spare the time?”

“There is no rest like change of occupation,” I said, with profound conviction.

“There’s no rest like a change of activity,” I said, deeply convinced.

The affair was over. On my verandah steps he turned. “I am already greatly indebted to you,” he said.

The matter was settled. He turned on the steps of my porch. “I already owe you a great deal,” he said.

I made an interrogative noise.

I made a questioning sound.

“You have completely cured me of that ridiculous habit of humming,” he explained.

“You've completely cured me of that ridiculous habit of humming,” he explained.

I think I said I was glad to be of any service to him, and he turned away.

I think I said I was glad to help him in any way, and he turned away.

Immediately the train of thought that our conversation had suggested must have resumed its sway. His arms began to wave in their former fashion. The faint echo of “zuzzoo” came back to me on the breeze....

Immediately, the train of thought our conversation had suggested must have taken over again. His arms began to wave as before. The faint echo of “zuzzoo” came back to me on the breeze....

Well, after all, that was not my affair....

Well, after all, that was none of my business....

He came the next day, and again the next day after that, and delivered two lectures on physics to our mutual satisfaction. He talked with an air of being extremely lucid about the “ether” and “tubes of force,” and “gravitational potential,” and things like that, and I sat in my other folding-chair and said, “Yes,” “Go on,” “I follow you,” to keep him going. It was tremendously difficult stuff, but I do not think he ever suspected how much I did not understand him. There were moments when I doubted whether I was well employed, but at any rate I was resting from that confounded play. Now and then things gleamed on me clearly for a space, only to vanish just when I thought I had hold of them. Sometimes my attention failed altogether, and I would give it up and sit and stare at him, wondering whether, after all, it would not be better to use him as a central figure in a good farce and let all this other stuff slide. And then, perhaps, I would catch on again for a bit.

He came the next day, and again the day after that. He gave me two lectures on physics, and we were both satisfied. He spoke as if he were being extremely clear about the “ether,” “tubes of force,” “gravitational potential,” and things like that. I sat in my other folding chair and said, “Yes,” “Go on,” and “I follow you,” to keep him talking. It was tremendously difficult stuff, but I don't think he ever suspected how much I failed to understand. At times I wondered whether I was making good use of my time, but at least I was resting from that confounded play. Now and then, things became clear to me for a while. But they vanished just when I thought I had grasped them. Sometimes I lost concentration altogether. I would give up and sit staring at him, wondering if I would be better off making him the central figure in a good farce and letting all this other stuff slide. Then, perhaps, I would catch on again for a bit.

At the earliest opportunity I went to see his house. It was large and carelessly furnished; there were no servants other than his three assistants, and his dietary and private life were characterised by a philosophical simplicity. He was a water-drinker, a vegetarian, and all those logical disciplinary things. But the sight of his equipment settled many doubts. It looked like business from cellar to attic—an amazing little place to find in an out-of-the-way village. The ground-floor rooms contained benches and apparatus, the bakehouse and scullery boiler had developed into respectable furnaces, dynamos occupied the cellar, and there was a gasometer in the garden. He showed it to me with all the confiding zest of a man who has been living too much alone. His seclusion was overflowing now in an excess of confidence, and I had the good luck to be the recipient.

At the first opportunity, I went to see his house. It was large and carelessly furnished. His only servants were his three assistants, and his diet and private life were marked by a philosophical simplicity. He drank water, was a vegetarian, and followed all those logical forms of self-discipline. But the sight of his equipment settled many doubts. From cellar to attic, it looked like serious work was being done there. It was an amazing little place to find in a remote village. The ground-floor rooms held workbenches and equipment. The oven in the bakehouse and the boiler in the scullery had been turned into respectable furnaces. Dynamos filled the cellar, and there was a gasometer in the garden. He showed me around with the trusting enthusiasm of a man who had lived alone too long. His long seclusion was now spilling over into an excess of trust, and I was lucky enough to receive it.

The three assistants were creditable specimens of the class of “handy-men” from which they came. Conscientious if unintelligent, strong, civil, and willing. One, Spargus, who did the cooking and all the metal work, had been a sailor; a second, Gibbs, was a joiner; and the third was an ex-jobbing gardener, and now general assistant. They were the merest labourers. All the intelligent work was done by Cavor. Theirs was the darkest ignorance compared even with my muddled impression.

The three assistants were respectable examples of the “handy-men” they were. They were conscientious, if unintelligent, strong, polite, and willing. Spargus, who did the cooking and all the metalwork, had been a sailor. Gibbs was a joiner. The third had been a gardener doing odd jobs and was now a general assistant. They were merely laborers. Cavor did all the intelligent work. Even compared with my confused understanding, they were utterly ignorant.

And now, as to the nature of these inquiries. Here, unhappily, comes a grave difficulty. I am no scientific expert, and if I were to attempt to set forth in the highly scientific language of Mr. Cavor the aim to which his experiments tended, I am afraid I should confuse not only the reader but myself, and almost certainly I should make some blunder that would bring upon me the mockery of every up-to-date student of mathematical physics in the country. The best thing I can do therefore is, I think to give my impressions in my own inexact language, without any attempt to wear a garment of knowledge to which I have no claim.

Now, as for the nature of these inquiries, there is unfortunately a serious difficulty. I am no scientific expert. If I tried to explain the aim of Mr. Cavor’s experiments in his highly scientific language, I fear I would confuse both the reader and myself. Almost certainly, I would make some mistake that would expose me to mockery from every up-to-date student of mathematical physics in the country. So I think the best I can do is give my impressions in my own imprecise language. I will not pretend to have knowledge that I do not possess.

The object of Mr. Cavor’s search was a substance that should be “opaque”—he used some other word I have forgotten, but “opaque” conveys the idea—to “all forms of radiant energy.” “Radiant energy,” he made me understand, was anything like light or heat, or those Röntgen Rays there was so much talk about a year or so ago, or the electric waves of Marconi, or gravitation. All these things, he said, radiate out from centres, and act on bodies at a distance, whence comes the term “radiant energy.” Now almost all substances are opaque to some form or other of radiant energy. Glass, for example, is transparent to light, but much less so to heat, so that it is useful as a fire-screen; and alum is transparent to light, but blocks heat completely. A solution of iodine in carbon bisulphide, on the other hand, completely blocks light, but is quite transparent to heat. It will hide a fire from you, but permit all its warmth to reach you. Metals are not only opaque to light and heat, but also to electrical energy, which passes through both iodine solution and glass almost as though they were not interposed. And so on.

Mr. Cavor was looking for a substance that would be “opaque” to “all forms of radiant energy.” He used another word that I have forgotten, but “opaque” conveys the idea. As he explained it, “radiant energy” meant things like light or heat, the Röntgen Rays everyone was talking about a year or so ago, Marconi’s electric waves, or gravitation. All these things, he said, radiate outward from centers and act on objects at a distance. That is why they are called “radiant energy.” Almost all substances are opaque to one form of radiant energy or another. Glass, for example, is transparent to light but much less transparent to heat, so it is useful as a fire screen. Alum is transparent to light but blocks heat completely. A solution of iodine in carbon bisulphide, on the other hand, completely blocks light but is quite transparent to heat. It will hide a fire from you but let all its warmth reach you. Metals are opaque not only to light and heat but also to electrical energy. Electrical energy passes through both iodine solution and glass almost as though neither were in its way. And so on.

Now all known substances are “transparent” to gravitation. You can use screens of various sorts to cut off the light or heat, or electrical influence of the sun, or the warmth of the earth from anything; you can screen things by sheets of metal from Marconi’s rays, but nothing will cut off the gravitational attraction of the sun or the gravitational attraction of the earth. Yet why there should be nothing is hard to say. Cavor did not see why such a substance should not exist, and certainly I could not tell him. I had never thought of such a possibility before. He showed me by calculations on paper, which Lord Kelvin, no doubt, or Professor Lodge, or Professor Karl Pearson, or any of those great scientific people might have understood, but which simply reduced me to a hopeless muddle, that not only was such a substance possible, but that it must satisfy certain conditions. It was an amazing piece of reasoning. Much as it amazed and exercised me at the time, it would be impossible to reproduce it here. “Yes,” I said to it all, “yes; go on!” Suffice it for this story that he believed he might be able to manufacture this possible substance opaque to gravitation out of a complicated alloy of metals and something new—a new element, I fancy—called, I believe, helium, which was sent to him from London in sealed stone jars. Doubt has been thrown upon this detail, but I am almost certain it was helium he had sent him in sealed stone jars. It was certainly something very gaseous and thin. If only I had taken notes...

All known substances are “transparent” to gravity. You can use different kinds of screens to block the sun’s light, heat, or electrical influence. You can also block the earth’s warmth from reaching anything. Sheets of metal can shield things from Marconi’s rays. But nothing can block the gravitational pull of the sun or the earth. Yet it is hard to say why nothing should be able to do this. Cavor saw no reason why such a substance could not exist, and I certainly could not give him one. I had never thought of the possibility before. He showed me calculations on paper. No doubt Lord Kelvin, Professor Lodge, Professor Karl Pearson, or any of those great scientists might have understood them. But they left me hopelessly confused. The calculations showed that such a substance was possible and that it must meet certain conditions. It was an amazing piece of reasoning. Though it amazed me and made me think hard at the time, I could not possibly reproduce it here. “Yes,” I said to it all, “yes; go on!” For this story, it is enough to say that he believed he might be able to manufacture this substance, which would block gravity. He thought he could make it from a complicated alloy of metals and something new. It was a new element, I think, called, I believe, helium. It was sent to him from London in sealed stone jars. This detail has been questioned, but I am almost certain it was helium he had sent to him in sealed stone jars. It was certainly something very gaseous and thin. If only I had taken notes...

But then, how was I to foresee the necessity of taking notes?

But then, how could I have known I would need to take notes?

Any one with the merest germ of an imagination will understand the extraordinary possibilities of such a substance, and will sympathise a little with the emotion I felt as this understanding emerged from the haze of abstruse phrases in which Cavor expressed himself. Comic relief in a play indeed! It was some time before I would believe that I had interpreted him aright, and I was very careful not to ask questions that would have enabled him to gauge the profundity of misunderstanding into which he dropped his daily exposition. But no one reading the story of it here will sympathise fully, because from my barren narrative it will be impossible to gather the strength of my conviction that this astonishing substance was positively going to be made.

Anyone with the slightest imagination will understand the extraordinary possibilities of such a substance. They will sympathize a little with what I felt as I began to understand it through the fog of Cavor’s obscure language. Comic relief in a play, indeed! It took me some time to believe I had understood him correctly. I was careful not to ask questions that would show him how profoundly I misunderstood his daily explanations. But no one reading this story will fully sympathize. My bare account cannot convey how strongly I believed that this astonishing substance really was going to be made.

I do not recall that I gave my play an hour’s consecutive work at any time after my visit to his house. My imagination had other things to do. There seemed no limit to the possibilities of the stuff; whichever way I tried I came on miracles and revolutions. For example, if one wanted to lift a weight, however enormous, one had only to get a sheet of this substance beneath it, and one might lift it with a straw. My first natural impulse was to apply this principle to guns and ironclads, and all the material and methods of war, and from that to shipping, locomotion, building, every conceivable form of human industry. The chance that had brought me into the very birth-chamber of this new time—it was an epoch, no less—was one of those chances that come once in a thousand years. The thing unrolled, it expanded and expanded. Among other things I saw in it my redemption as a business man. I saw a parent company, and daughter companies, applications to right of us, applications to left, rings and trusts, privileges, and concessions spreading and spreading, until one vast, stupendous Cavorite company ran and ruled the world.

I do not remember working on my play for a full hour at a time after visiting his house. My imagination had other things to do. The possibilities of the substance seemed limitless. Wherever I looked, I found miracles and revolutions. For example, if you wanted to lift a weight, however enormous, you only had to slide a sheet of the substance beneath it. Then you could lift it with a straw. My first instinct was to apply this principle to guns, ironclads, and all the equipment and methods of war. From there, I turned to shipping, transportation, construction, and every imaginable form of human industry. Chance had brought me to the very birthplace of a new age. It was nothing less than an epoch. Such chances come only once in a thousand years. The possibilities unfolded, expanding further and further. Among other things, I saw a chance to redeem myself as a businessman. I pictured a parent company and subsidiary companies, with applications on every side. Rings, trusts, privileges, and concessions spread further and further. At last, one vast, stupendous Cavorite company ran and ruled the world.

And I was in it!

I took my line straight away. I knew I was staking everything, but I jumped there and then.

I decided what to do right away. I knew I was risking everything, but I took the leap then and there.

“We’re on absolutely the biggest thing that has ever been invented,” I said, and put the accent on “we.” “If you want to keep me out of this, you’ll have to do it with a gun. I’m coming down to be your fourth labourer to-morrow.”

“We’re involved in the biggest thing ever invented,” I said, stressing “we.” “If you want to keep me out of this, you’ll need a gun. I’m coming down tomorrow to be your fourth worker.”

He seemed surprised at my enthusiasm, but not a bit suspicious or hostile. Rather, he was self-depreciatory. He looked at me doubtfully. “But do you really think—?” he said. “And your play! How about that play?”

He seemed surprised by my enthusiasm, but not at all suspicious or hostile. Instead, he played down his own abilities. He looked at me doubtfully. “But do you really think...?” he said. “And your play! What about that play?”

“It’s vanished!” I cried. “My dear sir, don’t you see what you’ve got? Don’t you see what you’re going to do?”

“It’s gone!” I cried. “Sir, don’t you see what you have? Don’t you see what you’re going to do?”

That was merely a rhetorical turn, but positively, he didn’t. At first I could not believe it. He had not had the beginning of the inkling of an idea. This astonishing little man had been working on purely theoretical grounds the whole time! When he said it was “the most important” research the world had ever seen, he simply meant it squared up so many theories, settled so much that was in doubt; he had troubled no more about the application of the stuff he was going to turn out than if he had been a machine that makes guns. This was a possible substance, and he was going to make it! V’la tout, as the Frenchman says.

That was just a figure of speech, but he really didn’t. At first I couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t the faintest idea. This astonishing little man had been working purely from theory the whole time! When he said it was “the most important” research the world had ever seen, he simply meant that it reconciled many theories and settled many doubts. He had thought no more about the uses of the substance he was going to produce than if he had been a machine that makes guns. The substance could exist, and he was going to make it! V’la tout, as the Frenchman says.

Beyond that, he was childish! If he made it, it would go down to posterity as Cavorite or Cavorine, and he would be made an F.R.S., and his portrait given away as a scientific worthy with Nature, and things like that. And that was all he saw! He would have dropped this bombshell into the world as though he had discovered a new species of gnat, if it had not happened that I had come along. And there it would have lain and fizzled, like one or two other little things these scientific people have lit and dropped about us.

Beyond that, he was childish! If he made it, future generations would know it as Cavorite or Cavorine. He would be made an F.R.S., and his portrait would be given away with Nature as a distinguished scientist. Things like that. And that was all he saw! If I hadn't come along, he would have dropped this bombshell into the world as if he had discovered a new species of gnat. And there it would have lain and fizzled, like one or two other little things these scientists have lit and dropped around us.

When I realised this, it was I did the talking, and Cavor who said, “Go on!” I jumped up. I paced the room, gesticulating like a boy of twenty. I tried to make him understand his duties and responsibilities in the matter—our duties and responsibilities in the matter. I assured him we might make wealth enough to work any sort of social revolution we fancied, we might own and order the whole world. I told him of companies and patents, and the case for secret processes. All these things seemed to take him much as his mathematics had taken me. A look of perplexity came into his ruddy little face. He stammered something about indifference to wealth, but I brushed all that aside. He had got to be rich, and it was no good his stammering. I gave him to understand the sort of man I was, and that I had had very considerable business experience. I did not tell him I was an undischarged bankrupt at the time, because that was temporary, but I think I reconciled my evident poverty with my financial claims. And quite insensibly, in the way such projects grow, the understanding of a Cavorite monopoly grew up between us. He was to make the stuff, and I was to make the boom.

When I realized this, I was the one doing the talking, and Cavor was the one saying, “Go on!” I jumped up and paced the room, waving my arms like a twenty-year-old. I tried to make him understand his duties and responsibilities in the matter, our duties and responsibilities. I assured him we could make enough money to bring about any kind of social revolution we wanted. We could own and control the whole world. I told him about companies and patents, and the advantages of keeping a process secret. All this seemed to affect him much as his mathematics had affected me. His little red face took on a puzzled look. He stammered something about not caring about wealth, but I brushed that aside. He had to be rich, and there was no point in his stammering. I made it clear what sort of man I was, and that I had considerable business experience. I did not tell him I was an undischarged bankrupt at the time, because that was temporary. But I think I managed to explain how I could be so obviously poor despite my financial experience. And gradually, as such plans do, an understanding grew between us that we would have a monopoly on Cavorite. He would make the stuff, and I would create the boom.

I stuck like a leech to the “we”—“you” and “I” didn’t exist for me.

I clung to “we” like a leech. “You” and “I” didn’t exist for me.

His idea was that the profits I spoke of might go to endow research, but that, of course, was a matter we had to settle later. “That’s all right,” I shouted, “that’s all right.” The great point, as I insisted, was to get the thing done.

He thought the profits I spoke of could fund research. But of course, we would have to settle that later. “That’s all right,” I shouted, “that’s all right.” As I insisted, the main thing was to get it done.

“Here is a substance,” I cried, “no home, no factory, no fortress, no ship can dare to be without—more universally applicable even than a patent medicine. There isn’t a solitary aspect of it, not one of its ten thousand possible uses that will not make us rich, Cavor, beyond the dreams of avarice!”

“Here is a substance,” I cried, “that no home, factory, fortress, or ship can afford to be without. It has even more uses than a patent medicine. Every aspect of it, every one of its ten thousand possible uses, will make us rich, Cavor, beyond our wildest dreams!”

“No!” he said. “I begin to see. It’s extraordinary how one gets new points of view by talking over things!”

“No!” he said. “I’m beginning to understand. It’s amazing how talking things over gives you new perspectives!”

“And as it happens you have just talked to the right man!”

“And as it happens, you’ve just talked to the right man!”

“I suppose no one,” he said, “is absolutely averse to enormous wealth. Of course there is one thing—”

“I suppose no one,” he said, “is completely opposed to enormous wealth. Of course, there is one thing...”

He paused. I stood still.

“It is just possible, you know, that we may not be able to make it after all! It may be one of those things that are a theoretical possibility, but a practical absurdity. Or when we make it, there may be some little hitch!”

“It’s just possible, you know, that we may not be able to make it after all! It may be possible in theory but impossible in practice. Or, when we make it, there may be some little problem!”

“We’ll tackle the hitch when it comes,” said I.

“We’ll deal with the problem when it comes,” I said.