Issue 1.3, June 1926

The Lure of Scientifiction editorial by Hugo Gernsback

A Trip to the Center of the Earth, chapters 16-35, by Jules Verne

The Coming of the Ice, by G. Peyton Wertenbaker

Mr. Fosdick Invents the “Seidlitzmobile”, by Jacque Morgan

The Star, by H.G. Wells

Whispering Ether, by Charles S. Wolfe

The Runaway Skyscraper, by Murray Leinster

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats, by Ellis Parker Butler

The Malignant Entity, by Otis Adelbert Kline

Doctor Hackensaw’s Secrets: Some Minor Inventions, by Clement Fezandié

OUR COVER ilustrates an episode in this month’s story, “A Trip to the Center of the Earth,” by Jules Verne. Here we see our intrepid explorers almost perish at the agency of one of the great sea monsters roaming the great Inner Sea.

The Lure of Scientifiction

by Hugo Gernsback, F.R.S.
June 1926 (1.3) p. 195.

Scientifiction is not a new thing on this planet. While Edgar Allan Poe probably was one of the first to conceive the idea of a scientific story, there are suspicions that there were other scientifiction authors before him. Perhaps they were not such outstanding figures in literature, and perhaps they did not write what we understand today as scientifiction at all. Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519), a great genius, while he was not really an author of scientifiction, nevertheless had enough prophetic vision to create a number of machines in his own mind that were only to materialize centuries later. He described a number of machines, seemingly fantastic in those days, which would have done credit to a Jules Verne.¹ ¹Da Vinci—the Edison of the Middle Ages—is credited with having first imagined the printing press, the breech-loading gun, the mitrailleuse gun, the steam engine, the chain drive, a man propelled airplane, the parachute and many others—an amazing array of “scientifiction”—because he admittedly only imagined these inventions.

There may have been other scientific prophets, if not scientifiction writers, before his time, but the past centuries are so beclouded, and there are so few manuscripts of such literature in existence today, that we cannot really be sure who was the real inventor of scientifiction.

In the 11th century there also lived a Franciscan monk, the amazing as well as famous Roger Bacon (1214–1294). He had a most astounding and prolific imagination, with which he foresaw many of our present-day wonders. But as an author of scientifiction, he had to be extremely careful, because in those days it was not “healthy” to predict new and startling inventions. It was necessary to disguise the manuscript—to use cypher—as a matter of fact, so that it has taken many great modern minds to unravel the astonishing scientific prophecies of Roger Bacon.² ²In his famous Opus Majus he accurately prophesied the telescope. He gave excellent descriptions of the camera obscura, and of the burning glass—even the invention of gunpowder is accredited to him, He forecast an age of industry and invention, with all prominence given to experiment. As a reward for bis immortal work, he was incarcerated for a number of years.

The scientifiction writer of today is somewhat more fortunate—but not so very much more. It is true that we do not behead him or throw him into a dungeon when he dares to blaze forth with, what seems to us, an impossible tale, but in our inner minds we are just as intolerant today, as were the contemporaries of Roger Bacon. We have not learned much in the interval. Even such a comparatively tame invention as the submarine, which was predicted by Jules Verne, was greeted with derisive laughter, and he was denounced in many quarters. Still, only 40 years after the prediction of the modern submarine by Verne, it has become a reality.

A Trip to the Center of the Earth, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 16-35

by Jules Verne
Published in French as Voyage au centre de la Terre, 1864
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 196-231.

INTRODUCTION. In the first installment we got our travelers well started on their way to the internal cavities of the globe. They have reached Iceland, have climbed Mount Sneffels, and with a stolid Icelander for a guide—or rather companion—have penetrated down through the crater of the olcano, and have started their adventurous and exciting trip. But now wonders really begin to happen—strange forms of prehistoric life are encountered, and dangers are met with. But our travelers get through all their troubles in the end and come back to tell us all about it. Jules Verne’s astonishing scientific knowledge, combined with his talents as a narrator, gives the novel great value from a scientific, as well as from a literary standpoint. Few authors could write so vivid a description of adventure. Fewer yet could fill it with such correct science. Follow our travelers through these exciting chapters.

WHAT WENT BEFORE. Professor Hardwigg, chemist, philosopher, mineralogist, etc., while delighting in a rare, old edition by a famous Icelandic author, unexpectedly comes upon a mysterious parchment, apparently containing a secret message. Both the Professor and Harry—his nephew and pupil, who also lives with him—set to work and finally stumble on the key to the secret code and read the following message: “Descend into the crater of Yokul of Sneffels, which the shade of Scartaris covers before the kalends of July, audacious traveler, and you will reach the center of the earth. I did it.—Arne Saknussem.”

The professor decides that they will make the trip and also reach the center of the earth. Three days later, they—Harry much against his will and better judgment—start for Iceland and Mount Sneffels, with the good wishes of Gretchen, the professor’s ward, and Harry’s fiancée.

When they get to Iceland, they are fortunate enough to obtain the services of Hans, a true Icelandic guide—calm, stolid and dependable. After numerous adventures and interesting encounters and difficult climbing, they reach the top of Mt. Sneffels and then descend into its crater—and thus following correctly the directions of the message. So far the party is elated with the wonders of their surroundings as they descend deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth, lowering themselves into the deeper wells by means of sturdy ropes doubled over the rocks above. At least once so far, they were reassured of the truth of the mysterious message, when they noticed a rock, below the crater, bearing the inscription “Arne Saknussem.”

16. The Eastern Tunnel

The next day was Tuesday, the 2nd of July—and at 6 o’clock in the morning we resumed our journey. We still continued to follow the gallery of lava, a perfect natural pathway, as easy of descent as some of those inclined planes which, in very old German houses, serve the purpose of staircases. This went on until 17 minutes past 12, the precise instant at which we rejoined Hans, who, having been somewhat in advance, had suddenly stopped.

“At last,” cried my uncle, “we have reached the end of the shaft.”

I looked wonderingly about me. We were in the center of four cross paths—somber and narrow tunnels. The question now arose as to which it was wise to take; and this of itself was no small difficulty. My uncle, who did not wish to appear to have any hesitation about the matter before myself or the guide, at once made up his mind. He pointed quietly to the eastern tunnel; and, without delay, we entered within its gloomy recesses.

Besides, had he entertained any feeling of hesitation it might have been prolonged indefinitely, for there was no indication by which to determine on a choice. It was absolutely necessary to trust to chance and good fortune!

The descent of this obscure and narrow gallery was very gradual and winding. Sometimes we gazed through a succession of arches, its course very like the aisles of a Gothic cathedral. The great artistic sculptors and builders of the middle ages might have here completed their studies with advantage. Many most beautiful and suggestive ideas of architectural beauty would have been discovered by them. After passing through this phase of the cavernous way, we suddenly came, about a mile farther on, upon a square system of arch, adopted by the early Romans, projecting from the solid rock, and keeping up the weight of the roof. Suddenly we came upon a series of low subterranean tunnels which looked like beaver holes, or the work of foxes. Through whose narrow and winding ways we had literally to crawl!

The heat still remained at quite a supportable degree. With an involuntary shudder, I reflected on what the heat must have been when the volcano of Sneffels was pouring its smoke, flames, and streams of boiling lava—all of which must have come up by the road we were now following. I could imagine the torrents of hot seething stone darting on, bubbling up with accompaniments of smoke, steam, and sulfurous stench! “Only to think of the consequences,” I mused, “if the old volcano were once more to set to work.”

I did not communicate these rather unpleasant reflections to my uncle. He not only would not have understood them, but would have been intensely disgusted. His only idea was to go ahead. He walked, he slid, he clambered over piles of fragments, he rolled down heaps of broken lava, with an earnestness and conviction it was impossible not to admire.

The Coming of the Ice

by G. Peyton Wertenbaker
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 232-237, 288.

INTRODUCTION. This powerful and tragic story by the author of “The Man from the Atom” tells of a man who acquired terrestrial immortality—tells of a world many centuries hence—a time when everything is changed. This one man remains as a relic of the 20th century. He is alone with strangely developed human beings, the product of evolution. Climatic changes are taking place. The world begins to grow cold. New York is almost in the Arctic region and Italy is covered with snow all the year around. In spite of their enormous intellectual development, all human beings must perish. Our hero alone can withstand the intense cold. He wanted eternal life and he got it—eternal life, purely intellectual. What does he do with all his years? And how does he enjoy them? Read this powerful story.

It is strange to be alone, and so cold. To be the last man on earth….

The snow drives silently about me, ceaselessly, drearily. And I am isolated in this tiny, white, indistinguishable corner of a blurred world, surely the loneliest creature in the universe. How many thousands of years is it since I last knew the true companionship? For a long time I have been lonely, but there were people, creatures of flesh and blood. Now they are gone. Now I have not even the stars to keep me company, for they are all lost in an infinity of snow and twilight here below.

If only I could know how long it has been since first I was imprisoned upon the earth. It cannot matter now. And yet some vague dissatisfaction, some faint instinct, asks over and over in my throbbing ears: What year? What year?

It was in the year 1930 that the great thing began in my life. There was then a very great man who performed operations on his fellows to compose their vitals—we called such men surgeons. John Granden wore the title “Sir” before his name, in indication of nobility by birth according to the prevailing standards in England. But surgery was only a hobby of Sir John’s, if I must be precise, for, while he had achieved an enormous reputation as a surgeon, he always felt that his real work lay in the experimental end of his profession. He was, in a way, a dreamer, but a dreamer who could make his dreams come true.

I was a very close friend of Sir John’s. In fact, we shared the same apartments in London. I have never forgotten that day when he first mentioned to me his momentous discovery. I had just come in from a long sleigh-ride in the country with Alice, and I was seated drowsily in the window-seat, writing idly in my mind a description of the wind and the snow and the gray twilight of the evening. It is strange, is it not, that my tale should begin and end with the snow and the twilight.

Sir John opened suddenly a door at one end of the room and came hurrying across to another door. He looked at me, grinning rather like a triumphant maniac.

“It’s coming!” he cried, without pausing, “I’ve almost got it!” I smiled at him: he looked very ludicrous at that moment.

“What have you got?” I asked.

“Good Lord, man, the Secret—the Secret!” And then he was gone again, the door closing upon his victorious cry, “The Secret!”

Mr. Fosdick Invents the “Seidlitzmobile”

by Jacque Morgan
From The Scientific Adventures of Mr. Fosdick
First published in Modern Electrics, November 1912
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 238-.

INTRODUCTION. The artist, Elihu Vedder, in telling some incidents of his younger life, describes feeding a little Negro boy with Seidlitz powders, separately administered, with a corresponding alarming result. In this excruciatingly funny story, Mr. Fosdick—we hesitate to call him a hero—gives himself the expanding dose and thus succeeds in his desire to interest a capitalist friend in an automobile to be driven by the gas from Seidlitz powder. Try to imagine for yourself, what happened when a heavy charge of sodium carbonate and sulfuric acid were substituted for the comparatively mild Seidlitz powder. But read the story through, and you will agree that Baron Münchausen, in the wildest flights of his imagination, takes a second place to this presentation of Mr. Fosdick’s invention. See how humor can be evolved even from what so many people call the “dryness of chemistry.” A capital story, which you won’t forget soon.

“Pardon me.”

Mr. Hiram Snodgrass did not look up from his desk. It was Saturday and nearly noon and the automobile was panting outside to take him out to the country club where he had a golf game on with his son-in-law.

“Pardon me.”

The president of the Ajax Manufacturing Company only dipped his pen again in the violet ink and scribbled the faster. A half hundred letters still remained to be signed and Mr. Snodgrass figured that even with the simplest of luncheons he would be an hour late upon the green. And this afternoon he purposed having his revenge, for the Saturday before the husband of his offspring had stung him to the tune of eight up.

“Pardon me.”

Mr. Snodgrass swung in his chair. “Well, what is it?” The inquiry came explosively and with a fierce, sudden beat like the momentary opening of a furnace door. It was Mr. Snodgrass’ way—a manner to which none in the office ever paid the slightest heed.

“You are Mr. Snodgrass?”

“Yes, I am,” snapped that individual. “What of it?”

The stranger, a man with mild blue eyes and vague, rambling whiskers, seated himself. “Did you ever,” he began, “take first the blue and then the white of a common, ordinary Seidlitz powder?”

Mr. Snodgrass threw his head back aghast at the query. “No, I have not,” he bellowed.

The stranger was unperturbed. “Well, then try it,” and drawing from his pocket one of the powders in question walked coolly over to the water filter and filling the glass dropped in the blue powder which he stirred with a long index finger. “The result will surprise you.”

“I’ll do nothing of the dashed kind,” roared Mr. Snodgrass. “And say,” he demanded, as he caught the stenographer tittering behind her notebook, “who the devil are you and how did you get in here?”

For answer the stranger laid upon the president’s desk a card.

JASON Q. FOSDICK

Inventor

The Star

by H.G. Wells
First published in The Graphic, December 1897
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 242-246.

INTRODUCTION. Here is an impressive story based on the interaction of planetary bodies and of the sun upon them. A great star is seen approaching the earth. At first it is only an object of interest to the general public, but there is an astronomer on the earth who is watching each phase and making mathematical calculations, for he knows the intimate relation of gravitation between bodies and the effect on rotating bodies of the same force from an outside source. He fears all sorts of wreckage on our earth. He warns the people, but they, as usual, discount all he says and label him mad. But he was not mad. H.G. Wells, in his own way, gives us a picturesque description of the approach of the new body through long days and nights—he tells how the earth and natural phenomena of the earth will react. Though this star never touches our sphere, the devastation and destruction wrought by it are complete and horrible. The story is correct in its astronomical aspects.

It was on the first day of the New Year that the announcement was made, almost simultaneously from three observatories, that the motion of the planet Neptune, the outermost of all the planets that wheel about the sun, had become erratic. Ogilvy had already called attention to a suspected retardation in its velocity in December. Such a piece of news was scarcely calculated to interest a world, the greater portion of whose inhabitants were unaware of the existence of the planet Neptune, nor outside the astronomical profession did the subsequent discovery of a faint remote speck of light in the region of the perturbed planet cause any very great excitement.

Scientific people, however, found the intelligence remarkable enough, even before it became known that the new body was rapidly growing larger and brighter, that its motion was quite different from the orderly progress of the planets, and that the deflection of Neptune and its satellite was becoming now of an unprecedented kind.

Few people without a training in science can realize the huge isolation of the solar system. The sun with its specks of planets, its dust of planetoids, and its impalpable comets, swims in vacant immensity that almost defeats the imagination. Beyond the orbit of Neptune there is space, vacant so far as human observation has penetrated, without warmth or light or sound, blank emptiness, for 20 billion times a million miles. That is the smallest estimate of the distance to be traversed before the very nearest of the stars is attained. And, saving a few comets more unsubstantial than the thinnest flame, no matter had ever to human knowledge crossed this gulf of space, until early in the 20th century this wanderer appeared.

Whispering Ether

by Charles S. Wolfe
First published in Electrical Experimenter, March 1920
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 247-249.

INTRODUCTION. An amazing story by that versatile author, Mr. Wolfe. The ether is something we know nothing about. But its action and its waves give a basis for the strange mystery we are told of here. It touches on the world of ether waves to which our radio fans are appealing, and while this of course is in the realm of abstruse science, we have again in this story the everyday crude thinker mystified by it all, and this is the history of the world. The intelligence of each of us is very limited, and our habits and ways of thought are only a little more clumsy than our author’s characters, whom he uses to bring out as always a wonderful contrast. The story is well worth reading.

I’m not a scientist. “Cans” is my line. Safes, you know. “Soup,” nitroglycerine, that kind of thing, get me? “Shoemaker, stick to your last.” Them is my sentiments, and I stick to my own trade. But now that they got me tied up in this confounded jail, and I ain’t got much to do with my spare time, I got a notion to jot down what I know about that Proctor affair that you maybe read about in the papers. Reporters was after me thick when it happened, but I was the silent kid. It pays to keep your mouth shut in the circles I move in.

Proctor’s in the bug house. Three alienists, or whatever you call those ginks that admit they’re sane and prove you’re not, pronounced him hopelessly insane. I ain’t disputing no jury of my peers. If they say he’s a nut, he’s a nut, that’s all. But—

I didn’t get introduced to Proctor in the regular way. We didn’t have no mutual acquaintances to slip us the knock-down. It all came about thru me droppin’ in one night, casual like, to blow his safe. You might wonder what a yegg would want out of a laboratory safe. Maybe you’ll wise up when I tip you it was a contract job. Not my own, see? I’m namin’ no names, but there was a gang of big guys that wanted old Proctor’s formula for Chero, and thought it would be cheaper to buy it off me than him. Anyway, I’m after the paper with the makeup of this explosive when I jimmied the laboratory window.

I’m sayin’ this right here: Proctor may be a nut, but he’s no boob. I was expecting burglar alarms, scientific thief traps, all that kind of stuff. And I was all fixt for an electrified box. Proctor put one over on me just the same. And if he didn’t do it with the mind machine, how in hell else do you account for it?

The Runaway Skyscraper

by Murray Leinster
First published in Argosy, 22 February 1919
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 250-265, 285.

INTRODUCTION. We have all heard of and read about the Einstein theory, which involves the use in its calculations of the mysterious “fourth dimension.” Here our author gives a wonderfully effective picture of what the fourth dimension did in the annihilation of time, in the wiping out of the centuries, where it brings a company of 20th century businessmen and women to a time centuries back from the days of modern New York—they are transferred with great rapidity of receding time to the days when Indians were the only inhabitants of Manhattan, until at last the recession of the centuries ceases and gives them pause for a while. The modern skyscraper has accompanied them on their way, but problems of food and support have to be worked out for them in their new position in the ages. At last they evolve a way to return, to get their skyscraper back to familiar old Madison Square. Read and see how they do it.

The whole thing started when the clock on the Metropolitan Tower began to run backward. It was not a graceful proceeding. The hands had been moving onward in their customary deliberate fashion, slowly and thoughtfully, but suddenly the people in the offices near the clock’s face heard an ominous creaking and groaning. There was a slight, hardly discernible shiver through the tower, and then something gave with a crash. The big hands on the clock began to move backward.

Immediately after the crash all the creaking and groaning ceased, and instead, the usual quiet again hung over everything. One or two of the occupants of the upper offices put their heads out into the halls, but the elevators were running as usual, the lights were burning, and all seemed calm and peaceful. The clerks and stenographers went back to their ledgers and typewriters, the business callers returned to the discussion of their errands, and the ordinary course of business was resumed.

Arthur Chamberlain was dictating a letter to Estelle Woodward, his sole stenographer. When the crash came he paused, listened, and then resumed his task.

It was not a difficult one. Talking to Estelle Woodward was at no time an onerous duty, but it must be admitted that Arthur Chamberlain found it difficult to keep his conversation strictly upon his business.

He was at this time engaged in dictating a letter to his principal creditors, the Gary & Milton Company, explaining that their demand for the immediate payment of the installment then due upon his office furniture was untimely and unjust. A young and budding engineer in New York never has too much money, and when he is young as Arthur Chamberlain was, and as fond of pleasant company, and not too fond of economizing, he is liable to find all demands for payment untimely and he usually considers them unjust as well. Arthur finished dictating the letter and sighed.

“Miss Woodward,” he said regretfully, “I am afraid I shall never make a successful man.”

Miss Woodward shook her head vaguely. She did not seem to take his remark very seriously, but then, she had learned never to take any of his remarks seriously. She had been puzzled at first by his manner of treating everything with a half-joking pessimism, but now ignored it.

She was interested in her own problems. She had suddenly decided that she was going to be an old maid, and it bothered her. She had discovered that she did not like anyone well enough to marry, and she was in her 22nd year.

She was not a native of New York, and the few young men she had met there she did not care for. She had regretfully decided she was too finicky, too fastidious, but could not seem to help herself. She could not understand their absorption in boxing and baseball and she did not like the way they danced.

She had considered the matter and decided that she would have to reconsider her former opinion of women who did not marry. Heretofore she had thought there must be something the matter with them. Now she believed that she would come to their own estate, and probably for the same reason. She could not fall in love and she wanted to.

She read all the popular novels and thrilled at the love scenes contained in them, but when any of the young men she knew became in the slightest degree sentimental she found herself bored, and disgusted with herself for being bored. Still, she could not help it, and was struggling to reconcile herself to a life without romance.

She was far too pretty for that, of course, and Arthur Chamberlain often longed to tell her how pretty she really was, but her abstracted air held him at arms’ length.

He lay back at ease in his swivel chair and considered, looking at her with unfeigned pleasure. She did not notice it, for she was so much absorbed in her own thoughts that she rarely noticed anything he said or did when they were not in the line of her duties.

“Miss Woodward,” he repeated, “I said I think I’ll never make a successful man. Do you know what that means?”

She looked at him mutely, polite inquiry in her eyes.

“It means,” he said gravely, “that I’m going broke. Unless something turns up in the next three weeks, or a month at the latest, I’ll have to get a job.”

“And that means—” she asked.

“All this will go to pot,” he explained with a sweeping gesture. “I thought I’d better tell you as much in advance as I could.”

“You mean you’re going to give up your office—and me?” she asked, a little alarmed.

“Giving up you will be the harder of the two,” he said with a smile, “but that’s what it means. You’ll have no difficulty finding a new place, with three weeks in which to look for one, but I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Chamberlain,” she said, her brow puckered.

She was not really frightened, because she knew she could get another position, but she became aware of rather more regret than she had expected.

There was silence for a moment.

“Jove!” said Arthur, suddenly. “It’s getting dark, isn’t it?”

It was. It was growing dark with unusual rapidity. Arthur went to his window, and looked out.

“Funny,” he remarked in a moment or two. “Things don’t look just right, down there, somehow. There are very few people about.”

He watched in growing amazement. Lights came on in the streets below, but none of the buildings lighted up. It grew darker and darker.

“It shouldn’t be dark at this hour!” Arthur exclaimed.

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats

by Ellis Parker Butler
First published in Hampton’s Magazine, June 1910
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 266-271, 287.

INTRODUCTION. That mechanical marvel, the gyroscope, is being used successfully today to keep big ocean liners from rolling. It is being used for the same purpose in submarines, and for many other stabilization purposes.

So Ellis Parker Butler, of “Pigs Is Pigs” fame, in this story, seises upon this almost mechanical miracle—and makes it the feature of his story. Charged with his characteristic humor, the story goes along deliberately from point to point, ludicrous in its absurdity, but having the aspect of a true tale nevertheless. The contrast between the sober man, who cannot help staggering and reeling as he progresses, and the thoroughly drunken man who must walk rigorously straight, is admirably shown, and contributes not a little toward making the story both humorous and interesting.

The idea of a gyro-hat did not come to me all at once, as some great ideas come to inventors. In fact I may say that but for a most unpleasant circumstance I might never have thought of gyro-hats at all, although I had for many years been considering the possibility of utilizing the waste space in the top of silk hats in some way or other. As a practical hat dealer and lover of my kind, it had always seemed to me a great economical waste to have a large vacant space inside the upper portion of top hats, or high hats, or “stovepipe” hats, as they are variously called. When a shoe is on, it is full of foot, and when a glove is on, it is full of hand; but a top hat is not, and never can be, full of head, until such a day as heads assume a cylindrical shape, perfectly flat on top. And no sensible man ever expects that day to come.

The Malignant Entity

by Otis Adelbert Kline
First published in Weird Tales, June-July 1924
Published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 272-279, 286-287.

INTRODUCTION. Scientists and inventors have made enormous strides for—and in many ways, against—humanity, for they have discovered and invented powerful destructive materials—in that way sometimes courting their own destruction.

So many “impossible” things have been done, why is it not possible that the venture into the realms of the infinite may sometime prove fruitful—that someday life may be implanted in unorganized matter? “The Malignant Entity” is the story of such a venture—carried to a dreadful success. This is a gripping tale, marvelously well told. Read it.

“I tell you, Evans,” said Dr. Dorp, banging his fist on the arm of his chair for emphasis, “the science of psychology is in much the same stage of development today as were the material sciences in the dark ages.”

“But surely,” I objected, “the two centuries of investigation just past have yielded some fruit. It cannot be that the eminent men who have devoted the greater part of their lives to this fascinating subject have labored in vain.”

The doctor stroked his iron-gray Van Dyke meditatively.

“With a few—a very few exceptions, I’m afraid they have,” he replied, “at least so far as their own deductions from observed phenomena are concerned.”

“Take Sir Oliver Lodge, for example—” I began.

“The conclusions of Sir Oliver will serve as an excellent example for my analogy,” said the doctor. “No doubt you are familiar with the results of his years of painstaking psychical research as expounded in his books.”

“I believe he has become a convert to spiritism,” I replied.

“With all due respect to Sir Oliver,” said the doctor, “I should say that he has rather singled out such facts as suited his purpose and assembled them as evidence to support the spiritistic theory. It may seem paradoxical to add that I believe he has always been thoroughly conscientious in his investigations and sincere in his deductions.”

“I’m afraid I do not quite follow you.”

“There are times in the life of every man,” continued the doctor, “when emotion dethrones reason. At such a crisis the most keen-witted of scientists may be blinded to truth by the overpowering influence of his own desires. Sir Oliver lost a beloved son. Only those who have suffered similar losses can appreciate the keen anguish that followed his bereavement, or sympathize with his intense longing to communicate with Raymond. Most men are creatures of their desires. They believe what they want to believe. Under the circumstances it was not difficult for a clever psychic to read the mind of the scientist and tell him the things he wanted to hear.”

“But what of the many investigators who have not been similarly influenced?” I inquired. “Surely they must have found some basis—”

I was interrupted by the entrance of the doctor’s housekeeper who announced—

Dr. Hackensaw’s Secrets: Some Minor Inventions

by Clement Fezandié
One of Dr. Hackensaw’s Secrets
First published in Amazing Stories, June 1926, pp. 280-284.

INTRODUCTION. Doctor Hackensaw has his secrets, but most of our readers make no secret of the fact that they appreciate the doctor’s work. The author has the knack—or perhaps we should call it, the quality—of helping the doctor present the most extraordinary, wonderful things in such a manner as to make them appear both plausible and possible. Here this ingenious inventor explains to us some of his comparatively simple inventions, giving us a machine with which to can bread, another to do away with the human typist—and even translator entirely—etc.—all useful machines. Still he is dissatisfied—so he always goes ahead, ever seeking new improvements. Usually he succeeds. Here is food for thought—and experimentation—even if the story is humorously told. It is full of interest and new ideas.

“What are you doing there, Pop?” asked Pep Perkins, bursting into Doctor Hackensaw’s sanctum and finding him busily working a peculiar-looking machine.

Doctor Hackensaw looked up with a smile: “I’m spending five minutes’ spare time in writing a few thousand autographs for that class of people of whom one is born every minute, if not oftener.”

“But what’s that queer machine you’re using?”

“This, Pep, is one of my minor inventions—a little device designed to save the time of authors, movie stars, and other celebrities. As you see, the machine is simplicity itself. It consists of 100 stylographic pens connected in 10 rows of 10 pens each, rigidly held in a framework. I write my autograph with an extra pen, a master-pen, which is attached to the framework, thus causing each of the other pens to make the same motions. By writing my name once, with the master pen on a sheet of cardboard on the table, I get 100 signatures on the cardboard, which is then cut by machine into 100 separate visiting cards, each bearing my autograph. I can thus write 1,000 autographs in the time it would take another man to write 10. I may add,” continued the doctor, chuckling, “that I have made some lifelong friends among actors and other celebrities, and even among businessmen and government officials who have numerous documents to sign, by making them a present of one of these machines. Many of these people are so grateful that they would be willing to do anything for me.”

“You must have made a lot of inventions in your lifetime!” observed Pep.

“Yes, hundreds of them,” returned the doctor. “As I happen to have some spare time now, I can show you a few, if you care to see them. The first one you see is what I call a ‘Dictation Typewriter.’ ”

“A what?”