Issue 1.5, August 1926

“Impossible” Facts, editorial by Hugo Gernsback

A Columbus of Space, chapters 1-8, by Garrett P. Serviss

1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8

The Empire of the Ants, by H.G. Wells

1 · 2 · 3 · 4

The International Electro-Galvanic Undertaking Corporation, by Jacque Morgan

Doctor Ox’s Experiment, by Jules Verne

1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9 · 10 · 11 · 12 · 13 · 14 · 15 · 16 · 17

The Talking Brain, by M.H. Hasta

High Tension, by Albert B. Stuart, M.D.

Station X, chapters 7-14, by G. McLeod Winsor

7 · 8 · 9 · 10 · 11 · 12 · 13 · 14

OUR COVER illustrates an episode in this month’s story, “The Talking Brain,” by M.H. Hasta. Here we see the rash, famous scientist at his wits’ end listening to the live brain, contained in the skull, by means of the Morse code.

“Impossible” Facts

by Hugo Gernsback, F.R.S.
August 1926 (1.5) p. 387.

Often, while reading one of our modern scientifiction tales, we are wont to explode at some highly “impossible” plot concocted by some ingenious author. And often we receive a letter from some reader who vents his opinion in no uncertain terms that such and such a thing “cannot be within the realms of possibility.”

As we mentioned several times, it is difficult to ascertain today just what is possible and what impossible, for the most “impossible” things have become commonplaces.

Before condemning anything as “impossible,” therefore, we should be most careful and a lot more tolerant than we are. Some of the most recently improbable things are now facts. For instance, if someone should come along and tell you a wild tale about ice, boiling hot, you would probably laugh at him. Nevertheless, Professor P.W. Bridgman, of the Carnegie Institute, in Washington, while subjecting water to a pressure of 300,000 pounds to the square inch, found that under such tremendous pressure water first becomes solid, turning into ice, although it is nearly boiling hot. Not only is this “impossibility” a fact, but we all “know,“ and have been taught, that water can not be compressed very much. Just the same, Dr. Bridgman has compressed water to 80 percent of its original volume!

A Columbus of Space, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 1-8

by Garrett P. Serviss.
First published in 1909
Published in Amazing Stories, August 1926, pp. 388-409, 474-475.

INTRODUCTION. This story is a classic by the well-known scientist and writer, Professor Serviss. It is one of the first real scientific space-flying stories ever written, and remains one of the best. The story was originally published in 1909 and caused a small sensation at that time. About that time radium and atomic energy theories came into public vogue, and this gave a great impetus to the imagination. Even today, 17 years after the story was first published, it remains a scientific masterpiece, it being unnecessary to make any corrections whatsoever to bring it up to date. With true prophetic vision, Professor Serviss has penned a masterpiece that will remain so for generations to come. There is not a paragraph which is not packed full of interest. This story will keep you in constant suspense.

1. A Marvelous Invention

Edmund Stonewall was the most ingenious man that ever lived.

In my private opinion he was the greatest human being that has ever appeared on this earth. I say this, despite the fact that against my will, and without my knowledge at the start, he took me and two of our friends in common on the wildest, craziest, most impossible and incredible adventure that ever imagination conceived.

I ought to hate Edmund Stonewall for what he did to me and to my friends; but, in fact, I reverence his memory.

Let me tell you the story, and then you will see the reason that underlies my feeling toward him.

In the first place, he made the most wonderful invention that ever the world heard of. In fact, until now the world never has heard all about it, and I shudder yet when I think of it.

It was, of course, based on electricity, for everybody knows now that electricity is at the bottom of everything. It came out of that discovery which made so much excitement at the beginning of the 20th century—“radioactivity.”

What is radioactivity?

Heaven only knows. But it came near being the death of me; it has robbed me of my dearest friends; and I don’t know but that, if Stonewall had kept on, it might have put a finish to this old earth of ours!

Stonewall was always bothering himself about “power” and “energy” and whatnot. He knew machinery and engines as a boy knows craps and marbles. But he was dissatisfied with everything.

“Men are fools,” he said. “They might be like gods. They ought to run the globe, and steer it where they like.”

You remember the old “Keeley motor”? Well, Edmund believed in it, but said Keeley had got hold of the wrong end, and would never make it go that way.

All the while he was experimenting himself. He had money from a rich uncle, I guess, and he built himself a laboratory, and once in a while he would invite Jack Ashton, Henry Darton, Will Church, and me to come and watch some of his experiments. It was all Greek to us, but it never failed to make us stare. We saw some wonderful things there, that people knew nothing about. Edmund took up Tesla, too, with his communication with Mars idea, but after a while he dropped that, and then came “radioactivity.”

When the discovery of radium in uranium ore, and other things came out, the rest of us would never have known anything about it but for Edmund. We used to skip that part in the papers, and I can’t say that his explanation made it much clearer; but, anyhow, he made the thing very inspiring to our imagination.

“Listen to this, boys,” he said to us. “Here’s Professor Thomson declaring that a single grain of hydrogen contains in its padlocked atoms enough energy to lift a million tons 300 yards high. But Professor Thomson doesn’t know how to get at the energy, and neither does Professor Rutherford, nor Lord Kelvin. But somebody has got to get at it, and I guess it will have to be me.”

“But what would you do with it if you got it, Edmund?” asked Jack in his good-natured, drawling manner.

Edmund’s eyes shone strangely, but he replied only:

“I would do what Archimedes dreamed of.”

None of us knew anything about the dreams of Archimedes, and we dropped the subject.

But Edmund Stonewall did not drop it. He simply went to work at it. He used to be at our club every evening, but after he got this new idea we would not see him for weeks on end. And when we did see him he was as mum as an oyster. But what a look he had in those deep eyes! Somehow, with all his eccentricity, we never connected the idea of craziness with Stonewall. He was different from other human beings, that was all.

The Empire of the Ants

by H.G. Wells
First published in The Strand Magazine, December 1905
Published in Amazing Stories, August 1926, pp. 410-416.

INTRODUCTION. A well-known entomologist once made the remark that if the insect world, instead of fighting each other, should suddenly decide to fight the human race, we should all soon be annihilated. We know the tremendous power for organization among the ants, and we also know that they have reached a pretty high stage of civilization. For one thing, they seem to be able to govern themselves much better than we can ourselves. In the tropical countries there are many species of giant and poisonous ants existing even now, and they are well known for their ravages and for their destructive power. We can only wish that the brilliant story penned here by our famous author will never come true.

1

When Captain Gerilleau received instructions to take his new gunboat, the Benjamin Constant, to Badama on the Batemo arm of the Guaramadema and there assist the inhabitants against a plague of ants, he suspected the authorities of mockery. His promotion had been romantic and irregular, the affections of a prominent Brazilian lady and the captain’s liquid eyes had played a part in the process, and the Diario and O Futuro had been lamentably disrespectful in their comments. He felt he was to give further occasion for disrespect.

He was a Creole, his conceptions of etiquette and discipline were pure-blooded Portuguese, and it was only to Holroyd, the Lancashire engineer who had come over with the boat, and as an exercise in the use of English—his “th” sounds were very uncertain—that he opened his heart.

“It is in effect,” he said, “to make me absurd! What can a man do against ants? Dey come, dey go.”

“They say,” said Holroyd, “that these don’t go. That chap you said was a Sambo—”

“Zambo—it is a sort of mixture of blood.”

“Sambo. He said the people are going!”

The captain smoked fretfully for a time. “Dese tings ’ave to happen,” he said at last. “What is it? Plagues of ants and suchlike as God wills. Dere was a plague in Trinidad—the little ants that carry leaves. All der orange-trees, all der mangoes! What does it matter? Sometimes ant armies come into your houses—fighting ants; a different sort. You go and they clean the house. Then you come back again—the house is clean, like new! No cockroaches, no fleas, no jiggers in the floor.”

“That Sambo chap,” said Holroyd, “says these are a different sort of ant.”

The captain shrugged his shoulders, fumed, and gave his attention to a cigarette.

Afterwards he reopened the subject. “My dear ’Olroyd, what am I to do about dese infernal ants?”

The International Electro-Galvanic Undertaking Corporation

by Jacque Morgan
From The Scientific Adventures of Mr. Fosdick
First published in Modern Electrics, December 1912
Published in Amazing Stories, July 1926, pp. 417-419, 476.

INTRODUCTION. Dr. Fosdick, who we know is a friend of our readers, after his experiments with the “Seidlitzmobile” and the “Feline Electric Plant,” takes a new departure and proposes to electroplate the dead in order to preserve them as beautiful statues for posterity. Although the author of this story is a comical genius, his idea is certainly a beautiful one but he gives it a very funny touch and the reader will find that for sustained interest and pure comedy, it is equal to the preceding stories which we have been fortunate enough to obtain.

The first two envelopes contained only circulars. But from the third dropped a bright yellow slip of paper, and as Eben Stetzle, loafing in the tinshop during the noon hour, picked it up from the floor and handed it to Mr. Fosdick, he saw that it was a check signed by the Ajax Manufacturing Company and that it called for $420 in real money.

“Last month’s royalties on my curling iron,” carelessly explained the inventor.

He always spoke of the device as a curling iron, although it was advertised and sold by the manufacturing company as a nutcracker.

Mr. Stetzle sighed. “Gee, I wish I could get in on some thing like that. Running a chop mill is a mighty slow method of getting rich.”

The sight of the check removed the last trace of bitterness that had lingered in Eben’s heart since his unhappy experience with The Feline Light and Power Company.

“I should like to get in on the next good thing you get up,” he continued, eyeing the check that protruded from Mr. Fosdick’s waistcoat pocket. “But, of course, I’m not going in on any more electrified cats. The very sight of a cat makes me shudder even now.”

Mr. Fosdick gazed at his friend pensively. “I have been thinking,” he said, “of the organization of a company that will make Standard Oil look like a penny savings bank.”

Eben Stetzle drew in his breath with audible inquisitiveness. “What is it? What is it?” he demanded.

Mr. Fosdick smiled blandly. “Yes, what is it?” he mimicked, genially. “You don’t think I’m going to divulge a secret that’s worth millions, do you?”

Eben’s face fell. “I thought you’d let an old friend in—a brother lodge member,” he said wistfully. And at the same time Eben formed his hands into the distress signal of the order.

Mr. Fosdick pondered. His lodge was to him a thing sacred. Every Wednesday night in the hall over Lem Whitley’s grocery store, Mr. Fosdick sat in state; he was the presiding officer, and the thunder of his voice as he read the ritual to the trembling neophytes was a thing that was very dear to him. And Eben had given him the grand hailing sign!

“Brother Stetzle,” he said at last, “I’m going to tell you—and what’s more I’m going to let you in.”

Mr. Stetzle leaned forward and with great enthusiasm gave Mr. Fosdick the grip. “Brother!” he exclaimed.

Dr. Ox’s Experiment

by Jules Verne
First published in three parts as “Une fantaisie du docteur Ox” in Musée des Familles, March through May 1872
Published in Amazing Stories, August 1926, pp. 420-439, 477.

INTRODUCTION. The lovers of Jules Verne here find their author spinning a tale in a lighter vein. It seems to us that our favorite author has deliberately drawn out the story in order to make the denouement, if you have not guessed it by that time, more striking. There is, of course, excellent science in this story, and if anyone should go to the trouble of repeating Dr. Ox’s experiment on the vast scale shown here, the results would probably be just as depicted by our famous author.

It is a charming tale, and Verne chose, for good reason, a small town in Flanders, because the Dutch and Flemish people are notorious for their supposed sleepiness.

1. How It Is Useless to Seek, Even on the Best Maps, for the Small Town of Quiquendone

If you try to find, on any map of Flanders, ancient or modern, the small town of Quiquendone, probably you will not succeed. Is Quiquendone, then, one of those towns which have disappeared? No. A town of the future? By no means. It exists in spite of geographies, and has done so for some 800 or 900 years. It even numbers 2,393 souls, allowing one soul to each inhabitant. It is situated 13½ kilometers northwest of Oudenarde, and 15¼ kilometers southeast of Bruges, in the heart of Flanders. The Vaar, a small tributary of the Scheldt, passes beneath its three bridges, which are still covered with a quaint medieval roof, like that at Tournay. An old château is to be seen there, the first stone of which was laid so long ago as 1197, by Count Baldwin, afterwards Emperor of Constantinople; and there is a town hall, with Gothic windows, crowned by a chaplet of battlements, and surrounded by a turreted belfry, which rises 357 feet above the soil. Every hour you may hear there a chime of five octaves, a veritable aerial piano, the renown of which surpasses that of the famous chimes of Bruges. Strangers—if any ever come to Quiquendone—do not quit the curious old town until they have visited its Stadtholder’s Hall, adorned by a full-length portrait of William of Nassau, by Brandon; the loft of the Church of Saint Magloire, a masterpiece of 16th century architecture; the cast-iron well in the spacious Place Saint Ernuph, the admirable ornamentation of which is attributed to the artist-blacksmith, Quentin Metsys; the tomb formerly erected to Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles the Bold, who now reposes in the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges; and so on. The principal industry of Quiquendone is the manufacture of whipped creams and barley sugar on a large scale. It has been governed by the van Tricasses, from father to son, for several centuries. And yet Quiquendone is not on the map of Flanders! Have the geographers forgotten it, or is it an intentional omission? That I cannot tell; but Quiquendone really exists; with its narrow streets, its fortified walls, its Spanish-looking houses, its market, and its burgomaster—so much so, that it has recently been the theater of some surprising phenomena, as extraordinary and incredible as they are true, which are to be recounted in the present narration.

The Talking Brain

by M.H. Hasta.
First published in Amazing Stories, August 1926, pp. 440–445, 478–479.

INTRODUCTION. The possibility of maintaining life in an organ separated from the body to which it belongs is claimed to have been approached by Dr. Flexner, a celebrated scientist. The insertion of tissue from one live animal into another, even the transfusion of blood, which of course, is comparatively simple, suggests endless possibilities to the creative surgeon. And in this story, our author depicts such a surgeon—a wonderful genius, wrapped up in his science, self-contained, aloof from the rest of humanity—and tells of his work upon living subjects and leads to a denouement that is only reached at the very end of the story, which compares favorably with Edgar A. Poe’s tales. It is an interesting successor to the wonderful story, “The Case of M. Valdemar.”

The death of the student Vinton, and Professor Murtha’s suicide following, brought the University a good deal of unwelcome prominence. In fact, the newspapers demanded investigation; and President Archer asked me to prepare a statement of the facts for general publication, because I know them better than anyone now living.

Circumstances forced me into the very heart of the affair. I am glad of the opportunity to explain it, for my own name was rather unpleasantly mentioned on recent front pages. I worked with Murtha for months; perhaps I helped him somewhat in developing the remarkable instruments which tempted him to crime; I introduced him to Vinton; I was with him the night of his death, and heard his confession; and for the validity of his notes I am his sole witness to science. It is said that I was his only friend.

This last is not quite true. Murtha had no friends—he was not a man who could or would undertake the ordinary human relations. Up to his last days he was self-sufficient—impersonal—official—unbendingly scientific. The first evening I met him an incident occurred which illustrates very well why he was rather outside the general fellowship of the faculty.

We were introduced at the club by Jedney, Murtha’s department head. “Here’s a new chap we’re extra proud to have in the psychology department,” he said, and then with a twinkle, “Look out for him, Harvey, for he’s dabbling with your specialty and he’ll show up all of us old boys if we don’t hustle.” He went on to say the usual amiable things about my electrical work and the more recent X-ray research with crystals. Then he moved away leaving us together.

I made conversation, since Professor Murtha seemed inclined to leave me the duty and I studied him. He was ill at ease. There was clearly no humor there, for he made no attempt to respond to Jedney’s joviality. He was of medium height, with rather an academic face beneath red hair, and his speech was clipped and formal. He dressed with almost conspicuous quietness. A typical assistant professor, you might judge from the description—and yet somehow the man was set off from the rest of us as an arrow is distinguished in a rack of walking sticks. It was not poise or strength, it was rather a kind of fierce concentration on some hidden purpose. It was the most noticeable thing about him.

We talked of trivialities, and then I rose to go. Uninvited, he was beside me at once, with a light flowing step, and we passed out onto the dimming campus beneath the sturdy elms. Opposite Carson Hall he said in a hesitant way, which he seemed to try to make cordial, “Could you come up to my rooms for a few minutes, Professor Harvey? I’d like very much to have your help with this new electro-neural work I’m undertaking. Professor Jedney says you know more about the action of weak electric currents than anyone else on this side of the Atlantic. I want to ask a few questions.”

High Tension

by Albert B. Stuart M.D.
First published in Amazing Stories, August 1926, pp. 446–451.

INTRODUCTION. The author of this narration is a medical doctor and his knowledge of medicine shown in what he tells us deserves respect. He gives us quite an unusual story and not at all impossible, if we take adequate consideration of our present meager knowledge of high-frequency electric currents. That electrical currents could be responsible for a man's undreamt-of physical strength, has perhaps not been exploited in science, and it deserves more than passing interest on the part of our research laboratories. It is well known that a strong electrical current will affect our muscular actions to a tremendous extent, so much so that when we grasp a highly-charged handle of an induction coil, we find it impossible to let go of it.These are facts, not fiction. We are quite certain that you will like this most amazing and unusual story.

“What is the matter, Madge?” The grave-featured head nurse stopped in front of the weeping girl as she asked the question.

“I just can’t stand that Dr. Carter,” the girl gasped. “Here I’ve been working for him in the operating room the last six months, and he abuses me worse than if I were an apprentice. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I couldn’t work fast enough to suit him. It was, ‘hurry up nurse—ligature… needle-holder… why the deuce do you have to finger over everything before you can find what I want?’ If I had had four hands instead of two I couldn’t have worked fast enough to suit him. He raved at his assistant all through the operation, and no one could do anything fast enough to please him.”

“Yes, I know, my dear,” the head nurse comforted. “Dr. Carter is a very hard man to work for, but you must remember that he is a wonderful surgeon and works under great nervous tension.”

“He may be” the girl sobbed, “but he might act like a human being as the rest of the doctors do, anyway.”

“My dear, you must remember that Dr. Carter is different from other doctors. Really, he is uncanny in his ability. He does things no other surgeon would even think of attempting, and his knowledge of brain surgery is remarkable. Dr. Bryan was telling me just now that Dr. Carter is the greatest living authority on brain centers and their action.”

“That may be true,” replied the nurse, “but he isn’t human. There are times when I think he isn’t just right. His face is so flushed and red when he works, and he looks like a man with a burning fever, his eyes are so bright and piercing. And he always wears that headlamp when he works. He never leaves it off for a minute, and Heaven save anyone who touches it.”

“Yes, my dear,” the head nurse soothed. “He is a queer man, but we have our duty to perform. You must try to do your best, even if it is hard and disagreeable at times.”

With this copybook comfort the head nurse continued on her morning round of inspection, leaving the still weeping and irate nurse to compose herself as best she could.

Dr. Reginald Carter was a queer man. He came from the East unheralded and unknown, and in the brief space of a few years had risen to the position of chief surgeon of the hospital, and a commanding position in the medical profession. About his antecedents nothing was known, and being of a very reticent disposition, he made few acquaintances, except among medical associates. No one could claim the position of friend with him. Lean and wiry of figure, with dark eyes and rather swarthy complexion, his personality was that of the student and dreamer—such a one as nature seemed to have designed to tread the pathways of life alone.

Station X, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 7-14

by G. McLeod Winsor
First published in 1919
Published in Amazing Stories, August 1926, pp. 452-473, 476.

INTRODUCTION. The story is now reaching an interesting point, bringing in the tale of planetary intercommunication, of the rivalry between the planets, of hypnotism across millions of miles of space, directly and indirectly, all told with vraisemblance. The rivalry of the powers for good and for evil, the help given by the gentle inhabitants of Venus, the asperities of the Martian inhabitants, are all told of so that we almost believe the words of the author, whose imagination follows such scientific lines and makes us feel that a climax perhaps fraught with disaster is approaching.

WHAT WENT BEFORE. Alan MacRae, simple, uneducated, yet a skillful radio operator, endowed with an unusually keen sense of hearing, is sent as operator to a secret radio station, operated by the British government, known as Station X, somewhere off on an island in the Pacific. He is chosen for the post because of his ability as a radio expert and his fine hearing. He accepts the offer because the extra pay involved brings him that much nearer to the day when he and May Treherne, the heroine, can be married. He takes leave of his sweetheart with peculiar forebodings of impending, intangible dangers, fears which seem to have no foundation or reason. He soon learns, while still enroute to the island, that his partner-to-be for several months is not going to be much of a companion for him. Lieut. Wilson is very well educated and is very intolerant of Macrae’s educational shortcomings. Ling, the Chinese cook and caretaker, completes the party to remain on the island, and incidently also serves as the “butt” for Lieut. Wilson’s ill temper.

Before long both men—Lieut. Wilson and the Chinaman—are found lying dead, apparently murdered by each other. And it is probably because of his nervous condition, caused by this mysterious murder, that Macrae falls under the influence of an inhabitant of Venus, who is known in this story as a “Venerian,” and whose voice comes to him over the radio, telling him all kinds of interesting things about the inhabitants of Venus, giving him a great deal of scientific information, etc., although Macrae understands nothing of the greatest part of it.

Because London has received no answer from Station X for three days, the Sagitta, with a crew of investigators and relief, is despatched to the island and arrives to find Macrae lying on the floor, apparently dead, still wearing the ear-set; the chair on which Macrae sat seems to have been thrown over, and not another living soul is to be seen.

The doctor, thinking that Macrae may be suffering from catalepsy rather than that he is dead, takes him back to London on the Sagitta. Macrae recovers on the boat and tells a weird tale, which, however, coincides perfectly with his shorthand notes of both his report and of the mysterious messages, and with his diary.

When they arrive in London, the government starts an investigation.

7. The Voice from Mars

If the question had been asked, Who is the most eminent scientists of the day? nine out of 10 would have answered: Stanley Budge. His distinguishing characteristic was his open-mindedness. If, for example, he had been a church dignitary, his tolerance would have become a scandal. The same quality in him that would have caused him to make ribbons of the rubrics, caused him to encounter an occasional sidelong look, even in the halls of science. It was disgusting to some of his confrères, that a man whose scientific attainments and labors could not be gainsaid, whose position was unchallengeable, should dabble with the, to them, unclean thing; should dare to assert the possibility of the existence of what could not be put under the microscope.

The value of his scientific work admitted, because it was undeniable, his leaning towards spiritualism was looked upon as a strange weakness in an otherwise fine intellect. The extra narrow-minded believed that there must be a bee in his bonnet somewhere.

The Professor was by no means thin-skinned, but there are few who do not chafe, however slightly, under ridicule. He was well aware that this had been the attitude with which his psychological investigations had been regarded, and that the results which he believed himself to have verified, were met with undisguised incredulity. He knew also that his treatise on the habitability of Mars had met with a cold reception. His own opinion on the universality of life, that it would be found, could the fact be ascertained, to exist wherever the conditions necessary to organic chemistry rendered its presence possible, he kept to himself. That such conditions existed on Mars, and probably other planets, he considered to be perfectly established. In this view he did not stand alone, but many hesitated.

It will not be difficult to believe, in the circumstances of such division of opinion in the scientific world, that when the case of Macrae was brought to Professor Rudge’s notice he took it up with enthusiasm. The more he pondered over Macrae’s story, the more interested he became. He was convinced by his examination of Macrae that there was no intentional deception, and the peculiar conditions existing seemed absolutely to exclude any explanations other than the one advanced. Of this he was so convinced that he resolved at once to pursue the investigations on the spot, in spite of its remoteness.

“I am going to visit Station X,” he said, “and I am going to take you with me!”

Macrae’s reply surprised him.

“No, sir! Anything else that I can do to oblige you, I will do, but I will never, never set foot on that island again.”