whatever it was that went to him through the selenium and the wires. In time perhaps Murtha would enable the blind to see again!
The boy agreed to give him as much time as he wanted, and we came away together. We walked in silence most of the way to his room—he was very evidently stirred—but as he left me he said in a tone of reverence, “He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I hope he can do this thing he’s started.”
“Won’t you come in and meet Mother?” he asked. “Ever since my accident she’s been eyes for me. She’s very much interested in all this work.”
“Thank you, I can’t this morning,” I said, “I’d like to later though. I wish I might be here to see it all through, but you know about the expedition.”
We parted—but it was certain Murtha had at least one worshipper. Well—who can blame the boy? He had no idea of the hollowness behind that remarkable mind, and the reaction to a promise of sight is a thing which we who see as a matter of course can hardly understand. At any rate, there seemed no harm in it. At worst, he would only lose a few illusions.
An Expedition to the Arctic and the Return
As the months went by and the time came nearer for sailing, I had to withdraw more and more from Murtha’s investigations. I knew, however, that he was going far to duplicate the whole efferent nervous system—the senses. Taste, he readily matched; nerves of heat and cold he constructed, but the other touch-sensations eluded him—as did the colors blue, red and green; and of course the most difficult of all would be the complex sense of smell. Before undertaking that, he tried to develop an efferent nerve—or at least one relay of the pathway by which orders go from the brain to the muscles. I did not learn how he would know when he had been successful in this last.
In the excitement of departure, I all but forgot him, and afterward he seldom troubled my memory. The journey was such a novel interruption of my quiet life—the voyage to Norway, the airplane flight, our forced landing, the struggle over the ice by sledge, the coming of winter that forced us to camp on Northeast Land; the polar darkness, the desolation, few chances for observation, but endless hours of playing cards; snow—wind—the returning sun—the grinding ice that piled up on our barren rock, threatening to sweep us into the sea; food running low—the coming of the ship—that glorious first sight of green trees, and the easy journey home, with somewhat of scientific value but without the glory or satisfaction of having been anywhere near the Pole. There was the usual newspaper excitement, and we learned that we had been a source of anxiety to the whole civilized world ever since our start. Frazier’s classic reply that we “had also been something of a source of anxiety to ourselves,” struck the desired note, and the public had a very good time with us.
A Shocking Change in Murtha
I was rather surprised to find Murtha at the pier when we steamed in, and still more surprised at the shocking change in the man. He was gaunt and pale, and looked at least ten years older. In place of his former alternations of shyness and disciplined composure, was a manner of slinking furtiveness. He greeted me without heartiness, but with urgent haste. He seemed to want to get me away from my newly-met family, for some mysterious private talk. Perhaps I was rather brusque in pointing out that my own preferences were against him; but certainly that was before I dreamed of the things he had to say!
I went home. How good it was to relax into the old familiar ways and places—to see the people I had known, to enjoy warmth and cleanliness and safety and leisure once again, to find my friends and my books where they had always been, to see the soft green of the campus, and hear the voices of students in song through the quiet of the evening! But twice I was asked, “Have you seen Murtha?” and one man handed me a newspaper clipping which told of Vinton’s death “under rather unusual circumstances.” All this was of course before the recent newspaper furor.
These two inquiries coupled with Murtha’s curious actions at the pier, disturbed me; and accordingly, early in the evening I walked over to his room. He was away. I left a card with what was meant for a cheery message scribbled on it. I had hardly reached home when his voice came to me strained and tense over the telephone, “Couldn’t you come back, Harvey? For God’s sake come if you can—I can’t come to you, and it is very important.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said briefly.
It is queer now to remember the mood in which I set out. His looks and manner had been ominous—but I was so steeped in the peace and happiness of my homecoming that other people’s affairs seemed of small account. I was sorry for young Vinton, a splendid youngster cut off without his chance; but he was gone, beyond recall—and the wind was sweet. Murtha was a solemn, self-centered individual, seemingly in some distress—but I was glad of the young moon peering through the elms. If I seem unduly hard-hearted, I can only suggest that my critic spend seven months of exile on an arctic rock, before passing final judgment.
Murtha opened the door for me, and led me to his fireplace without a word. It was mild autumn, but again a fire burned in the grate. He stooped and warmed his hands; and looking away from me at the fire he began to speak. The words of his prepared speech tumbled over one another and got out of order in his eagerness to get them said.
A Dreadful Revelation
“Harvey, I—I want to talk to you about Vinton. He is dead, as you’ve probably heard—or at least people think he is. As a matter of fact he’s in the laboratory. He wanted me to do the thing I’ve done—he urged me to—but I’m not sure—that is—Vinton—Oh Harvey, I’ve killed him—or rather I’ve kept him alive—he’ll be alive forever!” He broke off short, and gasped like a swimmer coming up from deep water. “I don’t know what I’m saying!” He sank back into the chair and covered his face with his hands.
“What do you mean, Murtha? Tell me just what happened.”
He looked over at me, caught my eye, and glanced hastily back at the fire. The astonishing confession
