"We've found," summed up Michael, "through careful experimentation, that we cannot go around the wall—you go for a certain distance then you find yourself, abruptly, back where you started; we cannot go over the wall—you jump over, and parachute down, and you find yourself on this same side, even though an observer can clearly see you go over. So, we're going to try to go through the wall."
"That seems to clarify matters well enough," commented Bentley.
"What about the pictures?"
Bentley made a wry face. "Not one came out."
"Why not try," suggested Crosby, "digging a hole under it and coming out the other side?"
"I was going to suggest that," remarked Bentley. "That's why I brought along these long handled spades. A wall like that shouldn't have a very deep foundation. Not so deep that you couldn't easily tunnel under it. Want to try it first?"
The others nodded. "I've no desire," put in Michael, "to mar this thing with blasts if I can possibly satisfy my curiosity any other way."
The three picked up their tools and fell to. The ground, once broken was not difficult for digging and in about three quarters of an hour they had a good sized pit extending far under the wall. Bentley, who was in the lead, yelled suddenly.
"Hey, I've broken through. C'mere and look."
The others gathered about him. There could be no doubt about it. They had broken into a tunnel similar to the one they were digging. A tiny patch of darkness lay ahead, beyond which a shaft of light could be seen. Eagerly they pressed forward, climbed up the other opening.
Bentley began to laugh hysterically. For a moment, they stood unbelieving, then realization struck them. They were back where they started; their car waited on the other side of the road.
I'm all right now," insisted
Bentley. "It just
seemed so damned funny
when I came out of the hole
and saw it."
"So now?" asked Crosby.
"We blast."
"Do you think it will do any good? Suppose we do blow a hole right through the damned wall? Won't we find, when we go through it, that we're right back here?"
"We blast," said Michael quietly.
He nodded to Bentley who picked up a drill and held it firm while Crosby smote it heavily and accurately with the hammer. The reaction, they noted was no more or less than what one would expect from ordinary fence stone. They took turns in holding the drill and swinging the hammers.
"Okay," said Bentley quietly. "We're ready to blast."
The others watched in silence as he prepared the dynamite and set the fuses. Then the three of them ran to a safe distance.
The explosion was neither more nor less than they expected.
"Reactions perfectly normal," stated Michael. He led the three over to the wall. A large section of it had been blown out, leaving a deep cavity. Fragments of stone were on all sides and several large chunks they dragged out and threw aside. The wall now had a mark upon it, a hole of particularly dark darkness.
Crosby poked a spade handle into it. "It's awfully deep," he ventured.
"Got a flashlight?" asked Michael.
"In the car."
He returned after a moment, bearing a rope. "This doesn't make sense," he admitted, "but then neither does anything else about the wall, so I'm not taking chances. Three pulls on this rope will mean I want you to help me back."
Silently he fastened the rope around his waist, turned on the flashlight and crawled into the hole. The others stared after him, trying to comprehend the peculiar blackness and apparent depth of the cavity. Numbly they watched the rope play its way out, then came the three warning tugs. They started pulling until at last the familiar form of Michael came into sight.
Yes, it was Michael. Only something in him had died and they knew he would be like that for the rest of his days. When he spoke, it was in a sort of hushed whisper, and they didn't have to be told twice to start picking up the chunks of rock and shoving them in the cavity.
The next day they came
back with cement and
made a finished job of sealing
it.
The only thing he would tell them was that he dropped the flashlight and it went out, but the light kept on going. He could see the shaft of light from the extinguished flash drifting slowly away into the unending blackness, a shaft of it etched against utter black.
Somehow, they knew he was not telling all, that he would never tell all.
Michael can be seen these days and you'll find him normal enough if you can overlook a few eccentricities and you aren't too sensitive. By the latter, is meant—well, it's hard to explain. You either get it when you see him or you don't. But you must never turn out a light in his presence, and it is best to speak in reasonably loud, clear tones. He is likely to start screaming if you whisper.
And sometimes he awakes in a cold sweat, gasping about a shaft of light drifting away into utter blackness, drifting away from its source: an extinguished handlamp.
And somewhere in Maine stands a long, high wall, marred only by a single spot where, as can be seen, someone tried to break through. . .
