Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [116]
“It is no problem,” said Dr. Kessel, and turned to signal the other two attendants.
A moment later, they came forward bearing assorted blocks of wood. Triangular blocks of wood, rectangular blocks of wood, blocks in curved shapes and segments—they were like oversize pieces from a child’s play set. Under Dr. Kessel’s direction, the attendants fitted them around me in the bottom of the box. Two blocks went on either side of my head, two blocks under my armpits, two blocks against my waist, four blocks to keep my legs in place. I was immobilised in a ridiculous outstretched position, legs slightly apart, hands touching the sides of the box.
By now the sleeping draught was beginning to take effect. Sounds and voices came to me loud or soft, sharp or muffled, as if passing in and out of successive tunnels. I heard the noise of the partition being slid back: a slow grinding and grating. Then came the sound of the mechanism itself: rhythmical, pounding, metallic. There was a change in the air as smells of fumes and oil drifted into the study.
Mr. Hungerford and Mr. Jamieson reappeared a moment later, leaning over me, gripping the back of the box. Mr. Hungerford gave me an encouraging wink. They pushed, and the box rolled forward along the rails into the rooms beyond.
Pinned in by the wooden blocks, travelling headfirst and upside-down, I could see only what was straight above me: the bare boards of a ceiling and a network of rubber-coated wires attached to the boards. When we turned gradually to the left, the tops of metal frames entered my field of vision—the same metal frames I had seen last night. Fizzing, crackling noises reminded me of the shimmering glows inside the glass apparatus.
“Our own steam engines and generators supply electricity,” Dr. Kessel was saying. “The power supply must never fail . . .”
I entered a muffled tunnel of drowsiness and ceased to pay attention. But inside that tunnel, I started to hear something else, a different kind of voice. How to explain it? While all other sounds were muted, this was very distinct, albeit faint. It was a mutter as of somebody talking to himself, preoccupied with his own business. The mutter seemed to move about from place to place, now ahead of the box and now behind it.
I tried to follow the source, but the wooden blocks prevented me from turning my head.
Then the muttering passed across directly above me. Could it be a voice on the other side of the ceiling? I was instantly and absolutely sure that it wasn’t. No, it was in one of the rubber-clad wires—actually inside the wire. I could even pinpoint the particular wire!
I gasped—and drew Mr. Hungerford’s attention.
“He seems agitated,” he said.
Mother looked down. “How long does this sleeping draught take to work?” she asked Dr. Kessel.
“It is very fast.” The doctor sounded puzzled. “He should be falling asleep by now.”
“Just relax, kid,” Mr. Hungerford told me. “Don’t fight it.”
All at once, I was very determined not to fall asleep.
The box reached the end of the rails a moment later. There was a click as it came to a halt and locked into place.
Mr. Hungerford and Mr. Jamieson straightened and stood upright. Seven adults loomed above me, tall as trees. Perspective distorted their features, so that their faces were all chin and no eyes. The yellowish light from the apparatus gave them a sallow look.
They were talking among themselves, paying no heed to the strange voice muttering. I realised then that I alone—in my abnormal mental state, under the influence of the sleeping draught—I alone could hear it.
“This is what fits over his head,” Dr. Kessel was saying.
“Like a crown,” Mother commented.
“Yes, indeed. This is the most important part of the mechanism.”
I rolled my eyes back in my head, trying to focus on what the doctor held in his hands. The thing was above and behind me, and I felt giddy, even nauseated, from the vain effort to bring it into view.
“Be calm, Anthony,” said Mother.
“He’ll