The Conqueror of Death by Brian Stableford

Author:Brian Stableford [Stableford, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2014-04-12T00:00:00+00:00

Everyone, in fact, generally judges others by making use of their own consciousness as a human dictionary. Eminently good and simple, almost always living on the serene heights of scientific speculation, pursuing his dreams of invention, nourished by the abstract and subtle algebra of seekers in the imagination, which draws the mind to a vague mysticism, Pierre had the ignorant indulgence of an apostle, and did not criticize people, of whom he knew very little; he only grasped facts and circumstances.

Pierre had never been convinced that Springfield’s action in benefiting from his early research was a theft. With the noble blindness of pure souls, he had sought, in his sublime faith, to invent justifications for Springfield’s conduct. At the very most, he had allowed himself to accuse him of parsimony in his regard. For in the end, he told himself, it was true that as an employee, he owed all of his work to his employer; but the latter might have taken account of the fact that the results of his labor had surpassed the ordinary limits.

As for the muted war of which he had been the object, Pierre had never had the slightest suspicion of it. The humble individual would never have been able to believe that the scientist had been traveling in his slipstream.

When the 1878 Exposition had been held he had been in Spain, and in 1884, he had been too poor to travel to London. He did not know that Springfield had exhibited apparatus analogous to his own, and he had learned of his two victories without knowing over which adversaries they had been won.

He arrived, therefore, at the Hôtel du Louvre almost with confidence—but when he went into the courtyard, a new reaction was produced in him. Suddenly, he found the hope that he had conceived absurd. He stopped, indecisively, on the threshold of the hotel lobby, ready to retrace his steps. A blond and neatly-clad clerk raised his eyes, paused momentarily in his work, and asked him what he wanted.

Then Pierre plucked up his courage. “Monsieur Springfield?” he asked.

“Room 239,” replied the employee, after having checked the register. “But he only came in five minutes ago and picked up his correspondence; you’ll doubtless find him at table.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

Pierre climbed the staircase of the inner courtyard and went into the waiting-room Around large tables covered in green baize, on which harsh gas-light fell, men and women were reading the newspapers and brochures that were distributed and replaced in an orderly manner by a grave and silent usher. As he penetrated into that vast room, tranquil in its banal luxury, and treading to the thick carpet, whose discreet pile muffled footsteps, he felt even more intimidated. Put off by the idle gazes that were raised curiously upon him, rotating his hand in his fingers, he searched with his eyes for a seat and sat down in a dark corner, glad to hide his blush in its protective gloom.

It seemed to him that his status as a beggar must be obvious in his attitude, in his face, in his costume and in his entire being.

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