A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 24: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE ELIXIR OF HATE 23 cried Dennison, anger suddenly overcom- ing discretion. “If you accept me as a patient, agree in my diagnosis, and—” “Ah, my friend,” interrupted the patriarch sadly shaking his head, “I see you understand very little of the nature of this thing. How should you? Without a long novitiate—”’ “What? When, at this rate, I have at most only a month or two of life?” It Vecchio gazed thoughtfully for a moment at his guest. Then said he, with sudden determination : “Come, I will show you at least the thing you beg for. After that, we shall He led the way toward the rear of the study. Dennison, trembling and faint, came close behind. CHAPTER 5 Arch-Treason N THE wall, Dennison saw a solidly built door, provided with what seemed strikingly out of place in the environ- inent—a combination lock. At the American’s startled glance, Il Vecchio smiled. “One does not leave one’s life-work ex- posed even to a well-meaning niece and man-servant,” he explained. “A little dusting or cleaning or setting things in order might wreck years of toil. Hence the precautions.” Speaking, he stooped, and fell to work- ing over the dial. Dennison’s_ breath choked him. His head swam. For sup- port he had to set a hand against the wall. The time seemed endless; yet in reality it was but a minute till the door swung open. Then, as the old man snapped a switch, the room within became bathed in a soft, purple light. Dennison had never seen its equal for calm radiance. He stared, as- tonished, even despite his burning eager- ness, at the ceiling, which glowed like a huge firefly. Lamps there were none, but from above, the illumination flooded down in wondrous beauty. Ii Vecchio noted his astonishment. “You do not understand even that?” asked he, with good-humored patronage. “Yet after all it is a mere trifle compared with the mystery which but a minute ago you were asking me to plunge you into, all unprepared! My light is nothing but a perfect vacuum in flat glass accumulators masked in the ceiling. A little mechanical agitator raps the central accumulator and sets up ether-waves. By varying the rhythm of the agitator, I easily change the ether wave-lengths and the color of the light—you see?” He moved a pointer on a dial under the switch, swiftly running the gamut of the spectrum from the most unearthly brilliant violet to dazzling green and deep red. Then, bringing it immediately back to purple, he laughed with a touch of malice. “Suppose I really wanted money,” queried he, “‘and made this invention pub- lic? Can you conceive the millions that would be mine? Save for the creation of the initial vacuum--which is my secret, shared only by the humble glowworm— and for the negligible expense of the agitator, this light costs nothing. One franc a year will illuminate all Paris. And I alone understand the method. Yet you offer to bribe me?” “But,”’ stammered the American, burn- ing with shame, “is it ethical to withhold such powers from the world?” Il Vecchio only laughed, and motioned Dennison to follow. The door closed be- hind them. Together they advanced into a spacious underground room. Confused and _ shaken, the visitor glanced round. He got an impression of a well-equipped and busy laboratory. He saw long tables, shelves, and stands cov- ered with a profusion of bottles, flasks, retorts, and test-tubes. At one side was a marble sink with running water. Some process was in operation there, for a trickling stream fell from a spigot into a funnel lined with filter-paper. White and clear it entered the funnel, to emerge blood-red and collect in a huge carboy. Here, an acetylene-flame burned under a graphite crucible. Strange fumes rose. There, an intensely brilliant little point of light, clear blue, sparkled inside a twisted apparatus of flint glass. Other ac- tivities were also going forward. II Vecchio assured himself that all was well. Then with a searching look he turned. COMICLOC|S (C(O)