Page:Weird Tales Volume 2 Number 2 (1923-09).djvu/5

4 the lens, and would study, for minutes at a time, the lines and depressions of the distorted digit.

At such moments his looks would be far away, speculative, and of such an abstraction that even questions of importance would not avail to regain his attention. It was an eccentricity that was a bit expensive, inasmuch as it cost him friends: and lost him the respect of some of his equally grave and respected colleagues. I have heard one say:

“What! Professor Mason! That old codger! He is either insane, or else he is downright insulting. All he thinks about is his thumb. Last night, when we were together, we begun a discussion concerning the frequency of parabolic orbits of comets, and I had arrived right down to the ratio between those of the parabolic and those of the elliptic when, of a sudden, out came that microscope. Yes, sir! Right in the middle of my talk, just when I was getting interested, and for an hour that old fool sat there looking at his thumb. When I left, at last, he did not know that I was leaving. Perhaps he is peering at it yet.”

“Still,” I ventured, "no doubt he has reason. There is a reason for everything, you know. Professor Mason is not quite a fool.”

“He isn’t!”—with a snort—“Well, perhaps I am, then.”

“You say you were talking about comets?”

“Yes. Concerning the frequency of parabolic orbits thereof. But tell me: what’s a thumb got to do with a comet?”

That, of course, I could not answer. Who could?—even in these days of abstract science. Much less could I surmise that the old Professor had covered, in his thumb, what he considered one of the greatest secrets of materialistic philosophy.

Professor Mason is by no means a fool. When a wan of his training comes out with a statement it is well worth considering. No one has ever accused him of being anything that is not scientific. He is a man of hard facts, no romance nor any taint of the visionary about him: he is scientific to the last degree—and practical. Certainly none of us imagined what he had discovered in his thumb—and it was unguessable that it had to do with a comet.

It was that chance conversation with a friend that aroused my curiosity. And it brought me back to the realization that there is no law for a coincidence. A coincidence is a fact—and as such it stands out by itself with no law, nor reason, nor formulated rule whatever—an entity out of the abstract that stands as a unit—a thing that happens. I took it as a coincidence that my friend had run afoul of the old Professor's comet—for, be it known, I myself had been insulted and ignored in exactly the same manner: and not once, but three times during the previous fortnight. It was really curdling to friendship to have the old professor pull out that microscope just when you were in the most interesting part of your talk, and go peering at his thumb.

But there was one thing that I had not noticed until my friend had spoken. And afterward I repeated to myself the question he had asked me:

“What has a thumb to do with a comet?”

For therein lay the coincidence. I recalled that on each of the occasions I had inadvertently fallen into a digression on comets. The mere mention of Halley or Donati was sufficient to spring the lense from the pocket. I can see the old man yet—his eyes focused, his attention riveted, and the furrows on his forehead, deep under the locks of his fine gray hair. There was something uncanny and weird about his action: something indefinite and unknown—as if he were gazing into a secret as intangible and immense as the nebulous mysteries of the Milky Way.

I don’t believe that any man, gazing through a telescope for the first time, ever looked more appalled than did the Professor when looking through that microscope. There was something weird about his action that made you feel cold. Perhaps it was the silence—for, with no sound but the hum of the night world, and the ticking of the clock, you could not but feel lonely.

And you would feel like a fool sitting there by yourself: you were ignored as if you were impossible, and as if the old man had been whiffed, on the wings of a word, into another world. He would sit still, graven like a stone, rigid as steel, hypnotized as it were: as if life had suddenly flitted and had sniffed out his personality—his silver beard touching the table but never moving, his thumb held up, his eyes steady, and as unwinking as a cat’s. After a while you would go.

On the last occasion I had met Mrs. Mason. She came out on the porch just as I was leaving: she had her hands clasped before her.

“Doctor Howard!”

She was a beautiful old lady; a wee thing with a kindly face—one of these old ladies who remind you of your boyhood’s grandmother—the kind you love. On this night I saw that she was worried. Something was wrong.

“What is it, Mrs. Mason ?”

“Oh!” she said. "Doctor Howard. Something has happened. Can you tell me what is the matter with Philip?”

She seemed terribly perturbed, and she was such a gentle old soul. My heart went out to her. Besides, her words seemed to supplement the actions of the Professor. I had known her since boyhood—and I loved her.

“What has happened to Professor Mason ?” I asked,

She wrung her hands.

“That's what I wanted to ask you,” she said. “I thought you might know. It is his thumb. Something—something has happened to his thumb. It is terrible. Whenever he has the chance he does that—See?—” she led me to the door. “See? There he is now. He does that all the time, even as he used to watch for comets.”

It alarmed me. At first: I had thought that the Professor was overworked. I remembered that he was almost at the age of retirement, and that he had been, all his life, an indefatigable student. I resolved that I would bring it up with my colleagues, and that I would send my wife over to Mrs. Mason.

But here was a new angle. The words of the Professor's critic had aroused in me a train of thoughts that promised fruition. Now that I got down to it I recalled that comets had, on each occasion been the key to the Professor’s aberration. Of course, I had no idea that there exists an affinity, much less a law—and I think that you will allow that no man had, hitherto, ever dreamed that there is a law between a thumb and a comet.

Nevertheless it had aroused me. I would go straight to the Professor, spring right off into a discussion of comets—which by the way, is the Professor’s specialty—and if he lapsed again, I would compel him, even by force, to divulge his secret. In a few minutes I had on my coat and was on my way to the observatory.

It was a fine night: and as I looked down from the mountain I could sense the mist that I knew lay like a sea far below me. There was just the suggestion of a breeze; overhead were the stars that had been my life study, stretching away into the immensity that seems to go on forever.

Much as I knew about them, it was still so little—except the one fact that we would never know their secret. We might build telescopes and reflectors, and go on digging into the depths, without ever discovering what we were after. Little did I think that the old Professor had sought for the secret of the Universe and had found it—in his thumb!