Novelette

THE APPARATUS OF DEATH
by James Grebmops

The whole truth is generally the ally of virtue;
a half-truth is always the ally of some vice.

G.K. Chesterton

It was the evening of October 23rd 1934 when William Greaves, my friend and chief of police, took me to a crime scene near Bond Street. The alley had been closed off by a line of constables and police cars from the swarming public, eager for a glimpse of a violent deed. The rumour was that the victim had been a famous actress, which was of course why I was there. It was not usual for a writer like me to have this kind of access, but between Greaves and I there had been a silent pact, as it were, and he had rightfully summoned me to witness the occasion.

As he ushered me through the restricted area, already I sensed the unwelcome recalling of past preoccupations, building up within me like a sudden rise in temperature. Crouching towards the white mass on the cobblestones, Greaves lifted the sheet covering the corpse. Instantly I recognized Angela’s face and was taken back to the unusual circumstances in which Greaves, myself and the dead woman had met over twenty years before.

* * *

Lord Wendover was a capricious and flamboyant man whose wealth was only equaled by his eccentricities. Tall and slender, he was appreciated for his livelihood and good looks. His enormous art collection, extensively built after a number of annual expeditions to Africa and Asia, had been one of the most sought by the curators of the British Museum. But most of all, he was known for his humour and taste for the macabre.

Considering this, the events of the social gathering I was to attend were not altogether surprising. At the time I had been working as a journalist on the Daily Telegraph, a job not without its share of privileges, but my former schoolmate William Greaves had done much better for himself as a detective in the Yard at the remarkable age of twenty-seven.

As our carriage drove through the streets of Paddington, Greaves explained how he came to meet the Lord: "I was called to assist some Customs officers at the Southampton docks," said he, lighting his unpleasant Indian cigar. "Some of the objects this chap brings back from his voyages are, how should I say… unusual, at the very least. Sometimes they require special clearance. I am sure the Lord was impressed by the way I handled things and found in me a kindred spirit.”

Even though I would be the last person to question Greaves's competence and sociability, I suspected that the Lord’s interest in my friend was more superficial and intended mainly to smooth out future complications with the authorities. As for me, Wendover had asked Greaves to find a man of the people, someone with a "common eye," (I did not take this as an insult, though). I thought his interest in my presence was to secure an article in the Telegraph to boost his public figure, not that he needed any. I did not wander in high society, but neither did Greaves, and I trusted him.

Lord Wendover lived in an Edwardian mansion in Hertfordshire, just a few miles north of London. Inside we were greeted by the house staff, and I was surprised to see that there were only four other guests at the party: Dr. David Rawlings, M.D., general practitioner and director of the Lewisham Hospital in London, who had studied medicine with the Lord; Miss Angela Chipperton, a famous actress of the stages of the West-End, whom Greaves assured me was fabulous; Major Wendell Coverdale, an amiable and intelligent man from the Royal Navy, on his way to retirement; and Malcolm Christopher, noted chemist and spiritualist, Fellow of the Royal Society of London. Although I was impressed by these gentlemen's credentials, it was Miss Chipperton who caught my eye. Her beauty and charm were almost intoxicating, and I had to police myself not to stare at her for most of the night. Wendover himself was not yet present, and we learned that nobody had any clue as to the purpose of the soirée, and we all assumed it would soon take the shape of one of Wendover’s famous pranks, if it had not already.

Much to my surprise, I found Miss Chipperton glancing at me as we both frowned at one of Major Coverdale's boisterous war stories, and we struck a brief conversation, while sipping some wine. The guests had had enough time to get acquainted with each other, as far as the situation allowed. In retrospect this was probably what Wendover wanted. He turned up nearly an hour after we arrived.

"You must forgive me, this is most ungentleman-like. I apologize for being such a bad host! I hope you have been enjoying yourselves nonetheless!" said he, bursting into the room. Despite his self-deprecating comment, his composure and manner were so charismatic that his blunder was quickly forgotten. Besides, we were most of all curious as to the motives of the gathering. Wendover only disclosed it after dinner.

"My dear friends and colleagues. You must be all wondering why did I call you here tonight. Since none of you know each other, with the exception of the dear detective and his esteemed journalist friend, this is indeed a rather unusual reunion. I have however chosen you to witness one of the most important events of the century!”

I diverted my attention for a second, glancing at Miss Chipperton, and she looked excited. Wendover continued: “We live in one of the most exciting moments in the history of civilization. The number of scientific advancements made available nowadays is quite staggering. Major Coverdale will tell us much about the art of technological warfare. Dr. Rawlings will report great improvements in the area of medicine. My dear Malcolm here was just telling me about the secrets of the human spirit. We are not only flesh and bone: there is some intangible essence to us!

“I have just returned from the German Empire. Professor Einstein is now on the brink of unveiling the true nature of space and time. Professor Planck has gone deep into the structure of matter. And Professor Ubermann at Leipzig is working on a new source of energy. I myself have made a contribution to this pulse towards science and technology, and fancy myself among this impressive roster of people! No further delay. My friends. I present you The Apparatus of Death."

These ominous words were accompanied by a butler opening a portion of curtain in the back of the room, revealing a monstrous metallic apparatus, a trifle larger than an ordinary wardrobe. There was nothing ordinary however about this uncanny contraption full of valves, gears, and coils. Its function I could only speculate. I glanced around the table, and everyone was aghast.
"The Apparatus of Death is able to tell us how its user will die. It does not, however, tell you when or where," Wendover explained. "For this to work, we need a blood sample of the subject. If I insert my finger here, it will collect a sample for analysis. It is then separated here in this centrifuge, where it is made to work with a number of chemical agents. This needle with ink prints the prediction on a roll of paper. It is all very simple, as you see."

"Wendover," said Doctor Rawlings, "I must admit this is preposterous. And in extremely bad taste! This is a subject matter that is rather unpleasant."

"David," replied Wendover, "I assure you this is no joke. You can try it out if you wish. As a matter of fact I insist everyone here does."

"How did you come by such a thing? I never heard of anything like it," said Coverdale.

"That is of no importance. I only ask that you go along and trust me. Have I ever tried to fool you before?"

The whole room burst into laughter. Even I, who had not yet been a victim of the Lord's practical jokes, knew all about them.

* * *

Greaves was staring at me the whole time, watching my reaction, looking for a sign of recognition in my eyes. As I turned to face him, I said, "So it's true."

"That's what it seems. I still can't believe it though."

"Do you still have yours?"

"What do you mean?" Greaves looked puzzled.

"Your prediction. That night at Wendover's."

"No, I threw it away. You can't be serious. That was over twenty years ago!"

"Angela... it happen exactly like it said it would."

Angela's face was still beautiful, despite being devoid of all colour. I recalled the restrained passion I felt that night at Lord Wendover's, a passion that had since become confused with the foreboding memories of the situation. There she lay, Eros and Thanatos confusedly altercating in a single sign. Her gentle face was to forever adorn the perception of my own death. Now, lifeless on the damp cobblestones of the alley, surrounded by policemen and garbage, my death seemed just as certain and dirty as hers, a cold and blunt fact.

After the usual proceedings, during which I stood in a corner reflecting and watching Greaves at work, he came over to me as Angela's body was being put inside a bag and carried into the back of a truck.

"You mustn't feel so shaken up, dear fellow. Maybe it was a mistake bringing you here," said Greaves, clearly concerned. The smoke from his cigar rose quickly in the cold of the winter night.

"Don't worry. I'm fine. It's not so much about Angela... but it has happened twice now. Can it be possible... Wendover's machine works?"

"I can't believe you are even considering that possibility. You know Wendover was just a cover-up. Angela's death is certainly an odd coincidence, but nothing more. You know better than that! Gullibility is not a trait you are known for. I suggest you never mind this, and let's get a drink. What do you say?"

"Sorry, Greaves. I'm too distraught. I'll talk to you later."

The next morning I found myself incapable of thinking about anything else. I kept remembering, or perhaps imagining Angela the night we met. I was so transfixed in this reverie that I left for work running late. A thought suddenly came to me as I took the underground to Charing Cross station: if Wendover's machine was capable of seeing into the future, there had to be a way to alert the others.

I decided to track down the other guests of the party, but soon found out that it was not such an easy task. In the past twenty-four years much had happened in our country. The Great War had been a great blow to us. Many had perished or moved overseas, and the country was not what it once was. It took me the better portion of the morning just to get the current addresses of Major Coverdale and Dr. Rawlings. I was unable to find anything about Malcolm Christopher, and assumed he no longer lived in England.

Major Coverdale's address was the Brompton Cemetery. As I found out from public records, he had died seven years before. He was survived by his wife and two children, who lived in a flat in Bayswater. The stated cause of death, according to the coroner, had been drowning. Although memory failed me due to the many years that have passed, I did not recall Coverdale's prediction being drowning.

I took a cab to Bayswater, a nice and respectable neighborhood. Mrs. Coverdale’s flat looked well kept from the outside, and it crossed my mind that the major must have left a substantial amount of money to his family. A short, middle-aged woman answered the door, and I claimed to be an old acquaintance of the Major and a close friend of Chief Greaves of the Yard. As she served me a cup of Darjeeling tea – the Major's favorite – she asked why it had taken so long for me to get the news about his passing.

"My condolences, Mrs. Coverdale. I have been overseas and I returned to London not more than two weeks ago. I was shocked to learn about the Major. He was a most remarkable man." It was not exactly true, but I felt that if she thought I was a friend of the Major she would be more helpful.

"Thank you. I did not know he had business overseas."

"We knew each other here in London. Mrs. Coverdale..." I made a calculated pause, putting the cup down and straightening up on the settee. "Would you mind telling me what happened to the Major? How did he die? Was he ill? He seemed so joyful the last time I saw him."
"Oh my. Well... I was preparing breakfast one morning, you see. Wendell was taking a hot bath. I began to worry because Wendell's baths did not usually take long. He always took them before breakfast, and he was always hungry in the morning. That day he did not come down. When I went over to check up on him, I found him with his head underwater."

"Oh God. So he drowned?!"

"That's what I thought at first, but who drowns on the bath? Wendell suffered from a heart condition and his hand was gripping his chest..."

* * *

The machine made a whirring sound, and electrical lights flashed, indicating operation. A few seconds later a slip of paper came out in one end. Major Coverdale, the first volunteer, picked it up, and with a grin on his face read it to us: "’Heart attack’. Say, Wendover, this thing is not very creative, is it?"

We had no reason to expect any gravity in these proceedings. We treated it as nothing more than a novelty parlour game, like the amusing and innocuous practices of dealing Tarot cards or looking up the signs of the zodiac. The glimpses into the future provided by these are quickly discredited, but some suspicion still remains. Some part of us is inevitably stirred by superstition, and has no choice but to wonder, what if ...? The subject being death, this inner inquietude is even more pressing: no one is ever comfortable imagining their own death, even in a parlour game, and Doctor Rawlings' protest was not uncalled for.

Each of us made use of the machine, and it was simple and painless. It was just a matter of putting one’s finger inside an aperture and a needle of some sort would prick it inside. Wendover explained that it was all quite scientific and rigorous, as it had to do with properties of the human blood.

"Wendover, is this some trick you learned from the Germans? I must say that their concepts of the nature of matter are completely bogus," intervened Malcolm Christopher, the scientist.

“They do not take into account the metaphysical qualities of the human soul.”

"They are not to be trusted. The Germans are well behind us in every way, most of all morally, and we must not assume that what they say is true. Maybe they were duping you with this toy," added Coverdale.

The Lord seemed amused by such objections, and was keen to leave them in uncertainty. Clearly the Lord respected the two gentlemen's opinion, but in his refusal to argue I detected a note of secrecy and even superiority.

"Besides," argued Rawlings, "just because this machine is able to print a couple of words on a piece of paper does not mean that it predicts the future. There is no way of knowing."

"Unless someone dies," I said.

"I myself think this is marvelous. I cannot wait to tell Lady Winscott, she’ll be so delighted she’ll want one for her too," expressed Miss Chipperton, with a certain frivolity.

Later I was to realize that the only one that remained silent and rather troubled was Greaves. I did not think at the time he could have been affected by the machine's predictions, being the rational and rigorous man he was. I dismissed his reactions as mere lack of interest in the game.

Wendover purposely left his prediction to last. We all awaited the grand finale with excitement, and when he picked up the slip of paper, he triumphantly exhorted: "SHOT IN THE HEAD." It seemed fitting that someone as larger-than-life as Wendover should leave this world so dramatically.

The evening ended shortly afterwards. As the weeks passed, and daily routine occupied the bulk of my life, metaphysical musings seemed nothing more than one night's inconsequential reverie and an eccentric man's idea of a joke. I cannot speak for the others, but soon I forgot all about it. My impression was that all the guests were serious and intelligent people, and in no way would they give too much credit to Wendover's "toy," as Coverdale kept referring to it.

There is one thing I must admit, however. During the following months, whenever I was writing or revising a story for the Telegraph that somehow described circumstances similar to those predicted by the machine, my heart would race in fear of finding the name of one of my companions. I would not dare to think about my own prediction, for it was too cryptic, and could mean a number of things. It troubled me, but I did not like to think about it. But in the back of my mind there lingered a fear that the machine may be correct. Moreover, I could not shake the feeling that I was actually curious as to its functionality.

My curiosity would be satisfied, much to the detriment of my sense of well-being, as on the morning of 18th December, 1915, two years after I had last seen him, Wendover was found dead in his manor. The police reported he had committed suicide with a revolver to his temple.

Wendover's death put me at a state of unrest, and for the first time I considered the possibility of the machine working. I paid Greaves a visit at his apartment in Marylebone, knowing that he would have more information than the papers admitted.

"Can't you see this is exactly what Wendover wanted?"

"What do you mean?" I questioned with disconcert. "His machine works!"

"My dear fellow, it does not. Be more rational. Wendover caused his own death. He could have died in any way that contraption said it would. He probably had this figured out all along, and just wanted to go out with a bang." He chuckled. "Quite literally."

"Are you saying this is just..."

"Wendover's last and grandest practical joke!" said he, rising from his chair. "And he has fooled you, my friend. Wendover was not a man for a quiet life. Or a death. That evening a couple of years back was just him setting the stage for his suicide. Now a poor fellow like you is worried that he had a machine that predicted the future. Wendover is probably having the time of his life right now, if any of the other guests are showing even a fraction of the concern you are."

I forgave Greaves' ironic contempt for he had a very sound argument. The way it had happened was dramatic and unsettling enough to have been nothing more than the last and most elaborate of Wendover's eccentricities.

Nevertheless I arranged a meeting with Miss Chipperton. I wanted to talk the situation over with her, but most of all I wanted to see her again. We met after one of her performances of The Importance of Being Earnest, while she was still in her dressing room. She was playing the part of Cecily Cardew, fiancée to Algernon Moncrieff, one of the lead roles. She was in full garb when I came to her door, enticing as ever. After an exchange of amenities I managed to bring the subject up.

"Miss Chipperton..."

"Please call me Angela."

"Angela, did you hear about Lord Wendover?"

"Yes. It was very tragic."

"Do you remember that evening last summer, at Lord Wendover's? He showed us his machine..."

"Surely! It was a most delightful soirée!"

"Do you realize that Wendover died in the exact same way as the machine predicted?"

"Did he really? In that case, Wendover should have been an actor!" She too believed that it was nothing more than a joke.

"So you aren't worried about your prediction from the machine?"

"What? That I would die strangled?" She chuckled. "I find it rather amusing! Wendover had always had a taste for black humour."

I watched Angela perform a couple of more times in the following years, before she retired from the stages and married her real-life Algernon.

* * *

The news of the death of Major Coverdale had confirmed that the machine was not a mere prank concocted by the late Lord, and indeed worked. I had trouble organizing my thoughts as a number of problems invaded my mind. If the machine did indeed work, what had been done to it? Was it the only one? Had it been used in other subjects? Could we use the knowledge it produced to escape death?

I could not get over the fact that none of us gave the machine any credibility. It was now clear that it was an instrument capable of unseen powers of clairvoyance. How many lives could be saved by an early diagnosis of a disease, for instance? No longer one would have to be afraid of death: by unveiling its cause, death would be no longer a mystery, and there would be no need to fear it. Still, Angela and the Major were unable to avoid it. Would I? Could it be avoided?
I had to work fast if I wanted to warn the others. Dr. Rawlings had been working with tropical diseases since the early twenties, and in 1927 he moved to the Belgian Congo. I wrote him a letter in the hospital at Kinshasa, telling him about my findings and pleading that he take precautions. In the hope that he had information that could help me, I asked if he had knowledge of what had been done to Wendover's estate or the present location of the machine. Three weeks later I received a reply.

Dear Mr ----
It is my sad duty to inform you that Doctor David Rawlings is no longer with us. I have worked with him for several years here in the Congo. I hope you do not mind having read your personal letter to Dr. Rawlings, but since he passed away I have taken over his duties and we still receive packages and letters from our offices in London.

Also, the circumstances mentioned in your letter are of the utmost interest to me. Shortly after Dr. Rawlings' death, about three years ago, a man named Malcolm Christopher wrote from Scotland. He was very concerned about the clinical details of the doctor's death Rawlings had contracted a terrible infection and spent his last days in agony, since we were not able to identify the causing agent. The hospital staff was entirely fond of him, and it was a great loss.

The letter from Mr. Christopher was very odd and asserted that Rawlings had died from liver failure. I found it rather peculiar since he did in fact present compatible skin discolouration and jaundice. The other symptoms, however, denied it.

After that I was more attentive to similar cases that came to the hospital. Tests were performed and we were able to identify it as a viral agent that acts by shutting down the liver, but also causes the other symptoms. Alas, Mr. Christopher was too late to save the good doctor, but his contribution has helped us enormously. I wrote him back, but I was unable to ascertain how did he have such a precise diagnosis.

I do not wish to meddle with you and the doctor's affairs, but I am enclosing Mr. Christopher's return address. Something tells me you would like to have a word with him.

Best wishes,
Robert Langlois, M.D.
Hôpital générale de Kinshasa

In the meantime Greaves called me once to inform that they had caught Angela's murderer. It turned out to be little more than a robbery that had gone terribly wrong. I was vexed at the thought that Angela knew how she would die, but still she had been careless. A violent death such as hers must have been easier to foretell or prevent.

The address given to me by Dr. Rawlings's former assistant was in Edinburgh, Scotland. Malcolm Christopher had apparently secured a chair in the College of Science & Engineering of the University of Edinburgh after the War, and I took the first train out of Victoria station. While I watched the pastures of the English countryside, already starting to turn gray with the coming of winter, I realized a change in my intentions. I managed to withhold my frustration at finding both Major Coverdale and Dr. Rawlings already dead because there had been a complication: Christopher's letter clearly showed that he believed in the machine, and possibly knew more about it than any of us. It was now useless to make contact with the others in order to try to save their lives. I was keener to know what Christopher knew, and how he had been so certain that the machine indeed predicted the future. Could had he worked with Wendover on the machine?

In the back of my mind there lingered a nagging suspicion that I would find Malcolm Christopher already deceased.

And again, my feelings were correct. At the University I was informed that he had expired in late 1930, victim of cancer. At that moment I was unable to curb my frustration and the notion that the whole trip had been in vain. Most of all, I had to come to terms that I was never to find out the truth.

"He was a noted professor and his contributions to our chemistry department are priceless," said Professor Wilson, a former colleague. He was walking me through the corridors of the chemistry department, towards Christopher's former office.

"Do you happen to know what he was working on before he died?" I asked hopelessly.

"As a matter of fact, one of Professor Christopher's last projects had nothing to do with chemistry. He had become increasingly obsessed with the concept of twins."

"Twins?" I was genuinely surprised.

"Yes. Identical twins."

"I don't follow you."

"Identical twins are biologically the same person. Prof. Christopher was particularly interested in testing their blood to prove that."

This was indeed suspicious. I wondered whether Malcolm Christopher was carrying out experiments with the machine. Twins? I had never given attention to that possibility.

"Professor, do you possibly have Prof. Christopher's notes, perhaps a journal or a notebook describing his findings?"

"Surely. They are down at the library. As I said, Prof. Christopher's contributions are invaluable to our department."

For many hours I perused the volumes, looking for anything related to the machine. These were extensive and contained a whole lot about science, physics, and spiritualism. I had to come back the next day as to make sure I had scanned every volume. This is what I found:

Excerpts from the journal of Malcolm Christopher

15th January 1913
Regarding Wendover's machine, the testing is done with a sample of blood. I raised the question of twins to him more than once, but he dismissed it as unimportant. I accused him of cowardice, for he is not prepared to face the truth. If I am correct and the apparatus is indeed able to differentiate between identical twins, it becomes proof that the human spirit exists separate from the biological form. It is, of course, individual, and despite the fact that identical twins share the exact same biology, they are separate individuals.
Wendover must allow testing with twins! He does not realize that the apparatus is much more than mere technology. It is able to offer hard evidence of a metaphysical postulate. This will indeed, change the world.

2nd February 1913
Tonight at Wendover's he finally unveiled the apparatus. I feigned surprise. He tested the six guests, including myself. The predictions were:

W.C. (MAJOR): HEART ATTACK
D.R. (PHYSICIAN): LIVER FAILURE
W.G. (DETECTIVE): AIR WEAPON
A.C. (ACTRESS): STRANGULATION
H.W. (JOURNALIST): AIR WEAPON
MYSELF: LUNG CANCER
THE LORD: SHOT IN THE HEAD

19th December 1915
Wendover committed suicide. I am baffled by this as anyone. As far as I know, he had no heirs. I must find out who is handling his estate if I am to continue testing with the machine.

12th August 1923 [Extract from lecture notes]
... it puts in question the whole notion of free will. If one knows how he is going to die, how can he live with such a knowledge? How does it affects him? Does it not determine the whole of his actions? This means that everything, every action and thought is predetermined. It has already happened. There is no escape, no role for the humans to exert their free will. You are not what you think you are, you are not a whole, thinking, free person. You are a mere puppet in the hands of fate.

5th June 1927
Finally it has come to my knowledge, through sources I cannot name at the moment, that the man handling the late Wendover's estate is a certain Alan Coolidge, from Manchester. I must find out whether he has the apparatus.

20th June 1927
Alan Coolidge has Wendover's entire property sealed into boxes in a warehouse in Birmingham, but as expressed in Wendover's will, the items are not indexed. They are now the property of Wendover's niece, who lives in Austria. According to Coolidge, she hasn't claimed anything so far.


I sent a cable to Greaves in London relating all my findings. I could not contain my excitement, and told him to get a hold of Coolidge in Birmingham. Undoubtedly his position of authority would give us some advantage, and I arranged that we meet there the next day. The prospect of finally being near to the truth held me in a daze. I opened the verandah door in my hotel room and gazed at the busy streets of Edinburgh. The sky was overcast and the air was very cold, but people still moved to and fro. I had never been to Scotland before, and despite all that I was going through, I could not help but enjoy the atmosphere of the city. For the first time I sensed that I had spent too much of my life in London, and a change would not be unwelcome.

Malcolm Christopher, then, had always known about the machine, and as far as his diary related, he had died without ever attaining possession of it. I was impressed that it contained that much information, and as Professor Wilson assured me, no student was interested in the diary portions relating the late professor's personal life. It is possible that he was right about his theory about twins. Would the machine be able to differentiate them? If it did not, that would present a definite ontological issue. Maybe Christopher was right in using it to assert the veracity of the human spirit.

The train arrived in Birmingham at 3.30pm of 20th December 1934. I got a response from Greaves at the local post office, and headed straight the warehouse, where we were to meet at 5.00pm.

Already snow was falling, and as I descended from the cab Greaves and a tall and mannered man whom I assumed to be Coolidge were waiting. Their top hats and coats were peppered with snowflakes. There was something furtive about the way the two men had been there alone, without a soul to be seen for miles. I checked my watch and realized I was early. It was only 4.30pm. I paid the cab driver and Greaves introduced me to Coolidge. I had taken my gloves off to get money for the cab, but Coolidge shook it without taking his first, which vexed me slightly. Greaves was smoking one of his usual cigars.

The warehouse was enormous. Electrical bulbs hung over the ceiling every four yards or so of the corridor, lighting our way unevenly. Coolidge led us down a wooden staircase, and we shook the snow from our coats. As we walked along the seemingly endless aisles of crates, Coolidge explained that all items had a serial number, but he was not in the possession of a list discriminating their contents.

"So it seems, Mr. Greaves, that unless you know exactly the serial number of the item you're looking for, it will be impossible to find it."

"Oh well. I guess there is not much that can be done, is it?"

"Who has possession of the items now, Mr. Coolidge?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Miss Birgit Päffgen. Wendover's niece. She lives in Cologne, Germany."

"Has she claimed any items? It seems rather odd that everything is still here."

"As I was telling Mr. Greaves before, I was under the impression that the estate had been untouched since Wendover's death. However, in early 1933 there was a whole series that was shipped out to Hamburg. Serial number T-35LA."

Confused and taken aback with surprise, I turned over to Greaves. "Could this be...?"

"Mr. Coolidge," said he, straining to keep his calm. "I would like to have some time alone with my friend so we can discuss matters over. I would appreciate if you would go about your business now. Leave the index, please."

Coolidge handed his papers to Greaves and left without a word. The night Angela was murdered I watched my friend asserting his authority as a chief of police. He was a powerful and strict man. But never I had seen him speak in the tone he had used with Coolidge. There is a remarkable difference between the kind of authority one has over another person if they are their servants or employees, and the kind Greaves had just used. There had been a note of secrecy and illicitness to it that seemed to put Coolidge's heart at unrest, as if he could lose more than just his job.

We came to a patch of empty space, where the items labeled T-35LA were supposed to be.

"Greaves. We must try to make contact with Wendover's niece."

"It's all over, can't you see?" He had his head down, hidden in the shadows.

"I refuse myself to believe that! The machine works and it represents a major scientific breakthrough! Malcolm Christopher might have been right about it providing evidence for the human spirit!"

"What are you talking about?!" Greaves lifted his head and turned towards me. "You've been way over your head these past few weeks. You have no idea of the mess you've gotten yourself into."

"Listen, Greaves. In Malcolm Christopher's diary, he knew about the machine. He theorized that it could prove the concept of the human soul. Identical twins, having the same blood, would have different predictions, he presumed. This would be proof that the machine could identify the individual, even if the blood is the same. Now how could it, if not by one's soul?"
Greaves just stood there for a moment in silence, and began to chuckle, a bizarre chuckle that quickly turned into a terrible laughter, like that of a madman. I did not understand his reaction.

"The human spirit?! Good God, get over yourself! Do you realize that the Germans have the machine?"

"It's only Wendover's niece, I'm sure we can get to her..."

"Do you understand what this is all about? I don't think you do. Take a good look around. Seriously. Take a good look around you, around me, around us. Around England. What do you see? This country is in the dumps. The whole of Europe is in the dumps. I don't know if you have been following the news. That psychopath Hitler is the dictator of Germany now. He has good reason to want the machine."

"Are you saying the German government is after the machine?"

"They already have it you fool! T-35LA, that must have been it! Now it's in Germany."

"What would he do with it?"

"Are you mad? The Nazis have abolished every single idea of democracy and freedom from Germany. It will not take long before they start looking at Europe and the rest of the world."

"If the machine is so important, why aren't we protecting it?"

"Listen. My duties have greatly extended from mere police matters. This is now a matter of national security. We have reasons to believe that the Germans had the technology to construct a machine of their own. Wendover's was built there, before the war, although there were no duplicates that we know of. If the Germans did in fact have one, they did not use it in the War. So we had to feign ignorance of the whole thing if we were not signal our plans to them. That meant not fiddling around with Wendover's estate."

"How..."

He interrupted me. "There are spies everywhere. It is best for everyone to pretend the machine does not exist, if we were to avoid to total chaos and mass destruction. It was a kind of silent agreement between the two parts. But the Germans now have violated that."

"I see your point. But we can't be sure that T-35LA is actually the machine, whether it was ever here, or whether it ended up in the hands of the Germans."

He looked disconcerted. "If the Nazis put their hands on the machine of death, the armies of darkness will march upon the face of the earth."

For a moment I started thinking about how the machine could have been used for military purposes. I had been worried with metaphysics and futile attempts to escape death. Now the machine seemed almost like an instrument of power and evil. The concept of free will, as put forth by Malcolm Christopher in his diary, jumped back to my consciousness. A man would be probably be controlled by the State according to his death. The State would find some way to turn the machine's determinism inside out to serve its own purpose.

Perhaps every man in the army could be tested. The predictions could be cross-indexed with their divisions and location. Men with violent deaths such as "shell fire," or anything related to warfare could be considered in risk. If a high number of similar deaths were to appear in a single division, it could be use to predict attacks. Whoever had the machine would be able to predict the future.

As I explained this to Greaves he again laughed.

"No, no. You're not thinking big enough, my friend. What we're really afraid of is of an army composed of men whose deaths are not violent or related to war at all."

I stood in silence.

"Men who die of natural causes do not die in battle," continued Greaves. "Do you see? They could be wounded for sure, but that would be a minor setback. Zero deaths." He paused solemnly, giving the idea a chance to sink in. "No battle could be lost. Hundreds of thousands died in the War. We cannot afford to give them a chance. The machine is to protect our freedom!"

"What if the Germans have the same idea?"

"I'm sure that they have thought of it, yes. Actually I'm rather curious to know. If no one dies in a battlefield... How can either part win? That would be interesting to watch."
I was gripped in the throes of such a perspective, and took me a moment before I could question him: "Did you know about the machine all this time?"

"Wendover was working closely with Dr. Rawlings at the Lewisham Hospital in early 1913. He somehow managed to provide Wendover with a great number of blood samples from all over London. Enlisted men in the army were also tested, courtesy of Major Coverdale. Soon Wendover was able to predict a number of violent but similar deaths. Young males only."

"The War?"

"Precisely. He tried to take it to the British Government. That's how he introduced me to them. They didn't have any interest in the machine, though. Wendover had no proof that it could really predict deaths. Of course, later he proved it himself."

As much as I respected and admired Greaves, I knew he was seeing this whole thing from the wrong side. The prospect of the machine being used in war was too appalling, and I knew that was what Greaves wanted all along.

"Greaves... this is madness. What do you think we should do?" I asked, unable to think properly.

"I know what I shall do." He put his hand in his overcoat pocket, and pulled out a revolver.

"Greaves!"

"You’ll listen to me carefully. You know too much. I can't risk you leaking any of this to the Nazis."

"What are you saying? I’m not a traitor. I’m your friend, for God’s sake! Please put the gun down."

"I'm just saying that maybe you've seen enough. As I said before, this is a matter of national security. You have just been considered a threat."

I looked around me. The warehouse was dark, except for the patches of light illuminated by the overhead bulbs. I realized that if I did it quickly, maybe I could hide behind a line of crates and be out of Greaves's line of sight. But the nearest crate was three steps away, two too many.

"Let's go," he said.

As we walked towards the exit, with Greaves standing behind me and watching my every move, I tried my best not to give into panic. I could not believe Greaves could do me harm, but he asserted his intention to have me killed soon. My mind was clouded, and I was unable to think straight. We were climbing up the stairs towards the dark night of Birmingham when I suddenly remembered my prediction from Wendover's machine, and realized I would not be killed that evening, not by Greaves's hand at any rate. I had faith in the machine, and there was a newfound courage in that certainty.

"Bloody snow," Greaves muttered under his breath. The snow from when we got in had formed small puddles in the wooden steps, which were slippery. The machine was correct, and I would not die. I seized my chance and turned back. I did not think. With a swift motion I pushed him down the flight of stairs. I almost lost my balance. Greaves fell some seven feet below. His revolver was thrown far out of his reach, and he was not moving. It looked as if he had hit his head on one of the steps. Quickly, I ran up and closed the door behind me.

I knew he was not dead. The machine had told me.

Under an alias, I caught the first train out of Birmingham to London. Fraught with anxiety all the way, I frantically analyzed the situation and decided what I should do. The machine had stated that I would not die in the hands of Greaves, but I could not be certain that I would not be caught, taken into a prison and died there. There was no chance I could go back to my flat to collect any of my possessions. There was no time.

In Dover I took the ferry to France, and did my best to disappear.

For years I kept my silence, in fear that I would be found. I assumed another name, and have done reasonably well in my new life. For much as it troubled my in the beginning, I do not regret my decision. I lamented having lost my job and my friends, but life has been good to me, and I have done my best to carry on without thinking too much of the past. Or the future. The day my prediction is to become true has not yet come, and I am glad for it. A simple life, with all the simple pleasures of a good wife and a cottage in the country have done marvels for me. All was put behind.

Lately war has broken out, and the machine came back into my mind. I have not seen any indication of the ghastly scenarios Greaves conjectured that night in Birmingham, despite the dire situation the whole of Europe is in. As far as I know, Wendover's machine has either been destroyed or lost. For that I am relieved, because I cannot fathom what the world would be like with such a formidable instrument of mass manipulation, as innocuous as it may look at first. I can only hope that future generations will comprehend the destructive power of the machine -- if it is ever found -- and be sensible enough to destroy it. Once I was convinced that it could be used for good. Today I am skeptical. Maybe in the future, once this is all over, a more reasonable age will see progress where we only saw destruction.

In the middle of the night we hear the wailing sirens from the town nearby, disturbing our quiet, announcing the worst. For the past week we have not been able to relax, and we feel increasingly afraid for civil areas have been more and more targeted. In despair, we seek security under the staircase of the house. We hold each other and try to get through the night. I have kept many secrets from my wife, but that has yet to create a distance between us. She does not understand why the sirens frighten me even more they do her, why they completely paralyze me.

I am kept awake at night knowing that "air weapon" is known in Germany as the Luftwaffe.