Phantoms of Reality Ray Cummings

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Phantoms of Reality  by  Ray Cummings

Phantoms of Reality by Ray Cummings
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Red Sensuas knife came up dripping—and the two adventurers knew that chaos and bloody revolution had been unleashed in that shadowy kingdom of the fourth dimension.ExcerptWhen I was some fifteen years old, I once made the remark, Why, thatsMoreRed Sensuas knife came up dripping—and the two adventurers knew that chaos and bloody revolution had been unleashed in that shadowy kingdom of the fourth dimension.ExcerptWhen I was some fifteen years old, I once made the remark, Why, thats impossible.The man to whom I spoke was a scientist.

He replied gently, My boy, when you are grown older and wiser you will realize that nothing is impossible.Somehow, that statement stayed with me. In our swift-moving wonderful world I have seen it proven many times. They once thought it impossible to tell what lay across the broad, unknown Atlantic Ocean. They thought the vault of the heavens revolved around the earth. It was impossible for it to do anything else, because they could see it revolve. It was impossible, too, for anything to be alive and yet be so small that one might not see it. But the microscope proved the contrary.

Or again, to talk beyond the normal range of the human voice was impossible, until the telephone came to show how simply and easily it might be done.I never forgot that physicians remark. And it was repeated to me some ten years later by my friend, Captain Derek Mason, on that memorable June night of 1929.My name is Charles Wilson. I was twenty-five that June of 1929. Although I had lived all of my adult life in New York City, I had no relatives there and few friends.I had known Captain Mason for several years. Like myself, he seemed one who walked alone in life.

He was an English gentleman, perhaps thirty years old. He had been stationed in the Bermudas, I understood, though he seldom spoke of it.I always felt that I had never seen so attractive a figure of a man as this Derek Mason. An English aristocrat, he was, straight and tall and dark, and rather rakish, with a military swagger. He affected a small, black mustache. A handsome, debonair fellow, with an easy grace of manner: a modern dArtagnan. In an earlier, less civilized age, he would have been expert with sword and stick, I could not doubt. A man who could capture the hearts of women with a look.

He had always been to me a romantic figure, and a mystery that seemed to shroud him made him no less so.



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