He could carry weights while levitating. The process became slower, but there was no increase in effort.
The day before he had come on Jane without warning, a stop watch in one hand.
'How much do you weigh?' he asked.
'One hundred ten,' she replied. She gazed at him uncertainly.
He seized her waist with one arm. She tried to push him away but he paid no attention. Together, they moved upwards at a creeping pace. She clung to him, white and rigid with terror.
'Twenty-two minutes thirteen seconds,' he said, when his head nudged the ceiling.
When they came down again, Jane tore away and hurried out of the room.
Some days before he had passed a drug-store scale, standing shabbily on a street corner. The street was empty, so he stepped on and put in his penny. Even though he suspected something of the sort, it was a shock to find himself weighing thirty pounds.
He began carrying handfuls of pennies and weighing himself under all conditions. He was heavier on days on which there was a brisk wind, as though he required weight to keep from blowing away.
Adjustment was automatic. Whatever it was that levitated him maintained a balance between comfort and safety. But he could enforce conscious control upon his levitation just as he could upon his respiration. He could stand on a scale and force the pointer up to almost his full weight and down, of course, to nothing.
He bought a scale two days before and tried to measure the rate at which he could change weight. That didn't help. The rate, whatever it was, was faster than the pointer could swing. All he did was collect data on moduli of compressibility and moments of inertia.
Well - what did it all amount to anyway?
He stood up and trudged out of the library, shoulders drooping. He touched tables and chairs as he walked to the side of the room and then kept his hand unobtrusively on the wall. He had to do that, he felt. Contact with matter kept him continually informed as to his status with respect to the ground, If his hand lost touch with a table or slid upwards against the wall - that was it.
The corridor had the usual sprinkling of students. He ignored them. In these last days, they had gradually learned to stop greeting him. Roger imagined that some had come to think of him as queer and most were probably growing to dislike him.
He passed by the elevator. He never took it any more; going down, particularly. When the elevator made its initial drop, he found it impossible not to lift into the air for just a moment. No matter how he lay in wait for the moment, he hopped and people would turn to look at him.
He reached for the railing at the head of the stairs and just before his hand touched it, one of his feet kicked the other. It was the most ungainly stumble that could be imagined. Three weeks earlier, Roger would have sprawled down the stairs.
This time his autonomic system took over and, leaning forward, spread-eagled, fingers wide, legs half-buckled, he sailed down the flight gliderlike. He might have been on wires.
He was too dazed to right himself, too paralysed with horror to do anything. Within two feet of the window at the bottom of the flight, he came to an automatic halt and hovered.
There were two students on the flight he had come down, both now pressed against the wall, three more at the head of the stairs, two on the flight below, and one on the landing with him, so close they could almost touch one another.
It was very silent. They all looked at him.
Roger straightened himself, dropped to the ground and ran down the stairs, pushing one student roughly out of his way.
Conversation swirled up into exclamation behind him.
'Dr Morton wants to see me?' Roger turned in his chair, holding one of its arms firmly.
The new department secretary nodded. 'Yes, Dr Toomey.'
She left quickly. In the short time since Miss Harroway had resigned, she had learned that Dr Toomey had something 'wrong' with him. The students avoided him. In his lecture room today, the back seats had been full of whispering students. The front seats had been empty.
Roger looked into the small wall mirror near the door. He adjusted his jacket and brushed some lint off but that operation did little to improve his appearance. His complexion had grown sallow. He had lost at least ten pounds since all this had started, though, of course, he had no way of really knowing his exact weight loss. He was generally unhealthy-looking, as though his digestion perpetually disagreed with him and won every argument.
He had no apprehensions about this interview with the chairman of the department. He had reached a pronounced cynicism concerning the levitation incidents. Apparently, witnesses didn't talk. Miss Harroway hadn't. There was no sign that the students on the staircase had.
With a last touch at his tie, he left his office.
Dr Philip Morton's office was not too far down the hall, which was a gratifying fact to Roger. More and more, he was cultivating the habit of walking with systematic slowness. He picked up one foot and put it before him, watching. Then he picked up the other and put it before him, still watching. He moved along in a confirmed stoop, gazing at his feet.
Dr Morton frowned as Roger walked in. He had little eyes, wore a poorly trimmed grizzled mustache and an untidy suit. He had a moderate reputation in the scientific world and a decided penchant for leaving teaching duties to the members of his staff.
He said, 'Say, Toomey, I got the strangest letter from Linus Deering. Did you write to him on' - he consulted a paper on his desk - 'the twenty-second of last month. Is this your signature?'
Roger looked and nodded. Anxiously, he tried to read Deering's letter upside down. This was unexpected. Of the letters he had sent out the day of the Miss Harroway incident, only four had so far been answered.
Three of them had consisted of cold one-paragraph replies that read, more or less: 'This is to acknowledge receipt of your letter of the twenty-second. I do not believe I can help you in the matter you discuss.' A fourth, from Ballantine of Northwestern Tech, had bumblingly suggested an institute for psychic research. Roger couldn't tell whether he was trying to be helpful or insulting.
Deering of Princeton made five. He had had high hopes of Deering.
Dr Morton cleared his throat loudly and adjusted a pair of glasses. 'I want to read you what he says. Sit down, Toomey, sit down. He says: "Dear Phil--'"
Dr Morton looked up briefly with a slightly fatuous smile. 'Linus and I met at Federation meetings last year. We had a few drinks together. Very nice fellow.'
He adjusted his glasses again and returned to the letter: '"Dear Phil: Is there a Dr Roger Toomey in your department? I received a very queer letter from him the other day. I didn't quite know what to make of it. At first, I thought I'd just let it go as another crank letter. Then I thought that since the letter carried your department heading, you ought to know of it. It's just possible someone may be using your staff as part of a confidence game. I'm enclosing Dr Toomey's letter for your inspection. I hope to be visiting your part of the country--"
'Well, the rest of it is personal.' Dr Morton folded the letter, took off his glasses, put them in a leather container and put that in his breast pocket. He twined his fingers together and leaned forwards.
'Now,' he said, 'I don't have to read you your own letter. Was it a joke? A hoax?'
'Dr Morton,' said Roger, heavily, 'I was serious. I don't see anything wrong with my letter. I sent it to quite a few physicists. It speaks for itself. I've made observations on a case of... of levitation and I wanted information about possible theoretical explanations for such a phenomenon.'
'Levitation! Really!'
'It's a legitimate case, Dr Morton.'
'You've observed it yourself?'
'Of course.'
'No hidden wires? No mirrors? Look here, Toomey, you're no expert on these frauds.'
'This was a thoroughly scientific series of observations. There is no possibility of fraud.'
'You might have consulted me, Toomey, before sending out these letters.'
&
nbsp; 'Perhaps I should have, Dr Morton, but, frankly, I thought you might be - unsympathetic.'
'Well, thank you. I should hope so. And on department stationery. I'm really surprised, Toomey. Look here, Toomey, your life is your own. If you wish to believe in levitation, go ahead, but strictly in your own time. For the sake of the department and the college, it should be obvious that this sort of thing should not be injected into your scholastic affairs.
'In point of fact, you've lost some weight recently, haven't you, Toomey? Yes, you don't look well at all. I'd see a doctor, if I were you. A nerve specialist, perhaps.'
Roger said, bitterly, 'A psychiatrist might be better, you think?'
'Well, that's entirely your business. In any case, a little rest--'
The telephone had rung and the secretary had taken the call. She caught Dr Morton's eye and he picked up his extension.
He said, 'Hello . . . Oh, Dr Smithers, yes ... Um-m-m . . . Yes . . . Concerning whom? . . . Well, in point of fact, he's with me right now . . . Yes . . . Yes, immediately.'
He cradled the phone and looked at Roger thoughtfully. 'The Dean wants to see both of us.'
'What about, sir?'
'He didn't say.' He got up and stepped to the door. 'Are you coming, Toomey?'
'Yes, sir.' Roger rose slowly to his feet, cramming the toe of one foot carefully under Dr Morton's desk as he did so.
Dean Smithers was a lean man with a long, ascetic face. He had a mouthful of false teeth that fitted just badly enough to give his sibilants a peculiar half-whistle.
'Close the door, Miss Bryce,' he said, 'and I'll take no phone calls for a while. Sit down, gentlemen.'
He stared at them portentously and added, 'I think I had better get right to the point. I don't know exactly what Dr Toomey is doing, but he must stop.'
Dr Morton turned upon Roger in amazement. 'What have you been doing?'
Roger shrugged dispiritedly, 'Nothing that I can help.' He had underestimated student tongue-wagging after all.
'Oh, come, come.' The Dean registered impatience. 'I'm sure I don't know how much of the story to discount, but it seems you must have been engaging in parlour tricks; silly parlour tricks quite unsuited to the spirit and dignity of this institution.'
Dr Morton said, 'This is all beyond me.'
The Dean frowned. 'It seems you haven't heard, then. It is amazing to me how the faculty can remain in complete ignorance of matters that fairly saturate the student body. I had never realized it before. I myself heard of it by accident; by a very fortunate accident, in fact, since I was able to intercept a newspaper reporter who arrived this morning looking for someone he called "Dr Toomey, the flying professor".'
'What?' cried Dr Morton.
Roger listened haggardly.
'That's what the reporter said. I quote him. It seems one of our students had called the paper. I ordered the newspaper man out and had the student sent to my office. According to him, Dr Toomey flew - I use the word, "flew", because that's what the student insisted on calling it - down a flight of stairs and then back up again. He claimed there were a dozen witnesses.'
'I went down the stairs only,' muttered Roger.
Dean Smithers was tramping up and down along his carpet now. He had worked himself up into a feverish eloquence. 'Now mind you, Toomey, I have nothing against amateur theatricals. In my stay in office I have consistently fought against stuffiness and false dignity. I have encouraged friendliness between ranks in the faculty and have not even objected to reasonable fraternization with students. So I have no objection to your putting on a show for the students in your own home. 'Surely you see what could happen to the college once an irresponsible press is done with us. Shall we have a flying-professor craze succeed the flying-saucer craze? If the reporters get in touch with you, Dr Toomey, I will expect you to deny all such reports categorically.'
'I understand, Dean Smithers.'
'I trust that we shall escape this incident without lasting damage. I must ask you, with all the firmness at my command, never to repeat your ... uh ... performance. If you ever do, your resignation will be requested. Do you understand, Dr Toomey?'
'Yes,' said Roger.
'In that case, good day, gentlemen.'
Dr Morton steered Roger back into his office. This time, he shooed his secretary and closed the door behind her carefully.
'Good heavens, Toomey,' he whispered, 'has this madness any connection with your letter on levitation?'
Roger's nerves were beginning to twang. 'Isn't it obvious? I was referring to myself in those letters.'
'You can fly? I mean, levitation?'
'Either word you choose.'
'I never heard of such - damn it, Toomey, did Miss Harroway ever see you levitate?'
'Once. It was an accid--'
'Of course. It's obvious now. She was so hysterical it was hard to make out. She said you had jumped at her. It sounded as though she was accusing you of... of -' Dr Morton looked embarrassed. 'Well, I didn't believe that. She was a good secretary, you understand, but obviously . not one designed to attract the attention of a young man. I was actually relieved when she left. I thought she would be carrying a small revolver next, or accusing me - you . . . you levitated, eh?'
'Yes.'
'How do you do it?'
Roger shook his head. 'That's my problem. I don't know.'
Dr Morton allowed himself a smile. 'Surely, you don't repeal the law of gravity?'
'You know, I think I do. There must be antigravity involved somehow.'
Dr Morton's indignation at having a joke taken seriously was marked. He said, 'Look here, Toomey, this is nothing to laugh at.'
'Laugh at. Great Scott, Dr Morton, do I look as though I were laughing?'
'Well - you need a rest. No question about it. A little rest and this nonsense of yours will pass. I'm sure of it.'
'It's not nonsense.' Roger bowed his head a moment, then said, in a quieter tone, 'I tell you what, Dr Morton, would you like to go into this with me? In some way this will open new horizons in physical science. I don't know how it works; I just can't conceive of any solution. The two of us together--'
Dr Morton's look of horror penetrated by that time.
Roger said, 'I know it all sounds queer. But I'll demonstrate for you. It's perfectly legitimate. I wish it weren't.'
'Now, now,' Dr Morton sprang from his seat. 'Don't exert yourself. You need a rest badly. I don't think you should wait till June. You go home right now. I'll see that your salary comes through and I'll look after your course. I used to give it myself once, you know.'
'Dr Morton. This is important.'
'I know. I know.' Dr Morton clapped Roger on the shoulder. 'Still, my boy, you look under the weather. Speaking frankly, you look like hell. You need a long rest.'
'I can levitate.' Roger's voice was climbing again. 'You're just trying to get rid of me because you don't believe me. Do you think I'm lying? What would be my motive?'
'You're exciting yourself needlessly, my boy. You let me make a phone call. I'll have someone take you home.'
'I tell you I can levitate,' shouted Roger.
Dr Morton turned red. 'Look, Toomey, let's not discuss it. I don't care if you fly up in the air right this minute.'
'You mean seeing isn't believing as far as you're concerned?'
'Levitation? Of course not.' The department chairman was bellowing. 'If I saw you fly, I'd see an optometrist or a psychiatrist. I'd sooner believe myself insane than that the law of physics--'
He caught himself, harrumphed loudly. 'Well, as I said, let's not discuss it. I'll just make this phone call.'
'No"need, sir. No need,' said Roger. 'I'll go. I'll take my rest. Good-bye.'
He walked out rapidly, moving more quickly than at any time in days. Dr Morton, on his feet, hands flat on his desk, looked at his departing back with relief.
James Sarle, MD, was in the living room when Roger arrived home. He was lighting his pipe as Roger stepped through
the door, one large-knuckled hand enclosing the bowl. He shook out the match and his ruddy face crinkled into a smile.
'Hello, Roger. Resigning from the human race? Haven't heard from you in over a month.'
His black eyebrows met above the bridge of his nose, giving him a rather forbidding appearance that somehow helped him establish the proper atmosphere with his patients.
Roger turned to Jane, who sat buried in an armchair. As usual lately, she had a look of wan exhaustion on her face.
Roger said to her, 'Why did you bring him here?'
'Hold it! Hold it, man,' said Sarle. 'Nobody brought me. I met Jane downtown this morning and invited myself here. I'm bigger than she is. She couldn't keep me out.'
'Met her by coincidence, I suppose? Do you make appointments for all your coincidences?'
Sarle laughed. 'Let's put it this way. She told me a little about what's been going on.'
Jane said, wearily, 'I'm sorry if you disapprove, Roger, but it was the first chance I had to talk to someone who would understand.'
'What makes you think he understands? Tell me, Jim, do you believe her story?'
Sarle said, 'It's not an easy thing to believe. You'll admit that. But I'm trying.'
'All right, suppose I flew. Suppose I levitated right now. What would you do?'
'Faint, maybe. Maybe I'd say, "Holy Pete." Maybe I'd burst out laughing. Why don't you try, and then we'll see?'
Roger stared at him. 'You really want to see it?'
'Why shouldn't I?'
'The ones that have seen it screamed or ran or froze with horror. Can you take it, Jim?'
'I think so.'
'OK.' Roger slipped two feet upwards and executed a slow ten-fold entrechat. He remained in the air, toes pointed downwards, legs together, arms gracefully outstretched in bitter parody.
'Better than Nijinski, eh, Jim?'
Sarle did none of the things he suggested he might do. Except for catching his pipe as it dropped, he did nothing at all.
Jane had closed her eyes. Tears squeezed quietly through the lids.
Sarle said, 'Come down, Roger.'
Roger did so. He took a seat and said, 'I wrote to physicists, men of reputation. I explained the situation in an impersonal way. I said I thought it ought to be investigated. Most of them ignored me. One of them wrote to old man Morton to ask if I were crooked or crazy.'