Telepathic Pick-up Read Free

perfectly in time. Oh God! The guards. They look grim, grim as the law! Law! It is law! There is no escape. Can I beat them down ? The window. The door. A gun. Rush them when they open the door. They'll kill me. Kill me! The chair!" 
    The doctor's face had gone white and drawn. He seemed turned to stone. His fingers were tight. The machine went on in its monotonous monotone. 
    "A rat is watching. Its eyes are bright. It is a gray rat. How long its nose is. Long and sharp. It is laughing. There. The key is turning. How slowly it grits. The bolt is drawn. The door is opening. It is opening slowly, so slowly. How gray everything is. How strange they look. The chair! There is no chance. Is there a chance? A chance? They are in ... in a group. The guards have many buttons, one, two, three. The priest: how deep his eyes are. His face is very grave. He is talking. The rat is watching. Its eyes are bright, so bright. God save me!" 
    The sounds became incoherent and jangling. The doctor had not moved. The voice became audible again: 
    "Now, walk, walk, walk. Click, click, click. Guards, so grim. I'll run. Useless. There's so much steel. Steel everywhere. I'm caught. I'm caught in the steel. The chair! Death! What will it be? Will it hurt? I must be quiet. I must not tremble. I must be brave. Walk, walk, walk. Now the little door. We are going through. The chamber. How gray it is. Who are these men? There is a crowd. They are grim and sober. Some are white, and trembling. I am trembling. I must be brave. I must smile. But I am going to die! How silent it is. Oh God! 
    "They are strapping me into the chair. I am putty. They are strapping me in. It is cold — so cold. I must be brave. I must smile and joke. But I am going to die. How still it is. They have strapped me in. He has his hand on a lever. He is waiting to kill me. The current is going to be shot. God save me! It is cold. It is so dim. His hand is moving the lever — 
    "Oh Christ! Christ! I am bruised. I am burning. I am burning up. Oh God! . . . Now I am numb. My flesh is sizzling and burning. I can feel it. I am writhing in the chair. But it doesn't hurt now. I can't move. My muscles won't move. I can't close my eyes. My mouth is dropped open. My jaws won't move. Am I paralyzed? Am — am I . . . dead? Dead? No. Everything is the same. I can't be dead. The doctor is examining me. He says, 'I pronounce this man dead.' " 
    There was a pause. The doctor had not moved a muscle. His face was the hue of the grave. His eyes were indescribable, frozen. 
    He had not seized the significance of the last words, apparently, but I had. In spite of the horror I was sunk in, I realized that a theory of Dr. Spaulding's had been proven. 
    It was fully ten years since the doctor had aroused much interest with his attack on the use of the electric chair. It was his theory that in no case did electricity actually kill — that it merely brought on a paresis that simulated death, striking dormant the entire organism. He had cited instances of men struck by lightning, who had recovered, after many days, of total paralysis during which they retained only sight, hearing, and consciousness. Strange it was, and hideous, that tonight the doctor's own brother was proving the theory. The machine spoke again: 
    "The fool. He says I am dead. The fool. I wish I could talk. I would call him a fool. I would laugh at him. But I can't move. 
    "The men are leaving. The guards are unstrapping me. They catch me as I fall. They are taking me out, through the little door. They are taking me down a long hall. 
    "I would like to shout at them. They think I am dead. 
    "The numbness has gone. I can feel their hands holding me. I can feel more intensely than before. 
    "They are carrying me into a room. What are they going to do? My God, are they going to bury me? No, it is the prison hospital. They are going to bring me to life. Thank the good God! They lay me on a table, the guards. But are they the