The Thinking Machine
A strange and curious story about a fantastic weird machine
that possessed a brute desire to slay—a startling
thrill-tale of an eery invention
I WAS lucky enough to find an empty compartment in the train at Euston; and when I had put my suit-case on the rack above a window-seat, I went out on to the platform to get something to read on the journey. Coming back again, just as the whistle blew, I was slightly put out to find that someone had planted himself, vis-à-vis, in the opposite corner, though all the rest of the seats were empty. I hate conversations with casual strangers in the train; so without a glance at my unwanted companion I opened one of the books I had just bought, and began to read.
Over the edge of the page, I noticed that the fellow was eyeing me as though looking for an opening; so I shifted the book an inch or two higher, hoping that this would choke him off. Then he got to his feet, leaned forward over me, and deliberately examined the label of my suit-case. After that, he sat down again, bent forward, and tapped me on my knee to attract my attention. I had to lower my book.
"I thought it looked like you," he explained; "so I glanced at your name on the label. Don't you remember me? I'm Milton."
Then I recognized him. The watery blue eye was as cold as ever, and I recalled the twist of the bad mouth with its rat-like teeth. He and I had never been more than acquaintances daring our university days. Physics was his line, and I was on title biology side; so we had few contacts. Since then, we had completely lost sight of each other, having nothing in common; and I resented the resurgence of this ghost from the past who would evidently irritate me with his conversation on a long railway journey. I wasn't cordial, I'm afraid. Not that he seemed to mind. He wanted someone to talk to, and I was a gift from the gods.
He discussed the weather, the emptiness of the train, a sore throat he'd had that week, and the chance of a hard winter. When I managed to insert myself into the talk, I mentioned that for the last two years I'd been out of touch with things, botanizing in Central Africa on behalf of a go-ahead drug firm. That didn't interest him, and he fell back on boring reminiscences of our student days. "Do you remember So-and-so?" Extremely tiresome. It seemed to last for hours. And slowly, as I listened to this stream of trivialities, I began to see that the man was all on edge, talking to keep himself from thinking, just a bundle of nerves in bad order. Then I happened to mention Stevenson.
In my student days, Stevenson was marked out as the coming man in physics—heaps of brains, large private means, and a knack of working things out in an incredibly short time, once he started on them. Two characteristics told against him in the scientific world. He was quite unorthodox in his views and he was amazingly secretive until he had finished the piece of research
