 THE RIDDLE OF TANYE
by W. P. Cockroft
(Author of "The Alien Room," "The Thing in the Ice," etc.)
How real are dreams? Tate's experiment started out as psychological, but the 
four lives of Hoffman were just a little more than mere brain-figments. A 
novelette you will remember.



CHAPTER I
THE RAIN CAME down in a deluge over the windswept Yorkshire moors. One lone 
figure fought his way, staggering, along the rough path, cursing as the rain and 
wind smote him, preventing him from going as quickly as he wished, and drenching 
him to the skin. At last there loomed before him, out of the mist, a large 
gateway, strangely out of place in this deserted spot. The gates were open; he 
passed through them, clutching tightly to him with one hand his raincoat, and 
with the other gripping the heavy case he carried.
Stunted bushes lined the neglected drive he followed and the wind moaned 
ceaselessly.
"What an infernal place to have a home!" The traveler grunted.
Through the driving mist there showed before him a large house. It bore a 
dilapidated appearance and promised no comfort to the dispirited traveler. He 
staggered to the door and used the iron knocker with such force that it echoed 
and reechoed throughout the building. Impatiently he knocked again as no answer 
was forthcoming. Then there was the sound of footsteps, bolts were withdrawn, 
and the door was flung open.
"Hoffman!" exclaimed the man inside. "I am glad you've come."
Hoffman pushed his way into the house and dropped his case while the other shut 
the door. Then they turned to look at each other.
"You haven't changed much," remarked the host as they shook hands.
Hoffman smiled. "Nor have you, Tate," he returned. "Five years ago, and you do 
not look a day different."
"We'll discuss things later," Tate said, briskly. "First of all you want a 
change. I'll take you to your room."
"Yes. Why on earth do you live in a place like this? I couldn't even get a taxi 
from the station."
"Good reasons," the other grinned. "We'll talk after you have changed and had 
something to eat."
IT WAS half an hour later when Hoffman faced his host at the front of a roaring 
fire.
"Now let's get down to it," he said. "If you knew how curious I was, you would 
not keep me in suspense."
Tate lighted his pipe before speaking "You are impatient," he grunted. "All 
right. You will remember that eight years ago, when I used to talk about other 
dimensions, you often said that if you tired of this life I ought to propel you 
into another life. That was because I thought I could make a machine to do so."
"Correct," murmured the other man.
"Yes. Well, it is five years ago that you married. I did not like your wife and 
she didn't like me. Your marriage to her meant the breaking of our friendship. 
But still you wrote to me, perhaps in defiance of her wishes. Yet you never came 
to visit me. So things went until I received news from you that you were getting 
a divorce. I had expected that. I had also expected the bitterness which 
characterized your letter. It was obvious that you were at a loose end. And so I 
asked you to visit me, knowing the mood you would be in. I want to make an 
experiment, and if you are ready to take a few chances, you can take part in 
it."
"What is this experiment?"
"Patience, Hoffman. You recall that in your schooldays--days when we really did 
enjoy ourselves--you often bemoaned the fact that time seemed to fly," observed 
Tate.
"I did," confessed Hoffman. "You cannot deny that it seems to fly, especially 
our happier days. There seems to be no method of preventing time's flight."
"I wonder!"
"What do you mean? Do you think we can find a method of stopping it?"
"My dear friend, only Change is existent. Time never was a reality."
"Tell me what you are getting at."
"I will," replied Tate. "You have dreamed, and you know the fact that has been a 
never-ending source of wonder to you: that you can dream hours in a few seconds. 
Is that not so?"
"That's true. Concentrated life," Hoffman ventured.
"Exactly." Tate was pleased. "I am glad you used that term. Within the space of 
a few seconds you live several hours. If your life was a very happy one, you 
would want it to last an unlimited length of time, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, but--"
"Let me put it in another way. Some of your dreams are more pleasant than life. 
Is that correct?"
Hoffman smiled wryly. "Quite a lot of them. No financial worries, no matrimonial 
troubles. . . . No hatred. . . . 
"HOW WOULD YOU like to live continuously for four hours in dreams? Would you 
care to risk some of them being abnormal?"
"I would risk it for four hours, even if the experience was ghastly. Nothing 
terrible could really happen to me, could it? My physical body could undergo no 
hardship, not being in the dream with me?"
"That is true. It is a matter of bringing the thing we call time into touch with 
dreams. I can put you into the dream-state for hours at a time. In that 
dream-state there will be no such thing as time, because time is man-created and 
is not even an actual thing. Do you understand me?"
"Not exactly."
Tate shook his head. "My dear young friend, you seem in a dense mood, if I may 
say so. I remember that in the old days you would have gathered what I meant 
immediately."
"A lot has happened since then," returned Hoffman. He thought a minute. "Do you 
mean to say that in the dream-state I can live in any period?" he said at last.
"Yes."
"But how shall I pass from this period into another period? How is the 
transition effected?"
"That is easily done. While you are dreaming, I shall create the artificial 
atmosphere of the period I wish you to be in."
"It sounds crazy to me."
"Hoffman! You are such a doubter!"
"I like to see proof of things before I believe."
"Er--do you believe in God?"
"Yes, but there is plenty of proof."
Tate held up his hand. "Not so fast, my friend. These things about you which you 
attribute to the work of a God may have come by chance."
"What of--"
"Stop! I have no wish to enter into a metaphysical argument with you. I am quite 
prepared to offer you proof of this concentrated existence."
"Proof? What proof can you offer me?"
Tate glanced at his watch. "It is a quarter to eight. I will give you four hours 
from eight till midnight. All is prepared. If you are ready for your long period 
of life, I am ready to give it you."
"Right."
Tate rose to his feet and, Hoffman following, went along a passage to one 
solitary door at the end. This he unlocked and they passed in.
Hoffman whistled. "Fine place you have here," he said, taking in the well-filled 
laboratory.
"Not bad," Tate remarked, absently. "However, it is not as complete as I would 
have it. That case in the center of the room is your dreaming-chamber."
Hoffman crossed to the large glass case and stared at it. There flashed across 
his brain the thought that it looked like a coffin. He stared up to see Tate 
eyeing him, inscrutably.
"How do you create the effects?" Hoffman asked.
"As yet that is my secret. I shall elucidate to you at a later period. When you 
are ready, we will begin."
Hoffman crawled into the case, lying down on the soft cloth which covered the 
floor of it. Tate carefully closed the glass pane. The other man lay still, 
filled with a sudden fear of this confinement. He stared at the top of the case, 
in which was a row of holes and from which rose a welter of tubes. He laughed 
shortly, thinking what a quaint experiment it was. What was he reminded of? An 
insect prepared for dissection, perhaps.... He shivered at that thought, and 
glanced out for Tate. The inventor was busy moving before a large panel on the 
wall. He did not look back at Hoffman. Apparently something was troubling him, 
for there was a frown on his face. Suddenly his brow cleared, and he crossed to 
another panel in the wall. A row of bulbs flickered into light, and Hoffman 
heard a purring noise. Somehow that noise seemed like a lullaby to Hoffman, for 
he felt himself drifting, drifting, drifting. . . .



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