Uncle Ted led Robert through the hall to the dark kitchen at the back of the house.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Robert,” he said. “It is very exciting news. I can’t wait to show you my machine. I don’t know who else I’m going to show it to, though. I don’t know whether the world is ready yet for this sort of innovation.”
“The world probably isn’t ready, Uncle Ted,” said Robert. “It’s best to keep your discovery under wraps for now. There’s no telling how people would behave if they knew you could raise the dead. They’d probably all come clamouring to your door, wanting you to resurrect their dead friends and relatives for them, and that’s the last thing you want.”
Ted nodded.
“Good thinking,” he said. “I knew I could rely on you for sound advice, Robert. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Robert was bursting with curiosity about his Uncle’s invention, even though he thought it wouldn’t work. He didn’t want to waste any time on tea and idle chatter, because he couldn’t wait to see the machine in action. However, he still wanted to appear sociable.
“Yes, please, Uncle. I’ll have it white with no sugar.”
While Ted was brewing up, Robert took advantage of the opportunity to study him.
He was bald on top and had clumps of white hair sprouting from the sides of his head. He stooped slightly, and was wearing a white lab coat. Most importantly, he seemed no madder than Robert had remembered him from their last meeting, so perhaps there was just a glimmer of hope that Uncle Ted might not be completely out of his mind, and that he might even be onto something.
“Here you are, young man,” said Ted, putting two cracked and grubby mugs on the table.
“Thank you Uncle,” said Robert.
He raised one of the mugs to his lips then noticed the stains around the rim and put it down again.
“Now, about this invention of yours, The Lazarus Engine,” Robert said. “You’ve obviously finished it. How do you know that it works?”
“Because I’ve followed the scientific principles necessary to make sure that it will work,” said Uncle Ted.
“What I mean,” said Robert, “is this: have you tested it? If so, who have you raised from the dead?”
“No-one, of course,” said Uncle Ted. “You can’t go around raising people from the dead, can you? It wouldn’t be right, would it? There’s no telling where you’d end up. It’s like you’ve said, the next thing you’d know is that half of Croydon would be hammering at my door wanting me to resurrect their dead relatives.”
Robert’s heart sank. Now that he knew that the Lazarus Engine had never been tested, he knew that his fantasies of success in the TV industry would remain just that: idle fantasies.
Still, he was so desperate to hold onto his job that he felt he ought to push his uncle into testing the machine, even though he knew, deep down, that it was doomed to failure.
“I agree,” said Robert. “I’m not suggesting for an instant that you should go around raising all and sundry from the dead, but don’t you think you should conduct at least two full tests of your machine, in secret, to make sure that it works?”
“I suppose you’re right, Robert,” said Uncle Ted. “But why do we need two tests? Why not just one?”
“Well,” said Robert, “It wouldn’t be right to test it on a person straight away, because the process might go horribly wrong and cause distress. What we ought to do is to test it on an animal, a bit like the big cosmetic companies do with makeup. Then, if it all goes wrong, at least it’s only an animal that you’ve messed up, and you know not to test your machine on a human being. On the other hand, if it works on an animal, and the animal suffers no harm, we could go ahead and test it on a person.”
“Jolly good,” said Uncle Ted. “I like your approach, Robert. Now all we need to do is to find a dead animal.”
“I’ve already got one,” said Robert, helpfully.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Do you have some gardening gloves and a cardboard box please, uncle?” Robert asked.
Uncle Ted went to the cupboard where he kept his gardening gloves stored next to the crockery. He opened the cupboard and Robert immediately smelled something unpleasant. He made a mental note not to drink any of his uncle’s tea.
“I last used them to clean up after Henderson messed in the kitchen,” said Uncle Ted.
“Who’s Henderson?” Robert asked.
“The neighbour’s cat,” said Uncle Ted.
Uncle Ted handed the gloves to Robert. They were ancient and covered in something that looked dubious. Robert took the gloves from his uncle, being careful to avoid touching the worst of the mucky looking stuff that was clinging to them, and put them on.
“I have a few boxes in the spare room,” said Ted, leaving the kitchen and walking down the hall. Robert followed him.
Uncle Ted was a brilliant scientist but he was also absent minded, so he often forgot to take a bag with him when he went out shopping. When this happened, he’d ask the shopkeeper to give him a box to carry the shopping home in. After emptying the box in his kitchen, Uncle Ted would tell himself that he might find a use for the box someday, and he’d store the box in the spare room. Consequently, when Uncle Ted opened the door to the spare room and showed Robert in, he was confronted by a mountain of boxes. He selected one and went out into the garden and picked Henderson up and placed him carefully in the box.
“Oh dear,” said Uncle Ted, when he looked into the box and saw its ghastly contents. “That looks like Henderson. I do hope that my machine does work, otherwise Mrs. Thompson is going to be most upset.”
“Who’s Mrs. Thompson?” Robert asked anxiously.
“She lives at number forty-three,” said Uncle Ted. “Henderson is her pet cat and she loves him. He’s the only company she has, most of the time.”
Robert felt fresh waves of guilt pass over him when he heard about Mrs. Thompson and he fervently prayed that his Uncle’s machine would do what it was supposed to.
“Your machine will work, won’t it, Uncle?” He said. “I don’t want this on my conscience.”
“What on your conscience?” Uncle Ted asked.
“I’m afraid that Henderson looks like an extra-large dinner plate because of me,” said Robert. “I ran over him a little while ago.”
Robert’s Uncle smiled reassuringly.
“Yes, I’m sure it will work, Robert,” he said. “Follow me down to the laboratory.”
He opened the door to the cellar and they both descended the stone stairs.
The walls and ceiling of the cellar were painted brilliant white, and the floor was covered in white tiles. It was brightly lit by an array of strip-lights on the ceiling.
There were workbenches around the perimeter of the cellar, and on top of the workbenches there were power tools, circuit boards, copper pipes, electronic measuring devices, welding torches and computer screens. In the middle of the cellar there was a huge machine made of steel, plastic, and copper, with cables and tubes trailing from it in all directions. It resembled a CT scanner and it incorporated a metal bed that looked as if it might have been made for someone to lie on.
Uncle Ted pointed to the metal bed.
“You can put Henderson there for now,” he said.
Robert put the box containing Henderson onto the metal bed.
His uncle went to one of the computers around the perimeter of the room and switched it on and typed a set of coded instructions on the keyboard.
The Lazarus Engine began to hum. The metal bed slid silently on steel rails into the body of the machine and Henderson disappeared from view. The humming got louder and the strip-lights flickered due to the amount of power that the machine consumed. A strange blue glow emanated from the innards of the machine. After a few minutes the humming subsided, and the metal bed slid back into view, with Henderson still on it, lying motionless in his box.