The
Whiskies
The
photograph shows a polychromatic blur in front of the old green
couch. No details can be discerned, but somehow the impression of
movement is inescapable.
The
whiskies do not invariably come out in the late afternoon. That is a
misconception too oft repeated by those who do not trouble themselves
to learn the facts. Nevertheless, if one wishes to observe their
quaint antics, 3:00 to 4:00 p.m. would be a good choice of time. It
was my daughter who named them the whiskies. The appellation’s
frivolity is balanced by its aptness—the whiskies whisk.
Dad
thinks he found ‘em but it was really me. He reads the paper every
afternoon in the living room, and I play dolls on the floor behind
him. He doesn’t mind if I am quiet. The sun shines in through the
big window and I like to watch the dust motes dancing in the
sunbeams. I imagine they are great lords and ladies at a royal ball.
The whiskies like the sunbeams too.
The
whiskies cannot be seen by the unaided human eye (though I hope to
photograph them using a device that employs both infrared and
ultraviolet light). Their gyrations disturb the Brownian trajectories
of the floating motes of dust and so one may perceive them
indirectly. They move forward and back in a repetitive fashion not
unlike that of a small broom.
You
can’t really see ‘em but you know they’re there. They sweep up
the sunbeams and I don’t know what they do with them. I think they
have very long hair, and they use their hair to do the sweeping. I’m
not really sure, but I think they drink the sunbeams. They always
seem thinner after it’s been cloudy for a few days.
My
daughter thinks that the whiskies somehow consume sunlight. If this
were true, it seems that the room would dim when they are here, but
my radiometer indicates the opposite. The physical mechanism for any
whisky-induced increase in light intensity is obscure, but I am
confident that additional tests will allow me to determine how it is
accomplished. It seems to me that the whiskies might respond to an
influx of additional energy, and this is the focus of my current
research.
When
the sun gets real low late in the day, the whiskies cluster so
thickly in front of the green couch that you almost can
see them. That’s when their whisking seems so much like a dance
that I want to join in. I’ve been afraid to, because I didn’t
want to scare them, but yesterday I was sure they were inviting me,
and I almost ran out on the old Persian carpet with them to dance.
Today I will.
I
am going to try a new experiment today. I will flood the area in
front of the couch with infrared and ultraviolet light, while running
a current through coils I placed beneath the floor only this morning.
I have rigged my best camera to expose a plate for the briefest
instant when the energy input is at its peak. I am hoping to see, and
capture for posterity, something truly remarkable.
The
house has long been deserted, and no one has been able to tell me the
present address of Professor Carstairs. The old-timers agree that he
took a westbound train two weeks after the mysterious disappearance
of his daughter, and that is all they can tell me.
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