on the attempted isolation and analysis of ectenic force.”
“Ectenic force?” Olafson repeated.
“Yes. That’s especially interesting, isn’t it? ‘Ectenic force,’otherwise known as ectoplasm, was the substance believed to be emitted by spiritual mediums during séances, for purposes such as telekinesis or communicating with the dead. It was studied rather intensively in the late nineteenth century, but interest waned after that.” He paused. “Why would scientists at Lux have revived such a study?”
“I can’t imagine,” Olafson said. “Surely the files themselves must have given you an indication.”
“Therein lies the problem. While the files gave clear indications that these projects, and a few others, were gaining traction over the course of several years, there was a remarkable paucity of hard data on any of them—the names of the scientists involved, specifics on the nature of the work, data from experiments or tests or observations. Other files in the archives, by comparison, were stuffed full of information.”
Logan sat back again. “The files in question share another commonality. They all cease abruptly around the same time—early in 1930.”
Olafson rubbed his chin. “Do you have a theory?”
“I have the beginnings of one. I’ll get to it in a minute. But let’s return to the gap in your records. I did a comparative analysis of the amount of data in the Lux archives between 1920 and 1940. It was a quick-and-dirty analysis, but it nevertheless seemed clear to me that the years between 1930 and 1935 have less archival material than the rest. Sometimes a little less; sometimes rather more.”
Olafson looked at him, saying nothing.
“So: my hypothesis. There were several projects under way at Lux in the late 1920s that, around 1930, merged into a single project. This project continued until 1935, when—for whatever reason—it was suddenly abandoned.”
“And you think this was the so-called Project Sin,” the director said.
“Made visible by its very absence,” Logan replied. “Because in 1935, Lux’s records resumed their normal volume. I believe that whoever removed those files also sealed the secret room.”
“Which—I assume—you believe was the location for that project’s research?”
“What other assumption can I make?”
For a moment, a strange look came over Olafson’s face. Instantly, Logan sensed what it was: the look of a man who had just fitted two pieces of a puzzle together.
“What is it?” he asked quickly.
Olafson did not answer immediately. Then he roused himself. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve just thought of something. What is it?”
Olafson hesitated. “Oh, nothing. I’m just trying to absorb all these deductions of yours, that’s all, get them straight in my mind.”
“I see. Well, I’d like to ask you a favor. Could you get me a list of all the Fellows who were working here at Lux from, say, 1930 to 1935?”
“A list,” Olafson repeated.
“As I told you, all the names of the scientists had been redacted from the files. If I could learn who was involved, perhaps I could work backward and discover more about the actual project.”
“I’m afraid that would be quite impossible. We don’t keep any such list—never did. Some people have reasons to keep their work, and their time at Lux, to themselves. If somebody wants to add their period at Lux to their curriculum vitae, that’s their business…but we make it a point never to broadcast it.”
Logan looked speculatively at him for a moment. Throughout the conversation, the director had proven singularly unhelpful.
“In any case, I don’t see what any of this has to do with Strachey’s death,” Olafson went on. “And that, after all, is why I summoned you here.”
Logan took a new tack. “I wasn’t allowed into archive two,” he said. “I was told something about level-A access. What is that? I thought I had unrestricted access to Lux’s records.”
It took
“Ectenic force?” Olafson repeated.
“Yes. That’s especially interesting, isn’t it? ‘Ectenic force,’otherwise known as ectoplasm, was the substance believed to be emitted by spiritual mediums during séances, for purposes such as telekinesis or communicating with the dead. It was studied rather intensively in the late nineteenth century, but interest waned after that.” He paused. “Why would scientists at Lux have revived such a study?”
“I can’t imagine,” Olafson said. “Surely the files themselves must have given you an indication.”
“Therein lies the problem. While the files gave clear indications that these projects, and a few others, were gaining traction over the course of several years, there was a remarkable paucity of hard data on any of them—the names of the scientists involved, specifics on the nature of the work, data from experiments or tests or observations. Other files in the archives, by comparison, were stuffed full of information.”
Logan sat back again. “The files in question share another commonality. They all cease abruptly around the same time—early in 1930.”
Olafson rubbed his chin. “Do you have a theory?”
“I have the beginnings of one. I’ll get to it in a minute. But let’s return to the gap in your records. I did a comparative analysis of the amount of data in the Lux archives between 1920 and 1940. It was a quick-and-dirty analysis, but it nevertheless seemed clear to me that the years between 1930 and 1935 have less archival material than the rest. Sometimes a little less; sometimes rather more.”
Olafson looked at him, saying nothing.
“So: my hypothesis. There were several projects under way at Lux in the late 1920s that, around 1930, merged into a single project. This project continued until 1935, when—for whatever reason—it was suddenly abandoned.”
“And you think this was the so-called Project Sin,” the director said.
“Made visible by its very absence,” Logan replied. “Because in 1935, Lux’s records resumed their normal volume. I believe that whoever removed those files also sealed the secret room.”
“Which—I assume—you believe was the location for that project’s research?”
“What other assumption can I make?”
For a moment, a strange look came over Olafson’s face. Instantly, Logan sensed what it was: the look of a man who had just fitted two pieces of a puzzle together.
“What is it?” he asked quickly.
Olafson did not answer immediately. Then he roused himself. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve just thought of something. What is it?”
Olafson hesitated. “Oh, nothing. I’m just trying to absorb all these deductions of yours, that’s all, get them straight in my mind.”
“I see. Well, I’d like to ask you a favor. Could you get me a list of all the Fellows who were working here at Lux from, say, 1930 to 1935?”
“A list,” Olafson repeated.
“As I told you, all the names of the scientists had been redacted from the files. If I could learn who was involved, perhaps I could work backward and discover more about the actual project.”
“I’m afraid that would be quite impossible. We don’t keep any such list—never did. Some people have reasons to keep their work, and their time at Lux, to themselves. If somebody wants to add their period at Lux to their curriculum vitae, that’s their business…but we make it a point never to broadcast it.”
Logan looked speculatively at him for a moment. Throughout the conversation, the director had proven singularly unhelpful.
“In any case, I don’t see what any of this has to do with Strachey’s death,” Olafson went on. “And that, after all, is why I summoned you here.”
Logan took a new tack. “I wasn’t allowed into archive two,” he said. “I was told something about level-A access. What is that? I thought I had unrestricted access to Lux’s records.”
It took
Similar Books
