The Plattner Story, and OthersWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Science
The Plattner Story, and Others
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Science fiction; Short stories, English
Outside the laboratory windows was a watery-grey fog, and within
a close warmth and the yellow light of the green-shaded gas lamps
that stood two to each table down its narrow length. On each table
stood a couple of glass jars containing the mangled vestiges of the
crayfish, mussels, frogs, and guineapigs, upon which the students had
been working, and down the side of the room, facing the windows, were
shelves bearing bleached dissections in spirits, surmounted by a row
of beautifully executed anatomical drawings in whitewood frames and
overhanging a row of cubical lockers. All the doors of the laboratory
were panelled with blackboard, and on these were the half-erased
diagrams of the previous day's work. The laboratory was empty, save for
the demonstrator, who sat near the preparation-room door, and silent,
save for a low, continuous murmur, and the clicking of the rocker
microtome at which he was working. But scattered about the room were
traces of numerous students: hand-bags, polished boxes of instruments,
in one place a large drawing covered by newspaper, and in another a
prettily bound copy of _News from Nowhere_, a book oddly at variance
with its surroundings. These things had been put down hastily as the
students had arrived and hurried at once to secure their seats in the
adjacent lecture theatre. Deadened by the closed door, the measured
accents of the professor sounded as a featureless muttering.
Presently, faint through the closed windows came the sound of the
Oratory clock striking the hour of eleven. The clicking of the
microtome ceased, and the demonstrator looked at his watch, rose,
thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked slowly down the
laboratory towards the lecture theatre door. He stood listening for a
moment, and then his eye fell on the little volume by William Morris.
He picked it up, glanced at the title, smiled, opened it, looked at the
name on the fly-leaf, ran the leaves through with his hand, and put
it down. Almost immediately the even murmur of the lecturer ceased,
there was a sudden burst of pencils rattling on the desks in the
lecture theatre, a stirring, a scraping of feet, and a number of voices
speaking together. Then a firm footfall approached the door, which
began to open, and stood ajar, as some indistinctly heard question
arrested the new-comer.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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