“Or theosophy,” Aunt Mildred volunteered. “Some message to a neophyte.”
“Go on, read the rest,” her husband commanded.
“This puts you in touch with the mightier spirits,” Lute read. “You shall become one with us, and your name shall be ‘Arya,’ and you shall—Conqueror 20, Empire 12, Columbia Mountain 18, Midway 140—and, and that is all. Oh, no! here’s a last flourish, Arya, from Kandor—that must surely be the Mahatma.”
“I’d like to have you explain that theosophy stuff on the basis of the subconscious mind, Chris,” Uncle Robert challenged.
Chris shrugged his shoulders. “No explanation. You must have got a message intended for some one else.”
“Lines were crossed, eh?” Uncle Robert chuckled. “Multiplex spiritual wireless telegraphy, I’d call it.”
“It IS nonsense,” Mrs. Grantly said. “I never knew Planchette to behave so outrageously. There are disturbing influences at work. I felt them from the first. Perhaps it is because you are all making too much fun of it. You are too hilarious.”
“A certain befitting gravity should grace the occasion,” Chris agreed, placing his hand on Planchette. “Let me try. And not one of you must laugh or giggle, or even think ‘laugh’ or ‘giggle.’ And if you dare to snort, even once, Uncle Robert, there is no telling what occult vengeance may be wreaked upon you.”
“I’ll be good,” Uncle Robert rejoined. “But if I really must snort, may I silently slip away?”
Chris nodded. His hand had already begun to work. There had been no preliminary twitchings nor tentative essays at writing. At once his hand had started off, and Planchette was moving swiftly and smoothly across the paper.