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Satellite, v. 1, issue 1, October 1938
Page 16
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15 Again he glanced at the mirror. There, if anywhere, was the germ of a potential weird tale, but how to tackle it?...that was the problem. Supposing the mirror were really a doorway into another room? But then it could not possibly be a mirror, and reflect an animated typewriter, if that were so. The idea was fascinating, all the same. He crossed the room, and pressed one hand against the glass, a hand that had no reflection. Supposing the glass were not silvered at all, but just a transparent window looking onto a room in some other adjacent dimension? That sounded better, but what about the typewriter? His mind strayed on, along the fascinating byways of supposition. Supposing that in this room beyond the mirror, there was another David Rodney, who did everything that he did; who was even at this moment staring into the real room, seeing right through himself, even as he, the real individual, was looking through the other? An idea certainly, but not a plot. Mentally he explored the possibilities of the mirror, ever striving to keep within the realms of plausibility. An invisible Rodney on the other side of the glass, thinking exactly the same thoughts as himself. Supposing he could discover how to enter the other room, the other would also enter his own room. They would each change rooms, as it were. They could each continue living in their strange rooms, if necessary, since both were identical. But one room was real, and other unreal. A sudden thought struck him. How did he know which Rodney he was? Both would think they were real, but if the mirror were destroyed, one room would vanish while the other, the real one, would remain. That was, assuming the glass was silvered, and not just transparent. He knew, as a matter of fact, that the glass must be silvered, since the thickness of the wall would not permit the existence of a genuine room beyond the mirror. But...supposing that he, David Rodney, and his room...supposing they were mere reflections of another
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15 Again he glanced at the mirror. There, if anywhere, was the germ of a potential weird tale, but how to tackle it?...that was the problem. Supposing the mirror were really a doorway into another room? But then it could not possibly be a mirror, and reflect an animated typewriter, if that were so. The idea was fascinating, all the same. He crossed the room, and pressed one hand against the glass, a hand that had no reflection. Supposing the glass were not silvered at all, but just a transparent window looking onto a room in some other adjacent dimension? That sounded better, but what about the typewriter? His mind strayed on, along the fascinating byways of supposition. Supposing that in this room beyond the mirror, there was another David Rodney, who did everything that he did; who was even at this moment staring into the real room, seeing right through himself, even as he, the real individual, was looking through the other? An idea certainly, but not a plot. Mentally he explored the possibilities of the mirror, ever striving to keep within the realms of plausibility. An invisible Rodney on the other side of the glass, thinking exactly the same thoughts as himself. Supposing he could discover how to enter the other room, the other would also enter his own room. They would each change rooms, as it were. They could each continue living in their strange rooms, if necessary, since both were identical. But one room was real, and other unreal. A sudden thought struck him. How did he know which Rodney he was? Both would think they were real, but if the mirror were destroyed, one room would vanish while the other, the real one, would remain. That was, assuming the glass was silvered, and not just transparent. He knew, as a matter of fact, that the glass must be silvered, since the thickness of the wall would not permit the existence of a genuine room beyond the mirror. But...supposing that he, David Rodney, and his room...supposing they were mere reflections of another
Mais uma vez ele olhou para o espelho. Ali, se em algúm lugar, estava a fonte de um pontencial novo conto, mas como chegar a isso?... esse era o problema. Supondo que o espelho fosse de fato um porta de entrada para outro quarto? Mas então, poderia posivelmente não ser um espelho, e refletir uma máquina de datilografar animada, se assim fosse. A ideia era fascinante, de fato. Ele cruzou o comodo, e pressionou uma mão no vidro, uma mão que não possuia reflexo. Supondo que o vidro não fosse de todo prateado, mas apenas um janela trasparente de frente para um quarto em alguma dimensão adjacente? Isso parecia melhor, mas e a máquina de escrever? Sua mente divagou, junto aos fascinantes caminhos da suposição. Supondo que nesse quarto além do espelho, estivesse um outro David Rodney, o qual fazia tudo que ele fizesse; quem estava nesse momento, de fato, olhado através do quarto real, vendo através dele, assim como ele, o verdadeiro individuo, estava olhando através do outro? Uma ideia, certamente, mas não um plot. Mentalmente, ele explorou as possibilidades do espelho, se esforçando para se manter dentro dos domínios da plausibilidade. Um Rodney invisível do outro lado do vidro, pensando exatamente o mesmo que ele. Supondo que ele pudesse descobrir como entrar no outro comodo, o outro também entraria em seu quarto. Eles trocariam de quarto, por assim dizer. Cada um poderia continuar vivendo em seus próprios quartos estranhos, se necessário, desde que ambos fossem idênticos. Mas um quarto era real, e o outro não era. Como ele sabia qual Rodney ele era? Ambos pensariam que eram reais, mas se o espelho fosse destruido, um quarto desapareceria enquanto o outro, o verdadeiro, permaneceria. Isso era, presumindo-se que o espelho fosse prateado, e não apenas trasparente. Ele sabia, na verdade, que o vidro deveria ser prateado, já que a espessura da parede não permitiria a existência de uma parede genuina atrás do espelho. Mas... supondo que ele, David Rodney, e seu quarto... supondo que eles fossem meras reflexões de outro
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