That Hideous Strength

by C. S. Lewis

  understand? If he invites you to bring your wife here, why do you not bring her?’

  ‘Well, really,’ said Mark, ‘I never knew he attached so much importance to it. I thought he was merely being polite.’

  His objection to having Jane at Belbury had been, if not removed, at least temporarily deadened by the wine he had drunk at dinner and by the sharp pang he had felt at the threat of expulsion from the library circle.

  ‘It is of no importance in itself,’ said Filostrato. ‘But I have reason to believe it came not from Wither but from the Head himself.’

  ‘The Head? You mean Jules?’ said Mark in surprise. ‘I thought he was a mere figurehead. And why should he care whether I bring my wife here or not?’

  ‘You were mistaken,’ said Filostrato. ‘Our Head is no figurehead.’ There was something odd about his manner, Mark thought. For some time neither man spoke.

  ‘It is all true,’ said Filostrato at last, ‘what I said at dinner.’

  ‘But about Jules,’ said Mark. ‘What business is it of his?’

  ‘Jules?’ said Filostrato. ‘Why do you speak of him? I say it was all true. The world I look forward to is the world of perfect purity. The clean mind and the clean minerals. What are the things that most offend the dignity of man? Birth and breeding and death. How if we are about to discover that man can live without any of the three?’

  Mark stared. Filostrato’s conversation appeared so disjointed and his manner so unusual that he began to wonder if he were quite sane or quite sober.

  ‘As for your wife,’ resumed Filostrato, ‘I attach no importance to it. What have I to do with men’s wives? The whole subject disgusts me. But if they make a point of it…Look, my friend, the real question is whether you mean to be truly at one with us or not.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow,’ said Mark.

  ‘Do you want to be a mere hireling? But you have already come too far in for that. You are at the turning point of your career, Mr Studdock. If you try to go back you will be as unfortunate as the fool Hingest. If you come really in–the world…bah, what do I say?…the universe is at your feet.’

  ‘But of course I want to come in,’ said Mark. A certain excitement was stealing over him.

  ‘The Head thinks that you cannot be really one of us if you will not bring your wife here. He will have all of you, and all that is yours–or nothing. You must bring the woman in too. She also must be one of us.’

  This remark was like a shock of cold water in Mark’s face. And yet…and yet…in that room and at that moment, fixed with the little, bright eyes of the Professor, he could hardly make the thought of Jane quite real to himself.

  ‘You shall hear it from the lips of the Head himself,’ said Filostrato suddenly.

  ‘Is Jules here?’ said Mark.

  Instead of answering, Filostrato turned sharply from him and with a great scarping movement flung back the window curtains. Then he switched off the light. The fog had all gone, the wind had risen. Small clouds were scudding across the stars and the full Moon–Mark had never seen her so bright–stared down upon them. As the clouds passed her she looked like a ball that was rolling through them. Her bloodless light filled the room.

  ‘There is a world for you, no?’ said Filostrato. ‘There is cleanness, purity. Thousands of square miles of polished rock with not one blade of grass, not one fibre of lichen, not one grain of dust. Not even air. Have you thought what it would be like, my friend, if you could walk on that land? No crumbling, no erosion. The peaks of those mountains are real peaks: sharp as needles, they would go through your hand. Cliffs as high as Everest and as straight as the wall of a house. And cast by those cliffs, acres of shadow black as ebony, and in the shadow hundreds of degrees of frost. And then, one step beyond the shadow, light that would pierce your eyeballs like steel and rock that would burn your feet. The temperature is at boiling point. You would die, no? But even then you would not become filth. In a few moments you are a little heap of ash; clean, white powder. And mark, no wind to blow that powder about. Every grain in the little heap would remain in its place, just where you died, till the end of the world…but that is nonsense. The universe will have no end.’

  ‘Yes. A dead world,’ said Mark gazing at the Moon.

  ‘No!’ said Filostrato. He had come close to Mark and spoke almost in a whisper, the bat-like whisper of a voice that is naturally high-pitched. ‘No. There is life there.’

  ‘Do we know that?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Oh, si. Intelligent life. Under the surface. A great race, further advanced than we. An inspiration. A pure race. They have cleaned their world, broken free (almost) from the organic.’

  ‘But how–?’

  ‘They do not need to be born and breed and die; only their common people, their canaglia do that. The Masters live on. They retain their intelligence: they can keep it artificially alive after the organic body has been dispensed with–a miracle of applied biochemistry. They do not need organic food. You understand? They are almost free of Nature, attached to her only by the thinnest, finest cord.’

  ‘Do you mean that all that,’ Mark pointed to the mottled globe of the Moon, ‘is their own doing?’

  ‘Why not? If you remove all the vegetation, presently you have not atmosphere, no water.’

  ‘But what was the purpose?’

  ‘Hygiene. Why should they have their world all crawling with organisms? And specially, they would banish one organism. Her surface is not all as you see. There are still surface-dwellers–savages. One great dirty patch on the far side of her where there is still water and air and forests–yes, and germs and death. They are slowly spreading their hygiene over their whole globe. Disinfecting her. The savages fight against them. There are frontiers, and fierce wars, in the caves and galleries down below. But the great race presses on. If you could see the other side you would see year by year the clean rock–like this side of the Moon–encroaching: the organic stain, all the green and blue and mist, growing smaller. Like cleaning tarnished silver.’

  ‘But how do we know all this?’

  ‘I will tell you all that another time. The Head has many sources of information. For the moment, I speak only to inspire you. I speak that you may know what can be done: what shall be done here. This Institute–Dio meo; it is for something better than housing and vaccinations and faster trains and curing the people of cancer. It is for the conquest of death: or for the conquest of organic life, if you prefer. They are the same thing. It is to bring out of that cocoon of organic life which sheltered the babyhood of mind the New Man, the man who will not die, the artificial man, free from Nature. Nature is the ladder we have climbed up by, now we kick her away.’

  ‘And you think that some day we shall really find a means of keeping the brain alive indefinitely?’

  ‘We have begun already. The Head himself…’

  ‘Go on,’ said Mark. His heart was beating wildly and he had forgotten both Jane and Wither. This at last was the real thing.

  ‘The Head himself has already survived death, and you shall speak to him this night.’

  ‘Do you mean that Jules has died?’

  ‘Bah! Jules is nothing. He is not the Head.’

  ‘Then who is?’

  At this moment there was a knock on the door. Someone, without waiting for an answer came in.

  ‘Is the young man ready?’ asked the voice of Straik.

  ‘Oh yes. You are ready, are you not, Mr Studdock?’

  ‘You have explained it to him, then?’ said Straik. He turned to Mark and the moonlight in the room was so bright that Mark could now partially recognise his face–its harsh furrows emphasised by that cold light and shade.

  ‘Do you mean really to join us, young man?’ said Straik. ‘There is no turning back once you have set your hand to the plough. And there are no reservations. The Head has sent for you. Do you understand–the Head? You will look upon one who was killed and is still alive. The resurrection of Jesus in the Bible was a
symbol: tonight you shall see what it symbolised. This is real Man at last, and it claims all our allegiance.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’ said Mark. The tension of his nerves distorted his voice into a hoarse blustering cry.

  ‘My friend is quite right,’ said Filostrato. ‘Our Head is the first of the New Men–the first that lives beyond animal life. As far as Nature is concerned he is already dead: if Nature had her way his brain would now be mouldering in the grave. But he will speak to you within this hour, and–a word in your ear, my friend–you will obey his orders.’

  ‘But who is it?’ said Mark.

  ‘It is François Alcasan,’ said Filostrato.

  ‘You mean the man who was guillotined?’ gasped Mark. Both the heads nodded. Both faces were close to him: in that disastrous light they looked like masks hanging in the air.

  ‘You are frightened?’ said Filostrato. ‘You will get over that. We are offering to make you one of us. Ahi–if you were outside, if you were mere canaglia you would have reason to be frightened. It is the beginning of all power. He lives forever. The giant time is conquered. And the giant space–he was already conquered too. One of our company has already travelled in space. True, he was betrayed and murdered and his manuscripts are imperfect: we have not yet been able to reconstruct his space-ship. But that will come.’

  ‘It is the beginning of Man Immortal and Man Ubiquitous,’ said Straik. ‘Man on the throne of the universe. It is what all the prophecies really meant.’

  ‘At first, of course,’ said Filostrato, ‘the power will be confined to a number–a small number–of individual men. Those who are selected for eternal life.’

  ‘And you mean,’ said Mark, ‘it will then be extended to all men?’

  ‘No,’ said Filostrato. ‘I mean it will then be reduced to one man. You are not a fool, are you, my young friend? All that talk about the power of Man over Nature–Man in the abstract–is only for the canaglia. You know as well as I do that Man’s power over Nature means the power of some men over other men with Nature as the instrument. There is no such thing as Man–it is a word. There are only men. No! It is not Man who will be omnipotent, it is some one man, some immortal man. Alcasan, our Head, is the first sketch of it. The completed product may be someone else. It may be you. It may be me.’

  ‘A king cometh,’ said Straik, ‘who shall rule the universe with righteousness and the heavens with judgment. You thought all that was mythology, no doubt. You thought because fables had clustered about the phrase “Son of Man” that Man would never really have a son who will wield all power. But he will.’

  ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand,’ said Mark.

  ‘But it is very easy,’ said Filostrato. ‘We have found how to make a dead man live. He was a wise man even in his natural life. He lives now forever; he gets wiser. Later, we make them live better–for at present, one must concede, this second life is probably not very agreeable to him who has it. You see? Later we make it pleasant for some–perhaps not so pleasant for others. For we can make the dead live whether they wish it or not. He who shall be finally king of the universe can give this life to whom he pleases. They cannot refuse the little present.’

  ‘And so,’ said Straik, ‘the lessons you learned at your mother’s knee return. God will have power to give eternal reward and eternal punishment.’

  ‘God?’ said Mark. ‘How does He come into it? I don’t believe in God.’

  ‘But, my friend,’ said Filostrato, ‘does it follow that because there was no God in the past that there will be no God also in the future?’

  ‘Don’t you see,’ said Straik, ‘that we are offering you the unspeakable glory of being present at the creation of God Almighty? Here, in this house, you shall meet the first sketch of the real God. It is a man–or a being made by man–who will finally ascend the throne of the universe. And rule forever.’

  ‘You will come with us?’ said Filostrato. ‘He has sent for you!’

  ‘Of course, he will come,’ said Straik. ‘Does he think he could hold back and live?’

  ‘And that little affair of the wife,’ added Filostrato. ‘You will not mention a triviality like that. You will do as you are told. One does not argue with the Head.’

  Mark had nothing now to help him but the rapidly ebbing exhilaration of the alcohol taken at dinner time and some faint gleams of memory from hours with Jane and with friends made before he went to Bracton, during which the world had had a different taste from this exciting horror which now pressed upon him. These, and a merely instinctive dislike for both the moonlit faces which so held his attention. On the other side was fear. What would they do to him if he refused? And aiding fear was his young man’s belief that if one gave in for the present things would somehow right themselves ‘in the morning’. And, aiding the fear and the hope, there was still, even then, a not wholly disagreeable thrill at the thought of sharing so stupendous a secret.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, halting in his speech as if he were out of breath, ‘Yes–of course–I’ll come.’

  They led him out. The passages were already still and the sound of talk and laughter from the public rooms on the ground floor had ceased. He stumbled, and they linked arms with him. The journey seemed long: passage after passage, passages he had never seen before, doors to unlock, and then into a place where all the lights were on, and there were strange smells. Then Filostrato spoke through a speaking tube and a door was opened to them.

  Mark found himself in a surgical-looking room with glaring lights, and sinks, and bottles, and glittering instruments. A young man whom he hardly knew, dressed in a white coat, received them.

  ‘Strip to your underclothes,’ said Filostrato. While Mark was obeying he noticed that the opposite wall of the room was covered with dials. Numbers of flexible tubes came out of the floor and went into the wall just beneath the dials. The staring dial faces and the bunches of tubes beneath them, which seemed to be faintly pulsating, gave one the impression of looking at some creature with many eyes and many tentacles. The young man kept his eyes fixed on the vibrating needles of the dials. When the three newcomers had removed their outer clothes, they washed their hands and faces, and after that Filostrato plucked white clothes for them out of a glass container with a pair of forceps. When they had put these on he gave them also gloves and masks such as surgeons wear. There followed a moment’s silence while Filostrato studied the dials. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘A little more air. Not much: point nought three. Turn on the chamber air–slowly–to full. Now the lights. Now air in the lock. A little less of the solution. And now’ (here he turned to Straik and Studdock) ‘are you ready to go in?’

  He led them to a door in the same wall as the dials.

  9

  The Saracen’s Head

  ‘It was the worst dream I’ve had yet,’ said Jane next morning. She was seated in the Blue Room with the Director and Grace Ironwood.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Director. ‘Yours is perhaps the hardest post: until the real struggle begins.’

  ‘I dreamed I was in a dark room,’ said Jane, ‘with queer smells in it and a sort of low humming noise. Then the light came on–but not very much light, and for a long time I didn’t realise what I was looking at. And when I made it out…I should have waked up if I hadn’t made a great effort not to. I thought I saw a face floating in front of me. A face, not a head, if you understand what I mean. That is, there was a beard and nose and eyes–at least, you couldn’t see the eyes because it had coloured glasses on, but there didn’t seem to be anything above the eyes. Not at first. But as I got used to the light, I got a horrible shock. I thought the face was a mask tied on to a kind of balloon thing. But it wasn’t, exactly. Perhaps it looked a bit like a man wearing a sort of turban…I’m telling this dreadfully badly. What it really was, was a head (the rest of a head) which had had the top part of the skull taken off and then…then…as if something inside had boiled over. A great big mass which bulged out from inside
what was left of the skull. Wrapped in some kind of composition stuff, but very thin stuff. You could see it twitch. Even in my fright I remember thinking, “Oh kill it, kill it. Put it out of its pain.” But only for a second because I thought the thing was real, really. It was green looking and the mouth was wide open and quite dry. You realise I was a long time, looking at it, before anything else happened. And soon I saw that it wasn’t exactly floating. It was fixed up on some kind of bracket, or shelf, or pedestal–I don’t know quite what, and there were things hanging from it. From the neck, I mean. Yes, it had a neck and a sort of collar thing round it, but nothing below the collar; no shoulders or body. Only these hanging things. In the dream I thought it was some kind of new man that had only head and entrails: I thought all those tubes were its insides. But presently–I don’t quite know how, I saw that they were artificial. Little rubber tubes and bulbs and little metal things too. I couldn’t understand them. All the tubes went into the wall. Then at last something happened.’

  ‘You’re all right, Jane, are you?’ said Miss Ironwood.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Jane, ‘as far as that goes. Only one somehow doesn’t want to tell it. Well, quite suddenly, like when an engine is started, there came a puff of air out of its mouth, with a hard dry rasping sound. And then there came another, and it settled down into a sort of rhythm–huff, huff, huff–like an imitation of breathing. Then came a most horrible thing: the mouth began to dribble. I know it sounds silly but in a way I felt sorry for it because it had no hands and couldn’t wipe its mouth. It seems a small thing compared with all the rest but that is how I felt. Then it began working its mouth about and even licking its lips. It was like someone getting a machine into working order. To see it doing that just as if it was alive, and at the same time dribbling over the beard which was all stiff and dead looking…Then three people came into the room, all dressed up in white, with masks on, walking as carefully as cats on the top of a wall. One was a great fat man, and another was lanky and bony. The third…’ here Jane paused involuntarily. ‘The third…I think it was Mark…I mean my husband.’

  ‘You are uncertain?’ said the Director.

  ‘No,’ said Jane. ‘It was Mark. I knew his walk. And I knew the shoes he was wearing. And his voice. It was Mark.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said the Director.

  ‘And then,’ said Jane, ‘all three of them came round and stood in front of the Head. They bowed to it. You couldn’t tell if it was looking at them because of its dark glasses. It kept on with that rhythmical huffing noise. Then it spoke.’

  ‘In English?’ said Grace Ironwood.

  ‘No, in French.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Well, my French wasn’t quite good enough to follow it. It spoke in a queer way. In starts–like a man who’s out of breath. With no proper expression. And of course it couldn’t turn itself this way or that way as a–a real person–does.’

  The Director spoke again.

  ‘Did you understand any of what was said?’

  ‘Not very much. The fat man seemed to be introducing Mark to it. It said something to him. Then Mark tried to answer. I could follow him all