The Revolt of the Machines

by Brian Stableford

  Ardent wielder of the scalpel

  I serve the country and the city

  And I’m....

  “It’s certain that you’re a redoubtable polemicist,” interrupted Lesécant, who was not overly fond of music.

  “Oh, my friend, I knocked down so many adversaries—and at the moment, I’m preparing a masterstroke, the coronation of my career. Beware anyone who doesn’t believe in my discovery! There are bound to be some, but if they don’t yield to argument, I’ll be able to find an experimental subject, and the result will shut their traps. But how are you, Lesécant?”

  The surgeon tried to appear modest. His head bowed, his eyes lowered and his lips pursed, he murmured: “Me…ahem…I’ve had a dream and I’m close to realizing. You know that I don’t practice anymore.”

  “You mean that you have no more clients,” the other corrected, with a hint of malice that escaped Lesécant.

  “What’s the point? My fortune’s made: fifty thousand livres a year. Then I said to myself: Lesécant, old chap, enough cutting, enough slicing. Raise your scientific sights!”

  “Very good, my dear colleague. That’s a noble sentiment. I, too, thank God, am sheltered from need thanks to an inheritance from my uncle….”

  “The one who was in the….”

  “The very same. The worthy fellow left me a hundred thousand francs.”

  “Damn! It’s not just physicians who get rich!”

  “So I launched myself fully into my studies. Pasteur’s genius has opened broad perspectives on the future. Some have sought serums to cure terrible diseases of the body: diphtheria, tuberculosis, cancer….”

  “Some have found them—Roux,11 for example.”

  “And that man who has almost cured the most terrible childhood disease earns….”

  “The salary of a petty bureaucrat,” said Lesécant. “So, I’ve made sure of an income before working for humankind…ingrate humankind….”

  The conversation continued in that tone as far as Dreux, where the man with the crushed foot and the woman whose kneecaps had briefly had the honor of bearing the psychologist Cordeau got off.

  Cordeau and Lesécant passed in review all the illustrious physicians and scientists of the present fin-de-siècle, fecund in marvelous things and prestigious discoveries: Déclat12 and his remarkable works on surgical antisepsis with phenic acid; Péan and the eternally celebrated laryngo-pharyngeal prosthesis; Dr. Michaëls’ metallic throat; and Renaut’s studies on nerve cells.13

  Oh, they launched big scientific words at one another, which filled their mouths: alcoholism; tobaccism; morphinism; alkaloidism—everything, I tell you. Those two empiricists seemed to have mutually made a pledge to astound one another. And all their verbiage had but one aim: to avoid a confidence that they feared. Lesécant and Cordeau, although not marching on the same route, having “bifurcated,” as they put it, had been friends since their youth, but they were colleagues and, in consequence, had no shortage of reasons to be suspicious of one another. For them to speak freely it was necessary that self-esteem should be involved, that there should be an audience.

  When the train pulled out of Dreux, the dialogue took a different turn.

  “By the way,” said Lesécant, “our scientific discussion”—he pronounced the word scientific with comic emphasis—“has led us astray. I forgot to ask you to what I owe the pleasure of our company.”

  “I’m going to Laigle. And you?”

  “Me, too.”

  “It’s a good….”

  “Look, read….”

  And they each handed one another a piece of white Bristol paper with gilded corners, on which they read:

  Dear Friend,

  If you like surprises, here’s one: By the express that leaves from Paris-Montparnasse at 8.30 on 20 June you’ll arrive at Laigle station at 10.59. A motor-brake will be waiting for you outside the station. I’ve given orders. You’ll be taken directly to the Villa Moderne, which I’ve had constructed for my sojourns in France. I’ll be there with Hélène and another guest—a charming fellow you’ll be glad to meet. We’re having a house-warming part at noon. I’m counting on you absolutely. You can stay at the villa as long as you like.

  Yours very affectionately, and much obliged,

  Henri Noirmont

  Anyone observing them could not have failed to notice a certain grimace that both made as they paused on the word obliged. They darted searching glances at one another surreptitiously, but when their eyes met, they were content to smile, not finding anything to say as they handed back the pieces of paper.

  “Ah!”

  A certain chill, as they say in the theater, followed that interjection. Thoughtfully, Cordeau and Lesécant gazed at the countryside that shuffled before them like an immense plateau of verdure rotating around the carriage.

  The psychologist was the first to break the silence.

  “That eccentric Noirmont never does things like other people. He gets the trophy for baroque actions.”

  “He’s a determined fellow, of remarkable intelligence. There’s one that adversity would have a hard time knocking down. Since leaving the École Centrale while we were still cramming for our examinations, he’s been able to build himself a nice situation in America. He launched himself body and soul into metallurgy out there. A handsome man, full of health and courage—I’ll wager that he’ll soon be a millionaire. I can still see him twelve years ago, when he passed through with his young wife—dead now—and his daughter, who was nearly six years old….”

  “Ah!” said Cordeau, looking hard at his colleague. “You haven’t seen him for twelve years?”

  “No,” Lesécant replied, slightly embarrassed. “No…what about you?”

  “Me neither….but I’ll be glad to see him again, to shake his hand after such a long time….”

  “Hélène must be grown up now, and pretty.”

  “She showed a lot of promise as a child….”

  “We’ll see if she’s kept it….”

  “Tee hee!” sniggered Cordeau. “Do you, by chance, have….”

  “Intentions? Get away—you know very well that I’m a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Like me.”

  “Women have never turned my head.”

  “I can say the same.”

  For the second time, the conversation lapsed.

  “The weather’s stifling; you’ll permit me, my dear chap, to take a little nap.

  “Gladly. Personally, I’m going to smoke a cigar and meditate, while contemplating the view.”

  While the stout Lesécant lay back in order to go to sleep, Cordeau lit a cigar, while murmuring: “He must have lent him money, too. After all, it’s no concern of mine. However, I would have liked the fewest people possible to share in the profits of the mine. I can’t complain, though—a fifteen per cent dividend this year!”

  And, dwelling on that happy thought, the practical psychologist gazed distractedly at the hills and verdant meadows that the railway was traversing.

  Shortly before they arrived at Laigle, he woke his companion, who was fast asleep.

  “Come on, Lesécant, we’re here—hurry up.”

  “Ooh!” said the sleeper, stretching. “No need to rush—the train stops for five minutes.”

  A few moments later, they disembarked on to the station platform.

  On seeing them, people stopped, astonished. Embarrassed, albeit flattered, by the curiosity of which he was the object, Lesécant remarked on it to his colleague.

  “Bah!” replied Cordeau, swelling up with pride. “You’re forgetting that we’re in the provinces. It’s not every day that one sees prominent scientists on the platform at Laigle….”

  Outside the station, a motor-brake of very elegant construction was parked, as Noirmont had promised.

  “Messieurs Cordeau and Lesécant?” asked the vehicle’s driver, a young American—who, in spite of his very correct manner, had all the trouble in the world suppressing an impulse to laugh a
s he spoke to them.

  “Yes, my friend; Monsieur Noirmont’s expecting us.”

  “P…lease g…get in, Messieurs.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” muttered Lesécant. “There’s nothing amusing about us.”

  “Doubtless it’s a tic.”

  “I can’t see any other explanation.”

  II. The House-Warming

  In twenty minutes the brake, which had soft suspension and excellent pneumatic tires, transported the guests to the Villa Moderne.

  Beside the entrance gate, Monsieur Noirmont, his daughter Hélène and a young man were waiting to greet them.

  At the sight of them, Hélène burst into inextinguishable pearly laughter. Her father and the young man joined in.

  Vexed, the two doctors looked at one another. Then they perceived their lamentable hats, creased like Venetian lanterns, and understood the curiosity of the people at Laigle, the contained laughter of the brake-driver and Mademoiselle Noirmont’s mad hilarity.

  Preoccupied when they got out of the carriage, they had not thought about their accursed headgear.

  “Cordeau is the guilty party—it’s to him that we owe this triumphal entrance.” And Lesécant recounted the adventure of the railway compartment, to the greater pleasure of Mademoiselle Hélène, who was much amused.

  “The misfortune is reparable,” Monsieur Noirmont replied. “There are hat-makers in Laigle. We’ll send the accordions to them, and you’ll have hats again tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll lend you caps. I have quite a collection.”

  A domestic took the travelers’ valises and umbrellas, and when everyone had become serious again, the host made the introductions.

  “Messieurs Lesécant and Cordeau, doctors in medicine; Monsieur Rémois, painter, the son of one of my good friends, resident in New York; my daughter, Hélène.”

  The surgeon and the psychologist could not believe their eyes. Hélène Noirmont was, indeed, veritably pretty. They remembered her as a little girl, and now had before them a young woman in the full bloom of her beauty.

  Slim and elegant, she was clad in a ravishing sky-blue dress, irreproachable in its cut, which brought out the velvety tones of her mat complexion. Her silky black hair, graciously wavy, famed a face of the greatest purity. Her neck, displayed by her slightly V-shaped corsage, was admirably slim. Add to that a vermilion mouth opening over two rows of pearls; large brown eyes, bright and cheerful; dainty and delicately-shaped ears; complete the silhouette with a supple bust and a harmonious figure, the hands of a duchess and feet worthy of Cinderella’s slipper, and you will understand the admiration of Cordeau and Lesécant.

  They would have remained in ecstasy, as if hypnotized, if Noirmont, taking each of them by the arm, had not drawn them toward the house, saying in a cheerful tone: “Come on, my friends, let’s get on with the house-warming. It’s noon. After lunch, we’ll visit Mademoiselle Noirmont’s domain, for everything here belongs to her, including her father.”

  “Shut up! You know that I’m the most docile of little girls.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle, you’d like me to admit that you’re perfection itself.”

  “The confession isn’t painful,” stammered Cordeau.

  “It’s the truth, with no distortion.”

  “A surgeon’s compliment,” Rémois murmured in Mademoiselle Noirmont’s ear.”

  As rapidly and softly as he had spoken, his gesture had not escaped the doctors.

  While Noirmont, his daughter and the young painter led the way through the carefully-raked pathways of a superb garden, Cordeau leaned toward Lesécant, who had similarly stayed a little way behind.

  “I don’t like that dauber.”

  “Pooh! A fellow of no importance, doubtless pretentious and stupid.”

  “Well, what are you plotting?” asked Noirmont, coming back to join them.

  “I was saying to Cordeau that you have a delightful property here.”

  “It’s nothing; you’ll soon see it in detail. Oh, my good friends, how glad I am to see you again. It’s very kind of you to have accepted my invitation.”

  “Oh, when one hasn’t seen one another for twelve years….”

  “Twelve years?”

  “Yes…no…that is….”

  Noirmont could not help laughing. “You work too hard, Cordeau—you’re losing your memory.” As he saw that they were somewhat embarrassed with regard to one another, he changed the subject abruptly. “How do you like Rémois?”

  “Charming.”

  “Very distinguished.”

  “When you know him better you’ll approve, I’m sure, of the choice I’ve made. Rémois is engaged to Hélène.”

  At that moment, Lesécant’s jowls and Cordeau’s parchment complexion passed from vermilion to blue and from blue to apple-green.

  “You seem tired?”

  “Very…very…it’s hot.”

  “Here’s the house. We’ll go to table right away. That will make you feel better. But before going in, look: behold the triumph of iron—or, rather, of steel, for iron has had its day now. Since the Bessemer process, steel is the king of metallurgy.” And Noirmont showed them the house, which rose up before them, light, harmonious in its lines and artistically proportioned.

  “It looks nice,” replied Lesécant, recovering a little self-control, “but is it really habitable?”

  “It must be cold in winter and hot, too hot, in summer,” added Cordeau.

  “No—the wall is hollow. Between the sheets of steel, a ventilator causes a current of air to circulate, cool in summer and warm in winter. Thanks to the distributors placed in every room, equipped with thermometers, one obtains the desired temperature at will. Come in, then, and you can judge for yourselves.”

  Beyond the vestibule, entirely carpeted with brightly colored ceramic tiles, there was an entirely original drawing room. Large mirrors, in which rich silk wall hangings were reflected to infinity, occupied the four sides. Over the parquet, made entirely of white porcelain, a soft carpet was laid, depicting, and producing the illusion, of a lawn scattered with daisies and buttercups. On the ceiling there was a blue sky in which brightly colored American birds seemed to be fluttering.

  The furniture was simple, its colors matching the ensemble. There were few paintings and no garish trinkets. On the outside wall, a large bay window overlooked the countryside; from there the gaze embraced an immense horizon.

  Discreetly perfumed, the air in the room was beneficently fresh.

  Forgetting their recent annoyance, Lesécant and Cordeau were won over. They expressed their admiration aloud.

  “This drawing room is a masterpiece of taste.”

  “A marvel, no more and no less.”

  “Don’t blush, Rémois,” joked Monsieur Noirmont. “I haven’t named the author of the décor….”

  That reply had the effect of a cold shower on the enthusiasm of the surgeon and the psychologist. They were truly vexed to have addressed a compliment to the “dauber” and “the fellow of no importance.”

  “You see,” their host continued, “That’s the path of the future for artists: decorative art….”

  “They don’t deserve any merit for it,” said Cordeau, bitterly. “Already, in the time of the Pharaohs….”

  He did not have time to conclude his diatribe.

  From a corner of the room a metallic voice made itself heard: “Lunch is served, Mademoiselle.”

  At the same time, soundlessly, the mirror opposite the widow disappeared into the wall, unmasking a dining room in which a table correctly set and coquettishly ornamented with flowers awaited the guests.

  No domestic put in an appearance; Noirmont explained that from a parlor located in the basement a maître d’hôtel operated events electrically. A keyboard permitted the activation of the phonograph, simultaneously releasing the bolt retaining the mirror, and the latter, under the effect of a counterweight hidden in the wall, slid discreetly into a groove.

  Lesécant and
Cordeau took their places to either side of Hélène.

  On the table next to the young woman there was a minuscule telephone. As soon as the hors-d’oeuvres were finished, she gave an order; the middle of the table disappeared as if by magic and soon rose up again, but with the next course, all sliced and ready to serve.

  “That’s modern, at least!” said Lesécant, with a smile that he attempted to render gracious, addressed to Mademoiselle Noirmont.

  “It’s convenient,” Hélène replied. “There’s only one slight inconvenience.”

  “Nothing’s perfect,” said Cordeau sententiously, and with a sideways glance directed at Hélène he added mentally, convinced that she would understand: Except you, lovely child.

  But the young woman did not decipher that mental declaration, and continued: “The inconvenience of serving oneself is compensated by the pleasure of chatting without unwanted listeners.”

  “Electricity is decidedly a good fairy,” the surgeon concluded.

  “It will be the queen of the world, the mainspring of life, on the day when it can be produced economically, beyond any other force. It’s still in its infancy, and you can see the considerable place it occupies. It’s from the electric furnace that Monsieur Moissan14 has brought forth the marvelous fabrication of calcium carbide that furnishes us with dazzling acetylene, capricious and dangerous at first, then liquefied and, so to speak, domesticated by Raoul Pictet,15 who has been aptly dubbed the apostle of cold. And without mentioning telegraphy and telephony, which are already ancient history, wasn’t it electricity that permitted Goubet16 to realize the Nautilus dreamed up and anticipated by the prolific keenness of Jules Verne?”

  “Not to mention,” the psychologist put in, “that the day is imminent when electricity, no longer having any secrets from humankind, will provide the key to great psychic phenomena that will astound reason, casting doubt on the solutions thus far admitted to the colossal problem of life.”

  And while the meal continued, everyone put in a word about the discoveries and achievements that are the glory of our century.

  Hélène took an active part in the conversation and, when Lesécant and Cordeau were astonished to find her so well versed in matters of science she said: “My God, Messieurs, it’s quite simple; along with scientists and researchers whose language is sometimes necessarily obscure for laymen, don’t we have popularizers whose role is to interest the masses, as well as the idle, in the mysteries of laboratories and the surprises of technology? It’s popularization that renders knowledge universal, and thanks to which, from the depths of his laboratory, the scientist hears the great voice of humanity singing his praises and glorifying his fertile labor for general wellbeing. You don’t have any reason to be surprised; my merit is very slight. Once a week, a few pages to read in the Science Française, and there you are: I’m up to date.”