"He let that sink in: it took some time. Then he continued quietly, but with a kind of controlled enthusiasm in his voice: 'Remember that the termites, as individuals have virtually no intelligence. But the colony as a whole is a very high type of organism—and an immortal on barring accidents. It froze in its present instinctive pal tern millions of years before Man was born, and by itself it can never escape from its present sterile perfection. 1 has reached a dead-end—because it has no tools, no effective way of controlling nature. I have given it the lever, increase its power, and now the sledge, to improve its efficiency. I have thought of the wheel, but it is best to let wait for a later stage—it would not be very useful w. The results have exceeded my expectations. I started this termitary alone—but now they all have the same tools. They have taught each other, and that proves they cooperate. True, they have wars—but not when there enough food for all, as there is here. " 'But you cannot judge the termitary by human stand-Is. What I hope to do is to jolt its rigid, frozen culture knock it out of the groove in which it has stuck for many millions of years. I will give it more tools, more techniques—and before I die, I hope to see it beginning to invent things for itself.' " 'Why are you doing this?' I asked, for I knew there more than mere scientific curiosity here. " 'Because I do not believe that Man will survive, yet hope to preserve some of the things he has discovered, he is to be a dead-end, I think that another race should given a helping hand. Do you know why I chose this d? It was so that my experiment should remain isolated. My supertermite, if it ever evolves, will have to re-here until it has reached a very high level of attainment. Until it can cross the Pacific, in fact.... "There is another possibility. Man has no rival on this planet. I think it may do him good to have one. It may be his salvation.'
'I could think of nothing to say: this glimpse of the Professor's dreams was so overwhelming—and yet, in view of what I had just seen, so convincing. For I knew that Professor Takato was not mad. He was a visionary, and there was a sublime detachment about his outlook, but it was based on a secure foundation of scientific achievement.
"And it was not that he was hostile to mankind: he sorry for it. He simply believed that humanity had its bolt, and wished to save something from the wreckage. I could not feel it in my heart to blame him. "We must have been hi that little hut for a long time, exploring possible futures. I remember suggesting that perhaps there might be some kind of mutual understanding, since two cultures so utterly dissimilar as Man and Termite need have no cause for conflict. But I couldn’t really believe this, and if a contest comes, I'm not certain who will win. For what use would man's weapons against an intelligent enemy who could lay waste all wheat fields and all the rice crops in the world?
"When we came out into the open once more, it was, almost dusk. It was then that the Professor made his find revelation.
" 'In a few weeks,' he said, 'I am going to take biggest step of all.'
" 'And what is that?' I asked.
" 'Cannot you guess? I am going to give them fire.'
"Those words did something to my spine. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the oncoming night. T glorious sunset that was taking place beyond the pal seemed symbolic—and suddenly I realized that the symbolism was even deeper than I had thought.
"That sunset was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen, and it was partly of man's making. Up there in stratosphere, the dust of an island that had died this day was encircling the earth. My race had taken a great step forward; but did it matter now?
" I am going to give them fire.' Somehow, I never doubted that the Professor would succeed. And when had done so, the forces that my own race had just leashed would not save it....
"The flying boat came to collect us the next day, and 1 did not see Takato again. He is still there, and I thin he is the most important man in the world. While on politicians wrangle, he is making us obsolete.
"Do you think that someone ought to stop him? There may still be time. I've often thought about it, but Pi never been able to think of a really convincing reason why I should interfere. Once or twice I nearly made my mind, but then I'd pick up the newspaper and see headlines.
"I think we should let them have the chance. I don't see how they could make a worse job of it than we've done."
MOVING SPIRIT
WE WERE discussing a sensational trial at the Old Bailey when Harry Purvis, whose talent for twisting the conversation to his own ends is really unbelievable, remarked casually: "I was once an expert witness in a rather interesting case."
"Only a witness?" said Drew, as he deftly filled two glasses of Bass at once.
"Yes—but it was a rather close thing. It was hi the early part of the war, about the time we were expecting the invasion. That's why you never heard about it at the time."
"What makes you assume," said Charles Willis suspiciously, "that we never did hear of it?"
It was one of the few times I'd ever seen Harry caught trying to cover up his tracks. "Qui s'excuse s'accuse," I thought to myself, and waited to see what evading action he'd take.
"It was such a peculiar case," he replied with dignity, "that I'm sure you'd have reminded me of it if you ever saw the reports. My name was featured quite prominently. It all happened hi an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, and it concerned the best example of that rare species, the genuine mad scientist, that I've ever met."
Perhaps that wasn't really a fair description, Purvis amended hastily. Homer Ferguson was eccentric and had little foibles like keeping a pet boa constrictor to catch the mice, and never wearing shoes around the house. But he was so rich that no one noticed things like this.
Homer was also a competent scientist. Many years ago he had graduated from Edinburgh University, but having plenty of money he had never done a stroke of real work in his life. Instead, he pottered round the old vicarage he'd bought not far from Newquay and amused himself building gadgets. In the last forty years he'd invented television, ball-point pens, jet propulsion, and a few other trifles. However, as he had never bothered to take out any patents, other people had got the credit. This didn't worry him in the least as he was of a singularly generous disposition, except with money.
It seemed that, in some complicated way, Purvis was one of his few living relatives. Consequently when Harry received a telegram one day requesting his assistance at once, he knew better than to refuse. No one knew exactly how much money Homer had, or what he intended to do with it. Harry thought he had as good a chance as anyone, and he didn't intend to jeopardize it. At some inconvenience he made the journey down to Cornwall and turned up at the rectory.
He saw what was wrong as soon as he entered the grounds. Uncle Homer (he wasn't really an uncle, but he'd been called that as long as Harry could remember) had a shed beside the main building which he used for his experiments. That shed was now minus roof and windows, and a sickly odor hovered around it. There had obviously been an explosion, and Harry wondered, in a disinterested sort of way, if Uncle had been badly injured and wanted advice on drawing up a new will.
He ceased day-dreaming when the old man, looking the picture of health (apart from some sticking plaster on his face) opened the door for bun.
"Good of you to come so quickly," he boomed. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Harry. Then his face clouded over. "Fact is, my boy, I'm in a bit of a jam and I want you to help. My case comes up before tie local Bench tomorrow."
This was a considerable shock. Homer had been as law-abiding a citizen as any motorist in petrol-rationed Britain could be expected to be. And if it was the usual black-market business, Harry didn't see how he could be expected to help.
"Sorry to hear about this, Uncle. What's the trouble?"
"It's a long story. Come into the library and we'll talk it over."
Homer Ferguson's library occupied the entire west wing of the somewhat decrepit building. Harry believed that bats nested in the rafters, but had never been able to prove it. When Homer had cleared a table by the simple ex
pedient of tilting all the books off on to the floor, he whistled three times, a voice-operated relay tripped somewhere, and a gloomy Cornish voice drifted out of a concealed loudspeaker.
"Yes, Mr. Ferguson?"
"Maida, send across a bottle of the new whiskey."
There was no reply except an audible sniff. But a moment later there came a creaking and clanking, and a couple of square feet of library shelving slid aside to reveal a conveyor belt.
"I can't get Maida to come into the library," complained Homer, lifting out a loaded tray. "She's afraid of Boanerges, though he's perfectly harmless."
Harry found it hard not to feel some sympathy for the invisible Maida. All six feet of Boanerges was draped over the case holding the "Encyclopedia Britannica", and a bulge amidships indicated that he had dined recently.
"What do you think of the whiskey?" asked Homer when Harry had sampled some and started to gasp for breath.
"It's—well, I don't know what to say. It's—phew— rather strong. I never thought—"
"Oh, don't take any notice of the label on the bottle. This brand never saw Scotland. And that's what all the trouble's about. I made it right here on the premises."
"Uncle!"
"Yes, I know it's against the law, and all that sort of nonsense. But you can't get any good whiskey these days —it all goes for export. It seemed to me that I was being patriotic making my own, so that there was more left over for the dollar drive. But the Excise people don't see it that way."
"I think you'd better let me have the whole story," said Harry. He was gloomily sure that there was nothing he could do to get his uncle out of this scrape.
Homer had always been fond of the bottle, and wartime shortages had hit him badly. He was also, as has been hinted, disinclined to give away money, and for a long time he had resented the fact that he had to pay a tax of several hundred percent on a bottle of whiskey. When he couldn't get his own supply any more, he had decided it was time to act.
The district he was living in probably had a good deal to do with his decision. For some centuries, the Customs and Excise had waged a never-ending battle with the Cornish fisherfolk. It was rumored that the last incumbent of the old vicarage had possessed the finest cellar in the district next to that of the Bishop himself—and had never paid a penny in duty on it. So Uncle Homer merely felt he was carrying on an old and noble tradition.
There was little doubt, moreover, that the spirit of pure scientific enquiry also inspired him. He felt sure that this business about being aged in the wood for seven years was all rubbish, and was confident that he could do a better job with ultrasonics and ultra-violet rays.
The experiment went well for a few weeks. But late one evening there was one of those unfortunate accidents that will happen even in the best-conducted laboratories, and before Uncle knew what had happened, he was draped over a beam, while the grounds of the vicarage' were littered with pieces of copper tubing.
Even then it would not have mattered much had not the local Home Guard been practicing in the neighborhood. As soon as they heard the explosion, they immediately went into action, Sten guns at the ready. Had the invasion started? If so, they'd soon fix it.
They were a little disappointed to discover that it was only Uncle, but as they were used to his experiments they weren't in the least surprised at what had happened. Unfortunately for Uncle, the Lieutenant in charge of the squad happened to be the local excise man, and the combined evidence of his nose and his eyes told him the story in a flash.
"So tomorrow," said Uncle Homer, looking rather like a small boy who had been caught stealing candy, "I have to go up before the Bench, charged with possessing an illegal still."
"I should have thought," replied Harry, "that was a matter for the Assizes, not the local magistrates."
"We do things our own way here," answered Homer, with more than a touch of pride. Harry was soon to discover how true this was.
They got little sleep that night, as Homer outlined his defense, overcame Harry's objections, and hastily assembled the apparatus he intended to produce in court.
"A Bench like this," he explained, "is always impressed by experts. If we dared, I'd like to say you were someone from the War Office, but they could check up on that. So we'll just tell them the truth—about your qualifications, that is."
"Thank you," said Harry. "And suppose my college finds out what I'm doing?"
"Well, you won't claim to be acting for anyone except yourself. The whole thing is a private venture."
"I'll say it is," said Harry.
The next morning they loaded their gear into Homer's ancient Austin, and drove into the village. The Bench was sitting in one of the classrooms of the local school, and Harry felt that time had rolled back a few years and he was about to have an unpleasant interview with his old headmaster.
"We're in luck," whispered Homer, as they were ushered into their cramped seats. "Major Fotheringham is in the Chair. He's a good friend of mine."
That would help a lot, Harry agreed. But there were two other justices on the Bench as well, and one friend in court would hardly be sufficient. Eloquence, not influence, was the only thing that could save the day.
The courtroom was crowded, and Harry found it surprising that so many people had managed to get away from work long enough to watch the case. Then he realized the local interest that it would have aroused, in view of the fact that—in normal times, at least—smuggling was a major industry in these parts. He was not sure] whether that would mean a sympathetic audience. The; natives might well regard Homer's form of private enterprise as unfair competition. On the other hand, they probably approved on general principles with anything that put the excise men’s noses out of joint.
The charge was read by the clerk of the court, and the! somewhat damning evidence produced. Pieces of copper tubing were solemnly inspected by the justices, each of whom in turn looked severely at Uncle Homer. Harry began to see his hypothetical inheritance becoming even] more doubtful.
When the case for the prosecution was completed, Major Fotheringham turned to Homer.
"This appears to be a serious matter, Mr. Ferguson. I j hope you have a satisfactory explanation."
"I have, your Honor," replied the defendant in a tone that practically reeked of injured innocence. It was amusing to see His Honor's look of relief, and the momentary frown, quickly replaced by calm confidence, that passed across the face of H. M. Customs and Excise.
"Do you wish to have a legal representative? I notice] that you have not brought one with you."
"It won't be necessary. The whole case is founded on j such a trivial misunderstanding that it can be cleared up without complications like that. I don't wish to incur the prosecution in unnecessary costs."
This frontal onslaught brought a murmur from the body of the court, and a flush to the cheeks of the Customs man. For the first time he began to look a little unsure of himself. If Ferguson thought the Crown would be paying costs, he must have a pretty good case. Of course, he might only be bluffing....
Homer waited until the mild stir had died away before' creating a considerably greater one.
"I have called a scientific expert to explain what happened at the Vicarage," he said. "And owing to the nature of the evidence, I must ask, for security reasons, that the rest of the proceedings be in camera."
"You want me to clear the court?" said the Chairman incredulously.
"I am afraid so, sir. My colleague, Doctor Purvis, feels that the fewer people concerned in this case, the better. When you have heard the evidence, I think you will agree with him. If I might say so, it is a great pity that it has already attracted so much publicity. I am afraid it may bring certain—ah—confidential matters to the wrong ears.
Homer glared at the customs officer, who fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Oh, very well," said Major Fotheringham. "This is all very irregular, but we live in irregular times. Mr. Clerk, clear the court."
Afte
r some grumbling and confusion, and an overruled protest from the prosecution, the order was carried out. Then, under the interested gaze of the dozen people left in the room, Harry Purvis uncovered the apparatus he had unloaded from the Baby Austin. After his qualifications had been presented to the court, he took the witness stand.
"I wish to explain, your Honor," he began, "that I have been engaged on explosives research, and that is why I happen to be acquainted with the defendant's work." The opening part of this statement was perfectly true. It was about the last thing said that day that was.
"You mean—bombs and so forth?"
"Precisely, but on a fundamental level. We are always looking for new and better types of explosives, as you can imagine. Moreover, we in government research and the academic world are continually on the lookout for good ideas from outside sources. And quite recently, Unc—er, Mr. Ferguson, wrote to us with a most interesting suggestion for a completely new type of explosive. The interesting thing about it was that it employed non-explosive materials such as sugar, starch and so on."
Tales From the White Hart Page 9
