by John Wyndham
“Such as?” I asked.
“Nothing very definite,” he admitted. “But when one puts them all together ... After all, there's no smoke without—”
“All right, let's have it,” I invited him.
“I think,” he said, with impressive earnestness, “I think we are on the track of something big here. Very likely something that will at last stir people's consciences to the iniquities which are practised under the cloak of scientific research. Do you know what I think is happening on our very doorstep?”
“I'll buy it,” I told him, patiently.
“I think we have to deal with a super-vivisectionist!” he said, wagging a dramatic finger at me.
I frowned. “I don't get that,” I told him. “A thing is either vivi- or it isn't. Super-vivi- just doesn't —”
“Tcha!” said Alfred. At least, it was that kind of noise. “What I mean is that we are up against a man who is outraging nature, abusing God's creatures, wantonly distorting the forms of animals until they are no longer recognizable, or only in parts, as what they were before he started distorting them,” he announced, involvedly.
At this point I began to get a line on the truly Alfredian theory that was being propounded this time. His imagination had got its teeth well in, and, though later events were to show that it was not biting quite deeply enough, I laughed:
“I see it,” I said, “I've read The Island of Doctor Moreau, too. You expect to go up to the Grange and be greeted by a horse walking on its hind legs and discussing the weather; or perhaps you hope a super-dog will open the door to you, and inquire your name?
“A thrilling idea, Alfred. But this is real life, you know. Since there has been a complaint, we must try to investigate it, but I'm afraid you're going to be dreadfully disappointed, old man, if you're looking forward to going into a house filled with the sickly fumes of ether and hideous with the cries of tortured animals. Just come off it a bit, Alfred. Come down to earth.”
But Alfred was not to be deflated so easily. His fantasies were an important part of his life, and, while he was a little irritated by my discerning the source of his inspiration, he was not quenched. Instead, he went on turning the thing over in his mind, and adding a few extra touches to it here and there.
“Why turtles?” I heard him mutter. “It only seems to make it more complicated, to choose reptiles.”
He contemplated that for some moments, then he added:
“Arms. Arms and hands! Now where on earth would he get a pair of arms from?”
His eyes grew still larger and more excited as he thought about that.
“Now, now! Keep a hold on it!” I advised him.
All the same, it was an awkward, uneasy land of question ...
The following afternoon Alfred and I presented ourselves at the lodge of Membury Grange, and gave our names to the suspicious-looking man who lived there to guard the entrance. He shook his head to indicate that we hadn't a hope of approaching more closely, but he did pick up the telephone.
I had a somewhat unworthy hope that his discouraging attitude might be confirmed. The thing ought, of course, to be followed up, if only to pacify the villagers, but I could have wished that Alfred had had longer to go off the boil. At present, his agitation and expectation were, if anything, increased. The fancies of Poe and Zola are mild compared with the products of Alfred's imagination powered by suitable fuel. All night long, it seemed, the most horrid nightmares had galloped through his sleep, and he was now in a vein where such phrases as the ‘wanton torturing of our dumb friends’ by ‘the fiendish wielders of the knife’, and ‘the shuddering cries of a million quivering victims ascending to high heaven’ came tripping off his tongue automatically. It was awkward. If I had not agreed to accompany him, he would certainly have gone alone, in which case he would be likely to come to some kind of harm on account of the generalized accusations of mayhem, mutilation and sadism with which he would undoubtedly open the conversation.
In the end I had persuaded him that his course would be to keep his eyes cunningly open for more evidence while I conducted the interview. Later, if he was not satisfied, he would be able to say his piece. I just had to hope that he would be able to withstand the internal pressure.
The guardian turned back to us from the telephone, wearing a surprised expression.
“He says as he'll see you!” he told us, as though not quite certain he had heard aright. “You'll find him in the new wing — that red-brick part, there.”
The new wing, into which the poaching Bill had spied, turned out to be much bigger than I had expected. It covered a ground-area quite as large as that of the original house, but was only one storey high. A door in the end of it opened as we drove up, and a tall, loosely-clad figure with an untidy beard stood waiting for us there.
“Good Lord!” I said, as we approached. “So that was why we got in so easily! I'd no idea you were that Dixon. Who'd have thought it?”
“Come to that,” he retorted, “you seem to be in a surprising occupation for a man of intelligence, yourself.”
I remembered my companion.
“Alfred,” I said, “I'd like to introduce you to Doctor Dixon — once a poor usher who tried to teach me something about biology at school, but later, by popular repute, the inheritor of millions, or thereabouts.”
Alfred looked suspicious. This was obviously wrong: a move towards fraternization with the enemy at the very outset! He nodded ungraciously, and did not offer to shake hands.
“Come in!” Dixon invited.
He showed us into a comfortable study-cum-office which tended to confirm the rumours of his inheritance. I sat down in a magnificent easy-chair.
“You'll very likely have gathered from your watchman that we're here in an official way,” I said. “So perhaps it would be better to get. the business over before we celebrate the reunion. It'd be a kindness to relieve the strain on my friend Alfred.”
Doctor Dixon nodded, and cast a speculative glance at Alfred who had no intention of compromising himself by sitting down.
“I'll give you the report just as we had it,” I told him, and proceeded to do so. When I reached a description of the turtle-like creatures he looked somewhat relieved.
“Oh, so that's what happened to them,” he said.
“Ah!” cried Alfred, his voice going up into a squeak with excitement. “So you admit it! You admit that you are responsible for those two unhappy creatures!”
Dixon looked at him, wonderingly.
“I was responsible for them — but I didn't know they were unhappy: how did you?”
Alfred disregarded the question.
“That's what we want,” he squeaked. “He admits that he—”
“Alfred,” I told him coldly. “Do be quiet, and stop dancing about. Let me get on with it.”
I got on with it for a few more sentences, but Alfred was building up too much pressure to hold. He cut right in:
“Where — where did you get the arms? Just tell me where they came from?” he demanded, with deadly meaning.
“Your friend seems a little over — er, a little dramatic,” remarked Doctor Dixon.
“Look, Alfred,” I said severely, “just let me get finished, will you? You can introduce your note of ghoulery later on.”
When I ended, it was with an excuse that seemed necessary. I said to Dixon: “I'm sorry to intrude on you with all this, but you see how we stand. When supported allegations are laid before us, we have no choice but to investigate. Obviously this is something quite out of the usual run, but I'm sure you'll be able to clear it up satisfactorily for us. And now, Alfred,” I added, turning to him, “I believe you have a question or two to ask, but do try to remember that our host's name is Dixon, and not Moreau.”<
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Alfred leapt, as from a slipped leash.
“What I want to know is the meaning, the reason and the method of these outrages against nature. I demand to be told by what right this man considers himself justified in turning normal creatures into unnatural mockeries of natural forms.”
Doctor Dixon nodded gently.
“A comprehensive inquiry — though not too comprehensibly expressed,” he said. “I deplore the loose, recurrent use of the word ‘nature’ — and would point out that the word ‘unnatural’ is a vulgarism which does not even make sense. Obviously, if a thing has been done at all it was in someone's nature to do it, and in the nature of the material to accept whatever was done. One can act only within the limits of one's nature: that is an axiom.”
“A lot of hairsplitting isn't going to —” began Alfred, but Dixon continued smoothly:
“Nevertheless, I think I understand you to mean that my nature has prompted me to use certain material in a manner which your prejudices do not approve. Would that be right?”
“There may be lots of ways of putting it, but I call it vivisection — vivisection!” said Alfred, relishing the word like a good curse. “You may have a licence. But there have been things going on here that will require a very convincing explanation indeed to stop us taking the matter to the police.'
Doctor Dixon nodded.
“I rather thought you might have some such idea: and I'd prefer you did not. Before long, the whole thing will be announced by me, and become public knowledge. Meanwhile, I want at least two, possibly three, months to get my findings ready for publication. When I have explained, I think you will understand my position better.”
He paused, thoughtfully eyeing Alfred who did not look like a man intending to understand anything. He went on:
“The crux of this is that I have not, as you are suspecting, either grafted, or readjusted, nor in any way distorted living forms. I have built them.”
For a moment, neither of us grasped the significance of that — though Alfred thought he had it.
“Ha! You can quibble,” he said, “but there had to be a basis. You must have had some kind of living animal to start with — and one which you wickedly mutilated to produce these horrors.”
But Dixon shook his head.
“No, I mean what I said. I have built — and then I have induced a kind of life into what I have built.”
We gaped. I said, uncertainly: “Are you really claiming that you can create a living creature?”
“Pooh!” he said. “Of course I can, so can you. Even Alfred here can do that, with the help of a female of the species. What I am telling you is that I can animate the inert because I have found how to induce the — or, at any rate, a — life-force.”
The lengthy pause that followed that was broken at last by Alfred.
“I don't believe it,” he said, loudly. “It isn't possible that you, here in this one-eyed village, should have solved the mystery of life. You're just trying to hoax us because you're afraid of what we shall do.”
Dixon smiled calmly.
“I said that I had found a life-force. There may be dozens of other kinds for all I know. I can understand that it's difficult for you to believe; but, after all, why not? Someone was bound to find one of them somewhere sooner or later. What's more surprising to me is that this one wasn't discovered before.”
But Alfred was not to be soothed.
“I don't believe it,” he repeated. “Nor will anybody else unless you produce proofs — if you can.”
“Of course,” agreed Dixon. “Who would take it on trust? Though I'm afraid that when you examine my present specimens you may find the construction a little crude at first. Your friend, Nature, puts in such a lot of unnecessary work that can be simplified out.”
“Of course, in the matter of arms, that seems to worry you so much, if I could have obtained real arms immediately after the death of the owner I might have been able to use them — I'm not sure whether it wouldn't have been more trouble though. However, such things are not usually handy, and the building of simplified parts is not really difficult — a mixture of engineering, chemistry and common sense. Indeed, it has been quite possible for some time, but without the means of animating them it was scarcely worth doing. One day they may be made finely enough to replace a lost limb, but a very complicated technique will have to be evolved before that can be done.”
“As for your suspicion that my specimens suffer, Mr. Weston, I assure you that they are coddled — they have cost me a great deal of money and work. And, in any case, it would be difficult for you to prosecute me for cruelty to an animal hitherto unheard of, with habits unknown.”
“I am not convinced,” said Alfred, stoutly.
The poor fellow was, I think, too upset by the threat to his theory for the true magnitude of Dixon's claim to reach him.
“Then, perhaps a demonstration...?” Dixon suggested. “If you will follow me...”
Bill's peeping exploit had prepared us for the sight of the steel-barred cages in the laboratory, but not for many of the other things we found there — one of them was the smell.
Doctor Dixon apologized as we choked and gasped:
“I forgot to warn you about the preservatives.”
“It's reassuring to know that that's all they are,” I said, between coughs.
The room must have been getting on for a hundred feet in length, and about thirty high. Bill had certainly seen precious little through his chink in the curtain, and I stared in amazement at the quantities of apparatus gathered there. There was a rough division into sections: chemistry in one corner, bench and lathes in another, electrical apparatus grouped at one end and so on. In one of several bays stood an operating table, with cases of instruments to hand;
Alfred's eyes widened at the sight of it, and an expression of triumph began to enliven his face. In another bay there was more the suggestion of a sculptor's studio, with moulds and casts lying about on tables. Farther on were large presses, and sizeable electric furnaces, but most of the gear other than the simplest conveyed little to me.
“No cyclotron, no electron-microscope; otherwise, a bit of everything,” — I remarked.
“You're wrong there. There's the electron — Hullo! Your friend's off.”
Alfred had kind of homed at the operating-table. He was peering intently all around and under it, presumably in the hope of bloodstains. We walked after him.
“Here's one of the chief primers of that ghastly imagination of yours,” Dixon said. He opened a drawer, took out an arm and laid it on the operating table. “Take a look at that.”
The thing was a waxy yellow, and without other colouring. In shape, it did have a close resemblance to a human arm, but when I looked closely at the hand, I saw that it was smooth, unmarked by whorls or lines: nor did it have finger-nails.
“Not worth bothering about at this stage,” said Dixon, watching me.
Nor was it a whole arm: it was cut off short between the elbow and the shoulder.
“What's that?” Alfred inquired, pointing to a protruding metal rod.
“Stainless steel,” Dixon told him. “Much quicker and less expensive than making matrices for pressing bone forms. When I get standardized I'll probably go to plastic bones: one ought to be able to save weight there.”
Alfred was looking worriedly disappointed again; that arm was convincingly non-vivesectional.
“But why an arm? Why any of this?” he demanded, with a wave that largely included the whole room.
“In the order of askings: an arm — or, rather, a hand —because it is the most useful tool ever evolved, and I certainly could not think of a better. And ‘any of this’ because once I had hit upon the basic secret I took a fancy
to build as my proof the perfect creature — or as near that as one's finite mind can reach.”
“The turtle-like creatures were an early step. They had enough brain to live, and produce reflexes, but not enough for constructive thought. It wasn't necessary.”
“You mean that your ‘perfect creature’ does have constructive thought?” I asked.
“She has a brain as good as ours, and slightly larger,” he said. “Though, of course, she needs experience — education. Still, as the brain is already fully developed, it learns much more quickly than a child's would.”
“May we see it — her?” I asked.
He sighed regretfully.
“Everyone always wants to jump straight to the finished product. All right then. But first we will have a little demonstration — I'm afraid your friend is still unconvinced.”
He led across towards the surgical instrument cases and opened a preserving cupboard there. From it he took a shapeless white mass which he laid on the operating table. Then he wheeled it towards the electrical apparatus farther up the room. Beneath the pallid, sagging object I saw a hand protruding.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Bill's ‘bolster with hands’!”
“Yes — he wasn't entirely wrong, though from your account he laid it on a bit. This little fellow is really my chief assistant. He's got all the essential parts; alimentary, vascular, nervous, respiratory. He can, in fact, live. But it isn't a very exciting existence for him — he's a kind of testing motor for trying out newly-made appendages.”
While he busied himself with some electrical connections he added:
“If you, Mr. Weston, would care to examine the specimen in any way, short of harming it, to convince yourself that it is not alive at present, please do.”
Alfred approached the white mass. He peered through his glasses at it closely, and with distaste. He prodded it with a tentative forefinger.
“So the basis is electrical?” I said to Dixon.
He picked up a bottle of some grey concoction and measured a little into a beaker.
