The Germans on Venus

by Brian Stableford

  The most curious thing, however, was not what was unknown but what was known. It was a matter of public notoriety that Quiet House was not abandoned. It actually served as a residence for three people—or, to be strictly accurate, four. They were two physicians, Doctors Aloysius and Truphemus, the former’s wife, Tibby, and their daughter, little Netty.

  How they obtained the aliments necessary to life, no one could say—and on my honor, well as the house was guarded, that secret had to be well kept, for no one had been able to discover it. Indeed, John Clairfax, the Hoboken butcher, Smithson, the grocer whose shop was next door, and Parden the baker, had not been able to accept, at first, that the clientele of Quiet House was beyond their reach. They had presented themselves, at one time, to offer their services; they had stopped their carriages loaded with provisions outside the door, the first with its hanging legs of mutton and quarters of beef jiggling as the wheels jolted, the second with its sausages and candles disposed in garlands under its leather awning, and the third with its shiny gilded loaves. They had knocked for a long time before anyone opened the door, which was shuttered without and worm-eaten within—but suppliers have patient souls, to the extent that the batten finally swung back on its creaking hinges and a soft and sickly face, framed by graying hair, appeared, gazing in wide-eyed astonishment at the tenacious individuals who had not been put off by the long silence.

  “What do you want, gentlemen?” asked Dame Tibby, the wife of Aloysius, in a soft voice. Realizing very quickly who she was dealing with, though, she added: “Oh! We don’t need anything, thank you!”

  “Today,” insinuated John, the butcher with the cheerful face. “But tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow either,” replied Dame Tibby.

  “It’ll be next week, then,” Smithson and Parden put in, simultaneously.

  “No need to trouble yourselves, gentlemen,” the woman insisted. “We don’t need anything and never will.”

  “Never!” groaned John.

  “How so?” cried Smithson.

  “Does no one ever eat here?” exclaimed Parden.

  At that moment, a blonde head appeared, neck high to Dame Tibby: the head of a child whose complexion was singular, so clear and uniform was it, though devoid of color.

  Netty—for this was Aloysius’ daughter—let out a cry of joy and admiration on perceiving al the victuals proudly displayed by the tempters. “Oh, Mama!” she cried. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, nothing, my child,” said Dame Tibby, shuddering and looking behind her as if she dreaded being taken by surprise. Then, pushing little Netty back, she said: “Go away, my love! And goodbye to you gentlemen. I tell you…I’m sorry to tell you that there’s no point in coming back…”

  And the door closed again.

  The three tradesmen looked at one another, but it was evident that none of them could find a solution to the strange problem that had just been posed to them; they took hold of their horses and sent them back towards town with vigorous cracks of their whips.

  I tell you…I’m sorry to tell you… Dame Tibby had said. In fact, she had accentuated the two key words—I’m sorry—in a bizarre fashion, and if one were not afraid of being mistaken, one might have affirmed that while pronouncing them she had looked at the legs of mutton, sausages and loaves of bread with an almost ardent gaze.

  She had, however, added that they would never need any!

  Back in Hoboken, the tradesmen declared that they had encountered a family of people who did not eat. One practical man relied that the people in question were very fortunate; several others added that it must be a significant financial economy—and, as no American ever wastes time in useless reflections, no one gave another thought to the inhabitants of Quiet House, who remained free to live as they liked.

  II

  A third person: Doctor Aloysius, master of the house. To summarize what was known about him is easy, for he alone was seen to leave the sealed house four or five times a year. On each such occasion the door would let out a sort of animate emaciation, which had a head, arms and legs and evidently had the pretension of belonging to the human race. The head was elongated and angular; on the front of it there was a yellow face, which, if the skin had been scraped, might perhaps have revealed the most curious of all palimpsests. That face had a pre-eminence that one could just about recognize as a nose, the tight nostrils of which made it reminiscent of part of the blade of a knife embedded between two flat and hollow cheeks. The mouth was a pale slit, in the depths of which one sought in vain for teeth. The gums had the color of lips—which is to say, no color. The eyes were black as anthracite, the cranium bald, and the beard absent. There was nothing of the bird of prey about it, though; there was a bleak wishy-washiness about the entire physiognomy, an inertia that was perhaps inoffensive, but might be hiding the most absolute indifference—to good as well as evil.

  The legs, veritable spindles, emerged from a formless sack that should have been matt black but was lustrous with wear and antiquity. The bony hands projected from worn and completely frayed sleeves.

  Thus Doctor Aloysius appeared on the threshold of his house. Another person accompanied him as far as the doorstep: the fourth inhabitant of the house, Master Truphemus, a living antithesis in flesh and bone—especially of flesh. Truphemus was round; he represented the circle as Aloysius did the straight line—and, in truth, less the circle than the sphere. Everything about Truphemus was round, the whole and the details: an agglomeration of balls forming a ball.

  The head first: round, with round, bulbous eyes; a round mouth, round cheeks, a round chin, and a round nose. The shoulders drooped with a gentle slope to frame a thorax that fused with the pre-eminent abdomen, which melted into the hips, the thighs and the rest. The arched back did not spoil that sphericity; nothing straight interrupted its curve. The legs completed it, supplying a south pole as the head supplied the north. One might have thought him a bottle that a glass-blower had just filled with vigorous breath.

  The two doctors chatted briefly on the doorstep. Master Aloysius took a piece of paper from his pocket, which he unfolded, and from which he then read something to which Master Truphemus listened with the most profound attention. It was a list. Truphemus either nodded his head approvingly or stuck out his lips as if to say: “Hmmm! Not really necessary.” Then Aloysius scratched the item out. When this work of verification was complete, Aloysius put the piece of paper back in his pocket, held out his elongated hand to Truphemus, and squeezed his companion’s chubby fingers.

  The door closed again. Aloysius set off.

  His absence extended until the evening. At about 6 p.m., something unusual became visible on the road. It was a handcart, drawn by a man. Master Aloysius was walking behind it, directing his black gaze at the vehicle’s cargo.

  It was a very strange cargo: a pile of scrap iron, metallic debris of every sort; then bottles, heaped up pell-mell, full of materials of every color—blue, yellow, green, red, and even white. The cart was heavy, for the man was sweating, and his shoulders, hunched forward, were arching under the pressure of leather straps. Fortunately, the road was flat.

  The procession arrived at Quiet House. Master Aloysius told the porter to stop a few yards in front of the house. Then he went to knock on the door personally, in a particular fashion, and it was opened from inside without delay.

  Master Truphemus appeared again, like one of those clock-figures that appear from their niches at certain times of day. He came to help his colleague remove the objects from the cart; it was rather a long job, for they were piled up above the side-walls—and Master Truphemus paused occasionally to study the precious burden he was carrying in his arms—which might, for example, be an old piece of guttering or a few rusty stair-rods. He gazed at them amorously, and it was evident that, were it not for human respect, he might have kissed them.

  But Aloysius was in a hurry and, perceiving his companion’s disturbance, said: “Get on with it, you old gourmand—quicker than that!
You know full well that dinner’s waiting.”

  Dame Tibby joined the parry, and the three individuals passed the objects from hand to hand like the bricks that masons send up from one floor to the next. Even Netty had her role to play; Aloysius gave her the smallest pieces, with a friendly pat on the head.

  The workman was paid, and left with a visible air of satisfaction, proof that the work had been well-recompensed.

  III

  Let us go into Quiet House.

  It is 7 p.m. It is almost dark. Bizarre as it is from the outside, the house is even stranger inside. There is not a single regular room that is really entitled to that title. We shall, however, try to describe it.

  First of all, the cellars are one with the ground floor and the first floor. Only the second floor seems to be sustained by fixed floorboards. The entire space that extends from those floorboards to the ground in which the foundations are set is filled by boxes of various sizes, sustained in the void by chains and ropes movable by means of pulleys fixed to iron poles.

  These boxes are of considerable depth, taller than an average man, and their form is cubic. They are furnished with doors. The iron poles have mobile arms that rotate, with the effect that the boxes can change position throughout the breadth of the house. By means of chains and pulleys set in motion by a mechanism whose gears are visible on every side, one can lower them to any desired height. When all the boxes are elevated in mid-air, they leave the depths of the cellar absolutely free.

  Here, it is easy to take account of the nature of the place. There is nothing here but bizarrely-shaped stoves, laboratory equipment of every sort—retorts, alembics, long-necked flasks—and mechanical instruments, and an enormous electrical machine whose glass disk measures more than two meters in diameter. There is no doubt that they are the materials of a chemist and physicist.

  The entire breadth of the façade that overlooks the garden, of which we shall say more in due course, is pierced by high openings, which can be closed at will by means of shutters sliding in improvised grooves.

  In the corners, there are heaps of dark-colored materials and rusty metallic debris. Along the walls, almost at ground level, shelves support bottles half- or completely filled with crystal salts, powders and extracts, all carefully labeled.

  At one particular point, a small board is nailed to the wall, perforated with holes, in the midst of which white buttons can be seen, surmounted with little placards bearing the words: Dr. Aloysius; Dr. Truphemus; Dining Room; Library.

  These same indications are repeated on the wooden boxes. The buttons activate electrical apparatus. Depending on whether one presses the one to the right, the left or one of the middle ones, the chain that unrolls lets down Aloysius’ study, the library, and so on. A ladder is positioned so as to extend from the ground to the box, the door is opened, and one is introduced into the box.

  When we dart our indiscreet glance into Quiet House, Truphemus is in the depths of the cellar; by the light of a bizarrely-shaped lamp radiating white electric light he is tracking the progress of a transformation taking place in a crucible. Truphemus is visibly preoccupied, though; his round eyes are not focused, and his thoughts are not proceeding in a straight line. At one particular moment, he makes a gesture of discouragement, followed by another gesture of decision; he has just formed a resolution. Then he heads for the control-panel and presses Aloysius’ button violently—a little too forcefully, in fact, for the chain turns on its pulley with a rapid screech and the box in question comes down as if falling—but the springs are solid. The box stops with a shudder.

  Truphemus climbs the ladder, his arms at full stretch to permit the ascent of his protruding belly. He opens the door.

  Aloysius has been half-knocked-over by the shock, and his bony limbs have suffered somewhat from the abrupt descent. “What the Devil are you doing, my friend?” he cries, as Truphemus appears. “Your visit is reminiscent of a landslide.”

  Truphemus does not reply. He closes the door firmly behind him, and instinctively looks round to make sure that no indiscreet ear can hear what he might have to say to his colleague—and in fact, given the disposition of things, that would certainly not have been easy.

  “The simile is inappropriate,” Trumphemus says, belatedly responding to his friend’s remark. “Landslides go downwards; I’ve come up.”

  “True. Anyway, it hardly matters, and your purism can excuse me this once. What is it, then? Has there been an accident down below?”

  “None.”

  “Is the bromide all right?”

  “Admirable.”

  “The potassium cyanide’s behaving itself?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “I’m glad to hear it—you gave me quite a fright!”

  “Fear is merely a muscular contraction.”

  “And involuntary. But that’s not the issue. Explain, I beg you, for I’m in a hurry to get back to work.”

  Master Truphemus, thus summoned to get to the point, placed his rotund person on a pile of books stacked on the floor and, put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and looked at Aloysius with dull blue eyes. “My dear friend, I think that, since our relationship—or, rather, our scientific collaboration—began, we have to congratulate ourselves on the progress made…”

  “I agree with you gladly as to that—and, since the opportunity presents itself, permit me to recognize the astonishing faculty of intuition with which you are endowed, and which has permitted us to resolve problems before which the greatest minds have recoiled….”

  “As I also ask of you the authorization to render justice to the surprising qualities of tenacity and perseverance of which you have given extraordinary evidence.”

  The two scientists bowed to one another. One might have thought they were in an Academy.

  “Let’s pass on!” said Truphemus.

  “Let’s!” said Aloysius.

  “And among those problems,” continued Trumphemus, “I shall take the liberty of calling particular attention to that of alimentation. You know the question very well—better than me, I ought to add—but allow me to summarize the discoveries that we have made.”

  Aloysius closed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. He listened.

  “With what does the human body nourish itself? Let us resume, for a few moments, the language of ignorant stick-in-the-muds. To that question they answer…what? That the body is nourished by animal and vegetable substances; that nutrients must be drawn from those two natural species, excluding purely mineral substances.”

  “As if the Otomaques and the Guamos of the banks of the Orinoco did not content themselves with earth alone!”58

  “Indeed!” Truphemus resumed, his tone indicating his annoyance at being interrupted. “I’ll continue. But what are animal and vegetable substances, if not various compounds of primordial elements necessary to nutrition: elements that are scarcely numerous, and which are the only ones—I insist on the phrase—that concur usefully in the maintenance of the human body? Let’s be precise. Everything that constitutes nourishment is composed of nitrogenous materials mixed with other substances deprived of nitrogen. At that is the point, I venture to say, at which we have veritably crossed, with a single bound, the limit imposed upon us by the stupidity of the impotent…

  “Starting from that principle, that nitrogen is the nutrient par excellence, we said to ourselves: why has humankind created trouble and innumerable dangers for itself for such a long time, by searching all over the world for substances of various tastes, forms and colors, when it is so simple…”

  “To get them from the very elements of nourishment.”

  “Exactly. And to do that, what do we require?” At this point, Truphemus slowed down, emphasizing each word. “To analyze the elements in the human body, and to establish their proportionate quantities, in order to replace them as they are used up.”

  “In truth,” said Aloysius, “one could not enunciate our ideas more clearly.”
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br />   “Man,” continued Truphemus, visibly flattered by this direct homage, “contains carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, phosphorus and iron. If, by binary or tertiary combination, these elements produce various substances—salts, acids or others—under the influence of life, they produce organic matter, and, as the great Berzelius59 put it so well, organic compounds are oxides of radicals, which themselves result, some from two elements, carbon and hydrogen or carbon and nitrogen, others from three, carbon hydrogen and nitrogen…but let’s pass over these details.”

  “Yes, let’s pass on!” said Aloysius.

  “Ought we to accept without question the ridiculous condemnation pronounced by ignorance upon any attempt to synthesize organic compounds? Have not Döbereiner, Hatchett and Wöhler proved that the solution of the problem is close at hand?60 What did their experiments require in order to become definitive?”

  Truphemus looked at his companion shrewdly.

  Aloysius smiled. “Yes, what did they require?” he said in his turn.

  There was a momentary pause. The two scientists savored their triumph as the conservation renewed it.

  Truphemus was the first to recover his gravity. “What those precursors of Aloysius and Truphemus required, was to understand that if the combinations were effected, it was under the influence of a principle that it is not given to man to define, but whose existence he establishes: the principle of life. In consequence, in order for organic matter to be produced, it is necessary that the combinations occur under the influence of that same principle. In brief, and by way of conclusion, it is sufficient to introduce oxygen, carbon, nitrogen and hydrogen into the human body for matter to be synthesized by the action of life.”