In the Shadow of Frankenstein: Tales of the Modern Prometheus

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  “A possibility.”

  “And still a man?”

  Smyth gestured with his pipe.

  “Let us say, of the genus homo but not of the species sapiens.”

  I was astounded. I couldn’t believe that Smyth was serious. I said, with what I thought admirable understatement, “It seems most unlikely.”

  Smyth looked almost embarrassed. When he spoke, it was as though he was offering an explanation. He said, “I mentioned that I have great respect for Hodson. And a great curiosity. He’s not a man to forsake his science, and he’s spent the last twenty odd years doing something on that island. That in itself is interesting. Hodson was primarily a laboratory man. He had little time for field work and believed that to be the proper task for men with less imagination and intelligence—believed that lesser men should gather the data for men of his own calibre to interpret. And then, quite suddenly, he disappers into the wilds. There has to be a reason, something to which he was willing to dedicate the rest of his life. And Hodson placed the highest possible value on his life, in the sense of what he could accomplish while he lived. It may have nothing whatsoever to do with these reports. Quite likely it doesn’t. But whatever he is doing is definitely of interest. Whatever he has accomplished in twenty years is bound to be fascinating, whether it is right or wrong. I’ve often considered sending someone to locate him, but always put it off. Now seems the perfect time to kill two birds with one stone. Or, perhaps, the same bird.”

  I nodded, but I was in no way convinced.

  “I expect you think I’m grasping at a straw,” Smyth said, noticing my hesitation. “I knew Hodson. Not well, not as a friend, but I knew him. You’d have to know him to understand how I feel. I was one of the last people he spoke with before he vanished, and I’ve always remembered that conversation. He was exuberant and excited and confident. He told me that he was working on something new, something very big. He even admitted that the results might disprove some of his earlier theories, which was very impressive, coming from a man who had never in his life admitted he might be mistaken. And he said that this time no one would be able to scoff or doubt or disagree, because when he was finished he would have more than a theory—he would have concrete proof.”

  Smyth tapped the ash from his pipe. He seemed tired now.

  “You’ve never been to South America, have you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Very much.”

  “I think I’d like to send you there.”

  Smyth opened a drawer and began thumbing through some papers. There were handwritten notes in the margins. He said, “The place to start will be Ushuaia. I’ll wire Gardiner to expect you, he should be helpful. You can spend a few days there checking on the reports in person. Then try to locate Hodson. Gardiner might know where he is. He’ll certainly know where he buys his supplies, so you should be able to work back from there.”

  “Are you sure he gets his supplies from Ushuaia?”

  “He must. There’s nowhere else anywhere near there.”

  Everything seemed to be moving very fast suddenly.

  “Now, I’d better arrange a hotel for you,” Smyth said, turning a sheet to read the margin. “The Albatross or the Gran Parque? Neither has hot water nor central heating, but a dedicated scientist shouldn’t mind that.”

  I tossed a mental coin.

  “The Albatross.”

  “How soon will you be able to leave?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  I believe I blinked.

  “If that’s convenient,” Smyth said.

  “Yes, all right,” I said, wondering what Susan would think about it with no time to get used to the idea.

  “Fine,” Smyth said, and the interview was over. I was amazed and skeptical, but if Smyth had respect for Hodson, I had respect for Smyth. And the prospect of field work is always exciting.

  I rose to leave.

  “Oh, Brookes?”

  “Sir?”

  I was at the door and turned. He was filling another pipe.

  “You know that Jeffries is retiring at the end of the year?”

  “I’d heard as much, sir.”

  “Yes. That’s all,” he said.

  Then I was very excited.

  Tierra del Fuego.

  Delighted as I was at Smyth’s open hint of promotion, I think I was even more excited about the opportunity to visit that fascinating archipelago. I suppose that every anthropologist since Darwin has been fascinated by the opportunities existing there to study primitive man. Separated from the South American mainland by the Straits of Magellan and divided between Argentina and Chile, Tierra del Fuego consists of the large island, five smaller islands, numerous islets, peninsulas, channels, bays and sounds crouched beneath the low clouds and fierce winds where the Andes stagger down, stumbling across the straits and limping out to fall, at Cape Horn, into the mists at the end of the world. There was little there to attract civilization, 27,500 square miles of rugged wilds with sheep, lumbering and fishing, a recent discovery of poor oil in the plains to the north-east—and the fascination of Stone Age man.

  They were there when Magellan discovered the land in 1520, and named it the land of fire because of the signal fires that smoldered along the windy coast, a group of human beings that time and evolution had overlooked, leading their natural and prehistoric lives. And they are still there, diminished by contact with civilization and unable to cope with the fingertips of the modern world that have managed to grope even to this forsaken place, reduced to living in wretched hovels on the outskirts of the towns. There are few left. These creatures who could face the wind and snow without clothing could not face the advance of time.

  But surely not all had succumbed. And this, I felt, would prove the answer to the rumors of a wild creature, that it would be an aborigine who had refused to give up his dignity and forsake his wild freedom, and still ran savage and naked through those mountains and canyons. It was a far more feasible solution than Smyth had put forward, and no little opportunity for study in its own right. I believed that was what Hodson had been doing all these years, but that Smyth, never a skeptic, was so overpowered by the force of this man that his imagination had run wild; that he could have believed anything in relation to Hodson.

  Or was Smyth, perhaps, testing me in some fashion? Could he be inviting me to draw my own conclusions as the future head of my department?

  It was an intriguing thought, and I was quite willing to stand the examination. I needed no unfounded rumors or vague speculation, the opportunities of Tierra del Fuego were enough in themselves.

  I had only one reservation. What was Susan going to think of this immediate and prolonged parting? I knew that she would put forth no objections, she was not the sort of woman who would interfere with a man’s work, but I knew she would be disappointed and disturbed at our separation. I wasn’t happy at the thought of being away from her either, of course, but this feeling was tempered by my excitement. It is always harder for the one who stays behind.

  We had never been apart before. We’d met some six months before and become engaged within a fortnight—one of those rare and remarkable meetings of mind and body that seem destined to be, a perfect agreement in all things and a blissful contentment when we were together. We were old enough to know that this was what we wanted, and all we wanted, with no doubts whatsoever about our future. I knew Susan would understand the necessity for the separation, and had no qualms about telling her; I worried only that she would be saddened.

  Susan was preparing dinner at her place that evening. She had a small flat in South Kensington where she practiced her culinary arts several times a week, not as the way to her man’s heart, which she already had, but through a splendidly old-fashioned idea of being an ideal wife. I was still in an excited mood as I walked to her place through the late afternoon, scarcely noticing the steady drizzle as a discomfort, although possess
ed of a feeling that all my senses were alert, that I was aware of everything in the slightest detail. The sky was darkening and the street lamps had come on, pale and haloed. The traffic was heavy but strangely silent. Pedestrians hurried home from their work, collars up and heads lowered. They all seemed very dismal and drab to me, creatures of humdrum habit who could not but envy my life and future, my woman and my work, had they known. I would have liked to stop some passing stranger and tell him of my success, show him a photograph of Susan, not through vanity as much as a feeling of gratitude. It was the first time I could remember wanting to tell someone about myself. I had few friends and most of my acquaintances were professional, and had never felt the need before. But then, I had never felt this happy anticipation. I quickened my pace, anxious to be with Susan.

  I had a key to her flat and let myself in at the front door, walked up the two flights to her floor and entered. The flat was warm and comfortable, the gramophone was playing a record of baroque harp and recorder and I could hear Susan manipulating utensils in the tiny kitchen. I stood in the doorway for a moment, appreciating the way Susan had decorated the room, with great care and taste and little expense, and feeling the contentment that always filled me when I was there. I realized then just how much I was going to long for Susan while I was away.

  Susan heard the door close and came into the room. She was wearing a simple black dress of which I was exceptionally fond and her hair fell to her shoulders with all the tones and shades of a forest fire. She smiled as she crossed the room and we kissed. Then she must have seen something in my expression, because her forehead arched in query.

  “You look thoughtful, darling.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Oh?”

  I moved to the couch. She didn’t press her question.

  “Dinner in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Sherry?”

  “Fine.”

  She poured the sherry from a cut-glass decanter and handed me a glass, then sat beside me on the couch, curling her long legs under her. I sipped the drink and the record ended and rejected. The Hebrides Overture began to play.

  “What about?” she asked then.

  “Two things, really. I was talking with Smyth today. He made a point of mentioning that Jeffries is retiring.”

  “But that’s wonderful, Arthur.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing definite. I mean, he didn’t tell me I was in line for the position or anything.”

  “But he must have implied it.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m so pleased.” She kissed me lightly. “I know you’d hoped for it. We should celebrate.”

  I smiled, not too cheerfully.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, not really.”

  “You hardly seem elated.”

  “Well, there’s another thing.”

  “Good?”

  “In a way. It’s just that—well, I don’t know what you’ll think about it.”

  She looked at me over the rim of her glass. Her eyes were green and lovely. She was very beautiful.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I have to go to South America.”

  She blinked.

  “Oh, not to live or anything. Just a field trip for the museum. A wonderful opportunity, really, except it will mean being away from you for a while.”

  “Did you expect me to object?”

  “I knew better than that.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  I wasn’t at all sure. I said, “Two or three months, I suppose.”

  “I’ll miss you very much, darling. When will you have to leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So sudden? But why?”

  “Well, it’s an idea Smyth has. I don’t agree with him, but either way it’s a marvelous opportunity. And my promotion might well rest on what I do there.”

  Susan pondered for a moment, then smiled. It was all right. She understood, as I’d known she would, and conflicting emotions struggled for only that moment before yielding to logic rare in a woman.

  “I’m happy for you, darling. Really I am.”

  “It won’t be long.”

  “You’re very excited about it, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. It’s a splendid opportunity. Except for being away from you.”

  She dismissed that with a gesture. “Tell me about it.”

  I talked for a while, telling her about Tierra del Fuego, Hubert Hodson, the recent reports and my own ideas about them. Susan listened, interested because it interested me, and getting used to the idea of our separation, balancing it with the advantages that would follow my potential promotion. Presently we had dinner with candlelight and wine, and Susan was as lively and cheerful as ever. I loved her very much. I could already feel the pain of parting, the emotional tone of our last evening together and a touch of the thrill that would come when we were together again on my return.

  We took our brandy out to the little terrace that ran around the side of the building and stood hand in hand at the railing, looking out across the dark canyons of the city. The lights of the West London Air Terminal loomed garish and gaudy above the rooftops. They reminded me of my flight, making the prospect more concrete and immediate, and perhaps they did the same for Susan. She became solemn, holding my hand tightly.

  “God, I’ll miss you so much,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “No longer than you have to, darling?”

  “No longer.”

  “I’ll be awfully lonely.”

  “So will I.”

  She looked at me then, feigning a frown of deep concern.

  “Not lonely enough to seek solace in the arms of another woman, I trust,” she said. But she said it as a joke, to dispel the tension. Susan knew I wanted no one but her, and never would. I’d never imagined a time when I would place a woman ahead of my work, but if she had asked me not to go, I would have remained with her.

  Ah, why didn’t she?

  II

  I refilled my glass.

  Susan hadn’t touched her wine. I recalled how happy we’d been the night before I’d left, and the contrast made our sorrow worse. If it could possibly be worse. The waiter looked towards our table to see if we wanted anything and looked quickly away. A man dining alone across the room glanced appreciatively at Susan, admiring her long legs and amber hair, then lowered his gaze as I looked at him. Susan would have no trouble finding a new man whenever she wanted, and this bitter knowledge sent a chill down my backbone, all the colder because I knew she wanted no one but me, and because I could never marry her. My hand trembled with the weight of the bottle and my heart trembled with the weight of despair.

  Susan looked up through her lashes, a glance that would have been flirtatious had her eyes not been dull with grief.

  “What happened in Tierra del Fuego, Arthur?” she asked, pleading for an answer, a reason which might make her sorrow less through understanding.

  I shook my head.

  I couldn’t tell her.

  But I remembered …

  I flew from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia.

  In the footsteps of Darwin, the modern speed seemed wrong and disappointing. Darwin had been there on HMS Beagle from 1826 to 1836, exploring the channel on which Ushuaia was situated. It was called, appropriately enough, the Beagle Channel. But I flew in from Buenos Aires in five hours, seated next to a middle-aged American tourist and disturbed by the thought that there could be nothing left for discovery in a town with an airport and the beginnings of a tourist trade.

  The tourist wanted to talk, and nothing short of direct impoliteness would have silenced him.

  “Going to Ushuaia?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Me too.”

  That seemed obvious enough, since that was where the aeroplane was headed.

  “Name’s Jones. Clyde Jones.”

  He had a big, healthy face clamped around a huge cigar.

&nbs
p; “Brookes.”

  Jones extended a wide hand. He wore a ruby ring on his little finger and an expensive camera on a sling around his neck. His grip was very firm. I suppose he was a pleasant enough fellow.

  “You a Limey? I’m a Yank.”

  He hesitated, as though wondering if this required another handshake.

  “You a tourist? I am. Travel a lot, you know. Since my wife died I traveled all over. Been in your country. Been all over Europe. Spent two months there last summer, saw it all. Except the communist parts, of course. I wouldn’t want to go there and give them any foreign exchange.”

  “Quite right,” I said.

  “Did you know this Ushuaia is one of the southernmost communities in the world? I want to see this Ushuaia. Don’t know why. ’Cause it’s there, I guess. Like mountain climbers, hah? Ha ha.”

  I looked out the window. The flat tableland and glacial lakes of the north were behind, and the terrain was beginning to rise in rugged humps and twisting rivers, glimpsed through clouds as heavy and low as the smoke from Jones’s cigar. It was exciting land, but I was depressed. Jones did not seem interested. I suppose he saw nothing that was not framed in his camera’s lens. He chatted away amicably, and I was seized with a feeling that I had been born too late, that nothing new remained to be discovered, and that all one could do now was study the past.

  And no man has ever been more wrong.

  Everything seemed much brighter after we landed.

  The airport was on the edge of the town, and Jones shared a taxi with me. He was staying at the Albatross, too. The taxi was a huge American model, as modern as a missile, but somehow this didn’t trouble me, now that I was in contact with the land. It was as if the motorcar were out of time and place, not that the land had changed. Jones may have felt something of this anachronism, as well, for he became quiet and almost apprehensive, perhaps sensing that he didn’t belong here, that the soul of this place had not yet been sucked into the tourists’ cameras. I looked from the window and became excited once more as we jolted through the streets.

  Ushuaia looked like a Swiss mountain village set on a Norwegian fiord. Sharp-spined wooden chalets leaned on the steep hills and a glacier mounted the hill behind, impressive and impassive. Farther to the west the high peaks of Darwin and Larmeinto rose into the low clouds. The taxi slowed suddenly, throwing me forwards on the seat. We had braked behind a man on horseback, sitting slumped in his poncho. The horse moved sedately up the middle of the road. The driver sounded the horn and the rider, if anything, slumped more and carried on at his own pace. The driver cursed, revving the monstrous engine in helpless frustration and moving his hands in wide gesticulation. I was pleased.