"But how," cut in Halburton, "did Callan propose to accomplish the feat of inserting extra chromosomes? Chromosomes themselves are microscopic; genes are barely visible under the highest magnification, and nobody ever saw a determinant."
"I don't know how," said Carver gravely. "Part of his notes crumbled to dust, and the description of his method must have gone with those pages. Morgan uses hard radiations, but his object and his results are both different. He doesn't change the number of chromosomes."
He hesitated. "I think Callan used a combination of radiation and injection," he resumed. "I don't know. All I know is that he stayed on Austin four or five years, and that he came with only his wife. That part of his notes is clear enough. He began treating the vegetation near his shack, and some cats and dogs he had brought. Then he discovered that the thing was spreading like a disease."
"Spreading?" echoed Halburton.
"Of course. Every tree he treated strewed multi-chromosomed pollen to the wind, and as for the cats—Anyway, the aberrant pollen fertilized normal seeds, and the result was another freak, a seed with the normal number of chromosomes from one parent and ten times as many from the other. The variations were endless. You know how swiftly kauri and tree ferns grow, and these had a possible speed of growth ten times as great.
"The freaks overran the island, smothering out the normal growths. And Callan's radiations, and perhaps his injections, too, affected Austin Island's indigenous life—the rats, the bats. They began to produce mutants. He came in 1918, and by the time he realized his own tragedy, Austin was an island of freaks where no child resembled its parents save by the merest chance."
"His own tragedy? What do you mean?"
"Well, Callan was a biologist, not an expert in radiation. I don't know exactly what happened. Exposure to X-rays for long periods produces burns, ulcers, malignancies. Maybe Callan didn't take proper precautions to shield his device, or maybe he was using a radiation of peculiarly irritating quality. Anyway, his wife sickened first—an ulcer that turned cancerous.
"He had a radio—a wireless, rather, in 1921—and he summoned his sloop from the Chathams. It sank off that coral spit, and Callan, growing desperate, succeeded somehow in breaking his wireless. He was no electrician, you see.
"Those were troubled days, after the close of the War. With Callan's sloop sunk, no one knew exactly what had become of him, and after a while he was forgotten. When his wife died, he buried her; but when he died there was no one to bury him. The descendants of what had been his cats took care of him, and that was that."
"Yeah? What about Lilith?"
"Yes," said Carver soberly. "What about her? When I began to suspect the secret of Austin Island, that worried me. Was Lilith really quite human? Was she, too, infected by the taint of variation, so that her children might vary as widely as the offspring of the—cats? She spoke not a word of any language I knew—or I thought so, anyway—and I simply couldn't fit her in. But Callan's diary and notes did it for me."
"How?"
"She's the daughter of the captain of Callan's sloop, whom he rescued when it was wrecked on the coral point. She was five years old then, which makes her almost twenty now. As for language—well, perhaps I should have recognized the few halting words she recalled. C'm on, for instance, was comment—that is, 'how?' And pah bo was simply pas bon, not good. That's what she said about the poisonous fruit. And lay shot was les chats, for somehow she remembered, or sensed, that the creatures from the eastern end were cats.
"About her, for fifteen years, centered the dog creatures, who despite their form were, after all, dogs by nature, and loyal to their mistress. And between the two groups was eternal warfare."
"But are you sure Lilith escaped the taint?"
"Her name's Lucienne," mused Carver, "but I think I prefer Lilith." He smiled at the slim figure clad in a pair of Jameson's trousers and his own shirt, standing there in the stern looking back at Austin. "Yes, I'm sure. When she was cast on the island, Callan had already destroyed the device that had slain his wife and was about to kill him. He wrecked his equipment completely, knowing that in the course of time the freaks he had created were doomed."
"Doomed?"
"Yes. The normal strains, hardened by evolution, are stronger. They're already appearing around the edges of the island, and some day Austin will betray no more peculiarities than any other remote islet. Nature always reclaims her own."
THE END
PYGMALION'S SPECTACLES
BUT WHAT IS REALITY?' asked the gnome-like man. He gestured at the tall banks of buildings that loomed around Central Park, with their countless windows glowing like the cave fires of a city of Cro-Magnon people. 'All is dream, all is illusion; I am your vision as you are mine.'
Dan Burke, struggling for clarity of thought through the fumes of liquor, stared without comprehension at the tiny figure of his companion. He began to regret the impulse that had driven him to leave the party to seek fresh air in the park, and to fall by chance into the company of this diminutive old madman. But he had needed escape; this was one party too many, and not even the presence of Claire with her trim ankles could hold him there. He felt an angry desire to go home- not to his hotel, but home to Chicago and to the comparative peace of the Board of Trade. But he was leaving tomorrow anyway.
'You drink,' said the elfin, bearded face, 'to make real a dream. Is it not so? Either to dream that what you seek is yours, or else to dream that what you hate is conquered. You drink to escape reality, and the irony is that even reality is a dream.'
'Cracked!' thought Dan again.
'Or so,' concluded the other, 'says the philosopher Berkeley.'
'Berkeley?' echoed Dan. His head was clearing; memories of a sophomore course in Elementary Philosophy drifted back. 'Bishop Berkeley, eh?'
'You know him, then? The philosopher of Idealism-no?-the one who argues that we do not see, feel, hear, taste the object, but that we have only the sensation of seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting.'
'I-sort of recall it.'
'Hah! But sensations are mental phenomena. They exist in our minds. How, then, do we know that the objects themselves do not exist only in our minds?' He waved again at the light-flecked buildings. 'You do not see that wall of masonry; you perceive only a sensation, a feeling of sight. The rest you interpret.'
'You see the same thing,' retorted Dan.
'How do you know I do? Even if you knew that what I call red would not be green could you see through my eyes-even if you knew that, how do you know that I too am not a dream of yours?'
Dan laughed. 'Of course nobody knows anything. You just get what information you can through the windows of your five senses, and then make your guesses. When they're wrong, you pay the penalty.' His mind was clear now save for a mild headache. 'Listen,' he said suddenly. 'You can argue a reality away to an illusion; that's easy. But if your friend Berkeley is right, why can't you take a dream and make it real? If it works one way, it must work the other.'
The beard waggled; elf-bright eyes glittered queerly at him. 'All artists do that,' said the old man softly. Dan felt that something more quivered on the verge of utterance.
'That's an evasion,' he grunted. 'Anybody can tell the difference between a picture and the real thing, or between a movie and life.'
'But,' whispered the other, 'the realer the better, no? And if one could make a-a movie very real indeed, what would you say then?'
'Nobody can, though.'
The eyes glittered strangely again. 'I can!' he whispered. 'I did!'
'Did what?'
'Made real a dream.' The voice turned angry. 'Fools! I bring it here to sell to Westman, the camera people, and what do they say? 'It isn't clear. Only one person can use it at a time. It's too expensive.' Fools! Fools!'
'Huh?'
'Listen! I'm Albert Ludwig-Professor Ludwig.' As Dan was silent, he continued, 'It means nothing to you, eh? But listen-a movie that gives one sight and sound. Suppose now I add taste, smell,
even touch, if your interest is taken by the story. Suppose I make it so that you are in the story, you speak to the shadows, and the shadows reply, and instead of being on a screen, the story is all about you, and you are in it. Would that be to make real a dream?'
'How the devil could you do that?'
'How? How? But simply! First my liquid positive, then my magic spectacles. I photograph the story in a liquid with light-sensitive chromates. I build up a complex solution-do you see? I add taste chemically and sound electrically. And when the story is recorded, then I put the solution in my spectacles-my movie projector. I electrolyze the solution, the story, sight, sound, smell, taste all!'
'Touch?'
'If your interest is taken, your mind supplies that.' Eagerness crept into his voice. 'You will look at it, Mr.-'
'Burke,' said Dan. 'A swindle!' he thought. Then a spark of recklessness glowed out of the vanishing fumes of alcohol. 'Why not?' he grunted.
He rose; Ludwig, standing, came scarcely to his shoulder. A queer gnome-like old man, Dan thought as he followed him across the park and into one of the scores of apartment hotels in the vicinity.
In his room Ludwig fumbled in a bag, producing a device vaguely reminiscent of a gas mask. There were goggles and a rubber mouthpiece; Dan examined it curiously, while the little bearded professor brandished a bottle of watery liquid.
'Here it is!' he gloated. 'My liquid positive, the story. Hard photography-infernally hard, therefore the simplest story. A Utopia- just two characters and you, the audience. Now, put the spectacles on. Put them on and tell me what fools the Westman people are!' He decanted some of the liquid into the mask, and trailed a twisted wire to a device on the table. 'A rectifier,' he explained. 'For the electrolysis.'
'Must you use all the liquid?' asked Dan. 'If you use part, do you see only part of the story? And which part?'
'Every drop has all of it, but you must fill the eye-pieces.' Then as Dan slipped the device gingerly on, 'So! Now what do you see?'
'Not a damn thing. Just the windows and the lights across the street.'
'Of course. But now I start the electrolysis. Now!'
There was a moment of chaos. The liquid before Dan's eyes clouded suddenly white, and formless sounds buzzed. He moved to tear the device from his head, but emerging forms in the mistiness caught his interest. Giant things were writhing there.
The scene steadied; the whiteness was dissipating like mist in summer. Unbelieving, still gripping the arms of that unseen chair, he was staring at a forest. But what a forest! Incredible, unearthly, beautiful! Smooth holes ascended inconceivably toward a brightening sky, trees bizarre as the forests of the Carboniferous age. Infinitely overhead swayed misty fronds, and the verdure showed brown and green in the heights. And there were birds-at least, curiously loving pipings and twitterings were all about him though he saw no creatures-thin elfin whistlings like fairy bugles sounded softly.
He sat frozen, entranced. A louder fragment of melody drifted down to him, mounting in exquisite, ecstatic bursts, now clear as sounding metal, now soft as remembered music. For a moment he forgot the chair whose arms he gripped, the miserable hotel room invisibly about him, old Ludwig, his aching head. He imagined himself alone in the midst of that lovely glade. 'Eden!' he muttered, and the swelling music of unseen voices answered.
Some measure of reason returned. 'Illusion!' he told himself. Clever optical devices, not reality. He groped for the chair's arm, found it, and clung to it; he scraped his feet and found again an inconsistency. To his eyes the ground was mossy verdure; to his touch it was merely a thin hotel carpet.
The elfin buglings sounded gently. A faint, deliciously sweet perfume breathed against him; he glanced up to watch the opening of a great crimson blossom on the nearest tree, and a tiny reddish sun edged into the circle of sky above him. The fairy orchestra swelled louder in its light, and the notes sent a thrill of wistfulness through him. Illusion? If it were, it made reality almost unbearable; he wanted to believe that somewhere-somewhere this side of dreams, there actually existed this region of loveliness. An outpost of Paradise? Perhaps.
And then-far through the softening mists, he caught a movement that was not the swaying of verdure, a shimmer of silver more solid than mist. Something approached. He watched the figure as it moved, now visible, now hidden by trees; very soon he perceived that it was human, but it was almost upon him before he realized that it was a girl.
She wore a robe of silvery, half-translucent stuff, luminous as starbeams; a thin band of silver bound glowing black hair about her forehead, and other garment or ornament she had none. Her tiny white feet were bare to the mossy forest floor as she stood no more than a pace from him, staring dark-eyed. The thin music sounded again; she smiled.
Dan summoned stumbling thoughts. Was this being also-illusion? Had she no more reality than the loveliness of the forest? He opened his lips to speak, but a strained excited voice sounded in his ears. 'Who are you?' Had he spoken? The voice had come as if from another, like the sound of one's words in fever.
The girl smiled again. 'English!' she said in queer soft tones. 'I can speak a little English.' She spoke slowly, carefully. 'I learned it from!'-she hesitated-'my mother's father, whom they call the Gray Weaver.'
Again came the voice in Dan's ears. 'Who are you?'
'I am called Galatea,' she said. 'I came to find you.'
'To find me?' echoed the voice that was Dan's.
'Leucon, who is called the Gray Weaver, told me,' she explained smiling. 'He said you will stay with us until the second noon from this.' She cast a quick slanting glance at the pale sun now full above the clearing, then stepped closer. 'What are you called?'
'Dan,' he muttered. His voice sounded oddly different.
'What a strange name!' said the girl. She stretched out her bare arm. 'Come,' she smiled.
Dan touched her extended hand, feeling without any surprise the living warmth of her fingers. He had forgotten the paradoxes of illusion; this was no longer illusion to him, but reality itself. It seemed to him that he followed her, walking over the shadowed turf that gave with springy crunch beneath his tread, though Galatea left hardly an imprint. He glanced down, noting that he himself wore a silver garment, and that his feet were bare; with the glance he felt a feathery breeze on his body and a sense of mossy earth on his feet.
'Galatea,' said his voice. 'Galatea, what place is this? What language do you speak?'
She glanced back laughing. 'Why, this is Paracosma, of course, and this is our language.'
'Paracosma,' muttered Dan. 'Paracosma!' A fragment of Greek that had survived somehow from a sophomore course a decade in the past came strangely back to him. Paracosma! Land-beyond-the-world!
Galatea cast a smiling glance at him. 'Does the real world seem strange,' she queried, 'after that shadow land of yours?'
'Shadow land?' echoed Dan, bewildered. 'This is shadow, not my world.'
The girl's smile turned quizzical. 'Poof!' she retorted with an impudently lovely pout. 'And I suppose, then, that I am the phantom instead of you!' She laughed. 'Do I seem ghostlike?'
Dan made no reply; he was puzzling over unanswerable questions as he trod behind the lithe figure of his guide. The aisle between the unearthly trees widened, and the giants were fewer. It seemed a mile, perhaps, before a sound of tinkling water obscured that other strange music; they emerged on the bank of a little river, swift and crystalline, that rippled and gurgled its way from glowing pool to flashing rapids, sparkling under the pale sun. Galatea bent over the brink and cupped her hands, raising a few mouthfuls of water to her lips; Dan followed her example, finding the liquid stinging cold.
'How do we cross?' he asked.
'You can wade up there'-the dryad who led him gestured to a sun-lit shallows above a tiny falls-' but I always cross here.' She poised herself for a moment on the green bank, then dove like a silver arrow into the pool. Dan followed; the water stung his body like champagne, but a stroke or two carri
ed him across to where Galatea had already emerged with a glistening of creamy bare limbs. Her garment clung tight as a metal sheath to her wet body; he felt a breathtaking thrill at the sight of her. And then, miraculously, the silver cloth was dry, the droplets rolled off as if from oiled silk, and they moved briskly on.
The incredible forest had ended with the river; they walked over a meadow studded with little, many-hued, starshaped flowers, whose fronds underfoot were soft as a lawn. Yet still the sweet pipings followed them, now loud, now whisper-soft, in a tenuous web of melody.
'Galatea!' said Dan suddenly. 'Where is the music coming from?'
She looked back amazed. 'You silly one!' she laughed. 'From the flowers, of course. See!' she plucked a purple star and held it to his ear; true enough, a faint and plaintive melody hummed out of the blossom. She tossed it in his startled face and skipped on.
A little copse appeared ahead, not of the gigantic forest trees, but of lesser growths, bearing flowers and fruits of iridescent colors, and a tiny brook bubbled through. And there stood the objective of their journey-a building of white, marble-like stone, single-storied and vine-covered, with broad glassless windows. They trod upon a path of bright pebbles to the arched entrance, and here, on an intricate stone bench, sat a gray-bearded patriarchal individual. Galatea addressed him in a liquid language that reminded Dan of the flowerpipings; then she turned. 'This is Leucon,' she said, as the ancient rose from his seat and spoke in English.
'We are happy, Galatea and I, to welcome you, since visitors are a rare pleasure here, and those from your shadowy country most rare.'
Dan uttered puzzled words of thanks, and the old man nodded, resealing himself on the carven bench; Galatea skipped through the arched entrance, and Dan, after an irresolute moment, dropped to the remaining bench. Once more his thoughts were whirling in perplexed turbulence. Was all this indeed but illusion? Was he sitting, in actuality, in a prosaic hotel room, peering through magic spectacles that pictured this world about him, or was he, transported by some miracle, really sitting here in this land of loveliness? He touched the bench; stone, hard and unyielding, met his fingers.
The Lost Master - The Collected Works Page 32
