by James Morrow
“As you might imagine, I have mounds of questions,” said Hooker. “The problem of blending, for example. If a male marine iguana boasting a powerful tail mates with a female of more feeble extension, wouldn’t their offspring inherit mediocre tails?”
“Not to mention the problem of time,” said Lyell. “The drama you’re describing would have taken many millions of years to unfold. Can our planet truly be so ancient? I’m delighted that my book made buttered eggs of Bishop Ussher’s six-thousand-year-old Earth, but really, sir, you’re talking about a considerable slice of eternity.”
“Then there’s the problem of Man,” said Gould. “Are you impish enough to apply this theory to our origins? Yes, Charles, you wily son of a monkey, I believe you are.”
“Excellent questions, all three, and quite possibly fatal to the theory of natural selection,” said Mr. Darwin. “Let me offer my provisional answers.”
* * *
Chloe left the zoological dome in a state of frothing frustration, for she greatly desired to know how Mr. Darwin would address the objections raised by the scientific triumvirate. Anyone wishing to claim the Shelley Prize with a disproof of God—herself, for example—must be prepared to speak of blending, time, and Man. This hypothetical contestant could not allow a pious judge to wreck her case by appealing to regressive lizard-tails, a young planet, or a Supreme Being’s decision to bless His favorite creatures with rational intellects.
Of course, she had no intention of simply stealing her employer’s theory. That would be wrong. Also, it might not work. After all, she’d comprehended barely half of what Mr. Darwin had told his guests, so it was likely that, unless she received instruction from the master transmutationist himself, the Anglican judges at Alastor Hall would succeed in befuddling her. No, the ideal scheme would find her traveling to Oxford only after Mr. Darwin had endorsed her project and tutored her in the nuances of his disproof.
Entering the study, she found the manuscript in the specified location, nestled beneath the crumpled, tea-stained, thirty-five-page sketch from which it had descended. She snatched up Towards a Theory of Natural Selection and scurried away, leaving “An Essay Concerning Descent with Modification” in place. By the time she was back in the vivarium, Mr. Darwin had dispensed with blending, time, and Man. Now he was talking about crustaceans.
“That’s right, Joseph. The male of the Chonos Isles barnacle has two organs of procreation.”
“Two?” said Mr. Hooker. “I find it difficult enough maintaining one.”
Catching sight of Chloe, Mr. Darwin cut the conversation short with an embarrassed laugh. “Ah, Miss Bathurst, there you are. Kindly deliver my theory to our botanist.”
She quirked Mr. Hooker a smile and placed the pages in his grasp.
“Impressive,” he said, leafing through the manuscript. “But I shan’t have time to read it ere I embark for India.”
“Take it with you, Joseph,” said Mr. Darwin. “Last month I paid a scrivener to transcribe a fair copy, which I keep under lock and key. I’ve instructed Emma to publish it upon my death. Were you to mislay these pages, I shouldn’t count the loss a tragedy.”
“Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to protect them,” said Hooker.
“Charles, you’ve found a convert,” said Gould.
“I’m scarcely converted,” said Hooker. “Merely curious.”
“Miss Bathurst, I suspect you found our scientific chatter impossibly tedious,” said Mr. Darwin.
“Au contraire, I thought the conversation entrancing,” she said.
“Such a sweet girl you’ve hired, Charles,” said Lyell in a treacly tone. “I’ll wager she’s intelligent, too. I pray you, Miss Bathurst, give us your opinion of this Tree of Life business.”
“May I speak freely, sir?”
“Of course,” said Lyell.
“I think Mr. Darwin’s idea makes a ripping good yarn,” said Chloe, acting the part of a person who understood transmutationism. “As to its truth or falsity, I am not competent to venture a conclusion—but I must say I shan’t ever look at a finch’s beak, a mockingbird’s bill, a tortoise’s shell, or a lizard’s tail in quite the same way again.”
And with that the four gentlemen issued merry guffaws and returned to their pudding, though Professor Lyell laughed last and ate least.
Copyright © 2015 James Morrow
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James Morrow is a two-time World Fantasy Award winner and a two-time Nebula Award winner. His latest comedic extravaganza, Galápagos Regained, has received much advance praise, including a starred Library Journal review that concluded, “It’s almost a crime for a novel to be as much fun as this one is.” New York Times bestselling author Wilton Barnhardt called Morrow’s new effort “a witty and wisecracking Victorian adventure, an Indiana Jones caper with Charles Darwin lurking in the wings, as if Jules Verne was retold by Tom Stoppard,” while Nebula and Hugo-winning author Paolo Bacigalupi found Galápagos Regained to be “a riotous conflation of Candide and Around the World in 80 Days.”
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COVER ART
“Ancient Threshold,” by Sam Burley
Sam Burley is a matte painter turned illustrator and is believed to currently reside on the continent of North America. Eye-witness reports describe him as a tall, stick-like, camera-wielding figure staring at the sky or driving around aimlessly with his dog named Rygel. On rare occasions he has been glimpsed careening through the air by any of several flimsy and horribly unnatural means of flight, apparently laughing. If seen, approach with caution… and preferably root beer. View more of his work online at samburleystudio.com.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
ISSN: 1946-1046
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Copyright © 2015 Firkin Press
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