by C. S. Lewis
Then, without waiting for Mr Stone to reply, he hung up the receiver and rang his bell.
‘Oughtn’t we to be nearly at the gate we climbed over?’ said Dimble.
It was a good deal lighter now that the rain had stopped, but the wind had risen and was roaring about them so that only shouted remarks could be heard. The branches of the hedge beside which they were tramping swayed and dipped and rose again so that they looked as if they were lashing the bright stars.
‘It’s a good deal longer than I remembered,’ said Denniston.
‘But not so muddy,’ said Jane.
‘You’re right,’ said Denniston, suddenly stopping. ‘It’s all stony. It wasn’t like this at all on the way up. We’re in the wrong field.’
‘I think,’ said Dimble mildly, ‘we must be right. We turned half left along this hedge as soon as we came out of the trees, and I’m sure I remember–’
‘But did we come out of the copse on the right side?’ said Denniston.
‘If we once start changing course,’ said Dimble, ‘we shall go round and round in circles all night. Let’s keep straight on. We’re bound to come to the road in the end.’
‘Hullo!’ said Jane sharply. ‘What’s this?’
All listened. Because of the wind, the unidentified rhythmic noise which they were straining to hear seemed quite distant at one moment, and then, next moment, with shouts of ‘Look out!’–‘Go away, you great brute!’–‘Get back!’–and the like, all were shrinking back into the hedge as the plosh-plosh of a horse cantering on soft ground passed close beside them. A cold gobbet of mud flung up from its hoofs struck Denniston in the face.
‘Oh look! Look!’ cried Jane. ‘Stop him. Quick!’
‘Stop him?’ said Denniston who was trying to clean his face. ‘What on earth for? The less I see of that great clodhopping quadruped, the better–’
‘Oh, shout out to him, Dr Dimble,’ said Jane in an agony of impatience. ‘Come on. Run! Didn’t you see?’
‘See what?’ panted Dimble as the whole party, under the influence of Jane’s urgency, began running in the direction of the retreating horse.
‘There’s a man on his back,’ gasped Jane. She was tired and out of breath and had lost a shoe.
‘A man?’ said Denniston; and then: ‘by God, Sir, Jane’s right. Look, look there! Against the sky…to your left.’
‘We can’t overtake him,’ said Dimble.
‘Hi! Stop! Come back! Friends–amis–amici,’ bawled Denniston.
Dimble was not able to shout for the moment. He was an old man, who had been tired before they set out, and now his heart and lungs were doing things to him of which his doctor had told him the meaning some years ago. He was not frightened, but he could not shout with a great voice (least of all in the Old Solar language) until he had breathed. And while he stood trying to fill his lungs all the others suddenly cried, ‘Look!’ yet again; for high among the stars, looking unnaturally large and many legged, the shape of the horse appeared as it leaped a hedge some twenty yards away, and on its back, with some streaming garment blown far out behind him in the wind, the great figure of a man. It seemed to Jane that he was looking back over his shoulder as though he mocked. Then came a splash and thud as the horse alighted on the far side; and then nothing but wind and starlight again.
‘You are in danger,’ said Frost when he had finished locking the door of Mark’s cell, ‘but you are also within reach of a great opportunity.’
‘I gather,’ said Mark, ‘I am at the Institute after all and not in a police station.’
‘Yes. That makes no difference to the danger. The Institute will soon have official powers of liquidation. It has anticipated them. Hingest and Carstairs have both been liquidated. Such actions are demanded of us.’
‘If you are going to kill me,’ said Mark, ‘why all this farce of a murder charge?’
‘Before going on,’ said Frost, ‘I must ask you to be strictly objective. Resentment and fear are both chemical phenomena. Our reactions to one another are chemical phenomena. Social relations are chemical relations. You must observe these feelings in yourself in an objective manner. Do not let them distract your attention from the facts.’
‘I see,’ said Mark. He was acting while he said it–trying to sound at once faintly hopeful and slightly sullen, ready to be worked upon. But within, his new insight into Belbury kept him resolved not to believe one word the other said, not to accept (though he might feign acceptance) any offer he made. He felt that he must at all costs hold onto the knowledge that these men were unalterable enemies; for already he felt the old tug towards yielding, towards semi-credulity, inside him.
‘The murder charge against you and the alterations in your treatment have been part of a planned programme with a well-defined end in view,’ said Frost. ‘It is a discipline through which everyone is passed before admission to the Circle.’
Again Mark felt a spasm of retrospective terror. Only a few days ago he would have swallowed any hook with that bait on it; and nothing but the imminence of death could have made the hook so obvious and the bait so insipid as it now was. At least, so comparatively insipid. For even now…
‘I don’t quite see the purpose of it,’ he said aloud.
‘It is, again, to promote objectivity. A circle bound together by subjective feelings of mutual confidence and liking would be useless. Those, as I have said, are chemical phenomena. They could all in principle be produced by injections. You have been made to pass through a number of conflicting feelings about the Deputy Director and others in order that your future association with us may not be based on feelings at all. In so far as there must be social relations between members of the circle it is, perhaps, better that they should be feelings of dislike. There is less risk of their being confused with the real nexus.’
‘My future association?’ said Studdock, acting a tremulous eagerness. But it was perilously easy for him to act it. The reality might re-awake at any moment.
‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘You have been selected as a possible candidate for admission. If you do not gain admission, or if you reject it, it will be necessary to destroy you. I am not, of course, attempting to work on your fears. They only confuse the issue. The process would be quite painless, and your present reactions to it are inevitable physical events.’
Mark considered this thoughtfully.
‘It–it seems rather a formidable decision,’ said Mark.
‘That is merely a proposition about the state of your own body at the moment. If you please, I will go on to give you the necessary information. I must begin by telling you that neither the Deputy Director, nor I, are responsible for shaping the policy of the Institute.’
‘The Head?’ said Mark.
‘No. Filostrato and Wilkins are quite deceived about the Head. They have, indeed, carried out a remarkable experiment by preserving it from decay. But Alcasan’s mind is not the mind we are in contact with when the Head speaks.’
‘Do you mean Alcasan is really…dead?’ asked Mark. His surprise at Frost’s last statement needed no acting.
‘In the present state of our knowledge,’ said Frost, ‘there is no answer to that question. Probably it has no meaning. But the cortex and vocal organs in Alcasan’s head are used by a different mind. And now, please, attend very carefully. You have probably not heard of macrobes.’
‘Microbes?’ said Mark in bewilderment. ‘But of course–’
‘I did not say microbes; I said macrobes. The formation of the word explains itself. Below the level of animal life, we have long known that there are microscopic organisms. Their actual results on human life, in respect of health and disease, have of course made up a large part of history: the secret cause was not known till we invented the microscope.’
‘Go on,’ said Mark. Ravenous curiosity was moving like a sort of groundswell beneath his conscious determination to stand on guard.
‘I have now to inform you that there are similar organisms above
the level of animal life. When I say, “above”, I am not speaking biologically. The structure of the macrobe, so far as we know it, is of extreme simplicity. When I say that it is above the animal level, I mean that it is more permanent, disposes of more energy, and has greater intelligence.’
‘More intelligent than the highest anthropoids?’ said Mark. ‘It must be pretty nearly human, then.’
‘You have misunderstood me. When I say it transcended the animals, I was, of course, including the most efficient animal, Man. The macrobe is more intelligent than Man.’
Frowningly, Mark studied this theory.
‘But how is it in that case that we have had no communication with them?’
‘It is not certain that we have not. But in primitive times it was spasmodic, and was opposed by numerous prejudices. Moreover, the intellectual development of man had not reached the level at which intercourse with our species could offer any attractions to a macrobe. But though there has been little intercourse, there has been profound influence. Their effect on human history has been far greater than that of the microbes, though, of course, equally unrecognised. In the light of what we now know, all history will have to be re-written. The real causes of all the principal events are quite unknown to historians; that, indeed, is why history has not yet succeeded in becoming a science.’
‘I think I’ll sit down, if you don’t mind,’ said Mark resuming his seat on the floor. Frost remained, throughout the whole conversation, standing perfectly still with his arms hanging down straight at his sides. But for the periodic upward tilt of his head and flash of his teeth at the end of a sentence, he used no gestures.
‘The vocal organs and brain taken from Alcasan,’ he continued, ‘have become the conductors of a regular intercourse between the Macrobes and our own species. I do not say that we have discovered this technique; the discovery was theirs, not ours. The circle to which you may be admitted is the organ of that co-operation between the two species which has already created a new situation for humanity. The change, you will see, is far greater than that which turned the sub-man into the man. It is more comparable to the first appearance of organic life.’
‘These organisms, then,’ said Mark, ‘are friendly to humanity?’
‘If you reflect for a moment,’ said Frost, ‘you will see that your question has no meaning except on the level of the crudest popular thought. Friendship is a chemical phenomenon; so is hatred. Both of them presuppose organisms of our own type. The first step towards intercourse with the macrobes is the realisation that one must go outside the whole world of our subjective emotions. It is only as you begin to do so, that you discover how much of what you mistook for your thought was merely a by-product of your blood and nervous tissues.’
‘Oh, of course. I didn’t quite mean, “friendly”, in that sense. I really meant, were their aims compatible with our own?’
‘What do you mean by our own aims?’
‘Well–I suppose–the scientific reconstruction of the human race in the direction of increased efficiency–the elimination of war and poverty and other forms of waste–a fuller exploitation of Nature–the preservation and extension of our species, in fact.’
‘I do not think this pseudo-scientific language really modifies the essentially subjective and instinctive basis of the ethics you are describing. I will return to the matter at a later stage. For the moment, I would merely remark that your view of war and your reference to the preservation of the species suggest a profound misconception. They are mere generalisations from affectional feelings.’
‘Surely,’ said Mark, ‘one requires a pretty large population for the full exploitation of Nature, if for nothing else? And surely war is disgenic and reduces efficiency? Even if population needs thinning, is not war the worst possible method of thinning it?’
‘That idea is a survival from conditions which are rapidly being altered. A few centuries ago, war did not operate in the way you describe. A large agricultural population was essential; and war destroyed types which were then still useful. But every advance in industry and agriculture reduces the number of work-people who are required. A large, unintelligent population is now becoming a deadweight. The real importance of scientific war is that scientists have to be reserved. It was not the great technocrats of Koenigsberg or Moscow who supplied the casualties in the siege of Stalingrad: it was superstitious Bavarian peasants and low-grade Russian agricultural workers. The effect of modern war is to eliminate retrogressive types, while sparing the technocracy and increasing its hold upon public affairs. In the new age, what has hitherto been merely the intellectual nucleus of the race is to become, by gradual stages, the race itself. You are to conceive the species as an animal which has discovered how to simplify nutrition and locomotion to such a point that the old complex organs and the large body which contained them are no longer necessary. That large body is therefore to disappear. Only a tenth part of it will now be needed to support the brain. The individual is to become all head. The human race is to become all Technocracy.’
‘I see,’ said Mark. ‘I had thought rather vaguely–that the intelligent nucleus would be extended by education.’
‘That is pure chimera. The great majority of the human race can be educated only in the sense of being given knowledge: they cannot be trained into the total objectivity of mind which is now necessary. They will always remain animals, looking at the world through the haze of their subjective reactions. Even if they could, the day for a large population has passed. It has served its function by acting as a kind of cocoon for Technocratic and Objective Man. Now, the macrobes, and the selected humans who can co-operate with them, have no further use for it.’
‘The two last wars, then, were not disasters in your view?’
‘On the contrary, they were simply the beginning of the programme–the first two of the sixteen major wars which are scheduled to take place in this century. I am aware of the emotional (that is, the chemical) reactions which a statement like this produces in you, and you are wasting your time in trying to conceal them from me. I do not expect you to control them. That is not the path to objectivity. I deliberately raise them in order that you may become accustomed to regard them in a purely scientific light and distinguish them as sharply as possible from the facts.’
Mark sat with his eyes fixed on the floor. He had felt, in fact, very little emotion at Frost’s programme for the human race; indeed, he almost discovered at that moment how little he had ever really cared for those remote futures and universal benefits whereon his co-operation with the Institute had at first been theoretically based. Certainly, at the present moment there was no room in his mind for such considerations. He was fully occupied with the conflict between his resolution not to trust these men, never again to be lured by any bait into a real cooperation, and the terrible strength–like a tide sucking at the shingle as it goes out–of an opposite emotion. For here, here surely at last (so his desire whispered to him) was the true inner circle of all, the circle whose centre was outside the human race–the ultimate secret, the supreme power, the last initiation. The fact that it was almost completely horrible did not in the least diminish its attraction. Nothing that lacked the tang of horror would have been quite strong enough to satisfy the delirious excitement which now set his temples hammering. It came into his mind that Frost knew all about this excitement, and also about the opposite determination, and reckoned securely on the excitement as something which was certain to carry the day in his victim’s mind.
A rattling and knocking which had been obscurely audible for some time now became so loud that Frost turned to the door. ‘Go away,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘What is the meaning of this impertinence?’ The indistinct noise of someone shouting on the other side of the door was heard, and the knocking went on. Frost’s smile widened as he turned and opened it. Instantly a piece of paper was put into his hand. As he read it, he started violently. Without glancing at Mark, he left the cell. Mark heard the door locke
d again behind him.
‘What friends those two are!’ said Ivy Maggs. She was referring to Pinch the cat and Mr Bultitude the bear. The latter was sitting up with his back against the warm wall by the kitchen fire. His cheeks were so fat and his eyes so small that he looked as if he were smiling. The cat after walking to and fro with erected tail and rubbing herself against his belly had finally curled up and gone to sleep between his legs. The jackdaw, still on the Director’s shoulder, had long since put its head beneath its wing.
Mrs Dimble, who sat further back in the kitchen, darning as if for dear life, pursed her lips a little as Ivy Maggs spoke. She could not go to bed. She wished they would all keep quiet. Her anxiety had reached that pitch at which almost every event, however small, threatens to become an irritation. But then, if anyone had been watching her expression, they would have seen the little grimace rapidly smoothed out again. Her will had many years of practice behind it.
‘When we use the word Friends of those two creatures,’ said MacPhee, ‘I doubt we are being merely anthropomorphic. It is difficult to avoid the illusion that they have personalities in the human sense. But there’s no evidence for it.’
‘What’s she go making up to him for, then?’ asked Ivy.
‘Well,’ said MacPhee, ‘maybe there’d be a desire for warmth–she’s away in out of the draught there. And there’d be a sense of security from being near something familiar. And likely enough some obscure transferred sexual impulses.’
‘Really, Mr MacPhee,’ said Ivy with great indignation, ‘it’s a shame for you to say those things about two dumb animals. I’m sure I never did see Pinch–or Mr Bultitude either, the poor thing–’
‘I said transferred,’ interrupted MacPhee drily. ‘And anyway, they like the mutual friction of their fur as a means of rectifying irritations set up by parasites. Now, you’ll observe–’
‘If you mean they have fleas,’ said Ivy, ‘you know as well as anyone that they have no such thing.’ She had reason on her side, for it was MacPhee himself who put on overalls once a month and solemnly lathered Mr Bultitude from rump to snout in the wash-house and poured buckets of tepid water over him, and finally dried him–a day’s work in which he allowed no one to assist him.
‘What do you think, Sir?’ said Ivy, looking at the Director.
‘Me?’ said Ransom. ‘I think MacPhee is introducing into animal life a distinction that doesn’t exist there, and then trying to determine on which side of that distinction the feelings of Pinch and Bultitude fall. You’ve got to become human before the physical cravings are distinguishable from affections–just as you have to become spiritual before affections are distinguishable from charity. What is going on in the cat and the bear isn’t one or other of these two things: it is a single undifferentiated thing in which you can find the germ of what we call friendship and of what we call physical need. But it isn’t either at that level. It is one of Barfield’s “ancient unities.”’
‘I never denied they liked being together,’ said MacPhee.
‘Well, that’s what I said,’ retorted Mrs Maggs.
‘The question is worth raising, Mr Director,’ said MacPhee, ‘because I submit that it points to an essential falsity in the whole system of this place.’
Grace Ironwood who had been sitting with her eyes half-closed suddenly opened them wide and fixed them on the Ulsterman, and Mrs Dimble leaned her head towards Camilla and said in a whisper, ‘I do wish Mr MacPhee could be persuaded to go to bed. It’s perfectly unbearable at a time like this.’
‘How do you mean, MacPhee?’ asked the Director.
‘I mean that there is a half-hearted attempt to adopt an attitude towards irrational creatures which cannot be consistently maintained. And