The Perfect Creature

by John Wyndham

  “It may be. On the other hand, it may be chemi­cal. You don't think I am going to let you into all my secrets, do you?”

  When he had finish­ed his prep­ara­tions he said:

  “Satisfied, Mr. Weston? I'd rather not be accused later on of having shown you a con­jur­ing trick.”

  “It doesn't seem to be alive,” Alfred admitted, cautiously.

  We watched Dixon attach several electrodes to it. Then he carefully chose three spots on its surface and injected at each from a syringe containing a pale-blue liquid. Next, he sprayed the whole form twice from different atomizers. Finally, he closed four or five switches in rapid succession.

  “Now,” he said, with a slight smile, “we wait for five minutes — which you may spend, if you like, in deciding which, or how many, of my actions were critical.”

  After three minutes the flaccid mass began to pulsate feebly. Gradu­ally the move­ment increased until gentle, rhythmic undu­la­tions were running through it. Presently it half-sagged or rolled to one side, expos­ing the hand that had been hidden beneath it. I saw the fingers of the hand tense, and try to clutch at the smooth table-top.

  I think I cried out. Until it actually happened, I had been unable to believe that it would. Now some part of the meaning of the thing came flooding in on me. I grabbed Dixon's arm.

  “Man!” I said. “If you were to do that to a dead body...!”

  But he shook his head.

  “No. It doesn't work. I've tried. One is justi­fied in calling this life — I think— But in some way it's a different kind of life. I don't at all under­stand why...”

  Different kind or not, I knew that I must be looking at the seed of a revo­lu­tion, with poten­tiali­ties beyond imagi­na­tion ...

  And all the time that fool Alfred kept on poking around the thing as if it were a side­show at a circus, and he was out to make sure that no one was putting any­thing across him with mirrors, or work­ing it with bits of string.

  It served him right when he got a couple of hundred volts through his fingers...

  “And now,” said Alfred, when he had satis­fied him­self that at least the grosser forms of decep­tion were ruled out, “now we'd like to see this ‘perfect creature’ you spoke about.”

  He still seemed as far as ever from realiz­ing the marvel he had wit­nessed. He was con­vinced that an offence of some kind was being committed, and he intended to find the evi­dence that would assign it to its proper cate­gory.

  “Very well,” agreed Dixon. “By the way, I call her Una. No name I could think of seemed quite ade­quate, but she is certainly the first of her kind, so Una she is.”

  He led us along the room to the last and largest of the row of cages. Standing a little back from the bars, he called the occupant for­ward.

  I don't know what I expected to see — nor quite what Alfred was hoping for. But neither of us had breath for comment when we did see what lum­bered to­wards us.

  Dixon's ‘Perfect Creature’ was a more horrible grotes-querie than I had ever imagined in life or dreams.

  Picture, if you can, a dark conical cara­pace of some slightly glossy mate­rial. The rounded-off peak of the cone stood well over six feet from the ground: the base was four foot six or more in dia­meter; and the whole thing supported on three short, cylin­dri­cal legs. There were four arms, paro­dies of human arms, pro­ject­ing from joints about half­way up. Eyes, set some six inches below the apex, were regard­ing us steadily from beneath horny lids. For a moment I felt close to hys­te­rics.

  Dixon looked at the thing with pride.

  “Visitors to see you, Una,” he told it.

  The eyes turned to me, and then back to Alfred. One of them blinked, with a click from its lid as it closed. A deep, rever­be­rant voice emerged from no obvious source.

  “At last! I've been asking you long enough,” it said.

  “Good God!” said Alfred. “That appalling thing can talk?”

  The steady gaze dwelt upon him.

  “That one will do. I like his glass eyes,” rumbled the voice.

  “Be quiet, Una. This isn't what you think,” Dixon interposed. “I must ask you,” he added to us, but looking at Alfred, “to be care­ful in your comments. Una naturally lacks the ordinary back­ground of experience, but she is aware of her distinc­tion — and of her several physical superior­ities. She has a some­what short temper, and nothing is going to be gained by offend­ing her. It is natu­ral that you should find her appear­ance a little sur­pri­sing at first, but I will explain.”

  A lecturing note crept into his voice.

  “After I had dis­covered my method of anima­tion, my first incli­nation was to construct an approxi­mately anthro­poid form as a con­vin­cing demon­stra­tion. On second thoughts, how­ever, I decided against mere imi­ta­tion. I resolved to proceed func­tion­ally and logic­ally, remedy­ing certain features which seemed to me poorly or weakly designed in man and other existing crea­tures. It also proved necessary later to make a few modi­fi­ca­tions for techn­ical and construct­ional reasons. However, in general, Una is the result of my resolve.” He paused, looking fondly at the mon­stros­ity.

  “I — er — you did say ‘logically’!” I inquired.

  Alfred paused for some time before making his comment. He went on staring at the creature which still kept its eyes fixed on him. One could almost see him causing what he likes to think of as his better nature to over­ride mere pre­ju­dice. He now rose nobly above his earlier, unsym­path­etic remark.

  “I do not consider it proper to confine so large an animal in such restricted quarters,” he announced.

  One of the horny eyelids clicked again as it blinked.

  “I like him. He means well. He will do,” the great voice rumbled.

  Alfred wilted a little. After a long expe­rience of patron­izing dumb friends, he found it discon­certing to be con­fronted by a creature that not only spoke, but patron­ized him as it did so. He returned its steady stare uneasily.

  Dixon, disregarding the inter­ruption, resumed:

  “Probably the first thing that will strike you is that Una has no distinct head. That was one of my earliest rearrange­ments; the normal head is too exposed and vulner­able. The eyes should be carried high, of course, but there is no need what­ever for a demi-detached head.

  “But in eliminating the head, there was sight to be con­sidered. I there­fore gave her three eyes, two of which you can see now, and one which is round the back — though, properly speak­ing, she has no back. Thus she is easily able to look and focus in any direc­tion without the compli­cated device of a semi-rotatory head.”

  “Her general shape almost ensures that any falling or pro­jected object would glance off the re­inforced plastic cara­pace, but it seemed wise to me to insu­late the brain from shock as much as possible by putting it where you might expect the stomach, I was thus able to put the stomach higher and allow for a more con­venient dispo­si­tion of the intes­tines.”

  “How does it eat?” I put in.

  “Her mouth is round the other side,” he said shortly. “Now, I have to admit that at first glance the pro­vi­sion of four arms might give an impression of frivol­ity. How­ever, as I said before, the hand is the perfect tool — it is the right size. So you will see that Una's upper pair are deli­cate and finely moulded, while the lower are heavily musc­ular.”

  “Her respi­ra­tion may interest you, too. I have used a flow principle. She inhales here, exhales there. An improve­ment, you must admit, on our own rather disgust­ing system.”

  “As regards the general design, she un­for­tunat­ely turned out to be consider­ably heavier than I had expected — slightly over one ton, in fact — and to support that I had to modify my origin­al plan some­what. I redesigned the legs and feet rather after the pattern of the elephant's so as to spread the weight, but I'm afraid it is not altogether satis­factory; some­thing will have to be done in the later models to re
duce the overall weight.”

  “The three-legged principle was adopted because it is obvious that the biped must waste quite a lot of muscular energy in merely keep­ing its balance, and a tripod is not only effi­cient, but more easily adapt­able to uneven surfaces than a four-legged support.”

  “As regards the repro­duct­ory system—”

  “Excuse me interrupting,” I said, “but with a plastic cara­pace, and stain­less steel bones I don't — er — quite see —”

  “A matter of gland­ular balance: regul­ation of the persona­lity. Some­thing had to be done there, though I admit that I'm not quite satis­fied that I have done it the best way. I suspect that an approach on partheno­genetic lines would have been... How­ever, there it is. And I have promised her a mate. I must say I find it a fascin­ating speculation...”

  “He will do,” interrupted the rumb­ling voice, while the creature continued to gaze fixedly at Alfred.

  “Of course,” Dixon went on to us, a little hurriedly, “Una has never seen her­self to know what she looks like. She probably thinks she —“

  “I know what I want,” said the deep voice, firmly and loudly, “I want—”

  “Yes, yes,” Dixon inter­posed, also loudly. “I'll explain to you about that later.”

  “But I want—” the voice repeated.

  “Will you be quiet!” Dixon shouted fiercely.

  The creature gave a slight rumbling protest, but desisted.

  Alfred drew himself up with the air of one who after com­muning seriously with his princi­ples is forced into speech.

  “I cannot approve of this,” he announced. “I will concede that this creature may be your own creation — never­the­less, once created it becomes, in my opinion, entitled to the same safe­guards as any other dumb — er, as any other creature.”

  “I say noth­ing what­ever about your appli­ca­tion of your disc­overy — except to say that it seems to me that you have behaved like an irres­pons­ible child let loose with model­ling clay, and that you have produced an unholy — and I use that word advisedly — unholy mess; a mon­stros­ity, a perver­sion. How­ever, I say nothing about that.”

  “What I do say is that in law this creature can be regarded simply as an un­famil­iar species of animal. I intend to report that in my profes­sional opinion it is being confined in too small a cage, and clearly with­out proper oppor­tunities for exer­cise. I am not able to judge whether it is being adequately nourished, but it is easy to perceive that it has needs that are not being met. Twice already when it has attempted to express them to us you have intimi­dated it.”

  “Alfred,” I put in, “don't you think that perhaps —” but I was cut short by the creature thrumming like a double bass.

  “I think he's wonderful! The way his glass eyes flash! I want him!” It sighed in a kind of deep vibrato that ran along the floor. The sound certainly was extremely mourn­ful, and Alfred's one-track mind pounced on it as addi­tional evi­dence.

  “If that is not the plaint of an unhappy creature,” he said, stepping closer to the cage, “then I have never—”

  “Look out!” shouted Dixon, jumping forward.

  One of the creature's hands made a darting snatch through the bars. Simul­taneously Dixon caught him by the shoulders, and pulled him back. There was a rending of cloth, and three buttons pattered on to the linoleum.

  “Phew!” said Dixon.

  For the first time, Alfred looked a little alarmed.

  “What—?” he began.

  A deep, threaten­ing sound from the cage oblite­rated the rest of it.

  “Give him to me! I want him!” rumbled the voice, angrily.

  All four arms caught hold of the bars. Two of them rattled the gate violently. The two visible eyes were fixed un­waver­ingly on Alfred. He began to show signs of re­orien­ta­ting his out­look. His own eyes opened a little more widely behind his glasses.

  “Er — it — it doesn't mean—?” he started, incred­ulously.

  “Gimme!” bellowed Una, stamping from one foot to another, and shaking the building as she did so.

  Dixon was regard­ing his achieve­ment with some concern.

  “I wonder — I wonder, could I have over­done the hor­mones a bit?” he specu­lated, thought­fully.

  Alfred had begun to get to grips with the idea now. He backed a little farther away from the cage. The move did not have a good effect on Una.

  “Gimme!” she cried, like a kind of sepulchral public-address system. “Gimme! Gimme!”

  It was an intimi­dating sound.

  “Mightn't it be better if we—?” I suggested.

  “Perhaps, in the circum­stances—” Dixon agreed.

  “Yes!” said Alfred, quite deci­sively.

  The pitch on which Una operated made it difficult to be certain of the finer shades of feelings; the window-rattling sound that occurred behind us as we moved off might have expressed anger, or anguish, or both. We increased our pace a little.

  “Alfred!” called a voice like a discon­solate foghorn. “I want Alfred!”

  Alfred cast a back­ward glance, and stepped out a trifle more smartly.

  There was a thump which rattled the bars and shook the building.

  I looked round to see Una in the act of retiring to the back of her cage with the obvious inten­tion of making another onslaught. We beat it for the door. Alfred was first through.

  A thunder­ous crash sounded at the other end of the room. As Dixon was closing the door behind us I had a glimpse of Una carrying bars and furnish­ings before her like a run­away bus.

  “I think we shall need some help with her,” Dixon said.

  Small sparkles of perspi­ration were standing on Alfred's brow.

  “You — you don't think it might be better if we were to—?” he began.

  “No,” said Dixon. “She'd see you through the windows.”

  “Oh,” said Alfred, unhappily.

  Dixon led the way into a large sitting-room, and made for the telep­hone. He gave urgent messages to the fire-brigade and the police.

  “I don't think there's any­thing we can do till they get here,” he said, as he put the receiver down. “The lab wing will probably hold her all right if she isn't tanta­lized any more.”

  “Tantalized! I like that—!” Alfred started to protest, but Dixon went on:

  “Luckily, being where she is, she couldn't see the door; so the odds are that she can have no idea of the purpose or nature of doors. What's worry­ing me most is the damage she's doing in there. Just listen!”

  We did listen for some moments to the muffled sounds of smash­ing, splinter­ing and rending. Among it there was occasion­ally a mournful di-syllabic boom which might, or might not, have been the word “Alfred”.

  Dixon's expression became more anguished as the noise conti­nued unabated.

  “All my records! All the work of years is in there,” he said, bitterly. “Your Society's going to have to pay plenty for this, I warn you — but that won't give me back my records. She was always perfectly docile until your friend excited her — never a moment's trouble with her.”

  Alfred began to protest again, but was inter­rupted by the sound of some­thing massive being over­turned with a thunder­ous crash, followed by a noise like a water­fall of broken glass.

  “Gimme Alfred! I want Alfred!” demanded the stentorian voice.

  Alfred half rose, and then sat down agitatedly on the edge of his chair. His eyes flicked nervously hither and thither. He displayed a tendency to bite his finger-nails.

  “Ah!” said Dixon, with a sudden­ness which started both of us. “Ah, that must have been it! I must have calcu­lated the hormone require­ment on the overall weight — including the cara­pace. Of course! What a ridiculous slip to make! Tch-tch! I should've done much better to keep to the original parthenogen — Good heavens!”

  The crash which caused his excla­mation brought us all to our feet, and across to the door.
/>
  Una had discovered the way out of the wing, all right, and come through it like a bull­dozer. Door, frame and part of the brick­work had come with her. At the moment she was stumbl­ing about amid the result­ing mess. Dixon didn't hesitate.

  “Quick! Upstairs — that'll beat her,” he said.

  At the same instant Una spotted us, and let out a boom.. We sprinted across the hall for the stair­case. Initial mobility was our advantage; a freight like Una's takes apprec­iable time to get under way. I fled up the flight with Dixon just ahead of me and, I imagined, Alfred just behind. However, I was not quite right there. I don't know whether Alfred had been momen­tarily trans­fixed, or had fumbled his take-off, but when I was at the top I looked back to see him still only a few steps up, with Una thunder­ing in pursuit like a rocket-assisted car of Jugger­naut.

  Alfred kept on coming, though. But so did Una. She may not have been familiar with stairs, nor designed to use them. But she tackled them, for all that. She even got about five or six steps up before they collapsed under her. Alfred, by then more than half­way up, felt them fall away beneath his feet. He gave a shout as he lost his balance. Then, clawing wildly at the air, he fell back­wards.

  Una put in as neat a four-armed catch as you could hope to see.

  “What co-ordination!” Dixon, behind me, murmured admir­ingly.

  “Help!” bleated Alfred. “Help! Help!”

  “Aah!” boomed Una, in a kind of deep diapason of satis­faction.

  She backed off a little, with a crunching of timbers.

  “Keep calm!” Dixon advised Alfred. “Don't do anything that might startle her.”

  Alfred, embraced by three arms, and patted affection­ately by the fourth, made no imme­diate reply.

  There was a pause for assess­ment of the situation.

  “Well,” I said, “we ought to do some­thing. Can't we entice her somehow?”

  “It's difficult to know what will distract the trium­phant female in her moment of success,” observed Dixon.

  Una set up a sort of — of — well, if you can imagine an ele­phant contentedly crooning...

  “Help!” Alfred bleated again. “She's — ow!”