Then, when the Hyperion was beyond the reach of the keenest eye, there was a blinding blue-white blot that made the sky black in comparison. The Hyperion had turned to vapor. The blotch of incandescence persisted. It held its form, instead of spreading beyond its original reach.
Presently, it seemed to contract. Whether this was an actual pulling-together, or whether the persistence of outward velocity made it appear to diminish in size, Carson could not tell. It was moving in the direction of the sun’s motion. The disintegration of the Hyperion had taken place before she had passed the limit of the asteroid’s gravitation, though well beyond the stratosphere.
“You’d think it’d cool off,” Tweed muttered. “In absolute zero.”
Carson shrugged. “Radioactive. Or the vapor is ionized, and will glow no matter how cold. The answers make no difference any more. We’ll be forgetting everything we ever learned as atomic quiz-kids.”
“How long will it last?” Tweed persisted.
“Wait and see; we have lots of time, Alec. Meanwhile, here is an asteroid with at least a temporary artificial satellite.”
“And two new citizens.”
They eyed each other, and studied the satellite for another moment.
“Alani,” Carson said, “wrote me off, that night. I wish I’d had sense enough to have had her stow away and make the cruise with us. What she told me about the Martian ideas on life and living set me thinking, and had something to do with the way I got a snootful when I saw what’d finally happen to this place.”
Tweed clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s a gal I’d like to have you meet. One thing, anyway; I’m not going to be homesick. And neither are you, for very long. Tonight, you’ll be sitting in a dark corner, looking for Mars. Then there’ll be tomorrow, and the day after.”
Carson turned and rejoined the natives. They would be interested to know that the incandescent blot in the sky was their assurance that there would ever again be colonists to foul up the asteroid.
WHEN IN DOUBT, MUTATE!
Originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1952.
CHAPTER 1
Every day, Oscar went with his tutors to the laboratory, where Dr. Hubert Cromer and his assistant, Eric Logan, rechecked Oscar’s cephalic index. They photographed him, full face and profile; they made various measurements, particularly of his arms and legs. When all this was done, Oscar would step into the heavily-shielded radiation cabinet. There, in a comfortable chair, he opened his textbook, though he never learned much during the processing period. The whirr and hum of the apparatus put him to sleep.
Since Oscar had none of the standards of comparison which the ordinary human gets from discussing thoughts, memories, and imaginings with other humans, the state of his own mind and fancies did not strike him as unusual. Nevertheless, Oscar was rapidly developing a form of introspection, though Cromer and Logan allowed him little time for day-dreaming.
They were intent on coaching him for college-entrance exams; in this, they were more ambitious than Oscar.
The hum of laminations, the acridity of the ozone-charged air, the pulsation of the forces concentrated upon him disturbed Oscar. He began to think that these—rather than trigonometry, or the attempt to keep awake—caused that peculiar sense of strain, and pressure between the ears.
Oscar’s inference was correct. The hyper-gamma radiation, which Cromer’s apparatus generated, was of an intensity far higher than its nearest counterpart, the cosmic ray. Lenses focused it on the subject. The lenses of course were not of glass, but of a composition which would refract waves measured in small fractions of a Siegbahn unit.
This radiation accelerated Oscar’s evolution at a rate measurable in days, rather than in millions of years. Cromer’s theory was that orthogenesis, while originating from within a creature and not because of environment, could nonetheless be stimulated by external forces. In this exception, he differed from Eimer, who had promulgated the basic doctrine.
In addition to altered appearance, Oscar had experienced significant inner changes. There had been a marked increase in his awareness of individuality. Although his memory still went back to the time when his sense of identity was largely merged with the group-identity of his kind, these images were fading rapidly. They revived only when he was in that zone between wakefulness and sleep. It was then that he had vivid recollections, and—regrets.
The arboreal life had been ever so much less strenuous and lonesome. There had been companionship, good fellowship with other chimpanzees, as well as that comfortable realization of being part of an integrated entirety. Artificial evolution had individualized Oscar to the point of isolating him.
Cromer and Logan, preoccupied with their experiment, did not share their personal thoughts with him. They were too intent on probing, analyzing, and evaluating Oscar’s thoughts.
When the automatic cutoff broke the power circuits, Oscar stepped from the cabinet. Blinking away the lethargy which the vibration induced, he faced his mentors.
Cromer was round-faced and bald, with a hedge of crinkly, iron-gray hair at ear-level. Bushy brows shaded eyes of almost caustic intensity; brows and mouth had an ironic quirk. The chunky doctor’s bitter realism was leavened by kindliness and good humor, which he gave free play—as long as he could afford to.
Logan, years younger, was tall, sandy-haired, and long of face: a good-looking chap who took himself too seriously. His expression gave evidence of intellect unredeemed by humor. There was good fellowship, all right, yet it was inhibited.
“How about a bit of handball, or a jog around the track,” Cromer demanded, jovially. “You’ve been dodging your workout schedule, haven’t you?”
Oscar’s brow puckered, exaggerating the supra-orbital ridge. He had a squarish face, rugged yet pleasant. The nose was not quite as dominant as it should have been to have matched the strength of the other features. The eyes were bright, alert, and the entire expression, keen and amiable.
“This business of keeping fit,” Oscar answered, candidly, “is nonsense; I don’t see any use of moving except for fun, or for a good reason.”
Logan and Cromer exchanged a quick glance. “Oh, very well,” the latter agreed. “Then we’ll get at our study conference.”
“That is something else I’ve given a lot of thought,” Oscar went on. “Suppose I concentrate on chemistry, physics, and mathematics. And skip economics and aesthetic appreciation.”
Cromer eyed the typed curriculum sheet. “Well, now, we have been crowding you,” he conceded. “Though I think you should continue manual training, and folk dancing.”
“I don’t mind a bit, as long as it won’t interfere with my tending to the animals.”
“How about it. Eric?”
“A schedule should be flexible,” Logan said, a bit ponderously. Then, “Oscar, how are you doing with your history assignment?”
“I remember every bit of it—even the names and dates. But the reasons people had for doing the things they did are obscure. For instance, the war of 1980 confuses me; so do the twenty or thirty years preceding it. They gave rewards for raising big crops of potatoes, then they threw the potatoes away. And all the while, only the very wealthy could afford to buy potatoes. I think I should drop history, and economics, too; both leave me utterly perplexed.”
So saying, Oscar headed for the woodwork shop.
Logan shook his head. “I fear there is an inadequate personality development. There is no denying that he has reasoning powers, but his logic is that of an ape.”
Cromer shrugged. “You expect too much, Eric, all at once. His intellect is actually higher than the collegiate average. Legs are lengthening. Posture virtually human. Amazing, too, how that nose is developing. Remember, he was full-grown when we started. Meanwhile, it is high time we revealed our findings in some form that the public can accept.”
Logan drew a
deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “They’d never believe anything pertaining to Oscar. Not even the movies, and the wire recordings of his progress toward speech.” He eyed his chief. “You knew from the very beginning that any such demonstration of the evolutionary ray would be unacceptable. Otherwise, you’d not have gone to such trouble to import those kiwis.”
Cromer nodded. “Even if a board of scientists had watched Oscar from the start, there would be emotional revolt. Theological opposition, you know. Our experiment would be considered blasphemous—all the more so for being effective. Nothing is as infuriating as a truth that upsets emotionally-nurtured nonsense.
“So, the apteryx australis seemed to be the solution. Nothing offensive to the public ego. Also, we’ll give them a double-pronged jab.”
“Double?”
Cromer chuckled. The sardonic twists were beginning to show in his face and voice. “You’ve been wondering why I dumped so many responsibilities on you. It’s time at last to let you know I have been devising a procedure to work the cosmic-evolutionary ray treatment in reverse.
“We shall subject one apteryx australis to the same processing Oscar got. The vestigial wrings will evolve sufficiently to sustain flight; at the same time, another specimen will backtrack.”
Logan jerked to his feet. “You’ll make that one revert to the archeopteryx? My good Lord, doctor!”
“Better than that, my boy; we’ll carry him back to the previous stage. Back to the pterodactyl. Specifically, the little rhamphoryncus. When they see the first saw-toothed archeopteryx, and then the flying reptile, they’ll believe. Res ipse loquitur—the thing speaks for itself, and no theological roadblocks!”
It took Logan a moment to digest all the implications. Cromer penciled a few equations, all with reference to the basic process. He went to the electronic computer, punched out the data, and set the “brain” in motion. Then, as the gears whined and the pilot lights blinked on and off, Cromer explained. “It hinges on the evolution constant, kappa. But kappa to the square root of minus-one power.”
After an open-mouthed moment, Logan readjusted his face. “I might have anticipated as much—that monograph of yours, just before the bombing. Meanwhile, how far will we go with Oscar? Entering him in college will be expensive. With taxes spiraling, sponsors are as scarce as bird’s teeth.”
“Archeopteryx teeth,” Cromer retorted, “will not be scarce. We’ll get sponsors.” Pouncing to a filing-cabinet, he got a clipping from a nationally-circulated magazine. “Hundreds of sponsors, Eric! Yes, thousands of sponsors! Anonymous and unwitting—but, sponsors.
“Oscar will enter college. You and I will embark on research that will make our present success seem pallid and pedestrian.”
“I am not so sure of that,” Logan muttered, abstractedly, as he regarded the clipping, though without actually seeing it. “Ever since the 1980 A-bomb proved to be so inefficient, science has been discredited—see here, doctor! What has this clipping to do with sponsors? You’ve handed me an item on the black market that is being encouraged by the rigid social inspection of couples proposing to adopt an infant.
“Fixers get a thousand—two thousand dollars for short-circuiting legitimate agencies and supply bootlegged infants, without the usual survey of the prospective foster parents.”
“Eric, you are as cloistered and naive as… well, as Oscar. We’ll apply the evolutionary ray to infant chimpanzees. Wholesale them to the black-market baby farms. The operators will doubtless wonder at our corner on the supply, our apparent corner on the supply of unwed mothers—damn it, these will be mothers thoroughly unwedded, if you must be literal-minded! But let ’em wonder.”
Logan regarded his chief with something akin to reverence. “Doctor, I have seen a number of infants that parents trot so proudly from maternity wards. I have often been baffled by the infrequency of infanticide. No foster parent could ever tell the difference between our product and the genuine one.”
“Genuine one? Damn it, Eric, these will he real. Better, however. More truly human than the normally-produced infant, because more highly evolved than today’s standard. But not sufficiently so,” he hastened to add, “that the foster parents would feel maladjusted. You see now why Oscar should enter college?”
“As a control check on our process?”
“Right! Frankly, I think we have over-processed Oscar. His comments on history are…well, antisocial. I can’t picture him playing football, being a cheer-leader, or putting up with initiation into a fraternity.”
Logan objected, “I don’t think it is a matter of his being too highly evolved. In my opinion, it is a question of environment. You, for instance, are an unorthodox personality. Now, when we begin having droves of visiting biologists and paleontologists, Oscar will become conditioned to the norm. By the way, we’ll need facilities for our suspicious visitors.”
“I’ve planned all that,” Cromer answered. “Indeed, I’ve been running ads for a receptionist; you might go over the applications with me.”
“We need a receptionist?”
“Of course. A girl of pleasing personality—one to butter the skeptics the moment they arrive. She must have an appropriate educational background, so she can participate in our research. That would undermine resistance. Since they’ll approve of the girl at first sight, they can hardly reject her activities. And so, they will be inclined to accept her associates.”
Logan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If we found someone really trustworthy, she would be valuable when we give the infant chimpanzees the evolutionary processing. As they become humanized, they will become a trial. The feminine and maternal touch will be essential; frankly, that hadn’t occurred to me.”
The phone rang. Logan reached for the instrument. He listened for a moment or two, then said, “I will let you speak to Dr. Cromer himself.” Then, to his associate, “She is one of the applicants; she is driving through Fort Slade; she wonders whether she might not detour for an interview, since she is so near, rather than rely upon the formal application.”
“Must be pretty bright, tracing a blind ad. How does she sound?”
“Hear for yourself, doctor. You’ll know why I didn’t tell her to wait for your written reply; her name is Diane Malin.”
Cromer listen to Miss Malin, and lost little time in telling her to come to the installation at once. When he hung up, he said, “Eric, you will not under any circumstance whatsoever give Miss Malin any information as to Oscar’s origin. Any such statement—or even a hint—would make her doubt our sanity, or our integrity. She has to see for herself, become accustomed to the idea, bit by bit. Oscar, as far as she is concerned, will be a relative of mine—a poor but deserving young fellow whose education has been neglected until recently.”
“You’ve not given her the position, as yet.”
“The picture and the application had put her at the head of the list,” Cromer answered. “And this bit of initiative does it! Now you might run along and get ready to receive the young lady, and I’ll be briefing Oscar.”
Once Logan had left, Cromer leaned back in his chair, and put his feet on the desk. He nipped the tip from a cigar, struck light to it, and took a long draw. “It would put Oscar at a decided disadvantage, and give Eric an undeserved lead with Miss Malin,” he said to the smoke cloud, “if she knew too much about Oscar’s ancestry. Happily, Eric has sufficient congenital smugness to keep him from ever suspecting that an ex-chimpanzee could offer him any competition.”
Having delivered this judgment on some of the less fortunate consequences of the higher education, Dr. Cromer settled back to enjoy the anticipation of some of the finer nuances of his experiment. Being dumpy and bald-headed, he had no cause at all to wonder whether a maroon sport-shirt would catch Diane Malin’s eye more quickly than would a green one.
CHAPTER 2
The first sight of Diane was enough to make Oscar very h
appy when Cromer directed, “Oscar, show Miss Malin around the installation. The grounds, I mean. Never mind the laboratory and office.”
The newcomer was compactly put together, solid of shoulder and hip, and well-rounded. Substantial, no doubt of it, yet the first impression and the final one was that of grace and daintiness. She had small feet, elegant ankles, and carried herself with the poise of a dancer. The dark eyes were the friendliest that Oscar could imagine. And Diane’s smile gave light and loveliness to features which were sufficiently off symmetry to be piquant—there was none of that regularity to suggest that she was the duplicate of anyone else’s pattern.
If Cromer had said, “She’d like to see you step into the Sumatra tiger’s cage and pet him,” Oscar would have been very happy to oblige.
He had never found Logan disagreeable. He had always liked Cromer, and had rather enjoyed doing such things as pleased his mentor. But this was something new in Oscar’s life: here was someone he would be delighted to please. This experience made him forget himself so completely that he was not in the least self-conscious as he took charge.
Since Cromer wanted freedom from municipal and county zoning ordinances, his estate was isolated. The high-tension power line and the bank of transformers which fed the cosmic ray apparatus sufficed to give the installation an industrial aspect. Finally, the powerful fields set up would interfere with radio and T.V. reception, were there any residences in the vicinity.
A high fence, guarded by a triple row of barbed wire, surrounded the entire tract. This piece of Florida was home to Oscar. Every tree, every tropical plant and trailing vine of the estate in which he had been acclimated submerged what remained of native jungle memories. Then, as his artificially-induced humanity took charge, there came an ever-increasing intensity of experiencing, so that even his acclimatization period among Cromer’s palms and broad-leaved banana plants receded toward the vanishing point of his new perspective.
The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction Page 55