“The murder charge against you and the alternations 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 though 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 reawake 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.”
“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 ground-swell 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 said it transcended the animals, I was, of course, including the most efficient animal, Man. The macrobe is more intelligent than Man.”
“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 rewritten. The real causes of all the principal events are quite unknown to the 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 presupposes 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 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 t
o 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 a 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 last two 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 real co-operation, 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 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 locked again behind him.
V
“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 farther 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,” shouted 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 I’ll do the justice to say that you’ve never tried. The bear is kept in the house and given apples and golden syrup till it’s near bursting . . .”
“Well, I like that!” said Mrs. Maggs. “Who is it that’s always giving him apples? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“The bear, as I was observing,” said MacPhee, “is kept in the house and pampered. The pigs are kept in a stye and killed for bacon. I would be interested to know the philosophical rationale of the distinction.”
Ivy Maggs looked in bewilderment from the smiling face of the Director to the unsmiling face of MacPhee.
“I think it’s just silly,” she said. “Who ever heard of trying to make bacon out of a bear?”
MacPhee made a little stamp of impatience and said something which was drowned first by Ransom’s laughter and then by a great clap of wind which shook the window as if it would blow it in.
“What a dreadful night for them!” said Mrs. Dimble.
“I love it,” said Camilla. “I’d love to be out
in it. Out on a high hill. Oh, I do wish you’d let me go with them, sir.”
“You like it!” said Ivy. “Oh, I don’t! Listen to it round the corner of the house. It’d make me feel kind of creepy if I were alone. Or even if you was upstairs, sir. I always think it’s on nights like this that they-you know-come to you.”
“They don’t take any notice of weather one way or the other, Ivy,” said Ransom.
“Do you know,” said Ivy in a low voice, “that’s a thing I don’t quite understand. They’re so eerie, these ones that come to visit you. I wouldn’t go near that part of the house if I thought there was anything there, not if you paid me a hundred pounds. But I don’t feel like that about God. But He ought to be worse, if you see what I mean.”
“He was, once,” said the Director. “You are quite right about the Powers. Angels in general are not good company for men in general-even when they are good angels and good men. It’s all in St. Paul. But as for Maleldil himself, all that has changed: it was changed by what happened at Bethlehem.”
“It’s getting ever so near Christmas now,” said Ivy addressing the company in general.
“We shall have Mr. Maggs with us before then,” said Ransom.
“In a day or two, sir,” said Ivy.
“Was that only the wind?” said Grace Ironwood.
“It sounded to me like a horse,” said Mrs. Dimble.
“Here,” said MacPhee jumping up. “Get out of the way, Mr. Bultitude, till I get my gum boots. It’ll be those two horses of Broad’s again, tramping all over my celery trenches. If only you’d let me go to the police in the first instance. Why the man can’t keep them shut up . . .”-he was bundling himself into his mackintosh as he spoke the rest of the speech was inaudible.
“My crutch, please, Camilla,” said Ransom. “Come back, MacPhee. We will go to the door together, you and I. Ladies, stay where you are.”
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