Galileo's Children: Tales of Science vs. Superstition

by Gardner Dozois

  He puts his hand out, touches her fingers gently. “You are kind to me,” he says. “More kind than I deserve.” He sighs, and his eyes stray back to the machine. “So much to do,” he says. “But the truth still runs away, like a little child at play.”

  She pulls away firmly, begins to unpack the basket. “First, you must eat,” she says. “See, I have brought you a good stew. There are apples I will leave; but the stew must be eaten now.” Her eyes stray round the room again. “Also you will need fuel for your fire,” she says. “For the cold nights are coming. Or I shall find you turned into a snowman, with little bits of coal instead of eyes.”

  “And a turnip for a nose,” he says. “Like the snowmen you used to build in winter. Do you remember, I helped you once? And afterward we skated on the pond.”

  She smiles the ghost of a smile. The memory indeed is clear with her; and of his arms guiding, suddenly so strong and warm. The mill race had also frozen, leaving little ruts; she tumbled over one of them, and he rushed to help. “I was not hurt though,” she says. “Do you remember how we laughed, after the frost was dusted from my coat? The old horse was watching, over the hedge. I think he was laughing, too.” She takes his arm, with sudden urgency. “Let us go home,” she says. “Let us leave this place. Soon, your money will be gone. And then . . .” She bites her lip again, not knowing how to finish the thought. “Let us go home,” she says. “I will be good to you.”

  He frowns in turn. Always, it seems, pressures are placed on him. He owes a duty to her, that at least is clear. He would give much to see her happy, the shadows gone from her eyes. Yet there are other duties. Vaguer perhaps, less well defined; but duties nonetheless. He glances again, uncertain, at the bench; and she laughs, it seems a little bitterly. “I know,” she says. “It is always the machines. They must come first.”

  “No,” he says. “No, I . . . listen.” He takes her hands once more. “I am so close,” he says. “So very close to . . . something. What, I cannot say. Listen,” he says again. “Listen, and I will promise. In two weeks, three . . . before the winter sets in hard . . . we will go away. You will be contented then; I shall see that it is so.”

  She nods, resigned; for she has heard the words before. He means them, means them with all his heart; but he will forget. As he forgot the food. “Very well,” she says. She sits, drawing her skirt across her knees. He has told her many times how useful it is to talk, even if she doesn’t understand. Sometimes the words drop in his own brain, notions become clear; and she is nothing if not faithful. “Now,” she says, “what has your machine told you? Since I came here last?”

  He becomes eager at once. He draws the device forward. “See,” he says. “See here.” He points to the drum. Round it he has stretched paper, blackened by soot from the lamp. He turned the wick up, till the room was filled with stink and floating smuts; and Becker-Margareth came rushing for the stairs, convinced the place was afire. Later though he fixed the paper unconcerned, adjusted the pointer and the levers that controlled it. The next day he spent shouting at the diaphragm, shouting till his voice was hoarse; nonsense words for the most part, anything that came into his head. The girl became concerned; if the neighbors heard, he was certain to be hauled off as a madman. He brushed her protests aside, staring at the drum, fiddling with the levers and their joints, starting the motor again. Later, he even prevailed on her; now he points proudly to a line of dots and scratchings in the soot. Between them are peaks and hills, like a tiny mountain range. She sees that he has scratched her name beside them. “Your voice,” he says. “The machine heard your voice. So . . .” He hesitates, as if searching for words. “It drew it down,” he says. “Drafted the shapes it made in air, as an artist drafts a picture . . .”

  Abruptly, he becomes despondent. Again, something seems to hover at the edge of consciousness. The marks are there; sure and firm, not to be gainsaid. He remembers the joy with which he watched them form, the wonder. Some essence of the girl was captured certainly, by the pointer and the moving drum. The words though are gone; lost in Time, as all words, acts, are lost. How to recall them? To turn the scratchings back to sounds would be to cheat Death itself.

  He falls to brooding. Later he once more sets the drum to its slow turning. He touches the pointer, presses its bright tip with his finger. The links, the joinings, are mechanical; no mystery or problem there. Vibrations are transmitted from the thin, stretched disc; the tympan, like the membrane of an ear. Before the disc though there was naught but air; so the ripplings traveled through that medium, too. But that is a fact already known and noted. How else could he himself hear the words she and others speak? Or she him? Vibrations form, and inform, all; all fluids certainly, his mind insists.

  So air itself is a fluid; plastic, moving, molding to all things. High buildings, and the masts of ships at sea. Perhaps a fluid made of tiny pieces; as beach sand is a fluid, sculpted by the breezes, rippling with the tide. He remembers how he once sat on a beach the entire day, till folk must have surely thought him mad. The sand intrigued him; he scooped it by the handful, time and again, watching it run liquid through his fingers. Yet the grains that formed it were each discrete and hard. Later, when the tide came in, it became sleek and brown; then, it seemed firm as earth itself. As the air, at times so gentle, can yet become a seeming solid thing. Then, the slates whirl high; and stout masts fracture, crashing to destruction.

  He stops, struck by a sudden notion. Why end there? In fact, why end at all? Could the fluid in his wires, the electric fluid as he styles it, be made of fragments, too? Fragments too tiny for the mind to grasp, striking each other with untiring force? Like the model he once made, culled from an ancient book. The little silver globes, each hanging by its thread, intrigued for days; the thought of them intrigues him still. Each touched the next; raise one and let it fall and its fellow at the end leaped out in sympathy, though nothing visible had passed between. Its purpose baffled, though of one thing he was sure; this was no simple toy. Now, the pattern instantly becomes clear. Like the stone dropped into water, it is a paradigm; the shape of something otherwise beyond expression.

  He narrows his eyes. Another thought has come, following hard, it seems, on the heels of the first. The airy fluid impinges on the ear; and its inner parts vibrate, he knows that to be true. What then though, just what happens after? What becomes of the vibrations? How do we perceive the words, the thoughts that lie behind them? Of love perhaps, or hate? Could it be . . . could there be fragments in the head as well? The electric force itself, coursing to the brain?

  He turns. “Listen,” he says excitedly. “A new idea has come to me . . .”

  He stops, blinking a little. The room is empty. The girl has gone about her affairs; she has remembered she has to shop, for both their lives.

  ###

  He stoops over the curious array of instruments; the resonators, magnets, the metal forks of various lengths and sizes. The resonators are ovoid, hollow, fretted with slots and holes. The traveler sold them to him years before, the man from far-off Potsdam. Though as he rapidly discovered, he was no ordinary mendicant; he was a scholar, fallen like so many on hard times. He was bound for England, where he’d heard such as he were honored; maybe even the New World. For many years, the voice had been his study; the voice, and the means of its production. These last few pieces, useless save to a fellow student, were all that were left of his once extensive apparatus. The erstwhile baker paid him handsomely; and he went on his way rejoicing.

  His benefactor studied the strange devices. Certainly the forks, struck in random order, made odd and complex tones, approximating sometimes almost to speech. They intrigued him, as the model had intrigued; yet again he sensed a barrier. Thus far, and yet no more; how to proceed beyond?

  The man pushes at his hair. It is his custom, when faced with new ideas, to return to the old and proven. Reassurance lies there; also the mind, turning idly, may sometimes light on fresh insights. He twangs the forks more vigorously.
Momentarily the room is filled with sound; and despite himself he starts back. For an instant, it was as if the girl herself cried out; called him by name, from some distant place of pain.

  There is a tapping at the door. He turns, vaguely. “Heine,” he says after a moment. “Did you bring the thing I asked for? Was it ready?”

  The lad who enters is tall and strongly built, with dark hair that curls lustrous round his shoulders. He lays a small package on the bench. “He wanted paying first,” he says. “Hell’s own job talking it out of him.”

  If the casual blasphemy is noted, the other pays no heed. “Then see to it,” he says mildly. “Take him his money; you know where it is kept.” He turns aside, begins to unwrap the packet with eager fingers. He lifts out a tiny spring, and sighs with relief. Yes, this is what is needed, he is sure of it. Exactly what is required. He places it reverently on the bench, like a gemstone of rare worth. Once he would have shaped the thing and tempered it himself; now though, he lacks the means. And also perhaps, the skill. His eyes, once keen, have been troubling him increasingly of late; so the watchmaker was pressed unwillingly into service.

  The boy crosses the room. He opens a cupboard, takes down an old earthenware jar. He peers inside, and purses his lips. Little enough remains; soon it will be time, perforce, to seek a new master.

  He looks up, vaguely troubled, but the other is already immersed in his work. He hesitates; then he extracts a single golden coin. He puts the jar back on its shelf. Let the old slug round the corner wait a day or so; it will do him no harm. As for the rest . . . bad, perhaps, to serve a half-mad master. Worse, if it were to come to certain ears. Cash is cash though, however it may be acquired; more so than ever now. The times are hard for many in the town, but worse for him. He the only breadwinner; his mother ailing, hungry mouths to feed.

  He makes for the stairs. On the way down, he flicks the coin jauntily; then he stows it carefully away. At the street door though he pauses. The girl who visits, so pretty and so pale; daughter or lover, he has no idea. Neither does he much care. But he feels, momentarily, the rise of pity; an emotion for the most part strange to him. She should not have come here. From the first, a mark seemed laid on her; he has heard of such things before, but not believed. Secretly he makes the little sigh that wards off the Evil Eye.

  He eases the door open, slips through. Outside, a police vehicle grumbles by. His demeanor changes instantly. He darts aside, into one of the alleys with which the place abounds. A second later, he is gone from sight.

  ###

  The man sits listlessly, staring at the bench. In front of him is the machine; though it now presents a somewhat different appearance. Behind the metal disc, a thick iron rod is held secure by clamps. Round it, delicately suspended, hangs a coil of finest wire. Other wires lead to the curious box he has constructed. On its side, a half-round dial displays a metal needle, like the slim hand of a clock or watch. There is a hastily scrawled scale; at the base of the needle, the tiny spring maintains it in suspension. The machine is delicate; the pointer quivers to the slightest tapping of the bench top. To shield it from such vibrations, he has placed a folded blanket beneath it; but the quiverings he wished so much to see were absent.

  He half-leans forward, slumps back again. It is useless, he already knows it. Once more he shouted himself hoarse; till a beating came on the wall, a voice, half-heard and thick, demanded quiet. And still the needle had not moved.

  He pulls the machine toward him, rubs his eyes. As the tympan trembles so the coil, linked to it, must vibrate; interrupting the etheric force, breaking the lines of power from the magnet. He sees them with his mind, standing out like stiff, fine hair. More of the electric fluid must be generated; this he knows, from the Potsdam man’s experiments. But the needle, the measuring device, failed each time to register the flow.

  Despite himself, a weariness comes over him. He lies down on the bed. The sky is brightening already; he hears the sounds as the town begins to stir. Rumbling of traffic, the sound of voices, footsteps on the pavements. Once the evidence of other folk around him, other lives being led, would have pleased, albeit obscurely; now such things are no longer his concern. His world is not theirs; it has become a bleak and barren place.

  The thoughts still circle in his head. The flow is too weak, or the meter faulty; either way, he has failed. He closes his eyes, knowing he will not sleep. To his surprise, it is full light when he wakes.

  The girl has also passed a miserable night. Despite herself, the dreams would come; sometimes as soon as her head touched the pillows. She saw the cottage again, the flowers that always grew up round the porch. The porch itself was thatched with brown-gray straw, drawn up at each side into little points. On them, bird-shapes poised; like the birds that strutted once on the roof of the house itself. Till the wind came, blowing them away; she cried, privately, at the scattering of dark straw feathers.

  Beyond, she saw the red roofs of the village. The pond, so still and green, the ancient, rambling mill. Later, her mother’s coffin was lowered into the earth; and she walked back to her home dry-eyed. Knowing her fate was sealed; as the doors and windows of the mill were sealed, her one friend fled away.

  Half-waking, she remembered what he had often said: that all things are fragmented, the reasons for action seldom wholly clear. Certainly in her case it was true; though at the time one reason had seemed paramount. The Bürgermeister needed a new wife, and her uncle, who now had charge of her affairs, was not one to trouble himself unduly over the vaporings of girls. Cash had been exchanged, she knew it for a fact, certain other provisions agreed; so to the Bürgermeister she would go. To the gaunt house, standing on its own, where the village worthies roistered after hunting and the blood of hares and deer ran to the kitchen flags. The flags that were never cleaned, save where the dogs licked, and that were deep in filth. It was then, quietly, that she packed her things; only to come to a place that in some respects was worse.

  The dream was succeeded by others; images so vile they startled her awake, though later she could not remember them with clearness. Only that there were bones, faces that screeched and shouted. Finally, more blood came; great streams and gouts of it. So that she rose at first light ashen-faced, washed herself in icy water and began to dress.

  She is late returning to the inn. The town is busier than she can recall; it is as if folk are flocking in, for some great festival. She is pushed and jostled; she tries to hurry, dodging from side to side along the narrow pavements. She crosses the long bridge, stares down unseeing at the ships, the steel-gray water. She detours twice, glimpsing the police ahead; later, passing the little corner shop, she is sure the watchmaker glowers through the glass. She ducks her head, once more increasing her pace; taps at the wide, studded door, waits nervously for Becker-Margareth’s shuffling step. Her hair is covered, decently; nonetheless, she draws the scarf closer round her throat.

  It seems her presence has not been missed. Save by the old woman, vituperative as ever. She escapes finally, makes her way upstairs. The man sits gloomily, regarding the apparatus on the bench. He waves the food away, with a dismissive gesture; so she begins to pack the things, knowing words are vain. “If the electric fluid is too weak,” she offers without real hope, “could you not make it stronger?”

  He stares at her, unseeing; then it is as if a light dawns in his eyes. To her amazement he takes her in his arms, waltzing her round and round the tiny space. Articles are bowled from shelves; his coat and hat, his stick, the resonators and the long metal forks. The place becomes melodious with jangling; but he ignores it. “Fool,” he cries, over and again. “Fool, not to have seen the obvious . . .” At first she thinks he must mean her; but it is not the case. “Fool,” he cries again. “Oh, fool, fool, fool . . .” He rains kisses on her startled face; then, abruptly, he pushes away. “Where is my food?” he demands. “Where is the meal you brought? Why must you forever be tucking things away?” To her fresh amazement he gobbles at the soup, tearin
g great hunks of bread. “Fool,” he says between mouthfuls. “Oh, fool that I am . . .” He jumps up, grabs her shoulders urgently. “Where is Heine?” he asks. “Where is my assistant? Find him for me, quickly. There is work to be done . . .”

  She scurries on her errand, uncomprehending, but eager to please. To help, in any way she can.

  When she returns next day, the place is transformed. The door bangs back against a great glass carboy, nestling, straw-cased, in its cage of iron. She draws her skirts away from it, cautiously. Nearer at hand are squat glass jars lined inside and out with metal. She shies away again; but the experimenter merely laughs, as he laughed before. She touched one once, snatched her hand back at the sudden hot biting; it was as though some invisible creature had sunk its teeth into her flesh. She stared, expecting to see blood; but there was no mark. She was truly frightened then, for the first time; but he put an arm round her, speaking gently as was his custom. “It is the fluid,” he said. “There is no harm in it. See, you can touch the jar safely now; it has leaked away.” He held the thing out; but she shrank back.

  “No,” she said, “take it away. Take it away from me, please.”

  He set the thing down. “It will not hurt you,” he said. “It is a natural essence. The vessels attract and store it; it seeks its freedom eagerly, not wishing to be confined.” He did a strange thing then; touched first her forehead, then his own. “I believe,” he said, “I believe the fluid flows through all things. Through ourselves, through stones and trees, through this very room.” He smiled, and rubbed her fingers. “Come,” he said. “We will walk a little; you will soon feel better, and forget.”