Galileo's Children: Tales of Science vs. Superstition

by Gardner Dozois

  No time though now, for walking or for talk. He is working feverishly, testing this, checking that. Heine stands at his elbow, handing apparatus at his command; wires and screws, small plates of pink and silver metal. “It is almost ready,” says the man. “You will be the first to see.”

  The girl frowns. On the bench are many glass containers, filled almost to their tops with fluid. Acid perhaps, from the great iron-girded jars. She sees pairs of the plates are immersed in each; from some, strings of tiny bubbles rise steadily. Each is connected to the next by lengths of the shining wire; other wires stretch to the tympan, surround it in loops and coils. Beside it is the box with its white, half-round dial. The pointer is at rest; though at times, as he works, she fancies she sees it jump and quiver.

  He is adjusting the pairs of plates, clicking his tongue and frowning, moving some closer to each other, some farther apart. Finally he seems satisfied. He takes her arm and draws her forward. “Speak,” he says excitedly. “It doesn’t matter what you say, the words are not important. Speak to the machine. You will be the first.”

  Her lips have dried. She puts a hand to her throat. She opens her mouth, but no words come. “What will happen?” she whispers finally. “What will it do?”

  He laughs again. “No, no,” he says. “Louder, and more firmly. Look, I will show you.” He leans forward. “O, Fortuna,” he intones. “O Fortuna, velut luna; statu variabilis . . .”

  She cries out. It seems the sound is jerked from her. The little needle has gone mad. With every syllable it leaps and quivers, swinging forward and back across the dial. She tries to pull away. “No, no,” he says again. “You do not understand. It is the fluid. This is the strength you spoke of, that set my feet on the way. Now, I control it; control it with my lightest word. Soon, you will be its mistress, too . . .”

  His laughter is pure joy.

  ###

  The experimenter sits brooding, in front of the new device he has built. From time to time he taps the tiny tympan lightly. The needle of the measuring machine obediently reacts.

  He puts his chin in his hands. How the notion came to him, he cannot say; but come it did, between sleeping and waking, arriving it seemed as ever from some place outside himself. Carbon, the quintessential substance, breathed out by lamp flames, rising invisible to the sky, trapped deep in the earth itself. And in all living things; for who had not seen, on broken coal, the shadows of leaves and fronds? Not idle sketches he is certain, made by God to while away His days, but signatures, for those with eyes to see. Once, the strange earth-plants had life; they flowered, and knew the sun. Carbon then, from which all things are made, would be his medium, conduct the essence of his new brainchild.

  Beside him, a saucer holds a pile of fine black granules. He stirs them with his finger. The work was long and arduous, straining his meager resources to the limit; but he has succeeded. He touches the little machine again, for the pleasure of seeing the pointer move. The carbon grains, compressed and rarefied, transmit their changing state to the fluid. There is a roundness to the notion, an elegance that satisfies the mind.

  He frowns. He pulls a sheet of paper toward him, studies it. The rest of his requirements are clear enough; it seemed once started, the ideas flowed without check. His wires will convey the vibrations, he knows it by experiment; the fluid, once a random, wayward factor, is now his servant. How to receive these corrugations though, turn them back to ripples in the aether?

  He begins to draw again. A second tympan will be needed, certainly. Also, he knows the power of his coils. Power though must be opposed. The cannon barrel gives gunpowder force; missing its mark, the axe swings merely against air.

  The pencil point moves rapidly. A magnet, he is convinced, will be the answer. Cupped, to concentrate its steady, unseen strength. Within it radiation, the tympan and the coil.

  He begins to turn out cupboards. He flings aside the metal forks, the resonators. They helped him, certainly; like signposts, marking out the way. But they are not needed now.

  The wire, made with such care, is all but gone; and there will be no more. Also the tympans, beaten thin and thinner between sheets of supple leather; he taught himself the craft, again by painful stages. Trusting no other to aid him.

  He sits back, eyes vague, the last coil of wire in his hands. It will be enough, it will suffice. He remembers his experiments. The wire, too, was beaten out at first; but the results were disappointing. Untrustworthy, and brittle. But drawn through dies, of ever-decreasing diameter; he had been amazed at the results. Startled at first. Something happened, at some stage in the process; the metal changed its nature, becoming pliant, strong. By the rearrangement of its fragments perhaps, the tiny particles he now believes make up all things; flowers, a girl’s hair, sand grains on the beach that themselves are capable of infinite division.

  He starts. Dawn is already in the sky. No time for dreaming; there is far too much to do.

  He takes the tympan down and studies it. It has guided his steps securely; in a sense, it has become a trusted friend. He lays it aside, picks it up again. Finally his decision is made. He strips it quickly from its frame, and lays it flat. With a pair of dividers he begins, carefully, to scribe the first of four small circles.

  ###

  He sits with the little diaphragm in his hands. Once more it seems his purpose has been thwarted. The carbon grains, packed in behind, convey the electric fluid; but the fluctuations he had hoped for have been absent, shout at the thing as he might. He scratches his head, lays the device aside, picks it up again. Once more it seems a barrier has been reached. As one is thrown down so others rear ahead, each more unscalable than the last.

  The girl sighs. He has been like this now for days. Impossible to draw more than the odd word from him; and those for the most part make no sense. She glances at the window, the gloomy autumn sky. The shortening days afflict her with a sense of urgency. Many times now she has been tempted to pack her things. Always she has resisted. Together, they have been through much; she cannot leave him now. She wishes though, with intense longing, for the peace of the village again. She sees it in her mind, with dreamlike clarity; the pond, the old mill, the race that chuckles beneath, broadening to the stillness of the water.

  The man looks up sharply. “What did you say?” he asks. “What was that, about the mill?”

  She is startled, momentarily. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I must have been thinking aloud.”

  He rises, begins to pace the room. Something about the mill race seems of critical importance. He, too, sees the water; quiet at first then furrowed, rushing faster as its energy is concentrated.

  He picks the diaphragm up again. If he were to beat it, form a shallow cone; its tip, touching the carbon grains, would surely concentrate its force. As the mill race focuses the strength of water.

  He frowns, fingering the thing. How to ensure transmission of that energy? How to make firm contact, with shifting, pulsing grains?

  He hurries to the cupboard. Gold, purest of metals; only gold will suffice. He takes the pot down, feels inside. He looks up, stricken. It is empty.

  The girl stares at him for a moment. Then she quietly draws the thick ring from her finger, places it on the table.

  He hurries back, appalled. Not that, surely; not her mother’s gift.

  He will not take it from her. But she shakes her head. She says, “I have no more need of it.”

  He takes the ring up, turns it in his fingers. He swallows. “When this is done,” he says, “when this last thing is over, we will go away. Forever.” He smiles. “Your dearest treasure for your dearest wish.”

  She looks up sharply. She knows, with strange certainty, that this time he is speaking the truth. The moment should be a joyous one; instead, it seems an icy hand has settled round her heart.

  ###

  She stares at the strange box on the wall. From its front, a cone-shaped device juts forward like the black mouth of a trumpet. At the side, a similar con
trivance hangs from a metal arm; coiled wires, each wrapped with cloth and paper, connect it to the machine. She steps back a little. She says, “What is it?”

  He is excited, with an excitement she has not seen before. His hands shake; she feels the trembling as he takes her arm. “Come,” he says. “I will show you.”

  He lifts the dangling object down. A little click sounds from somewhere. She takes the thing, unwillingly; and he laughs. The sound is high pitched, and a little strained. “Place it to your ear,” he says. “This is the part you talk to.”

  “Talk to?” she says. “Talk to?”

  He whirls a little handle on the far side of the box. “Speak,” he says. “Speak clearly, and do not be afraid.”

  She moistens her lips. “Hello?” she says stupidly. “Is anyone there?”

  Becker-Margareth hears the scream from the kitchen. She waddles through hastily, her hands white with flour, pausing only to snatch up a cudgel; the house has known such disturbances before. She is in time to see the girl run desperately into the street. Her hands are to her ears, shutting out the demon voices. She understands now, knows what he has done; for who but demons speak from empty air?

  The man pounds after her. “No,” he shouts, “no, wait. Don’t be afraid. It was only Heine, in the next room. Come back . . .”

  The demons are all round her now. The faces loom at her, their bulging eyes grotesque, their great tongues lolling. Her sleeve is caught; she screams again, pulls free. “No,” says the demons, “come with us. Good times to be had, for a pretty one like you.”

  Drums bang, trumpets squawk; there are horses, dragons, beasts from vilest nightmare. There is a machine with rank on rank of painted pipes. Noise blasts from it; beside it the showman, also masked, whirls at a great spoked wheel. It is the Carnival; but she is not to know.

  Her scarf has gone; her hair, light and lustrous, flies round her face, falls limp across her eyes. She stares up at the man who grips her; at the uniforms that crowd in close, the dark, set faces. “Come,” says her captor. “We have been watching for some time. We think you have things to tell us.”

  ###

  There are other footsteps on the stairs. The inventor turns, distraught. The assistant’s face is white to the lips. He hurries round the room, grabbing his belongings. “Save yourself,” he says. “Run, while you still have legs. I can serve you no more.”

  His master grips his arm. “Where is she?” he asks, anguished. “I searched; but the crowds, the noise . . .”

  The young man wrenches away. “The police have her,” he says. “What else did you expect? It was what they were waiting for. Now they are saying she is mad . . .”

  The other starts back, appalled. “The fault is mine,” he cries. “Mine, and no other’s.” He begins to snatch up apparatus. “I will go to them,” he says. “Then they will understand. Come with me, Heine; for you, too, can explain . . .”

  He turns; but the room is empty. The other has already fled. He makes for the door, encumbered by boxes and the trailing wires.

  ###

  The sky glowers beyond the tall windows of the Council Chamber; an autumn light, flaring and yet dull. The Oberlandvogt stares out vaguely, brings his attention back unwillingly to the matter in hand. The Chamber is sparsely occupied. The Emperor’s representative of course has shown no interest in the current affair; no rich pickings here, no great estates for seizure. The Blutschoffen, the Assistant Judges, seem to have found alternative duties, while the rest of the Hexenausschuss are likewise mysteriously absent.

  He riffles the papers in his hands, coughs uncomfortably. “Undoubtedly, the man is an eccentric,” he says. “Perhaps he may even be mad.” He attempts a smile. “Madmen are not necessarily all heretics,” he says. “Or we should have a busy time indeed.”

  The emissary turns to stare. He says, “We shall be busy enough.” He is a tall man, black browed and with colorless, cold eyes. Before their gaze, the Oberlandvogt quails. Despite his rich robes, the heavy chain of office, he is not an impressive figure; less so than ever now. He is dumpy and balding, beginning to sweat a little. “But,” he says, “this talk of pacts with devils . . .”

  The other’s voice is as cold as his demeanor. Cold, and perfectly modulated. “The matter seems clear enough to me,” he says. “All magical practices affecting more than can reasonably be expected in nature imply a pact. Such an arrangement has therefore been made. These things have been known to us for generations.”

  The High Sheriff attempts to expostulate. “But the girl,” he says. “A simple country girl . . .”

  The priest interrupts him. “The girl has already confessed,” he says. “She has spoken with invisible demons. She stands condemned, out of her own mouth.”

  The other winces. Essentially, his is a kindly nature. “But,” he says, “the things they will do. The things they will do to them both . . .”

  The cold voice once more breaks in. “We do nothing,” says the emissary. “As you are well aware, Herr Oberlandvogt. For punishment, they will be handed to your own authorities. With, as ever, a plea for clemency.”

  The plump man nods unhappily. He is aware of the fact; as he is aware of others. Clemency is also viewed as the favoring of heretics and heretic lovers can expect scant pity in a right-thinking world. Thus the Church, at all points, guards her flanks.

  The priest rises, gathering his robes about him. “If a man abide not in me,” he says, “he is cast forth as a branch; and men gather them and cast them into the fire and they are burned.” He appears suddenly to lose patience. “Do you question my rights in this matter, Herr Rotensahe? Do you question my judgment?”

  The Oberlandvogt spreads his arms, alarmed. “Naturally not. Naturally not, my Lord . . .”

  The other draws a parchment from his scrip. “It is not my will you answer to,” he says. “It is the will of God. God, and His representative on earth.” He spreads the scroll out, pointing and the Oberlandvogt sees the Great Seal, the Mark that cannot be denied. Beside it, a scrawled signature. Claudio Aquaviva, Grand General of Jesuits; and the date, The Year of Our Lord 1589. The Inquisition has come to Germany.

  He feels his shoulders sag. He swallows, moistens his lips with his tongue. “It shall be as you require,” he says. “In all respects, we will be seen to do our duty.”

  He walks from the Chamber, and quietly closes the door.

  ###

  He stands at the window of his office, high in the old Rathaus. Below him, the cobbled square bustles with activity. Some, the out-of-towners, have evidently come to gawk; others are more purposive. A cart passes, loaded high with faggots; beyond, men are busy erecting lines of stakes. There is a constant coming and going of priests and soldiers. And the police, of course; their sinister closed vehicles are everywhere.

  The stocky man raises his eyes. Across the square the Hexenturm, the prison of the witches, looms darkly. Once, it was the lockup; a relatively mild place, almost homely now, where the local drunks and ne’er-do-wells could cool their heels. But the changing times brought trade to many folk; beside the Tower, masons are still working.

  A side table holds a wine carafe and glasses. He had poured himself a cup, almost automatically; now though, the drink has lost its savor. He scowls at the carafe. Reflections burn dully within the crimson liquid.

  He looks back to the Tower, the gloomy lines of windows. Almost he expects blood to ooze between the bars, as between the teeth of a wounded mouth.

  He clenches his fists. He is surprised at the sudden passion that shakes him. This new Law, coming from the south; it offends him to the core, conflicts with every fiber of his being. Truth, logic, the burden of proof, are things of the past; now, accusation and guilt are one. Well, if justice, sanity itself, are swept aside as heathenish, so be it. A heathen he will remain; a heathen, and a Saxon.

  The rage is gone as quickly as it arose. Once more he feels his body droop. He lays aside the chain of office, tiredly. For all his fineries, he
knows himself to be a small man; small and insignificant, swept along by the red tide of events. He knows his courage would fail him. For his wife and children to walk into the Tower, to walk in himself . . . He cannot bear the thought. As he knows he could never bear the pain.

  He grabs the wine, drinks it down and dashes the glass away. “Schmutzig,” he mutters to himself. “A dirty, stinking business . . .”

  He rings a handbell for his secretary to come. He stares at the papers spread before him; then he takes up a quill. “Fiat justicia,” he says. “Let justice be done.” A stamp falls with a crash and he sits back in his chair. He stares, unseeing, at the closing door. “There’ll be trouble over this,” he mutters. “One of these centuries . . .”

  ###

  The suspect is shown the instruments of the Questioning. He seems confused by them. Their purpose is explained, but he does not respond. He appears lost in some inner reverie. His only concern is for the girl. He explains that she is innocent, and that they must release her.

  His hair is cropped, and he is placed on the Ladder. He is stripped, and searched for witch teats. The result is inconclusive.

  Alcohol is brought. His hair is burned to the roots. The second examination is more successful. Several marks are found. When needles are applied to them he feels no extra pain.

  He denies that he is a witch. Strips of sulphur are placed beneath his arms and set on fire. He makes his denial again. His arms are tied behind him, and he is hoisted by the wrists. No weights are used. The Oberlandvogt has expressed a wish that the captives be spared extremes of torture.