by Mark Tufo
“I am holding the proof of these beings in my hands and I scarcely believe it. These images are blurry around the edges however, is there any way to sharpen this?”
The doctor shook his head. “Maybe in a few years when the technology of the microscope increases, but right now the Hughmanni are viewable only on the edge of the microscope’s capabilities.”
“Pity,” the Dean said. “We could rally alumni much quicker with a face.”
“A face, sir?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” the Dean said. “In any great conflict there must be a face of that war. Something that symbolizes the struggle of a man rising above himself to defeat the greater evil.” The Dean was in a full on lather now thinking about how much easier raising funds was going to be for the indeterminable future. “Can I keep these photographs?” the Dean asked.
“Of course, sir,” the doctor answered, pleased with the positive response he was getting to his research.
“Excellent, Doctor, you have done exceedingly well! I am having a gathering Friday night with some of the biggest luminaries this university has ever produced and I would like you to be there.”
“Me?” The doctor was somewhat a taken back with the Dean’s demeanor, in all the time he had worked for the school the Dean had not so much as invited him to a barbecue, and had not said more than three words to him at any one time.
“Of course you, Doctor Mann. I believe that our ship has come in, and as you have made one of the greatest discoveries of the century I believe you should be there with me to receive all the deserved accolades.”
* * *
The next few days were busy for both men. Dean Saunders made sure that all the right people were going to be in attendance for the “Party of the Century” as he began to bill it. He commissioned caterers, artists and certain people for whom the phrase had not yet been coined: public relations personnel. The doctor meanwhile had been trying his best to get clearer images for his presentation on Friday although unbeknownst to him he wouldn’t need them.
“Marissa, I would very much like it if you attended this function with me,” Dr. Mann stated as he talked to his daughter over the phone. He could not judge her response but was convinced that he heard her sigh.
“Father, I have no desire to spend my evening with a bunch of stuffy old men reminiscing about the olden times,” she responded with a scoff in her tone.
“You really must see what it is that I have discovered. This could change my life, our lives, all of our lives,” the doctor half pleaded.
“Father, I have a suitor on Friday.”
“A suitor! How can that be, you are not of appropriate age and I have not allowed it!” the doctor yelled.
“Appropriate age? I am twenty-seven, Father! Some have already labeled me as a spinster. And as for allowing me? You lost that right decades ago. You may be my father but in name only. You have never been my dad.”
Doctor Mann was surprisingly stung; he had thought he was above the pain of mere words. He thought wrong. “What is his name then?”
“You have met him twice! Why do I bother?”
The doctor took the hurt from his voice no matter how deep into his heart it sank. “Please Marissa?”
She sighed again. “His name is Jonathan, Father. Jonathan Talbot, and I do wish that you would remember his name. I do believe this will be the man I marry.”
“I will try, dear daughter, I will truly try.”
“I have to go now Father.”
“I know you do.” Dr. Mann hung up the phone gently. “That went well,” the doctor said, speaking to the cat who had not even looked up from bed. “Do you need some water? What is your name again?”
* * *
Dean Saunders watched in anticipation as the final touches were put in place for the evening’s gala event. The large silver screen at the back of the dais would propel his career tonight, or rather the images that would be displayed. Dr. Mann had handed him a golden ticket and he planned on using it for all it was worth. If he played his cards right, he might be able to completely squeeze the good doctor completely out of the equation, thus taking full credit. After all, it was his funding that enabled the purchase of the microscope in the first place, he rationalized.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Dean began in grandiose form. “I cannot thank you enough for attending tonight’s festivities. We stand here as possibly one of the greatest discoveries of all time unfolds!” he said, raising his voice and his arms, and in pure theatrics the lights dimmed and a spot light illuminated Dean Saunders. “I am speaking tonight of our origins, not of the Darwinian principles of evolutionary fantasy but of FACT,” he said almost vehemently, spitting the words out. The audience, which at first had been paying only mild attention to the Dean, were now enthralled as the first slide displayed on the screen.
“What are we looking at?” an older heavyset gentleman shouted from the audience.
Dean Saunders had been waiting for this question. His associate, Byron Frontan, had been coached to ask it. The Dean inwardly smiled as he turned to look at the screen as if he didn’t know what it was.
It was the original slide that the Professor had brought to him a few days earlier. The elation the Dean had been feeling was quickly replaced by trepidation as he looked at the microscopic creatures that were now displayed at three times his size. They did not feel human at that scale. A ripple of goose pocked flesh ran down his arms, a metallic cold touch of fear dragged down his spine. He swallowed once and signaled for the next slide. Calm immediately seeped through his features, the inward smile immediately returned as did the outward one, although something sinister was now lodged deep in the depths of his mind.
The audience must have also felt the strange misgivings at the first slide. He could almost feel the sigh of relief as the second ‘artist’s rendition’ slide came up. Byron had sat down, now not really wanting an answer to his fictitious question. He could not shake the feeling that he was somehow an accomplice to a crime.
“What was that, Dean?” Max Riley, a reporter with the Boston Herald asked.
The Dean had regained his composure and put on an awarding winning smile. He hoped it showed better than it felt. “That is our history, good sir!” he said beaming. “With the funding this University has secured through a majority of the patrons here tonight, we were able to purchase an electron scanning microscope. Dr. Mann, with the help of our research department, has discovered the origins of MAN!” he shouted, turning to point to the screen that showed a man that suspiciously had movie star good looks and was dressed in furs; his weapon of choice, which would have been uncharacteristic for Early Man, was a sword. The man in the slide looked fierce and determined, a woman and a child cowered behind him.
Doctor Mann sat in his seat silently fuming from the slight. ‘Research department! My peers couldn’t find their own faces in the dark!’
The next slide had a fair portion of the audience rise from the seats. It depicted the same family unit in nearly the same pose but at a greater distance. This time the main portion of the slide was taken up with what could only be described as a monster magnitudes larger than the man that stood defending his family.
“My God, man, what are you showing us!!” a random voice yelled. A woman near the back of the auditorium was being tended to after having a ‘spell.’ Pamphlets that had been handed out earlier were being used as makeshift fans as air suddenly became a much needed but rare commodity.
“Please, please sit,” the Dean pleaded, his plan working well. The audience members tentatively took their seats, all eyes glued to the horrific vision before them. “The people you see in these slides could quite possibly be our distant ancestors, they could be the key to our origins, who we are and where we came from. They are God’s children as are we! That they are two microns in size should matter not! That they are locked in a deadly war with a race of monsters ten times their size should be our only concern. This man that is sheltering his family from the
invader cares not of his diminutive size, only that he can save them from a merciless death!” Another woman slid bonelessly from her chair and into a human puddle onto the floor. Three men quickly laid her down straight and tried to direct more air towards her.
The next slide showed a small village burning with hordes of the enemy bugs closing in for the final scene. “This is horrible!” Byron shouted.
‘Well, that wasn’t in the script,’ the Dean thought. ‘But it will work.’ “I agree!” he shouted. “And we must act before this greatest of all discoveries is destroyed!”
Dr. Mann wanted to protest. “There were no settlements,” he said softly to the gentleman next to him, who paid him no attention whatsoever.
Random shouts came from the audience. “Kill them!” “Help them!” “My God!” “What we can do?”
‘What you can do is open your wallets and purses,’ the Dean thought slickly. Instead what he said was, “We must help our brethren in their time of need!”
Dean Saunders watched as Dr. Mann rose and extracted himself from the auditorium. ‘One problem dealt with,’ he thought.
Dr. Mann regretted his initial decision to seek out the Dean’s help. The man had twisted a significant discovery into a carnival attraction. The only thing that was different was that the Dean would squeeze much more than a quarter from the audience.
“Now is the time to act. We see here a ruthless enemy, and once they destroy our distant cousins they might turn their attention elsewhere,” he said, leaving the meaning of that sentence hanging. The woman in the back that had finally regained consciousness once again slid into the nether realms of blissful blacked out ignorance.
* * *
There was a vast array of choices of wine and cheese laid out for the guests. The wine coffers were nearly emptied, the cheese, however, was not touched. Small treasures of wealth were promised to the University in an effort to wipe out the scourge that now threatened all mankind. The Dean absently kept rubbing his hands together with every offer of donation. As the event began to wind down and the astonished patrons began to leave, it was at this time that Dr. Mann grabbed the Dean’s arm and hustled him into a corner.
“What is this about?” the Dean asked. “I have alumni that I must attend to,” he lied. “Tonight is not about you and I, Dr. Mann, it is about our beleaguered brothers-in-arms.”
“You do not know what you are doing,” the doctor said with some menace.
“I know exactly what I am doing, my good Doctor, and I think that you should let go of my arm,” the Dean said as he pulled away from the clutches of what now appeared to be a mad man, both literally and figuratively.
“At first I did not want to listen to Dr. Lancing, but on that first slide, did you not FEEL the alienness of those creatures? Just because they are humanoid in form does not mean that they are indeed human,” the doctor ranted. “You’ve made them out to be national heroes.”
“I embellished, Hugh. It is what I do, it is what I do best. The interests of this University are all that matter to me.” Again another lie. “I have perhaps secured enough funding for this school for the next five, maybe ten years.”
“You pushed for the extinction of a species that we know absolutely nothing about,” the doctor said, thinking of the dust mites with concern.
“They ARE monsters,” the Dean spat out. “Those pictures did not need to be enhanced! And of what concern to us are they? They are smaller than the head of a pin.”
“So is a germ, Dean,” the Doctor threw into the argument.
The Dean airily waved his hand at him in dismissal and walked away to say his goodbyes to the remaining stragglers, who looked somewhat dazed and confused from the night’s unveiling.
Dr. Mann walked out an emergency exit into the bracing night air. “What have I done?” he asked the heavens. The doctor had not expected an answer and when one was not received it was of no surprise or disappointment. He was of the ilk that believed that science in and of itself disproved the notion of a higher entity. He told himself that old habits die hard, though.
* * *
The Boston Herald ran with the story on Page One of the Sunday Edition. A plate had been ‘leaked’ early so that they could have an exclusive on the Story of the Century. Two more editions of the newspaper had to be printed to keep up with the demand. The title read: “Mini Man Fights For All Mankind!” It was the third image of the man facing the much larger monster with his sword in hand as his family cringed behind him in terror. People huddled in groups at street corners looking over the shoulders of pure strangers to read the article. “... a miniature world in which mini-man struggles to protect those he loves… whole towns are pillaged as monsters run rampant… refugees stream to safety….”
Dean Saunders had a jaunt in his step as he walked around his beloved Beacon Hill neighborhood. Women had hand to open mouths in astonished ‘ooohs’ as they looked at the paper. Men had that determined look of ‘where do I sign up to do my part?’ Now as long as Dr. Mann kept his mouth shut, everything should be perfect.
* * *
The rest of the country was not far behind. “Dr. Hugh Mann’s People” was page one across the entire nation within the week. Reporters spun spectacular stories of the miniature civilization from their eating habits to their mating rituals. Readers were glued, nothing had struck quite a fervor since the Wright Brothers had taken flight over ten years previously. As the days went by, the tales of Hugh Mann’s people became more imaginative. “Whole Cities Discovered!” “Bi-Wing Planes Seen in Flight!”
Dr. Mann found himself an overnight sensation, much to his chagrin. Every newspaper wanted to interview him, not for what he had to say, but for the juxtaposition of his face with that of the grainy, blurry image of the man carrying the now famous sword.
* * *
The following Monday morning brought an unexpected but not necessarily unwelcomed surprise. “Dean Saunders?” the smartly dressed Army man said as he rose from his seat in the Dean’s waiting room.
“Yes?” the Dean answered, shaking the proffered hand.
“My name is Major Bergeron. I have been sent here to investigate this University’s claims,” the Major said vaguely.
“Is there some sort of problem, Major, because if so you should possibly talk to Dr. Mann. He was the man responsible for finding them,” the Dean said swiftly, throwing his colleague to the wolves.
“There is no problem, Dean Saunders. No, I have been tasked with supplying this school with as much resources and man power that are needed to investigate and eradicate this potential national threat. Where would I be able to find Dr. Mann?”
“We will get back to that,” the Dean said as he opened his office door and ushered the major in. “Betty, hold my calls,” he said absently.
“It’s Bernice,” she said crossly to the closed door.
“What do you have in mind, Major?” the Dean asked, motioning for the Major to have a seat.
“I’ll be direct, Dean.”
“I would appreciate that, Major.” Although all he really felt at that suggestion was trepidation. He feared his ruse had been discovered
“How valid are these ‘artist’s renditions’?” the major asked as he spread out the plates of the entire presentation on the Dean’s desk.
“How did you get these?” the Dean asked angrily, standing up from his chair to look them over more carefully and truly verify that they were indeed all of the pictures from Saturday night. There were even a few of the more horrifying ones of a monster with a human woman in its mouth that was deemed too sensational to be shown. The Dean had been holding them back in case interest began to wane, or not enough spark had initially been generated, but this did not seem to be an issue.
“Do not concern yourself with how or where I received these from. I asked you a question and I need to have a valid answer so I can report back to my superiors.”
The Dean was nervous but this was not a complete surprise for him. That it
happened so quickly maybe, but not that it happened at all. The artist pictures would be enough to get the populace behind him, but the scientific world and the military would need more careful manipulation. The Dean reached into his pocket to retrieve the keys to his desk where he pulled out a series of glossy photos that had been only marginally tampered with in the most strategic ways. The originals he had burned in the hopes to get the taint off his fingers he felt from touching them. The shine of silver, gold and the green of money had gone great lengths in wiping those memories from his mind.
The Major spent long minutes looking at each photo before placing them in his portfolio case, not even asking the Dean before doing so.
The Dean was mildly surprised, but this was the exact reason he had three more copies made.
“Now which way to the lab?”
The Dean pointed across campus.
“My superiors will be in touch.” And with that the Major saw himself out.
* * *
The country’s top minds, under an outcry from citizens and the government, went into overdrive to find a compound that would kill the dust mites and leave the Hugh-Manns intact. This was nearly an impossible task. The first hurdle was that the only way to observe the effects of anything needed to be done was through the electron microscope, and at this point in time there were only two. Secondly, even if a scientist developed a promising concoction and it did kill the dust mites, it would have the same effect on the Hugh-Manns. It was an enterprising young scientist in Dr. Mann’s lab that came up with an answer. It was a dried mixture of bleach and sugar that did the trick. The sugar would attract the dust mites but they could not differentiate between the two, and the bleach’s poisonous effects were nearly immediate. The Hugh-Manns seemed to have no interest in the sugar or the bleach for that matter.