The Supreme Progress

by Brian Stableford

  Time passed, though. There was always one last tankard, one last hand, one last pipe, to the extent that Bakermann finally drank to the health of mortifulgurans.

  In the end, he had to leave his friends—but his head was heavy and his gait unsteady…

  Frau Bakermann was in bed, asleep or apparently asleep. He wasted no time in contemplating her, and, without even bothering to get undressed, lay down to sleep the profound sleep of the triumphant.

  About 6 a.m., however, he was forced to pry an eye open. Frau Bakermann was shaking him violently.

  “Hermann!” she was saying, “Hermann!”

  He pretended not to hear—and, in fact, hardly could hear, for the fumes of the beer were still numbing him with their thick shadow.

  “Hermann! Hermann!”

  “Can’t you let me sleep?”

  Frau Bakermann was gripped by atrocious pains. She was sitting up in bed, very pale, with haggard eyes.

  “Ring for Theresa, my darling,” he sighed. He pulled the bell-cord, and then went back to sleep.

  But Frau Bakermann’s suffering was getting worse. Theresa, the chambermaid, was scared when she saw her distraught face. A livid December dawn appeared in the windows.

  “Sir, sir!” Theresa cried. “Madame is very ill! Very ill!”

  This time, Bakermann woke up completely. Yes, truly, Frau Bakermann was very ill.

  “Go fetch Dr. Rothbein immediately,” he said to Theresa, “and go to the pharmacist’s to get morphine and quinine.”

  Frau Bakermann now had very cold hands, a purple face and terribly dilated pupils.

  “Josepha! Josepha!”

  “My love, my love,” she said, in a soft and feeble voice, “forgive me…for I sense that I’m going to die, and that I’ve brought it on myself. I’ve been…I’ve dared…”

  “What have you done?” demanded the professor, gripped by anguish.

  “You know…the infernal chamber! The infernal chamber! Well…”

  “Well? Speak! Speak!”

  She could not say any more. A frightful spasm sealed her lips.

  “The infernal chamber,” murmured Bakermann. “Speak, Josepha, speak, I implore you.”

  But Josepha was no longer able to reply. She had lost consciousness. Spasms of agony were agitating her icy limbs. Then she fell into a profound torpor.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. It was Professor Rothbein, Bakermann’s friend, famous for his irreproachable diagnoses. He examined the sick woman for a few moments, and shook his head despairingly.

  “Well?”

  “Be brave, my friend, be brave.”

  “But what is this rightful malady?” Bakermann ventured to say.

  Rothbein reflected momentarily; then, after a further scrupulous examination, he said: “This is an extremely rare malady, which is almost never seen in Europe. It’s the koussmi-koussmi of Dahomey.”

  “Really!” said Bakermann. In spite of everything, he felt relieved of a great weight, for he felt overwhelmed by a secret terror that he dared not admit to himself.

  “It’s koussmi-koussmi,” Rothbein repeated, firmly. “My dear Hermann, there’s no mistake about it. Everything is there, and the symptoms are obvious: the suddenness of the onset, the pallor of the face, the dilation of the pupils, the spasms, the chill, the torpor…”

  He would have continued in that vein for some time, if Frau Bakermann had not rendered up her soul at that moment.

  It was 8 a.m. Everyone in the house already knew the disastrous news. Little Theresa, as she went to the pharmacist’s, had not been able to prevent herself from telling the story to two or three of her peers. A crowd had begun to gather, and the cause of the illness as already being discussed.

  As for Bakermann, he was plunged into a profound distress—but his distress was nothing compared to his anxiety. Rothbein’s coolness and self-confidence had diminished a few vague dreads…but Josepha had mentioned the infernal chamber. Why?

  Suppose, in a fit of absurd jealousy, in order to search for Eliza’s letters…

  Unable to bear the terrible uncertainty, he ran to the laboratory…

  The door of the infernal chamber was open, and Bakermann perceived, to his horror, that someone had opened the microbe cupboard and rummaged through the flasks! An imprudent hand had even knocked over one of the phials in which the terrible mortifulgurans was growing.

  This time, no further doubt was permissible. Yes, in spite of her husband’s solemn instructions, Frau Bakermann had dared to penetrate this redoubtable refuge, and had knocked over a bottle of mortifulgurans!

  At all costs, it was necessary to avert greater misfortunes. A terrible microbe had taken possession of Frau Bakermann’s body, and now, by a rapid contagion, it was going to reach the entire town. He had nothing to fear himself—he was too thoroughly vaccinated to be affected—but the others…the others!

  Bakermann shuddered at the thought that Rothbein, Theresa, the neighbors and their wives were going to fall victim to mortifulgurans. And who could tell how far it might go? Herman Bakermann’s thoughts dared not take that frightful supposition to its conclusion.

  Bakermann raced home and began a thorough disinfection of the house. Alas, what good would it to?

  Indeed, at 10 a.m., Theresa began to suffer from an intense headache. Then there was a great shiver, followed by spasms. After two hours, the malady had made terrible progress, and the unfortunate Theresa expired at midday.

  With a dry eye, Bakermann witnessed her terrible death-throes. Yes, it was definitely mortifulgurans. There was no possible doubt; all the anticipated symptoms were there, and none was lacking. What vitality there was in the microbe, though! In spite of his anguish, Bakermann could not help admiring, with all the pride of an artist, the conquering march of his microbe. As soon as it had penetrated, it triumphed. In three hours, it was all over. First the nervous system, then the respiration, then the temperature, then the heart; it was methodical, punctual, inexorable; neither quinine nor morphine could do anything. Yes, certainly, mortifulgurans was tenacious and irresistible, and all the physicians’ drugs could not defeat it.

  What could be done now? Halt the propagation of the disease? That was impossible. Let it continue its victorious march, then? This was insane—a monstrosity surpassing everything imaginable! Bakermann knew his mortifulgurans. He knew that nothing could make it retreat. It was a true microbe, that one, as superior to others as electric light was to a miserable candle. So be it! The die was cast! Mortifulgurans would spread throughout the world!

  That evening, there had already been 17 deaths in the town: the pharmacist’s apprentice at 3 p.m., then Rothbein at 4 p.m., two of the pharmacist’s customers at 5 p.m., four of Rothbein’s clients and five of the pharmacist’s at 6 p.m., plus four neighbors—the same ones that Bakermann had seen chatting to Theresa that morning.

  The local newspaper announced the outbreak of the fatal epidemic in these terms:

  We regret to inform our readers that a disease, originating in the Orient, has fallen upon our industrious city. At the time of going to press, 17 deaths have already been recorded, and our specific information allows us to affirm that there are a great many sick people in various parts of the town. The illness comes on suddenly, and kills in a few hours, defying all therapeutic resources. It is probable that it is caused by a microbe that none has yet been able to study; but according to competent authorities, the malady is none other than koussmi-koussmi, a kind of infectious disease rife in Dahomey. One can only speculate as to the manner in which koussmi-koussmi was able to reach Brunnwald. The facility of communications between Africa and Germany offers some slight explanation of that propagation, but why have the intermediate countries not been affected? These are questions that our hygienists will soon be able to resolve…

  Whatever the case may be, it is a matter of a redoubtable evil. We are counting on the science of our physicians to avert it, and in the good sense of our people not to abandon themselves to vai
n panic.

  Meanwhile, Professor Bakermann had plunged into a profound despair. The death of a wife is certainly cause for grief, but Frau Bakermann was mortal, after all, and in the end, one ends up being consoled. What was horrible, defying all expressions of horror, was the extension of the epidemic.

  He tried to reflect, but his head was whirling. What could be done, since mortifulgurans was invincible? Ordinarily, in an epidemic, not all those affected die; there are individuals who escape. Perhaps physicians are able to cure some of them; some people contrive to avoid the contagion. Above all, the malady comes to an end; the microbe ends up becoming less redoubtable, becoming attenuated, and thus less and less dangerous. Here, though, there was no hope of anything similar. Mortifulgurans would not be attenuated. On the contrary, it would gather new strength as it was disseminated throughout the world. It was too vigorous, too robust, too well-constructed to weaken. The human species, retreating before it, would be driven to extinction!

  A terrible unprecedented battle was joined in Bakermann’s soul. No mortal, in all probability, had ever felt such a heavy, crushing responsibility weighing upon him. If only a solemn confession could avert the disaster! But no, a confession would be futile. Whether he spoke or remained silent, the epidemic would run its course, so why speak? Yes, why? If a loud public confession would save a single victim, certainly! But it would only serve to render the name of Bakermann permanently shameful to future generations—provided that any human beings were able to survive mortifulgurans. Future generations? Bakermann smiled bitterly, as he thought that, thanks to him, there would be no future generations.

  Besides, he thought, is it really mortifulgurans? Rothbein had no hesitation. He immediately affirmed that it was koussmi-koussmi. Why should Rothbein not be right? Why contradict him, and become one’s own executioner? It is a culpable presumption for a lone man to claim to know more than the masters of a science. They have pronounced sentence—well then, their verdict is irrevocable: it is koussmi-koussmi. And after all, if I speak, I won’t save anyone. I shan’t say anything! I shan’t say anything!

  In spite of all this reasoning, the voice of conscience was stronger. “Bakermann,” the voice said to him, “you are lying to yourself. You know perfectly well that your wife died of mortifulgurans, that there is no koussmi-koussmi, that you are the sole cause of the terrible epidemic that is going to cause the disappearance of all humankind. If you want to diminish the atrocity of your crime, it is necessary to confess it freely. Be an honest man, Bakermann, for, if you keep silent, you are the most frightful villain to whom the earth ever gave birth.”

  He went out. He felt the soul of a great martyr within him, and he had made a heroic resolution.

  Yes, he wanted to drink the chalice to the dregs. He had an enemy, a mortal enemy: Professor Hugo Krankwein, his rival in microbial science; a short, bald man with a grimacing, ferrety face, very knowledgeable and very envious. It was to Krankwein that Bakerman would confess his crime.

  Krankwein lived alone in an isolated suburb. He opened his own door—but he recoiled in fright when he was confronted by the distraught face of his colleague.

  “In Heaven’s name, is it really you?”

  “It’s me,” sighed Bakermann. “My wife died this morning.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Krankwein, raising his eyes to heaven. “The poor woman was one of the first victims of the koussmi-koussmi.”

  “Don’t talk about koussmi-koussmi!” cried Bakermann. “There is no koussmi-koussmi! There’s only Bacillus mortifulgurans!”

  Well, well! thought Krankwein, not without some satisfaction. The poor fellow’s gone mad. “Come on, my dear colleague,” he said, gently, addressing Bakermann with the kind of slightly-scornful patience that one has for children and invalids, “I know the horrible story. Dear Frau Bakermann had bought an Oriental carpet that came straight from Dahomey; no more was required, alas!”

  “There is no koussmi-koussmi, I tell you!” Bakermann cried. “Can your koussmi-koussmi kill a vigorous and healthy man in three hours? Can it strike without remission? Can it resist quinine and cold baths? No, a thousand times no, it’s my microbe, I tell you, my mortifulgurans, that killed Josepha.”

  Krankwein smiled. “My dear Bakermann, pain is leading you astray; mortifulgurans is a dream of your sick imagination, and the situation is too grave for us to linger over implausible hypotheses.”

  “Hypotheses!” roared Bakermann. “Hypotheses! Do you know what you’re saying? Mortifulgurans exists. I created it, brought it out of nothing. I constructed it in its entirety, unassailable, irresistible, defiant of medicine and doctors. I’ve kept it in my phials; by means of it, I’ve poisoned Frau Bakermann, Rothbein, Theresa, and 500 others! And you talk to me about hypotheses!”

  “Calm down, I beg you, my dear colleague,” sighed Krankwein. “Look, tomorrow morning, if we’re still alive, I’ll come to visit you, and you’ll realize that you aren’t being entirely reasonable.”

  “Don’t you understand, then, that mortifulgurans has no effect on me…!”

  He had hardly finished the sentence when he had a sudden flash of inspiration. It was a dazzling lightning-bolt—one of those sublime and grandiose conceptions that cast their blinding light over the entire soul.

  “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” he cried. And, without bidding farewell to the stupefied Krankwein, he precipitated himself into the street, bare-headed.

  Thank God! thought Krankwein. Bakermann has gone mad. He certainly wasn’t strong before, but now he’s veritably insane.

  With that, Krankwein went to bed. He too was vaccinated against all epidemics, and had no fear of koussmi-koussmi. The fate of his fellow citizens was of very little interest to him. As for mortifulgurans, he had the misfortune of not believing in it.

  In the middle of the night, in the desolate streets of Brunnwald, one might have seen a man walking with great strides, his hair in the wind, gesticulating and talking aloud, without paying any heed to the snow that was falling thickly or the thick, cold slush that was covering the pavement.

  “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Bakermann was repeating to himself. “Of course! My mortifulgurans has been cultivated on negative electricity; positive electricity ought to kill it instantly. It’s fatal, absolutely fatal, as certain as two and two make four. With positive electricity, it will be destroyed, annihilated, pulverized instantly. It will become as harmless as it was in the beginning, when I extracted it from rancid butter. What am I saying? It will be even more harmless. And people will live; they’ll have nothing more to fear. With positive electricity, the world will be saved, and humankind won’t end, and he name of Bakermann will be gratefully celebrated by innumerable future generations—for there will be future generations! Let’s go, Bakermann—to work! You’ve done harm, but you alone can repair it. To defeat mortifulgurans, it requires no less than the man who gave birth to it.”

  Meanwhile, the epidemic was making giant strides. To begin with, in the town of Brunnwald, it had broken out everywhere. In almost every house there was at least one victim, and the victims immediately fund themselves in desperate straits. No remedy interrupted the march of the scourge. The consternation was universal. No one dared leave home any longer. The administration, with its invariable foresight, poured torrents of phenol all over the town, which steam pumps distributed in the streets.

  The news brought by the telegraph was very grave. On the morning of December 23, in Berlin, ten cases of death were reported, disseminated in various quarters. A traveler who had left Brunnwald in a third-class carriage had contaminated the seven travelers in the carriage with him, and all of them had succumbed, leaving behind them the contagion of the terrible scourge.

  The rapidity with which the accursed microbe developed prevented all preventive measures; there was no possibility of quarantine, or closing borders. In 12 hours, with superheated steam trains, one could go all the way from Cadiz to St. Petersburg; it was no longer the 19th century,
when it was difficult to travel more than 60 kilometers an hour. In one night, therefore, the entirety of Europe was poisoned.

  The town of Brunnwald was half-annihilated. Vienna and Munich already counted a few fatalities, and were probably infected at all points. Paris, London, Rome and St. Petersburg were invaded, without anyone being able to prevent the invasion, and the current evaluation was that the entire human race would be doomed within 48 hours. It was enough to make the greatest heroes shiver.

  Bakermann, however, was not afraid. He no longer dreaded mortifulgurans. He worked unrelentingly for the greater part of the night, and in the morning, at dawn, the astonished inhabitants of Brunnwald were able to see an immense poster what had been set up in the market-place, which read:

  PROFESSOR BAKERMANN CURES KOUSSMI-KOUSSMI BY MEANS OF ELECTRICITY!

  If Bakermann had made use of the term koussmi-koussmi, it was by virtue of a craven condescension to the general opinion. In fact, the public, the newspapers and the scientists were talking about nothing but koussmi-koussmi; any other name would have been incomprehensible. Not without bitterness, Bakerman had resolved to employ the vulgar expression, which had become unanimous.

  He regretted the term mortifulgurans, which he had chosen himself, lovingly—and, after all, he had a right to give his microbe the name he preferred—but he had given way, for it was a matter of making known without delay the victorious treatment that would stop the scourge in its tracks.

  A large platform was established on which were set chairs, sofas and even beds. An electrical conductor led from this platform to an immense battery. The negative electricity, which invigorated mortifulgurans, went from there to ground, but the positive electricity, which was fatal to the microbe, went entirely into the platform. People climbed up to the platform—its dimensions were sufficient to allow 15 of them to take up positions there at their ease—and after a few seconds, they were charged with positive electricity. They could then repel the infection.

  The first sick man to take his place on the platform was Cesar Pück. He was suffering atrociously, and his livid limbs were prey to atrocious convulsions. He was hoisted up on to the platform, in the presence of Krankwein, who was smiling sarcastically, and all his afflictions immediately ceased. The cramps, the spasms and the chill disappeared in a matter of minutes as if by a miracle. The moribund face of worthy Cesar Pück became joyful and smiling, as of old.