9 Tales of Space and Time

by Anthology

  Mrs. Murdock never did know where Paytone built the factories in which he made Compound A. All she knew was that the dollars came rolling in, and rolling in fast.

  The first pearl-button factory was incorporated in British New Guinea and the second one was incorporated in Dutch New Guinea. Then came a lumber mill which exported fine hardwoods. Then came a shipping company, and the Mantus had a merchant marine.

  Concrete, steel, machinery of all kinds were imported for the big dam in the Owen Stanley Mountains. “It won’t be long now,” Paytone informed her, “and we’ll be generating electricity. With electricity, we’ll really be in business. You’ve done your share. Don’t you want to go back to the United States?”

  This question had often occurred to Mrs. Murdock. She could go back, but from where she viewed the situation, the prospect did not look good. Compound A had revolutionized the social situation there.

  It had turned out just as Dr. Murdock had predicted. One third of the Congress of the United States was composed of colored men. They were crowding whites out of the professions, arts, sciences, and high places in business. Racial tensions were creating an explosive situation.

  She knew that if people found out that she was responsible for the distribution of Compound A to the colored people, her life would not be worth a nickel. Even Dr. Murdock did not know that she had sold his formula. If they returned to the United States, he would be quick to discover the truth and for her, the results would be disastrous. She had burned her bridges and she knew that Paytone knew it.

  “I suppose I could go back to America,” she said, “but I’m happy here, working with you.”

  The dam was constructed and the electric generators were installed. Cattle ranches, meat-packing plants, tanneries were added to the rapidly expanding economy. All were owned by Paytone and Mrs. Murdock.

  They worked well together. Paytone gave his time to supervising and improving management; Mrs. Murdock attended to financing their many enterprises. Her husband she saw hardly at all.

  Eight years had passed since they had come to the South Pacific. Three of them had been spent on their obscure island; during the last five they lived in New Guinea.

  Dr. Murdock now had a large, well-equipped laboratory, but he still made up his Compound A in his home. Paytone had kept his promise to Mrs. Murdock not to tell the doctor of their agreement, so the doctor never suspected that Paytone was exporting his formula.

  Nevertheless, events in the United States worried him. “Something is happening back home,” he told his wife. “Someone has made a formula something like mine and is distributing it to the colored people. Otherwise, how do you account for their sudden rise to power?”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Murdock exclaimed. “You inventors are all paranoid. The Negro is just being given a fair chance and of course some of them are coming to the top.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Dr. Murdock replied. “If Compound A or anything like it ever got into South Africa, it would blow the lid right off the world. By comparison, earlier revolutions would look like church socials.”

  When Mrs. Murdock reported this conversation to Paytone, he grunted. “Compound A will be distributed in South Africa,” he said. “The British will find out that the black man is not to be trifled with.”

  Mrs. Murdock said nothing. She was beginning to find that out for herself. Nevertheless, she enjoyed the power and prestige her through her partnership with Paytone.

  Dr. Murdock worked longer and harder to create the formula for Compound B. “I most even things up between the races,” he told Harr. Otherwise it’s disaster for all of us.” His face had become thin and lined with anxiety; his nerves were so on edge that he was controlling himself only by strenuous effort.

  One day after work he came home and called to his wife. He found her in her sitting room which she had converted into an office.

  I’m moving right along,” he told her. “Hargo has discovered the secret of skin pigmentation.”

  Mrs. Murdock was waiting in her study at home for a report from her representative at the United Nations. Now almost entirely Melanesian, the natives of New Guinea had petitioned for an end to British and Dutch colonialism, and it seemed probable that the Melanesians would be given complete control of this large area of the earth’s land surface. It would be the beginning of a larger expansion. There were Tasmania, New Zealand, Australia, to be settled, overrun, and taken over. Dreaming of these possibilities, waiting for news from New York, she hardly heard her husband.

  “You mean he’s learned how to make Compound A?” she asked.

  “No, don’t you ever listen? He’s discovered the secret of skin pigmentation. It’s a great step forward.”

  He went on to explain that skin pigmentation depends upon the deposition of a dark pigment, melanin, in the skin. Why does melanin settle in the skin of Melanesians and other black races but not in the skin of the white race? “It’s due to an hereditary difference in function of the pituitary gland. The pituitary gland of the dark races secretes a chromatophorotropic hormone, melaninine. Hargo isolated it. Then he discovered its chemical formula. Together we synthesized it. We make it artificially, in quantity. After twenty-three years of work, we are now on the edge of success.”

  “What the hell does all this mean?” Mrs. Murdock asked irritably. “Melaninine! What good is it?” She picked up her telephone and dialed her operator.

  The doctor took a corked test tube from his coat pocket. He produced a syringe, filled it from the test tube and, before Mrs. Murdock knew what he was up to, he had injected the solution into her arm. “I’ll show you what it’s good for,” he said.

  As the telephone fell from her hand, he shouted, “Now you’ll find out what melaninine is good for. It will mm you black.”

  “How dare you stick me with a needle!”

  “That’s melaninine,” the doctor shouted. “The pituitary chrommatophorotropic hormone. You always hated the black race. Now you’re going to find out what it’s like to be black. You’ll turn black.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “You’ve gone crazy. Why in hell did you stick me with a needle, you lunatic? Are you trying to poison me?”

  “You’d see. Tomorrow you’ll start turning black. Of course, the pigmentation will fade. Like suntan. But you’ll find out what it’s good for, this great scientific discovery. Perhaps you’ll learn not to ask silly questions.”

  Mrs. Murdock replaced the telephone in its cradle and thought quickly. He had said that the pigmentation would fade, like suntan. Then no irreparable harm had been done. And what would Pay tone say? She could imagine the expression on his face when he would see her a black woman. Would he despise her as he despised the women of his own race? “Stupid,” he called them. Suddenly an idea occurred to Mrs. Murdock. “Would Compound A work on me?” she asked. “Or is that another silly question?”

  Immediately Dr. Murdock’s manner changed. Without answering, he rushed to the kitchen and brought back a glass containing his purple Compound A. His hand shook as he handed it to her. “This may be it,” he said. “Drink it. If it works, we may have the missing ingredient in Compound B. I still may be in time to save the world from its own stupidity.” She drained the glass. “If it works it will be the first good thing you’ve ever done for me. Even so, I don’t know whether I want to become a black genius. Why can’t you invent something to help white people? Physician, heal thyself.”

  Dr. Murdock ignored this last thrust.

  “If this works on you, I have the problem solved,” he said. “Don’t you see? It will prove that melaninine contains two fractions—one which causes melanin to be deposited in the skin and another which acts with Compound A to increase intelligence. We can separate these two fractions, add the intelligence factor to Compound A, and the world will be saved. Man will at last have the brains he needs to manage his own society.”

  “If it works,” said Mrs. Murdock. “If.” She reached for the telephone and dia
led her operator. “Give me New York, United States of America,” she ordered.

  It worked. When she woke up the following morning, her head was surprisingly clear. Ideas occurred to her that, she realized, had never before entered her mind. For a moment she could not understand what had happened. She was still the same woman, only, somehow, more so. The difference, she thought, between wine and brandy. She had become a distillate of her previous self. “That Compound A,” she thought, “that blessed Compound A. No wonder Paytone loved it.”

  Two weeks later while she was in her office telephoning the British foreign minister in London, Paytone walked in on her. He heard her say, “No, we don’t want independence. All we ask is what the Dutch have given our people—dominion status. Yes. Certainly. Of course we want to belong to the British Commonwealth of Nations. No. No property rights will be disturbed. English investments will not only be safe, they will be made more attractive to English capital. Yes. Talk it over with the Prime Minister and the Cabinet. Yes. We’ll withdraw our complaints at the UN Assembly. Yes. I’ll call New York at once.”

  Paytone frowned as he listened. “Why not complete independence?” he asked. “Why should we Melanesians always be the tail on the white man’s kite?” He paused and added, “I hate white people.”

  Mrs. Murdock dialed her operator and asked to be connected with New York. While she waited for the call to be put through, she said, “Because as members of the Dutch colonial system, we’ll have easy access to Indonesia. As members of the British Commonwealth of Nations, we’ll have easy access and equal rights in New Zealand and Australia. As a racial group rather than as a national group, we can infiltrate everywhere. No tariff boundaries. No exclusion on account of color. In time, we’ll take over the world.”

  “Take over the world?”

  “That’s right. Now we have New Guinea. But what’s that? It will be worth about a billion dollars. Do you know that in the United States any one of six corporations is worth more than a billion dollars? If my plans work out as I know they will, we’ll control them all and more besides.”

  “Your plans and my plans are different,” Paytone objected. “I want to show certain white people that they can’t push me around.” He noted the change of expression on her face. “Not that there is anything personal, you understand. You are different from your race. The fact is, some of my best friends are whites.” He looked at her more closely. “You know,” he said, you are becoming more beautiful every day. Your skin is much darker than it used to be.”

  Something awoke in Mrs. Murdock that had lain dormant for many years. It was a powerful surge of impulse that frightened her but made her feel ecstatically happy. She knew that she must say something, something to please Paytone, something that would arouse his masculinity.

  “Your plans come first,” she said. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  As she said those words, she knew that she had made her far-reaching decision, had made her last irrevocable choice, had crossed her Rubicon. It flashed through her mind that she must cultivate Hargo to make sure of a continuous supply of that chromatophorotropic hormone, melaninine. She had been using it, off and on, for two weeks and her skin had become a few shades darker. She decided that henceforth she would inject herself with the hormone regularly. Her husband had told her that the pigmentation of her skin would be temporary, like suntan. Well, suntan can be as permanent as one’s exposure to the sun’s rays. She smiled as these thoughts ran through her head.

  “What’s so funny?” Paytone asked.

  She flashed him a bright, mischievous smile.

  “I was just thinking of a remark Dr. Murdock made, ft was about something being only temporary and it just occurred to me that temporary is a relative state. How long is temporary?”

  Dr. Max Murdock contemplated with mixed emotions the change he had induced in his wife. The success of his hormone, melaninine, elated him, and yet he could not reconcile himself to his wife’s change in color. “You could let your skin fade,” he told her. “You take melaninine just to annoy me.”

  “But if I let my color fade, Compound A wouldn’t help me,” she pointed out, “and I like being a genius. Until you make Compound B, I’ll stay black.” She did not mention Paytone’s new interest in her as a woman. After all, she thought, what the doctor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  “I hope we’ll soon have Compound B,” Dr. Murdock assured her. “Then you can let your skin return to its natural color.”

  “Is that all you have to worry about? I’m satisfied with being dark-skinned as long as it helps Compound A to work on me. Brains are more important than skin color. You wouldn’t know, of course, from personal experience.”

  As usual Dr. Murdock ignored the jibe. In twenty-three years of married life, he reflected, a man learns to overlook many unpleasant things.

  “I have lots to worry about,” he replied. “Too much. I don’t like the way the world is going. This atomic weapon race is going to end in disaster. Time is running out on me. Unless I can give Compound B to the world in time to establish a rule of reason, there won’t be a human race to give it to.”

  But Mrs. Murdock was studying the statistics of the woolen industry in Australia and she didn’t hear him.

  Mrs. Murdock had told Paytone that her husband was trying to create a Compound B, one which would transform any white man or woman into a genius. “It has something to do with a pituitary hormone, one that he calls the x-factor,” she said.

  Paytone knew all about it. “What a man,” she exclaimed. “You keep track of everything.”

  “You think I ought to kill him,” Paytone said. “That’s what a white man would do. But we Melanesians don’t do things that way.”

  She noted the inclusive word, “we,” and felt warm all over. “No,” she lied, “we don’t,” and she waited for him to continue.

  When the time comes,” Paytone assured her, “I’ll know what to do and how to do it.”

  It was that very evening when an excited and worried Dr. Murdock returned home. He sought his wife immediately. He showed her a note written to him by Hargo. “That damn Melanesian,” he shouted, “He’s ran off with my discovery, my life-work, my Compound B.”

  What happened? Stop pulling at your ear and talk sense. Just what happened? Get hold of yourself, you fool, and quit cursing these Melanesians. I won’t have it.”

  “That’s because you’re one now, yourself. You’re on his side. The whole world can blow itself up and go to hell for all you care.” He sat down and drummed the floor with his foot. “That damned black bastard. He stole my Compound B, the one thing that I’ve worked for all my life, the only thing in this world I give a damn about.”

  Mrs. Murdock expressed surprise. Now she understood what Paytone had meant when he said he’d know what to do should Dr. Murdock succeed in making Compound B. She decided to play dumb.

  “Then you did make Compound B?”

  “Yes, I did make Compound B. What do you think I’m talking about?”

  “And where did Hargo go?”

  Dr. Murdock gave her the paper he held in his hand and she read it. Hargo had written that he had to return to the Mantu Islands where Dr. Murdock’s researches in the South Pacific had begun.

  Mrs. Murdock now had the entire picture straight in her own mind, and she knew exactly what to do. She must adopt the role of the dumb but loyal wife. She decided to play it straight.

  “He’ll be back, won’t he? Besides, does it matter much? What you did once, you can do again. I mean, it’s in your head, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not in my head. We did the work together. Furthermore, I don’t write down what I can keep in my head.”

  He walked to the door, opened it, looked out, and then closed it. “That Hargo,” he repeated. “And we made Compound B. It will work on anyone, regardless of skin color. The drug that could have saved the world.”

  “Well, moaning and groaning won’t help. Dinner is served. Let’s eat.”r />
  “I don’t want to eat. I can’t eat.”

  “I know just how you feel. Well, we must get your notes back. One thing is sure: Hargo won’t destroy them. He’s too much the scientist to do that.” She gave her voice the optimistic note. “We’ll get them back. If Hargo’s on the Mantu Islands, that’s the place for you to go. Let’s see Paytone right now and make arrangements.”

  Paytone listened patiently to their story. From his face and manner, no one would have suspected that he had engineered Hargo’s leaving with the records. In the end he agreed to loan Dr. Murdock his private airplane and pilot to fly to the Mantu Islands.

  “You are going with me, of course,” Dr. Murdock said to his wife.

  “But I have work to do. I can’t leave here.”

  “Then I won’t go, either,” the doctor declared. “It’s your duty to be with me when I confront Hargo. I’ll need you as a witness.”

  Mrs. Murdock looked at Paytone for guidance, but he kept his face blank and he said nothing. What did he want her to do? She studied his face, his posture, for a cue but he continued to maintain his noncommittal pose. She had to choose; but she had to make the right choice and do it in exactly the right way.

  She wanted to be rid of Dr. Murdock and to win Paytone. But suppose that Paytone did not want her? Then it would be to her advantage to have the formula for Compound B, the drug which would be invaluable to the white races.

  Finally she turned to her husband. “All right,” she snarled, “I’ll go with you if you must have someone to hold your hand and fight your battles.”

  Their old home in the Mantu Islands had not changed. The kerosene stove and refrigerator in the kitchen were spotlessly clean. Someone had put the house in order before their arrival. The cupboards were stocked with canned food; fresh yams were in the bin. Mrs. Murdock opened the door of the refrigerator and saw that someone had provided her with a freshly caught fish.