Authors: Paul Ableman
“No, of course not. I’m a floater of that order. I’m here to lower a line. Good heavens,” he laughs, “we’d have little purity if we stood on our objections.”
“Of course you would,” affirms Cousin Susan. “You’d have little purity. Well now—”
She settles herself in congregational style and looks trustingly but severely at the professor. Sound waves from the rattling crocks that little Jane, on tip-toe, is troubling in the livingroom, reach her and she stirs uneasily.
“Well now—” she repeats. “Jane!” she bellows. “Stop that! It’s little Jane,” she apologizes. “She’s just at that age.”
“Well now—” she resumes.
“I’ve made various notes and jottings,” begins the professor. “I’ve taken various readings. I’m sure the results will be most interesting. They have to be correlated and sifted. Extracts have to be made and then, as I mentioned earlier, the result must be life-soaked. After that anything may emerge.
Sometimes
it wriggles out. Sometimes it shoots out, emitting sweet song or bat-cries. Now then, misconceptions. Stout citizens such as yourself are the sport of misconceptions. They lead you a merry dance. They toss you lightly, whirl you hither and whirl you thither. I’ll now dispel one, or rather hammer one a bit, for experience teaches us that they’re very durable. Blast a
misconception with powerful logic and its dust settles on all sorts of plainnesses and obscures them. Terrible time we have with misconceptions.”
“I’m sure, yes,” agrees Cousin Susan. “More infusion,
Professor?”
“No more. Now this misconception has arisen in recent times and now has great authority. People think we are
omnipotent
and we are not.”
“A muncher, Professor? Or a cruncher?”
“Perhaps a cruncher. Now then—aid and assistance. We are in a position to offer aid and assistance. Relative aid, limited assistance—we can heal the eye, but not what it sees. We can mend the limb, but not what it does. We never look beyond the immediate application. However, conventions linger. Like white beasts when the ice recedes, like striped beasts when the glaciers creak down, they prowl desperately for a time until the changed conditions master them. Vision is still thought
valuable
when there is only dust to see. Activity is still held
desirable
though its strokes fall on temples, statues and green earth, pounding all to barren dust. And we, at the Institute, are kept so close to the separated parts of vision and activity that we have no thought for the dust that blows everywhere through the whole. In truth, we scarcely notice it. Purring machines blow sterile air into our lungs. Each part we turn over uncovers a hundred more and so furiously do we pursue and classify that the dusty world outside recedes from our awareness. And yet I sometimes wonder if it is not our frenzied burrowing that raises the dust in the first place, and if not we, then who shall lay the dust?”
“You have sipped and crunched now, Professor,” observes Cousin Susan. “You have sat wandering by this lad’s bed. Now, you’ll forgive my asking, but what good’s that to me? I help the neighbors, a drop of milk or sugar, and clean the house. I
do Arthur’s business sums at night. You’ll forgive my saying so, but you’ve told me nothing yet.”
The professor recollects himself. He smiles vaguely. Then he gets slowly up and moves towards the door. There he pauses, turns and looks back at me and, in his look, I fancy I can read a secret gleam of envy. He departs with Cousin Susan and a more sonorous voice begins:
“At night you see the stars (this is your astronomy master). They are far away and black velvet has been stuffed between. Look up at the stars. Are
they
up? Are
you
down? Do you see that bright star? We call that Sparkler. And that one Spitter. Spitter is a midgy star. Fit for Maria’s finger. Sparkler is a blazer, fit for a winter hearth. Switch on Sparkler. Switch on Spitter. But don’t get too close to either. Bad-tempered stars, they lick and sputter. They’re on fire, you know, burning madly. Hiss, hiss, hiss they burn and have done, you know, for a long time. Yes, they were burning when Hunter planted that pip. And long before. Yes, they were burning when the stone tree grew. And long before. Sparkler and Spitter have lots of brothers. Not on both hands, not on fingers and toes, will you count them. They are a family of stars, too far apart, poor things, for birthday greeting cards. But I’ve only been joking with you. They don’t really have feelings at all. They’re simply vortices of primal energy—and they will rage in empty space forever.”
“I’m off now, old son,” announces Arthur, coming hesitantly into the room. For a moment I hardly see him and then I repeat stupidly:
“Off, are you? To your office, I suppose?”
“To my office, old son.”
He lingers and I feel dully that he is in a communicative mood.
“Wistful mood, old son,” he corrects me. “Unlike me, I
know. Can’t place it at all. For instance, I had a silly notion this morning that I haven’t had since I was a child—thought a fish might swim through the water tap.”
“And none did?”
“How could it? It was just silly. I
know
it was silly. Surely you can see that!”
“Yes, of course, Arthur.”
Arthur sighs and approaches closer.
“There’s a young child in the next room,” he confides. “She belongs there all right. What are
you
thinking of, anyway?”
“I’ve just seen the professor,” I explain. “Arthur, could you draw the curtains?”
“They are drawn, old son.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I meant—did you bump into the professor? He was in the house.”
“You’ve had a professor here, have you?”
“Don’t be angry, Arthur.”
“Look, don’t tell me that.” Arthur lights a cigar with
trembling
fingers. He looks at me aggressively. “What did he talk about?”
“Fish—mostly. Starfish and little shells with soft bodies
inside
, soft bits of slime—and bigger fish too.”
“Fish,” snorts Arthur, and continues sarcastically, “I
suppose
he was a professor of fish? Does a man like that catch fish? Does he merely inspect fish? Or what?”
“He only mentioned fish,” I explain anxiously. “He was really a professor of spirits.”
“No,” exclaims Arthur. “I know your games. He was a
professor
of fish all right. Now, you see that the notion angers me and you say something different. You’ve got no guts.”
“Yes, I have, Arthur. In my own way. The truth is, I never asked him his subject. I think it was stars as a matter of fact.”
“What did he say about stars?”
“He said it to Cousin Susan and I couldn’t hear. She kept clearing her throat.”
“I’m a slave to my staff,” exclaims Arthur. “They’ll all be congregating now. I have to dash down and set the wheels turning. If it wasn’t for that, I’d stay a while I promise you. I’d stay and get to the bottom of this. In any case, I’ll ask Susan,” he begins to storm out but stops again. “Why did you want a professor anyway?”
I can only shake my head vaguely.
“Everything felt strange this morning,” Arthur resumes, but this time with a note of almost pathetic bewilderment in his voice. “Everything—the garden hut. I’ve already mentioned the tap and my foolish notion. I stopped in to see Jane. How often do I do that? You know what a rush I’m always in, but this morning I stopped by her door and then looked in. ‘There’s a young child in there,’ I thought to myself, ‘She’s asleep.’ That seemed as if it should lead to a host of, I won’t say
wonders,
but pregnant notions. Nothing came of it. And then I was about to go to the garage—incidentally I first read the weather report, it said ‘cloudy.’ I looked up and out at the sky and saw a number of clouds and then I thought ‘man arranges the skies,’ I just mention that incidentally—I was about to go to the garage and I had the final disturbing thought. I thought, ‘the car will be there’ and that seemed to me not exactly wrong—that would be silly—but inadequate. Anyway, it was then I decided to visit you. I say all this so that you’ll see, it wasn’t just idly or casually that I dropped in—”
“I know it wasn’t, Arthur,” I can not help exclaiming, “I do know that.”
“Possibly you do—but then you can see why I couldn’t
welcome
your news, your communication. I could only think ‘what’s a fish professor doing in my house? How did he get in without anyone telling me?’ Surely, that’s obvious.”
“He was all right, Arthur,” I plead. “You wouldn’t have disapproved. You can go to your office with an easy mind about him.”
Surprisingly Arthur’s expression softens.
“Come down later, old son,” he urges. “Make your way down to the office. We’ll have another chat. It’s all right about the professor. I won’t ask Susan—she probably had good
reasons
. Don’t think about it anymore and come down to the office later.”
“All right, Arthur,” I promise. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to.”
“Cheerio, old son,” he calls and hurries out of the house. I hear the distinctive sounds of his departure and then the sound of his engine finally being absorbed by all the engines in the city.
I lie back contentedly. When Cousin Susan brings my latest egg I tell her that Arthur wants me to call at his office that morning.
“I think he’s considering some enterprise,” I explain. “Some joint enterprise that we could undertake together.”
“You think he’s got something definitely in mind?” asks Cousin Susan doubtfully.
“I think so, yes.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“He said that he was planning a brand new enterprise or development. He plans to market stars or eggs—no I’ve
forgotten
what it was he wants to sell—perhaps fish—and he thought I’d be invaluable.”
“You’d be valuable?”
It is plain that she is still dubious and I wonder how I can convince her.
“It was less in what he said,” I urge, “than in his manner. You know how he gets when he’s stimulated by something? He
tends to pat certain objects in his pocket and scratch a certain part of his body. Well, he was doing both those things. You must know, Susan, living intimately with him the way you do, what the signs are.”
“Not so intimately,” retorts Susan humorously. “Still, if he’s really serious—taking into account what the professor said—”
“That rather sinister character,” I interject.
“I didn’t take to him,” confesses Susan. “But he helped Mr. Groggins. Groggins speaks very highly of him”
She stands still and looks at me thoughtfully for a few moments.
“It’s worth trying,” she says finally.
“Oh splendid,” I can not help exclaiming. “Now if you’ll only warm my things, I’ll jump straight up and get ready.”
“Now, not so fast. Don’t worry about your things. I’ll get them up to blood heat.”
“A bit warmer, Susan,” I plead, “to make me tingle a bit. Heat’s activity. Arthur will want me to be active.”
“And don’t expect too much,” she warns; “The man has his moments but still—don’t expect wonders.”
This warning rather depresses me. Not that I had expected wonders. Really, I suppose, I hadn’t formed any very clear idea of what to expect at all. Susan pounds fiercely on the wall to induce Jones to decrease the volume of sound that is at present streaming through the thin walls. It is a terrible medley of sound that reaches us, Jones’ rip-saw working on crusts and beds, on lovely objects, on bone and gum, together with sly voices from the air that, having bounced about the earth, end up in Jones’ receiver to menace my current powers of
concentration
. Fortunately, I have no need for concentration at the moment and a few minutes serve to put me, if only temporarily, beyond the reach of Jones’ bought voices.
“Would you tell Arthur I’m here?” I ask the girl in the outer office.
“Don’t you recognize me?” she asks. “How did you get here, Arthur may want to know that.”
“I came in Hunter’s van,” I tell her, looking at her intently. “I think I do recognize you.”
“You probably do,” she agrees. “At least you ought to. Arthur’s not here.”
“Not here?”
“He’s flown somewhere. A message came from somewhere. Some stores or supplies are stuck somewhere. He’s gone off to beat himself against recalcitrant authorities. You can wait if you want. But don’t pursue the matter of recognizing me.”
“Didn’t I recognize you?”
“I don’t know. No one knows. You may have seen me. My image, of a thousand swiftly lost, may have lodged unforgettably in your heart. That’s from a film.”
“A film?”
“Yes, a lovely film about—love and—don’t you go to the films?”
“I did once,” I affirm, “but they only had Chinese scenes. I’ve probably seen better films than you.”
“It’s too early,” sighs the girl. “If it wasn’t so unbearably early I’d let you take me to the films. Do you like monster films?”
“Monster films?”
“Films about monsters, heaving up out of the ooze and
menacing
the world?”
“I’ve never seen that sort of film,” I admit. “As a matter of fact I haven’t seen any films for a long time. Anyway, I don’t think I’d like monster films.”
“They’re silly, really,” concedes the girl. She looks
thoughtful
and I again find something familiar in her appearance. “The monsters are made of rubber and wire usually. You can
sometimes
see the joints. And they always seize pretty girls. Well that’s silly, isn’t it? I mean, why should a monster want a pretty
human girl? It would be more interested in a pretty monster. Do you see what I mean? It wouldn’t think of a female monster as being a monster at all.”
“If you’d like to go with me,” I offer, “I’d be very glad to take you to a monster film. However, I think I’d better wait for Arthur now.”
“Oh, I can’t go now,” exclaims the girl. “I have to stay here and take messages. The other girl that works with me is away. You’d like her. She’s really pretty, not like me.”
“You’re really pretty,” I protest. “In fact I was almost afraid to ask you because you’re so pretty.”
“Are you shy?” she asks me. “I used to be shy—there, there’s a message. You go and sit down and I’ll talk to you again later.”