CHAPTER XV
RELEASE
I remained for several hours gripped in that soft inflexible pressure, knowing not what of death or torture or mutilation I must undergo when they had leisure for my insignificance, and watching with an extraordinary mental clarity and aloofness the operations by which they built up the bodies of some of the less hopelessly injured with the limbs or organs of those who were themselves beyond saving.
But the time came when the pincers were lifted once again, and I was aware of the hatefully impartial eyes which considered my destiny. At this extremity of peril I recalled the methods of the Amphibians. Desperately I fought for the self-control which I could not gain: desperately I fought to reach some contact with the mind on which my fate depended. But I failed utterly. It was natural for the creatures he examined to protest and struggle, and the fact did not interest his mind. My thoughts were nothing to him, and he did not heed them.
But I was more fortunate than Templeton. Instead of being immersed in the successive jars, I was plunged immediately into the white light which had condemned him. The sensation was not unpleasant,—might, indeed, be described as ecstatic for a mind untroubled. My body tingled with life. Looking down, I was conscious of a new nakedness. I could see everything which my body held, and yet through them. The activities in every vein were transparent.
I was held there for some time, and then lifted out, examined, and plunged back for a further period. When I expected to be thrown aside, I was carried, still held in that vice-like grip, to a further room, where I was thrust into one of a great number of little cages which lined its walls.
I considered my position, and was not sure that I might not come to envy even the fate of Templeton. The operation I had undergone had already disfigured me. There was no hair, long or short, left upon me. Even my hands showed an unaccustomed bareness. I looked round, and I cannot say what I saw. It is best forgotten.
I will only say that Harry Brett was in an opposite cage, and though I called over to him, he did not know me. He was quite mad, and it was true that he was quite happy. Like a child, he enjoyed to watch the colour of his flesh change ... but I have resolved that I will not tell it.
... A Dweller passed before my cage, thinking slowly and clearly. He inquired for a Primitive of the False-skin Age who was claimed by the Amphibians. With a stir of hope I responded.
After a moment’s questioning, he allowed my identity. He told me, “You are released at the request of the Leaders of the Amphibians. There has been fighting on the Grey Beaches, at which they helped us to conquer. They might have had what they would, but they asked for this thing only.” He looked at me with more curiosity than contempt, and I knew that he would have cut me open without scruple had he felt free to do so, to discover the secret of my importance. He went on, “You are to be given to the Seekers of Wisdom. You will be safe with them so long as you tell them some new thing continually.... It needn’t be true,—that doesn’t matter,” he added more to himself than to me.
He lifted me from the cage, and walked on at a quiet pace, and I trotted behind him.
I was with the Seekers of Wisdom many months, till the year was completed.
During that time I was examined incessantly on every detail of the civilisation from which I came. I defended it as best I might, and I explained it where I was able. But I found that I knew few things thoroughly, and my explanations halted continually. I met a readier understanding of social life from creatures which were more after my own kind than had been possible to the Amphibian mind, but I was still vexed by the contempt with which my race was regarded. I reflected that the antipathy which we feel for anything which is different from our own customs might be theirs also, and that they might be less than fair to us in consequence. Brief as our own lives are, we know that many of us live too long to remain in harmony with the changes which a generation brings. I could not see that their own methods of life were as far advanced as they thought them.
Yet the reactions of their minds will not leave me as they learnt of the filth of our polluted rivers, and the pall of our blinded skies.
I must still see, as they saw them, the pity of our neglected land, the folly that leaves our fields half barren while the shadow of starvation is but ten years distant, the foulness of our congested cities, the insane worship of movement which leaves its thousands slain or maimed unpitied in our bloody streets....
But to write of these things in detail would be to begin a book when it is time for the ending.
I lost the count of days, and the time came unlooked for when the year was over....
CHAPTER XVI
RETURN
“Danby,” I said, “you might fetch me an overcoat.”
Having been provided with this useful garment, I sat once more at the familiar fireside.
I looked at the clock, which had indicated three minutes after eight when I had shaken hands with the Professor, with a disliked solemnity, before I commenced the experiment. The hand was now at seven minutes after the hour.
I had noticed a lump of half-burnt coal that had poised perilously over the top bar of the grate as I had risen to leave them. It broke now, as I gazed, and fell noisily into the ashpan.
Yes,—it was the same fire,—the same night. It would be no use to tell them.
And yet I saw that they were impatient for me to begin, but how could I? How could I expect them to believe?—And so much was beyond the reach of words to tell it.
“Did you find them?” said the Professor, with a note of suppressed anxiety in his voice which would have been less surprising from one of the others, and which reminded me that the question was not merely of my own adventures. I realised the different values of that room from those of the world that I had left behind (or before) me.
“I’m afraid you won’t see them again,” I answered, “Templeton is dead. Brett is insane, and can’t live much longer. They are torturing him horribly. At least, I don’t know whether that is a fair word. He enjoys being tortured.”
Then I told them, in a confused way, with many interruptions and discursions. Frequently I saw the doubt in the eyes of one or other, and then they looked at me, and something in my appearance caused the doubt to die.
I rose, and looked in the pier-glass.
“Professor,” I said, with a moment’s bitterness, “I shouldn’t have asked for an overcoat only. I need a skull-cap.”
But it was not only that I was so utterly hairless. My face was different,—younger, and more virile, and there was a subtle change in the eyes, which I could not define. It was the face of a stranger.
I became conscious also of a bodily alertness and vigour, very different from the physical conditions of the earlier evening.
“It may grow,” he answered mildly. I don’t think he was hopeful. I know I wasn’t.
“I think you’ve made me a freak for this world. Perhaps I’d better go back,” I said, thoughtlessly.
“Would you go forward again?” The Professor’s voice was eager.
“I don’t know——” I began, doubtfully.
“Isn’t he the principal witness for the defence?” Bryant interpolated.
“I think,” said the Professor, “he might better be described as the sole witness for the prosecution. But I don’t think that we have any legal responsibility. They took the risk freely. Besides, they’re not dead yet.—Of course, we’re all sorry, but exploration is always hazardous. Really,” he said seriously, “we have postponed their deaths for a rather long period.”
Certainly, the legal position was somewhat complicated, but I felt that there must be a flaw in the argument somewhere. I couldn’t help the retort, “Just as you’ve prolonged the life of my hair for the same period.”
The Professor was not often disconcerted, but this silenced him for a moment. Then he said, “But you have come back, and they have not. Surely, even you can see the difference.”
“I would rather see my hair where it used to be.”
“Hair,” said the Professor, “has become a useless parasitic growth, which we are in process of discarding. You are only ahead of your time.”
“A bald head,” I replied, and felt the joke was out of place as I spoke it. The Professor ignored me, and Bryant reverted to the earlier discussion. “I don’t see how we can have any legal trouble, though it may be awkward to explain the disappearances of two guests in succession. Mrs. Brett will have something to say. But isn’t there a law that you can’t accuse any one of murder unless you can exhibit a body?”
“I believe that is so,” said the Professor, with relief in his voice. “I suppose that is why they always dig up the garden.”
This roused young Danby. “They won’t dig up this one.—Not till the bulbs are over.”
“Oh, but they will,” I retorted. I felt that they deserved that much. Why hadn’t they gone themselves, instead of passing on the risk to others? “The police are most painstaking in these matters, especially when one of their own number is concerned. You mustn’t forget that Templeton was a retired inspector. Why not divert their minds to the cellar?—a few bricks out of place, and a little soil, and just a trace of quicklime. They’d never miss that.... They’ll dig for a week.”
I saw that the Professor thought my levity was ill-timed. There was nothing new in that. But Bryant gave a fresh turn to the discussion. “You say that Brett isn’t dead? Suppose he comes back while the investigation’s proceeding?”
We looked at one another in consternation. In the condition in which I had seen him last he would be an awkward fact to explain to the official mind. I imagined the sarcasm of the prosecuting counsel as I told my tale in the witness-box. Doubtless, the dock would follow. The Professor was the only one who was unmoved by the suggestion.
“He cannot return now. Were he doing so, he would have been back before to-night.”
“I have no doubt he is dead,” I added, “I think they had nearly finished him when I saw him.”
“Yes,” said the Professor, “he will die during the year.” He was the only one of us who was not confused in his tenses. He thought a moment, and then turned to me seriously. “I regret the capillary singularity of which you complain, but you will admit that you did not go without warning. I am about to ask you a further favour. I want you to write a careful narrative of your experiences, making it as accurate as is possible to your journalistic mind. For this narrative, if it be written promptly and clearly, I will give you £2000. I shall publish it,—as fiction, if necessary,—and may recover the money.
“Afterwards, I hope that, in the interests of science, rather than for any prospective pecuniary advantage, you will consent to explore this strange world somewhat further. You have shown considerable adroitness in avoiding its dangers, and you will have a great advantage over a less experienced adventurer.”
He looked for my reply with a very real anxiety, and I answered slowly.
“I will write the book willingly, but as to going again,—well, I wouldn’t do it alone. Perhaps, if Clara would come with me....”
“Clara!” exclaimed the Professor.
“Yes,” I said, “she might.... I know her better than you do.... I’ll think it over.”
And so, here is the book. It isn’t all I saw or heard, and it leaves much unexplained. How can a year of such experiences be clearly told, or crowded into a single volume? But I have tried to be accurate.
As to adventuring once again,—well, it depends on Clara. I’ll ask her now.