The world below
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.