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Title: Odd John. A Story Between Jest And Earnest.
Author: Stapledon, Olaf [William Olaf] (1886-1950)
Date of first publication: 1935
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Berkley Publishing Corporation, August 1965
   [Berkley Medallion Books]
Date first posted: 1 May 2019
Date last updated: 1 May 2019
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1606

This ebook was produced by
Al Haines, Cindy Beyer, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






ODD JOHN
A Story Between Jest And Earnest


by Olaf Stapledon




TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. John and Author
  II. The First Phase
  III. _Enfant Terrible_
  IV. John and His Elders
  V. Thought and Action
  VI. Many Inventions
  VII. Financial Ventures
  VIII. Scandalous Adolescence
  IX. Methods of a Young Anthropologist
  X. The World's Plight
  XI. Strange Encounters
  XII. John in the Wilderness
  XIII. John Seeks His Kind
  XIV. Engineering Problems
  XV. Jacqueline
  XVI. Adlan
  XVII. Ng-Gunko and Lo
  XVIII. The Skid's First Voyage
  XIX. The Colony is Founded
  XX. The Colony in Being
  XXI. The Beginning of the End
  XXII. The End




CHAPTER I
JOHN AND THE AUTHOR


When I told John that I intended to write his biography, he laughed. "My
dear _man_!" he said. "But of course it was inevitable." The word "man"
on John's lips was often equivalent to "fool."

"Well," I protested, "a cat may look at a king."

He replied, "Yes, but can it really _see_ the king? Can you, puss,
really see me?"

This from a queer child to a full-grown man.

John was right. Though I had known him since he was a baby, and was in a
sense intimate with him, I knew almost nothing of the inner, the real
John. To this day I know little but the amazing facts of his career. I
know that he never walked till he was six, that before he was ten he
committed several burglaries and killed a policeman, that at eighteen,
when he still looked a young boy, he founded his preposterous colony in
the South Seas, and that at twenty-three, in appearance but little
altered, he outwitted the six warships that six Great Powers had sent to
seize him. I know also how John and all his followers died.

Such facts I know; and even at the risk of destruction by one or other
of the six Great Powers, I shall tell the world all that I can remember.

Something else I know, which will be very difficult to explain. In a
confused way I know why he founded his colony. I know too that although
he gave his whole energy to this task, he never seriously expected to
succeed. He was convinced that sooner or later the world would find him
out and destroy his work. "Our chance," he once said, "is not as much as
one in a million." And then he laughed.

John's laugh was strangely disturbing. It was a low, rapid, crisp
chuckle. It reminded me of that whispered crackling prelude which
sometimes precedes a really great crash of thunder. But no thunder
followed it, only a moment's silence; and for his hearers an odd
tingling of the scalp.

I believe that this inhuman, this ruthless but never malicious laugh of
John's contained the key to all that baffles me in his character. Again
and again I asked myself _why_ he laughed just then, what precisely was
he laughing _at_, what did his laughter really mean, was that strange
noise really laughter at all, or some emotional reaction
incomprehensible to my kind? Why, for instance, did the infant John
laugh through his tears when he had upset a kettle and was badly
scalded? I was not present at his death, but I feel sure that, when his
end came, his last breath spent itself in zestful laughter. Why?

In failing to answer these questions, I fail to understand the essential
John. His laughter, I am convinced, sprang from some aspect of his
experience entirely beyond my vision. I am therefore, of course, as John
affirmed, a very incompetent biographer. But if I keep silence, the
facts of his unique career will be lost for ever. In spite of my
incompetence, I must record all that I can, in the hope that, if these
pages fall into the hands of some being of John's own stature, he may
imaginatively see through them to the strange but glorious spirit of
John himself.

That others of his kind, or approximately of his kind, are now alive,
and that yet others will appear, is at least probable. But as John
himself discovered, the great majority of these very rare supernormals,
whom John sometimes called "wide-awakes," are either so delicate
physically or so unbalanced mentally that they leave no considerable
mark on the world. How pathetically one-sided the supernormal
development may be is revealed in Mr. J. D. Beresford's account of the
unhappy Victor Stott. I hope that the following brief record will at
least suggest a mind at once more strikingly "superhuman" and more
broadly human.

That the reader may look for something more than an intellectual prodigy
I will here at the outset try to give an impression of John's appearance
in his twenty-third and last summer.

He was indeed far more like a boy than a man, though in some moods his
youthful face would assume a curiously experienced and even patriarchal
expression. Slender, long limbed, and with that unfinished coltish look
characteristic of puberty, he had also a curiously finished grace all
his own. Indeed to those who had come to know him he seemed a creature
of ever-novel beauty. But strangers were often revolted by his uncouth
proportions. They called him spiderish. His body, they complained, was
so insignificant, his legs and arms so long and lithe, his head all eye
and brow.

Now that I have set down these characters I cannot conceive how they
might make for beauty. But in John they did, at least for those of us
who could look at him without preconceptions derived from Greek gods, or
film stars. With characteristic lack of false modesty, John once said to
me, "My looks are a rough test of people. If they don't begin to see me
beautiful when they have had a chance to learn, I know they're dead
inside, and dangerous."

But let me complete the description. Like his fellow-colonists, John
mostly went naked. His maleness, thus revealed, was immature in spite of
his twenty-three years. His skin, burnt by the Polynesian sun, was of a
grey, almost a green brown, warming to a ruddier tint in the cheeks. His
hands were extremely large and sinewy. Somehow they seemed more mature
than the rest of his body. "Spiderish" seemed appropriate in this
connexion also. His head was certainly large but not out of proportion
to his long limbs. Evidently the unique development of his brain
depended more on manifold convolutions than on sheer bulk. All the same
his was a much larger head than it looked, for its visible bulk was
scarcely at all occupied by the hair, which was but a close skull-cap, a
mere superficies of Negroid but almost white wool. His nose was small
but broad, rather Mongolian perhaps. His lips, large but definite, were
always active. They expressed a kind of running commentary on his
thoughts and feelings. Yet many a time I have seen those lips harden
into granitic stubbornness. John's eyes were indeed, according to
ordinary standards, much too big for his face, which acquired thus a
strangely cat-like or falcon-like expression. This was emphasized by the
low and level eyebrows, but often completely abolished by a thoroughly
boyish and even mischievous smile. The whites of John's eyes were almost
invisible. The pupils were immense. The oddly green irises were as a
rule mere filaments. But in tropical sunshine the pupils narrowed to
mere pin-pricks. Altogether, his eyes were the most obviously "queer"
part of him. His glance, however, had none of that weirdly compelling
power recorded in the case of Victor Stott. Or rather, to feel their
magic, one needed to have already learnt something of the formidable
spirit that used them.




CHAPTER II
THE FIRST PHASE


John's father, Thomas Wainwright, had reason to believe that Spaniards
and Moroccans had long ago contributed to his making. There was indeed
something of the Latin, even perhaps of the Arab, in his nature. Every
one admitted that he had a certain brilliance; but he was odd, and was
generally regarded as a failure. A medical practice in a North-country
suburb gave little scope for his powers, and many opportunities of
rubbing people up the wrong way. Several remarkable cures stood to his
credit; but he had no bedside manner, and his patients never accorded
him the trust which is so necessary for a doctor's success.

His wife was no less a mongrel than her husband, but one of a very
different kind. She was of Swedish extraction. Finns and Lapps were also
among her ancestors. Scandinavian in appearance, she was a great
sluggish blonde, who even as a matron dazzled the young male eye. It was
originally through her attraction that I became the youthful friend of
her husband, and later the slave of her more than brilliant son. Some
said she was "just a magnificent female animal," and so dull as to be
subnormal. Certainly conversation with her was sometimes almost as
one-sided as conversation with a cow. Yet she was no fool. Her house was
always in good order, though she seemed to spend no thought upon it.
With the same absent-minded skill she managed her rather difficult
husband. He called her "Pax." "So peaceful," he would explain. Curiously
her children also adopted this name for her. Their father they called
invariably "Doc." The two elder, girl and boy, affected to smile at
their mother's ignorance of the world; but they counted on her advice.
John, the youngest by four years, once said something which suggested
that we had all misjudged her. Some one had remarked on her
extraordinary dumbness. Out flashed John's disconcerting laugh, and
then, "No one notices the things that interest Pax, and so she just
doesn't talk."

John's birth had put the great maternal animal to a severe strain. She
carried her burden for eleven months, till the doctors decided that at
all costs she must be relieved. Yet when the baby was at last brought to
light, it had the grotesque appearance of a seven-months fetus. Only
with great difficulty was it kept alive in an incubator. Not till a year
after the forced birth was this artificial womb deemed no longer
necessary.

I saw John frequently during his first year, for between me and the
father, though he was many years my senior, there had by now grown up a
curious intimacy based on common intellectual interests, and perhaps
partly on a common admiration for Pax.

I can remember my shock of disgust when I first saw the thing they had
called John. It seemed impossible that such an inert and pulpy bit of
flesh could ever develop into a human being. It was like some obscene
fruit, more vegetable than animal, save for an occasional incongruous
spasm of activity.

When John was a year old, however, he looked almost like a normal
new-born infant, save that his eyes were shut. At eighteen months he
opened them; and it was as though a sleeping city had suddenly leapt
into life. Formidable eyes they were for a baby, eyes seen under a
magnifying glass, each great pupil like the mouth of a cave, the iris a
mere rim, an edging of bright emerald. Strange how two black holes can
gleam with life! It was shortly after his eyes had opened that Pax began
to call her strange son "_Odd_ John." She gave the words a particular
and subtle intonation which, though it scarcely varied, seemed to
express sometimes merely affectionate apology for the creature's oddity,
but sometimes defiance, and sometimes triumph, and occasionally awe. The
adjective stuck to John throughout his life.

Henceforth John was definitely a person and a very wide-awake person,
too. Week by week he became more and more active and more and more
interested. He was for ever busy with eyes and ears and limbs.

During the next two years John's body developed precariously, but
without disaster. There were always difficulties over feeding, but when
he had reached the age of three he was a tolerably healthy child, though
odd, and in appearance extremely backward. This backwardness distressed
Thomas, Pax, however, insisted that most babies grew too fast. "They
don't give their minds a chance to knit themselves properly," she
declared. The unhappy father shook his head.

When John was in his fifth year I used to see him nearly every morning
as I passed the Wainwrights' house on my way to the railway station. He
would be in his pram in the garden rioting with limbs and voice. The
din, I thought, had an odd quality. It differed indescribably from the
vocalization of any ordinary baby, as the call of one kind of monkey
differs from that of another species. It was a rich and subtle shindy,
full of quaint modulations and variations. One could scarcely believe
that this was a backward child of four. Both behaviour and appearance
suggested an extremely bright six-months infant. He was too wide awake
to be backward, too backward to be four. It was not only that those
prodigious eyes were so alert and penetrating. Even his clumsy efforts
to manipulate his toys seemed purposeful beyond his years. Though he
could not manage his fingers at all well, his mind seemed to be already
setting them very definite and intelligent tasks. Their failure
distressed him.

John was certainly intelligent. We were all now agreed on that point.
Yet he showed no sign of crawling, and no sign of talking. Then
suddenly, long before he had attempted to move about in his world, he
became articulate. On a certain Tuesday he was merely babbling as usual.
On Wednesday he was exceptionally quiet, and seemed for the first time
to understand something of his mother's baby-talk. On Thursday morning
he startled the family by remarking very slowly but very correctly,
"I--want--milk." That afternoon he said to a visitor who no longer
interested him, "Go--away. I--do--not--like--you--much."

These linguistic achievements were obviously of quite a different type
from the first remarks of ordinary children.

Friday and Saturday John spent in careful conversation with his
delighted relatives. By the following Tuesday, a week after his first
attempt, he was a better linguist than his seven-year-old brother, and
speech had already begun to lose its novelty for him. It had ceased to
be a new art, and had become merely a useful means of communication, to
be extended and refined only as new spheres of experience came within
his ken and demanded expression.

Now that John could talk, his parents learned one or two surprising
facts about him. For instance, he could remember his birth. And
immediately after that painful crisis, when he had been severed from his
mother, he actually had to _learn_ to breathe. Before any breathing
reflex awoke, he had been kept alive by artificial respiration, and from
this experience he had discovered how to control his lungs. With a
prolonged and desperate effort of will he had, so to speak, cranked the
engine, until at last it "fired" and acted spontaneously. His heart
also, it appeared, was largely under voluntary control. Certain early
"cardiac troubles," very alarming to his parents, had in fact been
voluntary interferences of a too daring nature. His emotional reflexes
also were far more under control than in the rest of us. Thus if, in
some anger-provoking situation, he did not _wish_ to feel angry, he
could easily inhibit the anger reflexes. And if anger seemed desirable
he could produce it. He was indeed "Odd John."

About nine months after John had learnt to speak, some one gave him a
child's abacus. For the rest of that day there was no talking, no
hilarity; and meals were dismissed with impatience. John had suddenly
discovered the intricate delights of number. Hour after hour he
performed all manner of operations on the new toy. Then suddenly he
flung it away and lay back staring at the ceiling.

His mother thought he was tired. She spoke to him. He took no notice.
She gently shook his arm. No response. "John!" she cried in some alarm,
and shook more violently. "Shut up, Pax," he said, "I'm busy with
numbers."

Then, after a pause, "Pax, what do you call the numbers after twelve?"
She counted up to twenty, then up to thirty. "You're as stupid as that
toy, Pax." When she asked why, he found he had not words to explain
himself; but after he had indicated various operations on the abacus,
and she had told him the names of them, he said slowly and triumphantly,
"You're stupid, Pax, dear, because you (and the toy there) 'count' in
tens and not in twelves. And that's stupid because twelves have
'fourths' and 'threeths', I mean 'thirds', and tens have not." When she
explained that all men counted in tens because when counting began, they
used their five fingers, he looked fixedly at her, then laughed his
crackling, crowing laugh. Presently he said, "Then all men are stupid."

This, I think, was John's first realization of the stupidity of _Homo
sapiens_, but not the last.

Thomas was jubilant over John's mathematical shrewdness, and wanted to
report his case to the British Psychological Society. But Pax showed an
unexpected determination to "keep it all dark for the present." "He
shall not be experimented on," she insisted. "They'd probably hurt him.
And anyhow they'd make a silly fuss." Thomas and I laughed at her fears,
but she won the battle.

John was now nearly five, but still in appearance a mere baby. He could
not walk. He could not, or would not, crawl. His legs were still those
of an infant. Moreover, his walking was probably seriously delayed by
mathematics, for during the next few months he could not be persuaded to
give his attention to anything but numbers and the properties of space.
He would lie in his pram in the garden by the hour doing "mental
arithmetic" and "mental geometry," never moving a muscle, never making a
sound. This was most unhealthy for a growing child, and he began to ail.
Yet nothing would induce him to live a more normal and active life.

Visitors often refused to believe that he was mentally active out there
for all those hours. He looked pale and "absent." They privately thought
he was in a state of coma, and developing as an imbecile. But
occasionally he would volunteer a few words which would confound them.

John's attack upon geometry began with an interest in his brother's box
of bricks and in a diaper wallpaper. Then came a phase of cutting up
cheese and soap into slabs, cubes, cones, and even into spheres and
ovoids. At first John was extremely clumsy with a knife, cutting his
fingers and greatly distressing his mother. But in a few days he had
become amazingly dextrous. As usual, though he was backward in taking up
a new activity, once he had set his mind to it, his progress was
fantastically rapid. His next stage was to make use of his sister's
school-set of geometrical instruments. For a week he was enraptured,
covering innumerable sheets.

Then suddenly he refused to take any further interest in visual
geometry. He preferred to lie back and meditate. One morning he was
troubled by some question which he could not formulate. Pax could make
nothing of his efforts, but later his father helped him to extend his
vocabulary enough to ask, "Why are there only three dimensions? When I
grow up shall I find more?"

Some weeks later came a much more startling question. "If you went in a
straight line, on and on and on, how far would you have to go to get
right back here?"

We laughed, and Pax exclaimed, "_Odd_ John!" This was early in 1915.
Then Thomas remembered some talk about a "theory of relativity" that was
upsetting all the old ideas of geometry. In time he became so impressed
by this odd question of John's, and others like it, that he insisted on
bringing a mathematician from the university to talk to the child.

Pax protested, but not even she guessed that the result would be
disastrous.

The visitor was at first patronizing, then enthusiastic, then
bewildered; then, with obvious relief, patronizing again; then badly
flustered. When Pax tactfully persuaded him to go (for the child's sake,
of course), he asked if he might come again, with a colleague.

A few days later the two of them turned up and remained in conference
with the baby for hours. Thomas was unfortunately going the round of his
patients. Pax sat beside John's high chair, silently knitting, and
occasionally trying to help her child to express himself. But the
conversation was far beyond her depth. During a pause for a cup of tea,
one of the visitors said, "It's the child's imaginative power that is so
amazing. He knows none of the jargon and none of the history, but he has
_seen_ it all already for himself. It's incredible. He seems to
visualize what can't be visualized."

Later in the afternoon, so Pax reported, the visitors began to grow
rather agitated, and even angry; and John's irritatingly quiet laugh
seemed to make matters worse. When at last she insisted on putting a
stop to the discussion, as it was John's bedtime, she noticed that both
the guests were definitely "out of control." "There was a wild look
about them both," she said, "and when I shooed them out of the garden
they were still wrangling; and they never said good-bye."

But it was a shock to learn, a few days later, that two mathematicians
on the university staff had been found sitting under a street lamp
together at 2 a.m. drawing diagrams on the pavement and disputing about
"the curvature of space."

Thomas regarded his youngest child simply as an exceptionally striking
case of the "infant prodigy." His favourite comment was, "Of course, it
will all fizzle out when he gets older." But Pax would say, "I wonder."

John worried mathematics for another month, then suddenly put it all
behind him. When his father asked him why he had given it up, he said,
"There's not much in number really. Of course, it's marvellously pretty,
but when you've done it all--well, that's that. I've _finished_ number.
I know all there is in that game. I want another. You can't suck the
same piece of sugar for ever."

During the next twelve months John gave his parents no further
surprises. It is true he learned to read and write, and took no more
than a week to outstrip his brother and sister. But after his
mathematical triumphs this was only a modest achievement. The surprising
thing was that the will to read should have developed so late. Pax often
read aloud to him out of books belonging to the elder children, and
apparently he did not see why she should be relieved of this duty.

But there came a time when Anne, his sister, was ill, and his mother was
too occupied to read to him. One day he clamoured for her to start a new
book, but she would not. "Well, show _me_ how to read before you go," he
demanded. She smiled, and said, "It's a long job. When Anne's better
I'll show you."

In a few days she began the task, in the orthodox manner. But John had
no patience with the orthodox manner. He invented a method of his own.
He made Pax read aloud to him and pass her finger along the line as she
read, so that he could follow, word by word. Pax could not help laughing
at the barbarousness of this method, but with John it worked. He simply
remembered the "look" of every "noise" that she made, for his power of
retention seemed to be infallible. Presently, without stopping her, he
began analysing out the sounds of the different letters, and was soon
cursing the illogicality of English spelling. By the end of the lesson
John could read, though of course his vocabulary was limited. During the
following week he devoured all the children's books in the house, and
even a few "grown-up" books. These, of course, meant almost nothing to
him, even though the words were mostly familiar. He soon gave them up in
disgust. One day he picked up his sister's school geometry, but tossed
it aside in five minutes with the remark, "Baby book!"

Henceforth John was able to read anything that interested him; but he
showed no sign of becoming a book-worm. Reading was an occupation fit
only for times of inaction, when his overtaxed hands demanded repose.
For he had now entered a phase of almost passionate manual
constructiveness, and was making all manner of ingenious models out of
cardboard, wire, wood, plasticine, and any other material that came to
hand. Drawing, also, occupied, much of his time.




CHAPTER III
_ENFANT TERRIBLE_


At last, at the age of six, John turned his attention to locomotion. In
this art he had hitherto been even more backward than the appearance of
his body seemed to warrant. Intellectual and constructive interests had
led to the neglect of all else.

But now at last he discovered the need of independent travel, and also
the fascination of conquering the new art. As usual, his method of
learning was original and his progress rapid. He never crawled. He began
by standing upright with his hands on a chair, balancing alternately on
each foot. An hour of this exhausted him, and for the first time in his
life he seemed utterly disheartened. He who had treated mathematicians
as dull-witted children now conceived a new and wistful respect for his
ten-year-old brother, the most active member of the family. For a week
he persistently and reverently watched Tommy walking, running, "ragging"
with his sister. Every movement was noted by the anxious John. He also
assiduously practised balancing, and even took a few steps, holding his
mother's hand.

By the end of the week, however, he had a sort of nervous breakdown, and
for days afterwards he never set foot to ground. With an evident sense
of defeat, he reverted to reading, even to mathematics.

When he was sufficiently recovered to take the floor again, he walked
unaided right across the room, and burst into hysterical tears of joy--a
most un-John-like proceeding. The art was now conquered. It was only
necessary to strengthen his muscles by exercise.

But John was not content with mere walking. He had conceived a new aim
in life; and with characteristic resolution he set himself to achieve
it.

At first he was greatly hampered by his undeveloped body. His legs were
still almost fetal, so short and curved they were. But under the
influence of constant use, and (seemingly) of his indomitable will, they
soon began to grow straight and long and strong. At seven he could run
like a rabbit and climb like a cat. In general build he now looked about
four; but something wiry and muscular about him suggested an urchin of
eight or nine. And though his face was infantile in shape, its
expression was sometimes almost that of a man of forty. But the huge
eyes and close white wool gave him an ageless, almost an inhuman look.

He had now achieved a very striking control of his muscles. There was no
more learning of skilled movements. His limbs, nay the individual
muscles themselves, did precisely as he willed. This was shown
unmistakably when, in the second month after his first attempt to walk,
he learned to swim. He stood in the water for a while watching his
sister's well-practised strokes, then lifted his feet from the bottom
and did likewise.

For many months John's whole energy was given to emulating the other
children in various kinds of physical prowess; and in imposing his will
upon them. They were at first delighted with his efforts. All except
Tommy, who already realized that he was being outclassed by his kid
brother. The older children of the street were more generous, because
they were at first less affected by John's successes. But increasingly
John put them all in the shade.

It was of course John, looking no more than a rather lanky
four-year-old, who, when a precious ball had lodged in one of the
roof-gutters, climbed a drain-pipe, crawled along the gutter, threw down
the ball; and then for sheer joy clambered up a channel between two
slopes of tiles, and sat astraddle on the crest of the roof. Pax was in
town, shopping. The neighbours were of course terrified for the child's
life. Then John, foreseeing amusement, simulated panic and inability to
move. Apparently he had quite lost his head. He clung trembling to the
tiles. He whimpered abjectly. Tears trickled down his cheeks. A local
building contractor was hurriedly called up on the phone. He sent men
and ladders. When the rescuer appeared on the roof, John "pulled snooks"
at him, and scuttled for his drain-pipe, down which he descended like a
monkey, before the eyes of an amazed and outraged crowd.

When Thomas learned of this escapade, he was both horrified and
delighted. "The prodigy," he said, "has advanced from mathematics to
acrobatics." But Pax said only, "I do wish he wouldn't draw attention to
himself."

John's devouring passion was now personal prowess and dominance. The
unfortunate Tommy, formerly a masterful little devil, was eclipsed and
sick at heart. But his sister Anne adored the brilliant John, and was
his slave. Hers was an arduous life. I can sympathize with her very
keenly, for at a much later stage I was to occupy her post.

John was now either the hero or the loathed enemy of every child in the
neighbourhood. At first he had no intuition of the effect his acts would
have on others, and was regarded by most as a "beastly cocky little
freak." The trouble was simply that he always _knew_ when others did
not, and nearly always _could_ when others could not. Strangely he
showed no sign of arrogance; but also he made no effort to assume false
modesty.

One example, which marked the turning-point in his policy towards his
fellows, will show his initial weakness in this respect, and his
incredible suppleness of mind.

The big schoolboy neighbour, Stephen, was in the next garden struggling
with a dismembered and rather complicated lawn-mower. John climbed the
fence, and watched for a few minutes in silence. Presently he laughed.
Stephen took no notice. Then John bent down, snatched a cog-wheel from
the lad's hands, put it in place, assembled the other parts, turned a
nut here and a grub-screw there, and the job was finished. Stephen
meanwhile stood in sheepish confusion. John moved toward the fence
saying, "Sorry you're no good at that sort of thing, but I'll always
help when I'm free." To his immense surprise, the other flew at him,
knocked him down twice, then pitched him over the fence. John, seated on
the grass rubbing various parts of his body, must surely have felt at
least a spasm of anger, but curiosity triumphed over rage, and he
inquired almost amiably, "_Why_ did you want to do that?" But Stephen
left the garden without answering.

John sat meditating. Then he heard his father's voice indoors, and
rushed to find him. "Hi! Doc!" he cried, "if there was a patient you
couldn't cure, and one day some one else came and cured him, what would
you do?" Thomas, busy with other matters, replied carelessly, "Dunno!
Probably knock him down for interfering." John gasped, "Now just _why_?
Surely that would be very stupid." His father, still preoccupied,
answered, "I suppose so, but one isn't always sensible. It depends how
the other fellow behaved. If he made me feel a fool, I'm sure I'd _want_
to knock him down." John gazed at his father for some time, then said,
"I see!"

"Doc!" he suddenly began again, "I must get strong, as strong as
Stephen. If I read all those books" (glancing at the medical tomes),
"shall I learn how to get frightfully strong?" The father laughed. "I'm
afraid not," he said.

Two ambitions now dominated John's behaviour for six months, namely to
become an invincible fighter, and to understand his fellow human beings.

The latter was for John the easier task. He set about studying our
conduct and our motives, partly by questioning us, partly by
observation. He soon discovered two important facts, first that we were
often surprisingly ignorant of our own motives, and second that in many
respects he differed from the rest of us. In later years he himself told
me that this was the time when he first began to realize his uniqueness.

Need I say that within a fortnight, John was apparently a changed
character? He had assumed with perfect accuracy that veneer of modesty
and generosity which is so characteristic of the English.

In spite of his youth and his even more youthful appearance John now
became the unwilling and unassuming leader in many an escapade. The cry
was always, "John will know what to do," or "Fetch that little devil
John, he's a marvel at this kind of job." In the desultory warfare which
was carried on with the children of the Council School (they passed the
end of the street four times a day), it was John who planned ambushes;
and John who could turn defeat into victory by the miraculous fury of an
unexpected onslaught. He was indeed an infant Jove, equipped with
thunder-bolts instead of fists.

These battles were partly a repercussion of a greater war in Europe, but
also, I believe, they were deliberately fostered by John for his own
ends. They gave him opportunities both for physical prowess and for a
kind of unacknowledged leadership.

No wonder the children of the neighbourhood told one another, "John's a
great little sport now," while their mothers, impressed more by his
manners than his military genius, said to one another, "John's a dear
these days. He's lost all his horrid freakishness and conceit."

Even Stephen was praiseful. He told his mother, "That kid's all right
really. The hiding did him good. He has apologized about the mower, and
hoped he hadn't jiggered it up."

But fate had a surprise in store for Stephen.

In spite of his father's discouragement, John had been spending odd
moments among the medical and physiological books. The anatomical
drawings interested him greatly, and to understand them properly, he had
to read. His vocabulary was of course very inadequate, so he proceeded
in the manner of Victor Stott, and read through from cover to cover,
first a large English dictionary, then a dictionary of physiological
terms. Very soon he became so fluent that he had only to run his eye
rapidly down the middle of a printed page to be able to understand it
and retain it indefinitely.

But John was not content with theory. One day, to Pax's horror, he was
found cutting up a dead rat on the dining-room floor, having
thoughtfully spread a newspaper to protect the carpet. Henceforth his
anatomical studies, both practical and theoretical, were supervised by
Doc. For a few months John was enthralled. He showed great skill in
dissection and microscopy. He catechized his father at every
opportunity, and often exposed the confusion of his answers; till at
last Pax, remembering the mathematicians, insisted that the tired doctor
must have respite. Henceforth John studied unaided.

Then suddenly he dropped biology as he had dropped mathematics. Pax
asked, "Have you finished with 'life' as you finished with 'number?'"
"No," replied John, "but life doesn't hang together like number. It
won't make a pattern. There's something wrong with all those books. Of
course, I often see they're stupid, but there must be something deeper
wrong too, which I can't see."

About this time, by the way, John was actually sent to school, but his
career lasted only three weeks. "His influence is too disturbing," said
the head mistress, "and he is quite unteachable. I fear the child,
though apt in some limited directions, is really subnormal, and needs
special treatment." Henceforth, to satisfy the law, Pax herself
pretended to teach him. To please her, he glanced at the school books,
and could repeat them at will. As for understanding them, those that
interested him he understood as well as the authors; those that bored
him he ignored. Over these he could show the stupidity of a moron.

When he had finished with biology, John gave up all intellectual
pursuits and concentrated on his body. That autumn he read nothing but
adventure stories and several works on jiu-jitsu. Much of his time he
spent in practising this art, and in gymnastic exercises of his own
invention. Also he dieted himself extremely carefully upon principles of
his own. John's digestive organs had been his one weak spot. They seemed
to remain infantile longer even than the rest of his body. Up to his
sixth year they were unable to cope with anything but specially prepared
milk, and fruit juice. The food-shortage caused by the war had added to
the difficulty of nourishing John, and he was always liable to minor
digestive troubles. But now he took matters into his own hands, and
worked out an intricate but very scanty diet, consisting of fruit,
cheese, malted milk, and whole-meal bread, carefully spaced with rest
and exercise. We laughed at him; all but Pax, who saw to it that his
demands should be fulfilled.

Whether through diet, or gymnastics, or sheer strength of will, he
certainly became exceptionally strong for his weight and age. One by one
the boys of the neighbourhood found themselves drawn into a quarrel with
John. One by one they were defeated. Of course it was not strength but
agility and cunning that made him fit to cope with opponents much bigger
than himself. "If that kid once gets hold of you the way he wants,
you're done," it used to be said, "and you can't hit him, he's too
quick."

The strange thing was that in every quarrel it seemed to the public that
not John but the other was the aggressor.

The climax was the case of Stephen, now captain of his school's First
Fifteen, and a thoroughly good friend to John.

One day when I was talking to Thomas in his study we heard an unusual
scuffling in the garden. Looking out, we saw Stephen rushing vainly at
the elusive John; who, as he leapt aside, landed his baby fist time
after time with dire effect on Stephen's face. It was a face almost
unrecognizable with rage and perplexity, shockingly unlike the kindly
Stephen. Both combatants were plastered with blood, apparently from
Stephen's nose.

John too was a changed being. His lips were drawn back in an inhuman
blend of snarl and smile. One eye was half closed from Stephen's only
successful blow, the other cavernous like the eye of a mask. For when
John was enraged, the iris drew almost entirely out of sight.

The conflict was so unprecedented and so fantastic that for some moments
Thomas and I were paralysed. At last Stephen managed to seize the
diabolic child; or was allowed to seize him. We dashed downstairs to the
rescue. But when we reached the garden, Stephen was lying on his stomach
writhing and gasping, with his arms pinned behind him in the grip of
John's tarantula hands.

The appearance of John at that moment gave me a startling impression of
something fiendish. Crouched and clutching, he seemed indeed a spider
preparing to suck the life out of the tortured boy beneath him. The
sight, I remember, actually made me feel sick.

We stood bewildered by this unexpected turn of events. John looked
around, and his eye met mine. Never have I seen so arrogant, so hideous
an expression of the lust of power as on that childish face.

For some seconds we gazed at one another. Evidently my look expressed
the horror that I felt, for his mood rapidly changed. Rage visibly faded
out and gave place first to curiosity then to abstraction. Suddenly John
laughed that enigmatic laugh of his. There was no ring of triumph in it,
rather a note of self-mockery, and perhaps of awe.

He released his victim, rose and said, "Get up, Stephen, old man. I'm
sorry I made you lose your hair."

But Stephen had fainted.

We never discovered what it was all about. When we questioned John, he
said, "It's all over. Let's forget about it. Poor old Stephen! But no,
_I_ won't forget."

When we questioned Stephen a few days later, he said, "I can't bear to
think of it. It was my fault, really. I see that now. Somehow I went
mad, when he was intending to be specially decent, too. But to be licked
by a kid like that! But he's not a kid, he's lightning."

Now I do not pretend to be able to understand John, but I cannot help
having one or two theories about him. In the present case my theory is
this. He was at this time plainly going through a phase of concentrated
self-assertion. I do not believe, however, that he had been nursing a
spirit of revenge ever since the affair of the mower. I believe he had
determined in cold blood to try his strength, or rather his skill,
against the most formidable of his acquaintances; and that with this end
in view he had deliberately and subtly goaded the wretched Stephen into
fury. John's own rage, I suspect, was entirely artificial. He could
fight better in a sort of cold fury, so he produced one. As I see it,
the great test had to be no friendly bout, but a real wild-beast,
desperate encounter. Well, John got what he wanted. And having got it,
he saw, in a flash and once for all, right through it and beyond it. So
at least I believe.




CHAPTER IV
JOHN AND HIS ELDERS


Though the fight with Stephen was, I believe, one of the chief landmarks
in John's life, outwardly things went on much as before; save that he
gave up fighting, and spent a good deal more time by himself.

Between him and Stephen, friendship was restored, but it was henceforth
an uncomfortable friendship. Each seemed anxious to be amicable, but
neither felt at ease with the other. Stephen's nerve, I think, had been
seriously shaken. It was not that he feared another licking, but that
his self-respect had suffered. I took an opportunity to suggest that his
defeat had been no disgrace, since John was clearly no ordinary child.
Stephen jumped at this consolation. With a hysterical jerk in his voice
he said, "I felt--I can't say what I felt--like a dog biting its master
and being punished. I felt--sort of guilty, wicked."

John, I think, was now beginning to realize more clearly the gulf that
separated him from the rest of us. At the same time, he was probably
feeling a keen need for companionship, but companionship of a calibre
beyond that of normal human beings. He continued to play with his old
companions, and was indeed still the moving spirit in most of their
activities; but always he played with a certain aloofness, as it were
with his tongue in his cheek. Though in appearance he was by far the
smallest and most infantile of the whole gang, he reminded me sometimes
of a little old man with snowy hair condescending to play with young
gorillas. Often he would break away in the middle of some wild game and
drift into the garden to lie dreaming on the lawn. Or he would hang
around his mother and discuss life with her, while she did her
house-work, tidied the garden, or (a common occupation with Pax) just
waited for the next thing to happen.

In some ways John with his mother suggested a human foundling with a
wolf foster-mother; or, better, a cow foster-mother. He obviously gave
her complete trust and affection, and even a deep though perplexed
reverence; but he was troubled when she could not follow his thought or
understand his innumerable questions about the universe.

The foster-mother image is not perfect. In one respect, indeed, it is
entirely false. For though intellectually Pax was by far his inferior,
there was evidently another field in which she was at this time his
equal, perhaps even his superior. Both mother and son had a peculiar
knack of appreciating experience, a peculiar relish which was at bottom,
I believe, simply a very special and subtle sense of humour. Often have
I seen a covert glance of understanding and amusement pass between them
when the rest of us found nothing to tickle us. I guessed that this
veiled merriment was in some way connected with John's awakening
interest in persons and his rapidly developing insight into his own
motives. But what it was in our behaviour that these two found so
piquant, I could never discover.

With his father John's relation was very different. He made good use of
the doctor's active mind, but between them there was no spontaneous
sympathy, and little community of taste save intellectual interest. I
have often seen on John's face while he was listening to his father a
fleeting contortion of ridicule, even disgust. This happened especially
at times when Thomas believed himself to be giving the boy some profound
comment on human nature or the universe. Needless to say it was not only
Thomas, but myself also and many another that roused in John this
ridicule or revulsion. But Thomas was the chief offender, perhaps
because he was the most brilliant, and the most impressive example of
the mental limitations of his species. I suspect that John often
deliberately incited his father to betray himself in this manner. It was
as though the boy had said to himself, "I have somehow to understand
these fantastic beings who occupy the planet. Here is a fine specimen. I
must experiment on him."

At this point I had better say that I myself was becoming increasingly
intrigued by the fantastic being, John. I was also unwittingly coming
under his influence. Looking back on this period, I can see that he had
already marked me down for future use, and was undertaking the first
steps of my capture. His chief method was the cool assumption that
though I was a middle-aged man, I was his slave; that however much I
might laugh at him and scold him, I secretly recognized him as a
superior being, and was at heart his faithful hound. For the present I
might amuse myself playing at an independent life (I was at this time a
rather half-hearted free-lance journalist), but sooner or later I must
come to heel.

When John was nearly eight and a half in actual years, he was as a rule
taken for a very peculiar child of five or six. He still played childish
games, and was accepted by other children as a child, though a bit of a
freak. Yet he could take part in any adult conversation. Of course, he
was always either far too brilliant or far too ignorant of life to play
his part in anything like a normal manner; but he was never simply
inferior. Even his most nave remarks were apt to have a startling
significance.

But John's navety was rapidly disappearing. He was now reading an
immense amount at an incredible rate. No book, on any subject which did
not lie outside his experience, took him more than a couple of hours to
master, however tough its matter. Most he could assimilate thoroughly in
a quarter of an hour. But the majority of books he glanced at only for a
few moments, then flung aside as worthless.

Now and then, in the course of his reading, he would demand to be taken
(by his father or mother or myself) to watch some process of
manufacture, or to go down a mine, or see over a ship, or visit some
place of historic interest, or to observe experiments in some
laboratory. Great efforts were made to fulfil these demands, but in many
cases we had not the necessary influence. Many projected trips,
moreover, were prevented by Pax's dread of unnecessary publicity for the
boy. Whenever we did undertake an expedition, we had to pretend to the
authorities that John's presence was accidental, and his interest
childish and unintelligent.

John was by no means dependent on his elders for seeing the world. He
had developed a habit of entering into conversation with all kinds of
persons, "to find out what they were doing and what they thought about
things." Any one who was tactfully accosted in street or train or
country road by this small boy with huge eyes, hair like lamb's wool,
and adult speech was likely to find himself led on to say much more than
he intended. By such novel research John learned, I am convinced, more
about human nature and our modern social problems in a month or two than
most of us learn in a lifetime.

I was privileged to witness one of these interviews. On this occasion
the subject was the proprietor of a big general store in the
neighbouring industrial city. Mr. Magnate (it is safer not to reveal his
name) was to be accosted while he was travelling to business by the 9:30
train. John consented to my presence, but only on condition that I
should pretend to be a stranger.

We let the quarry pass through the turnstile and settle himself in his
first-class compartment. Then we went to the booking office, where I
rather self-consciously demanded "a _first_ single and a half."
Independently we strayed into Mr. Magnate's carriage. When I arrived,
John was already settled in the corner opposite to the great man, who
occasionally glanced from his paper at the queer child with a cliff for
brow and caves for eyes. Soon after I had taken my post, in the corner
diagonally opposite to John, two other business men entered, and settled
themselves to read their papers.

John was apparently deep in _Comic Cuts_, or some such periodical.
Though this had been bought merely to serve as stage property, I believe
he was quite capable of enjoying it; for at this time, in spite of his
wonderful gifts, he was still at heart "the little vulgar boy". In the
conversation which followed he was obviously to some extent playing up
to the business man's idea of a precocious yet nave child. But also he
_was_ a nave child, backward as well as diabolically intelligent. I
myself, though I knew him well, could not decide how much of his talk on
this occasion was sincere, and how much mere acting.

When the train had started, John began to watch his prey so intently
that Mr. Magnate took cover behind a wall of newspaper. Presently John's
curiously precise treble gathered all eyes upon him. "Mr. Magnate," he
said, "may I talk to you?" The newspaper was lowered, and its owner
endeavoured to look neither awkward nor condescending.

"Certainly, boy, go ahead. What's your name?"

"Oh, my name's John. I'm a queer child, but that doesn't matter. It's
you we're going to talk about."

We all laughed. Mr. Magnate shifted in his seat, but continued to look
his part.

"Well," he said, "you certainly are a queer child." He glanced at his
adult fellow travellers for confirmation. We duly smiled.

"Yes," replied John, "but you see from my point of view you are a queer
man." Mr. Magnate hung for a moment between amusement and annoyance; but
since we had all laughed, except John, he chose to be tickled and
benevolent.

"Surely," he said, "there's nothing remarkable about me. I'm just a
business man. Why do you think I'm queer?"

"Well," said John, "_I'm_ thought queer because I have more brains than
most children. Some say I have more brains than I _ought_ to have.
_You're_ queer because you have more _money_ than most people; and (some
say) more than you ought to have."

Once more we laughed, rather anxiously.

John continued: "I haven't found out yet what to do with my brains, and
I'm wondering if you have found out what to do with your money."

"My dear boy, you may not believe me, but the fact is I have no real
choice. Needs of all sorts keep cropping up, and I have to fork out."

"I see," said John; "but then you can't fork out for _all_ the possible
needs. You must have some sort of big plan or aim to help you to
choose."

"Well now, how shall I put it? I'm James Magnate, with a wife and family
and a rather complicated business and a whole lot of obligations rising
out of all that. All the money I control, or nearly all, goes in keeping
all those balls rolling, so to speak."

"I see," said John again. "'My station and its duties,' as Hegel said,
and no need to worry about the sense of it all."

Like a dog encountering an unfamiliar and rather formidable smell, Mr.
Magnate sniffed this remark, bristled, and vaguely growled.

"Worry!" he snorted. "There's plenty of that; but it's practical
day-to-day worry about how to get goods cheap enough to sell them at a
profit instead of a loss. If I started worrying about 'the sense of it
all' the business would soon go to pieces. No time for that. I find
myself with a pretty big job that the country needs doing, and I just do
it."

There was a pause, then John remarked, "How splendid it must be to have
a pretty big job that needs doing, and to do it well! _Do_ you do it
well, sir? And does it _really_ need doing? But of course you do, and it
must; else the country wouldn't pay you for it."

Mr. Magnate looked anxiously at all his fellow travellers in turn,
wondering whether his leg was being pulled. He was reassured, however,
by John's innocent and respectful gaze. The boy's next remark was rather
disconcerting. "It must be so _snug_ to feel both safe and important."

"Well, I don't know about that," the great man replied. "But I give the
public what it wants, and as cheaply as I can, and I get enough out of
it to keep my family in reasonable comfort."

"Is that what you make money for, to keep your family in comfort?"

"That and other things. I get rid of my money in all sorts of ways. If
you must know, quite a lot goes to the political party that I think can
govern the country best. Some goes to hospitals and other charities in
our great city. But most goes into the business itself to make it bigger
and better."

"Wait a minute," said John. "You've raised a lot of interesting points.
I mustn't lose any of them. First, about comfort. You live in that big
half-timbered house on the hill, don't you?"

"Yes. It's a copy of an Elizabethan mansion. I could have done without
it, but my wife had set her heart on it. And putting it up was a great
thing for the local building trade."

"And you have a Rolls, and a Wolseley?"

"Yes," said the Magnate, adding with magnanimity, "Come up the hill on
Saturday and I'll give you a run in the Rolls. When she's doing eighty
it feels like thirty."

John's eyelids sank and rose again, a movement which I knew as an
expression of amused contempt. But why was he contemptuous? He was a bit
of a speed-hog himself. Never, for instance, was he satisfied with _my_
cautious driving. Was it that he saw in this remark a cowardly attempt
to side-track the conversation? After the interview I learned that he
had _already_ made several trips in the Magnate car, having suborned the
chauffeur. He had even learned to drive it, with cushions behind him, so
as to help his short legs to reach the pedals.

"Oh, thank you, I should love to go in your Rolls," he said, looking
gratefully into the benevolent grey eyes of the rich man. "Of course,
you couldn't work properly unless you had reasonable comfort. And that
means a big house and two cars, and furs and jewels for your wife, and
first-class railway fares, and swank schools for your children." He
paused, while Mr. Magnate looked suspiciously at him. Then he added,
"But you won't be _really_ comfortable till you've got that knighthood.
Why doesn't it come? You've paid enough already, haven't you?"

One of our fellow passengers sniggered. Mr. Magnate coloured, gasped,
muttered, "Offensive little brat!" and retired behind his paper.

"Oh, sir, I'm _sorry_," said John, "I thought it was all quite
respectable. Surely it's just like Poppy Day. Pay your money, and you
get your badge, and everyone knows you have done your bit. And that's
true comfort, to know that everyone knows you're all right."

The paper dropped again, and its owner said, with mild firmness, "Look
here, young man! You mustn't believe everything you're told, specially
when it's libellous. I know you don't mean harm yourself, but--be more
critical of what you hear."

"I'm frightfully sorry," said John, looking pained and abashed. "It's so
hard to know what one may say and what not."

"Yes, of course," said Magnate amiably. "Perhaps I had better explain
things a bit. Any one who finds himself in a position like mine, if he's
worth his salt, has to make the best possible use of his opportunities
for serving the Empire. Now he can do this partly by running his
business well, partly by personal influence. And if he is to have
influence he must not only be, but also appear, a man of weight. He must
spend a good deal on keeping up a certain style in his way of life. The
public does attend more to a man who lives a bit expensively than to a
man who doesn't. Often it would be more comfortable not to live
expensively. Just as it would be more comfortable for a judge in court
on a hot day to do without his robe and wig. But he mustn't. He must
sacrifice comfort to dignity. At Christmas I bought my wife a rather
good diamond necklace (South African--the money stayed in the Empire).
Whenever we go to an important function, say a dinner at the Town Hall,
she's got to wear it. She doesn't always want to. Says it's heavy or
hard, or something. But I say, 'My dear, it's a sign that you count.
It's a badge of office. Better wear it.' And about the knighthood. If
anyone says I want to buy one, it's just a mean lie. I give what I can
to my party because I know quite well, with my experience, that it's the
party of common sense and loyalty. No other party cares seriously for
British prosperity and power. No other cares about our great Empire and
its mission to lead the world. Well, clearly I _must_ support that party
in any way open to me. If they saw fit to give me a knighthood, I'd be
proud. I'm not one of those prigs who turn up their noses at it. I'd be
glad, partly because it would mean that the people who really count were
sure I was really serving the Empire, partly because the knighthood
would give me more weight to go on serving the Empire with."

Mr. Magnate glanced at his fellow passengers. We all nodded approval.
"Thank you, sir," said John, with solemn, respectful eyes. "And it all
depends on money, doesn't it? If _I'm_ going to do anything big, I must
get money, somehow. I have a friend who keeps saying, 'Money's power.'
He has a wife who's always tired and cross, and five children, ugly dull
things. He's out of a job. Had to sell his push-bike the other day. He
says it's not fair that _he_ should be where he is and--_you_ where you
are. But it's all his own fault really. If he had been as wide awake as
you, he'd be as rich as you. Your being rich doesn't make anyone else
poor, does it? If all the slum people were as wide awake as you, they'd
all have big houses and Rollses and diamonds. They'd all be some use to
the Empire, instead of being just a nuisance."

The man opposite me tittered. Mr. Magnate looked at him with the
sidelong glance of a shy horse, then pulled himself together and
laughed.

"My lad," he said, "you're too young to understand these things. I don't
think we shall do much good by talking any more about them."

"I'm sorry," John replied, seemingly crushed. "I thought I did
understand." Then after a pause he continued: "Do you mind if we go on
just a _little_ bit longer? I want to ask you something else."

"Oh, very well, what is it?"

"What do you think about?"

"What do I think about? Good heavens, boy! All sorts of things. My
business, my home, my wife and children, and--about the state of the
country."

"The state of the country? What about it?"

"Well," said Mr. Magnate, "that's much too long a story. I think about
how England is to recover her foreign trade--so that more money may come
into the country, and people may live happier, fuller lives. I think
about how we can strengthen the hands of the Government against the
foolish people who want to stir up trouble, and those who talk wildly
against the Empire. I think----"

Here John interrupted. "What makes life full and happy?"

"You _are_ a box of questions! I should say that for happiness people
need plenty of work to keep them out of mischief, and some amusement to
keep them fresh."

"And, of course," John interposed, "enough money to _buy_ their
amusements with."

"Yes," said Mr. Magnate. "But not too much. Most of them would only
waste it or damage themselves with it. And if they had a lot, they
wouldn't work to get more."

"But you have a lot, and you work."

"Yes, but I don't work for money exactly. I work because my business is
a fascinating game, and because it is necessary to the country. I regard
myself as a sort of public servant."

"But," said John, "aren't _they_ public servants too? Isn't their work
necessary too?"

"Yes, boy. But they don't as a rule look at it that way. They won't work
unless they're driven."

"Oh, I see!" John said. "They're a different sort from you. It must be
wonderful to be you. I wonder whether I shall turn out like you or like
them."

"Oh, I'm not really different," said Mr. Magnate generously. "Or if I
am, it's just circumstances that have made me so. As for you, young man,
I expect you'll go a long way."

"I want to, terribly," said John. "But I don't know _which_ way yet.
Evidently whatever I do I must have money. But tell me, _why_ do you
_bother_ about the country, and about other people?"

"I suppose," said Mr. Magnate, laughing, "I bother about other people
because when I see them unhappy I feel unhappy myself. And also," he
added more solemnly, "because the Bible tells us to love our neighbours.
And I suppose I bother about the country partly because I must have
something big to be interested in, something bigger than myself."

"But you _are_ big, yourself," said John, with hero-worship in his eyes,
and not a twinkle.

Mr. Magnate said hastily, "No, no, only a humble instrument in the
service of a very big thing."

"What thing do you mean?" asked John.

"Our great Empire, of course, boy."

We were arriving at our destination. Mr. Magnate rose and took his hat
from the rack. "Well, young man," he said, "we have had an interesting
talk. Come along on Saturday afternoon about 2:30, and we'll get the
chauffeur to give you a quarter of an hour's spin in the Rolls."

"Thank you, sir!" said John. "And may I see Mrs. Magnate's necklace? I
love jewels."

"Certainly you shall," Mr. Magnate answered.

When I had met John again outside the station, his only comment on the
journey was his characteristic laugh.




CHAPTER V
THOUGHT AND ACTION


During the six months which followed this incident, John became
increasingly independent of his elders. The parents knew that he was
well able to look after himself, so they left him almost entirely to his
own devices. They seldom questioned him about his doings, for anything
like prying was repugnant to them both; and there seemed to be no
mystery about John's movements. He was continuing his study of man and
man's world. Sometimes he would volunteer an account of some incident in
his day's adventure; sometimes he would draw upon his store of data to
illustrate a point in discussion.

Though his tastes remained in some respects puerile, it was clear from
his conversation that in other respects he was very rapidly developing.
He would still spend days at a stretch in making mechanical toys, such
as electric boats. His electric railway system spread its ramifications
all over the garden in a maze of lines, tunnels, viaducts, glass-roofed
stations. He won many a competition in flying home-made model
aeroplanes. In all these activities he seemed at heart a typical
schoolboy, though abnormally skilful and original. But the actual time
spent in this way was really not great. The only boyish occupation which
seemed to fill a large proportion of his time was sailing. He had made
himself a minute but seaworthy canoe, fitted both with sail and an old
motor-bicycle engine. In this he spent many hours exploring the estuary
and the sea-coast, and studying the sea-birds, for which he had a
surprising passion. This interest, which at times seemed almost
obsessive, he explained apologetically by saying, "They do their simple
jobs with so much more _style_ than man shows in his complicated job.
Watch a gannet in flight, or a curlew probing the mud for food. Man, I
suppose, is about as clever along his own line as the earliest birds
were at flight. He's a sort of archaeopteryx of the spirit."

Even the most childish activities which sometimes gripped John were apt
to be illuminated in this manner by the more mature side of his nature.
His delight in _Comic Cuts_, for instance, was half spontaneous, half a
relish of his own silliness in liking the stuff.

At no time of his life did John outgrow his childhood interests. Even in
his last phase he was always capable of sheer schoolboy mischief and
make-believe. But already this side of his nature was being subordinated
to the mature side. We knew, for instance, that he was already forming
opinions about the proper aims of the individual, about social policy,
about international affairs. We knew also that he was reading a great
deal of physics, biology, psychology, astronomy; and that philosophical
problems were now seriously occupying him. His reaction to philosophy
was curiously unlike that of the normal philosophically minded adult
human being. When one of the great classical philosophical puzzles
attracted his attention for the first time, he plunged into the
literature of the subject, read solidly for a week, and then gave up
philosophy entirely till the next puzzle occurred to him.

After several of these raids upon the territory of philosophy he
undertook a serious campaign. For nearly three months philosophy
appeared to be his main intellectual interest. It was summer-time, and
he liked to study out of doors. Every morning he would set off on his
push-bike with a box of books and food strapped on the carrier. Leaving
his bicycle at the top of the clay cliffs which formed the coastline of
the estuary, he would climb down to the shore, and settle himself for
the day. Having undressed and put on his scanty "bathers," he would lie
in the full sunshine reading, or thinking. Sometimes he broke off to
bathe or wander about the mud flats watching the birds. Shelter from
rain was provided by two rusty pieces of corrugated iron sheeting laid
across two low walls, which he built of stones from a ruined lime-kiln
near at hand. Sometimes, when the tide was up, he went by the sea route
in his canoe. On calm days he might be seen a mile or two from the
coast, drifting and reading.

I once asked John how his philosophical researches were progressing. His
answer is worth recording. "Philosophy," he said, "is really very
helpful to the growing mind, but it's terribly disappointing too. At
first I thought I'd found the mature human intelligence at work at last.
Reading Plato, and Spinoza, and Kant, and some of the modern realists
too, I almost felt I had come across people of my own kind. I walked in
step with them. I played their game with a sense that it called out
powers that I had never exercised before. Sometimes I couldn't follow
them. I seemed to miss some vital move. The exhilaration of puzzling
over these critical points, and feeling one had met a real master mind
at last! But as I went on from philosopher to philosopher and browsed
around all over the place, I began to realize the shocking truth that
these critical points were not what I thought they were, but just
outrageous howlers. It had seemed incredible that these obviously
well-developed minds could make simple mistakes; and so I had
respectfully dismissed the possibility, and looked for some profound
truth. But oh my God, I was wrong! Howler after howler! Sometimes a
philosopher's opponents spot his howlers, and are frightfully set up
with their own cleverness. But most of them never get spotted at all, so
far as I can discover. Philosophy is an amazing tissue of really fine
thinking and incredible, puerile mistakes. It's like one of those rubber
'bones' they give dogs to chew, damned good for the mind's teeth, but as
food--no bloody good at all."

I ventured to suggest that perhaps he was not really in a position to
judge the philosophers. "After all," I said, "you're ridiculously young
to tackle philosophy. There are spheres of experience that you have not
touched yet."

"Of course there are," he said. "But--well, for instance, I have little
sexual experience, yet. But even now I can see that a man is blathering
if he says that sex (properly defined) is the real motive behind all
agricultural activities. Take another case. I have no religious
experience, yet. Maybe I _shall_ have it, some day. Maybe there's really
no such thing. But I can see quite well that religious experience
(properly defined) is no evidence that the sun goes round the earth, and
no evidence that the universe has a purpose, such as the fulfilment of
personality. The howlers of philosophers are mostly less obvious than
these, but of the same kind."

At the time of which I am speaking, when John was nearly nine, I had no
idea that he was leading a double life, and that the hidden part of it
was melodramatic. On one single occasion my suspicion was roused for a
few moments, but the possibility that flashed upon me was too fantastic
and horrible to be seriously entertained.

One morning I happened to go round to the Wainwrights to borrow one of
Thomas's medical books. It must have been about 11:30. John, who had
recently developed the habit of reading late at night and rising late in
the morning, was being turned out of bed by his indignant mother. "Come
and get your breakfast before you dress," she said. "I'll keep it no
longer."

Pax offered me "morning tea," so we both sat down at the
breakfast-table. Presently a blinking and scowling John appeared,
wearing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas. Pax and I talked about one
thing and another. In the course of conversation she said, "Matilda has
come with a really lurid story to-day." (Matilda was the washerwoman.)
"She's as pleased as Punch about it. She says a policeman was found
murdered in Mr. Magnate's garden this morning, stabbed, she says." John
said nothing, and went on with his breakfast. We continued talking for a
while, and then the thing happened that startled me. John reached across
the table for the butter, exposing part of his arm beyond the end of the
dressing-gown sleeve. On the inner side of the wrist was a rather
nasty-looking scrape with a certain amount of dirt still in it. I felt
pretty sure that there had been no scrape there when I saw him on the
previous evening. Nothing very remarkable in that, but what disturbed me
was this: John himself saw that scrape, and then glanced quickly at me.
For a fraction of a second his eyes held mine; then he took up the
butter-dish. In that moment I seemed to see John, in the middle of the
night, scraping his arm as he climbed up the drain-pipe to his bedroom.
And it seemed to me that he was returning from Mr. Magnate's. I pulled
myself together at once, reminding myself that what I had seen was a
very ordinary abrasion, that John was far too deeply engrossed in his
intellectual adventures to indulge in nocturnal pranks, and anyhow far
too sensible to risk a murder charge. But that sudden look?

The murder gave the suburb matter for gossip for many weeks. There had
recently been a number of extremely clever burglaries in the
neighbourhood, and the police were making vigorous efforts to discover
the culprit. The murdered man had been found lying on his back in a
flower-bed with a neat knife-wound in his chest. He must have died
"instantaneously," for his heart was pierced. A diamond necklace and
other valuable pieces of jewellery had disappeared from the house.
Slight marks on a window-sill and a drain-pipe suggested that the
burglar had climbed in and out by an upper storey. If so, he must have
ascended the drain-pipe and then accomplished an almost impossible
hand-traverse, or rather finger-tip-traverse, up and along one of the
ornamental timbers of the pseudo-Elizabethan house.

Sundry arrests were made, but the perpetrator of the crime was never
detected. The epidemic of burglaries, however, ceased, and in time the
whole matter was forgotten.

At this point it seems well to draw upon information given me by John
himself at a much later stage, in fact during the last year of his life,
when the colony had been successfully founded, and had not yet been
discovered by the "civilized" world. I was already contemplating writing
his biography, and had formed a habit of jotting down notes of any
striking incident or conversation as soon as possible after the event. I
can, therefore, give the account of the murder approximately in John's
own words.

"I was in a bad mess, mentally, in those days," said John. "I knew I was
different from all other human beings whom I had ever met, but I didn't
realize _how_ different. I didn't know what I was going to do with my
life, but I knew I should soon find something pretty big and desperate
to do, and that I must make myself ready for it. Also, remember, I was a
child; and I had a child's taste for the melodramatic, combined with an
adult's cunning and resolution.

"I can't possibly make you really understand the horrible muddle I was
in, because after all your mind doesn't work along the same lines as
mine. But think of it this way, if you like. I found myself in a
thoroughly bewildering world. The people in it had built up a huge
system of thought and knowledge, and I could see quite well that it was
shot through and through with error. From my point of view, although so
far as it went it was sound enough for practical purposes, as a
description of the world it was simply crazy. But what the right
description was I could not discover. I was too young. I had
insufficient data. Huge fields of experience were still beyond me. So
there I was, like some one in the dark in a strange room, just feeling
about among unknown objects. And all the while I had a frantic itch to
be getting on with my work, if only I could find out what it was.

"Add to all this that as I grew older I grew more and more lonely,
because fewer and fewer people were able to meet me half-way. There was
Pax. She really could help, bless her, because she really did see things
from my angle--sometimes. And even when she didn't she had the sense to
guess I was seeing something actual, and not merely fantasies. But at
bottom she definitely belonged with the rest of you, not with me. Then
there was you, much blinder than Pax, but more sympathetic with the
active side of me."

Here I interposed half seriously, half mischievously, "At least a trusty
hound." John laughed, and I added, "And sometimes rising to an
understanding beyond my canine capacity, through sheer devotion." He
looked at me and smiled, but did not, as I had hoped he would, assent.

"Well," he continued, "I was most damnably lonely. I was living in a
world of phantoms, or animated masks. No one seemed really alive. I had
a queer notion that if I pricked any of you, there would be no bleeding,
but only a gush of wind. And I couldn't make out _why_ you were like
that, what it was that I missed in you. The trouble really was that I
didn't clearly know what it was in _myself_ that made me different from
you.

"Two clear points emerged from my perplexity. First and simplest, I must
make myself independent, I must acquire power. In the crazy world in
which I found myself, this meant getting hold of much money. Second I
must make haste to sample all sorts of experience, and I must accurately
experience my own reactions to all sorts of experience.

"It seemed to me, in my childishness, that I should at any rate _begin_
to fulfil both these needs by bringing off a few burglaries. I should
get money, and I should get experience, and I should watch my reactions
very carefully. Conscience did not prick me at all. I felt that Mr.
Magnate and his like were fair game.

"I first set about studying the technique, partly by reading, partly by
discussing the subject with my friend the policeman whom I was
afterwards forced to kill. I also undertook a number of experimental and
innocuous burglaries on our neighbours. House after house I entered by
night, and after locating but not removing the small treasures which
they contained, I retired home to bed, well satisfied with my progress.

"At last I felt ready for serious work. In my first house I took only
some old-fashioned jewellery, which, I surmised, would not be missed for
some time. Then I began taking modern jewellery, cash, silver plate. I
found extraordinarily little difficulty in acquiring the stuff. Getting
rid of it was much more ticklish work. I managed to make an arrangement
with the purser of a foreign-going vessel. He turned up at his home in
our suburb every few weeks and bought my swag. I have no doubt that when
he parted with it, in foreign ports, he got ten times what he gave me
for it. Looking back, I realize how lucky I was that the export side of
my venture never brought me to disaster. My purser might so easily have
been spotted by the police. Of course, I was still far too ignorant of
society to realize the danger. Bright as I was, I had not the data.

"Well, things went swimmingly for some months. I entered dozens of
houses and collected several hundred pounds from my purser. But
naturally the suburb had got thoroughly excited by this epidemic of
housebreaking. Indeed, I had been forced to extend my operations to
other districts so as to dissipate the attention of the police. It was
clear that if I went on indefinitely I should be caught. But I had been
badly bitten by the game. It gave me a sense of independence and power,
especially independence, independence of your crazy world.

"I promised myself three more ventures. The first, and the only one to
be accomplished, was the Magnate burglary. I went over the ground pretty
carefully, and I ascertained the movements of the police pretty
thoroughly too. On the actual night all went according to plan until,
with my pockets bulging with Mrs. Magnate's pearls and diamonds (in her
full regalia she must have looked like Queen Elizabeth), I started back
along that finger-traverse. Suddenly a torch flashed on me from below,
and a quiet cheery voice said, 'Got you this time, my lad.' I said
nothing, for I recognized the voice, and did not wish mine to be
recognized in turn. The constable was my own particular pal, Smithson,
who had unwittingly taught me so much.

"I hung motionless by my finger-tips, thinking hard, and keeping my face
to the wall. But it was useless to conceal my identity, for he said,
'Buck up, John, boy, come along down or you'll drop and break your leg.
You're a sport, but you're beat this time.'

"I must have hung motionless for three seconds at most, but in that time
I saw myself and my world as never before. An idea toward which I had
been long but doubtfully groping suddenly displayed itself to me with
complete clarity and certainty. I had already, some time before, come to
think of myself as definitely of a different biological species from
_Homo sapiens_, the species of that amiable bloodhound behind the torch.
But at last I realized for the first time that this difference carried
with it what I should now describe as a far-reaching spiritual
difference, that my purpose in life, and my attitude to life, were to be
different from anything which the normal species could conceive, that I
stood, as it were, on the threshold of a world far beyond the reach of
those sixteen hundred million crude animals that at present ruled the
planet. The discovery made me feel, almost for the first time in my
life, fear, dread. I saw, too, that this burglary game was not worth the
candle, that I had been behaving very much like a creature of the
inferior species, risking my future and much more than _my_ personal
success for a cheap kind of self-expression. If that amiable bloodhound
got me, I should lose my independence. I should be henceforth known,
marked, and in the grip of the law. That simply must not be. All these
childish escapades had been a blind, fumbling preparation for a lifework
which at last stood out more or less clearly before me. It was my task,
unique being that I was, to 'advance the spirit' on this planet. That
was the phrase which flashed into my mind. And though at that early
stage I had only a very dim idea about 'spirit' and its 'advance,' I saw
quite clearly that I must set about the more practical side of my task
either by taking charge of the common species and teaching it to bring
out the best in itself, or, if that proved impossible, by founding a
finer human type of my own.

"Such were the thoughts that flashed on me in the first couple of
seconds as I hung by my finger-tips in the blaze of poor Smithson's
torch. If ever you do write that threatened biography, you'll find it
quite impossible to persuade your readers that I, a child of nine, could
have had such thoughts in such circumstances. Also, of course, you won't
be able to give anything of the actual character of my new attitude,
because it involved a kind of experience beyond your grasp.

"During the next two seconds or so I was desperately considering if
there was any way to avoid killing the faithful creature. My fingers
were giving out. With their last strength I reached the drain-pipe, and
began to descend. Half-way I stopped, 'How's Mrs. Smithson?' I said.
'Bad,' he answered. 'Look sharp, I want to get home.' That made matters
worse. How _could_ I do it? Well, it just _had_ to be done, there was no
way out of it. I thought of killing myself, and getting out of the whole
mess that way. But I couldn't do that. It would be sheer betrayal of the
thing I must live for. I thought of just accepting Smithson and the law;
but no, that, I knew, was betrayal also. The killing just had to be. It
was my own childishness that had got me into this scrape, but now--the
killing just had to be. All the same, I hated the job. I had not yet
reached the stage of liking _whatever_ had to be done. I felt over
again, and far more distressingly, the violent repulsion which had
surprised me years earlier, when I had to kill a mouse. It was that one
I had tamed, you remember, and the maids wouldn't stand it running about
the house.

"Well, Smithson had to die. He was standing at the foot of the pipe. I
pretended to slip, and fell on him, overbalancing him by kicking off
from the wall. We both went down with a crash. With my left hand I
seized the torch, and with my right I whipped out my little scout's
knife. The position of the human heart was not unknown to me. I plunged
the knife home, leaning on it with all my weight. Smithson flung me off
with one frantic spasm, then lay still.

"The scrimmage had made a considerable noise, and I heard a bed creak in
the house. For a moment I looked at Smithson's open eyes and open mouth.
I pulled out the knife, and then there was a spurt of blood."

John's account of this strange incident showed me how little I had known
of his real character at that time.

"You must have felt pretty bad on the way home," I said.

"As a matter of fact," he answered, "I didn't. The bad feeling ended
when I made my decision. And I didn't go straight home. I went to
Smithson's house, intending to kill his wife. I knew she was down with
cancer and in for a lot of pain, and would be broken-hearted over her
husband's death; so I decided to take one more risk and put her out of
her misery. But when I got there, by secret ways of my own, I found the
house lit up and awake. She was evidently having a bad night. So I had
to leave her, poor wretch. Even that didn't really upset me. You may say
I was saved by the insensitivity of childhood. Perhaps to some extent;
though I had a pretty vivid notion of what Pax would suffer if she lost
her husband. What really saved me was a kind of fatalism. What must be,
must be. I felt no remorse for my own past folly. The 'I' that had
committed that folly was incapable of realizing how foolish it was
being. The new 'I,' that had suddenly awakened, realized very clearly,
and was anxious to make amends so far as possible; but of remorse or
shame it felt nothing."

To this confession I could make only one reply, "Odd John!"

I then asked John if he was preyed on by the dread of being caught.
"No," he said. "I had done all I could. If they caught me, they caught
me. But I had done the job as efficiently as it is ever done. I had worn
rubber gloves, and left a few false fingerprints, made by an ingenious
little instrument of my own. My only serious anxiety was over my purser.
I sold him the swag in small instalments over a period of several
months."




CHAPTER VI
MANY INVENTIONS


Although I did not at the time know that John was responsible for the
murder, I noticed that a change came over him. He became less
communicative, in a way more aloof from his friends, both juvenile and
adult, and at the same time more considerate and even gentle. I say "in
a way" more aloof, because, though less ready to talk about himself, and
more prone to solitariness, he had also his sociable times. He could
indeed be a most sympathetic companion, the sort in whom one was tempted
to confide all manner of secret hopes and fears that were scarcely
admitted by oneself. One day, for instance, I found myself discovering,
under the influence of John's presence and my own effort to explain
myself, that I had already become very strongly attracted to a certain
Pax-like young woman, and further that I had been kept from recognizing
this feeling through an obscure sense of loyalty to John. The discovery
of the strength of my feeling for John was more of a shock than the
discovery of my feeling for the girl. I knew that I was deeply
interested in John, but till that day I had no idea how subtle and
far-reaching were the tentacles with which the strange child had
penetrated me.

My reaction was a violent and rather panicky rebellion. I flaunted
before John the new-found normal sexual attraction which he himself had
pointed out to me, and I ridiculed the notion that I was psychologically
his captive. He replied, "Well, be careful. Don't spoil your life for
me." It was strange to be talking like this to a child of less than ten
years old. It was distressing to feel that he knew more about me than I
knew about myself. For in spite of my denial, I knew that he was right.

Looking back, I recognize that John's interest in my case was partly due
to curiosity about a relationship which he himself could not yet
experience, partly to straightforward affection for a well-known
companion, partly to the need to understand as fully as possible one
whom he intended to use for his own ends. For it is clear that he did
intend to use me, that he did not for a moment intend me to free myself.
He wanted my affair with the Pax-like girl to go forward and complete
itself not only because, as my friend, he espoused my need, but also
because, if I were to give it up for his sake, I should become a
vindictive rather than a willing slave. He preferred, I imagine, to be
served by a free and roving hound rather than by a chained and hungry
wolf.

His feeling for individuals of the species which, as a species, he
heartily despised, was a strange blend of contempt and respect,
detachment and affection. He despised us for our stupidity and
fecklessness; he respected us for our occasional efforts to surmount our
natural disabilities. Though he used us for his own ends with calm
aloofness, he could also, when fate or our own folly brought us into
trouble, serve us with surprising humility and devotion.

His growing capacity for personal relationships with members of the
inferior species was shown most quaintly in his extraordinary friendship
with a little girl of six. Judy's home was close to John's, and she had
come to regard John as her private property. He played uproarious games
with her, helped her to climb trees, and taught her to swim and
roller-skate. He told her wildly imaginative stories. He patiently
explained to her the sorry jokes of _Comic Cuts_. He drew pictures of
battle and murder, shipwreck and volcanic eruption for Judy's sole
delight. He mended her toys. He chaffed her for her stupidity or praised
her for her intelligence as occasion demanded. If any one was less than
kind to her, John rushed to her defence. In all communal games it was
taken for granted that John and Judy must be on the same side. In return
for this devotion she mauled him, laughed at him, scolded him, called
him "stoopid Don," showed no respect at all for his marvellous powers,
and presented him with all the most cherished results of her enterprise
in the "hand-work" class at school.

I once challenged John, "Why are you so fond of Judy?" He answered
promptly, imitating her unusually backward baby speech, "Doody _made_
for be'n' fon' of. Can't not be fon' of Doody." Then after a pause he
said, "I'm fond of Judy as I'm fond of sea-birds. She does only simple
things, but she does them all with style. She be's Judy as thoroughly
and perfectly as a gannet be's a gannet. If she could grow up to do the
grown-up things as well as she does the baby things, she'd be glorious.
But she won't. When it comes to doing the more difficult things, I
suppose she'll mess up her style like--like the rest of you. It's a
pity. But meanwhile she's--Judy."

"What about yourself?" I said. "Do you expect to grow up without losing
your style?"

"I've not _found_ my style yet," he answered. "I'm groping. I've messed
things pretty badly already. But when I _do_ find it--well, we shall
see. Of course," he added surprisingly, "God may find grown-ups as
delightful to watch as I find Judy; because, I suppose, he doesn't want
them to have a finer style than they actually have. Sometimes I can feel
that way about them myself. I can feel their bad style is part of what
they are, and strangely fascinating to watch. But I have an idea God
expects something different from me. Or, leaving out the God myth, _I_
expect something different from me."

A few weeks after the murder, John developed a surprising interest in a
very homely sphere, namely the management of a house. He would spend an
hour at a time in following Martha the maid about the house on her
morning's work, or in watching the culinary operations. For her
entertainment he kept up a stream of small talk compounded of scandal,
broad humour, and chaff about her "gentlemen friends." The same minute
observation, but a very different kind of talk was devoted to Pax when
she was in the pantry or the larder, or when she was "tidying" a room or
mending clothes. Sometimes he would break off his tittle-tattle to say,
"Why not do it this way?" Martha's response to such suggestions varied
from haughty contempt to grudging acceptance, according to her mood. Pax
invariably gave serious attention to the new idea, though sometimes she
would begin by protesting, "But my way works well enough; why bother?"
In the end, however, she nearly always adopted John's improvement, with
an odd little smile which might equally well have meant maternal pride
or indulgence.

Little by little John introduced a number of small labour-saving devices
into the house, shifting a hook or a shelf to suit the natural reach of
the adult arm, altering the balance of the coal-scuttle, reorganizing
the larder and the bathroom. He tried to introduce his methods into the
surgery, suggesting new ways of cleaning test-tubes, sterilizing
instruments and storing drugs; but after a few attempts he gave up this
line of activity, since, as he put it, "Doc likes to muddle along in his
own way."

After two or three weeks John's interest in household economy seemed to
fade, save for occasional revivals in relation to some particular
problem. He now spent most of his time away from home, ostensibly
reading on the shore. But as the autumn advanced, and we began to
inquire how he managed to keep himself warm, he apparently developed a
passion for long walks by himself. He also spent much time in excursions
into the neighbouring city. "I'm going to town for the day to see some
fellows I'm interested in," he would tell us; and in the evening he
would return tired and absorbed.

It was toward the end of the winter that John, now about ten and a half,
took me into his confidence with regard to the amazing commercial
operations which had been occupying him during the previous six months.
One filthy Sunday morning, when the windows were plastered with sleet,
he suggested a walk. I indignantly refused. "Come on," he insisted.
"It's going to be amusing for you. I want to show you my workshop." He
slowly winked first one huge eye and then the other.

By the time we had reached the shore my inadequate mackintosh was
letting water through on my shoulders, and I was cursing John, and
myself too. We tramped along the soaked sands till we reached a spot
where the steep clay cliffs gave place to a slope, scarcely less steep,
but covered with thorn bushes. John went down on his knees and led the
way, crawling on all-fours up a track between the bushes. I was expected
to follow. I found it almost impossible to force my larger bulk where
John had passed with ease. When I had gone a few yards I was jammed,
thorns impaling me on every side. Laughing at my predicament and my
curses, John turned and cut me adrift with his knife, the same,
doubtless, as had killed the constable. After another ten yards the
track brought us into a small clearing on the steep slope. Standing
erect at last, I grumbled, "Is _this_ what you call your workshop?" John
laughed, and said, "Lift that." He was pointing to a rusty sheet of
corrugated iron, which lay derelict on the hillside. One end of it was
buried under a mass of rubbish. The exposed part was about three feet
square. I tugged its free end up a couple of inches, cut my fingers on
the rusty jagged edge, and let go with a curse. "Can't be bothered," I
said. "Do your own dirty work, if you can." "Of course you can't be
bothered," he replied, "nor would anyone else who found it." He then
worked his hand under the free corners of the sheet, and disentangled
some rusty wire. The sheet was now easily lifted, and opened like a
trap-door in the hillside. It revealed a black hole between three big
stones. John crawled inside, and bade me follow; but before I could
wedge my way through he had to move one of the stones. I found myself in
a low cave, illuminated by John's flash-light. So _this_ was the
workshop! It had evidently been cut out of the clay slope and lined with
cement. The ceiling was covered with rough planks, and shored up here
and there with wooden posts.

John now lit an acetylene lamp, which was let into the outer wall.
Shutting its glass face, he remarked, "Its air comes in by a pipe from
outside, and its fumes go out by another. There's an independent
ventilation system for the room." Pointing to a dozen round holes in the
wall, "Drainpipes," he said. Such pipes were a common sight on the
coast, for they were used for draining the fields; and the
ever-crumbling cliff often exposed them.

For a few minutes I crouched in silence, surveying the little den. John
watched me, with a grin of boyish satisfaction. There was a bench, a
small lathe, a blow-lamp, and quantities of tools. On the back wall was
a tier of shelves covered with a jumble of articles. John took one of
these and handed it to me, saying, "This is one of my earlier gadgets,
the world's perfect wool-winder. No curates need henceforth apply. The
Church's undoing! Put the skein on those prongs, and an end of wool in
that slot, then waggle the lever, so, and you get a ball of wool as
sleek as the curate's head. All made of aluminum sheeting, and a few
aluminum knitting needles."

"Damned ingenious," I said, "but what good is it to you?"

"Why, you fool! I'm going to patent it and sell the patent."

Producing a deep leather pouch, he said, "This is a detachable and
untearable trouser-pocket for boys; and men, if they'll have the sense
to use it. The pocket itself clips on to this L-shaped strip, so; and
_all_ your trousers have strips like this, firmly sewn into the lining.
You have _one_ pair of pockets for _all_ your trousers, so there's no
bother about emptying pockets when you change your clothes. And no more
holes for Mummy to mend. And no more losing your treasures. Your pocket
clips tight shut, so."

Even my interest in John's amazing enterprise (so childish and so
brilliant, I told myself) could not prevent me from feeling wet and
chilled. Taking off my dripping mackintosh, I said, "Don't you get
horribly cold working in this hole in the winter?"

"I heat the place with this," he said, turning to a little oil-stove
with a flue leading round the room and through the wall. He proceeded to
light it, and put a kettle on the top, saying, "Let's have some coffee."

He then gave me a "gadget for sweeping out corners." On the end of a
long tubular handle was a brush like a big blunt cork-screw. This could
be made to rotate by merely pressing it into the awkward corner. The
rotatory motion was obtained by a device reminiscent of a "propelling"
pencil, for the actual shaft of the brush was keyed into a spiral groove
within the hollow handle.

"It's possible the thing I'm on now will bring more money than anything
else, but it's damned hard to make even an inch or two of it by hand."
The article which John now showed me was destined to become one of the
most popular and serviceable of modern devices connected with clothing.
Throughout Europe and America it has spawned its myriads of offspring.
Nearly all the most ingenious and lucrative of John's inventions have
had such outstanding success that almost every reader must be familiar
with every one of them. I could mention a score of them; but for private
reasons, connected with John's family, I must refrain from doing so. I
will only say that, save for one universally adopted improvement in
road-traffic appliances, he worked entirely in the field of household
and personal labour-saving devices. The outstanding fact about John's
career as an inventor was his knack of producing not merely occasional
successes but a steady flow of "best sellers." Consequently to describe
only a few minor achievements and interesting failures must give a very
false impression of his genius. The reader must supplement this meagre
report by means of his own imagination. Let him, in the act of using any
of the more cunning and efficient little instruments of modern comfort,
remind himself that this may well be one of the many "gadgets" which
were conceived by the urchin-superman in his subterranean lair.

For some time John continued to show me his inventions. I may mention a
parsley cutter, a potato-peeler, a number of devices for using old
razor-blades as penknife, scissors, and so on. Others, to repeat, were
destined never to be taken up, or never to become popular. Of these
perhaps the most noteworthy was a startlingly efficient dodge for saving
time and trouble in the watercloset. John himself had doubts about some,
including the detachable pocket. "The trouble is," he said, "that
however good my inventions are, _Homo sapiens_ may be too prejudiced to
use them. I expect he'll stick to his bloody pockets."

The kettle was boiling, so he made the coffee and produced a noble cake,
made by Pax.

While we were drinking and munching I asked him how he got all his
plant. "It's all paid for," he said. "I came in for a bit of money. I'll
tell you about that some day. But I want _much_ more money, and I'll get
it too."

"You were lucky to find this cave," I said. He laughed, "Find it, you
chump! I made it. Dug it out with pick and spade and my own lily-white
hands." (At this point he reached out a grubby and sinewy bunch of
tentacles for a biscuit.) "It was the hell of a grind, but it hardened
my muscles."

"And how did you transport the stuff, that lathe, for instance?" "By
sea, of course." "Not in the canoe!" I protested. "Had it all sent to
X," he said, naming a little port on the other side of the estuary.
"There's a bloke over there who acts as my agent in little matters like
that. He's safe, because I know things about him that he doesn't want
the police to know. Well, he dumped the cases of parts on the shore over
there one night while I pinched one of the Sailing Club's cutters and
took her over to fetch the stuff. It had to be done at spring tide, and
of course the weather was all wrong. When I got the stuff over I nearly
died lugging it up here from the shore, though it was all in small
pieces. And I only just managed to get the cutter back to her moorings
before dawn. Thank God that's all over. Have another cup, won't you?"

Toasting ourselves over the oil-stove, we now discussed the part which
John intended me to play in his preposterous adventure. I was at first
inclined to scoff at the whole project, but what with his diabolical
persuasiveness and the fact that he had already achieved so much, I
found myself agreeing to carry out my share of the plan. "You see," he
said, "all this stuff must be patented and the patents sold to
manufacturers. It's quite useless for a kid like me to interview patent
agents and business men. That's where you come in. You're going to
launch all these things, sometimes under your own name, sometimes under
sham names. I don't want people to know they all come from one little
brain."

"But, John," I said, "I should get stung every time. I know nothing
about the job."

"That's all right," he answered. "I'll tell you exactly what to do in
each case. And if you do make a few mistakes, it doesn't matter."

One odd feature of the relationship which he had planned for us was
that, though we expected to deal with large sums of money, there was not
to be any regularized business arrangement between us, no formal
agreement about profit-sharing and liabilities. I suggested a written
contract, but he dismissed the idea with contempt. "My dear man," he
said, "how could I enforce a contract against you without coming out of
hiding, which I must not do on any account? Besides, I know perfectly
well that so long as you keep in physical and mental health you're
entirely reliable. And you ought to know the same of me. This is to be a
friendly show. You can take as much as you like of the dibs, when they
begin to come in. I'll bet my boots you won't want to take half as much
as your services are worth. Of course, if you start taking that girl of
yours to the Riviera by air every week-end, we'll have to begin
regularizing things. But you won't."

I asked him about a banking account. "Oh," he said, "I've had one
running for some time at a London branch of the -------- Bank. But the
payments will have to be made to you at your bank mostly, so as to keep
me dark. These gadgets are to go out as yours, not mine, and as the
inventions of lots of imaginary people. You're their agent."

"But," I protested, "don't you see you're giving me absolute power to
swindle you out of the whole proceeds? Suppose I just use you? Suppose
the taste of power goes to my head, and I collar everything? I'm only
_Homo sapiens_, not _Homo superior_." And for once I privately felt that
John was perhaps not so superior after all.

John laughed delightedly at the title, but said, "My _dear_ thing, you
just won't. No, no, I refuse to have any business arrangements. That
would be too 'sapient' altogether. We should never be able to trust one
another. Probably I'd cheat you all round, just for fun."

"Oh, well," I sighed, "you'll keep accounts and see how the money goes."

"Keep accounts, man! What in hell do I want with accounts? I keep 'em in
my head, but never look at 'em."




CHAPTER VII
FINANCIAL VENTURES


Henceforth my own work was seriously interfered with by my increasing
duties in connexion with John's commercial enterprise. I spent a great
deal of my time travelling about the country, visiting patent agents and
manufacturers. Quite often John accompanied me. He had always to be
introduced as "a young friend of mine who would so like to see the
inside of a factory." In this way he picked up a lot of knowledge of the
powers and limitations of different kinds of machines, and was thus
helped to produce easily manufacturable designs.

It was on these expeditions that I first came to realize that even John
had his disability, his one blind spot, I called it. I approached these
industrial gentlemen with painful consciousness that they could do what
they liked with me. Generally I was kept from disaster by the advice of
the patent agents, who, being primarily scientists, were on our side not
only professionally but by sympathy. But quite often the manufacturer
managed to get at me direct. On several of these occasions I was pretty
badly stung. Nevertheless, I learned in time to be more able to hold my
own with the commercial mind. John, on the other hand, seemed incapable
of believing that these people were actually less interested in
producing ingenious articles than in getting the better of us, and of
every one else. Of course, he knew intellectually that it was so. He was
as contemptuous of the morality as of the intelligence of _Homo
sapiens_. But he could not "feel it in his bones" that men could really
"be such _fools_ as to care so much about sheer money-making as a game
of skill." Like any other boy, he could well appreciate the thrill of
beating a rival in personal combat, and the thrill of triumph in
practical invention. But the battle of industrial competition made no
appeal whatever to him, and it took him many months of bitter experience
to realize how much it meant to most men. Though he was himself in the
thick of a great commercial adventure, he never felt the fascination of
business undertakings as such. Though he could enter zestfully into most
of man's instinctive and primitive passions, the more artificial
manifestations of those passions, and in particular the lust of economic
individualism, found no spontaneous echo in him. In time, of course, he
learned to expect men to manifest such passions, and he acquired the
technique of dealing with them. But he regarded the whole commercial
world with a contempt which suggested now the child, and now the
philosopher. He was at once below it and above it.

Thus it was that in the first phase of John's commercial life it fell to
me to play the part of hard-headed business man. Unfortunately, as was
said, I myself was extremely ill-equipped for the task, and at the
outset we parted with several good inventions for a price which we
subsequently discovered to be ludicrously inadequate.

But in spite of early disasters we were in the long run amazingly
successful. We launched scores of ingenious contrivances which have
since become universally recognized as necessary adjuncts of modern
life. The public remarked on the spate of minor inventions which (it was
said) showed the resilience of human capacity a few years after the war.

Meanwhile our bank balance increased by leaps and bounds, while our
expenses remained minute. When I suggested setting up a decent workshop
in my name in a convenient place, John would not hear of it. He produced
a number of poor arguments against the plan, and I concluded that he was
determined to cling to his lair for no reason but boyish love of
sensationalism. But presently he divulged his real reason, and it
horrified me. "No," he said, "we mustn't spend yet. We must speculate.
That bank balance must be multiplied by a hundred, and then by a
thousand."

I protested that I knew nothing about finance, and that we might easily
lose all we had. He assured me that he had been studying finance, and
that he already had a few neat little plans in mind. "John," I said,
"you simply mustn't do it. That's the sort of field where sheer
intelligence is not enough. You want half a lifetime's special knowledge
of the stock market. And anyhow it's nearly all luck."

It was no use talking. After all, he had good reason to trust his own
judgement rather than mine. And he gave evidence that he had gone into
the subject thoroughly, both by reading the financial journals and by
ingratiating himself with local stockbrokers on the morning and evening
trains to town. He had by now passed far beyond the nave child that had
interviewed Mr. Magnate, and he was, as ever, an adept at making people
talk about their own work.

"It's now or never," he said. "We're entering a boom, inevitable after
the war; but in a few years we shall be in the midst of such a slump
that people will wonder if civilization is going smash. You'll see."

I laughed at his assurance, and was treated to a lecture on economics
and the state of Western society, the sort of thing that in eight or ten
years was to be generally accepted among the more advanced students of
social problems. At the end of this discourse John said, "We'll put half
our capital into British light industry--motors, electricity and so on,
because that sort of thing is bound to go ahead, comparatively. The rest
we'll use for speculation."

"We'll lose the whole lot, I expect," I grumbled. Then I tried a new
line of attack. "Anyhow isn't all this money-making a bit too trivial
for _Homo superior_? I believe you're bitten by the speculation bug
after all. I mean, what is the object of it all?"

"It's all right, Fido, old thing," he answered. (It was about this time
that he began to use this nickname for me. When I protested, he assured
me that it was meant to be [Greek: phaid], which name, he said, was
connected with the Greek for "brilliant.") "It's all right. I'm quite
sane still. I don't care a damn about finance for its own sake, but
in the world of _Hom. sap._ it's the quickest way to get power, which
means money. And I must have money, big money. Now don't snort! We've
made a good little start, but it's _only_ a start."

"What about 'advancing the spirit,' as you called it?"

"That's the goal, all right; but you seem to forget I'm only a child,
and very backward too, in all that really matters. I must do the things
I _can_ do before the things I can't _yet_ do. And what I can do is to
prepare--by getting (_a_) experience, (_b_) independence. See?"

Evidently the thing had to be. But it was with grave misgiving that I
agreed to act as John's financial agent; and when he insisted on
indulging in various wild speculations against my advice, I began to
tell myself that I had been a fool to treat him as anything but a
brilliant child.

John's financial operations did not spontaneously hold his attention as
his practical inventions had done. And by now both kinds of activity
were being subordinated increasingly to the study of human society and
the absorbing personal contacts which came to him with adolescence.
There was a certain absent-mindedness and dilatoriness about his buying
and selling of stock, very exasperating to me, his agent. For though
most of our common fortune was in my name, I could never bring myself to
act without his consent.

During the first six months of our speculative ventures we lost far more
than we gained. John at last woke up to the fact that if we went on this
way we should lose everything. After hearing of a particularly
devastating disaster he indulged in a memorable outburst. "Blast!" he
said. "It means I must take this damned dull game much more seriously.
And there's so much else to be done just now, far more important in the
long run. I see it may be as difficult for me to beat _Hom. sap._ at
this game as it is for _Hom. sap._ to beat apes at acrobatics. The human
body is not equipped for the jungle, and my mind may not be equipped for
the jungle of individualistic finance. But I'll get round it somehow,
just as _Hom. sap._ got round acrobatics."

It was characteristic of John that when he had made a serious mistake
through lack of experience he never tried to conceal the fact. On this
occasion he recounted with complete detachment, neither blaming nor
excusing himself, how he, the intellectual superior of all men, had been
tricked by a common swindler. One of his financial acquaintances had
evidently guessed that the boy's interest in speculation had ulterior
sources, in fact that some adult with money to invest was using him as a
spy. This individual proceeded to treat John extremely well, and to
"prattle to him about his ventures," anxiously pledging him to secrecy.
In this way _Homo superior_ was completely diddled by _Homo sapiens_.
John insisted that I should put large sums of money into concerns which
his friend had advocated. At first I refused; but John was blandly
confident in his alleged "inside information that it's an absolute
scoop," and finally I consented. I need not recount the history of these
disastrous speculations. Suffice it that we lost everything that we had
risked, and that John's friend disappeared.

For some time after this disaster we refrained from speculation. John
spent a good deal of his time away from home and away from his workshop
also. When I asked what he had been up to, he usually said, "studying
finance," but refused any further information. During this period his
health began to deteriorate. His digestion, always his weakest spot,
gave him some trouble, and he complained of headaches. Evidently he was
leading a rather unwholesome life.

He began to spend many of his nights away from home. His father had
relatives in London, and increasingly often John was allowed to visit
them. But the relatives did not for long tolerate his independence. (He
disappeared every morning and returned late at night or not till the
next day, and refused to give an account of his actions.) Consequently
these visits had to cease. But John, meanwhile, had learnt that, in
summer, he could live the life of a stray cat in the Metropolis, in
spite of the police. To his parents he said that he knew "a man who had
a flat who would let him sleep there any night." Actually, as I learned
much later, he used to sleep in parks and under bridges.

I learned also how he had occupied himself. By a series of tricks of the
"gate-crashing" type he had managed to make contacts with several big
financiers in London, and had set about captivating and amusing them,
and unobtrusively picking their brains, before they sent him by car with
a covering note to his indignant relatives, or paid his railway fare
home to the North, and sent the letter by post.

Here is a specimen, one of many such documents which caused much
perturbation to Doc and Pax.

    Dear Sir,

    Your small son's bicycle tour came to an untimely end yesterday
    evening owing to a collision with my car near Guildford. He
    fully admits that the fault was his own. He is unhurt, but the
    bicycle is past repair. As it was late, I took him to my home
    for the night. I congratulate you on having a very remarkable
    boy whose precocious passion for finance was extremely
    entertaining to my party. My chauffeur will put him on the 10:26
    at Euston this morning. I am telegraphing you to that effect.

    Yours faithfully,
    _(Signed by a personage whose name I had better not divulge.)_

John's parents, and I also, knew that he was on a bicycling tour, but we
supposed him to have gone into North Wales. The fact that he had been so
soon encountered in Surrey proved that he must have taken his bicycle by
train. Needless to say, John did not turn up by the 10:26 from Euston.
He gave the chauffeur the slip, poor man, by jumping out of the car in a
traffic jam. That night he spent as the guest of another financier. If I
remember rightly, he arrived in the late afternoon at the front door
with a story that he and his mother were staying somewhere near, and
that he had lost his way and forgotten the address. As police inquiries
failed to discover his mother in the neighbourhood, he was kept for the
night, and then for the following night, in fact for the Saturday and
Sunday. I have no doubt that he made good use of the time. On Monday
morning, when the great man had gone to business, he disappeared.

After some months spent partly on such adventures, partly on close study
of the literature of finance and political economy and social changes,
John felt himself ready to take action once more. He knew that I was
likely to be sceptical of his plans, so he operated with money standing
in his own name, and told me nothing until, six months later, he was
able to show me the results in the shape of a considerable sum standing
to his credit.

As time passed it became clear that he had mastered financial
speculation as effectively as he had mastered mathematics. I have no
knowledge of the principles on which he went to work, for henceforth I
played no part in his business deals, save occasionally as his agent
when a personal interview was to be undertaken. I remember his saying
once when we were reviewing our position, "After all there's not much in
this speculation game, once you know your facts and get the hang of the
way money trickles about the world. Of course there's a frightful lot of
mere flukiness about it. You can never be _quite_ sure which way the cat
will jump. But if you know your cat well (_Hom. sap._ I mean), and if
you know the ground well, you can't go far wrong in the long run."

By the use of his new technique John gradually, throughout the earlier
part of his adolescence, amassed a very imposing fortune, much of which
was legally owned by me. It may seem strange that he never told his
parents about his wealth until the time came for him to use it on a
lavish scale. "I don't want to upset their lives sooner than I need," he
said, "and I don't want to give them the worry of trying not to blab."
On the other hand he allowed them to know that _I_ had come in for a lot
of money (supposed to be entirely due to luck on the Stock Exchange),
and he was glad that I should help his parents in a number of ways, such
as paying for the education of his brother and sister, and taking them
all (John included) on foreign holidays. The parental gratitude, I may
say, was extremely embarrassing. John made it more so by joining
unctuously in the chorus, and dubbing me "The Benefactor," which title
he soon shortened aggravatingly to "The Benny," and subsequently changed
to "The Bean."




CHAPTER VIII
SCANDALOUS ADOLESCENCE


Although during a large part of his fourteenth year finance constituted
John's main occupation, his attention was never wholly absorbed by it;
and after his period of intensive study and speculation he was able to
continue the business of gaining monetary power while giving the best of
his energies to very different matters. He was increasingly intrigued by
the new experiences consequent on adolescence. At the same time he was
very seriously engaged on the study of the potentialities and
limitations of _Homo sapiens_ as manifested in contemporary
world-problems. And as his opinion of the normal species became more and
more unflattering, he began to turn his attention to the search for
other individuals of his own calibre. Though all these activities were
pursued together, it will be convenient to deal with them separately.

The onset of John's adolescence was very late compared with that of the
normal human being, and its duration was extremely prolonged. At
fourteen he was physically comparable with a normal child of ten. When
he died, at twenty-three, he was still in appearance a lad of seventeen.
Yet, though physically he was always far behind his years, mentally, and
not merely in intelligence but also in temperament and sensibility, he
often seemed to be incredibly advanced beyond his actual age. This
mental precocity, I should say, was entirely due to imaginative power.
Whereas the normal child clings to the old interests and attitudes long
after more developed capacities have actually begun to awaken in him,
John seemed to seize upon every budding novelty in his own nature and
"force" it into early bloom by the sheer intensity and heat of his
imagination.

This was obvious, for instance, in the case of his sexual experience. It
should be said that his parents were for their time exceptional in their
attitude to sex in their children. All three grew up unusually free from
the common shames and obsessions. Doc took a frankly physiological view
of sexual development; and Pax treated the sexual curiosity and
experimentation of her children in a perfectly open and humorous way.

Thus John may be said to have had an exceptionally good start. But the
use which he made of it was very different from that which satisfied his
brother and sister. They were exceptional only in being permitted to
develop naturally, and in thus escaping the normal distortions. They did
all that most children were solemnly forbidden to do, and they were not
condemned. I have no doubt that they practised whatever "vices" they
happened to think of, and then passed light-heartedly to other
interests. In the home circle they would prattle about sex and
conception in a shameless manner; but not in public, "because people
don't understand yet that it doesn't matter." Later they obviously had
their romantic attachments. And later still they both married, and are
seemingly well content.

The case of John was strikingly different. Like them, he passed in
infancy through a phase of intense interest in his own body. Like them
he found peculiar gratification in certain parts of his body. But
whereas with them sexual interest began long before consciousness of
personality had become at all precise, with John self-consciousness and
other-consciousness were already vivid and detailed long before the
onset of adolescence. Consequently, when that great change first began
to affect him, and his imagination seized upon its earliest mental
symptoms, he plunged headlong into kinds of behaviour that might have
been deemed far beyond his years.

For instance, when John was ten, but physiologically much younger, he
went through a phase of sexual interest more or less equivalent to the
infantile sexuality of the normal type, but enlivened by his precocious
intelligence and imagination. For some weeks he amused himself and
outraged the neighbours by decorating walls and gate-posts with
"naughty" drawings in which particular adults whom he disliked were
caricatured in the act of committing various "wicked" practices. He also
enticed his friends into his evil ways, and caused such a storm among
the local parents that his father had to intervene. This phase, I take
it, was due largely to a sense of impotence and consequent inferiority.
He was trying to be sexually mature before his body was ready. After a
week or two he apparently worked through this interest, as he had worked
through the interest in personal combat.

But as the months advanced into years, he obviously felt an increasing
delight in his own body, and this came in time to change his whole
attitude to life. At fourteen he was generally taken for a strange child
of ten, though it was not unusual for an observer sensitive to facial
expression to suppose him some kind of "genius" of eighteen with
arrested physique. His general proportions were those of a ten-year-old;
but over a childlike skeleton he bore a lean and knotted musculature
about which his father used to say that it was not quite human, and that
there ought to be a long prehensile tail to complete the picture. How
far this muscular development was due to nature, and how far to his
deliberate physical culture, I do not know.

His face was already changing from the infantile to the boyish in
underlying structure; but the ceaseless expressive movements of mouth
and nostrils and brows were already stamping it with an adult, alien,
and almost inhuman character. Thinking of him at this period, I recall a
creature which appeared as urchin but also as sage, as imp but also as
infant deity. In summer his usual dress was a coloured shirt, shorts and
sandshoes, all of them fairly grubby. His large head and close platinum
wool, and his immense green-rimmed, falcon eyes, gave one a sense that
these commonplace clothes had been assumed as a disguise.

Such was his general appearance when he began to discover a vast
attractiveness in his own person, and a startling power of seducing
others to delight in him no less luxuriously than he did himself. His
will to conquest was probably much exaggerated by the knowledge that
from the point of view of the normal species there was something
grotesque and repellent about him. His narcissism was also, I imagine,
aggravated and prolonged by the fact that, from his own point of view,
there was no other to meet him on an equal footing, none fit for him to
regard with that blend of selfishness and devotion which is romantic
love.

I must make it clear that in reporting John's behaviour at this time I
do not seek to defend it. Much of it seems to me outrageous. Had it been
perpetrated by anyone other than John, I should have unhesitatingly
condemned it as the expression of a self-centred and shockingly
perverted mind. But in spite of the most reprehensible incidents in his
career, I am convinced that John was far superior to the rest of us in
moral sensibility, as in intelligence. Therefore, even in respect of the
seemingly disgraceful conduct which I have now to describe, I feel that
the right course is not to condemn but to suspend judgement and try to
understand. I tell myself that, if John was indeed a superior being,
much of his conduct would certainly outrage us, simply because we, with
our grosser sensibility, would never be able to apprehend its true
nature. In fact, had his behaviour been simply an idealization of normal
human behaviour, I should have been _less_ disposed to regard him as of
an essentially different and superior type. On the other hand it should
be remembered that, though superior in capacity, he was also juvenile,
and may well have suffered in his own way from the inexperience and
crudity of the juvenile mind. Finally, his circumstances were such as to
warp him, for he found himself alone in a world of beings whom he
regarded as only half human.

It was in his fourteenth year that John's new consciousness of himself
first appeared, and shortly after his fourteenth birthday that it
expressed itself in what I can only call an orgy of ruthless vamping. I
myself was one of the few persons within his circle at whom he never
"set his cap," and I was exempt only because he could not regard me as
fair game. I was his slave, his hound, toward whom he felt a certain
responsibility. One other who escaped was Judy; for there again he felt
no need to enforce his attractiveness, and there again he felt
responsibility and affection.

So far as I know, his first serious affair was with the unfortunate
Stephen, now a consciously grown-up young man who went to business every
day. Stephen had a girl friend whom he took out on Saturdays on his
motor-bike. One Saturday, when John and I were returning from a business
trip in my car (we had visited a rubber factory), we stopped for tea at
a popular roadside caf. We found Stephen and his girl inside, almost
ready to leave. John persuaded them to "stay and talk to us for a bit".
The girl was obviously reluctant, having perhaps already had reason to
dislike John's behaviour toward her man; but Stephen delayed departure.
Then began a most distressing scene. John behaved toward Stephen in a
manner calculated to eclipse the young woman at his side. He prattled.
He sparkled with just the right standard of wit to fascinate Stephen and
pass over the head of his simple companion. He kept the whole
conversation well beyond her powers, occasionally appealing to her in a
manner likely to trap her into making herself ridiculous. He faced
Stephen now with the shy hauteur of a deer, now with seductiveness. He
found excuses to move about the room and display his curiously feline,
though also coltish, grace. Stephen was obviously captivated against his
will, and, I feel sure, not for the first time. Toward the girl his
gallantry grew laboured and false. She, poor outclassed little creature,
could not conceal her distress, but Stephen never noticed it, for he was
hypnotized. At last she looked at her watch and tremulously snapped,
"It's frightfully late. Please take me home." But even as they were
leaving the room John enticed Stephen back for a final sally.

When the couple had gone I told John very emphatically what I thought of
his behaviour. He looked at me with the offensive complacency of a cat,
then drawled, "_Homo sapiens!_" Whether he was referring to me or to
Stephen was not clear. But presently he said, "Tickle him the right way,
and you've got him."

A week later people were talking about the change in Stephen. They said
"he ought to be ashamed to carry on that way with the boy," and that
John would be ruined. When I saw the two of them together, I felt that
Stephen was struggling heroically against an obsession. He shunned all
physical contact with John, but when contact came, either by accident or
through John's contrivance, he was electrified, and could not help
prolonging it under a pretence of ragging. John himself appeared to be
suffering from a conflict of luxury and disgust. It was clear that he
was gratified by his conquest, but at the same time he was repelled.
Often he would terminate an amatory brawl with harshness, venting his
repulsion by some unexpected piece of brutality, pushing his thumb
fiercely into Stephen's eye, or tearing at his ear. As on an earlier
occasion, my disgust and indignation at this kind of behaviour seemed to
lead John to self-criticism. He was not above learning from his
inferiors. His attitude to Stephen changed back to "man to man"
comradeship, tempered by an almost humble gentleness. Stephen, too,
slowly woke from his infatuation, but he woke with lasting scars.

For some weeks John refrained, so far as I know, from activities of this
kind. But his behaviour toward his elders had become definitely more
self-conscious and more body-conscious. He was evidently discovering in
his own person an interest which had hitherto escaped him. He studied
the art of displaying the bizarre attractiveness of his young body to
the best advantage in the eyes of the inferior species. Of course he was
far too intelligent to indulge in those excesses of adornment which so
often render the adolescent ludicrous. Indeed, I doubt whether any but
the most intimate and persevering observer would have guessed that the
artistry of his behaviour was at all conscious. That it actually was so
I inferred from the fact that it varied according to the standards of
his audience, now expressing the crudest sort of self-delight and
shameless seductiveness, now attaining to that unadorned and steely
grace which was to characterize the later John.

During the eighteen months before he reached the age of sixteen John
indulged in occasional and abortive love-affairs with older boys and
young men. He was still sexually undeveloped, but imagination
forestalled his physique, and made him capable of amatory sensitiveness
beyond his years. Throughout this phase, however, he seemed indifferent
to the fact that most girls showed some degree of physical repulsion in
his presence.

But when he was sixteen, and in appearance a queer sort of
twelve-year-old, he turned his attention to woman. For some weeks the
girls with whom he came in contact had shown a more positive, often a
positively vindictive, attitude to him. This suggests at least that they
were being forced to take note of him with new eyes, and that he had
already begun to study a new technique of behaviour, directed toward the
opposite sex.

Having perfected his technique, he proceeded to use it with cold
deliberation upon one of the acknowledged stars of local society. This
haughty young woman, who bore the surprising name of Europa, was the
daughter of a wealthy shipowner. She was fair, large, athletic. Her
normal expression was a rather contemptuous pout, tempered by a certain
cow-like wistfulness about the eyes. She had been engaged twice, but
rumour affirmed that her experience of the opposite sex had been far
more intimate than was justified by mere betrothal.

One afternoon down at the bathing place accident (seemingly) brought
John to the notice of Europa. She was lying in the sun, attended by her
admirers. Unwitting, she had settled herself close to John's towel. Her
elbow was on the corner of it. John, needing to dry himself after a
swim, approached her from behind, mildly tugged at the towel and
murmured, "Excuse me." She turned, found a grotesque young face close to
her own, gave a start of repulsion, hastily released the towel, and
recovered her composure by remarking to her audience, "Heavens! What an
imp!" John must have heard.

Later, when Europa executed one of her admirable dives from the top
board, John evidently managed to get entangled with her under water, for
they came up together in close contact. John laughed, and broke away.
Europa was left gasping for a moment, then she, too, laughed, and
returned to the diving platform. John, looking like a gargoyle, was
already squatting on one of the boards. As she stretched her arms for
the dive, she remarked with kindly contempt, "You won't catch me this
time, little monkey." John dropped like a stone, and entered the water
half a second behind her. After a considerable time they appeared
together again. Europa was seen to smack his face, break from his
clinging arm, and make for shore. There, she sunned and preened herself.

John now disported himself in her view, diving and swimming. He had
invented a stroke of his own, very different from the "trudgeon" which
was still at this time almost unchallenged in the remote northern
provinces. Lying on his stomach in the water and flicking his feet
alternately, while his arms behaved in the ordinary "trudgeon" manner,
he was able to outstrip many experts older than himself. Some said that
if he would only learn a decent stroke he would develop into a really
fine swimmer. No one in the little provincial suburb realized that
John's eccentric stroke, or something very like it, a product of
Polynesia, was even then ousting the "trudgeon" from the more advanced
swimming circles of Europe and America, and even England.

With this eccentric stroke John displayed his prowess before the
reluctantly attentive eyes of Europa. Presently he came out of the water
and played ball with his companions, running, leaping, twisting, with
that queer grace which few could detect, but by which those few were
strangely enthralled. Europa, talking to her swains, watched and was
evidently intrigued.

In the course of the game John threw the ball, seemingly by accident, so
that it knocked her cigarette from her hand. He leapt to her, sank on
one knee, took the outraged fingers and kissed them, with mock gallantry
and a suggestion of real tenderness. Every one laughed. Still holding
Europa's hand, he brought his great eyes to bear upon her face,
inquiringly. The proud Europa laughed, unaccountably blushed, withdrew
her hand.

This was the beginning. There is no need to follow the stages by which
the urchin captured the princess. It is enough to dwell for a moment on
their relations when the affair was at its height. Little knowing what
was in store for her, Europa encouraged the juvenile philanderer, not
only at the swimming pool, where they gambolled together, but also by
taking him out in her car. John, I should say, was much too wise, and
much too occupied with other matters, to make his society cheap. Their
meetings were not very frequent; but they were frequent enough to secure
his prey.

The metaphor is perhaps unjust. I do not pretend to be able to analyse
John's motives adequately, even the comparatively simple motives of his
adolescence. Though I feel fairly sure that the origin of his attack
upon Europa was his new craving to be admired by a woman in her prime, I
can well believe that, as the relationship developed, he came to regard
her in a much more complex manner. He sometimes watched her with an
expression in which aloofness struggled not only with contempt but with
genuine admiration. His delight in her caresses was doubtless in part
due to dawning sexual appreciation. But though he could imaginatively
judge her and enjoy her from the point of view of the male of her
species, he was, I think, always conscious of her biological and
spiritual inferiority to himself. The delight of conquest and the luxury
of physical contact with a full-blooded and responsive woman were always
for him poisoned by the sense that this contact was with a brute, with
something which could never satisfy his deeper needs, and might debase
him.

On Europa the relationship had striking effects. The swains found
themselves spurned. Bitter taunts were flung. It was said that she had
"fallen for a kid, and a freak kid, too." She herself was obviously torn
between the need to preserve her dignity and the half-sexual,
half-maternal hunger which John had inspired. Horror at her plight and
revulsion from the strangeness of the thing that had enthralled her made
matters worse. She once said something to me which revealed the nerve of
her feeling for John. It was at a tennis party. She and I were alone for
a few minutes. Examining her racquet, she suddenly asked, "Do _you_
blame me, about John?" While I was trying to reply, she added, "I expect
_you_ know what a power he has. He's like--a god pretending to be a
monkey. When you've been noticed by him, you can't bother about ordinary
people."

The climax of this strange affair must have happened very shortly after
that incident. I heard the story from John himself several years later.
He had laughingly threatened to invade Europa's bedroom one night by way
of the window. It seemed to her an impossible feat, and she dared him to
do it. In the small hours of the following morning she woke to a soft
touch on her neck. She was being kissed. Before she had time to scream a
well-known boyish voice made known that the invader was John. What with
astonishment, amusement, defiance and sexual-maternal craving, Europa
seems to have made but a half-hearted resistance to the boy's advances.
I can imagine that in the grip of his still childish arms she found an
intoxicating blend of the innocent and the virile. After some protest
and sweet struggle she threw prudence to the winds and responded with
passion. But when she began to cling to him, revulsion and horror
invaded him. The spell was broken.

The caressing fingers, which at first had seemed to open up for him a
new world of mutual intimacy, affection, trust, in relation with a
spirit of his own stature, became increasingly subhuman, "as though a
dog were smelling round me, or a monkey." The impression became so
strong that he finally sprang from the bed and disappeared through the
window, leaving his shirt and shorts behind him. So hasty was his
retreat that he actually bungled the descent in a most un-John-like
manner, fell heavily into a flower-bed, and limped home in the darkness
with a sprained ankle.

For some weeks John was painfully torn between attraction and repulsion,
but never again did he climb into Europa's window. She, for her part,
was evidently horrified at her own behaviour, for she deliberately
avoided her boy-lover, and when she encountered him in public she acted
the part of the remote though kindly adult. Presently, however, she
realized that John's attitude to her had changed, that his ardour had
apparently cooled and given place to a gentle and disconcerting
protectiveness.

When John took me into his confidence about his relations with Europa,
he said, if I remember rightly, something like this. "That one night
gave me my first real shaking. Before, I had been sure of myself;
suddenly I found myself swept this way and that by currents that I could
neither stem nor understand. I had done something that night which I
knew deeply I was _meant_ to do, but it was somehow all _wrong_. Time
after time, during the next few weeks, I went to Europa intending to
make love to her, but when I found her I just didn't. Before I reached
her I'd be all full of the recollection of that night, and her vital
responsiveness, and her so-called beauty; but when I saw her--well, I
felt as Titania felt when she woke to see that Bottom was an ass. Dear
Europa seemed just a nice old donkey, a fine one of course, but rather
ridiculous and pitiable because of her soullessness. I felt no
resentment against her, just kindness and responsibility. Once, for the
sake of experiment, I started being amorous, and she, poor thing,
rejoiced like an encouraged dog. But it wouldn't do. Something fierce in
me rose up and stopped me, and filled me with an alarming desire to get
my knife into her breasts and smash up her face. Then something else
woke in me that looked down on the whole matter from a great height and
felt a sort of passion of contemptuous affection for us both; but gave
me a mighty scolding."

At this point, I remember, there was a long silence. At last John told
me something which it is better not to report. I did, indeed, write a
careful account of this most disturbing incident in his career; and I
confess that at the time I was so deeply under the spell of his
personality that I could not feel his behaviour to have been vile. I
recognized, of course, that it was flagrantly unconventional. But I had
so deep an affection and respect for both the persons concerned that I
gladly saw the affair as John wished me to see it. Years later, when I
innocently showed my manuscript to others of my species, they pointed
out that to publish such matter would be to shock many sensitive
readers, and to incur the charge of sheer licentiousness.

I am a respectable member of the English middle class, and wish to
remain so. All I will say, then, is that the _motive_ of the behaviour
which John confessed seems to have been double. First, he needed
soothing after the disastrous incident with Europa, and, therefore, he
sought delicate and intimate contact with a being whose sensibility and
insight were not wholly incomparable with his own; with a being,
moreover, who was beloved, who also loved him deeply, and would gladly
go to any lengths for his sake. Second, he needed to assert his moral
independence of _Homo sapiens_, to free himself of all deep unconscious
acquiescence in the conventions of the species that had nurtured him. He
needed, therefore, to break what was one of the most cherished of all
the taboos of that species.




CHAPTER IX
METHODS OF A YOUNG ANTHROPOLOGIST


John had been engaged in studying his world ever since he was born; but
from fourteen to seventeen this study became much more earnest and
methodical than it had been, and took the form of a far-reaching
examination of the normal species in respect of its nature, achievement
and present plight.

This vast enterprise had to be carried on in secret. John was determined
not to attract attention to himself. He had to behave as a naturalist
who studies the habits of some dangerous brute by stalking it with
field-glass and camera, and by actually insinuating himself among the
herd under a stolen skin, and an assumed odour.

Unfortunately, I cannot give at all a full account of this phase of
John's career, for I played but a minor part in it. His disguise was
always the precocious but nave "schoolboy" character which had served
him so well in making contact with financiers; and his approach was very
often a development of the "gate-crashing" tactics which he had used in
the same connexion. This technique was combined with his diabolically
skilled vamping. Always his methods were nicely adjusted to the
mentality of the particular quarry. I will mention only a few examples,
to give the reader some idea of the procedure, and then I will pass on
to record some of the ruthless judgements which his researches enabled
him to make.

He effected contact with a Cabinet minister by being taken ill outside
the great man's private residence at the moment when the minister's wife
was entering the house. It will be remembered that John had remarkable
control over his organic reflexes, and could influence his glandular
secretions, his temperature, his digestive processes, the rate of his
heart-beat, the distribution of blood in his body, and so on. By careful
manipulation of these controls he was able to produce a disorder the
symptoms of which were sufficiently alarming though its after-effects
were not serious. A pale pathetic wreck, he was laid on a couch and
mothered by the minister's wife while the minister himself phoned for
the family doctor. Before the physician arrived, John was already an
intriguing little convalescent, and was busy attaching the minister to
himself with subtle bonds of compassion and interest. The medical pundit
did his best to conceal his bewilderment, and recommended that the boy
should rest where he was till his parents were found. But John wailed
that his parents were away for the day, and the house would be shut till
the evening. Might he stay until their return, and then go home in a
taxi? By the time he left the house he had already gained some insight
into the mind of his host, and had secured an invitation to come again.

The artificial illness had proved so successful that it became one of
his favourite methods. He used it, for instance, to make contact with a
Communist leader, supplementing it with an account of his shocking
home-conditions since his father "got the sack for organizing a strike."
Variants of the same method of artificial illness, with appropriate
religious trimmings, were used also upon a bishop, a Catholic priest,
and several other clerical gentlemen. It also proved effective with a
woman M.P.

As an example of a different approach I may mention that John bagged an
eminent astronomer-physicist by writing him a schoolboyish letter of the
nave-brilliant kind, begging to be shown over an observatory. The
request was granted, and John turned up at the appointed _rendezvous_
equipped with schoolcap and a pocket telescope. This meeting led to
other connexions among physicists, biologists, physiologists.

The epistolary method was also used upon a well-known Cambridge
philosopher and social writer. This time the handwriting was disguised;
and, when finally John called on his man, he turned up with dyed hair,
dark glasses and a Cockney accent. He intended to assume a very
different character from that which had served with the astronomer; and
he was anxious to avoid all possibility that the philosopher might
identify him as the lad whom the astronomer had encountered.

The letter by which he effected this contact was nicely adapted to its
purpose. It combined crude handwriting, bad spelling, dislike of
religion, scraps of striking though crude philosophical analysis, and
enthusiasm for the philosopher's books. I quote a characteristic
passage:

    My father beet me for saying if god made the world he made a
    mess. I said you said it was silly to beet children, so he beet
    me again for knowing you said it. I said being abel to beet a
    fellow didn't proove he was wrong. He said I was evil to answer
    back on my father. I said wots good and evil anyhow but just wot
    I like and dont like. He said it was blastphemy. _Please_ let me
    call and ask you some questiuns about how a mind works and wot
    it is.

John had already made several visits to the philosopher's rooms in
Cambridge, when he received a note from the astronomer. I should have
explained that a young schoolmaster in a London suburb was allowing John
to use his flat as a postal address. The astronomer asked John to come
and meet "another very wide-awake boy," who lived in Cambridge and was a
friend of the philosopher. The ingenuity and relish which John displayed
in defeating the repeated efforts of both men to bring about this
meeting afforded me an amusing sidelight on his character, but I have
not space to describe it.

The epistolary approach was used with equal effect upon a well-known
modern poet. In this case the style of the letter and the _persona_
which John assumed in the subsequent interviews were very different from
those which had served for the astronomer and the philosopher. They were
adjusted, moreover, not precisely to the conscious mentality of the poet
as he was then known to the public and to himself, but to a mood or
attitude in him which was _subsequently_ to dominate his work. I quote
the most striking passage from John's letter:

    In all my hideous frustration of spirit, at home, at school, and
    in my confused attempts to come to terms with the modern world,
    the greatest comfort and source of strength is your poetry. How
    is it, I wonder, that, although you seem simply to describe a
    tortured and degenerate civilization, the very describing lends
    it dignity and significance, as though revealing it to be, after
    all, not _mere_ frustration, but the necessary darkness before
    some glorious enlightenment.

John's efforts were not directed solely upon the intelligentsia and the
leaders of political and social movements. Using appropriate methods, he
made friends with engineers, artisans, clerks, dock-labourers. He
acquired first-hand information about the mental differences between
South Wales and Durham coal-miners. He was smuggled into Trade Union
meetings. He had his soul saved in Baptist chapels. He received messages
from a mythical dead sister in spiritualists' _sances_. He spent some
weeks attached to a gipsy caravan, touring the southern counties. This
post he apparently gained by showing his proficiency at petty theft and
at repairing pots and pans.

One activity he repeated again and again, spending on it a length of
time which seemed to me disproportionate to its significance. He became
very friendly with the owner of a fishing smack near home, and would
often spend days or nights with this man and his mate on the estuary or
the open sea. When I asked John why he gave so much attention to the
fishing community and these two men in particular, he said, "Well,
they're damned fine stuff, these fishermen, and Abe and Mark are two of
the best. You see, when _Homo sapiens_ is up against the sort of job and
the sort of life that's not really beyond him, he's all right. It's only
when civilization gives him a job that's too much for his intelligence
or too much for his imagination that he fails. And then the failure
poisons him through and through." It was not till long afterwards that I
realized his ulterior purpose in giving so much attention to the sea. At
one time he became very friendly with the skipper of a coasting
schooner, and made several voyages with him up and down the narrow seas.
I ought to have realized that one motive of these adventures was the
desire to learn how to handle a ship.

One other matter should be mentioned here. John's study of _Homo
sapiens_ now extended to the European Continent. In my capacity of
family benefactor I was charged with the task of persuading Doc and Pax
to join me on excursions to France, Germany, Italy, Scandinavia. John
always accompanied us, with or without his brother and sister. Since Doc
could not leave his practice frequently or for long at a time, these
occasional family holidays had to be supplemented by trips in which the
parents did not participate. I would announce that I had to "run over to
Paris to a journalists' conference," or to Berlin to see a newspaper
proprietor, or to Prague to report on a conference of philosophers, or
to Moscow to see what they were doing about education. Then I would ask
the parents to let me take John. Consent was certain, and our plans were
often laid in detail before it was given. In this way John was enabled
to carry on abroad the researches that he was already pursuing in the
British Isles.

Foreign travel in John's company was apt to be a humiliating experience.
Not only did he learn to speak a new language in an incredibly short
time and in a manner indistinguishable from that of the native; he was
also amazingly quick at learning foreign customs and intuiting foreign
attitudes of mind. Consequently, even in countries with which I was
familiar I found myself outclassed by my companion within a few days
after his arrival.

When it was a case of learning a language entirely new to him, John
simply read through a grammar and a dictionary, took concentrated
courses of pronunciation from one or two natives or from gramophone
records, and proceeded to the country. At this stage he would be
regarded by natives as a native child who had been in foreign parts for
some time and had lost touch somewhat with his own speech. At the end of
a week or so, in the case of most European languages, no one would
suspect that he had ever been out of the country. Later in his career,
when his travels took him farther afield, he reckoned that even an
Eastern language, such as Japanese, could be thoroughly mastered in a
fortnight from his landing in the country.

Travelling with John on the European Continent I often asked myself why
I allowed this strange being to hold me perpetually as his slave. I had
much time for thought, for John was as often as not away hunting some
writer or scientist or priest, some politician or popular agitator. Or
else he was getting in touch with the workers by travelling in third or
fourth class railway carriages, or talking to navvies. While he was thus
engaged he often preferred to be without me. Every now and then,
however, I was needed to act the part of guardian or travelling tutor.
Sometimes, when John was particularly anxious to avoid giving any
suggestion of his unique superiority, he would coach me carefully before
the interview, priming me with questions to ask and observations to
make.

On one occasion, for instance, he persuaded me to take him to an eminent
psychiatrist. John himself played the part of a backward and neurotic
child while I discussed his case with the professional man. This
interview led to a course of treatment for John, and occasional meetings
between the psychiatrist and myself to discuss progress. The poor man
remained throughout ignorant that his small patient, seemingly so
absorbed in his own crazy fantasies, was all the while experimenting on
the physician, and that my own intelligent, though often provoking,
questions had all originated in the mind of the patient himself.

Why did I let John use me thus? Why did I allow him to occupy so much of
my time and attention, and to interfere so seriously with my career as a
journalist? It could hardly be said that he was lovable. Of course, he
was unique material for the journalist or the biographer, and I had
already decided that some day I would tell the world all that I knew of
him. But it is clear that even at this early stage the unfledged spirit
of John exercised over me a fascination more subtle than that of
novelty. I think I felt already that he was groping towards some kind of
spiritual re-orientation which would put the whole of existence in a new
light. And I hoped that I myself should catch some gleam of this
illumination. Not till much later did I realize that his vision was
essentially beyond the range of normal human minds.

For the present the only kind of illumination which came to John was
apparently a devastating conviction of the futility of the normal
species. To this discovery he reacted sometimes with mere contempt,
sometimes with horror at the doom which awaited the human world, and
with terror at his own entanglement in it. But on other occasions his
mood was compassion, and on others again sardonic delight, and yet on
others delight of a more serene kind in which compassion and horror and
grim relish were strangely transmuted.




CHAPTER X
THE WORLD'S PLIGHT


I shall now try to give some idea of John's reactions to our world by
setting down, more or less at random, some of his comments on
individuals and types, institutions and movements, which he studied
during this period.

Let us begin with the psychiatrist. John's verdict on this eminent
manipulator of minds seemed to me to show both his contempt for _Homo
sapiens_ and his sympathetic appreciation of the difficulties of beings
that are neither sheer animal nor fully human.

After our last visit to the consulting-room, indeed before the door was
closed behind us, John indulged in a long chuckling laugh that reminded
me of the cry of a startled grouse. "Poor devil!" he cried. "What else
could he do anyhow? He's got to _seem_ wise at all costs, even when he's
absolutely blank. He's in the same fix as a successful medium. He's not
just a quack. There's a lot of real sound stuff in his trade. No doubt
when he's dealing with straightforward cases of a fairly low mental
order, with troubles that are at bottom primitive, he fixes them up all
right. But even then he doesn't really know _what_ he's doing or _how_
he gets his cures. Of course, he has his theories, and they're damned
useful, too. He gives the wretched patient doses of twaddle, as a doctor
might give bread pills, and the poor fool laps it all up and feels
hopeful and manages to cure himself. But when another sort of case comes
along, who is living habitually on a mental storey about six floors
above our friend's own snug little flat, so to speak, there must be a
glorious fiasco. How can a mind of his calibre possibly understand a
mind that's at all aware of the really human things? I don't mean the
highbrow things. I mean subtle human contacts, and world-contacts. He is
a sort of highbrow, with his modern pictures and his books on the
unconscious. But he's not human in the full sense, even according to the
standards of _Homo sapiens_. He's not really grown up. And so, though he
doesn't know it, the poor man is all at sea when he comes up against
really grown-up people. For instance, in spite of his modern pictures,
he hasn't a notion what art is after, though he thinks he has. And he
knows less of philosophy, real philosophy, than an ostrich knows about
the upper air. You can't blame him. His wings just wouldn't carry his
big fleshy pedestrian mind. But that's no reason why he should make
matters worse by burying his head in the sand and kidding himself he
sees the foundations of human nature. When a really _winged_ case comes
along, with all sorts of troubles due to not giving his wings exercise,
our friend hasn't the slightest perception what's the matter. He says in
effect, 'Wings? What's wings? Just flapdoodle. Look at mine. Get 'em
atrophied as quick as possible, and bury your head in the sand to make
sure.' In fact he puts the patients into a sort of coma of the spirit.
If it lasts, he's permanently 'cured,' poor man, and completely
worthless. Often it _does_ last, because your psychiatrist is an
extremely good suggestionist. He could turn a saint into a satyr by mere
sleight of mind. God! Think of a civilization that hands over the cure
of souls to toughs like that! Of course, you can't blame him. He's a
decent sort on his own plane, and doing his bit. But it's no use
expecting a vet to mend a fallen angel."

If John was critical of psychiatry, he was no less so of the churches.
It was not only with the purpose of studying _Homo sapiens_ that he had
begun to take an interest in religious practices and doctrines. His
motive was partly (so he told me) the hope that some light might be
thrown upon certain new and perplexing experiences of his own which
might perhaps be of the kind that the normal species called religious.
He actually attended a few services at churches and chapels. He always
returned from these expeditions in a state of excitement, which found
outlet sometimes in ribald jests about the proceedings, sometimes in
almost hysterical exasperation and perplexity. Coming out from an
emotional chapel service of the Bethel type he remarked, "Ninety-nine
_per cent._ slush and one _per cent._--something else, _but what_?" A
tensity about his voice made me turn to look at him. To my amazement I
saw tears in his eyes. Now John's lachrymatory reflexes were normally
under absolute voluntary control. Since his infancy I had never known
him to weep except by deliberate policy. Yet these were apparently
spontaneous tears, and he seemed unconscious of them. Suddenly he
laughed and said, "This soul-saving! If one were God, wouldn't one laugh
at it, or squirm! What _does_ it matter whether we're saved or not?
Sheer blasphemy to want to be, _I_ should say. But what is it that
_does_ matter, and comes through all the slush like light through a
filthy window?"

On Armistice Day he persuaded me to go with him to a service in a Roman
Catholic cathedral. The great building was crowded. Artificiality and
insincerity were blotted out by the solemnity of the occasion. The
ritual was somehow disturbing even to an agnostic like me. One felt a
rather terrifying sense of the power which worship in the grand
tradition could have upon massed and susceptible believers.

John had entered the cathedral in his normal mood of aloof interest in
the passions of _Homo sapiens_. But as the service proceeded, he became
less aloof and more absorbed. He ceased to look about him with his
inscrutable hawklike stare. His attention, I felt, was no longer
concentrated on individuals of the congregation, or on the choir, or on
the priest, but on the totality of the situation. An expression
strangely foreign to all that I knew of him now began to flicker on his
face, an expression with which I was to become very familiar in later
years, but cannot to this day satisfactorily interpret. It suggested
surprise, perplexity, a kind of incredulous rapture, and withal a
slightly bitter amusement. I naturally assumed that John was relishing
the folly and self-importance of our kind; but when we were leaving the
cathedral he startled me by saying, "How splendid it might be, if only
they could keep from wanting their God to be human!" He must have seen
that I was taken aback for he laughed and said, "Oh, of course I see
it's nearly all tripe. That priest! The way he bows to the altar is
enough to show the sort he is. The whole thing is askew, intellectually
and emotionally; but--well, don't _you_ get that echo of something _not_
wrong, of some experience that happened ages ago, and was right and
glorious? I suppose it happened to Jesus and his friends. And something
remotely like it was happening to about a fiftieth of that congregation.
Couldn't you feel it happening? But, of course, as soon as they got it
they spoilt it by trying to fit it all into the damned silly theories
their Church gives them."

I suggested to John that this excitement which he and others experienced
was just the sense of a great crowd and a solemn occasion, and that we
should not "project" that excitement, and persuade ourselves we were in
touch with something superhuman.

John looked quickly at me, then burst into hearty laughter. "My dear
man," he said, and this I believe was almost the first time he used this
devastating expression, "even if _you_ can't tell the difference between
being excited by a crowd and the other thing, I can. And a good many of
your own kind can, too, till they let the psychologists muddle them."

I tried to persuade him to be more explicit, but he only said, "I'm just
a kid, and it's all new to me. Even Jesus couldn't really say what it
was he saw. As a matter of fact, he didn't try to say much about _it_.
He talked mostly about the way it could change people. When he _did_
talk about it, itself, he nearly always said the wrong thing, or else
they reported him all wrong. But how do I know? I'm only a kid."

It was in a very different mood that John returned from an interview
with a dignitary of the Anglican Church, one who was at the time well
known for his efforts to revitalize the Church by making its central
doctrines live once more in men's hearts. John had been away for some
days. When he returned he seemed much less interested in the Churchman
than in an earlier encounter with a Communist. After listening to a
disquisition on Marxism I said, "But what about the Reverend Gentleman?"
"Oh, yes, of course, there was the Reverend Gentleman, too. A dear man,
so sensible and understanding. I wish the Communist bloke could be a bit
sensible, and a bit dear. But _Homo sapiens_ evidently can't be that
when he has any sort of fire in him. Funny how members of your species,
when they do get any sort of real insight and grasp some essential
truth, like Communism, nearly always go crazy with it. Funny, too, what
a religious fellow that Communist really is. Of course, he doesn't know
it, and he hates the word. Says men ought to care for Man and nothing
else. A moral sort of cove, he is, full of 'oughts.' Denies morality,
and then damns people for not being communist saints. Says men are all
fools or knaves or wasters unless you can get 'em to care for the Class
War. Of course, he tells you the Class War is needed to emancipate the
Workers. But what really _gets_ him about it isn't that. The fire inside
him, though he doesn't know it, is a passion for what he calls
dialectical materialism, for the dialectic of history. The one
selfishness in him is the longing to be an instrument of the Dialectic,
and oddly enough what he really _means_ by that, in his heart of hearts,
is what Christians so quaintly describe as the law of God, or God's
will. Strange! He says the sound element in Christianity was love of
one's fellow men. But _he_ doesn't really love them, not as actual
persons. He'd slaughter the lot of them if he thought that was part of
the Dialectic of History. What he really shares with Christians, real
Christians, is a most obscure but teasing, firing awareness of something
super-individual. Of course, he thinks it's just the mass of
individuals, the group. But he's wrong. What's the group, anyhow, but
just everybody lumped together, and nearly all fools or pimps or knaves?
It's not simply the _group_ that fires him. It's justice, righteousness,
and the whole spiritual music that ought to be made by the group. Damned
funny, that! Of course, I know all Communists are not religious, some
are merely--well, like that bloody little man the other day. But this
fellow _is_ religious. And so was Lenin, I guess. It's not enough to say
his root motive was desire to avenge his brother. In a sense that's
true. But one can feel behind nearly everything he said a sense of being
the chosen instrument of Fate, of the Dialectic, of what might almost as
well be called God."

"And the Reverend Gentleman?" I queried. "The Reverend Gentleman? Oh,
him! Well, he's religious in about the same sense as firelight is
sunshine. The coal-trees once lapped up the sun's full blaze, and now in
the grate they give off a glow and a flicker that snugs up his room
nicely, so long as the curtains are drawn and the night kept at arm's
length. Outside, every one is floundering about in the dark and the wet,
and all he can do is to tell them to make a nice little fire and squat
down in front of it. One or two he actually fetches into his own
beautiful room, and they drip all over the carpet, and leave muddy
marks, and spit into the fire. He gets very unhappy about it, but he
puts up with it nobly because, though he hasn't a notion what _worship_
is, he does up to a point try to love his neighbours. Funny, that, when
you think of the Communist who doesn't. Of course, if people got really
nasty, the Reverend would phone the police."

Lest the reader should suppose that John was not critical of the
Communists, I will quote some of his comments on that other Communist,
referred to above. "He knows in an obscure way that he's an utter
waster, though he pretends to himself that he's noble and unfortunate.
Of course he _is_ unfortunate, frightfully unfortunate, in being the
sort he is. And of course that's society's fault as much as his own. So
the wretched creature has to spend his life putting out his tongue at
society, or at the powers that be in society. He's just a hate-bag. But
even his hate isn't really sincere. It's a posture of self-defence,
self-justification, not like the hate that smashed the Tsar, and turned
creative and made Russia. Things haven't got bad enough for that in
England yet. At present all that can be done by blokes like this is to
spout hate and give the other side a fine excuse for repressing
Communism. Of course, hosts of well-off people and would-be-well-off
people are just as ashamed of themselves subconsciously as that
blighter, and just as full of hate, and in need of a scapegoat to
exercise their hate upon. He and his like are a godsend to them."

I said there was more excuse for the have-nots to hate than for the
haves. This remark brought from John a bit of analysis and prophecy that
has since been largely justified.

"You talk," he said, "as if hate were rational, as if men only hated
what they had reason to hate. If you want to understand modern Europe
and the world, you have to keep in mind three things that are really
quite distinct although they are all tangled up together. First there's
this almost universal need to hate something, rationally or
irrationally, to find something to unload your own sins on to, and then
smash it. In perfectly healthy minds (even of your species) this need to
hate plays a small part. But nearly all minds are damnably unhealthy,
and so they must have something to hate. Mostly, they just hate their
neighbours or their wives or husbands or parents or children. But they
get a much more exalted sort of excitement by hating foreigners. A
nation, after all, is just a society for hating foreigners, a sort of
super-hate-club. The second thing to bear in mind is the obvious one of
economic disorder. The people with economic power try to run the world
for their own profit. Not long ago they succeeded, more or less, but now
the job has got beyond them, and, as we all know, there's the hell of a
mess. This gives hate a new outlet. The have-nots with very good reason
exercise their hate upon the haves, who have made the mess and can't
clean it up. The haves fear and therefore zestfully hate the have-nots.
What people can't realize is that if there were no deep-rooted _need_ to
hate in almost every mind the social problem would be at least
intelligently faced, perhaps solved. Then there's the third factor,
namely, the growing sense that there's something all wrong with modern
solely-scientific culture. I don't mean that people are intellectually
doubtful about science. It's much deeper than that. They are simply
finding that modern culture isn't enough to live by. It just doesn't
work in practice. It has got a screw loose somewhere. Or some vital bit
of it is dead. Now this horror against modern culture, against science
and mechanization and standardization, is only just beginning to be a
serious factor. It's newer than Bolshevism. The Bolshies, and all the
socially left-wing people, are still content with modern culture. Or
rather, they put all its faults down to capitalism, dear innocent
theorists. But the essence of it they still accept. They're
rationalistic, scientific, mechanistic, brass-tack-istic. But another
crowd, scattered about all over the place, are having the hell of a deep
revulsion against all this. They don't know what's the matter with it,
but they're sure it's not enough. Some of them, feeling that lack, just
creep back into church, specially the Roman Church. But too much water
has passed under the bridge since the churches were alive, so that's no
real use. The crowds who can't swallow the Christian dope are terribly
in need of something, though they don't know what, or even know they're
in need at all. And this deep need gets mixed up with their hate-need;
and, if they're middle class, it gets mixed up also with their fear of
social revolution. And this fear, along with their hate-need, may get
played on by any crook with an axe to grind, or by any able man with an
itch for bossing. That's what happened in Italy. That sort of thing will
spread. I'd bet my boots that in a few years there'll be a tremendous
anti-left movement all over Europe, inspired partly by fear and hate,
partly by that vague, fumbling suspicion that there's something all
wrong with scientific culture. It's more than an intellectual suspicion.
It's a certainty of the bowels, call it a sort of brute-blind religious
hunger. Didn't you _feel_ the beginnings of it in Germany last year when
we were there? A deep, still-unconscious revulsion from mechanism, and
from rationality, and from democracy, and from sanity. That's it, a
confused craving to be mad, possessed in some way. Just the thing for
the well-to-do haters to use for their own ends. _That's_ what's going
to get Europe. And its power depends on its being a hotch-potch of
self-seeking, sheer hate, and this bewildered hunger of the soul, which
is so worthy and so easily twisted into something bloody. If
Christianity could hold it in and discipline it, it might do wonders.
But Christianity's played out. So these folk will probably invent some
ghastly religion of their own. Their God will be the God of the
hate-club, the nation. That's what's coming. The new Messiahs (one for
each tribe) won't triumph by love and gentleness, but by hate and
ruthlessness. Just because _that's_ what you all really _want_, at the
bottom of your poor diseased bowels and crazy minds. Jesus Christ!"

I was not much impressed by this tirade. I said the best minds had
outgrown that old tribal god, and the rest would follow the best minds
in the long run. John's laughter disconcerted me.

"The best minds!" he said. "One of the main troubles of your unhappy
species is that the best minds can go even farther astray than the
second best, much farther than the umpteenth best. That's what has been
happening during the last few centuries. Swarms of the best minds have
been leading the populace down blind alley after blind alley, and doing
it with tremendous courage and resource. Your trouble, as a species, is
that you can't keep hold of everything at once. Any one who is very wide
awake toward one set of facts invariably loses sight of all the other
equally important sets. And as you have practically no inner experience
to orientate you, compass-wise, to the cardinal points of reality,
there's no telling how far astray you'll go, once you start in the wrong
direction."

Here I interjected, "Surely that is one of the penalties of being gifted
with intelligence; it may lead one forward, but it may lead one badly
astray."

John replied, "It's one of the penalties of being more than beast and
less than fully human. Pterodactyls had a great advantage over the
old-fashioned creepy crawly lizards, but they had their special dangers.
Because they could fly a bit, they could crash. Finally, they were
outclassed by birds. Well, I'm a bird."

He paused, and then said, "Centuries ago all the best minds were in the
Church. In those days there was nothing to compare with Christianity for
practical significance and theoretical interest. And so the best minds
swarmed upon it, and generation after generation of them used their
bright intelligences on it. Little by little they smothered the actual
living spirit of religion, with their busy theorizing. Not only so but
they also used their religion, or rather their precious doctrines, to
explain all physical events. Presently there came along a generation of
best minds that found all this ratiocination very unconvincing, and
began watching how things really did happen in physical nature. They and
their successors made modern science, and gave man physical power, and
changed the face of the earth. All this was as impressive in its own way
as the effects of religion had been, real live religion, in a quite
different way, centuries earlier. So now nearly all the best minds
buzzed off to science, or to the job of working out a new scientific
view of the universe and a new scientific way of feeling and acting. And
being so impressed by science and by industry and the business attitude
to life, they lost whatever trace of the old religion they ever had, and
also they became even more blind to their own inner nature than they
need have been. They were too busy with science, or industry, or
empire-building, to bother about interior things. Of course, a few of
the best minds, and some ordinary folk, had mistrusted fashionable
thought all the way through. But after the war mistrust became
widespread. The war made Nineteenth Century culture look pretty silly,
didn't it? So what happened? Some of the best minds (the _best_ minds,
mind you) tumbled helter-skelter back to the Churches. Others, the most
social ones, declared that we ought all to live to improve mankind, or
to make the future generations happy. Others, feeling that mankind was
really past hope, just struck a fine attitude of despair, based either
on contempt and hate of their fellows or on a compassion which was at
bottom self-pity. Others, the bright young things of literature and art,
set out to enjoy themselves as best they might in a crashing world. They
were out for pleasure at any price, pleasure not entirely unrefined. For
instance, though they demanded unrestrained sexual pleasure, it was to
be highly conscious and discriminating. They also demanded aesthetic
pleasure of a rather self-indulgent sort, and the thoroughly
self-indulgent pleasure of tasting ideas, just for their spiciness or
tang, so to speak. Bright young things! Yes, blowflies of a decaying
civilization. Poor wretches! How they must hate themselves, really. But
damn it, after all, they're mostly good stuff gone wrong."

John had recently spent some weeks studying the intelligentsia. He had
made his entry into Bloomsbury by acting the part of a precocious
genius, and allowing a well-known writer to exhibit him as a curio.
Evidently he flung himself into the life of these brilliant and
disorientated young men and women with characteristic thoroughness, for
when he returned he was something of a wreck. I need not retail his
account of his experiences, but his analysis of the plight of the
leaders of our thought is worth reporting.

"You see," he said, "they really are in a sense the leaders of thought,
or leaders of fashion in thought. What they think and feel to-day, the
rest think and feel next year or so. And some of them really are,
according to the standards of _Hom. sap._, first-class minds, or might
have been, in different circumstances. (Of course, most are just
riff-raff, but they don't count.) Well, the situation's really very
simple, and very desperate. Here is the centre to which nearly all the
best sensibility and best intellect of the country gets attracted in the
expectation of meeting its kind and enriching its experience; but what
happens? The poor little flies find themselves caught in a web, a subtle
mesh of convention, so subtle in fact that most of them are unaware of
it. They buzz and buzz and imagine they are free fliers, when as a
matter of fact each one is stuck fast on his particular strand of the
web. Of course, they have the reputation of being the most
unconventional people of all. The centre imposes on them a convention of
unconventionality, of daring thought and conduct. But they can only be
'daring' within the limits of their convention. They have a sameness of
intellectual and moral taste which makes them fundamentally all alike in
spite of their quite blatant superficial differences. That wouldn't
matter so much if their taste were really discriminate taste, but it's
not, in most cases; and such innate powers of precision and delicacy as
they actually have get dulled by the convention. If the convention were
a sound one, all might be well, but it's not. It consists in trying to
be 'brilliant' and 'original,' and in craving 'experience.' Some of them
_are_ brilliant and original according to the standards of your species;
and some of them _have_ the gift for experience. But when they do
achieve brilliance and experience, this is _in spite_ of the web, and
consists at best in a certain flutter and agitation, not in flight. The
influence of the all-pervading convention turns brilliance into
brightness, originality into perversity, and deadens the mind to all but
the cruder sorts of experience. I don't mean merely crudity in
sex-experience and personal relations, though indeed their quite sound
will to break the old customs and avoid sentimentality at all costs
_has_ led them in the end to a jading and coarsening extravagance. What
I mean is crudity of--well, of spirit. Though they are often very
intelligent (for your species) they haven't got any of the finer aspects
of experience to use their intelligence _on_. And that seems to be due
partly to a complete lack of spiritual discipline, partly to an obscure,
half-conscious funk. You see they're all very sensitive creatures, very
susceptible to pleasure and pain; and early in their lives, whenever
they bumped into anything like a fundamental experience, they found it
terribly upsetting. And so they formed habits of avoiding that sort of
thing. And they made up for this persistent avoidance by drenching
themselves in all sorts of minor and superficial (though sensational)
experiences; and also by talking big about Experience with a capital E,
and buzzing intellectually."

This analysis made me feel uncomfortable, for though I was not one of
"them" I could not disguise from myself that the same sort of
condemnation might apply to me. John evidently saw my thoughts, for he
grinned, and moreover indulged in an entirely vulgar wink. Then he said,
"Strikes home, old thing, doesn't it? Never mind, you're not _in_ the
web. You're an outsider. Fate has kept you safely fluttering in the
backward North."

Some weeks after this conversation John's mood seemed to change.
Hitherto he had been light-hearted, sometimes even ribald, both in the
actual pursuit of his investigation and in his comments. In his more
serious phases he displayed the sympathetic though aloof interest of an
anthropologist observing the customs of a primitive tribe. He had always
been ready to talk about his experiences and to defend his judgements.
But now he began to be much less communicative, and, when he did
condescend to talk, much more terse and grim. Banter and friendly
contemptuousness vanished. In their place he developed a devastating
habit of coldly, wearily pulling to pieces whatever one said to him.
Finally this reaction also vanished, and his only response to any remark
of general interest was a steady gloomy stare. So might a lonely man
gaze at his frisking dog when the need of human intercourse was
beginning to fret him. Had any one other than John treated one in that
way, the act would have been offensive. Coming from John it was merely
disturbing. It roused in me a painful self-consciousness, and an
irresistible tendency to look away and busy myself with something.

Once only did John express himself freely. By appointment I had met him
in his subterranean workshop to discuss a financial project which I
proposed to undertake. He was lying in his little bunk, swinging one leg
over the side. Both hands were behind his head. I embarked on my theme,
but his attention was obviously elsewhere. "Damn it, can't you listen?"
I said. "Are you inventing a gadget or what?" "Not inventing," he
replied, "discovering." There was such solemnity in his voice that a
wave of irrational panic seized me. "Oh, for God's sake do be explicit.
What's up with you these days? Can't you tell a fellow?" He transferred
his gaze from the ceiling to my face. He stared. I started to fill my
pipe.

"Yes, I'll tell you," he said, "if I can, or as much as I can. Some time
ago I asked myself a question, namely this. Is the plight of the world
to-day a mere incident, an illness that might have been avoided and may
be cured? Or is it something inherent in the very nature of your
species? Well, I have got my answer. _Homo sapiens_ is a spider trying
to crawl out of a basin. The higher he crawls, the steeper the hill.
Sooner or later, down he goes. So long as he's on the bottom, he can get
along quite nicely, but as soon as he starts climbing, he begins to
slip. And the higher he climbs the farther he falls. It doesn't matter
which direction he tries. He can make civilization after civilization,
but every time, long before he begins to be really civilized, skid!"

I protested against John's assurance. "It _may_ be so," I said, "but how
can you possibly _know_? _Hom. sap._ is an inventive animal. Might not
the spider some time or other contrive to make his feet sticky?
Or--well, suppose he's not a spider at all but a beetle. Beetles have
wings. They often forget how to use them, but--aren't there signs that
_Hom. sap.'s_ present climb is different from all the others? Mechanical
power is a stickiness for his feet. And I believe his wing-cases are
stirring, too."

John regarded me in silence. Pulling himself together, he said, as if
from a great distance, "No wings. No wings." Then, in a more normal
voice, "And as for mechanical power, if he knew how to use it, it might
help him up a few steps farther, but he doesn't. You see, for every type
of creature there's a limit of _possible_ development of capacity, a
limit inherent in the ground plan of its organization. _Homo sapiens_
reached his limit a million years ago, but he has only recently begun to
use his powers dangerously. In achieving science and mechanism he has
brought about a state of affairs which cannot be dealt with properly
save by capacity which is much more developed than his. Of course, he
_may_ not slip just yet. He _may_ succeed in muddling through this
particular crisis of history. But if he does, it will only be muddling
through to stagnation, not to the soaring that even he in his own heart
is desperately craving. Mechanical power, you see, is indeed vitally
necessary to the full development of the human spirit; but to the
subhuman spirit it is lethal."

"But, how _can_ you know that? Aren't you being a bit too confident in
your own judgement?"

John's lips compressed themselves and assumed a crooked smile. "You're
right," he said. "There's just one possibility that I have not
mentioned. If the species as a whole, or a large proportion of the world
population, were to be divinely inspired, so that their nature became
truly human at a stride, all would soon be well."

I took this for irony, but he went on to say, "Oh, no, I'm quite
serious. It's possible; if you interpret 'divinely inspired' to mean
lifted out of their pettiness by a sudden and spontaneous access of
strength to their own rudimentary spiritual nature. It happens again and
again in individuals here and there. When Christianity came, it happened
to large numbers. But they were a very small proportion of the whole,
and the thing petered out. Short of that kind of thing, or rather
something much more widespread and much more powerful than the Christian
miracle, there's no hope. The early Christians, you see, and the early
Buddhists and so on, remained at bottom what I should call subhuman, in
spite of their miracle. In intelligence they remained what they were
before the miracle; and in will, though they were profoundly changed by
the new thing in them, the change was insecure. Or rather the new thing
seldom managed to integrate their whole being into a new and harmonious
order. Its rule was precarious. The new psychological compound, so to
speak, was a terribly unstable compound. Or, putting it in another way,
they managed to become saints, but seldom angels. The subhuman and the
human were always in violent conflict in them. And so they mostly got
obsessed with the idea of sin, and saving their souls, instead of being
able to pass on to live the new life with fluency and joy, and with
creative effect in the world."

At this point we fell silent. I relit my pipe, and John remarked, "Match
number nine, you funny old thing!" It was true. There lay the eight
burnt matches, though I had no recollection of using them. John from his
position on the bed could not see the ash-tray. He must have noticed the
actual re-lightings. It was simply that he observed whatever happened
however engrossed he might be. "You funnier young thing!" I retorted.

Presently he began talking again. He kept his eye on me, but I felt that
he was talking rather to himself than to me. "At one time," he said, "I
thought I should simply take charge of the world and help _Homo sapiens_
to remake himself on a more human plan. But now I realize that only what
men call 'God' could do that. Unless perhaps a great invasion of
superior beings from another planet, or another dimension, could do it.
But I doubt if they would trouble to do it. They would probably merely
use the Terrestrials as cattle or museum pieces or pets, or just vermin.
All the same, if they wanted to make a better job of _Hom. sap._ I
expect they could. But _I_ can't do it. I believe, if I set my mind to
it, I _could_ fairly easily secure power and take charge of the normal
species; and, once in charge, I could make a much more satisfactory
world, and a much happier world; but always I should have to accept the
ultimate limitations of capacity in the normal species. To make them try
to live beyond their capacity would be like trying to civilize a pack of
monkeys. There would be worse chaos than ever, and they would unite
against me, and sooner or later destroy me. So I'd just have to accept
the creature with all its limitations. And that would be to waste my
best powers. I might as well spend my life chicken-farming."

"You arrogant young cub!" I protested. "I don't believe we are as bad as
you think."

"Oh, don't you! Of course not, you're one of the pack," he said. "Look
here, now! I've spent some time and trouble poking about in Europe, and
what do I find? In my simplicity I thought the fellows who had come to
the top, the best minds, the leaders in every walk, would be something
like real human beings, fundamentally sane, rational, efficient,
self-detached, loyal to the best in them. Actually they are nothing of
the sort. Mostly they're even below the average. Their position has
undermined them. Think of old Z (naming a Cabinet minister). You'd be
amazed if you could see him as I have seen him. He simply can't
experience anything clearly and correctly, except things that bear on
his petty little self-esteem. Everything has to penetrate to him through
a sort of eider-down of preconceived notions, _clichs_, diplomatic
phrases. He has no more idea of the real issues in politics to-day than
a mayfly has of the fish in the stream it's fluttering on. He has, of
course, the trick of using a lot of phrases that _might_ mean very
important things, but they don't mean them to _him_. They are just
counters for him, to be used in the game of politics. He's simply not
_alive_, to the real things. That's what's the matter with him. And take
Y, the Press magnate. He's just a nimble-witted little guttersnipe who
has found out how to hoax the world into giving him money and power.
Talk to him about the real things, and he just hasn't a notion what
you're driving at. But it's not only that sort that terrify me with
their combination of power and inanity. Take the real leaders, take
young X, whose revolutionary ideas are going to have a huge effect on
social thought. He's got a brain, and he's using it on the right side,
and he has nerve, too. But--well, I've seen enough of him to spot his
_real_ motive, hidden from himself, of course. He had a thin time long
ago, and now he wants to get his own back, he wants to make the
oppressor frightened of him. He wants to _use_ the have-nots to break
the haves, for his own satisfaction. Well, _let_ him get his own back,
and good luck to him. But fancy taking that as your life's goal, even
unconsciously! It has made him do damned good work, but it has crippled
him, too, poor devil. Or take that philosopher bloke, W, who did so much
toward showing up the old school with their simple trust in words. He's
really in much the same fix as X. I know him pretty well, the perky old
bird. And knowing him I can see the mainspring of all that brilliant
work quite clearly, namely, the idea of _himself_ as bowing to no man
and no god, as purged of prejudice and sentimentality, as faithful to
reason yet not blindly trustful of it. All that is admirable. But it
obsesses him, and actually warps his reasoning. You can't be a real
philosopher if you have an obsession. On the other hand, take V. He
knows all about electrons and all about galaxies, and he's first-class
at his job. Further, he has glimmers of spiritual experience. Well,
what's the mechanism this time? He's a kind creature, very sympathetic.
And he likes to think that the universe is all right from the human
point of view. Hence all his explorations and speculations. Well, so
long as he sticks to science he is sound enough. But his spiritual
experience tells him science is all very superficial. Right, again; but
his is not very deep spiritual experience, and it gets all mixed up with
kindliness, and he tells us things about the universe that are sheer
inventions of his kindliness."

John paused. Then with a sigh he resumed. "It's no good going on about
it. The upshot is simple enough. _Homo sapiens_ is at the end of his
tether, and I'm not going to spend my life tinkering a doomed species."

"You're mighty sure of yourself, aren't you?" I put in. "Yes," he said,
"perfectly sure of myself in some ways, and still utterly unsure in
others, in ways I can't explain. But one thing is stark clear. If I were
to take over _Hom. sap._ I should freeze up inside, and grow quite
incapable of doing what is my _real_ job. _That_ job is what I'm not yet
sure about, and can't possibly explain. But it begins with something
very _interior to me_. Of course, it's not just saving my soul. I, as an
individual, might damn myself without spoiling the world. Indeed, my
damning myself _might_ happen to be an added beauty to the world. I
don't matter on my own account, but I have it in me to do something that
does matter. This I _know_. And I'm pretty sure I have to begin
with--well, interior discovery of objective reality, in preparation for
objective creation. Can you make anything of that?"

"Not much," I said, "but go on."

"No," he said, "I won't go on along that line, but I'll tell you
something else. I've had the hell of a fright lately. And I'm not easily
frightened. This was only the second time, ever. I went to the Cup Tie
Final last week to see the crowd. You remember, it was a close fight
(and a damned good game from beginning to end) and three minutes before
time there was trouble over a foul. The ball went into goal before the
referee's whistle had got going for the foul, and that goal would have
won the match. Well, the crowd got all het up about it, as you probably
heard. That's what frightened me. I don't mean I was scared of being
hurt in a row. No, I should have quite enjoyed a bit of a row, if I'd
known which side to be on, and there'd been something to fight about.
But there wasn't. It clearly _was_ a foul. Their precious 'sporting
instinct' ought to have kept them straight, but it didn't. They just
lost their heads, went brute-mad over it. What got me was the sudden
sense of being different from every one else, of being a human being
alone in a vast herd of cattle. Here was a fair sample of the world's
population, of the sixteen hundred millions of _Homo sapiens_. And this
fair sample was expressing itself in a thoroughly characteristic way, an
inarticulate bellowing and braying, and here was I, a raw, ignorant,
blundering little creature, but human, _really_ human, perhaps the only
real human being in the world; and just because I was really human, and
had in me the possibility of some new and transcendent spiritual
achievement, I was more important than all the rest of the sixteen
hundred million put together. That was a terrifying thought in itself.
What made matters worse was the bellowing crowd. Not that I was afraid
of _them_, but of the thing they were a sample of. Not that I was afraid
as a private individual, so to speak. The thought was very exhilarating
from that point of view. If they had turned on me I'd have made a damned
good fight for it. What terrified me was the thought of the immense
responsibility, and the immense odds against my fulfilling it."

John fell silent; and I was so stunned by his prodigious self-importance
that I had nothing to say. Presently he began again.

"Of course I know, Fido old thing, the whole business must seem
fantastic to you. But, perhaps, by being a bit more precise on one point
I may make the thing clearer. It's already pretty common knowledge of
course that another world-war is likely, and that if it does come it may
very well be the end of civilization. But I _know_ something that makes
the whole situation look much worse than it's generally thought to be. I
don't really know what will happen to the species in the long run, but I
do know that unless a miracle happens there is _bound_ to be a most
ghastly mess in the short run for psychological reasons. I have looked
pretty carefully into lots of minds, big and little, and it's
devastatingly clear to me that in big matters _Homo sapiens_ is a
species with very slight educable capacity. He has entirely failed to
learn his lesson from the last war. He shows no more practical
intelligence than a moth that has fluttered through a candle-flame once
and will do so again as soon as it has recovered from the shock. And
again and yet again, till its wings are burnt. Intellectually many
people realize the danger. But they are not the sort to act on the
awareness. It's as though the moth _knew_ that the flame meant death,
yet simply couldn't stop its wings from taking it there. Then what with
this new crazy religion of nationalism that's beginning, and the steady
improvement in the technique of destruction, a huge disaster is simply
inevitable, barring a miracle, which of course _may_ happen. There
_might_ be some sort of sudden leap forward to a more human mentality,
and therefore a world-wide social and religious revolution. But apart
from that possibility I should give the disease fifteen to twenty years
to come to a head. Then one fine day a few great powers will attack one
another, and--phut! Civilization will have gone in a few weeks. Now, of
course, if I took charge I could probably stave off the smash. But, as I
say, it would mean chucking the really _vital_ thing I can do.
Chicken-farming is not worth such a sacrifice. The upshot is, Fido, I'm
through with your bloody awful species. I must strike out on my own,
and, if possible, in such a way as to avoid being smashed in the coming
disaster."




CHAPTER XI
STRANGE ENCOUNTERS


The grave decision about the plight of _Homo sapiens_ seems to have
occurred at a time when John's own development had ripened him for a
far-reaching spiritual crisis. Some weeks after the incident which I
have just described he seemed to retire within himself more than ever,
and to shun companionship even with those who had counted themselves
among his friends. His former lively interest in the strange creatures
among whom he lived apparently evaporated. His conversation became
perfunctory; save on rare occasions when he flared up into hostile
arrogance. Sometimes he seemed to long for intimacy and yet be quite
unable to attain it. He would persuade me to go off with him for a day
on the hills or for an evening at the theatre, and after a brave effort
to restore our accustomed relationship, he would fall miserably silent,
scarcely listening to my attempts at conversation. Or he would dog his
mother's footsteps for a while, and yet find nothing to say to her. She
was thoroughly frightened about his state, and indeed feared that "his
brain was giving out," so blankly miserable and speechless could he be.
One night, so she told me, she heard sounds in his room and crept in to
see what was the matter. He was "sobbing like a child that can't wake
from a bad dream." She stroked his head and begged him to tell her all
about it. Still sobbing, he said, "Oh, Pax, I'm so _lonely_."

When this distressful state of affairs had lasted many weeks, John
disappeared from home. His parents were well used to absences of a few
days, but this time they received a post card, bearing a Scotch
postmark, saying that he was going to have a holiday in the mountains,
and would not be back "for quite a long time."

A month later, when we were beginning to feel anxious about him, an
acquaintance of mine, Ted Brinston, who knew that John had disappeared,
told me that a friend of his, McWhist, who was a rock-climber, had
encountered "a sort of wild boy In the mountains of northern Scotland."
He offered to put me in touch with McWhist.

After some delay Brinston asked me to dine with him to meet McWhist and
his climbing companion, Norton. When the occasion arrived I was
surprised and disconcerted to find that both men seemed reluctant to
speak frankly about the incident that had brought us four together.
Alcohol, however, or my anxiety about John, finally broke down their
reluctance. They had been exploring the little-known crags of Ross and
Cromarty, pitching their tent for a few days at a time beside a handy
burn or loch. One hot day, as they were climbing a grassy spur of a
mountain (which they refused to name) they heard a strange noise,
apparently coming from the head of the glen to the right of them. They
were so intrigued by its half-animal, half-human character that they
went in search of its cause. Presently they came down to the stream and
encountered a naked boy sitting beside a little waterfall and chanting
or howling "in a way that gave me the creeps," said McWhist. The lad saw
them and fled, disappearing among the birch-trees. They searched, but
could not find him.

A few days later they told this story in a little public-house. A
red-bearded native, who had not drunk too little, immediately retailed a
number of yarns about encounters with such a lad--if it _was_ a lad, and
not some sort of kelpie. The good man's own sister-in-law's nephew said
he had actually chased him and seen him turn into a wisp of mist.
Another had come face to face with him round a rock, and the creature's
eyes were as large as cannon balls, and black as hell.

Later in the week the climbers came upon the wild boy again. They had
been climbing a rather difficult chimney, and had reached a point where
further direct ascent seemed impossible. McWhist, who was leading, had
just brought his second man up, and was preparing to traverse round a
very exposed buttress in search of a feasible route. Suddenly a small
hand appeared round the far side of the buttress, feeling for a hold. A
moment later a lean brown shoulder edged its way round into view,
followed by the strangest face that McWhist had ever seen. From his
description I judged confidently that it was John. I was disturbed by
the stress that McWhist laid on the leanness of the face. The cheeks
seemed to have shrunk to pieces of leather, and there was a startling
brightness about the eyes. No sooner had John appeared than his face
took on an expression of disgust almost amounting to horror, and he
vanished back round the buttress. McWhist traversed out to catch a view
of him again. John was already half-way down a smooth face of rock which
the climbers had attempted on the way up and then rejected in favour of
the chimney. Recounting the incident, McWhist ejaculated, "God! The lad
could climb! He _oozed_ from hold to hold." When John reached the bottom
of the bad pitch, he cut away to the left and disappeared.

Their final encounter with John was more prolonged. They were groping
their way down the mountain late one evening in a blizzard. They were
both wet through. The wind was so violent that they could hardly make
headway against it. Presently they realized that they had missed their
way in the cloud, and were on the wrong spur of the mountain. Finally
they found themselves hemmed in by precipices, but they roped themselves
and managed to climb down a gully or wide chimney, choked with fallen
rocks. Half-way down, they were surprised to smell smoke, and saw it
issuing from behind a great slab jammed in an angle of rocks beside
their route. With considerable difficulty McWhist worked his way by rare
and precarious holds over to a little platform near the smoking slab,
and Norton followed. Light came from under it and behind it. A step or
two of scrambling brought them to the illuminated space between one end
of the slab and the cliff. The sides and opposite end of the slab were
jammed in a mass of lesser rocks, and held in position by the two sides
of the chimney. Stooping, they peered through the bright hole into a
little irregular cave, which was lit by a fire of peat and heather.
Stretched on a bed of dried grass and heather lay John. He was gazing
into the fire, and his face was streaming with tears. He was naked, but
there was a jumble of deer-skin beside him. By the fire was part of a
cooked bird on a flat stone.

Feeling unaccountably abashed by the tears of this strange lad, the
climbers quietly withdrew. Whispering together, however, they decided
that they really must do something about him. Therefore, making a noise
on the rocks with their boots as though in the act of reaching the cave,
they remained out of sight while McWhist demanded, "Is anyone there?" No
answer was given. Once more they peered through the tiny entrance. John
lay as before, and took no notice. Near the bird lay a stout bone knife
or dirk, obviously "home-made," but carefully pointed and edged. Other
implements of bone or antler were scattered about. Some of them were
decorated with engraved patterns. There was also a sort of pan-pipe of
reeds and a pair of hide sandals or moccasins. The climbers were struck
by the fact that there were no traces whatever of civilization, nothing,
for instance, that was made of metal.

Cautiously they spoke again, but still John took no notice. McWhist
crept through the entrance, noisily, and laid a hand on the boy's bare
foot, gently shaking it. John slowly looked round and stared in a
puzzled way at the intruder; then suddenly his whole form came alive
with hostile intelligence. He sprang into a crouching posture, clutching
a sort of stiletto made of the largest tine of an antler. McWhist was so
startled by the huge glaring eyes and the inhuman snarl that he backed
out of the cramping entrance of the cave.

"Then," said McWhist, "an odd thing happened. The boy's anger seemed to
vanish, and he stared intently at me as though I were a strange beast
that he had never seen before. Suddenly he seemed to think of something
else. He dropped his weapon, and began gazing into the fire again with
that look of utter misery. Tears welled in his eyes again. His mouth
twisted itself in a kind of desperate smile."

Here McWhist paused in his narrative, looking both distressed and
awkward. He sucked violently at his pipe. At last he proceeded.

"Obviously we couldn't leave the kid like that, so I asked cautiously if
we could do anything for him. He did not answer. I crept in again, and
squatted beside him, waiting. As gently as I could I put a hand on his
knee. He gave a start and a shudder, looked at me with a frown, as if
trying to get things straight in his mind, made a quick movement for the
stiletto, checked himself, and finally broke into a wry boyish grin,
remarking, 'Oh, come in, please. Don't knock, it's a shop.' He added,
'Can't you blighters leave a fellow alone?' I said we had come upon him
quite by accident, but of course we couldn't help being puzzled about
him. I said we'd been very struck with his climbing, the other day. I
said it seemed a pity for him to be stuck up here alone. Wouldn't he
come along with us? He shook his head, smiling, and said he was quite
all right there. He was just having a bit of a rough holiday, and
thinking about things. At first it had been difficult feeding himself,
but now he'd got the technique, and there was plenty of time for the
thinking. Then he laughed. A sudden sharp crackle it was that made my
scalp tingle."

Here Norton broke in and said, "I had crawled into the cave by then, and
I was terribly struck by the gaunt condition he was in. There wasn't a
bit of fat on him anywhere. His muscles looked like skeins of cord under
his skin. He was covered with scars and bruises. But the most disturbing
thing was the look on his face, a look that I have only seen on someone
that had just come out of the anaesthetic after a bad op.--sort of
purified. Poor kid, he'd evidently been through it all right, but
through what?"

"At first," said McWhist, "we thought he was mad. But now I'm ready to
swear he wasn't. He was possessed. Something that we don't know anything
about had got him, something good or bad, I don't know which. The whole
business gave me the creeps, what with the noise of the storm outside,
and the dim firelight, and the smoke that kept blowing back on us down
the sort of chimney he'd made for it. We were a bit light-headed with
lack of food, too. He offered us the rest of his bird, by the way, and
some bilberries, but of course we didn't want to run him short. We asked
if there wasn't _anything_ we could do for him, and he answered, yes,
there was, we could make a special point of not telling anyone about
him. I said, couldn't we take a message to his people. He grew very
serious and emphatic, and said, 'No, don't tell a soul, not a soul.
Forget. If the papers get on to my tracks,' he said very slowly and
coldly, 'I shall just have to kill myself.' This put us in a hole. We
felt we really ought to do something and yet somehow we felt we _must_
promise."

McWhist paused, then said crossly, "And we did promise. And then we
cleared out, and floundered about in the dark till we reached our tent.
We roped to get down the rock, and the lad went in front, unroped, to
show us the way." He paused again, then added, "The other day when I
happened to hear from Brinston about your lost lad, I broke my promise.
And now I'm feeling damned bad about it."

I laughed, and said, "Well, no harm's done. _I_ shan't tell the Press."

Norton spoke again. "It's not as simple as that. There's something
McWhist hasn't told you yet. Go on, Mac."

"Tell him yourself," said McWhist, "I'd rather not."

There was a pause, then Norton laughed awkwardly, and said, "Well, when
one tries to describe it in cold blood over a cup of coffee, it just
sounds crazy. But damn it, if the thing _didn't_ happen, something
mighty queer must have happened to _us_, for we both saw it, as clearly
as you see us now."

He paused. McWhist rose from his arm-chair and began examining the rows
of books on shelves behind us.

Norton proceeded: "The lad said something about making us realize we'd
come up against something big that we couldn't understand, said he'd
give us something to remember, and help us to keep the secret. His voice
had changed oddly. It was very low and quiet and composed. He stretched
his skinny arm up to the roof, saying, 'This slab must weigh fifty tons.
Above it there's just blizzard. You can see the raindrops in the doorway
there.' He pointed to the cave entrance. 'What of it?' he said in a cold
proud voice. 'Let us see the stars.' Then, my God, you won't believe it,
of course, but the boy lifted that blasted rock upon his finger-tips
like a trap door. A terrific gust of wind and sleet entered, but
immediately died away. As he lifted he rose to his feet. Overhead was a
windless, clear, starry sky. The smoke of the fire rose as a wavering
column, illuminated at the base, and spreading dimly far above us, where
it blotted out a few stars with a trail of darkness. He pushed the rock
back till it was upright, then leaned lightly against it with one arm,
crooking the other on his hip. 'There!' he said. In the starlight and
firelight I could see his face as he gazed upwards. Transfigured, I
should call it, bright, keen, peaceful.

"He stayed still for perhaps half a minute, and silent; then, looking
down at us, he smiled, and said, 'Don't forget. We have looked at the
stars together.' Then he gently lowered the rock into position again,
and said, 'I think you had better go now. I'll take you down the first
pitch. It's difficult by night.' As we were both pretty well paralysed
with bewilderment we made no immediate sign of quitting. He laughed,
gently, reassuringly, and said something that has haunted me ever since.
(I don't know about McWhist.) He said, 'It was a childish miracle. But I
am still a child. While the spirit is in the agony of outgrowing its
childishness, it may solace itself now and then by returning to its
playthings, knowing well that they are trivial.' By now we were creeping
out of the cave, and into the blizzard."

There was a silence. Presently McWhist faced us again, and glared rather
wildly at Norton. "We were given a great sign," he said, "and we have
been unfaithful."

I tried to calm him by saying, "Unfaithful in the letter, perhaps, but
not in the spirit. I'm pretty sure John wouldn't mind _my_ knowing. And
as to the miracle, I wouldn't worry about that," I said, with more
confidence than I felt. "He probably hypnotized you both in some odd
sort of way. He's a weird kid."

Toward the end of the summer Pax received a post card, saying "Home late
to-morrow. Hot bath, please. John."

On the first opportunity I had a long talk with John about his holiday.
It was a surprise to me to find that he was ready to talk with perfect
frankness, and that he had apparently quite got over the phase of
uncommunicative misery which had caused us so much anxiety before his
flight from home. I doubt if I really understood what he told me, and I
am sure there was a good deal that he didn't tell me because he knew I
wouldn't understand. I had a sense that he was all the while trying to
_translate_ his actual thoughts into language intelligible to me, and
that the translation seemed to him very crude. I can give only so much
of his statement as I understood.




CHAPTER XII
JOHN IN THE WILDERNESS


John said that when he had begun to realize the tragic futility of _Homo
sapiens_ he was seized with "a panicky sense of doom," and along with
that "a passion of loneliness." He felt more lonely in the presence of
others than in isolation. At the same time, apparently, something
strange was happening to his own mind. At first he thought perhaps he
was going mad, but clung to the faith that he was after all merely
growing up. Anyhow he was convinced that he must cut right adrift and
face this upheaval in himself undisturbed. It was as though a grub were
to feel premonitions of dissolution and regeneration, and to set
purposefully about protecting itself with a cocoon.

Further, if I understood him, he felt spiritually contaminated by
contact with the civilization of _Homo sapiens_. He felt he must for a
while at least strip away every vestige of it from his own person, face
the universe in absolute nakedness, prove that he could stand by
himself, without depending in any way whatever on the primitive and
debased creatures who dominated the planet. At first I thought this
hunger for the simple life was merely an excuse for a boyish adventure,
but now I realize that it did have for him a grave importance which I
could only dimly comprehend.

Of some such kind were the motives that drove him into the wildest
region of this island. The thoroughness with which he carried out his
plan amazed me. He simply walked out of a Highland railway station, had
a good meal in an inn, strode up on to the moors toward the high
mountains, and, when he judged himself safe from interruption, took off
all his clothes, including his shoes, and buried them in a hole among
the rocks. He then took his bearings carefully, so as to be able to
recover his property in due season, and moved away in his nakedness,
seeking food and shelter in the wilderness.

His first days were evidently a terrible ordeal. The weather turned wet
and cold. John, it must be remembered, was an extremely hardy creature,
and he had prepared himself for this adventure by a course of exposure,
and by studying beforehand all possible means of securing food in the
valleys and moors of Scotland without so much as a knife or a piece of
string to aid him. But fate was at first against him. The bad weather
made shelter a necessity, and in seeking it he had to spend much time
that might otherwise have been spent in the search for food.

He passed the first night under a projecting rock, wrapped in heather
and grass that he had collected before the weather broke. Next day he
caught a frog, dismembered it with a sharp stone, and ate it raw. He
also ate large quantities of dandelion leaves, and other green stuff
which from previous study he knew to be edible. Certain fungi, too,
contributed to his diet on that day, and indeed throughout his
adventure. On the second day he was feeling "pretty queer." On the third
evening he was in a high fever, with a bad cough and diarrhoea. On the
previous day, foreseeing possible illness, he had greatly improved his
shelter, and laid by a store of such food as he considered least
indigestible. For some days, he didn't know how long, he lay desperately
sick, scarcely able to crawl to the stream for water. "I must have been
delirious at one time," he said, "because I seemed to have a visit from
Pax. Then I came to and found there wasn't any Pax, and I thought I was
dying, and I loved myself desperately, knowing I was indeed a rare
bright thing. And it was torture to be just wasted like that. And then
that unspeakable joy came, that joy of seeing things as it were through
God's eyes, and finding them after all _right_, fitting, in the
picture." There followed a few days of convalescence, during which, he
said, "I seemed to have lost touch completely with all the motives of my
adventure. I just lay and wondered why I had been such a self-important
fool. Fortunately, before I was strong enough to crawl back to
civilization I lashed myself into facing this spiritual decay. For even
in my most abject state I vaguely _knew_ that somewhere there was
another 'I,' and a better one. Well, I set my teeth and determined to go
on with the job even if it killed me."

Soon after he had come to this decision some local boys with a dog came
up the hill right on to his hiding-place. He leapt up and fled. They
must have caught a glimpse of his small naked figure, for they gave
chase, hallooing excitedly. As soon as he was on his feet he realized
that his legs were like water. He collapsed. "But then," he said, "I
suddenly managed to tap some deep reserve of vitality, so to speak. I
simply jumped up and ran like hell round a corner of hillside, and
farther, to a rocky place. There I climbed a pretty bad pitch into a
hole I knew of and had counted on. Then I must have fainted. In fact, I
think I must have lain unconscious for almost twenty-four hours, for
when I came to, the sun seemed to have gone back to early morning. I was
cold as death, and one huge ache, and so weak I couldn't move from the
twisted position I was in."

Later in the day he managed to crawl back to his lair, and with great
difficulty moved his bedding to a safer but less comfortable spot. The
weather was now hot and bright. For ten days or so he spent nearly all
his time creeping about in search of frogs, lizards, snails, birds' eggs
and green stuff, or just lying in the sun recovering his strength.
Sometimes he managed to catch a few fish by "tickling" them in a pool in
the river. The whole of one day he spent in trying to get a flame by
striking sparks from stones on a handful of dry grass. At last he
succeeded, and began to cook his meal, in an ecstasy of pride and
anticipation. Suddenly he noticed a man, far away but obviously
interested in the smoke of his fire. He put it out at once and decided
to go much farther into the wilds.

Meanwhile, though his feet had been hardened with long practice at home,
they were now terribly sore, and quite unfit for "a walking tour." He
made moccasins out of ropes of twisted grass which he bound round his
feet and ankles. They kept in place for a while, but were always either
coming undone or wearing through. After many days of exploration, and
several nights without shelter, two of which were wet, he found the high
cave where later the climbers discovered him. "It was only just in
time," he said. "I was in a pretty bad state. Feet swollen and bleeding,
ghastly cough, diarrhoea. But in that cave I soon felt snugger than I had
ever felt in my life, by contrast with the past few weeks. I made myself
a _lovely_ bed, and a fireplace, and I felt fairly safe from intrusion,
because mine was a remote mountain, and anyhow very few people could
climb those rocks. Not far below there were grouse and ptarmigan; and
deer. On my first morning, sitting in the sun on my roof, positively
happy, I watched a herd of them crossing a moor, stepping so finely,
ears spread, heads high."

The deer seem to have become his chief interest for a while. He was
fascinated by their beauty and freedom. True, they now depended for
their existence on a luxurious civilization; but equally they had
existed before there was any civilization at all. Moreover, he coveted
the huge material wealth that the slaughter of one stag would afford
him. And he had apparently a queer lust to try his strength and cunning
against a worthy quarry. For at this time he was content to be almost
wholly the primitive hunter, "though with a recollection, away at the
back of my mind, that all this was just a process of getting clean in
spirit for a very different enterprise."

For ten days or so he did little but devise means for catching birds and
hares, and spent all spare time in resting, recuperating, and brooding
over the deer. His first hare, caught after many failures, he took by
arranging a trap in its runway. A huge stone was precariously held in
position by a light stick, which the creature dislodged. Its back was
broken. But a fox ate most of it in the night. From its skin, however,
he made a rough bow-string, also soles and thongs for his foot-gear. By
splitting its thigh bones and filing them on the rock he made some
fragile knives to help him in preparing his food. Also he made some
minute sharp arrowheads. With a diversity of traps, and his toy bow and
arrows, and vast patience and aptitude, he managed to secure enough game
to restore him to normal strength. Practically his whole time was spent
in hunting, trapping, cooking, making little tools of bone or wood or
stone. Every night he rolled himself in his grass bedding dead tired,
but at peace. Sometimes he took his bedding outside the cave and slept
on a ledge of the precipice, under stars and driving cloud.

But there were the deer; and beyond them the spiritual problem which was
the real motive of his adventure, and had not yet been consciously faced
at all. It was clear that if he did not greatly improve his way of life,
he would have no time for that concentrated meditation and spiritual
exercise which he so greatly needed. The killing of the stag became a
symbol for him. The thought of it stirred unwonted feelings in him. "It
was as though all the hunters of the past challenged me," he said, "and
as though, as though--well, as though the angels of God ordered me to do
this little mighty deed in preparation for mightier deeds to come. I
dreamt of stags, of their beauty and power and speed. I schemed and
plotted, and rejected every plan. I stalked the herd, weaponless, intent
only on learning their ways. One day I came upon some deer-stalkers, and
I stalked them too, until they brought down a stag of ten; and how I
despised them for their easy slaughter. To me they were just vermin
preying upon _my_ game. But when I had thought that thought, I laughed
at myself; for _I_ had no more right to the creatures than any one
else."

The story of how John finally took his stag seemed to me almost
incredible, yet I could not but believe it. He had marked down as his
quarry the finest beast of the herd, an eight-year-old monarch, bearing
besides his brow, bay and tray, "three on top" on the right, and four on
the left. The weight of antler gave his head a superb poise. One day
John and the stag met one another face to face round a shoulder of moor.
They stood for full three seconds, twenty paces apart, gazing at one
another, the stag's wide nostrils taking the scent of him. Then the
beast swung round and cantered easefully away.

When John described that meeting, his strange eyes seemed to glow with
dark fire. He said, I remember, "With my soul I saluted him. Then I
pitied him, because he was doomed, and in the prime. But I remembered
that I too was doomed. I suddenly knew that I should never reach my
prime. And I laughed aloud, for him and for me, because life is brief
and wild, and death too is in the picture."

John took long to decide on the method of his attack. Should he dig a
pit for him, or lasso him with a cord of hide, or set a mighty stone to
fell him, or pierce him with a bone-pointed arrow? Few of these devices
seemed practicable; all but the last seemed ugly, and that last was not
practicable. For some time he busied himself making dirks of various
kinds, of wood, of the fragile bones of hares, of keen stone splinters
from a neighbouring mountain. Patient experiment produced at last a
preposterous little stiletto of hard wood pointed with bone, the whole
"stream-lined" by filing upon the rock. With this fantastic weapon and
his knowledge of anatomy, he proposed to leap on the stag from a
hiding-place and pierce its heart. And this in the end he did, after
many days of fruitless stalking and waiting. There was a little glade
where the deer sometimes grazed, and beside it a rock some ten feet
high. On the top of this rock he secreted himself early one morning,
when the wind was such that his scent would not betray him. The great
stag came round the shoulder of hill, attended by three hinds.
Cautiously they sniffed and peered; then, at last, lowered their heads
and peacefully grazed. Hour after hour John lay, waiting for the right
beast to stray below the rock. But it was as though the stag
deliberately avoided the danger-spot. Finally the four deer left the
glade. Two more days were spent in vain watching. Not till the fourth
day did John leap from the rock upon the back of the grazing stag,
bringing it down with its right flank to the ground. Before the creature
could regain its feet John had thrust his primitive weapon home with all
his weight. The stag half righted itself, wildly swung its antlers,
tearing John's arm, then collapsed. And John, to his own surprise,
behaved in a style most unseemly in a hunter. For the third time in his
life, he burst into spontaneous tears.

For days afterwards he struggled to dismember the carcass with his
inadequate implements. This task proved even more difficult than the
killing, but in the end he found himself with a large quantity of meat,
an invaluable hide, and the antlers, which, with desperate efforts, he
smashed in pieces with a great stone and worked up as knives and other
tools, by scraping them on the rocks.

At the end he could hardly lift his hands with fatigue, and they were
covered with bleeding blisters. But the deed was accomplished. The
hunters of all the ages saluted him, for he had done what none of them
could have done. A child, he had gone naked into the wilderness and
conquered it. And the angels of heaven smiled at him, and beckoned him
to a higher adventure.

John's way of life now changed. It had become a fairly easy matter for
him to keep himself alive, and even in comfort. He set his traps, and
let fly his arrows, and gathered his green things; but all was now
routine work. He was able to carry it out while giving his best
attention to the strange and disturbing events which were beginning to
occur within his own mind.

It is obviously quite impossible for me to give anything like a true
account of the spiritual side of John's adventure in the wilderness. Yet
to ignore it would be to ignore all that was most distinctive in John. I
must at least try to set down as much of it as I was able to understand,
for that little seems to me to have real significance for beings of my
own species. Even if as a matter of fact I have merely misunderstood
what he told me, my misunderstanding afforded at least to me a real
enlightenment.

For a time he seems to have been chiefly concerned with art. He "sang
against the waterfall." He made and played his pan-pipes, apparently
adopting some weird scale of his own. He played strange themes and
figures on the shores of the loch, in the woods, on the mountain-tops,
and in his rock home. He decorated his tools with engraved angles and
curves consonant with their form and use. On pieces of bone and stone he
recorded symbolically his adventures with fish and birds; and with the
stag. He devised strange shapes which epitomized for him the tragedy of
_Homo sapiens_, and the promise of his own kind. At the same time he was
allowing the perceptual forms with which he was surrounded to work
themselves deeply into his mind. He accepted with insight the quality of
moor and sky and crag. From the bottom of his heart he gave thanks for
all these subtle contacts with material reality; and found in them a
spiritual refreshment which we also find, though confusedly and
grudgingly. He was also constantly, and ever surprisingly, illuminated
by the beauty of the beasts and birds on which he preyed, a beauty
significant of their power and their frailty, their vitality and their
obtuseness. Such perceived organic forms seem to have moved him far more
deeply than I could comprehend. The stag, in particular, that he had
killed and devoured, and now daily used, seems to have had some deep
symbolism for him which I could but dimly appreciate, and will not
attempt to describe. I remember his exclaiming, "How I knew him and
praised him! And his death was his life's crown."

This remark epitomized, I believe, some new enlightenment which John was
now receiving about himself and about _Homo sapiens_ and indeed about
all living things. The actual nature of that enlightenment I find it
impossible to conceive, but certain dim reflections of it I do seem able
to detect, and must try to record.

It will be remembered that John had shown, even as an infant, a
surprising detachment and strange relish in situations in which he
himself was the sufferer. Referring to this, he now said, "I could
always enjoy the 'realness' and the _neatness_ of my own pains and
griefs, even while I detested them. But now I found myself faced with
something of quite a new order of horribleness, and one which I could
not get into place. Hitherto my distresses had been merely isolated
smarts and temporary frustrations, but now I saw my whole future as
something at once much more vivid and much more painfully frustrated
than anything I had conceived. You see, I knew so clearly by now that I
was a unique being, far more awake than other people. I was beginning to
understand myself and discover all sorts of new and exquisite capacities
in myself; and at the same time I saw now all too clearly that I was up
against a savage race which would never tolerate me or my kind, and
would sooner or later smash me with its brute weight. And when I told
myself that after all this didn't really matter, and that _I_ was just a
little self-important microbe making a fuss over nothing, something in
me cried out imperiously that, even if I was of no account, the things I
could _do_, the _beauty_ I could make, and the _worship_ that I was now
beginning to conceive, did most emphatically matter, and _must_ be
brought to fruition. And I saw that there would be no fruition, that the
exquisite things that it was my office to do would never be done. This
was a sort of agony altogether different from anything that my
adolescent mind had ever known."

While he was wrestling with this horror, and before he had triumphed
over it, there came upon him the realization that for members of the
normal species _every_ pain, _every_ distress of body and mind, had this
character of insurmountable hideousness which he himself had found only
in respect of the highest reach of his experience, and was determined to
conquer even there. It came as a shocking revelation to him that normal
human beings were quite incapable of detachment and zest even in
sufferings upon the personal plane. In fact he realized clearly for the
first time the torture that lies in wait at every turn for beings who
are more sensitive and more awakened than the beasts and yet not
sensitive enough, not fully awakened. The thought of the agony of this
world of nightmare-ridden half-men crushed him as nothing else had ever
done.

His attitude to the normal species was undergoing a great change. When
he had fled into the wilderness his dominant reaction was disgust. One
or two of us he unreasonably cherished, but as a species he loathed us.
He had recently seen too much, lived at too close quarters, been fouled
and poisoned. His researches into the world of men had been too
devastating for a mind which, though superior in quality, was immature
and delicate. But the wild had cleansed him, healed him, brought him to
sanity again. He could now put _Homo sapiens_ at arm's length for study
and appreciation. And he saw that, though no divinity, the creature was
after all a noble and even a lovable beast, indeed the noblest and most
lovable of them all; nay further, that its very repulsiveness lay in its
being something more than beast, but not enough more. A normal human
being, he now ungrudgingly admitted, was indeed a spirit of a higher
order than any beast, though in the main obtuse, heartless, unfaithful
to the best in himself.

Realizing all this, and realizing for the first time the incapacity of
_Homo sapiens_ to accept his pains and sorrows with equanimity, John was
overwhelmed with pity, a passion which he had not hitherto experienced
in any intensity; save on particular occasions, as when Judy's dog was
run over by a car, and when Pax was ill and in great pain. And even then
his pity was always tempered by his assumption that every one, even
little Judy, could always "look at it from outside and enjoy it," as he
himself could do.

For many days John seems to have been at grips with this newly realized
problem of the absoluteness of evil, and the novel fact that beings that
were tissues of folly and baseness could yet be pitiable and, in their
kind, beautiful. What he sought was not an intellectual solution but an
emotional enlightenment. And this, little by little, he seems to have
gained. When I pressed him to tell me more of this strange
enlightenment, he said it was just "seeing my own fate and the piteous
plight of the normal species in the same way as I had always, since I
was a kid, seen bumps and burns and disappointments. It was a case of
delighting in their clear-cut form, and in their unity with the rest of
things, and the way they--how shall I put it?--deepened and quickened
the universe." Here, I remember, John paused, then repeated, "Yes,
deepened and quickened the universe,--that's the main point. But it
wasn't a case of _understanding_ that they did so, but just _seeing_ and
_feeling_ that they did so."

I asked him if what he meant was some kind of coming face to face with
God. He laughed, and said, "What do I know about God? No more than the
Archbishop of Canterbury, and that's nothing whatever."

He said that when McWhist and Norton came upon him in the cave he was
"still desperately puzzling things out," and that their presence filled
him just for a moment with the old disgust at their species, but that he
had really done with all that long ago, and when he saw them there,
looking so blank, he remembered his first close meeting with the stag.
And suddenly the stag seemed to symbolize the whole normal human
species, as a thing with a great beauty and dignity of its own, and a
rightness of its own, so long as it was not put into situations too
difficult for it. _Homo sapiens_, poor thing, _had_ floundered into a
situation too difficult for him, namely the present world-situation. The
thought of _Homo sapiens_ trying to run a mechanized civilization
suddenly seemed to him as ludicrous and pathetic as the thought of a
stag in the driving-seat of a motor-car.

I took this opportunity of asking him about the "miracle" with which he
had so impressed his visitors. He laughed again. "Well," he said, "I had
been discovering all sorts of odd powers. For instance I found that by a
kind of telepathy I could get in touch with Pax and talk to her. It's
true. You can ask her about it. Also I could sometimes feel what _you_
were thinking about, though you were too dull to catch my messages and
respond to me. And I had made queer little visits to events in my own
past life. I just lived them again, with full vividness, as though they
were 'now.' And in a telepathic way I had begun to get something very
like evidence that after all I was not the only one of my kind in the
world, that there were in fact quite a number of us scattered about in
different countries. And then again, when McWhist and Norton appeared in
the cave I found that by looking at them I could read the whole of their
past lives in their faces, and I saw how thoroughly sound they both were
within the limitations of their kind! And I _think_ I saw something
about their future, something that I won't tell you. Then, when it was
necessary to impress them, I suddenly got the idea of lifting the roof
and clearing away the blizzard so that we could see the stars. And I
knew perfectly well that I could do it, so I did it."

I looked at John with misgiving. "Oh yes," he said, "I know you think
I'm mad, and that all I did was to hypnotize them. Well, put it that I
hypnotized myself too, for I _saw_ the whole thing as clearly as they
did. But, believe me, to say I hypnotized us all is no more true and no
less true than to say I actually shifted the rock and the blizzard. The
truth of the matter was something much more subtle and tremendous than
any plain little physical miracle could ever be. But never mind that.
The important thing was that, when I did see the stars (riotously
darting in all directions according to the caprice of their own wild
natures, yet in every movement confirming the law), the whole tangled
horror that had tormented me finally presented itself to me in its true
and beautiful shape. And I knew that the first, blind stage of my
childhood had ended."

I had indeed sensed a change in John. Even physically he had altered
strikingly during his six months' absence. He was harder, more
close-knit; and there were lines on his face suggestive of ordeals
triumphantly passed. Mentally, though still capable of a most
disconcerting impishness, he had also acquired that indefinable
peacefulness and strength which is quite impossible to the adolescent of
the normal species, and is very seldom acquired even by the mature. He
himself said that his "discovery of sheer evil" had fortified him. When
I asked, "How fortified?" he said, "My dear, it is a great strength to
have faced the worst and to have _felt_ it a feature of beauty. Nothing
ever after can shake one."

He was right. By what magic he did it I do not know, but in all his
future, and in the final destruction of all that he most cherished, he
accepted the worst not with resignation, merely, but with a strange joy
that must remain to the rest of us incomprehensible.

I will mention one other point that emerged in my long talk with John.
It will be remembered that after performing his "miracle" he apologized
for it. I questioned him on this matter, and he said something like
this: "To enjoy exercising one's powers is healthy. Children enjoy
learning to walk. Artists enjoy painting pictures. As a baby I exulted
in the tricks I could do with numbers, and later in my inventions, and
recently in killing my stag. And of course the full exercise of one's
powers really is part of the life of the spirit. But it is only a part,
and sometimes we are inclined to take it as the whole purpose of our
existence, especially when we discover new powers. Well, in Scotland,
when I began to come into all those queer powers that I mentioned just
now, I was tempted to regard the exercise of them as the true end of my
life. I said to myself, 'Now at last, in these wonderful ways, I shall
indeed advance the spirit.' But after the momentary exaltation of
lifting the rock I saw clearly that such acts were in no sense the goal
of the spirit, but just a by-play of its true life, amusing, and
sometimes useful, and often dangerous, but never themselves the goal."

"Then tell me," I said, perhaps rather excitedly, "what is the goal, the
true life of the spirit?" John suddenly grinned like a boy of ten, and
laughed that damnably disturbing laugh of his. "I'm afraid I can't tell
you, Mr. Journalist," he said. "It is time your interview was concluded.
Even if I _knew_ what the true life of the spirit was, I couldn't put it
into English, or any 'sapient' language. And if I could, you wouldn't
understand." After a pause he added, "Perhaps we might safely say this
much about it anyhow. It's not doing any one particular kind of thing,
like miracles, or even good deeds. It's doing everything that comes
along to be done, and doing it not only with all one's might but
with--spiritual taste, discrimination, _full_ consciousness of what one
is doing. Yes, it's that. And it's more. It's--praise of life, and of
all things in their true setting." Once more he laughed, and said, "What
stuff! To describe the spiritual life, we should have to remake language
from the foundations upwards."




CHAPTER XIII
JOHN SEEKS HIS KIND


For many weeks after his return from the wilderness John spent a good
deal of his time at home, or in the neighbouring city. Apparently he was
content to sink back into the interests of the normal adolescent. He
resumed his friendship with Stephen, and with Judy. Often he took the
child to a picture show, a circus, or any entertainment suited to her
years. He acquired a motor-bicycle, on which, upon the very day of the
purchase, Judy was treated to a wild ride. The neighbours said that
John's holiday had done him good. He was much more normal now. With his
brother and sister too, on the rare occasions when he met them, John
became more fraternal. Anne was now married. Tom was a successful young
architect. The two brothers had generally maintained a relation of
restrained hostility to one another, but now hostility seemed to have
mellowed into mutual tolerance. After a family reunion Tom remarked,
"Our infant prodigy's positively growing up." Doc was delighted by
John's new companionableness, and often talked to him at great length.
Their main topic was John's future. Doc was anxious to persuade him to
take to medicine and become "a greater Lister." John used to attend to
these exhortations thoughtfully, seeming to be almost persuaded. Once
Pax was present. She shook her head, smilingly but reprovingly at John.
"Don't believe him, Doc," she said, "he's pulling your leg." In this
period, by the way, John and Pax often went together to a theatre or
concert. Indeed, mother and son were now seeing a great deal of each
other. Pax's interest in the drama, and in "persons," seemed to afford
him an unfailing common platform. Occasionally they even went up to
London together for a week-end, "to see the shows."

There came a time when I began to feel a certain curiosity as to the
meaning of this prolonged period of relaxation. John's behaviour seemed
now almost completely normal. There was, indeed, one unusual but
unobtrusive feature about it. In the midst of conversation or any other
activity he would sometimes give a noticeable start of surprise. He
would then perhaps repeat the immediately preceding remark, whether his
own or the other person's; and then he would look around him with amused
interest. I fancied that for some time after such an incident he was
more alert than before it. Not that in the earlier stage he had seemed
at all absent-minded. He was at all times thoroughly adjusted to his
surroundings. But after these curious jerks the current of his life
seemed to reach a higher tension.

One evening I accompanied the three Wainwrights to the local Repertory
Theatre. During an interval, while we were drinking coffee in the foyer
and discussing the play, John gave a more violent start than usual,
spilling his coffee into the saucer. He laughed, and looked about him
with surprised interest. After a moment's awkward silence, in which Pax
regarded her boy with veiled solicitude, John continued his comments on
the play, but (as it seemed to me) with new penetration. "My point is
just this," he said. "The thing's too lifelike to be really alive. It's
not a portrait but a death-mask."

Next day I asked him what had happened when he spilt his coffee. We were
in my flat. John had come to inquire if the post had brought information
about some patent or other. I was at my writing-table. He was standing
at the window, looking out across the deserted promenade to the wintry
sea. He was chewing an apple that he had picked up from a dish on my
table. "Yes," he said, "it's time you were told, even if you can't
believe. At present I am looking for other people more or less like me,
and to do it I become a sort of divided personality. Part of me remains
where my body is, and behaves quite correctly, but the other, the
essential I, goes off in search of _them_. Or if you like, I stay put
all the time, but _reach out_ in search of them. Anyhow, when I come
back, or stop the search, I get a bit of a jolt, taking up the threads
of ordinary life again."

"You never seem to _lose_ the threads," I said.

"No," he answered. "The incoming 'I' comes slick into possession of all
the past experiences of the residential one, so to speak. But the sudden
jump from God knows where to here gives a bit of a jar, all the same."

"And when you're away," I asked, "where do you go, what do you find?"

"Well," he said, "I had better begin at the beginning. I told you before
that when I was in Scotland I used to find myself in telepathic touch
with people, and that some of the people seemed queer people, or people
in a significant way more like me than you. Since I came home I've been
working up the technique for tuning in to the people I want.
Unfortunately it's much easier to pick up the thoughts of folk one knows
well than of strangers. So much depends on the general form of the mind,
the matrix in which the thoughts occur, so to speak. To get you or Pax I
have only to think of you. I can get your actual consciousness, and if I
want to, I can get a good bit of the deeper layers of you too."

I was seized with horror, but I comforted myself with incredulity.

"Oh, yes, I can," said John. "While I've been talking, half your mind
was listening and the other half was thinking about a quarrel you had
last night with----" I cut him short with an expostulation.

"Righto, don't get excited," said John. "_You_ haven't much to be
ashamed of. And anyhow I don't want to pry. But just now,--well, you
kept fairly shouting the stuff at me, because while you were attending
to me you were thinking about it. You'll probably soon learn how to shut
me out at will."

I grunted, and John continued: "As I was saying, it's much harder to get
in touch with people one doesn't know, and at first I didn't know any of
the people I was looking for. On the other hand, I found that the people
of my sort make, so to speak, a much bigger 'noise' telepathically than
the rest. At least they do when they want to, or when they don't care.
But when they want _not_ to, they can shut themselves off completely.
Well, at last I managed to single out from the general buzz of
telepathic 'noise,' made by the normal species, a few outstanding
streaks or themes that seemed to have about them something or other of
the special quality that I was looking for."

John paused, and I interjected, "What sort of quality?"

He looked at me for some seconds in silence. Believe it or not, but that
prolonged gaze had a really terrifying effect on me. I am not suggesting
that there was something magical about it. The effect was of the same
kind as any normal facial expression may have. But knowing John as I
did, and remembering the strange events of his summer in Scotland, I was
no doubt peculiarly susceptible. I can only describe what I felt by
means of an image. It was as though I was confronted with a mask made of
some semi-transparent substance, and illuminated from within by a
different and a _spiritually luminous_ face. The mask was that of a
grotesque child, half monkey, half gargoyle, yet wholly urchin, with its
huge cat's eyes, its flat little nose, its teasing lips. The inner
face,--obviously it cannot be described, for it was _the same_ in every
feature, yet wholly different. I can only say that it seemed to me to
combine the august and frozen smile of a Buddha with the peculiar creepy
grimness that the battered Sphinx can radiate when the dawn first
touches its face. No, these images fail utterly. I cannot describe the
symbolical intention that John's features forced upon me in those
seconds. I can only say that I longed to look away and could not, or
dared not. Irrational terror welled up in me. When one is under the
dentist's drill, one may endure a few moments of real torture without
flinching. But as the seconds pile up, it becomes increasingly difficult
not to move, not to scream. And so with me, looked at by John. With this
difference, that I was bound, and could not stir, that I had passed the
screaming point and could not scream. I believe my terror was largely a
wild dread that John was about to laugh, and that his laugh would
annihilate me. But he did not laugh.

Suddenly the spell broke, and I leapt up to put more coal on the fire.
John was gazing out of the window, and saying, in his normal friendly
voice, "Well, of course I can't _tell_ you what that special quality is,
can I? Think of it this way. It's seeing each thing, each event, on its
_eternal_ side, instead of _merely_ as a dated thing; seeing it as a
living leaf on the tree Yggdrasil, flushed with the sap of eternity, and
not _merely_ as a plucked and dried and dated specimen in the book of
history."

There was a long silence, then he continued his report. "The first trace
of mentality like my own gave me a lot of trouble. I could only catch
occasional glimpses of this fellow, and I couldn't make him take any
notice of me. And the stuff that did come through to me was terribly
incoherent and bewildering. I wondered whether this was the fault of my
technique, or whether his was a mind too highly developed for me to
understand. I tried to find out where he was, so that I could go and see
him. He was evidently living in a large building with lots of rooms and
many other people. But he had very little to do with the others. Looking
out of his window, he saw trees and houses and a long grassy hill. He
heard an almost continuous noise of trains and motor traffic. At least
_I_ recognized it as that, but it didn't seem to mean much to him.
Clearly, I thought, there's a main line and a main road quite close to
where he lives. Somehow I must find that place. So I bought the
motor-bike. Meanwhile I kept on studying him. I couldn't catch any of
his thoughts, but only his perceptions, and the way he felt about them.
One striking thing was his music. Sometimes when I found him he was
outside the house in a sloping field with trees between it and the main
road; and he would be playing a pipe, a sort of recorder, but with the
octave very oddly divided. I discovered that each of his hands had
_five_ fingers and a thumb. Even so, I couldn't make out how he managed
all the extra notes. The kind of music he played was extraordinarily
fascinating to me. Something about it, the mental pose of it, made me
quite sure the man was really my sort. I discovered, by the way, that he
had the not very helpful name of James Jones. Once when I got him he was
out in the grounds and near a gap in the trees, so that he could see the
road. Presently a bus flashed past. It was a 'Green Line' bus, and it
was labelled 'BRIGHTON.' I noticed with surprise that these words
apparently meant nothing to James Jones. But they meant a lot to me. I
went off on the bike to search the Green Line routes out of Brighton. It
took me a couple of days to find the right spot--the big building, the
grassy hill, and so on. I stopped and asked someone what the building
was. It was a lunatic asylum."

John's narrative was interrupted by my guffaw of relief. "Funny," he
said, "but not quite unexpected. After pulling lots of wires I got
permission to see James Jones, who was a relative of mine, I said. They
told me at the Asylum that there was a family likeness, and when I saw
James Jones I knew what they meant. He's a little old man with a big
head and huge eyes, like mine. He's quite bald, except for a few crisp
white curls above the ears. His mouth was smaller than mine (for the
size of him) and it had a sort of suffering sweetness about it,
specially when he let it do a peculiar compressed pout, which was a
characteristic mannerism of his. Before I saw him they had told me a bit
about him. He gave no trouble, they said, except that his health was
very bad, and they had to nurse him a lot. He hardly ever spoke, and
then only in monosyllables. He could understand simple remarks about
matters within his ken, but it was often impossible to get him to attend
to what was said to him. Yet oddly enough, he seemed to have a lively
interest in everything happening around him. Sometimes he would listen
intently to people's voices; but not, apparently, for their
significance, simply for their musical quality. He seemed to have an
absorbing interest in perceived rhythms of all sorts. He would study the
grain of a piece of wood, poring over it by the hour; or the ripples on
a duck-pond. Most music, ordinary music invented by _Homo sapiens_,
seemed at once to interest and outrage him; though when one of the
doctors played a certain bit of Bach, he was gravely attentive, and
afterwards went off to play oddly twisted variants of it on his queer
pipe. Certain jazz tunes had such a violent effect on him that after
hearing one record he would sometimes be prostrate for days. They seemed
to tear him with some kind of conflict of delight and disgust. Of course
the authorities regarded his own pipe-playing as the caterwauling of a
lunatic.

"Well, when we were brought face to face, we just stood and looked at
one another for so long that the attendant found it uncomfortable.
Presently James Jones, keeping his eyes on mine, said one word, with
quiet emphasis and some surprise, 'Friend!' I smiled and nodded. Then I
felt him catch a glimpse of my mind, and his face suddenly lit up with
intense delight and surprise. Very slowly, as if painfully searching for
each word, he said, 'You--are--not--mad, NOT MAD! We two, NOT MAD! But
these--' (slowly pointing at the attendant and smiling) 'All mad, quite,
quite mad. But kind and clever. He cares for me. I cannot care for self.
Too busy with--with----' The sentence trailed into silence. Smiling
seraphically, he nodded slowly, again and again. Then he came forward
and laid a hand for an instant on my head. That was the end. When I said
yes, we were friends, and he and I saw things the same way, he nodded
again; but when he tried to speak, an expression of almost comic
perplexity came over his face. Looking into his mind, I saw that it was
already a welter of confusion. He perceived but could not find any
mundane significance in what he perceived. He saw the two human beings
that confronted him, but he no longer connected my visible appearance
with human personality, with the mind that he was still striving to
communicate with. He didn't even see us as physical objects at all, but
just as colour and shape, without any meaning. I asked him to play to
me. He could not understand. The attendant put the pipe into his hand,
closing the fingers over it. He looked blankly at it. Then with a sudden
smile of enlightenment he put it to his ear, like a child listening to a
shell. The attendant took it again, and played a few notes on it, but in
vain. Then I took it and played a little air that I had heard him play
before I found him. His attention was held. Perplexity cleared from his
face. To our surprise he spoke, slowly but without difficulty. 'Yes,
John Wainwright,' he said, 'you heard _me_ play that the other day. I
knew some _person_ was listening. Give me my pipe.'

"He took it, seated himself on the edge of the table, and played, with
his eyes fixed on mine."

John startled me with one sharp gasp of laughter. "God! it was music,"
he said. "If you could have heard it! I mean if you could have _really_
heard it, and not merely as a cow might! It was lucid. It straightened
out the tangles of my mind. It showed me just precisely the true,
appropriate attitude of the adult human spirit to its world. Well, he
played on, and I went on listening, hanging on to every note, to
remember it. Then the attendant interrupted. He said this sort of noise
always upset the other patients. It wasn't as if it was real _music_,
but such crazy stuff. That was why J. J. was really only allowed to play
out of doors.

"The music stopped with a squawk. J. J. looked with a kindly but
tortured smile at the attendant. Then he slid back into insanity. So
complete was his disintegration that he actually tried to eat the
mouthpiece."

I believe I saw John shudder. He was now standing at the window once
more, and he stood silent, while I wondered what to say. Then he
exclaimed, "Where's your field-glass, quick! Damned if that's not a grey
phalarope. Priceless little devil, isn't he!" In turn we watched the
small silvery bird as it swam hither and thither in search of food,
heedless of the buffeting wave-crests. Beside the gulls it was a yacht
amongst the liners. "Yes," said John, answering my thought, "the way you
feel when you watch that little blighter, just observant and delighted,
and--well, curiously pious yet aloof,--yes, that's the starting-point,
the very first moment, of what J. J. was working out in his music. If
you could hold that always, and fill it out with a whole world of
overtones, you'd be well on the way to 'us.'"

In the tone of John's "us" there was something of the shy audacity with
which a newly married couple first speak of "us." It began to dawn on me
that the discovery of his own kind, even in a lunatic asylum, must have
been for John a deeply moving experience. I began to realize that,
having lived for nearly eighteen years with mere animals, he had at last
discovered a human being.

John sighed, and took up his narrative. "Well, of course James Jones was
no good as a partner in the job of founding a new world. I've seen him
several times since, and he always plays to me, and I come away a little
clearer in my head, and a little more grown up. But he's incurably mad,
all the same. So I started 'listening in' again; rather gloomily, for I
was afraid they might all turn out to be mad. And really the next one
almost cured me of looking any more. You see, I was trying to get in
touch with the near ones first, because they were handier. I had already
spotted a strain of French thinking that must be one of us, and also an
Egyptian, and a Chinese or Tibetan. But for the present I left these
alone. Well, my next was an infant more or less, the son of a crofter in
South Uist (Outer Hebrides). He's a ghastly cripple; no legs, and arms
like a newt's arms. And there's something wrong with his mouth, so that
he can't talk. And he's always sick, because his digestion doesn't work
properly. In fact he's the sort any decent society would drown at birth.
But the mother loves him like a tigress; though she's scared stiff of
him too, and loathes him. Neither parent has any idea he's--what he is.
They think he's just an ordinary little cripple. And because he's a
cripple, and because they treat him all wrong, he's brewing the most
murderous hate imaginable. Within the first five minutes of my visit he
spotted me as different from the others. He got me telepathically. I got
him too, but he shut his mind up immediately. Now you'd think that
finding a kindred spirit for the first time ever would be an occasion
for thanksgiving. But he didn't take it that way at all. He evidently
felt at once there wasn't room for him and me together on the same
planet. But he didn't let on he was going to do anything about it. He
kept his mind shut like an oyster, and his face as blank as a piece of
paper. I began to think I had made a mistake, that he was not one of us
after all. Yet all the circumstances corresponded with my earlier
telepathic glimpses of him,--the minute room with a flagged floor, the
peat fire, his mother's face, with one eye slightly bigger than the
other, and traces of a moustache at the corners of her lips. By the way,
his parents were quite old people, both grey. This made me curious,
because the kid looked about a three-year-old. I asked how old the baby
was, but they seemed unwilling to say. I tactfully said the child had a
terribly wise face, not like a baby's. The father blurted out that he
was eighteen years old, and the mother gave a high-pitched hysterical
sort of laugh. Gradually I succeeded in making friends with his parents.
(I had told them, by the way, that I was on a fishing holiday with a
party on the neighbouring island.) I flattered them by telling them I
had read in a book that deformed children sometimes turned out to be
great geniuses. Meanwhile I was still trying to get behind the kid's
defences to see what his mind was like inside. It's impossible to give
you a clear idea of the murderous trick he played on me. He must have
made up his mind as soon as he saw me that he'd do me in. He chose the
only effective weapon he had, and it was a diabolic one. It happened
this way, so far as I can tell you. I had turned from his parents and
was talking to him, trying to make friends. He just stared at me
blankly. I tried harder and harder to open the oyster, and was just
about ready to give up in disgust when, my God, the oyster opened wide,
and I--well, this is the indescribable thing. I can only carry on with
the image. The mental oyster opened wide and tried to swallow me into
itself. And itself was--just the bottomless black pit of Hell. Of
course, that sounds silly and romantic to you. But that's what it was
like. I felt myself dropping plumb into the most appalling gulf of
darkness, of mental and spiritual darkness, in which there was nothing
whatever but eternally unsatisfied black hate; a sort of dank atmosphere
of poison, in which everything that I had ever cared for seemed to
moulder away into nastiness. I can't explain, I can't explain."

John had been sitting on the corner of my writing-table. He got up
suddenly and walked to the window. "Thank God for light," he said,
looking at the grey sky. "If there was some one who could understand, I
could tell it all and be rid of it, perhaps. But half-telling it just
makes it all come welling up again. And some say there's no Hell!"

He remained silent for some time, looking out of the window. Then he
said, "Look at that cormorant. He's got a conger fatter than his own
neck." I came up beside him, and we watched the fish writhing and
lashing. Sometimes bird and prey disappeared together under water. Once
the conger got away, but was speedily recovered. After many failures,
the cormorant caught it by the head, and swallowed it, slick, so that
nothing was to be seen of it but its tail, and a huge swelling in the
bird's neck.

"And now," said John, "he'll be digested. That's what nearly happened to
me. I felt my whole mind being disintegrated by the digestive juices of
that Satanic young mollusc. I don't know what happened next. I remember
seeing a perfectly diabolic expression on the kid's face; and then I
must have saved myself somehow, for presently I found myself lying on
the grass some way from the house, alone and in a cold sweat. The very
sight of the house in the distance gave me the creeps. I couldn't think.
I kept seeing that infantile grin of hate, and turning stupid again.
After a while I realized I was cold, so I got up and walked toward the
little bay where the boats were. Presently I began to ask myself what
sort of a devil this baby Satan really was. Was he one of 'us,' or
something quite different? But there was very little doubt in my mind,
actually. Of course he was one of us, and probably a much mightier one
than either J. J. or myself. But everything had gone wrong with him,
from conception onwards. His body had failed him, and was tormenting
him, and his mind was as crippled as his body, and his parents were
quite unable to give him a fair chance. So the only self-expression
possible to him was hate. And he had specialized in hate pretty
thoroughly. But the oddest thing about it all was this. The further I
got away from the experience, the more clearly it was borne in on me
that his ecstasy of hate was really quite self-detached. He wasn't
hating _for_ himself. He hated himself as much as me. He hated
everything, including hate. And he hated it all with a sort of sacred
fervour. And why? Because, as I begin to discover, there's a sort of
minute, blazing star of _worship_ right down in the pit of his hell. He
sees everything from the side of eternity just as clearly as I do,
perhaps more clearly; but--how shall I put it?--he conceives his part in
the picture to be the devil's part, and he's playing it with a
combination of passion and detachment like a great artist, and for the
glory of God, if you understand what I mean. And he's right. It's the
only thing he _can_ do, and he does it with style. I take off my hat to
him, in spite of everything. But it's pretty ghastly, really. Think of
the life he's living; just like an infant's, and with his powers! I dare
say he'll manage to find some trick for blowing up the whole planet some
day, if he lives much longer. And there's another thing. I've got to
keep a sharp look-out or he'll catch me again. He can reach me anywhere,
in Australia or Patagonia. God! I can feel him now! Give me another
apple, and let's talk about something else."

Crunching his second Cox, John became calm again. Presently he went on
with his narrative. "I haven't done much since that affair. It took me
some time to get my mind straight, and then I felt depressed about the
chances of ever finding any one anywhere that was really my sort and yet
also sane. But after ten days or so I began the search again. I found an
old gipsy woman who was a sort of half-baked one of 'us.' But she's
always having fits. She tells fortunes, and perhaps has some sort of
glimpses of the future. But she's as old as the hills, and cares for
nothing but fortune-telling and rum. Yet she's quite definitely one of
us, up to a point; not intellectually, though she has the reputation of
being damnably cunning, but in insight. She sees things on their eternal
side all right, though not very steadily. Then there are several others
in asylums, quite hopeless. And a hermaphrodite adolescent in a sort of
home for incurables. And a man doing a life-sentence for murder. I fancy
he might have been the real thing if he hadn't had a bit of his skull
knocked in when he was a kid. Then there's a lightning calculator, but
he doesn't seem to be anything else. He's not really one of us at all,
but he's got just _one_ of the essential factors in his make up. Well,
that's all there is of _Homo superior_ in these islands."

John began pacing the room, quickly, methodically, like a polar bear in
its cage. Suddenly he stopped, and clenched his fists and cried out,
"Cattle! Cattle! A whole world of cattle! My God, how they stink!" He
stared at the wall. Then he sighed, and turning to me he said, "Sorry,
Fido, old man! That was a lapse. What do you say to a walk before
lunch?"




CHAPTER XIV
ENGINEERING PROBLEMS


Not long after John told me of his efforts to make contact with other
supernormals he took me into his confidence about his plans for the
future. We were in the subterranean workshop. He was absorbed in a new
invention, a sort of generator-accumulator, he said. His bench was
covered with test-tubes, jars, bits of metal, bottles, insulated wires,
voltmeters, lumps of stone. He was so intent on his work that I said, "I
believe you're regressing to childhood. This sort of thing has got hold
of you again and made you forget all about--Scotland."

"No, you're wrong," he said. "This gadget is an important part of my
plan. When I have finished this test I'll tell you." Silently he
proceeded with the experiment. Presently, with a little shout of
triumph, he said, "Got it, this time!"

Over a cup of coffee we discussed his plans. He was determined to search
the whole world in the hope of discovering a few others of his kind, and
of suitable age for joining with him in the founding of a little colony
of supernormals in some remote part of the earth. In order to do this
without loss of time, he said, he must have an ocean-going yacht and a
small aeroplane, or flying machine of some kind, which could be stowed
on the yacht. When I protested that he knew nothing about flying and
less about designing planes, he replied. "Oh yes, I do. I learned to fly
yesterday." It seems he had managed to persuade a certain brilliant
young airman to give him not only a joy-ride but a long spell in control
of the machine. "Once you get the feel of it," he said, "it's easy
enough. I landed twice, and took off twice, and did a few stunts. But of
course there's a good deal more to learn. As for designing, I'm on the
job already, and on the yacht design too. But a lot depends on this new
gadget. I can't explain it very well. At least, I can explain, in a way,
but you just won't believe it. I've been looking into nuclear chemistry
lately, and in the light of my Scotch experiences an idea struck me.
Probably even you know (though you have a genius for keeping out of
touch with science) that there's the hell of a lot of energy locked up
in every atomic nucleus, and that the reason why you can't release it is
that the unlocking would take a fantastically powerful electric current,
to overcome the forces that hold the electrons and protons, and so on,
together. Well, I've found a much handier key. But it's not a physical
key at all but a psychical one. It's no use trying to _overcome_ those
terrific interlocking forces. You must just _abolish_ them for the time
being; send them to sleep, so to speak. The interlocking forces, and the
disruptive forces too, are just the spontaneous urges of the basic
physical units, call them electrons and protons, if you like. What I do,
then, is to hypnotize the little devils so that they go limp for a
moment and loosen their grip on one another. Then when they wake up they
barge about in hilarious freedom, and all you have to do is to see that
their barging drives your machinery."

I laughed, and said I like his parable. "Parable be damned," he said.
"It's only a parable in the sense that the protons and electrons
themselves are merely fictitious characters in a parable. They're not
_really_ independent entities at all, but determinations within a
system--the cosmos. And they're not _really_ just physical, but
determinations within a psycho-physical system. Of course if you take
'sapient' physics as God's truth, and not as an abstraction from a more
profound truth, the whole idea seems crazy. But I thought it worth
looking into, and I find it works. Of course there are difficulties. The
main one is the psychological one. The 'sapient' mind could never do the
trick; it's not awake enough. But the supernormal has the necessary
influence, and practice makes the job reasonably safe and easy. The
physical difficulties," he said, glancing at his apparatus, "are all
connected with selecting the most favourable atoms to work on, and with
tapping the flood of energy as it comes into action. I'm working on
those problems now. Ordinary mud from the estuary is pretty good for the
job. There's a minute percentage of a very convenient element in it."

With a pair of tweezers he took a pinch of mud from a test-tube and put
it in a platinum bowl. He opened the trap-door of the workshop and
placed the bowl outside, then returned, almost closing the trap-door. We
both looked through the opening at the little bowl. Smiling, he said,
"Now all you little electrons and protons go to sleep, and don't wake up
till Mummy tells you." Turning to me, he added, "The patter, I may say,
is for the audience, not for the rabbits in the conjurer's hat."

An expression of grave concentration came over his face. His breathing
quickened. "Now!" he said. There was a terrific flash, and a report like
a gun.

John wiped his forehead with a grubby pocket handkerchief, and remarked,
"Alone I did it!" We returned to our coffee, and his plans.

"I've still got to find some really good way of bottling the energy till
it's wanted. You can't be at one and the same time hypnotizing electrons
_and_ navigating a ship. I may simply have to use the energy to drive a
dynamo and charge an accumulator. But there's a more interesting
possibility. I _may_ be able, when I have hypnotized the little beggars,
to give them a sort of 'post-hypnotic suggestion,' so that they can only
wake up and barge about again in response to some particular stimulus.
See?"

I laughed. We both sipped our coffee. I may as well say at once that the
"post-hypnotic" system turned out ultimately to be feasible, and was
adopted.

"Well, you can see," he said, "there are great possibilities in this new
dodge of mine. Now, while the yacht and plane are building, you are to
come on the Continent with me. (I'm sure Bertha will be glad to have a
holiday from you.) I want to do a bit of research. There's an obviously
supernormal mind in Paris, and one in Egypt, and perhaps others, not too
far away. When I have the yacht and plane I'll do the world tour in
search of the rest. If I find a few suitable young things, I'll voyage
in the Pacific to find a satisfactory island for the Colony."

During the next two months John was absorbed in the practical work of
designing the yacht and the plane, perfecting the new power technique,
and improving his flying.

At this time he was often to be seen "playing at boats" on the Park Lake
or the more boisterous Estuary, like any ordinary boy. He was now over
eighteen, but in appearance under fifteen. Thus his behaviour seemed
quite normal. He produced a large number of models and fitted them out
with electric motors or steam engines. These he dispatched across the
lake in all weathers, observing their performance with great care. The
design was largely determined by the necessity of stowing the plane on
board, with wings folded, and by the need for extreme seaworthiness.
John's final choice was an extraordinary craft which local yachtsmen
regarded as a mere caricature of a ship. John made a special three-foot
model to this design, and fitted her out in great detail. In general
shape she was ludicrously broad in the beam, and of shallow draft, in
fact an exaggeration of the speed-boat hull; a sort of cross between a
speed-boat and a life-boat, with a saucer somewhere in her ancestry, and
perhaps a flat pebble of the "ducks and drakes" type. She was certainly
a delightful toy; and I feel sure that John thoroughly enjoyed her
simply as a toy, and had put much more work into her than was needed for
mere experimentation. She represented a vessel the size of a small tug.
No detail was omitted from her equipment. There were bunks for nine
persons, but twenty could sleep on board at a pinch, and she could be
handled comfortably by a single navigator. There was a realistic
dining-saloon, with tables, chairs, cupboards. There was a latrine,
glass portholes, minute navigation controls. These controls could be
operated by some sort of radio device on shore. The engine was a fairly
detailed replica of the sub-atomic engine that John intended for the
actual ship.

Much entertainment was afforded by the antics which John made his model
perform. On the Park Lake he would send her in leisurely pursuit of the
terrified ducks. On the estuary, when the tide was in, he would stop her
far out at sea, and persuade some kindly member of the sailing club to
salvage her in dinghy. When the sweating oarsman had reached the little
derelict, and was putting out his hand to seize her, John (on shore, and
half a mile away) would set her going for a yard or two and watch the
man's repeated efforts to recover her. Finally he would let her out at
full speed for the shore, and she would return to her master's hand like
a well-trained dog.

John had also been at work on several model planes. He used to spend
much time flying them; but in secret, for he feared that, if they were
seen performing their surprising antics, they would attract too much
attention. He therefore used to retire with them into the wilds of North
Wales, by means of his motor-bike or my car. There he would try out his
models in the fickle mountain winds, their sub-atomic power enabling
them to perform feats which no elastic-driven model could possibly
achieve.

His final choice was a surprising mechanism, made on the same scale as
the model yacht, and capable of being dismantled and stowed on board.
With this stub-winged instrument he would amuse himself and me by the
hour, making it rise from the surface of a "llyn" (it had both wheels
and floats), and climb heavenwards, till we had to use a field-glass to
follow it. It maintained its equilibrium automatically, but was steered
by radio from the ground. When he had become adept in the management of
this mechanical bird, he sometimes used it for a modern sort of hawking,
sending the sparrow-like little object in chase of curlews, buzzards and
ravens. This sport needed very delicate perception as well as control.
As a rule the quarry would hurry away as soon as it realized it was
being chased. The plane would then chevy it, or even swoop upon its
back. But one old raven turned to fight, and before John could bring his
toy's superior speed into operation for escape, the raven's horny neb
had slashed one of the silken wings, and the plane came tumbling to the
heather.

The plans for the yacht and the plane were finished before John reached
the age of nineteen. I need not describe how I negotiated with
shipbuilders and aeroplane manufacturers, and finally placed orders for
the actual construction. I gained the reputation of being a mad
millionaire; for the designs appeared to be quite unworkable, and I
would not consider any of the objections raised against them. The main
trouble was that in both plane and yacht the space allotted to the
generation of power was by all ordinary standards quite insufficient.
Contracts for the generators and machinery were distributed among
several engineering firms in such a manner as to arouse as little
curiosity as possible.




CHAPTER XV
JACQUELINE


When these problems of engineering had been solved, John was able to
turn his attention once more to his telepathic researches. As he still
looked too young to be wandering about the Continent by himself, he
insisted on taking me with him to Paris. When we were approaching our
destination he showed signs of eagerness. Well might he, for he expected
to find a being who could meet him as an equal and afford him a far more
satisfying companionship than any he had yet known. But when we had
lodged ourselves in a little hotel in the rue Bertholet (off the avenue
de Claude Bernard) he became almost disheartened. When I questioned him
he laughed awkwardly, and said, "I'm having a new sensation. I'm feeling
shy! She doesn't seem particularly keen on my coming. She won't help me
to find her. I know she's somewhere in the Quartier Latin. She passes
the end of this street quite often. I know she knows some one is looking
for her, and yet she won't help. Also, she's evidently very old and
wise. She remembers the Franco-Prussian War. I've been trying to see
what she sees when she looks in a mirror, so as to get her face; but I
can't catch her at the right time."

At that moment his head jerked, and he said without any pause, "While I
was talking to you, _I_, the real I, was in touch with her. She's in a
certain caf. She'll be there for some time. Let's find her."

He had an obscure feeling that the caf was near the Odon, so thither
we hastened. After some hesitation he selected a certain establishment,
and we entered. As soon as he had passed through the door, he whispered
excitedly, "This is it all right. This is the room she is seeing at the
moment." He stood for a second or two, a queer little foreigner, jostled
by waiters and a stream of guests. Then he made his way to an empty
table at the far side of the room.

"There she is," said John, with surprise in his voice, almost with awe.
Following his gaze I saw at a near table two women. One had her back to
us, but I judged that she was under thirty, for her figure was slim and
the curve of her cheek almost juvenile. The other was extravagantly old.
Her face was a relief map; all ridges and valleys. I studied her with
disappointment, for she had a dull and peevish face, and she was looking
at John with offensive curiosity.

But now the other woman turned her head and looked about the room. There
was no mistaking those large eyes. They were John's, though
heavy-lidded. For a moment they rested on me, then on John. The drooping
lids were lifted to reveal two black and lofty caverns more abysmal even
than John's. The whole face lit up with intelligence and amusement. She
rose, and advanced toward John, who also rose. They faced one another in
silence. Then the woman said, "Alors c'est toi qui me cherches
toujours!"

She was not what I had expected. In spite of the great eyes, she might
almost have passed for a normal woman, an eccentric specimen of the
normal species. Her head, though large, did not look noticeably out of
proportion to her body, for she was tall, and the black hair which
scarcely showed under her close-fitting hat added little to its size.
Her ample mouth, I guessed, had been skilfully reduced by painting.

But though passably "human," according to the standards of _Homo
sapiens_, she was strange. Were I an imaginative writer, and not merely
a journalist, I might be able to suggest symbolically something of the
almost "creepy" effect she had on me, something of its remote and sleepy
power. As it is I can only record certain obvious features, and in
general that curious combination of the infantile or even the foetal,
with the mature. The protruding brow, the short broad nose, the great
distance between the great eyes, the surprising breadth of the whole
face, the marked furrow from nose to lips--all these characters were
definitely foetal; and yet the precisely chiselled lips themselves and
the delicate moulding of the eyelids produced an expression of subtle
experience suggestive of an ageless divinity. To me, at least, prepared
of course by familiarity with John's own strangeness, this strange face
seemed to combine idiosyncrasy and universality. Here, in spite of a
vaguely repulsive uncouthness, was a living symbol of womanhood. Yet
here also was a being utterly different from any other, something unique
and individual. When I looked from her to the most attractive girl in
the room I was shocked to find that it was the normal beauty that was
repulsive. With something like vertigo I looked once more at the
adorable grotesque.

While I was watching her, she and John stood regarding one another in
complete silence. Presently the New Woman, as I had already cynically
named her for my private amusement, asked us to move to her table, which
we accordingly did. Her real name was given as Jacqueline Castagnet. The
old lady, introduced as Mme. Lematre, regarded us with hostility, but
had to put up with us. She was thoroughly commonplace; yet I was struck
with certain points of likeness with Jacqueline, certain indescribable
traits of expression and of voice. I guessed that the two women were
mother and daughter. Later it turned out that I was right; and yet also
quite wrong.

There followed a few aimless remarks, and then Jacqueline began speaking
in a language quite unknown to me. For a second John looked surprised,
then laughed, and answered, apparently in the same tongue. For half an
hour or so they continued speaking, while I laboured to maintain
conversation with Mme. Lematre in very bad French.

Presently the old lady reminded Jacqueline that they were both due
elsewhere. When the two women had left us, John and I remained at the
table for a while. He was silent and absorbed. I asked what language
they had been talking. "English," he said. "She wanted to tell me a lot
about herself, and didn't want the old one to know about it, so she
started in on English-back-to-front. I've never tried that before, but
it's quite easy, for us." There was a faint stress on the "us." John
evidently knew that I felt "left out," for he continued: "I had better
tell you the gist of what she said. The old lady is her daughter, but
doesn't know it. Jacqueline was married to a man called Caz
eighty-three years ago, but she cleared out when the child was four. A
few days ago she came across this old thing, and recognized her as her
baby daughter, and made friends with her. Mme. Lematre showed her a
photograph 'of my mother who died when I was quite little--strangely
like you, my dear. Perhaps you are some sort of great niece of mine.'
Jacqueline herself was born in 1765."

John's account of the amazing life story of Jacqueline I can only
summarize. It deserves to be recorded in a fat volume, but my concern is
with John.

Her parents were peasants of that bleak country called "Lousy
Champagne," between Chlons-sur-Marne and the Forest of Argonne. They
were thrifty even to miserliness. Jacqueline, with her supernormal
intelligence and sensibility and her ravenous capacity for life, was
brought up in very cramping circumstances. This was probably a cause of
the passion for pleasure and power which played so great a part in the
earlier phases of her career. Like John, she took an unconscionable time
a-growing up. This was a grievance to her parents, who were impatient
for her to help in the house and on the land, and later were indignant
that at an age when other girls were ready for marriage she was still a
breastless child. The life which she was compelled to lead was
physically healthy, but devastating to her spirit. She soon realized
that she had capacities for all manner of subtle experiences beyond the
reach of her fellow mortals, and that the sane course was to devote
herself to the exercise of these capacities; but her monotonous and dour
existence made it impossible for her to detach herself from the less
developed cravings of her nature, the increasing hunger for luxury and
power. The fact that she inhabited a world of half-wits was borne in on
her most obviously in the perception that the neighbouring peasants'
daughters, though they eclipsed her in normal sexual appeal, were too
stupid to make full use of this asset as a means to dominance.

Before adolescence had properly begun, when she was only nineteen, she
had already determined to beat them all at their own game, and indeed to
become a queen among women. In the neighbouring town of Ste. Menehould
she sometimes saw fine ladies passing through in their coaches on their
way to Paris, or breaking their journey at the local inn. She observed
them with scientific care, and laid the foundations of her future
technique.

When she was on the threshold of womanhood, her parents betrothed her to
a neighbouring farmer. She ran away. Making full use of her only two
weapons, sex and intelligence, she struggled through from the humblest
and most brutish sort of prostitution to become the mistress of a
wealthy Parisian merchant. For some years she lived upon him, latterly
giving him nothing in return but the terrible charm of her society once
a week at dinner.

When she had reached the age of thirty-five she fell in love, for the
first time in her life, with a young artist, one of those who were
preparing the way for the vital and triumphant movement of Parisian
painting. This novel experience brought to a climax the great conflict
which tormented her. She who had followed the most ancient profession
without repugnance was now horrified at herself. For the young man had
wakened in her those dormant capacities which had perforce been thwarted
by her career. She used her technique to capture him, and easily
succeeded. They lived together. For a few months both were happy.

Gradually, however, she came to realize that, after all, she was mated
to something which, from her point of view, was little better than an
ape. She had known, of course, that her peasant clients, her Parisian
clients, and her amiable wealthy patron, were "subhuman"; the artist,
she had persuaded herself, was an exception. Yet she still clung to her
man. To break with the being to whom she had given her soul, even though
in error, would, she felt, have killed her. Moreover, she still
genuinely, though irrationally, loved him. He was her almost-human
animal. She cared for him as a huntswoman and a spinster might care for
her horse. He was _not_ human, and could never be the mate of her
spirit; but he was a noble animal and she was proud of his animal
attainments, namely of his triumphs in the sphere of "subhuman" art. She
entered into his work with enthusiasm. She was not merely his source of
inspiration; increasingly she took command of his artistic faculty. The
more she possessed him, the more clearly the unhappy man realized that
his native genius was being overborne and suffocated by the flood of her
fertile imagination. His was a complex tragedy. He seems to have
recognized that the pictures which he produced under her influence were
more daring and aesthetically more triumphant than anything he could
produce without her; but he realized also that he was losing his
reputation, that even the most sensitive of his fellow-artists could not
appreciate them. He made a stand for independence, and began to regain
his self-respect and reputation. On her this turn of affairs had the
effect of rousing all her suppressed disgust. Each was striving to be
rid of the other, yet each craved the other. There was a quarrel, in
which she played the part of the divinity who had come down to raise him
to her own level, and was rejected. Next day he shot himself.

This tragedy evidently had a profound effect on her still juvenile mind.
The finality of the deed bred in her a new tenderness and respect for
the subhuman beings who surrounded her. Somehow this death lessened the
distance between her and them. Though her passion for self-expression
soon returned, and though she sometimes indulged it ruthlessly, it was
tempered by the recollection that she had killed the one being in the
world who for a whole month had seemed to her superior to herself.

For a few years after the death of the artist Jacqueline lived in great
poverty on savings which she had accumulated in her association with the
merchant. She tried to make a name for herself as a writer, under a
masculine pseudonym; but the stuff which she produced was too remote to
be appreciated, and she could not bring herself to write in a different
vein. When she was in her forties, and still in the first flush of
maturity, her obsessive craving for luxury and power returned with such
insistence that, in a panic, she became a nun. She did not believe any
of the explicit doctrines of the Church; but she made up her mind to pay
lip service to all its superstitions for the sake of its bicker of
genuine and corporate religious experience, which, she felt, she needed
for the strengthening of her better nature. Her presence in the nunnery,
however, very soon caused such an upheaval that the institution was
finally disbanded, and Jacqueline, with bitter laughter in her heart,
returned to her original calling.

But to her own surprise prostitution now afforded her something more
than the means to wealth and power. Her experience in the nunnery had
not been wholly barren. She had learned a good deal about the spiritual
cravings of the subhuman kind; and this knowledge she now put to good
use. Her motive in returning to prostitution had been purely
self-regarding, but she soon discovered that the more human of her
clients were suffering from an unconscious need for something more than
carnal satisfaction. And she found exaltation in ministering to this
essentially spiritual need. Carnal satisfaction she gave ungrudgingly.
Her own initial distaste at intercourse with beings of a lowly order
gave way to delight in her new office. Many a man whose real need was
not merely copulation but intimacy with a sensitive yet fearless woman,
many who needed moreover help in the seemingly hopeless task of "coming
to terms with the universe," found in Jacqueline a well of strength. As
her reputation grew, ever greater demands were made on her. Hoping to
save herself from a breakdown, she chose disciples, young women who were
ready to live her life and give themselves as she gave herself. Some of
them were partially successful, but none could do as she had done. The
strain increased until at last she fell seriously ill.

When she recovered, her old self-seeking passion was once more
uppermost. Using all her prowess she fought her way up the social ladder
of Europe, till, at fifty-seven and on the threshold of full maturity,
she married a Russian prince. She did so knowing that he was a worthless
creature and a half-wit, even by normal standards. So skilfully did she
play her cards during the next fifteen years that she had a good
prospect of setting him on the throne. Increasing disgust and horror,
however, flung her into another mental disorder. From this she emerged
once more her true self. She cut adrift, disguised herself, and fled
back to Paris to carry on her old profession. Occasionally she met one
or other of her former clients, now well advanced in years. But as she
herself had retained her youthful appearance, and indeed seemed to have
the full flower of womanhood still ahead of her, she easily persuaded
them that she was the former Jacqueline's young niece.

All this while she had never had a child, never conceived. In her early
years she had taken precaution to avoid such a disaster; but in
maturity, though she had felt no craving for motherhood, she had been
less reluctant to risk it, and less cautious. As the decades passed and
her remaining caution dwindled out, she came to suspect that she was
sterile, and in the end she ceased to take any precautions at all. On
her return from Russia an obscure sense that in missing motherhood she
had missed a valuable experience developed into a definite hunger to
have a baby of her own.

Not a few of her clients had tried to persuade her to accept marriage.
Hitherto she had laughed at these suitors, but when she had passed her
eightieth year, she began to be seriously attracted by the prospect of a
spell of quiet married life. Among her clients was a young Parisian
lawyer, Jean Caz. Whether he was in fact the father of her child she
did not know; but when, to her amazement, she found that she had
conceived, she singled him out as a suitable husband. He, it so
happened, had never thought of marrying her; but when she had slipped
the idea into his mind, he pressed her ardently, overcame her feigned
reluctance and carried her off in pride. After eleven months of
pregnancy she bore her daughter, and very nearly died in the ordeal.
Four years of maternal duties and of companionship with the faithful
Caz were enough for her. Jean, she knew, would treasure the infant; and
indeed he did, to the extent of spoiling her for life. Jacqueline fled
not only from Paris but from France, and started all over again in
Dresden.

Throughout the last two-thirds of the nineteenth century Jacqueline
appears to have had alternating spells of exalted prostitution and
marriage. She counted among her husbands, she said, a British
ambassador, a famous writer, and a West African Negro who was a private
in the French colonial army. Never again did she conceive. Probably John
was right in surmising that she had the power of preventing conception
by an act of volition, though she had no idea how she exercised this
power.

Since the close of the nineteenth century Jacqueline had not indulged in
marriage. She had preferred to carry on her profession, because of her
"great affection for the dear children," by which she meant her clients.
Hers must have been a strange life. Of course she gave herself for
money, like any member of her profession, or of any other profession.
Nevertheless, her heart was in her work, and she chose her clients, not
according to their power to pay, but according to their needs and their
capacity to benefit by her ministrations. She seems to have combined in
her person the functions of harlot, psycho-analyst and priest.

During the war of 1914-18 she was drawn into overstraining herself once
more. So many tragic cases came her way. And after the war, being wholly
without national prejudices, she moved to Germany, where the need was
greater. It was in Germany, in 1925, that she had once more collapsed,
and was forced to spend a year in a "mental home." When we met her she
was again established in Paris, and again at work.

On the day after our meeting in the caf John had left me to amuse
myself as best I could while he visited Jacqueline. He stayed away four
days, and when he returned he was haggard and obviously in great
distress. Not till long afterwards could he bring himself to tell the
cause of his misery, and then he said only, "She's glorious, and hurt,
and I can't help her, and she won't help me. She was terribly kind and
sweet to me. Said she had never met any one like me, wished we'd met a
hundred years ago. She says my work is going to be great. But _really_
she thinks it's just schoolboy adventure, no more."




CHAPTER XVI
ADLAN


John continued his search. I accompanied him. I shall not at this stage
describe the few suitable supernormal youngsters whom he discovered and
persuaded to prepare themselves for the great adventure. There was a
young girl in Marseilles, an older girl in Moscow, a boy in Finland, a
girl in Sweden, another in Hungary, and a young man in Turkey. Save for
these, John found nothing but lunatics, cripples, invalids, and
inveterate old vagabonds in whom the superior mentality had been
hopelessly distorted by contact with the normal species.

But in Egypt John actually met his superior. This incident was so
strange that I hesitate to record it, or even to believe it myself.

John had for long been convinced that a very remarkable mind was
secreted somewhere in the Levant or the Nile Delta. From Turkey we took
ship to Alexandria. Thence, after further investigation, we moved to
Port Sad. Here we spent some weeks. As far as I was concerned, they
were weeks of idleness. There was nothing for me to do but to play
tennis, bathe and indulge in mild flirtations. John himself seemed to be
idling. He bathed, rowed in the harbour, wandered about the town. He was
unusually absent-minded, and sometimes almost irritable.

When Port Sad was beginning to bore me excessively, I suggested that we
should try Cairo. "Go yourself," said John, "if you want to, but I'm
staying here. I'm busy." I therefore took him at his word, and crossed
the Delta by train. Long before we reached Cairo the Great Pyramids came
into view, overtopping the palm trees and the unseen city. I shall not
forget that first glimpse of them, for later it seemed to symbolize the
experience that John himself was passing through in Port Sad. They were
grey-blue, in the blue sky. They were curiously simple, remote, secure.

I took a room at Shepheard's Hotel, and gave myself over to
sight-seeing. One day, about three weeks after I left Port Sad, a
telegram came from John. It said merely, "Home, John." Nothing loath, I
packed my traps and took the next tram for Port Sad.

As soon as I arrived, John made me book accommodation for _three_ to
Toulon by an Orient boat that was due to pass through the Canal a few
days later. The new member of the party, he said, was on his way from
Upper Egypt, and would join us as soon as he could. Before giving
details of our future fellow passenger I must try to report what John
told me of the very different being with whom he was in contact during
my absence in Cairo.

"You see," he said, "the fellow I was after (Adlan, by name) turned out
to have died thirty-five years ago. He was trying to get me from his
place in the past, and at first I didn't realize. When at last we
effected some sort of communication, he managed to show me what he was
seeing, and I noticed that the steamers in the harbour were all little
low old things with yards on their masts. Also there wasn't any Canal
Company's Building where it ought to have been. (You know, the
green-domed thing.) You can imagine how exciting this was. It took me a
long time to get myself into the past instead of his coming to me in the
present."

John's story must be condensed. In order to secure a less precarious
footing in the past, John, under Adlan's direction, made the
acquaintance of a middle-aged Englishman, a ship-chandler, who had spent
much of his childhood in Port Sad in Adlan's time. This Anglo-Egyptian,
Harry Robinson, was easily persuaded to talk about his early
experiences, and to describe Adlan, whom he used at one time to meet
almost daily. John soon made himself familiar with Robinson's mind to
such an extent that he was able to reach back and establish himself
quite firmly in the child Harry and in the Port Sad that had long since
vanished.

Seen through Harry's eyes. Adlan turned out to be an aged and
poverty-stricken native boatman. His face, John said, was like a
mummy's, black and pinched and drawn, but very much alive, with a
frequent and rather grim smile. His gigantic head bore upon its summit a
fez which was ridiculously small for it. When, as occasionally happened,
this covering fell off, his cranium was seen to be perfectly bald. John
said it reminded him of a dark and polished and curiously moulded lump
of wood. He had the typical great eyes, one of which was bloodshot, and
running with yellow mucus. Like so many natives, he had suffered from
ophthalmia. His bare brown legs and feet were covered with scars.
Several toe-nails had been lost.

Adlan made his living by ferrying passengers between the liners and the
shore, and by transporting European residents to and from the
"bathhouses"--wooden erections built out over the sea on angle-irons.
The Robinson family hired Adlan and his boat several times a week to row
them across the harbour to their "bath house." He had to wait while they
bathed and lunched. Then he would row them back to the town. It was
while Adlan was tugging at the oars in his long-prowed and gaily painted
boat, and while Harry was prattling to his parents or his sister or even
to Adlan himself, that John, regarding the scene through Harry's eyes,
carried on his telepathic conversations with the unique Egyptian.

John's projection of his mind into the past took him back to the year
1896. At this time Adlan claimed that he was three hundred and
eighty-four years old. John would have been less inclined to believe
this before he met Jacqueline, but by now he was ready to accept it.
Adlan, then, was born in 1512, somewhere in the Soudan. Most of his
first century was spent as the wise man of his tribe, but in the end he
resolved to exchange his primitive environment for something more
civilized. He travelled down the Nile, and settled in Cairo, where in
time he gained a reputation as a sorcerer. During the seventeenth
century he played an active part in the turbulent political life of
Egypt, and was at one time the power behind the throne. But political
activities could not satisfy him. He was drawn into them much as an
intelligent spectator might be drawn into a game of chess played by
blockheads. He could not help seeing how the game might be played most
effectively, and presently he found himself playing it. Toward the end
of the eighteenth century, he became more and more absorbed in the
development of his "occult" powers, and chiefly his most recent art,
that of projecting himself into the past.

A few years before Napoleon's Egyptian expedition Adlan broke with his
political life entirely by faking a suicide. For some years he continued
to live in Cairo, but in complete obscurity and very humble
circumstances. He made his living as a water-carrier, driving his ass,
laden with swollen and dripping skins, along the dusty streets.
Meanwhile he continued to improve his supernormal powers, and would
sometimes use them to practise psycho-therapy upon his
fellow-proletarians. But his chief interest was exploration of the past.
At this time the knowledge of Ancient Egypt was extremely scanty, and
Adlan's passion was to gain direct experience of the great race of long
ago. Hitherto his powers had only enabled him to reach a few years back,
to events which occurred in an environment similar to his own. But
presently he determined to bury himself in some obscure village and till
the soil of the Delta, entering into the life of the primitive
agriculturalists whose customs and culture had probably changed little
since the days of the Pharaohs. For many decades he wielded the hoe and
the shadoof; and in due course he learned to be almost as familiar with
ancient Memphis as with modern Cairo.

In the second quarter of the nineteenth century, however, when he was
still in appearance no more than middle-aged, he conceived the need to
explore other cultures. For this purpose he settled in Alexandria, and
took up his old profession of water-carrier. Here, with less ease and
less success than in his study of Ancient Egypt, he made his entry into
Ancient Greece, learning to project himself into the era of the great
Library, and even into Greece itself of the age of Plato.

Not till the last quarter of the nineteenth century did Adlan ride his
donkey along the strip of sand between Lake Menzaleh and the sea, and
settle in Port Sad, once more as a water-carrier. He did not practise
his old profession exclusively. Sometimes he would hire out his donkey
to a European passenger, ashore for the day. Then he would run barefoot
behind the tall white ass, affectionately whacking its hind-quarters,
and crying "Haa! Haa!" Once, when his beast, which he called "Two Lovely
Black Eyes," was stolen, he ran thirty miles in chase of it, following
its footprints on the moist shore. When at last he overtook the thief,
he battered him, and returned in triumph on the ass. Sometimes he would
board the liners and amuse the passengers with conjuring tricks with
rings and balls and restless little yellow chicks. Sometimes he would
sell them silk or jewellery.

Adlan's object in moving to Port Sad had been to put himself into touch
with contemporary European life and thought, and if possible to make
some kind of contact with India and China. The Canal was by now the most
cosmopolitan spot in all the world. Levantines, Greeks, Russians,
Lascars, Chinese firemen, Europeans on their way to the East, Asiatics
on their way to London and Paris, Moslem pilgrims on their way to
Mecca,--all passed through Port Sad. Scores of races, scores of
languages, scores of religions and cultures jostled one another in that
most flagrantly mongrel town.

Adlan soon learned how to get the best out of his new environment. His
methods were diverse, but all depended chiefly on telepathy and extreme
intelligence. He constructed little by little in his own mind a very
clear picture of European, and even Indian and Chinese culture. He did
not, indeed, find any culture ready to hand in the minds of the beings
with whom he made contact in Port Sad, for they, residents and
passengers alike, were nearly all quite philistine. But by a brilliant
process of inference from the meagre and incoherent traces of thought in
these migrants he was able to reconstruct the cultural matrix in which
they had developed. This method he supplemented by reading books lent
him by a shipping agent who had a liking for literature. He learned also
to extend his telepathic reach to such an extent that, by conjuring up
all that he knew of John Ruskin (let us say), he could make contact with
that didactic sage in his remote home by Coniston Water.

Presently it became evident to Adlan that the really interesting period
of European thought lay in the future. Could he, then, explore the
future as he had explored the past? This proved a far more difficult
task, and one which he could never have performed at all effectively had
he not, by great good luck, discovered John, a mind of somewhat the same
calibre as his own. He conceived the idea of teaching that
fellow-supernormal to reach back into the past to him, so that he
himself might learn about the future without the precarious and
dangerous labour of projecting himself into it.

I was surprised to hear from John, that, though only a few weeks had
passed since our arrival in Egypt, he had in that period spent many
months with Adlan. Or perhaps I should say that his interviews with
Adlan (through the mind of Harry) were distributed over a period of many
months in Adlan's life. Day after day the old man would ferry the
Robinsons to their bathhouse, pulling steadily at his battered oars, and
prattling in kitchen Arabic to Harry about ships and camels. And at the
same time he would be carrying on a most earnest and subtle telepathic
conversation with John about relativity or the quantum theory or the
economic determination of history. John was soon convinced that he had
encountered a mind which either through native superiority or through
prolonged meditation was far in advance of his own, even in ability to
cope with Western European culture. But Adlan's brilliance made his way
of life seem all the more perplexing. With some complacency John assured
himself that if he were to live as long as Adlan he would not have to
spend his old age toiling for a pittance from _Homo sapiens_. But before
he parted from Adlan he began to take a humbler view of himself and a
more respectful attitude to Adlan.

The old man was greatly interested in John's biological knowledge, and
its bearing upon himself and John. "Yes," he said, "we are very
different from other men. I have known it since I was eight. Indeed
these creatures that surround us are scarcely men at all. But perhaps,
my son, you take that difference too seriously. No, I should not say
that. What I mean is that though for you this project of founding the
new species is the true way, for me there is another way. And each of us
must serve Allah in the way that Allah demands of him."

It was not, John explained, that Adlan threw cold water on his great
adventure. On the contrary he entered into it with sympathy and made
many helpful suggestions. Indeed one of his favourite occupations, as he
plied his oars, was to expound to John with prophetic enthusiasm the
kind of world that "John's New Men" would make, and how much more vital
and more happy it would be than the world of _Homo sapiens_. This
enthusiasm was undoubtedly sincere yet, said John, there was a delicate
mockery behind it. It was not wholly unlike the zeal with which grown
men enter into the games of children. One day John deliberately
challenged him by referring to his project as the greatest adventure
that man could ever face. Adlan was resting on his oars before crossing
the harbour, for an Austrian Lloyd steamer was passing into the Canal.
Harry was intent upon the liner, but John induced him to turn his eyes
on the old boatman. Adlan was looking gravely at the lad. "My son, my
dear son," he said, "Allah wills of his creatures two kinds of service.
One is that they should toil to fulfil his active purpose in the world,
and that is the service which you have most at heart. The other is that
they should observe with understanding and praise with discriminate
delight the excellent form of his handiwork. And this is my service, to
lay at Allah's feet such a life of praise that no man, not even you, my
very dear son, can give him. He has fashioned you in such a manner that
you may serve him best in action, though in action inspired always by
deep-searching contemplation. But me he has fashioned such that I must
serve him directly through contemplation and praise, though for this end
I had first to pass through the school of action."

John protested that the end of praise would be far better served by a
world of the New Men than by a few isolated lofty spirits in a world of
subhuman creatures; and that, therefore, the most urgent of all tasks
was to bring such a world into being.

But Adlan replied, "It seems so to you, because you are fashioned for
action, and because you are young. And indeed it _is_ so. Spirits of my
kind know well that in due season spirits of your kind will in fact
create the new world. But we know also that for us there is another
task. It may even be that part of my task is actually to peer so far
into the future that I may see and praise those great deeds which you,
or some other, are destined to perform."

When John had reported this speech to me he said, "Then the old man
broke off his communication with me, and also ceased prattling to Harry.
Presently he thought to me again. His mind embraced me with grave
tenderness, and he said, 'It is time for you to leave me, you very dear
and godlike child. I have seen something of the future that lies before
you. And though you could bear the foreknowledge without faltering from
the way of praise, it is not for me to tell you.' Next day I met him
again, but he was uncommunicative. At the end of the trip, when the
Robinsons were stepping out of the boat, he took Harry in his arms and
set him on the land, saying in the lingo that passed as Arabic with
European residents, ''L hwaga swoia, quas ketr!' (the little master,
very nice). To me he said in his thoughts, 'To-night, or perhaps
to-morrow, I will die. For I have praised the past and the present, and
the near future too, with all the insight that Allah has given me. And
peering into the farther future I have been able to see nothing but
obscure and terrible things which it is not in me to praise. Therefore
it is certain that I have fulfilled my task, and may now rest.'"

Next day another boat took Harry and his parents to the bathhouses.




CHAPTER XVII
NG-GUNKO AND LO


It will be remembered that we booked passages for three persons by
Orient to Toulon and England. The third member of the party turned up
three hours before the ship sailed.

John explained that in discovering this amazing child, who went by the
name of Ng-Gunko, he had been helped by Adlan. The old man in the past
had been in touch with this contemporary of John's, and had helped the
two to make contact with one another.

Ng-Gunko was a native of some remote patch of forest-clad mountain in or
near Abyssinia; and though only a child he had at John's request found
his way from his native country to Port Sad by a series of adventures
which I will not attempt to describe.

As time advanced and he failed to appear, I became more and more
sceptical and impatient, but John was confident that he would arrive. He
turned up at our hotel as I was trying to shut my cabin trunk. He was a
grotesque and filthy little blackamoor, and I resented the prospect of
sharing accommodation with him. He appeared to be about eight years old,
but was in fact over twelve. He wore a long, blue and very grubby caftan
and a battered fez. These clothes, we subsequently learned, he had
acquired on his journey, in order to attract less attention. But he
could not help attracting attention. My own first reaction to his
appearance was frank incredulity. "There ain't no such beast," I said to
myself. Then I remembered, that, when a species mutates, it often
produces a large crop of characters so fantastic that many of the new
types are not even viable. Ng-Gunko was decidedly viable, but he was a
freak. Though his face was a dark blend of the Negroid and the Semitic
with an unmistakable reminiscence of the Mongolian, his Negroid wool was
not black but sombre red. And though his right eye was a huge black orb
not inappropriate to his dark complexion, his left eye was considerably
smaller, and the iris was deep blue. These discrepancies gave his whole
face a sinister comicality which was borne out by his expression. His
full lips were frequently stretched in a grin which revealed three small
white teeth above and one below. The rest had apparently not yet
sprouted.

Ng-Gunko spoke English fluently but incorrectly, and with an uncouth
pronunciation. He had picked up this foreign tongue on his six-weeks'
journey down the Nile valley. By the time we reached London his English
was as good as our own.

The task of making Ng-Gunko fit for a trip on an Orient liner was
arduous. We scrubbed him all over and applied insecticide. On his legs
there were several festering sores. John sterilized the sharpest blade
of his penknife and cut away all the bad flesh, while Ng-Gunko lay
perfectly still, but sweating, and pulling the most hideous grimaces,
which expressed at once torture and amusement. We purchased European
clothes, which, of course, he detested. We had him photographed for his
passport, which John had already arranged with the Egyptian authorities.
In triumph we took him off to the ship in his new white shorts and
shirt.

Throughout the voyage we were busy helping him to acquire European ways.
He must not pick his nose in public, still less blow it in the natural
manner. He must not take hold of his meat and vegetables with his hands.
He had to acquire the technique of the bathroom and the watercloset. He
must not relieve himself in inappropriate places. He must not, though a
mere child, saunter into the crowded dining-saloon without his clothes.
He must not give evidence that he was excessively intelligent. He must
not stare at his fellow passengers. Above all, he must, we said,
restrain his apparently irresistible impulse to play practical jokes on
them.

Though frivolous, Ng-Gunko was certainly of superior intelligence. It
was, for instance, remarkable that a child who had lived his fourteen
years in the forest should easily grasp the principle of the steam
turbine, and should be able to ask the chief engineer (who showed us
round the engine room) questions which made that experienced old Scot
scratch his head. It was on this expedition that John had to whisper
fiercely to the little monster, "If you don't take the trouble to bottle
up your blasted curiosity, I'll pitch you overboard."

When we reached our northern suburb Ng-Gunko was installed in the
Wainwright household. As we did not want him to cause more of a
sensation than need be, we dyed his hair black and made him wear
spectacles with a dark glass for one eye. Only in the house might he be
without them. Unfortunately he was too young to be able to resist the
temptation of startling the natives. Walking along the street with John
or me, muffled to the eyes against the alien climate, duly spectacled
and demure, he would sometimes drop a pace behind as we were approaching
some old lady or child. Then, projecting his chin above his scarf, he
would whip off his glasses and assume a maniacal grin of hate. How often
he did this without being caught I do not know, but on one occasion he
was so successful that the victim let out a scream. John turned upon his
protg and seized him by the throat. "Do that again," he said, "and
I'll have that eye of yours right out, and step on it." Never again did
Ng-Gunko play the trick when John was present. But with me he did,
knowing I was too amiable to report him.

In a few weeks, however, Ng-Gunko began to enter more seriously into the
spirit of the great adventure. The conspiratorial atmosphere appealed to
him. And the task of preparing himself to play his part gradually
absorbed his attention. But he remained at heart a little savage. Even
his extraordinary passion for machinery suggested the uncritical delight
of the primitive mind in its first encounter with the marvels of our
civilization. He had a mechanical gift which in some ways eclipsed even
John's. Within a few days of his arrival he was riding the motor-bicycle
and making it perform incredible "stunts." Very soon he took it to
pieces and put it together again. He mastered the principles of John's
psycho-physical power unit, and found, to his intense delight, that he
could perform the essential miracle of it himself. It began to be taken
for granted that he would be the responsible engineer of the yacht, and
of the future colony, leaving John free for more exalted matters. Yet in
all Ng-Gunko's actions, and in his whole attitude to life, there was an
intensity and even a passion which was very different from John's
invariable calm. Indeed I sometimes wondered whether he was emotionally
a true supernormal, whether he had anything unusual in his nature beyond
brilliant intelligence. But when I suggested this to John he laughed.
"Ng-Gunko's a kid," he said, "but Ng-Gunko's all right. Amongst other
things he has a natural gift for telepathy, and when I have trained him
a bit he may beat me in that direction. But we are both beginners."

Not long after our return from Egypt another supernormal arrived. This
was the girl whom John had found in Moscow. Like others of her kind, she
looked much younger than she was. She seemed a child, not yet on the
threshold of womanhood, but was actually seventeen. She had run away
from home, taken a job as stewardess on a Soviet steamer, and slipped
ashore at an English port. Thence, equipped with a sufficiency of
English money, which she had secured in Russia, she had found her way to
the Wainwrights.

Lo was at first glance a much more normal creature than either Ng-Gunko
or John. She might have been Jacqueline's youngest sister. No doubt her
head was strikingly large, and her eyes occupied more of her face than
was normal, but her features were regular, and her sleek black hair was
long enough to pass for a "shingle." She was clearly of Asiatic origin,
for her cheek bones were high, and her eyes, though great, were deeply
sunk within their half-closed and slanting lids. Her nose was broad and
flat, like an ape's, her complexion definitely "yellow." She suggested
to me a piece of sculpture come to life, something in which the artist
had stylized the human in terms of the feline. Her body, too, was
feline, "so lean and loose," said John. "It feels breakable, and yet
it's all steel springs covered with loose velvet."

During the few weeks which passed before the sailing of the yacht, Lo
occupied the room which had once belonged to Anne, John's sister.
Relations between her and Pax were never easy, yet always amicable. Lo
was exceptionally silent. This, I am sure, would not trouble Pax, for
she was generally drawn to silent persons. Yet with Lo she seemed to
feel constantly an obligation to talk, and an inability to talk
naturally. To all her remarks Lo would reply appropriately, even
amiably, yet whatever she said seemed to make matters worse. Whenever Lo
was present, Pax would seem ill at ease. She would make silly little
mistakes in her work, putting things into wrong drawers, sewing buttons
on in the wrong place, breaking her needle, and so on. And everything
took longer than it should.

I never discovered why Pax was so uncomfortable with Lo. The girl was,
indeed, a disconcerting person, but I should have expected Pax to be
more, not less, able to cope with her than others were. It was not only
Lo's silence that was so disturbing, but also her almost complete lack
of facial expression, or rather of changes of expression, for her very
absence of expression was itself expressive of a profound detachment
from the world around her. In all ordinary social situations, when
others would show amusement or pleasure or exasperation, and Ng-Gunko
would register intense emotion, Lo's features remained unmoved.

At first I imagined that she was simply insensitive, perhaps
dull-witted; but one curious fact about her soon proved that I was
wrong. She discovered a passion for the novel, and most of all for Jane
Austen. She read all the works of that incomparable authoress over and
over again, indeed so often that John, whose interest ran in very
different channels, began to chaff her. This roused her to deliver her
one long speech. "Where I come from," she said, "there is nothing like
Jane Austen. But in me there is something like that, and these old books
are helping me to know myself. Of course, they are only 'sapient,' I
know; but that is half the fun. It's so interesting to transpose it all
to suit _us_. For instance, if Jane could understand me, which she
couldn't, what, I ask myself, would she say about me? I find the answer
extraordinarily enlightening. Of course, our minds are quite outside her
range, but her _attitude_ can be applied to us. Her attitude to her
little world is so intelligent and sprightly that it gives it a
significance that it could never have discovered in itself. Well, I want
to regard even us, even our virtuous Colony, in a Jane-like manner. I
want to give it a kind of significance that would have remained hidden
even from its earnest and noble leader. You know, John, I fancy _Homo
sapiens_ has still quite a lot to teach you about personality. Or if you
are too busy to learn, then I must, or the colony will be intolerable."

To my surprise John replied by giving her a hearty kiss, and she
remarked, demurely, "_Odd_ John, you have indeed a lot to learn."

This incident may suggest to the reader that Lo was lacking in humour.
She was not. Indeed she had a gift of not unkindly wit. Though she
seemed incapable of smiling, she often roused others to laughter. And
yet, as I say, she was mysteriously disconcerting to most of us. Even
John was sometimes uncomfortable in her presence. Once when he was
giving me some instructions about finance he broke off to say, "That
girl's laughing at me, in spite of her solemn face. She never laughs at
all, and yet she's always laughing. Now tell me, Lo, _what's_ amusing
you." Lo replied, "Dear and important John, it is you who are laughing,
at your own reflection in me."

Lo's chief occupation during her few weeks in England was to master the
science and art of medicine, and to make herself acquainted with all the
most advanced work on the subject of embryology. The reason for this I
did not learn till much later. Her vocational training she pursued
partly by means of an intensive study under an embryologist of some
distinction at the local university, partly by prolonged discussion with
John.

As the time approached when the yacht was to be ready and the adventure
to begin, Lo's studies became more and more exacting. She began to show
signs of strain. We urged her to take a holiday for a few days. "No,"
she said, "I _must_ get to the end of this business before we sail. Then
I will rest." We asked if she was sleeping all right. She was evasive.
John became suspicious. "_Do_ you sleep, ever?" he asked. She hesitated,
then replied, "Not _ever_, if I can help it. In fact it is some years
since I last slept. And then I slept for ages. But I will _never_ sleep
again if I can help it." Her first answer to John's incredulous "Why?"
was a shudder; then she added as an afterthought, "It is a waste of
time. I do go to bed, but I read all night; or just think."

I forget whether I mentioned that all the other supernormals were brief
sleepers. John, for instance, was satisfied with four hours a night, and
could comfortably do entirely without sleep for three nights at a
stretch.

A few days after this incident I learned that Lo had not come down to
breakfast, and that Pax had found her still in bed, and asleep. "But
it's all wrong," said Pax. "It's more like a fit. She's lying there with
her eyes tight shut and awful expressions of horror and rage passing
over her face; and she keeps muttering Russian or something, and her
hands keep clawing at her chest."

We tried to wake her, but could not. We sat her upright. We put cold
water on her. We shouted at her. We shook her and pricked her, but it
was no good. That evening she began to scream. She kept it up, off and
on, all that night. I stayed with the Wainwrights, though I could do
nothing. But somehow I couldn't go. The whole street was kept awake. It
was sometimes just an inarticulate screech like an animal beside itself
with pain and fury, sometimes a torrent of Russian, shouted at the top
of her voice, but so blurred that John could make nothing of it.

Next morning she quietened down, and for more than a week she slept
without stirring. One morning she came down to breakfast as though
nothing had happened, but looking, so John said, "like a corpse animated
by a soul out of Hell." As she sat down she said to John, "_Now_ do you
understand why I like Jane Austen, better for instance than
Dostoievski?"

It took her some time to regain her strength and her normal equanimity.
One day, when she had settled down to work again, she told Pax a bit
about herself. Away back in her infancy, before the Revolution, when her
people lived in a small town beyond the Urals, she used to sleep every
night; but she often had bad dreams, which she said were extremely
terrifying, and completely indescribable in terms of any normal
experience. All she could say of them was that she felt herself turn
into a mad beast or a devil, yet that inwardly she always remained her
sane little self, an impotent spectator of her own madness. As she grew
older, these infantile terrors left her. During the Revolution and the
years immediately following it her family experienced terrible
sufferings from civil war and famine. She was still in appearance an
infant but mentally well able to appreciate the significance of events
going on around her. She had, for instance, already reached a conviction
that, though both sides in the civil war were equally capable of
brutality and generosity, the spirit of the one was on the whole right,
the other wrong. Even at that early age she felt, vaguely but with
conviction, that the horror of her life, the bombardments, the fires,
the mass executions, the cold, the hunger, must somehow be embraced, not
shunned. Triumphantly she did embrace them. But there came a time when
her town was sacked by the Whites. Her father was killed. Her mother
fled with her in a refugee train crowded with wounded men and women. The
journey was, of course, desperately fatiguing. Lo fell asleep, and was
plunged once more into her nightmare, with the difference that it was
now peopled with all the horrors of the civil war, and she herself was
forced to watch impotently while her other self perpetrated the most
hideous atrocities.

Ever since those days any great strain was liable to bring sleep upon
her, with all its horrors. She reported, however, that the attacks were
now much less frequent; but that on the other hand the content of her
dreams was more terrible, because--she couldn't properly
explain--because it was more universal, more metaphysical, more
cosmically significant, and at the same time more definitely an
expression of something Satanic (her own word) within her very self.




CHAPTER XVIII
THE _SKID'S_ FIRST VOYAGE


Henceforth Pax was more at ease with Lo. She had nursed her, received
her confidence, and found occasion to pity her. All the same it was
clear that the continued presence of Lo was a strain on Pax. When the
yacht was launched, John himself said to me, "We must get away as soon
as possible now. Lo is killing Pax, though she does her best not to.
Poor Pax! She's being driven into old age at last." It was true. Her
hair was fading, and her mouth drawn.

It was with mixed feelings that I learned that I was not to take part in
the coming voyage in search of additional members for the colony. I
could live my own life. I could marry and settle down, holding myself in
readiness to serve John when he should need me. But how could I live
without John? I tried to persuade him that I was necessary to him. A
saucer-like craft wandering the oceans with a crew of three children
would attract less attention if she carried one adult. But my suggestion
was dismissed. John claimed that he no longer looked a child, and
further declared that he could touch up his face so as to appear at
least twenty-five.

I need not describe in detail the preparations which these three young
eccentrics undertook in order to fit themselves for their adventure.
Both Ng-Gunko and Lo had to learn to fly; and all three had to become
familiar with the mannerisms of their own queer aeroplane and their own
queer yacht. The vessel was launched on the Clyde by Pax, and christened
_Skid_, under which odd but appropriate name she was duly registered. I
may mention that for the Board of Trade inspection she was fitted with a
normal motor-engine, which was subsequently removed to make room for the
psycho-physical power unit and motor.

When both yacht and plane were ready for use, a trial trip was made
among the Western Isles. On this trip I was tolerated as a guest. The
experience was enough to cure me of any desire for a longer voyage in
such a diabolical vessel. The three-foot model had somehow failed to
make me imagine the discomforts of the actual boat. Her great beam made
her fairly steady, but she was so shallow, and therefore low in the
water, that every considerable wave splashed over her, and in rough
weather she was always awash. This did not greatly matter, as her
navigating controls were all under cover in a sort of stream-lined
deck-house reminiscent of a sporting saloon motor-car. In fine weather
one could stretch one's legs on deck, but below deck there was scarcely
room to move, as she was a mass of machinery, bunks, stores. And there
was the plane. This strange instrument, minute by ordinary standards,
and folded up like a fan, occupied a large amount of her space.

After emerging from Greenock we skidded comfortably down the Clyde, past
Arran, and round the Mull of Kintyre. Then we struck heavy weather, and
I was violently sick. So also, much to my satisfaction, was Ng-Gunko.
Indeed, he was so ill that John decided to make for shelter, lest he
should die. But quite suddenly Ng-Gunko learned to control his vomiting
reflexes. He stopped being sick, lay still for ten minutes, then leapt
from his bunk with a shout of triumph, only to be hurled into the galley
by a lurch of the ship.

The trials were said to be entirely successful. When she was going full
speed the _Skid_ lifted the whole part of herself right out of the water
and set up a mountain-range of water and foam on either side of her.
Though the weather was rather wild, the plane also was tested. It was
heaved out aft on a derrick and unfolded while afloat. All three members
of the crew took a turn at flying it. The most surprising thing about it
was that, owing to its cunning design and its immense reserve of power,
it rose straight from the water without taxi-ing.

A week later the _Skid_ set out on her first long voyage. Our farewells
were made at the dock. The Wainwright parents reacted very differently
to the departure of their youngest son. Doc was genuinely anxious about
the dangers of the voyage in such a vessel, and mistrustful of the
abilities of the juvenile crew. Pax showed no anxiety, so complete was
her confidence in John. But clearly she found it difficult to face his
departure without showing distress. Hugging her, he said, "Dear Pax,"
then sprang on board. Lo, who had already made her farewells, came back
to Pax, took both her hands, and said, actually smiling, "Dear mother of
important John!" To this odd remark Pax replied simply with a kiss.

My slender knowledge of the voyage is derived partly from John's laconic
letters, partly from conversation after his return. The programme was
determined by his telepathic researches. Distance, apparently, made no
difference to the ease with which he could pick up the psychic processes
of other supernormals. Success depended entirely on his ability to "tune
in" to their mental "setting" or mode of experience, and this depended
on the degree of similarity of their mode to his own. Thus he was
already in clear communication with a supernormal in Tibet, and two
others in China, but for the rest he could only make the vaguest guesses
as to the existence and location of possible members of the colony.

Letters told us that the _Skid_ had spent an unprofitable three weeks on
the West Coast of Africa. John had flown into the hinterland, pursuing
traces of a supernormal in some oasis in the Sahara. He struck a sand
storm of peculiar violence, and made a forced landing in the desert,
with his engine choked with sand. "When the wind had dropped I cleaned
her guts," said John, "and then flew back to the _Skid_, still chewing
sand." What epic struggles were involved in this adventure I can only
guess.

At Cape Town the Skid was docked, and the three young people set off to
comb South Africa, following up certain meagre traces of the supernormal
mentality. Both John and Lo soon returned empty-handed. In his letter
John remarked, "Delicious to watch the Whites treating the Blacks as an
inferior species. Lo says it reminds her of her mother's stories of
Tsarist Russia."

John and Lo waited impatiently for some weeks while Ng-Gunko, doubtless
revelling in his return to native conditions, nosed about in the remote
woodlands and saltpans of Ngamiland. He was in telepathic communication
with John, but there seemed to be some mystery about his activities.
John grew anxious, for the lad was dangerously juvenile, and possibly of
a less balanced type than himself. At last he was driven to tell
Ng-Gunko that if he did not "chuck his antics" the _Skid_ would sail
without him. The reply was merely a cheerful assurance that he would be
starting back in a day or two. A week later came a message that combined
a cry of triumph and an S.O.S. He had secured his prey, and was making
his way through the wilds to civilization, but had no money for the
return railway journey. John therefore set out to fly to the spot
indicated, while Lo, single handed, took the _Skid_ round to Durban.

John had already been waiting some days at the primitive settlement when
Ng-Gunko appeared, dead beat, but radiant. He removed a bundle from his
back, uncovered the end of it, and displayed to the indignant John a
minute black infant, immature, twitching and gasping.

Ng-Gunko, it seems, had traced the telepathic intimations to a certain
tribe and a certain woman. His African experiences had enabled him to
detect in this woman's attitude to the life of the forest something akin
to his own. Further investigation led him to believe that though she
herself was in some slight degree supernormal, the main source of those
obscure hints which he had been pursuing was not the mother but her
unborn child, in whose pre-natal experiences Ng-Gunko recognized the
rudiments of supernormal intensity. It was indeed remarkable that before
birth a mind should have any telepathic influence at all. The mother had
already carried her baby for eleven months. Now Ng-Gunko knew that he
himself had been born late, and that his mother had not been delivered
of him till certain incentives had been used upon her by the wise women
of the tribe. This treatment he persuaded the black matron to undergo,
for she was weary to death. As best he could, Ng-Gunko applied what he
knew of the technique. The baby was born, but the mother died. Ng-Gunko
fled with his prize. When John asked how he had fed the baby on the long
journey, Ng-Gunko explained that in his Abyssinian days he and other
youngsters used to milk wild antelopes. They stalked them, and by means
of a process that reminded me of "tickling" trout, they persuaded the
mothers to let themselves be milked. This trick had served on the
journey. The infant, of course, had not thrived, but it was alive.

The kidnapper was pained to find that his exploit, far from being
applauded, was condemned and ridiculed. What on earth, John demanded,
could they possibly do with the creature? And anyhow, was he really at
all worth bothering about? Ng-Gunko was convinced that he had secured an
infant superman who would outclass them all; and in time John himself
was impressed by his telepathic explorations of the new-comer.

The plane set out for Durban with the baby in Ng-Gunko's arms. One would
have expected the care and maintenance of it to fall to Lo, but her
attitude toward it was aloof. Moreover, Ng-Gunko himself made it clear
that he would bear all responsibility for the new-comer, who somehow
acquired the name Sambo. Ng-Gunko became as devoted to Sambo as a mother
to her first-born or a schoolboy to his white mice.

The _Skid_ now headed for Bombay. Somewhere north of the Equator she ran
into very heavy weather. This was a matter of small importance to a
craft of her seaworthiness, though it must have greatly increased the
discomfort of her crew. At a much later date I learned of a sinister
incident that occurred in those wild days, an incident to which John
made no reference in his letters. The _Skid_ sighted a small British
steamer, the _Frome_, in distress. Her steering engine was out of
action, and she was labouring broadside-on to the storm. The _Skid_
stood by, till, when the _Frome's_ plight was obviously hopeless, the
crew took to the two remaining boats. The _Skid_ attempted to take them
both in tow. This operation was evidently very dangerous, for a sea
flung one of the boats bodily on to the after deck of the yacht,
thrusting her stern under water, and threatening to sink her. Ng-Gunko,
who was dealing with the tow rope, had a foot rather badly crushed. The
boat then floated off, and capsized. Of her crew only two were rescued,
both by the _Skid_. The other boat was successfully taken in tow. A few
days later the weather improved, and the _Skid_ and her charge made good
progress toward Bombay. But now the two strangers on board the _Skid_
began to show great curiosity. Here were three eccentric children and a
black baby cruising the ocean in a most eccentric craft driven by some
unintelligible source of power. The two seamen were loud in praise of
their rescuers. They assured John that they would speak up for him in
the public inquiry which would be held over the loss of the _Frome_.

This was all very inconvenient. The three supernormals discussed the
situation telepathically, and agreed that drastic action was demanded.
John produced an automatic pistol and shot the two guests. The noise
caused great excitement in the boat. Ng-Gunko slipped the tow rope, and
John cruised round while Ng-Gunko and Lo, lying on the deck with rifles,
disposed of all the _Frome's_ survivors. When this grim task was
finished, the corpses were thrown to the sharks. The boat was scrubbed
of blood stains, and then scuttled. The _Skid_ proceeded to Bombay.

Long afterwards, when John told me about this shocking incident, I was
as much perplexed as revolted. Why, I asked, if he dared not risk a
little publicity, had he been willing to risk destruction in the work of
rescuing the ship's boats? And how did he fail to realize, during that
operation, that publicity was inevitable? And was there, I demanded, any
enterprise whatever, even the founding of a new species, that could
justify such cold butchery of human beings? If this was the way of _Homo
superior_, I said, thank God I was of another species. We might be weak
and stupid, but at least we were able sometimes to feel the sanctity of
human life. Was not this piece of brutality on exactly the same footing
as the innumerable judicial murders, political murders, religious
murders, that had sullied the record of _Homo sapiens_? These, I
declared, had always seemed to their perpetrators righteous acts, but
were regarded by the more human of our kind as barbarous.

John answered with that mildness and thoughtfulness with which he
treated me only on those rare occasions when I gave him matter for
serious consideration. He first pointed out that the _Skid_ had still to
spend much time in contact with the world of _Homo sapiens_. Her crew
had work to do in India, Tibet and China. It was certain, therefore,
that if their part in the _Frome_ incident became public, they would be
forced to give evidence at the inquiry. He insisted, further, that if
they were discovered, their whole venture would be ruined. Had they at
that early stage known all that they knew later about hypnotically
controlling the humbler species, they might indeed have abolished from
the minds of the _Frome's_ survivors all memory of the rescue. "But you
see," he said, "we could not do it. We had deliberately risked
publicity, as we had risked destruction by the storm, _hoping_ to avoid
it. We _tried_ to set up a process of 'oblivifaction' in our guests, but
we failed. As for the wickedness of the act, Fido, it naturally revolts
you, but you are leaving something out of account. Had we been members
of your species, concerned only with the dreamlike purposes of the
normal mind, what we did would have been a crime. For to-day the chief
lesson which your species has to learn is that it is far better to die,
far better to sacrifice even the loftiest of all 'sapient' purposes,
than to kill beings of one's own mental order. But just as you kill
wolves and tigers so that the far brighter spirits of men may flourish,
so we killed those unfortunate creatures that we had rescued. Innocent
as they were, they were dangerous. Unwittingly they threatened the
noblest practical venture that has yet occurred on this planet. Think!
If _you_, and Bertha, had found yourselves in a world of great apes,
clever in their own way, lovable too, but blind, brutish, and violent,
would you have refused to kill? Would you have sacrificed the founding
of a human world? To refuse would be cowardly, not physically, but
spiritually. Well, if we could wipe out your whole species, frankly, we
would. For if your species discovers us, and realizes at all what we
are, it will certainly destroy us. And we know, you must remember, that
_Homo sapiens_ has little more to contribute to the music of this
planet, nothing in fact but vain repetition. It is time for finer
instruments to take up the theme."

When he had done, John looked at me almost pleadingly. He seemed to long
for my approval, the approval of a half-human thing, his faithful hound.
Did he, after all, feel guilty? I think not. I think this strong desire
to persuade me sprang simply from affection. For my part, such is my
faith in John, that though I cannot approve, I cannot condemn. There
must surely be some aspect that I am too stupid or insensitive to grasp.
John, I feel, _must_ be right. Though he did what would have been
utterly wrong if it had been done by any of us, I have an almost
passionate faith that, done by John, and in John's circumstances, the
terrible deed was right.

But to return to the story. At Bombay John and Lo spent some time
studying Indian and Tibetan languages, and otherwise preparing
themselves for contact with Eastern races. When at length they left the
_Skid_, and Bombay, Ng-Gunko remained behind to nurse Sambo and his
damaged foot. The two explorers set out together in the plane; but Lo,
disguised as a Nepalese boy, was put down at an Indian hill station.
There, it was hoped, she might develop a telepathic contact which was
thought to indicate a supernormal in some such environment. John himself
continued his flight over the great mountains to Tibet to meet the young
Buddhist monk with whom he had often been in communication.

In his brief letter describing his expedition to Tibet John scarcely
mentioned the actual journey, though the flight over the Himalayas must
have been an exacting task even for a superman in a superplane. He said
only, "She took the jump splendidly, and then was blown right back again
into India, head over heels, too. She dropped my thermos flask. Coming
back I saw it on the ridge, but let it lie."

As the Tibetan monk was able to guide him telepathically, he found the
monastery quite easily. John described Langatse as a supernormal of
forty years, physically but little advanced beyond the threshold of
manhood. He had been born without eyes. Blindness had forced him to
concentrate on his telepathic powers, which he had developed far beyond
John's own attainment. He could always see telepathically what other
people were seeing; consequently, for reading he had simply to use some
one else's eyes. The other would cast his eye over the page while
Langatse followed telepathically. He had trained several young men to
perform this task for him so well that he could read almost as quickly
as John. One curious effect of his blindness was that, since he could
use many pairs of eyes at a time, and could see all round an object at
once, his mental imagery was of a kind quite inconceivable to ordinary
persons. As John put it, he _grasped_ things visually, instead of merely
having a single aspect of them. He saw things mentally from every point
of view at once.

John had originally hoped to persuade Langatse to join his great
adventure, but he soon found that this was out of the question. The
Tibetan regarded the whole matter much as Adlan had done. He was
interested, encouraging, but aloof. To him the founding of a new world,
though it must indeed some day be accomplished by some one, was not a
matter of urgency, and must not tempt him from his own more lofty
spiritual services. Nevertheless he consented gladly to be the spiritual
adviser of the colony, and meanwhile he would impart to John all that he
knew of the telepathic technique and other supernormal activities. At
one time Langatse suggested that John should give up his enterprise and
settle in Tibet to share the more exacting and more exalted spiritual
adventures on which he himself was engaged. But, finding that John was
not to be easily persuaded, he soon desisted. John stayed at the
monastery a week. During his return flight he received a message from
Langatse to the effect that, after grave spiritual exercise, he had
decided to help John by seeking out and preparing any young supernormals
that were in Asia and suited to the adventure.

John received a communication also from Lo. She had discovered two
remarkable sisters, both younger than herself. They would join the
expedition; but as the elder was just now in a very poor state of
health, and the younger a little child, they must stay where they were
for the present.

The _Skid_ now set her course for the China Seas. In Canton John met
Shn Kuo, the Chinese supernormal boy with whom he had already had some
communication. Shn Kuo readily agreed to make his way inland to join
the two other boys and two girls whom Langatse had discovered in the
remote Eastern Province of Sze Chwan. Thence the five would journey to
Tibet to Langatse's monastery, to undergo a course of spiritual
discipline in preparation for their new life. Langatse reported that he
had also secured three Tibetan boys and a girl for the colony, and that
these also would be prepared at the monastery.

One other convert was made. This was a half-caste Chinese American girl
resident in San Francisco. This child, who went by the name of
Washingtonia Jong, was also discovered by Langatse telepathically. The
_Skid_ crossed the Pacific to pick her up, and she straightway became a
member of the crew. I did not meet her till a much later date; but I may
as well say at once that "Washy," as she was called, appeared to me at
first a quite normal young person, a keen little American flapper with
rather Chinese eyes and black cropped hair. But I was to find that there
was more in her than that.

John's next task was to discover a suitable island for the colony. It
must have a temperate or subtropical climate. It must have a fertile
soil, and be well situated for fishing. It must be remote from any
frequented steamer route. This last requirement was extremely important,
for complete secrecy was essential. Even the most remote and
unconsidered island would certainly be visited sooner or later; so John
had thought out certain steps to prevent ships from reaching his island,
and certain others to ensure that any visitors who should make a landing
should not spread news of the colony among the normal species. Of these
devices I shall speak in due season.

The _Skid_ crossed the Equator and began a systematic exploration of the
South Seas. After many weeks of cruising a suitable though minute island
was discovered somewhere in the angle between the routes from New
Zealand to Panama and New Zealand to Cape Horn, and well away from both
courses. This discovery was an incredible stroke of luck, indeed it
might well have been an act of Providence. For the island was one which
was not marked on any charts, and there were clear signs that it had
only within the last twenty years or so been thrown up by sub-oceanic
disturbance. There were no non-human mammals on it, and no reptiles.
Vegetation was still scanty and undiversified. Yet the island was
inhabited. A small native group had taken possession of it, and were
living by fishing around its coasts. Many varieties of plants and trees
they themselves had brought over from their original home and
established on the island.

I did not hear about these original inhabitants till much later, when I
visited the island. "They were simple and attractive creatures," said
John, "but, of course, we could not allow them to interfere with our
plans. It might have been possible to obliterate from their minds every
recollection of the island and of ourselves, and then to transport them.
But though I had learned much from Langatse, our technique of
oblivifaction was still unreliable. Moreover, where could we have
deposited the natives without rousing protests, and curiosity? We might
have kept them alive on the island, as domestic animals, but this would
have wrecked our plans. It would also have undermined the natives
spiritually. So we decided to destroy them. One bit of hypnotic
technique (or magic, if you like) I felt sure I could now perform
successfully on normal minds in which there were strong religious
convictions. This we decided to use. The natives had welcomed us to
their island and arranged a feast for us. After the feast there were
ritual dances and religious rites. When the excitement was at a climax,
I made Lo dance for them. And when she had done, I said to them, in
their own language, that we were gods, that we needed their island, that
they must therefore make a great funeral pyre for themselves, mount it
together, lie down together, and gladly die. This they did, most gladly,
men, women and children. When they had all died we set fire to the
faggots and their bodies were burnt."

I cannot defend this act. But I may point out that, had the invaders
been members of the normal species, they would probably have baptised
the natives, given them prayer books and European clothes, rum and all
the diseases of the White Man. They would also have enslaved them
economically, and in time they would have crushed their spirits by
confronting them at every turn with the White Man's trivial superiority.
Finally, when all had died of drink or bitterness, they would have
mourned for them.

Perhaps the only defence of the psychological murders which the
supernormals committed when they took possession of the island would run
as follows. Having made up their minds that at all costs the island must
be theirs, and unencumbered, they did not shirk the consequences of
their decision. With open eyes they went about their task, and fulfilled
it in the cleanest possible way. Whether the end which they so
ruthlessly pursued did in fact justify the means, I simply do not feel
competent to decide. All my sympathies lie with the view that murder can
never be justified, however lofty the end at stake. Certainly, had the
killing been perpetrated by members of my own kind, such a deed would
have deserved the sternest condemnation. But who am I that I should
judge beings who in daily contact with me constantly proved themselves
my superiors not only in intelligence but in moral insight?

When the five superior beings, John and Lo, Ng-Gunko and Washingtonia
and the infant Sambo, had taken possession of the island, they spent
some weeks resting from their travels, preparing the site for future
settlement, and conferring with Langatse and those who were under his
guidance. It was arranged that as soon as the Asiatics were spiritually
equipped they should find their way as best they could to one of the
French Polynesian islands, whence the _Skid_ would fetch them.
Meanwhile, however, the _Skid_ would make a hurried trip to England
_via_ the Straits of Magellan to secure materials for the founding of
the colony, and to fetch the remaining European supernormals.




CHAPTER XIX
THE COLONY IS FOUNDED


The _Skid_ reached England three weeks before the date on which I was to
be married. As she had no radio, and her voyage had been speedy, she
arrived unannounced. Bertha and I had been shopping. We called at my
flat to deposit some parcels before going out for the evening. Arm in
arm, we entered my sitting-room, and found the _Skid's_ crew snugly
installed, eating my apples and some chocolates which I kept for
Bertha's entertainment. We stood for a moment in silence. I felt
Bertha's arm tighten on mine. John was enjoying his apple in an easy
chair by the fire. Lo, squatting on the hearth rug, was turning over the
pages of the _New Statesman_. Ng-Gunko was in the other easy chair,
chewing sweets and bending over Sambo. I think he was helping the infant
to readjust the thick and unfamiliar clothes without which he could not
have faced the English climate. Sambo, all head and stomach, with limbs
that were mere buds, cocked an inquisitive eye at me. Washingtonia, whom
I had not seen before, struck me at that moment as reassuringly
commonplace among those freaks.

John had risen, and was saying with his mouth full, "Hullo, old Fido,
hullo, Bertha! You'll hate me, Bertha, but I _must_ have Fido to help me
for a few weeks, buying stores and things." "But we're just going to get
married," I protested. "Damn!" said John. Then to my surprise I assured
John that of course we would put it off for a couple of months. Bertha
wilted on to a chair with a voiceless "Of course." "Good," cried John
cheerfully. "After this affair I may not bother you any more."
Unexpectedly my heart sank.

The following weeks were spent in a whirl of practical activities. The
_Skid_ had to be reconditioned, the plane repaired. Tools and machinery,
electric fittings and plumbing materials must be bought and shipped to
Valparaiso to await transshipment. Timber must be sent from the South
American forests to the same port. General stores must be purchased in
England. My task was to negotiate all these transactions, under John's
direction. John himself prepared a list of books which I must somehow
procure and dispatch. There were to be scores of technical works on
various biological subjects, tropical agriculture, medicine and so on.
There were to be books on theoretical physics, astronomy, philosophy,
and a rather intriguing selection of purely literary works in many
languages. Most difficult to procure were many scores of Asiatic
writings with titles suggestive of the occult.

Shortly before the _Skid's_ next sailing-date the additional European
members of the party began to arrive. John himself went to Hungary to
fetch Jelli, a mite said to be seventeen years old. She was no beauty.
The frontal and the occipital regions of her head were repulsively
overdeveloped, so that the back of her head stretched away behind her,
and her brow protruded beyond her nose, which was rudimentary. In
profile her head suggested a croquet mallet. She had a hare-lip and
short bandy legs. Her general appearance was that of a cretin; yet she
had supernormal intelligence and temperament, and also hyper-sensitive
vision. Not only did she distinguish two primary colours within the
spectrum-band that we call blue, but also she could see well down into
the infra-red. In addition to this colour-discrimination, she had a
sense of form that was, so to speak, much finer-grained than ours.
Probably there were more nerve-endings in her retinae than in normal
eyes, for she could read a newspaper at twenty yards' distance, and she
could see at a glance that a penny was not accurately circular. So
sensitive was she to form that, if the parts of a puzzle picture were
flung down before her, she took in their significant relations at a
glance, and could construct the picture without a pause. This amazing
percipience often caused her distress, for no man-made article appeared
to her to achieve the shape that its maker intended. And in the sphere
of art she was excruciated, not merely by inaccuracy of execution but
also by crudity of conception.

Besides Jelli, there was the French girl, Marianne Laffon, quite normal
in contrast with Jelli, and rather pretty with her dark eyes and olive
skin. She was seemingly a repository of the whole of French culture, and
could quote any passage of any classic, and, by some magic of her own,
so amplify it that she seemed to plumb the author's mind.

There was also a Swedish girl, Sigrid, whom John called the
Comb-Wielder, "because she has such a gift for combing out tangled minds
till they're all sleek and sane." She had been a consumptive, but had
apparently cured herself by some sort of mental "immunizing" of her
tissues. Even after her cure she retained the phthisic's cheerfulness. A
great-eyed, fragile thing, she combined her wonderful gift of sympathy
and insight with a maternal tenderness toward brute strength. When she
found it being brutal, she censured but still loved it. She was moved to
send it away howling with its tail between its legs, but at the same
time she "felt all sloppy about it, as though it were just a delicious
little naughty boy."

Several young male supernormals turned up, one by one, to join the
_Skid_. (The Wainwrights' house became at this time a shocking slum.)
There was Kemi, the Finn, a younger John; Shahn, the Turk, a few years
older than John, but well content to be his subordinate; and Kargis from
the Caucasus.

Of these, Shahn was from the normal point of view the most attractive,
for he had the build of a Russian dancer and in social intercourse a
lightness of touch which one took according to one's mood, either as
charming frivolity or as sublime detachment.

Kargis, who was not much younger than John, arrived in a state bordering
on mania. He had had a very trying journey in a tramp steamer, and his
unstable mind had failed to stand the strain. In appearance he was of
John's type, but darker and less hardy. I found it very difficult to
form a consistent idea of this strange being. He oscillated between
excitement and lethargy, between passion and detachment. The cause of
these fluctuations was not, I was assured, anything in his body's
physiological rhythm, but external events which were hidden from me.
When I inquired what kind of events, Lo, who was trying to help me,
said, "He's like Sigrid in having a great sense of personality. But he
regards persons rather differently from her way. She just loves them,
and laughs at them too, and helps them, and cures them. But for him each
person is like a work of art, having a particular quality or style, or
ideal form which he embodies well or ill. And when a person is jarringly
untrue to his peculiar style or ideal form, Kargis is excruciated."

The ten young people and one helpless infant set sail in the _Skid_ in
August of 1928.

John kept in communication with us by the ordinary mail. As I shall
explain later, the _Skid_, and sometimes the plane, had occasion to make
frequent voyages among the Islands or to Valparaiso. Thus it was
possible to post John's brief and guarded letters. From these documents
we learned first that the voyage out had been uneventful; that they had
called at Valparaiso to load as much of the stores as possible; that
they had reached the island; that the _Skid_, manned by Ng-Gunko, Kemi
and Marianne, was plying to and from Valparaiso to transport the rest of
the stores; that the building of the settlement was now well under way;
that the Asiatic members had arrived, and were "settling in nicely,"
that a hurricane had struck the island, destroying all the temporary
buildings, depositing the damaged _Skid_ on a little hill beside the
harbour, and hurting one of the Tibetan boys; that they had sowed large
tracts of fruit and vegetables; that they had built six canoes for
fishing; that Kargis had fallen seriously ill of some digestive disease
and was expected to die; that he had recovered; that the remains of a
Galapagos lizard had been washed up on the shore after God knows how
long a journey; that Sigrid had tamed an albatross, and that it stole
the breakfast; that the Colony had suffered its first tragedy, for Yang
Chung had been caught by a shark, and Kemi had been seriously mauled in
the vain attempt to rescue him; that Sambo was spending all his time
reading, but could not yet sit upright; that they had made for
themselves pipes on the James Jones model, but with special attachments
so that they could be played by normal five-fingered hands; that
Tsomotre (one of the Tibetans) and Shahn were composing wonderful
music; that Jelli had developed acute appendicitis and Lo had operated
successfully; that Lo herself had been working too hard on some
embryological experiments and had fallen into one of her terrible
nightmares; that she was awake again; that Marianne and Shn Kuo had
gone to live on the far side of the Island "because they wanted to be
alone for a bit"; that "Washy" was going mad, for she complained of
feeling hate for Lankor (a Tibetan girl who had won the heart of
Shahn); that "Washy" had tried to kill Lankor and herself; that Sigrid,
in spite of prolonged and patient efforts, had failed to cure "Washy,"
and was now herself showing signs of strain, that both girls were now
being cured from afar by Langatse's telepathic influence; that the
Colonists had completed their stone library and meeting-house, and the
observatory was being started; that Tsomotre and Lankor, who were
evidently the most expert telepathists, were now able to provide the
colony with the news of the world in daily bulletins; that the more
advanced members of the party, under the direction of Langatse, were
undergoing severe exercises in spiritual discipline, which in time
should raise them to a new plane of experience; that a severe earthquake
had caused the whole island to sink nearly two feet, so that they had to
lay several new courses of stone on the quays, and would henceforth need
to keep the _Skid_ in readiness for a sudden exodus, in case the island
should disappear.

As the months protracted themselves into years, John's letters became
less frequent and more brief. He was evidently entirely absorbed in the
affairs of the colony; and as the party became more and more concerned
with supernormal activities, he found it increasingly difficult to give
us an intelligible account of their life.

In the spring of 1932, however, I was greatly surprised to receive a
long letter from John, the main purport of which was to urge me to visit
the island as soon as possible. I quote the essential passage. "You will
laugh when I tell you I want you to come and use your journalistic
prowess upon us. In fact I want you to write that threatened biography
after all, not for our sakes but for your own species. I must explain.
We have made a wonderful start. Sometimes it was a bit grim, but now we
have worked out a very satisfactory life and society. Our practical
activities run smoothly, delightfully, and we are able at last to join
in a great effort to reach the higher planes of experience. Already we
are very different mentally from what we were when we landed. Some of us
have seen far and deep into reality, and we have at least gained a clear
view of the work we have undertaken. But a number of signs suggest that
before very many months have passed the colony will be destroyed. If
your species discovers us, it will certainly try to smash us; and we are
not yet in a position to defeat it. Langatse has urged us (and he is
right) to push on with the spiritual part of our work, so as to complete
as much as possible of it before the end. But also we may as well leave
records of our little adventure as an example for any future
supernormals who may attempt to found the new world, and for the benefit
of the more sensitive members of _Homo sapiens_. Langatse will take
charge of the record for supernormals; the record for your species
entails only normal powers and can be done satisfactorily by yourself."

I was now a tolerably successful free-lance journalist, and I had a full
programme before me. I was married, and Bertha was expecting a child.
Yet I eagerly accepted the invitation. That afternoon I made inquiries
about steamers for Valparaiso, and replied to John (_post restante_ at
that city), telling him when to expect me.

Guiltily, I broke my news to Bertha. She was hard hit by it, but she
said, "Yes, if John wants you, of course you must go." Then I went round
to the Wainwrights'. Pax greatly surprised me, for no sooner had I begun
to tell her about the letter than she interrupted me. "I know," she
said, "for some weeks he has been giving me little stray visions of the
island, and even talking to me. He _said_ he would be asking for you."




CHAPTER XX
THE COLONY IN BEING


When I arrived at Valparaiso the _Skid_ was waiting for me manned by
Ng-Gunko and Kemi. Both lads had appreciably matured since I had last
seen them, nearly four years earlier. Those crowded years seemed to have
speeded up the slow growth natural to their kind. Ng-Gunko, in
particular, who was actually sixteen and might have been taken for
twelve, had acquired a grace and a seriousness which I never expected of
him. Both seemed in a great hurry to put to sea. I asked if there was
any special engagement to keep on the island. "No," said Ng-Gunko, "but
we may have less than a year to live, and we love the island, and all
our friends. We want to go home."

As soon as my baggage and some cases of books and stores had been
transshipped in the _Skid's_ dinghy, we got under way. Ng-Gunko and Kemi
promptly divested themselves of their clothes, for it was a hot day.
Kemi's fair skin had been burnt to the colour of the teak woodwork of
the _Skid_.

When we had come within about forty miles of the island, Kemi, who was
at the helm, said, glancing from the magnetic to the gyroscopic compass,
"They must be using the deflector. That means some ship has come too
close, and they're heading her off." He went on to explain that on the
island they had an instrument for deflecting a magnetic compass at any
range up to about fifty miles. This was the fourth occasion for its use.

At last we sighted the island, a minute grey hump on the horizon. As we
approached, it rose and displayed itself as a double mountain. Even when
we were quite close to land I failed to detect any sign of habitation.
Ng-Gunko explained that the buildings had all been placed in such a
manner as to escape detection. Not till the island had opened out its
little harbour to embrace us did I see the corner of one wooden building
protruding from behind some trees. Not till we had entered the inner
harbour did the whole settlement appear. It consisted of a score or more
of small wooden buildings, with a larger stone building behind them and
slightly higher up the slope. Most of the little wooden buildings, I was
told, were the private houses of the residents. The stone building was
the library and meeting-house. There were also buildings on the
quayside, including a stone power-station. Somewhat remote from the rest
of the settlement was a collection of wooden sheds which were said to be
temporary labs.

The _Skid_ was moored alongside the lowest of three stone quays, for the
tide was out. The colonists were waiting to receive us and unload. They
were a bunch of naked, sunburnt youngsters of both sexes and very
diverse appearance. John sprang on board to greet me, and I found myself
tongue-tied. He had become a dazzling figure, at least to my faithful
eyes. There was a new firmness and a new dignity about him. His face was
brown and smooth and hard like a hazel nut. His whole body was like
shaped and bees-waxed oak. His hair was bleached to a dazzling
whiteness. I noted among the party several unfamiliar faces, the
Asiatics, of course, from China, Tibet and India. Seeing all these
supernormals together, I was struck by a pervading Chinese or Mongolian
expression about them. They had come from many lands, but they had a
family likeness. John might well be right in guessing that all had
sprung from a single "sporting point" centuries ago, probably in Central
Asia. From that original mutation, or perhaps from a number of similar
mutations, successive generations of offspring had spread over Asia,
Europe, Africa, interbreeding with the normal kind, but producing
occasionally a true supernormal individual.

Subsequently I learned that Shn Kuo's direct researches in the past had
confirmed this theory.

I had been dreading life in this colony of superior persons. I expected
to feel unwanted, to be as useless and distracting as a dog at a
highbrow concert. But my reception reassured me. The younger members
accepted me gaily and carelessly, treating me much as nieces and nephews
might treat an uncle whose special office it was to make a fool of
himself. The elders of the party were more restrained, but genial.

I was assigned one of the wooden cottages or shacks as my private
residence. It was surrounded by a verandah. "You may prefer to have your
bed out here," said John. "There are no mosquitoes." I noticed at once
that the cottage had been made with the care and accuracy of fine
cabinet-making. It was sparsely furnished with solid and simple articles
of waxed wood. On one wall of the sitting-room was a carved panel
representing in an abstract manner a boy and a girl (of the supernormal
type) apparently at sea in a canoe, and hunting a shark. In the bedroom
was another carving, much more abstract, but vaguely suggestive of
sleep. On the bed were sheets and blankets, woven of rough yarns unknown
to me. I was surprised to see electric light, an electric stove, and
beyond the bedroom a minute bathroom with hot and cold taps. The water
was heated by an electric contrivance in the bathroom itself. Fresh
water was plentiful, I was told, for it was distilled from the sea as a
sort of by-product of the psycho-physical power-station.

Glancing at the small electric clock, let into the wall, John said,
"There'll be a meal in a few minutes. That long building is the
feeding-house, with the kitchen alongside of it." He pointed to a low
wooden building among the trees. In front of it was a terrace, and on
the terrace, tables.

I shall not forget my first meal on the island. I was seated between
John and Lo. The table was crowded with unfamiliar eatables, especially
tropical and subtropical fruits, fish, and a queer sort of bread, all
served in vessels made of wood or of shell. Marianne and the two Chinese
girls seemed responsible for the meal, for they kept disappearing into
the kitchen to produce new dishes.

Looking at the slight naked figures of various shades from Ng-Gunko's
nigger-brown to Sigrid's rich cream, all seated round the table and
munching with the heartiness of a school treat, I felt that I had
strayed into an island of goblins. This was in the main an effect of the
two rows of large heads and eyes like field-glass lenses, but was
accentuated by the disproportionately large hands which were busy with
the food. The islanders were certainly a collection of young freaks, but
one or two of them were freakish even in relation to the standards of
the group itself. There was Jelli with her hammer-head and hare-lip,
Ng-Gunko with his red wool and discrepant eyes. Tsomotre, a Tibetan boy,
whose head seemed to grow straight out of his shoulders without the
intervention of a neck, Hwan T, a Chinese youngster, whose hands
outclassed all the others in size, and bore, in addition to the normal
set of fingers, an extra and very useful thumb.

Since the death of Yang Chung the party comprised eleven youths and boys
(including Sambo) and ten girls, of whom the youngest was a little
Indian child. Of these twenty-one individuals, three lads and a girl
were Tibetan, two youths and two girls were Chinese, two girls were
Indian. All the others were of European origin, except Washingtonia
Jong. I was to discover that of the Asiatics the outstanding
personalities were Tsomotre, the neckless expert in telepathy, and Shn
Kuo, a Chinese youth of John's age who specialized in direct research
into the past. This gentle and rather frail young man, who, I noticed,
was given specially prepared food, was said to be in some ways the most
"awakened" member of the colony. John once said half seriously, "Shn
Kuo is a reincarnation of Adlan."

On my first afternoon John took me for a tour of inspection round the
island. We went first to the power-house, a stone building on the quay.
Outside the door the infant Sambo lay upon a mat, kicking with his
crooked black legs. Curiously, he seemed to have changed less than the
other supernormals. His legs were still too weak to support him. As we
passed, he piped to John, "Hi! What about a bit of a talk? I've got a
problem." John replied without checking his progress, "Sorry, too busy
just now." Within we found Ng-Gunko, his back shining with sweat,
shovelling sand, or rather dried ooze, into a sort of furnace.
"Convenient," I said, laughing, "to be able to burn mud." Ng-Gunko
paused, grinning, and wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

John explained. "The element that we use now is particularly easy to
disintegrate by the psychical technique, but also it occurs only in very
small quantities. Of course, if we disintegrated _all_ this mass of
stuff and let it go off with a bang, the whole island would be blown up.
But only about a millionth part of the raw material is the element we
want. The furnace merely frees the desired atoms as a sort of ash, which
has to be refined out of the other ash, and stored in that hermetically
sealed container."

He now led the way into another room, and pointed to a much smaller and
very solid-looking bit of mechanism. "That," he said, "is where the real
business is done. Every now and then Ng-Gunko puts a pinch of the stuff
on a sticky wafer, pops it in there, and 'hypnotizes' it. That makes it
go invisible and intangible and _materially_ non-existent, at least for
ordinary purposes; because, you see, it has gone to sleep and can't take
_any_ effect on anything. Well, either Ng-Gunko wakes it up again at
once, and it sends the hell of a blast of power into that engine, to
drive the dynamos; or it is taken away for use on the _Skid_, or
elsewhere."

We passed into a room full of machinery, a mass of cylinders, rods,
wheels, tubes, dials. Beyond that were three big dynamos, and beyond
them the plant for distilling sea-water.

We then moved over to the laboratory, a rambling collection of wooden
buildings rather apart from the settlement. There we found Lo and Hwan
T working with microscopes. Lo explained that they were "trying to spot
a bug that's got at the maize plantation." The place was much like any
ordinary lab., crowded with jars, test-tubes, retorts and so on. It
evidently served for work on both the physical and the biological
sciences, but the biological was preponderant. On one side of the room
was an immense cupboard, or rather series of small cupboards. These, I
learned, were incubators for use in embryological work. I was to hear
more of this later.

The library and meeting-room was a stone erection which had evidently
been built to last, and to delight the eye. It was quite a small
building of one storey, and I was not surprised to learn that most of
the books were still housed in wooden sheds. But the shelves of the
library itself were already filled with all the most prized volumes.
When we entered the room, we found Jelli, Shn Kuo and Shahn surrounded
by piles of books. The smaller half of the building was occupied by the
meeting-room, which was panelled with strange woods and decorated with
much-stylized carvings. Of these works, some repelled and intrigued me,
others moved me not at all. The former, John said, had been done by
Kargis, the latter by Jelli. It was plain that Jelli's creations had a
significance unperceived by me, for John was evidently held by them, and
to my surprise we found Lankor, the Tibetan girl, standing motionless
before one of them, her lips moving. When he saw her, John said,
lowering his voice, "She's far away, but we mustn't risk disturbing
her."

After leaving the library we walked through a big kitchen garden, where
several of the young people were at work, and thence up the valley
between the island's two mountains. Here we passed through fields of
maize and groves of baby orange-trees and shaddock, which, it was hoped,
would some day bear a rich crop. The vegetation of the island ranged
from tropical to subtropical and even temperate. The extinct native
pioneers had introduced much valuable tropical vegetation, such as the
ubiquitous and invaluable coco-palm, and also bread-fruit, mango, and
guava. Owing to the saltiness of the air none but the coco-palm had
really prospered until the supernormals had invented a spray to
counteract the salt. When we had climbed out of the valley by a little
track amongst a tangle of aromatic bushes, we presently emerged upon a
tract of bare hillside consisting of rock, covered in places with dried
sub-oceanic ooze. Here and there a wind-borne seed had alighted and
prospered, and founded a little colony of vegetation. On a shoulder of
the mountain John pointed out "the island's main attraction for
sightseers." It was the keel and broken ribs of a wooden vessel
evidently wrecked and sunk before the island rose from the bottom of the
Pacific. Within it were bits of crockery and a human skull.

On the top of the little mountain we came upon the unfinished
observatory. Its walls had risen only a foot from the ground, yet the
whole place had a deserted look. To my question John replied, "When we
found out how short a time lay before us, we abandoned all work of that
kind, and concentrated on undertakings that we could bring to some sort
of conclusion. I'll tell you more about them, some day."

I have reached the part of my narrative that I intended to present with
most detail and greatest effect, but several attempts to tackle it have
finally convinced me that the task is beyond my powers. Again and again
I have tried to plan an anthropological and psychological report on the
colony. Always I have failed. I can give only a few incoherent
observations. I can say, for instance, that there was something
incomprehensible, something "inhuman," about the emotional life of the
islanders. In all normal situations, though of course their behaviour
varied from the exuberance of Ng-Gunko and the fastidiousness of Kargis
to the perfect composure of Lo, their emotions seemed on the whole
normal. Doubtless, even in the most hearty expression of normal emotion
in everyday situations, there was a curious self-observation and a
detached relish, which seemed to me not quite "human." But it was in
grave and exceptional situations and particularly in disaster that the
islanders revealed themselves as definitely of a different texture from
that of _Homo sapiens_. One incident must serve as an example.

Shortly after my arrival Hsi Mei, the Chinese girl, commonly called May,
was seized with a terrible fit, and in disastrous circumstances. In her,
apparently, the supernormal nature, though highly developed, was very
precariously established. Her fit was evidently caused by a sudden
reversion to the normal, but to the normal in a distorted and savage
form. One day she was out fishing with Shahn, who had recently become
her mate. She had been strange all the morning. Suddenly she flew at him
and began tearing him with nails and teeth. In the scuffle the boat
capsized, and the inevitable shark seized May by the leg. Fortunately
Shahn wore a sheath-knife, for use in cleaning fish. With this he
attacked the shark, which by good luck was a young one. There was a
desperate struggle. Finally the brute released its prey and fled.
Shahn, mauled and exhausted, succeeded with great difficulty in
bringing May back to land. During the following three weeks he nursed
her constantly, refusing to allow anyone to relieve him. What with her
almost severed leg and her mental disorder, she was in a desperate
plight. Sometimes her true self seemed to reappear, but more often she
was either unconscious or maniacal. Shahn was hard put to it to
restrain her from doing serious hurt to herself or to him. When at last
she seemed to be recovering, Shahn was ecstatically delighted.
Presently, however, she grew much worse. One morning, when I took his
breakfast over to their cottage, he greeted me with a gaunt but placid
face, and said, "Her soul is torn too deeply now. She will never mend.
This morning she knows me, and has reached out her hand for me. But she
is not herself, she is frightened. And very soon she will not know me
ever again. I will sit with my dear this morning as usual, but when she
is asleep I must kill her." Horrified, I rushed to fetch John. But when
I had told him, he merely sighed and said, "Shahn knows best."

That afternoon, in the presence of the whole colony, Shahn carried the
dead Hsi Mei to a great rock beside the harbour. Gently he laid her
down, gazed at her for a moment with longing, then stepped back among
his companions. Thereupon John, using the psycho-physical technique,
caused a sufficient number of the atoms of her flesh to disintegrate, so
that there was a violent outpouring of their pent-up energies, and her
whole body was speedily consumed in a dazzling conflagration. When this
was done, Shahn passed his hand over his brow, and then went down with
Kemi and Sigrid to the canoes. The rest of the day they spent repairing
the nets. Shahn talked easily, even gaily, about May; and laughed,
even, over the desperate battle of her spirit with the powers of
darkness. And sometimes while he worked, he sang. I said to myself,
"Surely this is an island of monsters."

I must now try to convey something of my vivid impression that strange
and lofty activities were all the while going on around me on the island
although I could not detect them. I felt as though I were playing blind
man's buff with invisible spirits. The bodily eye watched unhindered the
bright perceived world and the blithe physical activities of these young
people; but the mind's eye was blindfold, and the mind's ear could
gather only vague hints of incomprehensible happenings.

One of the most disconcerting features of life on the island was that
much of the conversation of the colonists was carried on telepathically.
So far as I could judge, vocal speech was in process of atrophy. The
younger members still used it as the normal means of communication, and
even among the elders it was often indulged in for its own sake, much as
we may prefer to walk rather than take a bus. The spoken language was
prized chiefly for its aesthetic value. Not only did the islanders make
formal poems for one another as frequently as the cultured Japanese;
they also delighted sometimes to converse with one another in subtle
metre, assonance and rhyme. Vocal speech was used also for sheer
emotional expression, both deliberately and inadvertently. Our
civilization had left its mark on the island in such ejaculations as
"damn" and "blast" and several which we do not yet tolerate in print. In
all reactions to the personality of others, too, speech played an
important part. It was often a vehicle for the expression of rivalry,
friendship and love. But even in this field all finer intercourse, I was
told, depended on telepathy. Speech was but an obbligato to the real
theme. Serious discussion was always carried on telepathically and in
silence. Sometimes, however, emotional stress would give rise to speech
as a spontaneous but unconsidered accompaniment of telepathic discourse.
In these circumstances vocal activity tended to be blurred and
fragmentary like the speech of a sleeper. Such mutterings were rather
frightening to one who could not enter into the telepathic conversation.
At first, by the way, I had been irrationally disturbed whenever a group
of the islanders, working in silence in the garden or elsewhere,
suddenly began to laugh for no apparent reason though actually in
response to some telepathic jest. In time I came to accept these
oddities without the "nervy" creepiness which they used to arouse in me.

There were happenings on the island far more strange than the normal
flow of telepathic conversation. On my third evening, for instance, all
the colonists gathered in the meeting-room. John explained that this was
one of the regular twelfth-day meetings "to review our position in
relation to the universe." I was advised to come, but to go away when I
was bored. The whole party sat in the carved wooden chairs round the
walls of the room. There was silence. Having had some experience of
Quaker meetings, I was not at first ill at ease. But presently a rather
terrifying absolute stillness came upon the company. Not only gross
fidgetings, but even those almost imperceptible movements which
characterize all normal living, ceased, and became noticeable through
their absence. I might have been in a roomful of stone images. On every
face was an expression of intent but calm concentration which was not
solemn, was even perhaps faintly amused. Suddenly and with keen
scrutiny, all eyes turned upon me. I was seized with a sudden panic; but
immediately there came over all the intent faces a reassuring smile.
Then followed an experience which I can only describe by saying that I
felt directly the presence of those supernormal minds, felt
telepathically a vague but compelling sense of their immature majesty,
felt myself straining desperately to rise to their level, felt myself
breaking under the strain, so that I had finally to flee back into my
little isolated and half-human self, with the thankfulness of one who
falls asleep after great toil, but with the loneliness of an exile.

The many eyes were now turned from me. The young winged minds had soared
beyond my reach.

Presently Tsomotre, the neckless Tibetan, moved to a sort of
harpsichord, tuned to the strange intervals which the islanders enjoyed.
He played. To me his music was indescribably unpleasant. I could have
screamed, or howled like a dog. When he had done, a faint involuntary
murmur from several throats seemed to indicate deep approval. Shahn
rose from his seat, looking with keen inquiry at Lo, who hesitated, then
also rose. Tsomotre began playing once more, tentatively. Lo, meanwhile,
had opened a huge chest, and after a brief search she took from it a
folded cloth, which when she had shaken it out was revealed as an ample
and undulatory length of silk, striped in many colours. This she wrapped
around her. The music once more took definite form. Lo and Shahn glided
into a solemn dance, which quickened presently to a storm of wild
movement. The silk whirled and floated, revealing the tawny limbs of Lo;
or was gathered about her with pride and disdain. Shahn leapt hither
and thither around her, pressed toward her, was rejected, half accepted,
spurned again. Now and then came moments of frank sexual contact,
stylized and knit into the movement-pattern of the dance. The end
suggested to me that the two lovers, now clinging together, were being
engulfed in some huge catastrophe. They glanced hither and thither,
above, below, with expressions of horror and exaltation, and at one
another with gleams of triumph. They seemed to thrust some invisible
assailant from them, but less and less effectively, till gradually they
sank together to the ground. Suddenly they sprang up and apart to
perform slow marionette-like antics which meant nothing to me. The music
stopped, and the dance. As she returned to her seat, Lo flashed a
questioning, taunting look at John.

Later, when I had described this incident in my notes, I showed my
account of it to Lo. When she had glanced at it, she said, "But you have
missed the point, you old stupid. You've made it into a love story. Of
course, what you say is all right--but it's all wrong too, you poor
dear."

After the dance the company relapsed into silence and immobility. Ten
minutes later I slipped away to refresh myself with a walk. When I
returned, the atmosphere seemed to have changed. No one noticed my
entrance. There was something indescribably eerie in the spectacle of
those young faces staring with adult gravity at nothing. Most disturbing
of all was Sambo, sitting like a little black doll in his ample chair.
Tears were trickling down his cheeks, but his soft little mouth seemed
to have grown hard and proud and old. After a few minutes I fled.

Next morning, though the meeting had not ended till dawn, the normal
life of the colony was afoot once more. I asked John to explain what had
been happening at the meeting. He said they had at first merely been
looking into their motives. The young especially had still a lot to
learn in this respect. Both young and old had also done a good deal of
work upon their deeper mutual relations, relations which in the normal
species would have been far below the threshold of consciousness.

All the colonists, John said, had been engaged in making themselves
known to one another as fully as possible. They had also, all of them,
been disciplining themselves, making their minds more seemly and more
effective. This they had performed in the presence of Langatse, their
spiritual adviser, and of course under his guidance. With him they had
also meditated deeply about metaphysics. In addition to all this, said
John, they had been learning to expand their "now" to embrace hours,
days; and narrowing it also to distinguish the present and the past
strokes of a gnat's wing. "And we explored the remote past," he said,
"helped greatly by Shn Kuo, whose genius moves in that sphere. We
attained also a kind of astronomical consciousness. Some of us at least
glimpsed the myriads of peopled worlds, and even the minds of stars and
of nebulae. We saw also very clearly that we must soon die. And there
were other things which I must not tell you."

Life on the island did not consist entirely of this exalted corporate
activity. The islanders had to do a good deal of hard work of a much
more practical kind. Every day two or three canoes would go out fishing.
Nets and boats and harpoons had to be repaired. There was constant work
in the garden and fruit-groves, and in the maize-fields. Hitherto there
had been endless building operations in wood and stone, but when the
islanders had discovered their impending fate, such work was abandoned.
A good deal of minor woodwork was still afoot. Much of the "crockery"
was made of wood, and the rest of shell or gourd. The machinery needed
constant attention, and so did the _Skid_. I was surprised to learn that
the _Skid_ had made many voyages among the Polynesian Islands, actually
bartering some of the handicrafts of the colony for native produce.
Later I found that these voyages had another purpose.

All this manual work was entered into rather as sport than as toil, for
it had never been a tyranny. The most serious attention of every member
was given to very different matters. The younger islanders spent much
time in the library and the lab., absorbing the culture of the inferior
species. The elders were concerned with a prolonged research into the
physical and mental attributes of their own kind. In particular they
were grappling with the problem of breeding. At what age might their
young women safely conceive? Or should reproduction be ectogenetic? And
how could they ensure that the offspring should be both viable and
supernormal? This research was evidently the chief work of the
laboratory. Originally its aim had been mainly practical, but even after
the discovery of their impending doom the islanders continued these
biological experiments for their theoretical interest.

When we entered the labs we found several persons at work. Lo, Kargis
and the two Chinese boys were apparently in charge of the research.
Delicate experiments were being carried out on the germ cells of
molluscs, fishes and specially imported mammals. Still more difficult
work was in progress upon human ova and spermatozoa, both normal and
supernormal. I was shown a series of thirty-eight living human embryos,
each in its own incubator. These startled me considerably, but the story
of their conception and capture startled me even more. Indeed, it filled
me with horror, and with violent though short-lived moral indignation.
The eldest of these embryos was three months old. Its father, I was
told, was Shahn, its mother a native of the Tuamotu Archipelago. The
unfortunate girl had been seduced, brought to the island, operated upon,
and killed while still under the anaesthetic. The more recent specimens,
however, had been secured by milder methods, for Lo had invented a
technique by which the fertilized ovum could be secured without violence
to the mother. In all the more recent cases the mothers had yielded up
their treasure unwittingly, and without leaving their native islands.
They were merely persuaded to agree to comply with certain instructions
given by the supernormal father. The technique apparently combined
physical and psychical methods, and was imposed upon the girls as a
sublime religious ritual.

There was also a series of five much younger and ectogenetically
fertilized ova. In these cases both father and mother were members of
the colony. Lo herself had contributed one specimen. The father was
Tsomotre. "You see," she said, "I am rather young for gestation, but my
ova are all right for experimental purposes." I was puzzled. I knew well
that sexual intercourse was practised on the island. Why then had the
_fertilization_ of this ovum been carried out artificially? As tactfully
as I could, I stated my difficulty. Lo answered with some asperity,
"Why, of course, because I was not in love with Tsomotre."

Since I am on this subject of sex I had better pursue it. The younger
members of the colony, such as Ng-Gunko and Jelli, were only on the
threshold of adolescence. Nevertheless, they were very sensitive to one
another, both physically and mentally. Moreover, though physically
backward, they were (so to speak) imaginatively precocious, as John had
been. Consequently the mental side of sexual love was surprisingly
developed among them.

Among the elder members there were, of course, more serious attachments.
As they had discovered how to bring conception under direct voluntary
control, their unions were followed by no practical difficulties. They
had, however, produced a crop of emotional stresses.

From what I was told, I gathered that there must have been a subtle
difference between the love experiences of the islanders and those of
normal persons. So far as I can tell, the difference was caused by two
characteristics of the supernormal, namely, more discriminate awareness
of self and of others, and greater detachment. The greater accuracy of
self- and other-consciousness was of course responsible for a high
degree of mutual understanding, tolerance and sympathy in ordinary
relations. It seems to have rendered the loves of these strange beings
at once exceptionally vivid and in most cases exceptionally harmonious.
Occasionally some surge of crude and juvenile emotion would threaten to
blot out this insight, but then detachment would normally supervene to
prevent disaster. Thus between the very different spirits of Shahn and
Lankor there arose a passionate relationship in which there were
frequent conflicts of desire. With beings like us this would have
produced endless strife. But in them mutual insight and self-detachment
seems to have kindled in each the spirit of the other, so that the
result was not strife but the mental aggrandizement of both. On the
other hand, when the unhappy Washingtonia found herself forsaken by
Shahn, primitive impulses had triumphed in her to such an extent that,
as I have reported, she hated her rival. Such an irrational emotion was
from the supernormal point of view sheer insanity. The girl herself was
terrified at her own derangement. A similar incident occurred when
Marianne favoured Kargis rather than Hwan T. But the Chinese youth
apparently cured himself without help. Yet not strictly without help,
for all the islanders had formed a habit of recounting their amatory
experiences to Jacqueline, far away in France; and she had often played
the part of the wise woman, comforting them, helping these complicated
and inexperienced young creatures to make effective spiritual contact
with one another.

When the young people had enjoyed one another promiscuously for a period
of many months, they seem to have passed into a new phase. They
gradually sorted themselves out into more or less constant couples. In
some cases a couple would actually build for themselves a single
cottage, but as a rule they were content to make free of each other's
private homes. In spite of these permanent "marriages" there were many
fleeting unions, which did not seem to break up the more serious
relationship. Thus at one time or other nearly every lad was mated with
nearly every lass. This statement may suggest that the islanders lived
in a ceaseless round of promiscuous sexual activity. They did nothing of
the sort. The sexual impulse was not violent in them. But though coitus
was on the whole a rare event on the island, it was always permitted
when both parties desired it. Moreover, though the culminating sexual
act was rare, much of the normal social life of the island was flushed,
so to speak, with a light-hearted and elegant sexuality.

I believe that there were only one male and one female who had never
spent a night in one another's arms, and indeed had never embraced at
all. These, surprisingly, and in spite of their long connexion and deep
mutual intimacy and respect, were John and Lo. Neither of them had a
permanent mate. Each had played a part in the light-hearted promiscuity
of the colony. Their seeming detachment from one another I attributed at
first to sheer sexual indifference. But I was mistaken. When I remarked
to John in my blundering way that I was surprised that he never seemed
to be in love with Lo, he said simply, "But I _am_ in love with Lo,
always." I concluded that she was not attracted by him, but John read my
thoughts, and said, "No, it's mutual all right." "Then _why_?" I
demanded. John said nothing until I had pressed him again. He looked
away, like any bashful adolescent. Just as I was about to apologize for
prying, he said, "I just don't know. At least, I half know. Have you
noticed that she never lets me so much as touch her? And I'm frightened
of touching her. And sometimes she shuts me right out of her mind. That
hurts. I'm frightened even of trying to make telepathic contact with
her, unless she begins it; in case she doesn't want it. And yet I know
her so well. Of course, we are very young, and though we have both had
many loves and have learnt a lot, I think we mean so much to one another
that we are afraid of spoiling it all by some false step. We are
frightened to begin until we have learned much more about the art of
living. Probably if we were to live another twenty years--but we shall
_not_." That "not" sounded with an undercurrent of grief which shocked
me. I did not believe John would ever be shaken by purely personal
emotion.

I decided to make an opportunity for asking Lo about her relations with
John. One day, while I was meditating a tactful approach, she discovered
my intention telepathically, and said, "About me and John--I keep him
away because I know, and he knows too, that we are not in a position yet
to give our best to one another. Jacqueline advised me to be careful,
and she's right. You see, John is amazingly backward in some ways. He's
cleverer than most of us, but quite simple about some things. That's why
he's--_Odd_ John. Though I'm the younger, I feel much older. It would
never do to go all the way with him before he's really grown up. These
years on the island with him have been very beautiful, in their kind. In
another five we might be ready. But of course, since we have to die
soon, I shall not wait too long. If the tree is to be destroyed, we must
pluck the fruit before it is ripe."

When I had written and revised the foregoing account of life on the
island, I realized that it failed almost completely to convey even so
much of the spirit of the little community as I myself had been able to
appreciate. But, try as I may, I cannot give concrete embodiment to that
strange combination of lightness and earnestness, of madness and
superhuman sanity, of sublime common sense and fantastic extravagance,
which characterized so much on the island.

I must now give up the attempt, and pass on to describe the sequence of
events which led to the destruction of the colony, and the death of all
its members.




CHAPTER XXI
THE BEGINNING OF THE END


When I had been on the island nearly four months a British surveying
vessel discovered us. We knew beforehand from telepathic sources that
she was likely to come our way, for she had orders to study the oceanic
conditions of the South-east Pacific. We knew also that she had a
gyroscopic compass. It would be difficult to lead her astray.

This vessel, the _Viking_, strayed about the ocean for some weeks,
following the dictates of research. With innumerable zigzags she
approached the island. When she came within range of our deflector her
officers were perplexed by the discrepancy between the magnetic and
gyroscopic compasses, but the ship maintained her true course. On one of
her laps she passed within twenty miles of the island, but at night.
Would she on the next lap miss us entirely? No! Approaching from the
south-west, she sighted us far away on the port bow. The effect was
unexpected. Since no island had any business to be in that spot, the
officers concluded that the gyro was wrong after all, although their
observation of the sun had seemed to confirm it. This island, then, must
be one of the Tuamotu Group. The _Viking_, therefore, veered away from
us. Tsomotre, our chief telepathist, reported that the officers of the
_Viking_ were feeling very much like people lost in the dark.

A month later the _Viking_ sighted us again. This time she changed her
course and headed for the island. We saw her approaching, a minute toy
vessel, white, with buff funnel. She plunged and swayed, and grew
larger. When she was within a few miles of the island, she cruised round
it, inspecting. She came a mile or two nearer and described another
circle, at half speed, using the lead. She anchored. A motor-launch was
lowered. It left the _Viking_ and nosed along the coast till it found
the entrance to our harbour. In the outer harbour it came to shore and
landed an officer and three men. They advanced inland among the
brushwood.

We still hoped that they might make a perfunctory examination and then
return. Between the inner and the outer harbours, and along the slopes
of the outer harbour itself, there was a dense wilderness of scrub,
which would give pause to any explorer. The actual channel to the inner
harbour had been concealed with a curtain of vegetation hung from a rope
which stretched from shore to shore.

The invaders wandered about in the comparatively open space for a while,
then turned back to the launch. Presently one of them stooped and picked
up something. John, who was in hiding beside me, watching both the
bodies and the minds of the four men, exclaimed, "God! He's found one of
your bloody cigarette-ends--a fresh one, too." In horror I sprang to my
feet, crying, "Then he must find me." I plunged down the hillside,
shouting. The men turned and waited for me. As I approached, naked,
dirty and considerably scratched by the scrub, they gaped at me in
astonishment. Panting, I poured out an impromptu story. I was the sole
survivor of a schooner, wrecked on the island. I had smoked my last
cigarette to-day. At first they believed me. While we made our way
toward the launch, they fired questions at me. I played my part
tolerably well, but by the time we reached the _Viking_, they were
growing suspicious. Though superficially dirty after my stampede, I was
quite decently groomed. My hair was short, I was beardless, my nails
were cut and clean. Under cross-examination by the Commander of the
vessel I became confused; and finally, in despair, I told them the whole
truth. Naturally they concluded that I was mad. All the same, the
Commander determined to make further investigations on the island. He
himself came with the party. I was taken, too, in case I should prove
useful.

I now feigned complete idiocy, hoping they might still find nothing. But
they discovered the camouflage curtain, and forced the launch through it
into the inner harbour. The settlement was now in full view. John and
the others had decided that it was useless to hide, and were standing
about on the quay, waiting for us. As we came alongside, John advanced
to greet us. He was an uncouth but imposing figure, with his dazzling
white hair, his eyes of a nocturnal beast, and his lean body. Behind him
the others waited, a group of unclad boys and girls with formidable
heads. One of the _Viking's_ officers was heard to exclaim, "Jesus
Christ! What a troupe!"

The invaders were fluttered by the sight of naked young women, several
of whom were of the white race.

We took the officers to the feeding-house terrace, and gave them light
refreshments, including our best Chablis. John explained to them rather
fully about the colony; and though, of course, they could not appreciate
the more subtle aspect of the great adventure, and were frankly though
politely incredulous of the "new species" idea, they were sympathetic.
They appreciated the sporting aspect of the matter. They were also
impressed by the fact that I, the only adult and the only normal human
figure among these juvenile freaks, was obviously a quite unimportant
person on the island.

Presently John took them to see the power-station, which they just
wouldn't believe, and the _Skid_, which impressed them more than
anything else. To them she was a subtle blend of the crazy and the
shipshape. There followed a tour of the other buildings and the estate.
I was surprised that John was so anxious to show everything, more
surprised that he made no attempt to persuade the Commander not to
report on the island and its inhabitants. But John's policy was more
subtle. After the tour of inspection he persuaded the Commander to allow
all his men to leave the launch and come to the terrace for
refreshments. There the party spent another half-hour. John and Lo and
Marianne talked to the officers. Other islanders talked to the men. When
at last the party made its farewells on the quay, the Commander assured
John that he would make a full report on the island, and give high
praise to its inhabitants.

As we watched the launch retreating, several of the islanders showed
signs of mirth. John explained that throughout the interview the
visitors had been subjected to an appropriate psychological treatment,
and that by the time they reached the _Viking_ their memory of recent
events on the island would be so obscure that they would be quite unable
to produce a plausible report, or even to give their shipmates an
account of their adventure. "But," said John, "this is the beginning of
the end. If only we could have treated the whole ship's company
thoroughly, all might have been well. As it is, some distorted
information is sure to get through and rouse the curiosity of your
species."

For three months the life of the island proceeded undisturbed. But it
was a changed life. Knowledge that the end could not be far off produced
a fresh intensity of consciousness in all personal relations and social
activities. The islanders evidently discovered a new and passionate love
of their little society, a kind of poignant and exalted patriotism, such
as must have been felt in Greek city-states when the enemy was at the
gates. But it was a patriotism curiously free from hate. The impending
disaster was regarded less as an attack by human enemies than as a
natural catastrophe, like destruction by an avalanche.

The programme of activities on the island was now altered considerably.
All work that could not bear fruit within the next few months was
abandoned. The islanders told me that they had certain supreme tasks on
hand which must, if possible, be finished before the end. The true
purpose of the awakened spirit, they reminded me, is twofold, namely to
help in the practical talk of world-building, and to employ itself to
the best of its capacity in intelligent worship. Under the first head
they had at least created something glorious though ephemeral, a
microcosm, a world in little. But the more ambitious part of their
practical purpose, the founding of a new species, they were destined
never to fulfil. Therefore they were concentrating all their strength
upon the second aim. They must apprehend existence as precisely and
zestfully as they could, and salute That in the universe which was of
supreme excellence. This purpose, with the aid of Langatse, they might
yet advance to a definite plane of achievement which at present still
lay beyond them, though their most mature minds had already glimpsed it.
With their unique practical experience and their consciousness of
approaching doom they might, they said, within a few months offer to the
universal Spirit such a bright and peculiar jewel of worship as even the
great Langatse himself, alone and thwarted, could not create.

This most exalting and most exacting of all tasks made it necessary for
them to give up all but the necessary daily toil in the fields and in
the canoes. Not that very much of their time could be devoted to their
spiritual exercises, for there was danger of overstraining their powers.
It was necessary therefore to secure plentiful relaxation. Much of the
life of the colony during this period seemed to consist of recreation.
There was much bathing in the shark-free harbour, much love-making, much
dancing and music and poetry, and much aesthetic juggling with colour
and form. It was difficult for me to enter into the aesthetic
appreciation of the islanders, but from their reactions to their own art
in this period I judged that the pervading sense of finality had
sharpened their sensibility. Certainly in the sphere of personal
relations the knowledge that the group would soon be destroyed produced
a passion of sociality. Solitariness lost its charm.

One night Chargut, who was on duty as telepathic look-out, reported that
a British light cruiser was under orders to make a search for the
mysterious island which had somehow temporarily undermined the sanity of
so many of the _Viking's_ crew.

Some weeks later the vessel entered the zone of our deflector, but had
little difficulty in keeping her course. She had expected some sort of
craziness on the part of the magnetic needle, and trusted only to her
gyroscopic compass. After some groping, she reached the island. This
time the islanders made no attempt at concealment. From a convenient
shoulder of the mountain we watched the grey ship drop anchor and heave
slowly in the swell, displaying her red bottom-colour. A launch left
her. When it was near enough, we signalled it round to the harbour
entrance. John received the visitors of the quay. The lieutenant (in
white duck and stiff collar) was inclined to stand on his dignity as the
representative of the British Navy. The presence of naked white girls
obviously increased his hauteur by upsetting his equilibrium. But
refreshments on the terrace, combined with secret psychological
treatment, soon produced a more friendly atmosphere. Once more I was
impressed by John's wisdom in keeping a store of good wine and cigars.

I have not space to give details of this second encounter with _Homo
sapiens_. There was unfortunately much coming and going between the
cruiser and the shore, and it was impossible to administer a thorough
hypnotic inoculation to every man who saw the settlement. A good deal
was achieved, however, and the visit of the Commander himself, a
grizzled and a kindly gentleman of the sea, was particularly
satisfactory. John soon discovered telepathically that he was a man of
imagination and courage, and that he regarded his calling with unusual
detachment. Therefore, seeing that a number of the naval men had escaped
with only slight psychological treatment, it seemed best not to
administer "oblivifaction" to the Commander, but instead to attempt the
more difficult enterprise of rousing in him an overmastering interest in
the colony, and loyalty to its purpose. The Commander was one of those
exceptional seamen who spend a good deal of their time in reading. His
mind had a background of ideas which rendered him susceptible to the
technique. His was not, indeed, a brilliant intellect, but he had
dabbled in popular science and popular philosophy, and his sense of
values was intuitively discriminate, though uncultivated.

The cruiser remained for some days off the island, and during this time
the Commander spent much of his time ashore. His first official act was
to annex the island to the British Empire. I was reminded of the way in
which robins and other birds annex gardens and orchards, regardless of
human purposes. But alas in this case the robin represented a Great
Power--the power, indeed, of the jungle over this minute garden of true
humanity.

Though the Commander alone was to be allowed clear memory of his
experiences on the island, all the visitors were treated in such a way
as to help them to appreciate the colony as well as it was in them to
do. Some were of course impervious, but many were affected to some
extent. All were forced to use every ounce of their imagination to
envisage the colony at least as a gay and romantic experiment. In most
cases, doubtless, the notion that they conceived of it was extremely
crude and false; but in one or two, besides the Commander, all sorts of
rudimentary and inhibited spiritual capacities were roused into
unfamiliar and disturbing activity.

When at last the time came for the visitors to leave the island, I
noticed that their demeanour was different from what it had been on
their arrival. There was less formality, less of a gulf between officers
and men, less strict discipline. I noticed, too, that some who had
formerly looked at the young women with disapproval or lust or both, now
bade them farewell with friendly courtesy, and with some appreciation of
their uncouth beauty. I noticed also on the faces of the more sensitive
a look of anxiety, as though they did not feel altogether "at home" in
their own minds. The Commander himself was pale. As he shook hands with
John, he muttered, "I'll do my best, but I'm not hopeful."

The cruiser departed. Events on board her were followed by our
telepathists with intense interest. Tsomotre and Chargut and Lankor
reported that amnesia for all events on the island was rapidly
spreading; that some of those who still had clear recollection were so
tortured by their spiritual upheaval, and the contrast between the
island and the ship, that they were losing all sense of discipline and
patriotism; that two had committed suicide; that a vague panic was
spreading, a sense that madness was afoot amongst them; that, apart from
the Commander, none who had been in close contact with the islanders
could now recall more than the most confused and incredible memories of
the island; that those who escaped severe psychological treatment were
also very confused, but that they remembered enough to make them a
source of grave danger; that the Commander had addressed the whole
ship's company, ordering them, imploring them, to keep strict silence
ashore on the subject of their recent experiences. He himself must of
course report to the Admiralty, but the crew must regard the whole
matter as an official secret. To spread incredible stories would only
cause trouble, and get the ship into disgrace. Privately, of course, he
intended to make a perfectly colourless and harmless report.

Some weeks later the telepathists announced that fantastic stories of
the island were current in the Navy; that a reference had been made in a
foreign paper to "an immoral and communistic colony of children on a
British island in the Pacific"; that foreign secret services were nosing
out the truth, in case it should prove diplomatically useful; that the
British Admiralty was holding a secret inquiry; that the Commander of
the cruiser had been dismissed from the Service for making a false
report; that the Soviet Government had collected a good deal of
information about the island, and intended to embarrass Britain by
organizing a secret expedition to make contact with the colony; that the
British Government had learnt of this intention, and was determined to
evacuate the island at once. We were told also that the world at large
knew practically nothing of the matter. The British Press had been
warned against making any reference to it. The Foreign Press had not
given serious attention to the vague rumour which one paper had
published.

The visit of the second cruiser ended much as the previous incident, but
at one stage it entailed desperate measures. The second Commander had
perhaps been chosen for his uncompromising character. He was in fact a
bit of a bully. Moreover, his instructions were emphatic, and he had no
thought but to carry them out promptly. He sent a launch to give the
islanders five hours to pack up and come aboard. The lieutenant returned
"in a state of nerves" and reported that the instructions were not being
carried out. The Commander himself came ashore with a party of armed
men. He was determined to stand no nonsense. Refusing offers of
hospitality, he announced that all the islanders must come aboard at
once.

John asked for an explanation, trying to lead the man into normal
conversation. He also pointed out that most of the islanders were not
British subjects, and that the colony was doing no harm to any one. It
was no use. The Commander was something of a sadist, and the sight of
unclad female flesh had put him in a mood of ruthlessness. He merely
ordered the arrest of every member of the colony.

John intervened in a changed and solemn voice. "We will not leave the
island alive. Any one that you seize will drop down dead."

The Commander laughed. Two tars approached Chargut, who happened to be
the nearest. The Tibetan looked around at John, and, at the first touch
of the sailors' hands, he dropped. The sailors examined him. There was
no sign of life.

The Commander was flustered; but, pulling himself together, he repeated
his order. John said, "Be careful! Don't you see yet that you're up
against something you can't understand? Not one of us will be taken
alive." The sailors hesitated. The Commander snapped out, "Obey orders.
Better begin on a girl, for safety." They approached Sigrid, who turned
with her bright smile to John, and extended a hand behind her to feel
for Kargis, her mate. One of the sailors laid a gentle and hesitating
paw on her shoulder. She collapsed backwards into the arms of Kargis,
dead.

The Commander was now thoroughly upset, and the sailors were showing
signs of insubordination. He tried to reason with John, assuring him
that the islanders would be well treated on the ship; but John merely
shook his head. Kargis was sitting on the ground with the dead Sigrid in
his arms. His own face looked dead. After a moment's contemplation of
Kargis the Commander said, "I shall consult with the Admiralty about
you. Meanwhile you may stay here." He and his men returned to their
boat. The cruiser departed.

On the island the two bodies were laid upon the great rock by the
harbour. For some time we all stood round in silence, while the seagulls
cried. One of the Indian girls, who had been attached to Chargut,
fainted. But Kargis showed now no sign of grief. The desolate expression
that had come over his face when Sigrid fell dead in his arms had soon
cleared. The supernormal mind would never for long succumb to emotion
that must perforce be barren. For a few moments he stood gazing on the
face of Sigrid. Suddenly he laughed. It was John-like laugh. Then Kargis
stooped and kissed the cold lips of his mate, gently but with a smile.
He stepped aside. Once more John availed himself of the psycho-physical
technique. There was a fierce blaze. The bodies were consumed.

Some days later I ventured to ask John why he had sacrificed these two
lives, and indeed why the islanders could not come to terms with
Britain. No doubt the colony would have to be disbanded, but its members
would be allowed to return to their respective countries, and each of
them might expect a long life of intense experience and action. John
shook his head and replied, "I cannot explain. I can only say that we
are one together now, and there is no life for us apart. Even if we were
to do as you suggest and go back into the world of your species, we
should be watched, controlled, persecuted. The things that we live for
beckon us to die. But we are not ready yet. We must stave off the end
for a while so that we may finish our work."

Shortly after the departure of the second cruiser an incident occurred
which gave me fresh understanding of the mentality of the islanders.
Ng-Gunko had for some time been absorbed in private researches. With the
self-importance and mysteriousness of a child he announced that he would
rather not explain until he had finished his experiments. Then one day,
grinning with pride and excitement, he summoned the whole company to the
laboratory and gave a full account of his work. His speech was
telepathic; so also were the subsequent discussions. My report is based
on information given me by John, and also by Shn Kuo and others.

Ng-Gunko had invented a weapon which, he said, would make it impossible
for _Homo sapiens_ ever again to interfere with the island. It would
project a destructive ray, derived from atomic disintegration, with such
effect that a battleship could be annihilated at forty miles' distance,
or an aeroplane at any height within the same radius. A projector placed
on the higher of the two mountain-tops could sweep the whole horizon.
The designs were complete in every detail, but their execution would
involve huge co-operative work, and certain castings and wrought-steel
parts would have to be ordered secretly in America or Japan. Smaller
weapons, however, could be laboriously made at once on the island, and
fitted to the _Skid_ and the plane to equip them for dealing with any
attack that might be expected within the next few months.

Careful scrutiny proved that the invention was capable of doing all that
was claimed for it. The discussion passed on to the detailed problems of
constructing the weapon. But at this point, apparently, Shn Kuo
interposed, and urged that the project should be abandoned. He pointed
out that it would absorb the whole energy of the colony, and that the
great spiritual task would have to be shelved, at any rate for a very
long time. "Any resistance on our part," he said, "would bring the whole
force of the inferior species against us, and there would be no peace
till we had conquered the world. That would take a long time. We are
young, and we should have to spend the most critical years of our lives
in warfare. When we had finished the great slaughter, should we be any
longer fit mentally for our real work, for the founding of a finer
species, and for worship? No! We should be ruined, hopelessly distorted
in spirit. Violent practical undertakings would have blotted out for
ever such insight as we have now gained into the true purpose of life.
Perhaps if we were all thirty years older we should be sufficiently
mature to pass through a decade of warfare without becoming too
impoverished, spiritually, for our real work. But as things are, surely
the wise course is to forego the weapon, and make up our minds to fulfil
as much as possible of our accepted spiritual task of worship before we
are destroyed."

I could tell by merely watching the faces of the islanders that they
were now in the throes of a conflict of wills such as they had never
before experienced. The issue was not merely one of life and death; it
was one of fundamental principle. When Shn Kuo had done, there was a
clamour of protest and argument, much of which was actually vocal; for
the islanders were deeply moved. It was soon agreed that the decision
should be postponed for a day. Meanwhile there must be a solemn meeting
in the meeting-room, and all hearts must be deeply searched in a most
earnest effort to reach mental accord and the right decision. The
meeting was silent. It lasted for many hours. When it was over I learned
that all, including Ng-Gunko and John himself, had accepted with
conviction and with gladness the views of Shn Kuo.

The weeks passed. Telepathic observation informed us that, when the
second cruiser had left us, considerable amnesia and other mental
derangements had occurred among those of the crew who had landed on the
island. The Commander's report was incoherent and incredible. Like the
first Commander, he was disgraced. The Foreign Offices of the world,
through their secret services, ferreted out as much as possible of this
latest incident. They did not form anything like an accurate idea of
events, but they procured shreds of truth embroidered with fantastic
exaggeration. There was a general feeling that something more was at
stake than a diplomatic coup, and the discomfiture of the British
Government. Something weird, something quite beyond reckoning was going
on on that remote island. Three ships had been sent away with their
crews in mental confusion. The islanders, besides being physically
eccentric and morally perverse, seemed to have powers which in an
earlier age would have been called diabolic. In a vague subconscious way
_Homo sapiens_ began to realize that his supremacy was challenged.

The Commander of the second cruiser had informed his Government that the
islanders were of many nationalities. The Government, feeling itself to
be in an extremely delicate position in which a false step might expose
it as guilty of murdering children, yet feeling that the situation must
be dealt with firmly and speedily before the Communists could make
capital out of it, decided to ask other Powers to co-operate and share
responsibility.

Meanwhile the Soviet vessel had left Vladivostok and was already in the
South Seas. Late one afternoon we sighted her, a small trading-vessel of
unobtrusive appearance. She dropped anchor and displayed the Red Flag,
with its golden device.

The Captain, a grey-haired man in a peasant blouse, who seemed to me to
be still inwardly watching the agony of the Civil War, brought us a
flattering message from Moscow. We were invited to migrate to Russian
territory, where, we were assured, we should be left free to manage our
colony as we wished. We should be immune from persecution by the
Capitalist Powers on account of our Communism and our sexual customs.
While he was delivering himself of this speech, slowly, but in excellent
English, a woman who was apparently one of his officers was making
friendly advances to Sambo, who had crawled toward her to examine her
boots. She smiled, and whispered a few endearments. When the Captain had
finished, Sambo looked up at the woman and remarked, "Comrade, you have
the wrong approach." The Russians were taken aback, for Sambo was still
in appearance an infant. "Yes," said John, laughing, "Comrades, you have
the wrong approach. Like you, we are Communists, but we are other things
also. For you, Communism is the goal, but for us it is the beginning.
For you the group is sacred, but for us it is only the pattern made up
of individuals. Though we are Communists, we have reached beyond
Communism to a new individualism. Our Communism is individualistic. In
many ways we admire the achievements of the New Russia; but if we were
to accept this offer we should very soon come into conflict with your
Government. From our point of view it is better for our colony to be
destroyed than to be enslaved by any alien Power." At this point he
began to speak in Russian, with great rapidity, sometimes turning to one
or other of his companions for confirmation of his assertions. Once more
the visitors were taken aback. They interjected remarks, they began
arguing with each other. The discussion seemed to become heated.

Presently the whole company moved to the feeding terrace, where the
visitors were given refreshments, and their psychological treatment was
continued. As I cannot understand Russian I do not know what was said to
them; but from their expressions I judged that they were greatly
excited, and that, while some were roused to bewildered enthusiasm,
others kept their heads so far as to recognize in these strange beings a
real danger to their species and more particularly to the Revolution.

When the Russians departed, they were all thoroughly confused in mind.
Subsequently, we learned from our telepathists that the Captain's report
to his Government had been so brief, self-contradictory and incredible,
that he was relieved of his command on the score of insanity.

News that the Russian expedition had occurred, and that it had left the
islanders in possession, confirmed the worst fears of the Powers.
Obviously, the island was an outpost of Communism. Probably it was now a
highly fortified base for naval and aerial attack upon Australia and New
Zealand. The British Foreign Office redoubled its efforts to persuade
the Pacific Powers to take prompt action together.

Meanwhile the incoherent stories of the crew of the Russian vessel had
caused a flutter in the Kremlin. It had been intended that when the
islanders had been transported to Russian territory the story of their
persecution by Britain should be published in the Soviet Press. But such
was the mystery of the whole matter that the authorities were at a loss,
and decided to prevent all reference to the island.

At this point they received a diplomatic note protesting against their
interference in an affair which concerned Britain alone. The party in
the Soviet Government which was anxious to prove to the world that
Russia was a respectable Power now gained the upper hand. The Russian
reply to Britain was a request for permission to take part in the
proposed international expedition. With grim satisfaction Britain
granted the request.

Telepathically the islanders watched the little fleet converging on it
from Asia and America. Near Pitcairn Island the vessels assembled. A few
days later we saw a tuft of smoke on the horizon, then another, and
others. Six vessels came into view, all heading toward us. They
displayed the ensigns of Britain, France, the United States, Holland,
Japan, and Russia; in fact, "the Pacific Powers." When the vessels had
come to anchor, each dispatched a motor-launch, bearing its national
flag in the stern.

The fleet of launches crowded into the harbour. John received the
visitors on the quay. _Homo superior_ faced the little mob of _Homo
sapiens_, and it was immediately evident that _Homo superior_ was indeed
the better man. It had been intended to effect a prompt arrest of all
the islanders, but an odd little hitch occurred. The Englishman, who was
to be spokesman, appeared to have forgotten his part. He stammered a few
incoherent words, then turned for help to his neighbour the Frenchman.
There followed an anxious whispered discussion, the rest of the party
crowding round the central couple. The islanders watched in silence.
Presently the Englishman came to the fore again, and began to speak,
rather breathlessly. "In the name of the Governments of the Pacif--" He
stopped, frowning distractedly and staring at John. The Frenchman
stepped forward, but John now intervened. "Gentlemen," he said,
pointing, "let us move over to the shady end of that terrace. Some of
you have evidently been affected by the sun." He turned and strode away,
the little flock following him obediently.

On the terrace, wine and cigars appeared. The Frenchman was about to
accept, when the Japanese cried, "Do not take. It is perhaps drugged."
The Frenchman paused, withdrew his hand and smiled deprecatingly at
Marianne, who was offering the refreshments. She set the tray on the
table.

The Englishman now found his tongue, and blurted out in a most
unofficial manner, "We've come to arrest you all. You'll be treated
decently, of course. Better start packing at once."

John regarded him in silence for a moment, then said affably, "But
please tell us, what is our offence, and your authority?"

Once more the unfortunate man found that the power of coherent speech
had left him. He stammered something about "The Pacific Powers" and
"boys and girls on the loose," then turned plaintively to his colleagues
for help. Babel ensued, for every one attempted to explain, and no one
could express himself. John waited. Presently he began speaking. "While
you find your speech," he said, "I will tell you about our colony." He
went on to give an account of the whole venture. I noticed that he said
almost nothing about the biological uniqueness of the islanders. He
affirmed only that they were sensitive and freakish creatures who wanted
to live their own life. Then he drew a contrast between the tragic state
of the world and the idyllic life of the islanders. It was a consummate
piece of pleading, but I knew that it was really of much less importance
than the telepathic influence to which the visitors were all the while
being subjected. Some of them were obviously deeply moved. They had been
raised to an unaccustomed clarity and poignancy of experience. All sorts
of latent and long-inhibited impulses came to life in them. They looked
at John and his companions with new eyes, and at one another also.

When John had finished, the Frenchman poured himself out some wine.
Begging the others to fill their glasses and drink to the colony, he
made a short but eloquent speech, declaring that he recognized in the
spirit of these young people something truly noble, something, indeed,
almost French. If his Government had known the facts, it would not have
participated in this attempt to suppress the little society. He
submitted to his colleagues that the right course was for them all to
leave the island and communicate with their Governments.

The wine was circulated and accepted by all, save one. Throughout John's
speech the Japanese representative had remained unmoved. Probably he had
not understood well enough to feel the full force of John's eloquence.
Possibly, also, his Asiatic mind was not to be mastered telepathically
by the same technique as that which applied to his colleagues. But the
main source of his successful resistance, so John told me later, was
almost certainly the influence of the terrible Hebridean infant, who,
ever desiring to destroy John, had contrived to be telepathically
present at this scene. I had seen John watching the Jap with an
expression in which were blended amusement, anxiety and admiration. This
dapper but rather formidable little man now rose to his feet, and said,
"Gentlemen, you have been tricked. This lad and his companions have
strange powers which Europe does not understand. But we understand. I
have felt them. I have fought against them. I have not been tricked. I
can see that these are not boys and girls; they are devils. If they are
left, some day they will destroy us. The world will be for them, not for
us. Gentlemen, we must obey our orders. In the name of the Pacific
Powers I--I----" Confusion seized him.

John intervened and said, almost threateningly, "Remember, any one of us
that you try to arrest, dies."

The Japanese, whose face was now a ghastly colour, completed his
sentence, "I arrest you all." He shouted a command in Japanese. A party
of armed Japanese sailors stepped on to the terrace. The lieutenant in
command of them approached John, who faced him with a stare of contempt
and amusement. The man came to a stand a few yards from him. Nothing
happened.

The Japanese Commander himself stepped forward to effect the arrest.
Shahn barred his way, saying, "You shall take me first." The Jap seized
him. Shahn collapsed. The Jap looked down at him with horror, then
stepped over him and moved toward John. But the other officers
intervened. All began talking at once. After a while it was agreed that
the islanders should be left in peace until the representatives of _Homo
sapiens_ had communicated with their Governments.

Our visitors left us. Next morning the Russian ship weighed anchor and
sailed. One by one the others followed suit.




CHAPTER XXII
THE END


John was under no illusion that the colony had been saved; but if we
could gain another three months' respite, he said, the immediate task
which the islanders had undertaken would be finished. A minor part of
this work consisted in completing certain scientific records, which were
to be entrusted to me for the benefit of the normal species. There was
also an amazing document, written by John himself, and purporting to
give an account of the whole story of the Cosmos. Whether it should be
taken as a plain statement of fact or a poetic fantasy I do not know.
These various documents were now being typed, filed and packed in wooden
cases; for the time had come for my departure. "If you stay much
longer," John said, "you will die along with the rest of us, and our
records will be lost. To us it matters not at all whether they are saved
or not, but they may prove of interest to the more enlightened members
of your own species. You had better not attempt to publish them till a
good many years have passed, and the Governments have ceased to feel
sore about us. Meanwhile, if you like, you can perpetuate the
biography--as fiction, of course, since no one would believe it."

One day Tsomotre reported that a party of toughs was being secretly
equipped for our destruction by agents of certain governments which I
will not name.

The wooden chests were loaded on to the _Skid_ along with my baggage.
The whole colony assembled on the quay to bid me farewell. I shook hands
with them all in turn; and Lo, to my surprise, kissed me. "We do love
you, Fido," she said. "If they were all like you, domestic, there'd have
been no trouble. Remember, when you write about us, that we loved you."
Sambo, when his turn came, clambered from Ng-Gunko's arms to mine, then
hurriedly back again. "I'd go with you if I wasn't so tied up with these
snobs that I couldn't live without them."

John's parting words were these. "Yes, say in the biography that I loved
you very much." I could not reply.

Kemi and Marianne, who were in charge of the _Skid_, were already
hauling in the mooring lines. We crept out of the little harbour and
gathered speed as we passed between the outer headlands. The double
pyramid of the island shrank, faded, and was soon a mere cloud on the
horizon.

I was taken to one of the least important of the French islands, one on
which there were no Europeans. By night we unloaded the baggage in the
dinghy and set it on a lonely beach. Then we made our farewells, and
very soon the _Skid_ with her crew vanished into the darkness. When
morning came I went in search of natives and arranged for the transport
of my goods and myself to civilization. Civilization? No, that I had
left behind for ever.

Of the end of the colony I know very little. For some weeks I hung about
in the South Seas trying to pick up information. At last I came upon one
of the hooligans who had taken part in the final scene. He was very
reluctant to speak, not only because he knew that to blab was to risk
death, but also because the whole affair had evidently got on his
nerves. Bribery and alcohol, however, loosened his tongue.

The assassins had been warned to take no risks. The enemy, though in
appearance juvenile, was said to be diabolically cunning and
treacherous. Machine-guns might be useful, and it would be advisable not
to parley.

A large and well-armed party of the invaders landed outside the harbour,
and advanced upon the settlement. The islanders must have known
telepathically that these ruffians were too base to be dealt with by the
technique which had been used on former invaders. Probably it would have
been easy to destroy them by atomic disintegration as soon as they
landed; though I remember being told that it was much more difficult to
disintegrate the atoms of living bodies than of corpses. Apparently no
attempt was made to put this method in action. Instead, John seems to
have devised a new and subtler method of defence; for according to my
informant the landing-party very soon "began to feel there were devils
in the place." They were apparently seized with a nameless horror. Their
flesh began to creep, their limbs to tremble. This was all the more
terrifying because it was broad daylight, and the sun was beating
heavily down on them. No doubt the supernormals were making their
presence felt telepathically in some grim and formidable manner
unintelligible to us. As the invaders advanced hesitatingly through the
brushwood, this terrifying sense of some overmastering presence became
more and more intense. In addition they began to experience a crazy fear
of one another. Every man cast sidelong glances of fright and hate at
his neighbour. Suddenly they all fell upon one another, using knives,
fire-arms, teeth and fingers. The brawl lasted only a few minutes, but
several were killed, many wounded. The survivors took to their heels,
and to the boats.

For two days the ship lay off the island, while her crew debated
violently among themselves. Some were for abandoning the venture; but
others pointed out that to return empty-handed was to go to certain
destruction; for the great ones who had sent them had made it clear
that, though success would be generously rewarded, failure would be
punished ruthlessly. There was nothing for it but to try again. Another
landing-party was organized, and fortified with large quantities of rum.
The result was much the same as on the former occasion; but it was
noticed that those who were most drunk were least affected by the
sinister influence.

The assassins took three more days to screw up their courage for another
landing. The bodies of their dead comrades were visible upon the
hillside. How many of the living were destined to join that ghastly
company? The party made itself so drunk that it could hardly row the
boats. It braced itself with uproarious song. Also it carried the brave
liquor with it in a keg. After the landing the gruesome influence was
again felt, but this time the invaders answered it with reinforcements
of rum and revelry. Reeling, clinging together, dropping their weapons,
tripping over roots and one another's feet, but defiantly singing, they
advanced over the spur of hill, and saw the harbour and the settlement
beneath them. They floundered down the slope. One of them accidentally
discharged a pistol into his own thigh. He collapsed, yelling, but the
others rushed on.

They stumbled into the presence of the supernormals, who were gathered
near the power-station. There the reeling assailants sheepishly came to
a stand. By now the effects of the rum were somewhat abated; and the
sight of those strange beings, motionless, with their great calm eyes,
seems to have dismayed the assassins. Suddenly they fled.

For some days they wrangled among themselves, and kept to their ship.
They dared not land again; they dared not sail.

One afternoon, however, they were amazed to see a prodigious and
dazzling spread of flame rise from behind the hill, and light up land
and sea. There followed a muffled roar which echoed from the clouds like
thunder. The blaze died down, but it was followed by an even more
alarming phenomenon. The whole island began to sink. Waves appeared to
be clambering up the hills. Presently the ship's anchor released itself
from the sinking bottom, and she was cast adrift. The island continued
to descend, and the sea swept in upon it, bearing the gyrating vessel
over the tops of the sunken trees. The twin peaks were submerged.
Converging currents met above their heads and reared a great spout of
ocean. This liquid horn, descending, drove hills of water outwards in
all directions. The ship was overwhelmed. Her top-hamper, boats, and
most of her deck-houses were torn away. Half the crew were lost
overboard.

This cataclysm apparently occurred on the 15th December 1933. It may, of
course, have been an effect of purely physical causes. Even when I first
heard of it, however, I was inclined to think that it was not. I
suspected that the islanders had been holding their assailants at bay in
order to gain a few days for the completion of their high spiritual
task, or in order to bring it at least to a point beyond which there was
no hope of further advancement. I liked to believe that during the few
days after the repulse of the third landing-party they accomplished this
aim. They then decided, I thought, not to await the destruction which
was bound sooner or later to overtake them at the hands of the less
human species, either through these brutish instruments or through the
official forces of the Great Powers. The supernormals might have chosen
to end their career by simply falling dead, but seemingly they desired
to destroy their handiwork along with themselves. They would not allow
their home, and all the objects of beauty with which they had adorned
it, to fall into subhuman clutches. Therefore they deliberately blew up
their power-station, thereby destroying not only themselves but their
whole settlement. I surmised further that this mighty convulsion must
have spread downwards into the precarious foundations of the island,
disturbing them so violently that the whole island collapsed.

As soon as I had gleaned as much information as possible, I hurried home
with my documentary treasures, wondering how I should give the news to
Pax. It did not seem to me likely that she would have learnt it already
from John. When I landed in England, she and Doc met me. Her face showed
me that she was prepared. At once she said, "You need not break the news
gently, because we know the main part of it. John gave me visions of it.
I saw those tipsy brutes routed by his power. And in a few days
afterwards I saw many happy things on the island. I saw John and Lo,
walking together on the shore, like lovers at last. One day I saw all
the young people sitting in a panelled room, evidently their
meeting-room. I heard John say that it was time to die. They all rose
and went away, in couples and little groups; and presently they gathered
round the door of a stone building that must have been their
power-station. Ng-Gunko went through the door, carrying Sambo. Suddenly
there was blinding light and noise and pain, then nothing."






[End of Odd John, by Olaf Stapledon]
