Vectors (43 page)

Two other small points. Although the Thaxtons are fiction, the description of Anna fits quite well that of Anna Seward, a good friend of Darwin. Also, Dr. Warren, who treated Anna Thaxton, was a celebrated London physician who did in fact die of consumption.

Let me close by quoting Coleridge, who visited Darwin at Derby in 1796. "Derby is full of curiosities, the cotton, the silk mills, Wright, the painter, and Dr. Darwin, the everything, except the Christian. Dr. Darwin possesses, perhaps, a greater range of knowledge than any other man in Europe, and is the most inventive of philosophical men. He thinks in a new train on all subjects except religion."

 
Afterword.

Late in 1977, Ted White asked me to write a fantasy for Fantastic Stories.

I said, "I don't write fantasy. I don't know how to."

He said, "Try it, and if
you
are satisfied with it, I'll buy it."

On those terms, it was hard to say no. I showed him the first half, and it was clearly a fantasy, and he liked it. Then I brought him the whole thing, and said, "Here it is, but it isn't a fantasy."

"What is it?" said Ted.

"It's an attempt to show how a rational man, living in a time when most people's lives were largely controlled by beliefs in irrational and super-rational ideas, could see through mysteries that would baffle other people."

(Erasmus Darwin attended Cambridge University in the 1750's—he went to St. Johns College there, the same as I did. Newton had died only 25 years earlier, in 1727, and Cambridge was still overwhelmed by his genius. He had shown that the observable universe could be understood—and even predicted—using completely rational methods (see "Power Failure" earlier in this book). So Darwin, himself a supreme rationalist, received his education in a place where that view was approaching its peak. He absorbed all of it.)

"So what sort of story is it?" asked Ted. "It's really science fiction," I said. He read it. "I like it," he said, "but it's fantasy all right."

I didn't agree, but there seemed no point in arguing. The story was published, and I continued to think of it as straight science fiction. I wrote a sequel, which I also thought of as science fiction. Then two things made me re-examine my views.

First, Terry Carr wrote to me and said he would like to include "The Treasure Of Odirex" in his Best of the Year—Best
Fantasy
of the Year, he said. And the sequel, "The Lambeth Immortal," which had been sent off to George Scithers at Isaac Asimov's Magazine, came back as a contract—from Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. George had read it, decided it was a mystery story, and sent in to AHMM, which is a companion magazine to Asimov's. It was published there in June, 1979.

Well, I still think of both stories as science fiction. But I must say I am having doubts. The third story in the series, "The Warkworth Devil," may decide it for me—as soon as I get around to writing it. I've had the plot and the characters sitting in my head for six months now. Some day soon.

THE DALMATIAN OF FAUST

Evolution never stops. It's a continuing process, going on today. Many people find this hard to believe and point out that strength, intelligence, speed, and courage now seem entirely useless. That may be true—one of the depressing things about evolution is that you can't be sure which elements dominate the selection process, here and now. And if you did know, there is absolutely nothing that you could do with the knowledge; either you have the right properties for genetic selection or you don't.

The thing that prompted this train of thought was a visit, a few minutes ago, from my business partner, Waldo. He was wallowing in new-found affluence, wearing expensive clothes and sporting—most uncharacteristically—a glamorous female on each arm. He looked over the deal I'd found, promised me in lordly tones that he would think about it, and swept out. I have this feeling that Waldo, against all logic, is being favored by evolution; for as any dinosaur will tell you, evolution does make mistakes.

Waldo's ride to fame and fortune got off to a very shaky start. He had been arrested, lumbering around the outer perimeter of Chryse City late one night. He was painted black all over and his attire consisted of dark blue briefs, an oxygen hose and mask, and a pair of thermal slippers. His general appearance made such a deep impression on the guard who spotted him that the alert for a Level Five emergency—Alien Attack—had been given. Within minutes Waldo had been whisked off to the office of Armando Faust, Governor of Chryse City.

The fact that he was being treated as a lunatic, once it became clear that he was not an alien, annoyed Waldo. He was not insane, he insisted. Far from it. He was merely carrying out one of the prescribed procedures of Doctor Straker's diet plan. That plan had cost him a thousand Mars-dollars. He pulled a thin booklet from his briefs and waved it triumphantly at Faust.

Faust was rumpled, bleary-eyed and unshaven, and he was dressed in a combination of a red-and-orange-striped sleep-suit and fireboots. His video-casts contrived an impression of a massive deep-voiced man, but that was clever staging. The voice was genuine, but Faust was short and dumpy.

"Thermodynamic Dieting, by Doctor Janus Straker," he read. "You paid a thousand dollars for this? What's the deal?" He drilled twin holes through Waldo's soul with the darkest, hottest eyes Waldo had ever seen. That hadn't come across on the video broadcasts.

"It's worth every cent," said Waldo. "It's the first real breakthrough in dieting since the sugar substitutes. Guaranteed to work if properly followed."

Faust was more impressed than I would have been. Over the past ten years I've heard the story much too often. I really thought that Waldo had been cured of his dieting mania after the last fiasco—the "Bionic Diet—Just One Capsule Does It—Based On Fundamental Biological Principles." The capsule, as Waldo found out much too late, contained live tapeworm eggs. But apparently hope springs eternal, and Waldo's dream for the sylph-like figure of his youth continued.

Faust moved his black cigar from one corner of his thin mouth to the other. "Are you telling me you have to dress up in that outfit, Burmeister, and run around the outside of the Dome as part of your diet?" His voice was harsh and full of disbelief. It took a tough nut to get to be top dog in a place like Chryse City, and Faust had the reputation of being a hard man to argue with. You looked forward to an interview with him in the same way as a round of "Twenty Questions" with Torquemada or a game of "Chicken" with Attila the Hun.

"Of course. Look," said Waldo with the awful zeal of the recent convert. "The food we eat is converted to energy inside us. Either we use up that energy, in exercise or some other way, or else it goes to produce fat. So there are just three ways to lose weight. Eat less food, exercise more, or lose the energy some other way. True?"

"Sounds plausible," said Faust cautiously. He puffed on his cigar and the reeking smoke hung like a miasma in the room, defying the city ventilation system. "But what's this 'Thermodynamic Dieting' all about?"

"It maximizes the
other
ways that the body can lose energy. For instance: eat all your food
cold.
Drink lots of iced water—it takes energy to heat it inside you up to body temperature. Take cold baths—you lose heat that way. Exercise in the coldest possible place—outside the Dome. Spray yourself black, too, because that's the most efficient way of radiating heat. And wear as few clothes as possible, to maximize the heat loss from evaporation. It's all in the book."

Faust looked at the booklet. "So you've been doing all the stuff it says in here?"

Waldo looked a little guilty. "Well, nearly all. I must admit I've skimped on the ice-water enemas."

Faust, iron man that he was, shuddered. "But why, for God's sake, in the middle of the night? It's just your good luck that the guard didn't shoot first and ask questions later."

"You lose heat more rapidly if you are radiating to a colder heat-sink," said Waldo. "Not only that," he went on, delivering the final, unanswerable point. "Do you think I'd be seen running around in this outfit in broad daylight?"

Faust looked at Waldo's ballooning form, black all over and covered with goose pimples. He shook his head. "I don't know. Somebody's crazy here, and somebody should be charged. I don't know if it should be you or the quack who wrote this book."

"Doctor Straker is a well-known and widely respected physician, and a former President of the I.M.A. Of course," Waldo added thoughtfully, "that was before his breakdown."

I think this was the point where Faust realized that further discussion would not be productive. He made up his mind.

"Burmeister, you made every official on Mars jump out of bed in the middle of the night. Including me. I could give you ten years in the superfluid plants, and everyone would applaud the decision. But I'm a kind man."

Waldo waited in horrified anticipation. Faust's favors were well-known.

"You've got a valid interplanetary passport, right? Okay. I want you to do a little job for me—and I'll pay you well for it. Not only that, I'll arrange for this whole thing tonight to be wiped off the books. There won't be one word to say that you were the cause of a General Emergency."

Waldo waited in silence. The rabbit doesn't discuss terms with the stoat.

"Maybe you know," continued Faust, "that we've been having a little problem recently with the Maintenance Services Union. Mike Maloney is a tough son-of-a-bitch." He shook his head admiringly. "There's been no real trouble yet, just a few broken heads. But it's going to get worse before we hammer out the contract, and I've tried to be ready for most things."

He removed the cigar and coughed so violently that Waldo expected to be bombarded with fragments of lung tissue.

"Last night," he went on, "one of my inside men told me that Maloney is set to try a new angle—a personal one. He's going to grab my son and put the pressure on me that way."

Waldo made suitable horrified noises.

"Oh, I don't think he'd do anything bad to him," said Faust. "He knows I'd skin him alive if he did. But he thinks it's a good way to keep me off balance. So, I've got to get Werther away from here. I decided to send him to see the family, back on Earth—he's never been there. Problem is, he's only ten and I've got to have somebody look after him on the way. I need somebody that Maloney's bunch wouldn't recognize. I'd been stuck on that—until you came along. Ten thousand dollars for Werther's safe passage to Earth, and no follow-up from tonight's little episode. Are you on?"

Waldo, despite his habit of rushing into dietary insanities, is naturally cautious. He revolved the situation in his mind and it seemed very clear. A pleasant vacation trip to Earth and a handsome fee, versus ten years in the horrors of the superfluid factories—if he lived that long. He didn't really like children, but that was a detail. He nodded.

"When do we leave?"

"Tonight. Tickets are ready at the spaceport. Every hour's delay makes it harder to get away without Maloney knowing. Go and shower, grab your stuff, and be back here in fifteen minutes. I'll get Werther."

The child who was with Armando Faust when Waldo returned was everything that Faust himself was not. Blue-eyed, fair-haired, sweet-faced, and cherubic. Waldo hoped for the sake of family harmony that Werther resembled his mother. He was carrying a hand computer, one of the billion-byte models, and he smiled shyly at Waldo.

"This is Werther," said Faust with the fatuous expression of the proud parent. "You'll be seeing a lot of each other for the next month, so you need to get to know each other."

Waldo looked at Werther, still quietly playing with his hand computer. "Pleased to meet you, my boy," he said cordially.

Werther completed his calculation and spoke for the first time. His voice was a clear, musical treble. "Estimating your height as 1.80 meters and your age as thirty-four," he said, "I calculate that you are approximately forty kilos overweight. Your life expectancy should therefore be reduced by 9.2 years, the probability that you will develop circulatory problems and flat feet is increased by 38%, and you should become totally impotent at the age of forty-nine."

Waldo was struck dumb. He looked at Armando Faust and waited for a thunderbolt of stern parental discipline to descend on Werther's head. Faust merely shook his head and smiled indulgently. "It's wonderful, what he can do using that little computer. I tell you, he'll be world famous in a few more years.

"Now, Werther," he went on. "I hope you have everything ready."

Werther smiled like an angel. "I won't go without Bismarck," he said.

Faust frowned. "Now, Werther, I told you he can't go with you. Get ready, and you and Mr. Burmeister must be off."

Werther didn't move. "I won't go without Bismarck," he repeated emphatically.

Faust looked at Waldo and shrugged hopelessly. "It's no good," he said. "You heard him. He won't go without Bismarck. You'll have to look after both of them."

Once upon a time Waldo had received a good general education. He had a sudden vision of an interplanetary flight from Mars to Earth, accompanying Werther and the mummified corpse of the Iron Chancellor. Before he could ask for details, Werther had opened the inner door of the suite and called through it. "Bismarck! Come!"

Waldo was both relieved and horrified when a large dog bounded in. It began at the front as a conventional cocker spaniel, but about the middle of the chest there was a dreadful swirl of miscegenation and the rear half, white with black spots, was a definite Dalmatian.

Bismarck, unaware of his strange appearance, wagged a long, fluffy tail cheerfully. He ran to Waldo and sniffed with interest at his trouser legs.

"He's just learning your smell," said Werther. "Once he's got it, he'll never forget it. No! Bad dog!" he added as Bismarck showed signs of labeling Waldo's trouser leg in a more personal manner.

"Werther bred him himself," said Faust proudly. "He picked the genetic patterns and gave them to Muttants, Limited, and they did the mutated cross. Bismarck's bred for intelligence and tracking. Werther wants him to be a super-bloodhound."