The clockwork man, p.9
The Clockwork Man, page 9
He paused, as though to adjust the matter in his mind. “But suppose Time stopped. Or, rather, suppose man caught up with Time, raced the universal enemy, tracked him to his lair? That would account for the names being the same. Dunn still breathes and Clarkson endures, or their descendants. At any rate, the idea of them persists. Perhaps this clock that they wear abolished death and successive generations. Of course, it seems like a joke to us, but we’ve got to drop our sense of humour for the time being.”
“But how could it be?” exclaimed Allingham, kicking a loose stone in his walk. “This clock, I mean. It’s—” He fumbled hopelessly for words with which to express new doubts. “What is this clock?”
“It’s an instrument,” rejoined Gregg, leaning over the side of the car. “Evidently it has some sort of effect upon the fundamental processes of the human organism. That’s clear, to me. Probably it replaces some of the ordinary functions and alters others. One gets a sort of glimmer—of an immense speeding up of the entire organism, and the brain of man developing new senses and powers of apprehension. They would have all sorts of second sights and subsidiary senses. They would feel their way about in a larger universe, creep into all sorts of niches and corners unknown to us, because of their different construction.”
“Yes, yes, I can follow all that,” said Allingham, biting his moustache, “but let’s talk sense.”
“In a matter like this,” put in Gregg, “sense is at a premium. What we have to do is to consult our intuitions.”
Allingham frowned. His intuitions, nowadays, were few and far between.
“When you get to my age, Gregg, you’ll have something else to do besides consult your intuitions. The fact is, you want all these wonderful things to happen. You have a flair for the unexpected, like all children and adolescents. But I tell you, the Clockwork man is a myth, and I think you ought to respect my opinion.”
“Even if he’s a myth,” interrupted Gregg, “he is still worth investigating. What annoys me is your positive antagonism to the idea that he might be possible. You seem to want to go out of your way to prove me in the wrong. I may add, that once a man has ceased to believe in the impossible he is damned.”
Allingham shot a look of veiled anger at the other, and prepared to re-enter the car.
“Well, you prove yourself in the right,” he muttered, “and then I’ll apologise. I’m going to let the Clockwork man drop. I’ve got other things to think about. And I don’t mind telling you that if the Clockwork man turns out to be all that you claim for him, I shall still wish him at the other end of the earth.”
“Which is probably where he is now,” remarked Gregg, with a slight bantering note in his voice.
“Well, let him stop there,” growled Allingham, restarting the car with a vicious jerk, “let someone else bother their heads about him. I don’t want him. I tell you I don’t care a brass farthing about the future of the human race. I’m quite content to take the good and bad in life, and I want it to go on in the same damned old way.”
Gregg beat his fist into his open palm. “But that’s just what has happened,” he exclaimed, “they’ve found a way of keeping on just the same. That explains the Clarkson business. If the clock is what I think it is, that precisely is its function.”
Allingham shouted out some impatient rejoinder, but it was drowned in the rising roar of the engine as they sped along the road.
II
So the argument had waged since the telling of Tom Driver’s story. Gregg’s chief difficulty was to get Allingham to see that there really might be something in this theory of a world in which merely trivial things had become permanent, whilst the cosmos itself, the hitherto unchanging outer environment of man’s existence, might have opened up in many new directions. Man might have tired of waiting for a so long heralded eternity, and made one out of his own material tools. The Clockwork man, now crystallised in Gregg’s mind as an unforgettable figure, seemed to him to stand for a sort of rigidity of personal being as opposed to the fickleness of mere flesh and blood; but the world in which he lived probably had widely different laws, if indeed it had humanly comprehensible laws at all.
The clock, perhaps, was the index of a new and enlarged order of things. Man had altered the very shape of the universe in order to be able to pursue his aims without frustration. That was an old dream of Gregg’s. Time and Space were the obstacles to man’s aspirations, and therefore he had invented this cunning device, which would adjust his faculties to some mightier rhythm of universal forces. It was a logical step forward in the path of material progress.
That was Gregg’s dimly conceived theory about the mystery, although, of course, he read into the interpretation a good deal of his own speculations. His imagination seized upon the clock as the possible symbol of a new counterpoint in human affairs. In his mind he saw man growing through the ages, until at last, by the aid of this mechanism, he was able to roll back the skies and reveal the vast other worlds that lay beyond, the unthinkable mysteries that lurked between the stars, all that had been sealed up in the limited brain of man since creation. From that extreme postulate it would be necessary to work backward, until some reasonable hypothesis could be found to explain the working of the clock mechanism. That difficulty, even, might be overcome if only an opportunity occurred to examine this strange being from the future, or if he could be prevailed upon to explain matters himself.
As the car sped swiftly along, Gregg sat back with folded arms and gazed upwards at the now crystalline skies, wondering, as he had never wondered before, about that incomprehensible immensity which for centuries of successive generations man had silently respected. No authoritative voice had ever claimed to penetrate that supreme mystery. Priests had evoked the gods from that starry depth, poets had sung of the swinging hemispheres, scientists had traced comets and knew the quality of each solar earth; but still that vast arch spanned all the movements of crawling mankind, and closed him in like a basin placed over a colony of ants.
True, it was an illusion, and man had always known that. For generations he had known that the universe contained more than his limited faculties could perceive. And beauty. There had always been the consoling fact of beauty, lulling the race of man to content, while every now and again a great mind arose and made one more effort to sweep aside the bejewelled splendour that hung between man and his final destiny—to know.
And yet, a slight alteration in man’s perceptive organs and that wide blue shell might shatter and disclose a thousand new forms, like fantastic cities shaped in the clouds at sunset. Physiologists claimed that the addition of a single lobe to the human brain might mean that man would know the future as well as the past. What if that miracle had been performed? By such means man might have come to know not only the future, but other dimensions as yet unnamed or merely sketched out by the mathematician in brief, arbitrary terms.
Until that time came, man’s deepest speculations about ultimate reality brought him no nearer to the truth than the child worrying himself to sleep over the problem of what happened before God made the universe. Man remained, in that sense, as innocent as a child, from birth to death. Until the actual structure of the cells in his brain suffered a change man could not actually know.
Einstein could say that we were probably wrong in our basic conceptions. But could he say how we were to get right? The Clockwork man might be the beginning.
And then, when that change had been wrought, that physical reconstruction, what else might follow in its train? The Truth at last, an end to all suffering and pain, a solution of the problems of civilisation, such as overpopulation and land distribution, the beginning of human sovereignty in the universe.
But Gregg had the sense to admit to himself that his generalisation was no more than a faint aurora hovering around the rumoured dawn of the future. It was necessary, in the first place, to posit an imperfect thinking apparatus. After all, the Clockwork man was still a mystery to be solved, and even if he failed to justify a single theory born of merely human conjecture, there still remained the exhilarating task of finding out what actually he was and how he had come to Earth.
III
Leaving Gregg at his rooms in the upper part of the town, the Doctor drove slowly along the High Street in the direction of his own house. Everything was quiet now, and there was no sign of further disturbance, no indication that a miracle had taken place in the prosaic town of Great Wymering. The Doctor noted the fact with quiet satisfaction; it helped him to simmer down, and it was necessary, for the sake of his digestion, that he should feel soothed and comforted.
Still, if Gregg’s conjectures were anywhere near the mark, in a very few hours it would be known all over England that the jaws of the future had opened and disclosed this monstrosity to the eyes of the present. There would be a great stir of excitement; the newspapers would be full of the event. Indeed, the whole course of the world might be altered as a result of this astounding revelation.
He would be dragged into the affair. In spite of himself, he would be obliged to go into some sort of witness box and declare that from the first he had thought the Clockwork man phenomenal, when, as a matter of fact, he had merely thought him a nuisance. But, as one of those who had first seen the strange figure on the hill, and as a medical man, he would be expected to make an intelligent statement. One had to be consistent about such things.
And the real truth was that he had no desire to interest himself in the matter. It disturbed his mental equilibrium, and threatened the validity of that carefully considered world of assumptions which enabled him to make light, easy jests at its inconsistencies and incongruities.
Besides, it was distressing to discover that, in middle life, he was no longer in the vanguard of human hopes and fears; but a miserable backslider, dating back to the time when thought and serious living had become too difficult for comfort. Regarded in this way, nothing could ever compensate for the wasted years, the ideals extinguished, the rich hopes bargained for cheap doubts—unless, indeed, it was the reflection that such was the common lot of mankind. The comfortable old world rolled on from generation to generation, and nothing extraordinary happened to startle people out of their complacent preoccupation with passions, desires and ambitions. Miracles were supposed to have happened at certain stages in world-history, but they were immediately obliterated by a mass of controversial comment, or hushed up by those whose axes were ground in a world that could be relied upon to go on repeating itself.
A comfortable world! Of course, there were malcontents. When the shoe pinched, anybody would cry out for fire from heaven. But if a plebiscite were to be taken, it would be found that an overwhelming majority would be in favour of a world without miracles. If, for example, it could be demonstrated that this Clockwork man was a being in many ways superior to the rest of mankind, he would be hounded out of existence by a jealous and conservative humanity.
But the Clockwork man was not. He never had been, and, indeed, God forbid he ever should be.
With that reflection illuminating his mind, the Doctor ran his car into the garage, and with some return of his usual debonair manner, with something of that abiding confidence in a solid earth which is a necessary prelude to the marshalling of digestive juices, opened the front door of his house.
IV
Mrs. Masters was standing in the sitting room awaiting him. The Doctor strode in without stopping to remove his hat or place his gloves aside, a peculiar mannerism of his upon which Mrs. Masters was wont occasionally to admonish him; for the good lady was not slow to give banter for banter when the opportunity arose, and she objected to these relics of the Doctor’s earlier bohemian ways. But for the moment her mood seemed to be rather one of blandishment.
“A young lady called to see you this evening,” she announced, smilingly.
The Doctor removed his hat as though in honour of the mere mention of his visitor. “Did you give her my love?” was his light rejoinder, hat still poised at an elegant angle.
“Indeed, no,” retorted Mrs. Masters, “it wouldn’t be my place to give such messages. Not as though she weren’t inquisitive enough—with asking questions about this and that. As though it were any business of ’ers ’ow you choose to arrange your house’old.”
“On the contrary, I am flattered,” said the Doctor, inwardly chafing at this new example of Lilian’s originality. “But tell me, Mrs. Masters, am I not becoming more successful with the ladies?” As he spoke, he flicked with his gloves the reflection of himself in the mirror.
“You don’t need to be reminded of that fact, I’m sure,” sighed Mrs. Masters, “life sits lightly enough on you. I fear, too lightly. If I might venture to say so, a man in your position ought to take life more seriously.”
“My patients would disagree with you.”
“Ah, well, I grant you that. They say you cure more with your tongue than with your physic.”
“I certainly value my wit more than my prescriptions,” laughingly agreed the Doctor, “But, tell me, what was the lady’s impression of my ménage? And that reminds me, you have not told me her name yet. Did she carry a red parasol, or was it a white one?”
“I’m sure I never noticed,” frowned Mrs. Masters, “such things don’t interest me. But her name was Miss Lilian Payne—”
The Doctor interrupted with a guffah. “Come, Mrs. Masters, we need not beat about the bush. I rather fancy you are aware of our relationship. Did you find her agreeable?”
“Pretty middling,” said Mrs. Masters, reluctantly, “although at first I was put out by her manners. Such airs these modern young women give themselves. But she got round me in the end with her pretty ways, and I found myself taking ’er all round the ’ouse, which of course I ought not to ’ave done without your permission.”
“Tell me,” said the Doctor, without moving a muscle in his face, “was she satisfied with her tour of my premises?”
“There now!” exclaimed Mrs. Masters, hastily arranging an antimacassar on the back of a chair, “I won’t tell you that, because, of course, I don’t know.”
She retreated towards the door.
“But did she leave any message?” enquired the Doctor, fixing her with his eye-glass.
“Botheration!” ejaculated Mrs. Masters, in aggrieved tones, “now you’ve asked me and I’ve got to tell you. I wanted to keep it back. Oh, I do hope you’re not going to be disappointed. I’m sure she didn’t really mean it.”
“What did she say,” demanded the Doctor, irritably.
“She says to me, she says, ‘Tell him there’s nothing doing.’”
There was a pause. Mrs. Masters drew in her lip and folded her arms stiffly. The Doctor stared hard at her for a moment, and almost betrayed himself. Then he threw back his head and laughed with the air of a man to whom all issues of life, great and small, had become the object of a graduated hilarity. “Then upon some other lady will fall the supreme honour,” he observed.
“You mean—” began Mrs. Masters, and then eyed him with the meaning expression of a woman scenting danger or happiness for some other woman. “That young lady is not suited to you, at all events,” she continued, shaking her head.
“Evidently not,” replied the Doctor, carelessly, “but it is not of the slightest importance. As I have said, the honour—”
“Ah,” broke in Mrs. Masters, “there’s only one woman for you, and you have yet to find her.”
“There’s only one woman for me, and that is the woman who will marry me. Nay, don’t lecture me, Mrs. Masters. I perceive the admonishment leaping to your eye. I am determined to approach this question of matrimony in the spirit of levity which you admit is my good or evil genius. Life is a comedy, and in order to shine in it one must assume the rôle of the buffoon who rollicks through the scenes, poking fun at those sober-minded folk upon whose earnestness the very comedy depends. I will marry in jest and repent in laughter.”
“Incorrigible man,” said Mrs. Masters. But the Doctor had turned his back upon her, unwilling to reveal the sudden change in his features. Even as he spoke those light words, there came to him the reflection that he did not really mean them, and his pose seemed to crumble to dust. He had lived up to these nothings for years, but now he knew that they were nothings. As though to crown the irritations of a trying day, there came to him the conviction that his whole life had been an affair of studied gestures, of meticulous gesticulations.
V
Over an unsatisfactory meal he tried to think things out, conscious all the time that he was missing gastronomical opportunities through sheer inattention.
Of course, Lilian’s impression of his ménage would have been unsatisfactory, even though he had escorted her over the house himself; but it was highly significant that she should have preferred to come alone. Holding advanced opinions about the simplification of the house, and of the woman’s duties therein, she would regard his establishment as unwieldy, overcrowded, old-fashioned, even musty. It would represent to her unnecessary responsibilities, labour without reward, meaningless ostentation. The Doctor’s own tastes lay in the direction of massive, ornate furniture, rich carpets and hangings, a multiplicity of ornaments. He liked a house filled to the brim with expensive things. He was a born collector and accumulator of odds and ends, of things that had become necessary to his varying moods. He was proud of his house, with its seventeen rooms, including two magnificent reception rooms, four spare bedrooms in a state of constant readiness, like fire-stations, for old friends who always said they were coming and never did; its elaborate kitchen arrangements and servants’ quarters. Then there were cosy little rooms which a woman of taste would be able to decorate according to her whim, workrooms, snuggeries, halls and landings. There was much in the place that ought to appeal to a woman with right instincts.
