The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) (43 page)

I nodded, sagely, as if to say that it was what I’d suspected all along.

“What are you looking for, David?” she asked, suddenly. “You don’t really think that there’s anything in Zadok Allen’s fantasies, do you? You surely can’t seriously entertain the hypothesis that the old Innsmouthers were some kind of weird crossbreed with an alien race!”

I laughed. “No,” I reassured her, with complete sincerely. “I don’t believe that—nor do I believe that they’re some kind of throwback to our phantom aquatic ancestors. You’d better sit in tonight when I explain the facts of life to old Gideon; the reality is likely to be far more prosaic than that, alas.”

“Why
alas
?” she asked.

“Because what I’m looking for will only generate a paper. If the folklore quoted in your book were even half-true, it would be worth a Nobel Prize.”

* * * *

Gideon Sargent presented himself at the hotel right on time. He was dressed in what I presumed was his Sunday best, but the ensemble included a roll-neck sweater, which kept the sides of his neck concealed. There were half a dozen people in the bar, and Gideon drew a couple of curious glances from the out-of-towners, but he was only a little self-conscious. He was used to carrying his stigmata.

He drank neat bourbon, but he drank slowly, like a man who had no intention of getting loaded. I asked a few questions to find out exactly how much he did know about genes, and it turned out that he really was familiar with the basics. I felt confident that I could give him a reasonably full explanation of my project.

“We’ve already begun the business of mapping the human genome,” I told him. “The job will require the collective efforts of thousands of people in more than a hundred research centers, and even then it will take fifteen or twenty years, but we have the tools to do it. While we’re doing it, we hope to get closer to the answers to certain basic problems.

“One of these problems is that we don’t know how genes collaborate to produce a particular physical form. We know how they code for the protein building blocks, but we don’t know much about the biochemical blueprint that instructs a growing embryo how to develop into a man instead of a whale or an ostrich. Now, this may seem odd, but one of the best ways of figuring out how things work is to study examples which have gone wrong, to see what’s missing or distorted. By doing that, you can build up a picture of what’s necessary in order for the job to be done properly. For that reason, geneticists are very interested in human mutations—I’m particularly interested in those which cause physical malformation.

“Unfortunately, physical mutants usually fall into a few well-defined categories, mostly associated with radical and fairly obvious disruptions of whole chromosomes. There are very few viable human variations that operate on a larger scale than changing the color of the skin, or the epicanthic fold that makes Oriental eyes distinctive. That’s not entirely surprising, because those which have arisen in the past have mostly been eliminated from the gene-pool by natural selection, or diluted out of existence by hybridization. It’s one of the ironies of our trade that, while molecular genetics was becoming sophisticated enough to make them significant, the highly inbred communities of the world were disappearing. All we have in America is a handful of religious communities whose accumulations of recessive genes aren’t, for the most part, very interesting. As soon as I read Ann’s book I realized that Innsmouth must have been a real genetic treasure-trove back in the twenties. I hope that there still might be time to recover some vital information.”

Gideon didn’t reply immediately, and for a moment or two I thought he hadn’t understood. But then he said: “Not many people got the look any more. Some don’ show it ’til they’re older, but I don’ see much sign of it comin’ thru in anyone I see. Ain’t no Marshes or Waites any more, and the only Eliots”—he paused to look at Ann—“are distant cousins o’ the ones that settled here in the old days.”

“But there are a few others, besides yourself, who show some of the signs, aren’t there?” Ann put in.

“A few,” Gideon admitted.

“And they’d co-operate with Dr. Stevenson—if you asked them to.”

“Mebbe,” he said. He seemed moodily thoughtful, as though something in the conversation had disturbed him. “But it’s too late to do
us
any good, ain’t it, Doc?”

I didn’t have to ask what he meant. He meant that whatever understanding I might glean from my researches would only be of theoretical value. I wouldn’t be able to help the Innsmouthers look normal.

It was, in any case, extremely unlikely that my work would lead to anything which could qualify as a “cure” for those afflicted with the Innsmouth stigmata, but there was really no longer any need for that. The Innsmouthers had taken care of the problem themselves. I remembered what I’d said about gross malformations being eliminated from the gene-pool by natural selection, and realized that I’d used the word “natural” in a rather euphemistic way—as many people do nowadays. The selective pressure would work both ways: the incomers who’d re-colonized Innsmouth after the war would have been just as reluctant to marry people who had the Innsmouth look as people who had the Innsmouth look would have been to pass it on to their children.

Gideon Sargent was certainly not the only looker who’d never married, and I was sure that he wouldn’t have, even if there’d been a girl who looked like he did.

“I’m sorry, Gideon,” I said. “It’s a cruel irony that your ancestors had to suffer the burden of ignorance and superstition because genetics didn’t exist, and that now genetics does exist, there’s not much left for you to gain from a specific analysis of your condition. But let’s not underestimate the value of understanding, Gabriel. It was because your forefathers lacked a true understanding that they felt compelled to invent the Esoteric Order of Dagon, to fill the vacuum of their ignorance and to maintain the pretence that there was something to be proud of in Innsmouth’s plight. And that’s why stories like the ones Zadok Allen used to tell gained such currency— because they provided a kind of excuse for it all. I’m truly sorry that I’m too late to serve your purposes, Gideon—I only hope that I’m not too late to serve mine. Will you help me?”

He looked at me with those big saucery eyes, so uncannily frightening in their innocence.

“Is there
anythin’
y’can do, Doc?” he asked. “Not about the bones, nor the eyes—I know we’re stuck wi’
them
. But the dreams, Doc—can y’do anythin’ about the dreams?”

I looked sideways at Ann, uncertainly. There
had
been something in her book about dreams, I recalled, but I hadn’t paid much attention to it. It hadn’t seemed to be part of the problem, as seen from a biochemist’s point of view. Obviously Gideon saw things differently; to him they were the very heart of the problem, and it was because of them that he’d consented to hear me out.

“Everybody has dreams, Gideon,” said Ann. “They don’t mean anything.”

He turned round to stare at her, in that same appalling fashion. “Do
you
have dreams, Miss Ann?” he asked, with seemingly tender concern.

Ann didn’t answer, so I stepped into the breach again. “Tell me about the dreams, Gideon,” I said. “I don’t really know how they fit in.”

He looked back at me, obviously surprised that I didn’t know everything. After all, I was a doctor, wasn’t I? I was the gene-wizard who knew what people were made of.

“All of us who got the look are dreamers,” he said, in a painstakingly didactic fashion. “Taint the bones an’ the eyes as kills us in the end—’tis the dreams that call us out to the reef an’ bid us dive into the pit. Not many’s as strong as me, Doc—I know I got the look as bad as any, an’ had it all the time from bein’ a kid, but us Sargents was allus less superstitious than the likes o’ the Marshes, even if Obed’s kin
did
have all the money ’fore it passed to Ned Eliot. My granpa ran the first motor-bus out o’here, tryin’ to keep us connected to Arkham after the branch-line from Rowley was abandoned. It’s the ones that
change
goes mad, Doc—they’re the ones as starts believin’.”

“Believing what, Gideon?” I asked, quietly.

“Believin’ as the dreams is
true
…believin’ in Dagon an’ Cthulhu an’ Pth’thya-l’yi…believin’ as how they c’n breathe through their gills’n dive all the way to the bottom of the ocean to Y’hanthlei…believin’ in the Deep Ones. That’s what happens to the people wi’ the look, Doc. Natural selection—ain’t that what y’called it?”

I licked my lips. “
Everyone
with the look has these dreams?” I queried. If it were true, I realized, it
might
make the Innsmouth enigma more interesting. Physical malformation was one thing, but specific associated psychotropic effects was quite another. I was tempted to explain to Gideon that one of the
other
great unsolved questions about the way the genes worked was how they affected mind and behavior
via
the chemistry of the brain, but that would have meant taking the discussion out into deeper water than he could be expected to handle. There was, of course, a simpler and more probable explanation for the dreams, but, in confrontation with Gideon’s quiet intensity, I couldn’t help but wonder whether there might be something more profound here.

“The dreams allus go wi’ the look,” he insisted. “I had ’em all my life. Real horrors, sometimes—unearthly. Can’t describe ’em, but take my word for it, Doc, you don’ ever want to meet ’em. I’m way past carin’ about the look, Doc, but if you could do summin ’bout the dreams…I’ll dig up the others f’r ye. Every last one.”

It would mean widening the tests, I knew, but I could see that it might be worth it. If the dreams were significant, at the biochemical level, I could have something really hot. Not a Nobel Prize, but a real reputation-maker. The implications of discovering a whole new class of hallucinogens were so awesome that I had difficulty pulling myself back down to earth.
First catch your hare
, I reminded myself, carefully.

“I can’t make any promises, Gideon,” I told him, trying hard to give the impression that I was being overly modest. “It’s not easy to locate abnormal DNA, let alone map it and figure out exactly what it’s doing. And I have to say that I have my reservations about the possibility of finding a simple answer, which might lend itself to some kind of straightforward treatment. But I’ll do the best I can to find an explanation of the dreams, and, once we have an explanation, we’ll be able to see what might be done to banish them. If you can get these people to agree to my taking blood and tissue-samples, I’ll certainly do what I can.”

“I c’n do it,” he promised me. Then he stood up, obviously having said what he came to say, and heard what he’d hoped to hear. I put out my hand to shake his, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he said: “Walk me to the shore, will y’Doc?”

I was almost as surprised by this as Ann was, but I agreed. As we went out, I told her that I’d be back in half an hour.

At first, we walked down the hill in silence. I began to wonder whether he really had anything to say to me, as I’d assumed, or whether it was just some curious whim that had inspired him to ask me to go with him. When we were within sight of the seafront, though, he suddenly said: “You known Miss Ann a long time?”

“Sixteen years,” I told him, figuring that it wasn’t worth wasting time on an explanation of the fact that we hadn’t communicated at all for twelve-and-a-half out of the last thirteen.

“You marry her,” he said, as though it were the most natural instruction in the world for one stranger to give another. “Take her to Manchester—or back to England, even better. Innsm’th’s a bad place f’r them as owns it, even if they ain’t got the look. Don’ leave it to y’r kids…will it to the state or summin. I know you think I’m crazy, Doc, you bein’ an educated man ’n’ all, but I know Innsm’th—I got it in th’ bones, th’ blood an’ th’ dreams. Taint worth it. Take her away, Doc. Please.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but he’d timed his speech to preclude that possibility. We were now in one of the narrow waterfront streets which had survived the great fire, and he was already pausing before one of the shabby hovels, opening the door.

“Can’t invite y’in,” he said, tersely. “Taint convenient. G’night, Doc.”

Before I could say a single word, the door closed in my face.

* * * *

Gideon was as good as his word. He knew where to find the remaining Innsmouthers who had the look, and he knew how to bully or cajole them into seeing me. A few he persuaded to come to the hotel; the rest I was permitted to visit in their homes—where some of them had been virtual prisoners for thirty years and more.

It took me a week to gather up my first set of samples and take them back to Manchester. Two weeks after that, I returned with more equipment, and took a further set of tissue specimens, some from the people I’d already seen, others—for the sake of comparison—from their unafflicted kinfolk. I threw myself into the project with great enthusiasm, despite that I still had a good deal of routine work to do, both as a research worker and in connection with my teaching. I made what passes in my business for rapid headway, but it wasn’t rapid enough for the people of Innsmouth—not that there was ever any real possibility of making good my promise to find a way to banish their evil dreams.

Three months after our first meeting Gideon Sargent died in a freak storm, which blew up unexpectedly while he was fishing. His boat was smashed up on Devil Reef, and what was left of it was later recovered—including Gideon’s body. The inquest confirmed that he had died of a broken neck, and that the rest of his many injuries had been inflicted after death while the boat was tossed about on and around the reef.

Gideon was the first of my sample to die, but he wasn’t the last. As the year crept on I lost four more, all of whom died in their beds of very ordinary causes—not entirely surprisingly, given that two were in their eighties and the others in their seventies.

There were, of course, a few unpleasant whispers, which said (arguing
post hoc, ergo propter hoc
, as rumors often do) that my taking the tissue samples had somehow weakened or over-excited the people who died, but Gideon had done some sterling work in persuading the victims of the look that it was in their interests to cooperate with me, and none of the others shut me out.