The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (91 page)

“For the past twenty years or more,” he said, “I have been mainly concerned with the replication processes of the nucleic acids. I believe – I know, in fact – that my work has progressed far beyond anything else done in this line. This is not conjecture. I have actually completed experiments which prove my theories. They are immutable laws.”

He shot a quick glance at me, judging reactions with his old desire to shock.

“All I require now is time,” he continued. “Time to apply my findings. There is no way to accelerate the application without affecting the results, of course. Another year or two and my initial application will be completed. After that – who knows?”

“Will you tell me something about these discoveries?”

He gave me a strange, suspicious look.

“In general terms, of course.”

“Do you have any knowledge in this field?”

I wan’t sure how much familiarity I should show here – how much interest would inspire him to continue without giving him reason to suspect I might be too formidable to be granted a hint of his secrets. But, in fact, my acquaintance with this branch of study was shallow. He was speaking of genetics, connected with anthropology only at the link of mutation and evolution, the point where the chains of two different sciences brushed together, invariably connected but pursuing separate paths.

I said: “Not very much. I know that nucleic acid determines and transmits inherited characteristics, of course. The name is used for either of two compounds, DNA and RNA. I believe latest thinking is that the DNA acts as a template or mould which passes the genetic code on to the RNA before it leaves the nucleus.”

“That is roughly correct,” Hodson said.

“Very roughly, I’m afraid.”

“And what would result if the code were not transmitted correctly? If the template were bent, so to speak?”

“Mutation.”

“Hmmm. Such an ugly word for such a necessary and elemental aspect of evolution. Tell me, Brookes. What causes mutation?”

I wasn’t sure what line he was taking.

“Radiation can be responsible.”

He made a quick gesture of dismissal.

“Forget that. What has been the cause of mutation since the beginning of life on this planet?”

“Who knows?”

“I do,” he said, very simply and quietly, so that it took me a moment for it to register.

“Understand what I say, Brookes. I know how it works and why it works and what conditions are necessary for it to work. I know the chemistry of mutation. I can make it work.”

I considered it. He watched me with bright eyes.

“You’re telling me that you can cause mutation and predict the result beforehand?”

“Precisely.”

“You aren’t talking of selective breeding?”

“I am talking of an isolated reproductive act.”

“But this is fantastic.”

“This is truth.”

His voice was soft and his eyes were hard. I saw how he was capable of inspiring such respect in Smyth. It would have been difficult to doubt him, in his presence.

“But – if you can do this – surely your work is complete – ready to be given to science?”

“The genetics are complete, yes. I can do, with a solitary organism’s reproduction, what it takes generations for selective breeding to do – and do it far more accurately. But remember, I am not a geneticist. I’m an anthropologist. I have always maintained that the study of man’s evolution could only be made properly through genetics – that basically it is a laboratory science. Now I have proved that, and I demand the right to apply my findings to my chosen field before giving them to the self-immured minds of the world. A selfish attitude, perhaps. But my attitude, nonetheless.”

I said nothing, although he seemed to be awaiting my comments. I was considering what he’d told me, and trying to judge the truth of the statements and his purpose in revealing them, knowing his tendency to jump to conclusions and cause a deliberate sensation. And Hodson was peering at me, perhaps judging me in his own way, balancing my comprehension and my credulity.

I don’t know which way his judgement went but, at any rate, he stood up suddenly and impulsively.

“Would you like to see my laboratory?” he asked.

“I would.”

“Come on, then.”

I followed his broad back to the far end of the room. The beaded curtains moved, almost as though someone had been standing behind them and moved away at our approach, but there was no one there when we pushed through. The room beyond was narrow and dark, and opened into a third room which was also separated by curtains instead of a door. The house was larger than it appeared from without. At the back of this third room there was a wooden door. It was bolted but not locked. Hodson drew the bolt and when he opened the door I saw why the house had appeared to project from the cliff behind. It was the simplest, if not the most obvious, reason. It actually did. We stepped from the room into a cave of naked rock. The house, at this part, at least, had no back wall and the iron roof extended a foot or two under the roof of the cave, fitting snugly against it.

“One of the reasons I chose this location,” Hodson said. “It was convenient to make use of the natural resources in constructing a building in this remote area. If the house were to collapse, my laboratory would still be secure.”

He took an electric torch from a wall holder and flooded the light before us. The passage was narrow and angular, a crack more than a cave, tapering at a rough point above our heads. The stone was damp and slimy with moss in the wash of light, and the air was heavy
with decay. Hodson pointed the light on to the uneven floor and I followed him some ten yards along this aperture until it suddenly widened out on both sides. Hodson moved off and a moment later the place was lighted and a generator hummed. I looked in amazement at Hodson’s extraordinary laboratory.

It was completely out of context, the contrast between chamber and contents startling. The room was no more than a natural vault in the rocks, an oval space with bare stone walls and arched roof, untouched and unchanged but for the stringing of lights at regular distances, so that the lighting was equal throughout this catacomb. There was no proper entranceway to the room, the narrow crevice through which we had passed simply widened out abruptly, forming a subterranean apartment carved from the mountain by some ancient upheaval of the earth. But in the centre of this cave had been established a modern and, as far as I could see, well-equipped, laboratory. The furnishings appeared much sturdier and more stable than those of the house, and on the various tables and cabinets were racks of test tubes and flasks and beakers of assorted shapes and sizes, empty and filled to various degrees. Files and folders were stacked here and there, just cluttered enough to suggest an efficient busyness. At the far side of the room there was a door fitted into the rock, the only alteration that seemed to have been made to the natural structure of the cave.

Hodson gestured with an open hand.

“This is where I work,” he said. “The accumulation of years. I assure you this laboratory is as well equipped as any in the world, within the range of my work. Everything I need is here – all the equipment, plus the time.”

He walked to the nearest table and lifted a test-tube. Some blood-red fluid caught a sluggish reflection within the glass and he held it up toward me like a beacon – a lighthouse of a man.

“The key to mankind,” he said. His voice was impressive, the dark fluid shifted hypnotically. “The key to evolution is buried not in some Egyptian excavation, not in the remnants of ancient bones and fossils. The key to man lies within man, and here is where the locksmith will cut that key, and unlock that distant door.”

His voice echoed from the bare rock. I found it difficult to turn my eyes from the test-tube. A genius he may well have been, but he definitely had a flair for presenting his belief. I understood the furore and antagonism he had aroused, more by his manner than his theories.

I looked around a bit, not understanding much of what I saw, wanting to read his notes and calculations but fairly certain he would object to that. Hodson had moved back to the entrance, impatient to
leave now that I’d seen the laboratory, not wanting me to see beyond a surface impression.

I paused at the door on the opposite side of the chamber. I had thought it wooden, but closer observation showed it to be metal, painted a dull green.

“More equipment beyond?” I asked.

I turned the handle. It was locked.

“Just a storeroom,” Hodson said. “There’s nothing of interest there. Come along. Dinner will be ready by now.”

It was curious, certainly, that a storeroom should be securely locked when the laboratory itself had no door, and when the entrance to the passageway was secured only by a key which hung readily available beside the door. But I didn’t think it the proper time to comment on this. I followed Hodson back through the tunnel to the house.

A table had been set in the front room, where the initial conversation had taken place, and Anna served the food and then sat with us. The Indian was not present. Anna was still quite naked, and somehow this had ceased to be distracting. Her manner was so natural that even the absurd motions of placing her napkin over her bare thighs did not seem out of place; the paradox of the social graces and her natural state did not clash. The meal was foreign to me, spicy and aromatic with perhaps a hint of walnut flavouring. I asked Anna if she had prepared it, and she smiled artlessly and said she had, pleased when I complimented her and showing that modesty, false or otherwise, is a learned characteristic. Hodson was preoccupied with his thoughts again, eating quickly and without attention, and I chatted with Anna. She was completely charming. She knew virtually nothing outside the bounds of her existence in this isolated place, but this lack of knowledge was simple and beautiful. I understood full well what Hodson had meant when he’d suggested that, had he met a woman like this when he was young – was surprised to find my own thoughts moving along a similar line, thinking that if I had not met Susan –

I forced such thoughts to dissolve.

When the meal was finished, Anna began to clear the table.

“May I help?” I asked.

She looked blank.

“Why no, this is the work of the woman,” she said, and I wondered what pattern or code Hodson had followed in educating her, what course halfway between the natural and the artificial he had chosen as the best of both worlds, and whether convenience or emotion or ratiocination had guided him in that selection.

When the table had been cleared, Anna brought coffee and brandy and a humidor of excellent Havana cigars, set them before us and departed, a set routine that Hodson obviously kept to, despite his avowed denials of social custom and mores. It was like a dinner in a London drawing-room, magically transferred to this crude home, and seeming if anything more graceful for the transference. I felt peaceful and relaxed. The cigar smoke hung above us and the brandy lingered warmly within. I would have liked to carry on the conversation with this intriguing man, but he quite suddenly shifted the mood.

He regarded me over the rim of his brandy glass, and said, “Well, now that you see I have no connection with these rumours, you’ll be impatient to get away and pursue your investigations along other lines, I assume.”

His tone left no doubts as to which of us was anxious for my departure. Now that his exuberance had been satisfied, he was disturbed again – a man of changing moods, fervour followed by depression – feeling, perhaps, that he’d once more fallen victim to his old fault, the paradox of talking too much and too soon, and regretting it directly after.

He looked at his watch.

“You’ll have to stay the night, of course,” he said. “Will you be able to find your way back?”

“I’m afraid not. I hate to be a bother, but – ”

“Yes. Ah well, perhaps it’s for the better. At least my location remains a secret. I mean no personal offence, but already you disrupt my work. The Indian assists me in certain ways and now he must take the time to guide you back through the mountains. I’ll know better than to make that mistake again, however. It should have occurred to me before that I must instruct him to return alone from Ushuaia.” He smiled. “I can think of few men who would disagree with the Indian, if it came to that.”

He said all this with no trace of personal ill will, as if discussing someone not present, and I could take no exception to his tone, although the words were harsh.

“The Indian may well be one of the most powerful men alive,” he said. “I’ve seen him do things, feats of strength, that defy belief . . . all the more so in that it never occurs to him how remarkable these actions are. He’s saved my life on three separate occasions, at great danger to himself and without hesitation. Have you noticed the scar on his side?”

“I did, yes.”

“He suffered that in rescuing me.”

“In what manner?”

Hodson frowned briefly, perhaps because he was recalling an unpleasant situation.

“It happened in the Amazon. I was attacked by a cat – a jaguar. He came to my assistance at the last possible moment. I don’t fear death, but I should hate to die before my work is completed.”

“I’d wondered about that scar. A jaguar, you say? Was the wound inflicted by fangs or claws?”

“I don’t – it was a bit hectic, as you can well imagine. A blow of the front paw, I believe. But that was some time ago. Amazing to think that the Indian hasn’t changed at all. He seems ageless. Invulnerable and invaluable to me, in such help that requires strength and endurance. He can go days without sleep or food under the most exhausting conditions.”

“I learned that well enough.”

“And you’ll undoubtedly learn it again tomorrow,” he said, with a smile, and poured more brandy.

We talked for the rest of the evening, but I could not lead him back to his work, and it was still quite early when he suggested that we retire, mentioned once more that I would want to get an early start in the morning. I could hardly disagree, and he clapped for Anna to show me to my room. He was still seated at the table when I followed her through one of the curtained doors at the back and on to the small cell where I was to spend the night. It was a narrow room with a cot along one wall and no other furnishings. There was no electricity and Anna lighted a candle and began to make the cot into a bed. This was disrupting again, not at all like the natural acceptance I’d felt at dinner, seeing her naked by candlelight, bending over a bed. The soft illumination played over the copper tones of her flesh, holding my eyes on the shifting shadows as they secreted and then moved on to reveal and highlight her body. She moved. The shadows flowed and her flesh rippled. Her firm breasts hung down like fruit ripe for the plucking, tempting and succulent. I had to tell myself that it would be a wicked thing to take advantage of her innocence, and think very firmly of Susan, waiting for me in London. I think man is naturally polygamous, although I don’t know if this is necessarily a bad thing, and it took great resolution to force my thoughts away from the obvious.