The Complete Works: Fantasy & Sci-Fi Novels, Religious Studies, Poetry & Autobiography. C. S. Lewis
word of God.’ And then he’d slap down the big Bible on the table. It was a way he had of shutting up people that came to him blathering about religious experiences. And granting his premises, he was quite right. I don’t hold his views, Mrs. Studdock, you understand, but I work on the same principles. If anything wants Andrew MacPhee to believe in its existence, I’ll be obliged if it will present itself in full daylight, with a sufficient number of witnesses present, and not get shy if you hold up a camera or a thermometer.”
“You have seen something, then?”
“Aye. But we must keep an open mind. It might be a hallucination. It might be a conjuring trick . . .”
“By the Director?” asked Jane angrily. Mr. MacPhee once more had recourse to his snuff-box. “Do you really expect me,” said Jane, “to believe that the Director is that sort of man? A charlatan?”
“I wish, ma’am,” said MacPhee, “you could see your way to consider the matter without constantly using such terms as believe. Obviously, conjuring is one of the hypotheses that any impartial investigator must take into account. The fact that it is a hypothesis specially uncongenial to the emotions of this investigator or that, is neither here nor there. Unless, maybe, it is an extra ground for emphasising the hypothesis in question, just because there is a strong psychological danger of neglecting it.”
“There’s such a thing as loyalty,” said Jane.
MacPhee, who had been carefully shutting up the snuff-box, suddenly looked up with a hundred Covenanters in his eyes.
“There is, ma’am,” he said. “As you get older you will learn that it is a virtue too important to be lavished on individual personalities.”
At that moment there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” said MacPhee, and Camilla entered.
“Have you finished with Jane, Mr. MacPhee?” she said. “She promised to come out for a breath of air with me before dinner.”
“Och, breath of air your grandmother!” said MacPhee with a gesture of despair. “Very well, ladies, very well. Away out to the garden. I doubt they’re doing something more to the purpose on the enemy’s side. They’ll have all this country under their hands before we move, at this rate.”
“I wish you’d read the poem I’m reading,” said Camilla. “For it says in one line just what I feel about this waiting:
Fool, All lies in a passion of patience, my lord’s rule.”
“What’s that from?” asked Jane.
“Taliessin through Logres.”
“Mr. MacPhee probably approves of no poets except Burns.”
“Burns!” said MacPhee with profound contempt, opening the drawer of his table with great energy and producing a formidable sheaf of papers. “If you’re going to the garden, don’t let me delay you, ladies.”
“He’s been telling you?” said Camilla, as the two girls went together down the passage. Moved by a kind of impulse which was rare to her experience, Jane seized her friend’s hand as she answered “Yes!” Both were filled with some passion, but what passion they did not know. They came to the front door, and as they opened it a sight met their eyes which, though natural, seemed at the moment apocalyptic.
All day the wind had been rising and they found themselves looking out on a sky swept almost clean. The air was intensely cold; the stars severe and bright. High above the last rags of scurrying cloud hung the Moon in all her wildness—not the voluptuous moon of a thousand southern love-songs, but the huntress, the untameable virgin, the spear-head of madness. If that cold satellite had just then joined our planet for the first time, it could hardly have looked more like an omen. The wildness crept into Jane’s blood.
“That Mr. MacPhee . . .” said Jane, as they walked steeply uphill to the very summit of the garden.
“I know,” said Camilla: and then, “You believed it?”
“Of course.”
“How does Mr. MacPhee explain the Director’s age?”
“You mean his looking—or being—so young—if you call it young?”
“Yes. That is what people are like who come back from the stars. Or at least from Perelandra. Paradise is still going on there; make him tell you about it some time. He will never grow a year or a month older again.”
“Will he die?”
“He will be taken away, I believe. Back into Deep Heaven. It has happened to one or two people, perhaps about six, since the world began.”
“Camilla!”
“Yes.”
“What—what is he?”
“He’s a man, my dear. And he is the Pendragon of Logres. This house, all of us here, and Mr. Bultitude and Pinch, are all that’s left of Logres: all the rest has become merely Britain. Go on. Let’s go right to the top. How it’s blowing. They might come to him to-night.”
IV
That evening Jane washed up under the attentive eye of Baron Corvo, the jackdaw, while the others held council in the Blue Room.
“Well,” said Ransom, as Grace Ironwood concluded reading from her notes. “That is the dream, and everything in it seems to be objective.”
“Objective?” said Dimble. “I don’t understand, sir. You don’t mean they could really have a thing like that?”
“What do you think, MacPhee?” asked Ransom.
“Oh aye, it’s possible,” said MacPhee. “You see it’s an old experiment with animals’ heads. They do it often in laboratories. You cut off a cat’s head, maybe, and throw the body away. You can keep the head going for a bit if you supply it with blood at the right pressure.”
“Fancy!” said Ivy Maggs.
“Do you mean, keep it alive?” said Dimble.
“Alive is an ambiguous word. You can keep all the functions. It’s what would be popularly called alive. But a human head—and consciousness—I don’t know what would happen if you tried that.”
“It has been tried,” said Miss Ironwood. “A German tried it before the first war. With the head of a criminal.”
“Is that a fact?” said MacPhee with great interest. “And do you know what result he got?”
“It failed. The head simply decayed in the ordinary way.”
“I’ve had enough of this, I have,” said Ivy Maggs, rising and abruptly leaving the room.
“Then this filthy abomination,” said Dr. Dimble, “is real—not only a dream.” His face was white and his expression strained. His wife’s face, on the other hand, showed nothing more than that controlled distaste with which a lady of the old school listens to any disgusting detail when its mention becomes unavoidable.
“We have no evidence of that,” said MacPhee. “I’m only stating the facts. What the girl has dreamed is possible.”
“And what about this turban business,” said Denniston, “this sort of swelling on top of the head?”
“You see what it might be,” said the Director.
“I’m not sure that I do, sir,” said Dimble.
“Supposing the dream to be veridical,” said MacPhee. “You can guess what it would be. Once they’d got it kept alive, the first thing that would occur to boys like them would be to increase its brain. They’d try all sorts of stimulants. And then, maybe, they’d