Family Tree
Date: 2019-05-30T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Polygamy -- Fiction; Human evolution -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Family Tree

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Title: Family Tree

Author: Charles L. Fontenay

Illustrator: Paul Orban

Release date: May 31, 2019 [eBook #59643]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/59643

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAMILY TREE ***

FAMILY TREE

BY CHARLES L. FONTENAY

You don't like Darwin's theory of
Evolution? Maybe you're right. Maybe
Man's ancestors weren't monkeys after all....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

How do you get rid of a superman?

The method Masefield Truggles used was the tried-and-true Masefield Truggles method. Of course, he didn't know at the beginning that Blan Forsythe was a superman. But Forsythe had lived in Marston Hill most of his life—born there, in fact—while Truggles had been there only two years. So Truggles gave the case the full treatment with flourishes, including a careful reconnaissance to determine vulnerable spots in Forsythe's reputation.

Truggles determined that reform or removal of Forsythe would be his contribution to the moral welfare of Marston Hill as soon as he heard the rumors, some joking, some serious, about Forsythe's polygamous tendencies. This was a ready-made situation for Truggles.

Truggles began his research with Forsythe's ex-wife, Phyllis Allison. He had learned from experience that an ex-wife usually is a good source of information about vulnerable spots.

She served him tea in the parlor of her modest home. After a routine round of chit-chat designed to put her at ease, Truggles approached the point.

"As you may know, Mrs. Allison, I am president of our Social Standards Protective League," he said, fixing his deep blue eyes on her face.

"I've heard of it, Mr. Truggles," she said in a low voice. "My duties at home keep me too busy to belong to any organizations, though."

As if to emphasize her point, she put her arm around the shoulders of her young son. The boy sat quietly beside her, watching Truggles like a young animal. Truggles figured he must be about five years old—certainly he would be below school age, for school was in session—but he was big for his age. There was something disturbing about his intent gaze.

"I'm not here in the interest of your joining the League, Mrs. Allison, though we'd be glad to have you," said Truggles. "I came to ask you for some confidential information about the shameful way your former husband mistreated you."

Her eyes opened wide.

"Why, Blan never mistreated me!" she exclaimed. "Whoever told you such a thing? I loved Blan, and he loved me. I still love him."

"If he loved you, why did he leave you?" demanded Truggles triumphantly.

"I think you're asking questions about something that isn't any of your business, Mr. Truggles," said Phyllis Allison, her eyes flashing ominously. "Blan Forsythe is ... different. We agreed to separate because it appeared I could give him no children. We were wrong, but it was too late, then."

"So he turned to polygamy through a mad desire to produce children," murmured Truggles happily. "You say you were wrong? I thought the boy was your only child."

"Donald is my only child, but he is Blan's child," said Phyllis, patting the boy on the shoulder.

Truggles raised bushy eyebrows.

"Wasn't it seven years ago you and Mr. Forsythe were divorced?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes, and Donald is only five," she answered defiantly. "My husband—Dr. Allison—tells me I'm foolish to have the feeling I do that Donald is Blan's son. He says it's impossible. But I know it's true. I've been working with Donnie, and, Mr. Truggles...."

She leaned forward intently and fixed her gaze gravely on Truggles' face.

"... Donnie has the Power!" she said in a tense whisper.

Truggles blinked. Phyllis Allison sat back and looked embarrassed, as though she had not intended to confide so much.

Truggles asked no more questions. He did not pursue the line of inquiry this revelation at once brought to mind. He took his leave as graciously as possible and left the house.

He knew that both Phyllis Allison and her son watched him as he walked out the door with shoulders bent in a show of humility. But it was the boy's eyes he felt.

Phyllis Allison. The fresh memory of her slender beauty, her wide, honest eyes, struck pain in Truggles' heart. They were rare—but why did he seem to run across them so often?—these women who reminded him of her. His lost love, his long-lost love, the smiling fairy with the dancing heart, without whom life never had been quite complete again.

The woman really believed the boy was Blan Forsythe's child. It was pathetic. And that reference to Donald's having "the power:" Truggles wondered how many women he had known who thought their sons were "different," who even convinced themselves that the children had been sired by a dream prince or such like. Deluded souls, to so excuse their sins!

He straightened and ran his fingers through his short-clipped gray hair as he strode along the walk. The extensive lawn of Blan Forsythe's mansion stretched only two doors away from the bungalow he had just left. It was decked with flower beds and evergreens.

Truggles was too circumspect to do anything openly at this stage. But he shook a fist at the stone pile, mentally.

Behind him, Truggles had a record of nothing but successes. There had been the alcoholic in Hantown, the Negro fortuneteller in New Bacon, the member of some queer religious sect in Steckleville. Truggles had set his face against them. He had shown the people of these towns what manner of creatures they harbored in their bosoms. They had been driven out (it was unfortunate, in a way, that the alcoholic had been hit by a brick and killed in the confusion of public reaction, but such accidents happen); and eventually Truggles himself, purring inwardly at the consciousness of a job well done, had moved on to fields of further effort.

Blan Forsythe was not big enough to escape his righteousness.

If the mayor of Marston Hill would cooperate, it would save Masefield Truggles a lot of work and possibly some unpleasantness for everyone. Sometimes mayors did cooperate, especially when elections weren't far off.

Truggles was not offended that Mayor Ben Sands received him in the garden of his home on the edge of town. He had known many fine gentlemen with dirt on their hands who abhorred dirt in the mind.

"I haven't seen Blan much lately, but he used to spend a lot of time out here," said Sands, taking his battered pipe from his mouth to speak. "He was interested in the flowers. Those asters, now. They're tetraploid. He developed 'em. Used colchicine."

He looked at Truggles inquiringly, to see if he understood. Truggles allowed a smile to quirk his lips and shook his head slightly.

"Extract from the autumn crocus," said Sands. "Makes plants tend to double their chromosomes."

Around them, the garden was a solid blaze of color. Zinnias, marigolds, phlox cast their colorful bounty to the air.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a horticulturist," apologized Truggles.

"Well, it's like this," said Sands. "Every cell of every plant of the same species has the same number of chromosomes—you know, those bright little threads that hold the guiding genes of growth and development. Mutations in plants come when there are changes in individual genes from time to time. But when you hit them with colchicine, the chromosomes sometimes double without the cell dividing. Creates a new species, usually bigger, stronger, slower growing. Call them tetraploids. I've heard it called 'cataclysmic evolution.'"

"You mean man tampers with the basic laws of nature?" asked Truggles, awed and disturbed.

"I reckon you could call it that. Lots of plants have been treated that way—tomatoes, snapdragons, alyssum. Of course, it happens naturally, too. Wheat developed from the crossing of an inferior early species, einkorn, with a wild grass. Einkorn and the grass had seven chromosomes each, but in crossing the chromosomes were doubled. The result was Persian wheat, a superior variety with 14 chromosomes."

Sands took the pipe from his mouth and knocked the ashes out against the sole of his shoe. Pulling a sack of tobacco thoughtfully from his hip pocket, he began to refill it.

"Blan had a theory," he said, "that doubling of chromosomes in animals in the past could have given rise to new species and explain a lot of gaps in evolution. Man has 48 chromosomes in every cell, and Blan pointed out to me that 48 is double 24, which is double 12, which is double six, which is double three. He thought that was too much of a coincidence. I reckon I do, too."

He paused and struck a wooden match, holding it against the bowl of his pipe and sucking noisily.

"I don't hold with the evolutionary theory," said Truggles stiffly. "What I really wanted to ask you, Mayor Sands, was whether you are aware that Blan Forsythe is practicing polygamy, right here in Marston Hill?"

"You've been listening to those old hens gossip," accused Sands. "Look, I knew Blan right well when he was married to Phyllis Allison. Phyllis is my niece and I was sorry to see them break up, but the young people have to live their own lives. Blan has some ideas us old stick-in-the-muds might not understand, Mr. Truggles, but he's all right."

"A dozen women live with him in that big house of his," insisted Truggles. "I've found out there's a turnover, too. When one moves out, another moves in."

"I don't poke my nose into other people's business," said Sands bluntly. "But Dr. Allison tells me Blan maintains a staff, and it's convenient for them to live in that big house. He's doing biological research, along the lines I just explained."

"Biological research, I have no doubt," said Truggles, assuming his best organ-like tone. He fixed his blue eyes on Sands, but Sands' eyes were just as blue. They showed a gleam of anger. "You refuse to take any action against this abomination, then, Mayor?"

"I refuse to believe idle rumors," said Sands firmly. "And before you attempt to stir things up around here with your Social Standards Protective League, Mr. Truggles, I would recommend that you make some effort to secure accurate information. Dr. Allison is Blan's research assistant, and he can tell you much more of Blan's current experiments than I can."

Truggles bowed slightly and turned away. The sharp scent of the marigolds tickled his nostrils, making him want to sneeze.

"Dr. Allison," said Sands behind him, raising his voice slightly as Truggles walked away, "may even consent to tell you why Blan Forsythe's face is liver-colored. From what I hear of you, Mr. Truggles, that probably is your principal complaint against him."

Truggles straightened as though stabbed between the shoulder blades. He quickened his pace.

That had been a telling blow. Could Sands know? No, it was impossible. The recurring waves of time and travel had long since obliterated Truggles' distant past. The Brazilian was a secret demon in his own heart, his private, bitter hatred, the swarthy ogre who had crushed the flower of his life and whose face arose to torment him only in times of bitterness.

Sands was an idiot. All of these people in Marston Hill were idiots, letting a man like Forsythe fool them, liking him, looking up to him. They were empty shells, people, to be possessed alike by the strong, whether angel or demon. He, Truggles, would pit his strength against Forsythe.

As for Sands....

Old fool! Entrenched politician! Truggles had dealt with such civic laxity before. Direct action would be necessary.

There was a touch of frost on the grass the evening Masefield Truggles went again to the Allison home. Dr. Alex Allison, a chubby man with rimless spectacles, admitted him.

Truggles caught a glimpse of Phyllis Allison and the boy, Donald, in the kitchen as Allison led him through the dining room. They mounted a short flight of stairs to Allison's study.

Allison offered him wine and a cigar. Truggles refused. Allison placed the wine decanter back on the shelf unopened, but lit a cigar and settled back comfortably in his chair.

"Well, Mr. Truggles?" he asked briskly, with the air of a man who had no time to waste. Truggles looked him over, assessing him, and decided on the direct attack.

"I wonder if you are aware, Dr. Allison," he said softly, "that your employer is breaking up your home?"

He waited for the reaction. There was none. Allison puffed calmly on his cigar and waited. The light glinted from his spectacles as he kept his eyes fixed steadily on Truggles' face.

"Dr. Allison, your wife confessed to me that she still loves her former husband, Blan Forsythe," said Truggles, emphasizing every word.

"I was aware of that," said Allison unconcernedly. "Most women who know Blan are desperately in love with him. Is that all you came to see me about?"

He half rose from his chair. Truggles made a hurried gesture of protest. He realized he had tried to move too fast.

"No, no," said Truggles hastily. "Forgive me, Dr. Allison, but I was agitated over the situation. What I really came here for was to ask you to give me some information about Mr. Forsythe."

"Why?" asked Allison.

The flat question caught Truggles unprepared. He was aware that his mouth hung open foolishly as he tried desperately to frame an answer that would not be too revealing.

"Why—I was trying to lay to rest some rumors," he stammered at last. "Mayor Sands said you might tell me something about Mr. Forsythe."

Allison was silent for a long minute. He took the cigar from his mouth, knocked half an inch of ash into an ashtray and resumed his puffing.

"Mr. Truggles, how much do you know about mice?" Allison asked.

Truggles stared at him, unable to answer. This interview was beginning to take on a nightmarish aspect.

"What do you consider to be the principal difference between mice and men, Mr. Truggles?" pursued Allison.

"Really, Dr. Allison, I don't see—I don't know what point you're trying to make, but a mouse is an animal and a man is—well, a man."

"Nothing else?"

"Well, a man is bigger than a mouse." He began to feel familiar ground under his feet. "A man is bigger more ways than physically. He is bigger spiritually, emotionally. He thinks. He has a—"

"Ben Sands told me about his talk with you. So you don't believe in evolution? You don't believe the ancestors of men and monkeys came from a common stock?"

"I do not, sir. It is inconceivable...."

"How would mice strike you, then? Would you rather believe that men descended from mice than monkeys?"

Again the bewildered Truggles found himself physically incapable of answering.

"I have done a great deal of research, with the kind assistance of Blan Forsythe," said Allison precisely. "Blan is my friend. He has been my associate, even my experimental animal. I am preparing a paper on what I consider a revolutionary contribution to the theory of evolution—that men are related directly to the genus rodentia, and only more distantly so to the primates.

"Blan Forsythe is the real originator of this theory, as a result of his very personal interest in sudden evolutionary changes through doubling of chromosomes. It is reasonable to suppose that the ancestor of man himself, with all of his survival advantages, arose through such a process. Man has 48 chromosomes. Now, Mr. Truggles, what sort of animal would you guess has half that number—24 chromosomes?"

"Mice?" hazarded Truggles thinly.

"Precisely. Mice. The common house mouse. There is also a variety of squirrel that carries 24 chromosomes. The peromyscus and apodemus families of mice—and some other animals, including the rhesus monkey—have 48—cousins whose chromosome doubling eons ago started them up different paths from ours. Mr. Truggles, the ancestor of man was a rodent whose doubled chromosomes gave him new attributes that worked to his evolutionary advantage."

"Is that what is called a mutation?" asked Truggles, interested in spite of himself.

"Mutation? A mutation is a change in one gene. Men mutate every day. How many millions upon millions of years do you think it would take simple mutations to build a man from a rodent—or a lemur, either, for that matter?"

"Well, really, Dr. Allison, I believe you misunderstand what I asked you. Your theory is fine, I'm sure, among scientists, but I'm interested in information about Blan Forsythe."

"That's what I've given you. Blan Forsythe is a tetraploid man. His cells carry 96 chromosomes instead of the normal 48. Every cell of his body is doubled."

"Is that why his skin is liver-colored?" asked Truggles, remembering what Sands had said.

Allison smiled.

"Coincidence," he said. "It's true that liver cells have doubled chromosomes, but that isn't the reason for the color."

"What does all this mean, then?" asked Truggles.

Allison laid his half-smoked cigar carefully on the edge of the ashtray and gazed at Truggles through his spectacles.

"Blan Forsythe is a new species," he said slowly. "He is not man. Everyone has theorized that a superman might arise from a mutation, perhaps caused by radiation. My God, a hundred mutations of individual genes wouldn't make a superman overnight! But Blan Forsythe is one—a tetraploid man—a superman."

"And what is a superman, Dr. Allison?" asked Truggles drily, thinking of Nietzsche and the Sunday comic strips.

"Who knows? How can you and I comprehend the novel qualities, the undreamed-of abilities of such a creature? Do you think a mouse could understand a man's ability to reason, to talk, to build machines? Blan may not realize them himself. After all, he was reared in a human society, and no doubt the tetraploid rodent which is our ancestor seemed little different from his associates. There are two things I'm sure of: the differences are there, and they are qualities you and I could never point to and say, 'This is an ability of the superman.'"

Truggles' mouth twisted in a crooked smile. Allison had allowed his enthusiasm to draw him out. Allison was vulnerable now.

"And because this man—this creature—is different, you allow him to cuckold you?" he demanded in a low, ugly voice.

Allison was not vulnerable.

"Don't let Phyllis mislead you," he said quietly. "She thinks Donald is Blan's child because she always yearned to give Blan the child he wanted. Donald was born two years after they were divorced."

"She seems very sure," insinuated Truggles.

"It is possible for a tetraploid to be fertile in a mating with a normal diploid," said Allison. "Persian wheat, with 14 chromosomes, crossed with a grass which has seven chromosomes, to produce common wheat. That was Blan's hope while he and Phyllis were married, and it's still his hope with the others. I was his doctor and associate then, as I am now. Neither Phyllis nor Donald has more than the normal number of chromosomes, and Blan has not seen Phyllis since they were divorced."

"What, then, Dr. Allison, is this 'Power' that your wife says the boy has?"

Allison's face froze.

"That is a family matter, Mr. Truggles," he said icily. "I do not discuss my son's characteristics with strangers. Good night, sir."

Truggles saw Phyllis Allison as he left the house. Dr. Allison remained in his study when Truggles left, and Phyllis stepped from the darkened doorway of the dining room as Truggles opened the front door.

"Mr. Truggles," she said, placing her hand on his arm, "I don't know what your object is, but don't make any trouble for Blan Forsythe."

"My poor child, I am not trying to make trouble for him," said Truggles sadly. "I hope only to convince him that his unfortunate differences do not privilege him to flout the sound social customs of other men. If there is any trouble, it will be made by the man himself."

"You'll see him, then?"

"Certainly, I intend to try to convince him personally that what he is doing is wrong."

She sighed.

"I wish I could see him again," she murmured.

For this unhappy woman's sake if for no other reason, it would certainly be the thing to do to talk to Forsythe himself, Truggles thought as he left the house. The anticipation had a certain zest to it. Besides, Truggles believed in being fair. He always liked to give a man a chance to reform voluntarily, to bow to his righteous persuasion.

As for Allison, Truggles detested a man like that. The "scientific" mind, always so sure of its own theories. Such men could not see beyond the material, into the living realm of possession and power, the struggle between good and evil.

This theory that Forsythe was a superior creature ... Truggles shivered with resentment. Man was the apex, the conqueror—the conqueror through his service to the good way, the right way, through his militant demand that things be good and right.

A superior being. Truggles trembled again, this time overwhelmed by a feeling he hated, the feeling of inferiority. It swept over him from long, long ago, that bitter night when he had stood in tears before the Brazilian, when he had implored on his knees the only woman he had ever loved.

Something small and dark scurried across the walk in front of him.

Mice, he thought. The idea that man descended from a mouse was even more repellant than that man descended from monkey. But, if evolution had any basis in fact, mice might have certain claims. They lived in human habitations, they ate human foods. Their psychology was studied in mazes, and their physical makeup made them good subjects for experimentation in human diseases.

Mice. Truggles shrugged and walked on.

Masefield Truggles had seen Blan Forsythe at a distance, walking along the streets of Marston Hill, but Forsythe's appearance at close range was a severe shock.

The tetraploid man's skin was, as Sands and Allison had described it, the deep red color and texture of liver. His hair was short, mole-gray fur over the top of his head, and his eyes were a jade green that glowed with inner fires. Truggles was a tall man, but Forsythe stood a head taller and was massively built.

Forsythe's rugged features were not repulsive, when one became accustomed to their hue. Still, Truggles could not understand how a woman could be attracted to him. But the adoration that shone from the eyes of the pretty secretary who escorted him into Forsythe's office was unmistakable.

It was a spacious office, on the second floor of the mansion Truggles had passed so often. Why a man needed a business office to conduct private biological research was something Truggles could not understand, but this one would have fitted very well in a metropolitan skyscraper.

The weight of the pistol in its shoulder holster was comforting to Truggles. Others might not believe Forsythe dangerous. He did. He was protected.

"I understand you are determined to run me out of town, Mr. Truggles," said Forsythe pleasantly, leaning back in his swivel chair and putting his fingertips together. With his back to the window, his face was in slight shadow and he looked like a well-tanned business executive.

"You either have a well-organized spy network or some of the strange powers your associates attribute to you, Mr. Forsythe," replied Truggles easily. It would have been easier to deal with a man who did not exhibit such self-confidence, who was a little worried and nervous, but everyone seemed to be conspiring to make this project difficult for Truggles.

Forsythe smiled, and his teeth were white as shining ivory in his dark face.

"My extraordinary powers don't lie along those lines," he said. "I'd be obliged to someone who could tell me along what lines they do lie. I've had flashes of them from time to time, but I'm afraid they couldn't be explained to you."

"I don't want to see you run out of town, Mr. Forsythe," said Truggles. "I came here in the hope of offering you friendship and help. The people of Marston Hill are disturbed—I might say, aroused—at your insistence on polygamous practices. I hope to persuade you to abandon such unsocial behavior, so I may have some background for reasoning with them in your behalf."

Truggles expected the usual retort—that the people of the town had minded their own business (i.e., been blind to what was going on) until Truggles came to town. Instead, Forsythe said:

"I have conformed to human social standards. My formal religious affiliation is Mohammedan."

Truggles quivered with shock.

"Mohammedan!" he exclaimed, possibly more outraged by that than by his original suspicion of polygamy.

"The Koran allows us four wives, Mr. Truggles. The rest must be concubines."

"You admit it! You admit that your so-called research is only a blind for a den of iniquity!"

Forsythe rose, and stepped from behind his desk. Suddenly alarmed, Truggles cringed. Forsythe was a very big man. Truggles' fingers strayed toward the shoulder holster. But Forsythe smiled.

"The research is genuine," he said. "Come with me, Mr. Truggles. I'd like for you to meet several of my wives. You may ask them questions if you wish."

He took the nervous Truggles firmly by the arm, lifted him almost bodily from his chair and escorted him into the anteroom. The pretty secretary looked up from her desk.

"Mr. Truggles, this is Trella, my youngest wife," said Forsythe. "Fortunately, she has had secretarial training, so she fits well in this office."

The young woman smiled at Truggles, without embarrassment. He was not so fortunate. He dropped his eyes, the deep blue eyes that had so often been the nemesis of evil-doers.

"You said I might question the—the young lady?" he murmured.

Forsythe laughed.

"I'll leave so you may feel more free," he said, and went back into his office.

Truggles looked upon Trella Forsythe with more self-assurance. She was a pert, brown-eyed blonde, in her early twenties. Remembering Phyllis Allison, Truggles could not but admire Forsythe's appreciation of beauty.

"How long have you been married to Mr. Forsythe, Mrs.—uh, Miss Trella?" he asked.

"Only about six months," she answered. "I hope I'll prove satisfactory."

"Satisfactory?"

"I don't want to have to leave Blan after two years," she said. "I love him."

"My dear child, how can you love a man who has a dozen other wives? How can you lower yourself to be part of such a scheme?"

"Why is it that some men never understand women?" she countered, a little angrily. "A woman may be jealous of her man's other loves, but if he's a real man the thing that matters is that he loves her. I get along fine with Blan's other wives. We have something in common—we all love him."

Truggles resisted a strong temptation to attempt to convert her to sanity on the spot. His powers of convincing women were potent ones, as experience had proved. But, in this case, the root of the evil was Forsythe himself and there was no point in wasting any time on the wives.

Truggles had expected Forsythe to conduct him on a tour of what he already had labeled, in his mind, "the harem." But Forsythe remained closeted in his office, and it was Trella who escorted Truggles through a portion of the building.

They met three other women, busy at various tasks, all of them young and attractive. Truggles questioned them briefly. He found substantially the same reaction he had received from Trella.

When they had mounted the wide stairs again, on their way back to the office, Truggles was introduced to another wife, Lois. The door of a room stood ajar as they came to it, and he happened to see her sitting inside, weeping.

He thought Trella appeared reluctant when he stopped and pushed open the door, but she did not protest.

"Why are you weeping, my child?" asked Truggles, after he had talked with her for a moment.

"I must leave," she explained. "I've been married to Blan two years tomorrow, and I haven't given him a child."

"That's the most inhuman thing I ever heard of!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say he gives you this little time of happiness, and then if you don't produce progeny for him he casts you off like an old shoe?"

"It's Dr. Allison's advice to him," said Lois. "Dr. Allison thinks it would be bad for him to have too many wives around at one time, and he considers two years long enough to prove certainly whether a woman can be fertile with Blan. I'm not the first. I won't be the last. But it's hard to have to go away and never see him again."

These women he had seen today, these wives of Forsythe: they aroused no bitter feelings in Truggles. He felt clean and strong talking to them. They were like the many women to whom he had held out sympathy and understanding over the years, who had been stubborn and wilful at first, only to melt at last and see the truth. If only he could get them from Forsythe's influence, he thought he could save these women.

Truggles turned to Trella.

"Do you see what's in store for you, young woman?" he demanded. "Do you still think it's worth ruining your life to live here in sin with this man?"

"I may be different," she answered calmly. "And if I'm not, tell me, Mr. Truggles: does a mouse have the right to question the motives of a man?"

Truggles went back into Forsythe's office. The tetraploid man had swung his chair away from his desk and was staring moodily out the big window. He inclined his head at Truggles' entrance, but did not speak.

"Forsythe, this has been the most amazing, the most revolting, revelation I have ever experienced," opened Truggles. His indignation fueled his courage now, and his voice held the commanding resonance of a pipe organ. "You claim to be superhuman. I say you are inhuman, to force these poor young women to live in servitude, sharing you with each other, and then to discard them with brutal unconcern when you find they cannot fulfill your insane dream of foisting others of your kind on the earth!"

"They love me and I have a great affection for all of them," said Forsythe, not turning. "I provide for them when they leave me. Because the great experience of love cannot last a lifetime, should it be denied altogether?"

The ancient bitterness swept over Truggles in a consuming wave. Yes, yes, cried his soul, far better never to have loved, never to have known the meaning of love, than to have it snatched from the grasp in full flower! Forsythe was a monster. How could he know? Did the superman have telepathic powers? Or was it again chance, this dropping of a remark that burned deep into his writhing memories?

Forsythe's face was turned from him. One shot and this incredible thing, this liver-hued monstrosity that sat before him would be removed from the face of the earth. Truggles put his hand inside his coat. The butt of the pistol was cool under his fingers.

No. A murderer in prison has no influence. He cannot battle evil, recruiting to his shining leadership an army of righteous people. Truggles dropped his hand to his lap and said calmly:

"You speak as though they could love no one else. Is polygamy, then, to be a characteristic of the long-heralded superman?"

"Polygamy and monogamy, as such, have no moral values, for man or superman," replied Forsythe, speaking to the window. "Polygamy was a part of man's social scheme for centuries. Monogamy has been replacing it as a more desirable scheme; but to attribute moral values to it is propaganda. I challenge you to find an edict against polygamy in the basic writings of any religion—Christianity, Judaism, any of them. Remember Solomon? Monogamy has the advantage of closer companionship between man and woman, and for that reason I would prefer it."

A great thrill shot through Truggles' breast at these words. Was it possible that Forsythe had weakened? Was it possible that he could lead this strange man back to the path of truth?

"Why not give it up, Forsythe?" he asked in a low, compelling voice. "Why not eschew your dream of a new race and leave such things to higher powers? Send these poor women back to their homes and turn back to your one true, legal wife, Phyllis, and your son."

Forsythe swung to face him. The green eyes were deep and haunted.

"Don't you think that's what I would prefer, above all else?" he asked in a low voice. "Perhaps you didn't know it, but I married Phyllis before I knew I was—different; other than my appearance, I mean. The genuine love of a man for a woman does not die. Do you think even a superman—it's your term, Truggles, not mine—enjoys loneliness? The worship of other women, my affection for them as human beings, can't fill the gap left by the loss of someone who shared complete understanding with me."

He laughed shortly.

"Besides," he added, "you're trying to talk me into committing an immoral act, Truggles. You forget that Phyllis is Dr. Allison's wife now, and Donald is Dr. Allison's son."

Truggles brushed that aside.

"That's no excuse for what you're doing," he said.

"One of the major duties of any individual, of whatever species, is to reproduce his kind, if he can," answered Forsythe soberly. "In the human community, safe as a race through its very numbers, that has been lost sight of and overlaid with social responsibilities. I'm different. I can't ignore it.

"How was the misconception ever begotten that a superman—again, it's your term, not mine—would merely mate with the daughters of men and, lo! a new race? The superman is a new species. Species do not interbreed fertilely very often, even when closely related.

"Dr. Allison found I was tetraploid, while Phyllis and I were still married. He and I have been searching for a tetraploid woman, without success. Meanwhile, I try and still hope for fertile matings with a normal diploid woman, for the tetraploid has been fertile with the diploid sometimes in plants.

"No, Donald can't be my son, whatever Phyllis says. There's more involved than the time of his birth—two years after our divorce. Dr. Allison has tested him, and Donald has the normal 48 chromosomes."

"Can't you accept the verdict of nature, Forsythe?" demanded Truggles. "If you were born a eunuch, you could never reproduce."

"While there's hope, I have the responsibility," said Forsythe slowly. "If the stream of life is to progress, something greater than man must arise from him. I know, Truggles—I know—I am that superior thing. And I think back in history to the geniuses, the superior men, who died without progeny and I wonder how many of them were tetraploid, as I am, but could not pass on their new abilities to the world."

Truggles shook his head angrily and arose.

"You can't succeed by flouting the social conventions man has built up," he said stiffly. "I'm afraid you'll find that out to your sorrow, Forsythe."

His mind caressed the gun inside his coat pocket. Such a direct solution appealed to him. But he resisted it. There was a better, safer way. He turned his back on Forsythe and left.

As he walked past the Allison home, and covered half a block toward town, seething inwardly at Forsythe's stubbornness; a woman arose from a sidewalk bench to accost him. It was Lois, Forsythe's dark-haired wife to whom he had talked while she wept half an hour earlier.

"Why, Mrs. For—Miss Lois!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Did you escape?"

"Escape?" she repeated. Her eyes were shadowed from weeping. "Blan doesn't keep us prisoners. We come and go as we please. It's just that most of us prefer not to go out into town."

"I can understand that," he said drily. "Can I help you, Miss Lois?"

"Perhaps I can help myself, by helping you. Mr. Truggles, aren't you trying to stop Blan from keeping more than one wife?"

"I am, indeed. I expect to seek an indictment against him on bigamy charges."

"You won't succeed. He'll just sue you for false arrest, and ruin you. You don't think Blan would overlook something like that, do you? None of the girls would admit they lived with him as his wives. I wouldn't either, if it would hurt Blan."

Truggles was taken aback. After a moment, he asked: "What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing. But I thought if I could help you persuade him—as the wife who's been with him longest, I'd be the one to stay, wouldn't I?"

Thinking of an unknown number of others who might have been sent away previously, Truggles was inclined to doubt it. But he would not let such an opinion interfere with this opportunity.

"Probably," he said. "Will you help me if I promise to take no legal action against Forsythe?"

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"You say you're free to come and go as you please?"

"Yes."

"I just want you to tell the truth about what he's doing, as I've learned it, at a few meetings of good, sympathetic citizens during the next few weeks."

"I'll do it if you're sure it won't hurt Blan in any way," she said.

"I'm positive it won't," Truggles lied.

The Social Standards Protective League was a small organization, composed largely of elderly women and a few men. Masefield Truggles had never meant for it to serve as anything more than a nucleus. Before he lit the flame, he spent a week building up his tinder pile.

He announced, by word of mouth and through the columns of The Clarion, Marston Hill's small daily newspaper, that the Social Standards Protective League would hold a series of special meetings every afternoon for a week. The public would be welcome, he said, and there would be startling revelations of vice conditions in Marston Hill. Truggles rented the city's ancient, rickety auditorium for the meetings, and invited Mayor Ben Sands to speak at the first one.

Lois Forsythe sat on the platform that first afternoon, but Truggles did not call on her. Sands made a routine talk, the kind any mayor of a small town might, on the conscientiousness of Marston Hill's three-man police force, the lack of crime in the town, the recreational facilities and educational methods being utilized to see that the young people did not stray on the wrong path. He received polite applause.

When he had finished, Truggles arose and said:

"Sometimes after talks of this kind, we throw our meetings open to questions from the audience. Instead, I would like to ask Mayor Sands one question. Does he recall that I complained to him not long ago about the activities of Blan Forsythe, and what the tenor of the conversation was?"

"Why, yes," answered Sands, surprised. "You accused Blan of practicing polygamy. I told you that you'd been listening to too much gossip, and that Blan was doing biological research. I don't believe these good people would be interested in the nature of the research."

"I do," answered Truggles, "and it will be the subject of tomorrow's meeting. I have investigated these experiments, and they are well worth hearing about. Thank you, Mr. Mayor."

Truggles was a past master at building tension. The next day, he apologized for changing the program and gave a lecture on polygamy in human society. Backgrounded with considerable research at the Marston Hill public library, he described polygamy in Biblical times, in savage communities, in China and the Mohammedan world and among the early Mormons in the United States. He told of the social objections to polygamy and the progress made in eliminating it as a way of life.

The following day, he described Forsythe's research with tetraploid plants—not too accurately, but that didn't matter with this audience—and skillfully translated chromosome doubling into human terms until his final revelation that Forsythe was a tetraploid man left them gasping. And, the fourth day, he told, with some embroidery, of Forsythe's polygamy.

During each of these talks, Lois sat on the stage. Polygamy was a known, routine affair to her. Truggles was able to word his talks so that, to Lois, his revelations appeared calm and unbiased; but at the same time they were insinuating and inflammatory to his audiences, to whom polygamy was something strange and monstrous.

During none of the first four talks did he call on Lois. But at the end of the fourth, he announced:

"I have described to you what Forsythe told me himself. Perhaps you have been wondering who this attractive young lady is. She is none other than one of Forsythe's multiple wives, and tomorrow evening you shall hear a description of a polygamous household from her own lips."

The first meeting had contained only the members of the small group which Truggles himself had organized, and two or three visitors attracted by the mayor's presence. But such words as "polygamy," "harem," "strange research," "monstrous plants and people" got around, as Truggles intended they should. The audience grew by leaps and bounds. By the night of the final meeting, the old auditorium was filled to overflowing; they were standing in the aisles.

Calmly, and yet not without some hint of the tragedy she herself felt, Lois described the day-to-day life of Forsythe's household; the friendship among the wives, their jealousies, their hopes and regrets. She did not realize that her words, like those of Truggles the day before, were building anger in the breasts of her hearers at something they had not experienced and could not understand.

When she had finished, Truggles took the stage, and now the calmness, the factualness, was gone from him.

"You have heard what this poor woman told you!" he cried. "You have heard how this man, this Forsythe, took advantage of her. Remember, her sisters are as unfortunate as she. Shall this lecher, this monster, go unpunished?"

Before he could say more, Lois was on her feet.

"Mr. Truggles, wait!" she exclaimed. "You told me you were going to try to get Blan to give up polygamy. I wouldn't have come here and helped you if I'd known you were going to try to arouse his friends against him!"

"My poor child, it's too late," answered Truggles loudly. "I tried to persuade the man to give up his life of sin, and his heart was as stone. He must feel the lash of just retribution!"

She stared at him, her eyes widening in slow realization. Then she burst into tears and ran from the stage. She fled down the aisle and out of the auditorium.

"Do you see?" cried Truggles to his audience. His blue eyes flashed and his voice rang like a trumpet. "Even now she cannot break his devilish hold on her! Think! Are your daughters safe from him? Are your wives, even? Do you know that the wife of his best friend, Dr. Allison, admits that her child is the child of this man, this monster?"

For five minutes, he shouted, he wept, he shook his fists, he raised his hands to heaven. Then, striding to the edge of the platform, he demanded in a low, compelling tone:

"Who will take up the sword of righteousness and go with me to drive this creature from our midst?"

For a moment, there was dead silence. Then a young man stood up in the middle of the auditorium.

"By God, I will!" he shouted.

"I reckon I will, too," called an older man near the rear. One by one, then all at once, they were on their feet, shouting and milling around. Truggles leaped from the stage and forced his way through the crowd to the door. They surged out of the auditorium at his heels and poured down the middle of the street toward the home of Blan Forsythe, yelling.

With Truggles in the lead, the excited citizens swept onto the broad lawn in front of the big mansion, spread out over the grass, trampling the flower beds. There were fifty to a hundred of them.

Porch lights went on all over the neighborhood. From the same direction from which the crowd had come, two figures ran across the yards in the dimness and, circling the edge of the crowd, came up to Truggles. He recognized Phyllis Allison and her son, Donald.

"What is this, Mr. Truggles?" she cried, peering into his face. "What are all these people doing?"

"I'm sorry you came here, Mrs. Allison," he answered, shouting to make himself heard over the uproar of the people around them. "These people are determined to right the wrong this man has done you."

Outside lights from the mansion suddenly lit the entire lawn, and the mob that stirred restlessly on it. A momentary silence fell. Their numbers did not seem as great, their ranks not so solid, in the glare of the lights.

"Come on, Forsythe!" shouted Truggles in a great voice. "Come out and face your judges!"

The front door opened and Allison stepped out on the railinged porch. Truggles, at the front of the crowd, was about seventy feet from him.

"What is this?" demanded Allison. "What are you people doing here?"

"We've come for Forsythe," answered Truggles, and a murmur from the crowd backed him up. "Where is he?"

"I'm surprised at you, all of you," said Allison. "You people are my friends and Blan's friends. Why, you—"

He broke off as he caught sight of Phyllis and Donald.

"Phyllis!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Take that boy home!"

Obediently, she turned away, but Truggles caught her by the arm.

"Get Forsythe out here!" he cried. "Let him face the woman he wronged!"

At that moment, Forsythe himself came out of the door and stood at Allison's side. A wordless cry ran through the mob at the sight of the tetraploid man's face, topped with its cap of mole-gray fuzz.

"I see you're still taking an active interest in my affairs, Truggles," said Forsythe. He did not raise his voice, but it carried across the lawn.

"Evil is every man's business," answered Truggles boldly. "These good people are enraged that you should flout the laws of society so brazenly."

"Naturally," replied Forsythe, smiling. "And you enraged them. As long as everyone here minded his own business, no harm was done."

"I expected you to take that attitude, Forsythe," shouted Truggles. "Have you no sense of responsibility, no respect for the customs that others have established for their protection?"

"Certainly," said Forsythe, but he added, logically: "Would you be bound by the customs of a colony of mice, if they interfered with your pursuit of greater ends?"

"Listen at him!" cried Truggles, turning to the crowd and spreading his hands. "You see what high regard he has for you, who have befriended him? He scorns you! He calls you mice!"

He turned back to the mansion with clenched fists and took a step forward.

"You monster!" he shouted. "Even mice can be dangerous!"

The crowd behind him surged forward with a roar. Forsythe's voice rang out above it.

"Wait!" he cried. "I appeal to your reason! I have no higher power. I can't strike you dead, or vanish from your sight. All I can do is ask you one question. Will you destroy me because I violate your customs, when I represent the hope of your race to become something greater?"

His words fell on deaf ears. The crowd inched forward, ugly, dangerous.

A figure brushed past Truggles. It was Phyllis Allison, and she tugged the boy Donald with her.

"Stop her!" cried Truggles. "Don't let her get in his clutches!"

Alone, for these words seemed only to confuse those near him, Truggles ran after Phyllis and the boy. But they stopped, halfway to the porch, and Truggles reached them. He placed his hand on Phyllis' arm and pulled at her compellingly.

He was close enough to her to hear her words to the boy.

"Donnie!" she urged anxiously. "You remember the game we played? Use the Power!"

The boy looked apprehensively toward the porch.

"Daddy said don't," he demurred.

Dr. Alex Allison stood, his hands gripping the rail of the porch, looking out over the ugly crowd. There was no mistaking the moment. At any instant, the mob would surge over the porch.

"Blan, I can't let them kill you because I've wronged you," said Allison in a clear, agonized voice. "Donald is your son!"

There was a cry from Phyllis and she clutched the boy convulsively, twisting free of Truggles' grip. The people on the lawn fell silent, their upturned faces white in the light, waiting, sensing the import of the revelation.

"I told you there was the possibility that the tetraploid could reproduce with the diploid," said Allison. "It's true Donald's cells don't contain 96 chromosomes—but neither do they contain just 48. They contain 72 chromosomes—an even number, a viable number! Not always, but sometimes the hybrid is superior to both diploid and tetraploid. Blan, with all your unexplored qualities, you're just the vehicle of the new race. Donald is the superman!"

"But it's impossible!" exclaimed Forsythe. "I haven't even seen Phyllis since we were divorced."

"Did you think the tetraploid, the new species, would have the same gestation period as man?" asked Allison. "The gestation period is thirty months. Phyllis was pregnant when you were divorced, Blan, but I loved her and I didn't let either of you know. I wanted her for myself."

"So that's why you recommended polygamy so enthusiastically," remarked Forsythe.

"That's why I recommended a two-year limit on keeping any of your wives, and why I made sure they were sent far away," admitted Allison. "I couldn't let you know. You have half a dozen sons and daughters now, Blan, and Lois is going to be a mother."

There was happiness in Forsythe's dark face as he looked out over the crowd. To see happiness on his face cut Truggles' soul like a knife.

And all this small talk was losing his crowd. The seething emotions he had nurtured so carefully were simmering down in harmless curiosity aroused by the small private drama that had unfolded before the people on the lawn.

"It's a conspiracy to mislead you!" he howled. "If no one else will throw the first stone, I will!"

It was a symbolic gesture, his scooping up a harmless clod and hurling it to explode against the porch as he marched on the man he hated. His back to the crowd, Truggles feared with a terrible fear that it was already too late. He was chancing making himself ridiculous.

But his heart leaped as the voices of a few hotheads arose in his support behind him, and he felt, rather than heard, some of the people surge forward. How many? He didn't know, but a few would be enough to start the rest again.

Allison was leaning over the porch rail, his face white, looking not at Truggles but past him.

"Donald!" he cried in a low voice that carried intensely across the grass. "Do as your mother says! I won't punish you. Use the Power!"

And Truggles faltered and stopped in his tracks. He looked around him, confused, as some unseen force seemed to take his will and disperse it.

The harsh glare of the lights faded in the glow of a greater, softer, more glorious illumination. A soundless music filled the air, so deep and majestic that it was felt, rather than heard. Almost, Truggles expected the sky to open and a heavenly choir to appear.

Around him, he saw the familiar things of Marston Hill with new eyes. Life coursed through the green grass, bade a winter's farewell from the turning leaves of the trees. He felt for the first time that he was not a creature alone, but a part of all life around him.

The faces of the people around him showed that they, too, felt what he felt. They saw beauty in the air, in the world. As he looked on them, Truggles realized, for the first time in the heart of him, that their small faults were not vices, not innate evil—not even the hatred and fear that had been in their hearts when they stormed here with him was evil. There were only the well-meaning flaws that sprang from earnest eagerness.

Even the face of Forsythe, when Truggles looked at it, mirrored the ecstatic understanding of something that he had experienced only partially before. And Truggles knew that the type of understanding that had opened up to Forsythe was something he himself never could comprehend.

And in the midst of this experience that transcended understanding, the boy Donald took his mother's hand and the two of them floated up, into the air, above Truggles' head, and forward to alight gently at Forsythe's side on the porch.

But, amazing as that was, Truggles recognized it was only a small outward manifestation of the Power. The Power of the superman was what he and all these others felt, a weapon greater than fire or sword, greater than will or reason. Under its influence, no man could raise his hand against his brother, for he understood.

The vision, if vision it was, faded, and only a crowd of murmuring people stood around sheepishly in the cold glare of the lights on Forsythe's lawn.

"Truggles, you've won your point," said Forsythe, and there was no animosity in his voice. "I don't need to experiment any more. I'm leaving Marston Hill with my wife and son...."

He caught himself and looked at Allison.

"I can't hold her," said Allison in a low tone. "I won't try to. I'll give her a divorce."

"... With my only wife and son," resumed Forsythe happily. "I'm going to find my other children. And I don't think any of you will ever hear of us again."

He turned and entered the house with Phyllis and Donald. Allison followed them, his head bowed.

Truggles sat in his small, sparsely-furnished room and fought his soul.

For a long time, the memory of what the boy Donald had somehow shown the people of Marston Hill lingered with him: the conception of a world that was all good, all beauty, everything right. Truggles tried to cling to it, but gradually it slipped from him. There was something in him that prevented him holding it. At last, he still could remember it, but the memory was a logical thing, a thing that was incredible to him because it had no roots in emotion.

As that happened, the old torment returned ten-fold, as though it had battered outside of the vision's barrier fruitlessly until it could burst on him with renewed vigor.

Writhing inwardly, twisting his hands, Truggles stared unseeing at the room about him while he relived the agony of the past. He held Margaret—how long, how many years had it been, since he had let himself even think that name?—he held her in his arms and felt her cool lips against his. He talked with her, he felt the closeness of something infinitely good and right for him.

He lived again the angry, shouting interview when she stood with the arm of the Brazilian, De Castro, around her shoulders and said: "I'm sorry, Masefield. I like you and for a while I thought it was something more. But I've found love with a man who's so far superior to either of us that I still can't believe he's mine."

"That foreigner?" he shouted again, and tears sprang to his eyes as they had then. "You turn me down for him? You think I'm inferior to him?"

And again he lived through the shame of falling on his knees before her, turning up his weeping face to her, imploring her to no avail. He saw on her face and the Brazilian's face the pity, the scorn, before they walked out together, leaving him to sob alone.

Truggles beat his hands helplessly on the arm of the chair. Of all the hapless people he had tracked down and tossed to the ravening, outraged contempt of the public, he had wanted most of all to conquer Forsythe. He had wanted to see Forsythe cower and whimper, beg before they hung him.

And Forsythe had won. What mattered it that he was leaving Marston Hill? Truggles had thought that would be a victory, to make Forsythe run away. But Forsythe was not going alone and hunted. He was taking with him the woman he loved, who reminded Truggles of the clean beauty of Margaret; the one woman who understood him as none of those others could.

And the boy. Was it a defeat to a man to know that his son was greater than he? Truggles knew it was not. A vision rose before him of a race of men and women who walked among the clouds, who saw only beauty in the world and looked down with sympathetic pity upon the poor creeping humans below. The new race, greater than Truggles could even imagine himself.

Truggles stirred, and awoke to his surroundings, bitterly. He would have to leave Marston Hill himself. The people would not thank him for arousing them against Forsythe. From them, he could expect only anger, contempt, perhaps even....

There was a sudden rattling behind him. Truggles jumped to his feet, alarmed, fearful, his heart beating fast. His apprehensive eyes searched the room.

A paper moved in a corner. It was only a mouse.

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