“PLATO apart,” said Mr. Murdwell, as soon as Bud, Edith and Jooly had
fled, “or whatever our neighbor’s secret vice may be, he’s got the
strongest brain I’ve come up against lately.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” said the vicar. “Of course he’s
by way of being a scholar, a poet, an independent thinker, and all that
sort of thing, but since he’s been knocked out I’m afraid he can never
be the man he was.”
Mr. Murdwell confessed to surprise also. “I don’t know what he may have
been,” he said, “before he went to Gallipoli; I can only say that when
I made his acquaintance the other day, it seemed a great privilege to
talk to him.”
“Very interesting to know that,” said the vicar.
“He’s the only layman I’ve met who could grasp, on sight, the principle
on which Murdwell’s Law depends. And more than that. When by his
request I explained to him as briefly as I could the theory of the
whole thing, he laid his finger at once on the weak link in the chain.
I could hardly believe that he hadn’t a regular scientific training,
and that he hadn’t made researches of his own into radioactivity.”
“He probably has.”
“He says not. And he knew nothing of my theory, but he said at once
that I had only to restate my formula to alter the nature of war
altogether.”
“And is that true?”
“Not a doubt of it. That’s why I’m here, and incidentally that’s why I
have such a queer-looking butler. You noticed him, no doubt?”
The vicar had.
“I’ll tell you a little secret. That man is one of New York’s smartest
detectives, and he never lets me out of his sight.”
“Really!” said the vicar, drawing warily at a very large cigar.
“You see, at present it’s a nice question whether certain people can
hand Gazelee Payne Murdwell his medicine before he hands them theirs.
That’s what it all boils down to, you know.”
“Really!” said the vicar.
“If Mr. Murdwell with the help of his committee of Allied scientists
can solve the problem of restating his formula in terms of atomic
energy, the near future will be full of perplexity for this planet.”
“Do I understand,” said the vicar, drawing at his cigar, “that you are
trying some terrible experiment?”
“You may take it that it is so. And we are already causing sleepless
nights in certain quarters. The next few years may see warfare of a
very different kind.”
“But surely,” said the vicar, “every law, human and divine, forbids
further diabolism?”
“Nothing is forbidden to science. It works miracles. And it is merely
at the threshold of its power.”
“Yet, assuming, Mr. Murdwell,” said the vicar solemnly, “that your
theory is correct and that you are able to do all this, what do you
suppose will be the future of the human race?”
Mr. Murdwell did not answer the question at once. When answer he did,
it was in a voice of much gravity. “There we come up against something
that won’t bear looking at. Strictly speaking, the human race has no
future. Unless another spirit comes into the world the human race is
doomed.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the vicar.
“Science can destroy organic life quicker than nature can replace it.
And what it does now is very little compared to what it may do a few
years hence.”
“Quite so,” said the vicar.
“The vistas opened up by Murdwell’s Law in the way of self-immolation
don’t bear thinking about. A time is coming when it may be possible to
sweep a whole continent bare of life from end to end.”
“And that, my friend, is a logical outcome of materialism, the negation
of God.”
“Not a doubt of it,” said Mr. Murdwell, in his dry way. “It seems to me
that some of you gentlemen in broadcloth will soon have to think about
putting in a bit of overtime.”