The rhythmic rattle and surge of the train had a soothing monotony.
You could hear the engine puffing lustily. The wide, heat-baked, green
fields swinging past the window of the compartment, drowsed in the
noonday sun. The farms and cattle and horses dotting them here and
there, looked equally somnolent. He would have liked to sleep, but he
knew he would not be able to. And as for--She apparently never slept.
"I want to run over some things," he said. "Interrupt me if you hear
anything that sounds wrong or you don't understand."
From the corner of his eye he noted the figure sitting between him and
the window nod once.
It occurred to him that there was something terrible about an
adaptability that could familiarize him even to--her, so that now after
only a day and a half he was using her as a kind of thinking machine,
asking for her memories and reactions in the same way that a man might
direct a servant to put a certain record on the phonograph.
At the same time he knew that he was able to make this close contact
endurable only by carefully directing his thoughts and actions--like
the trick he had acquired of never quite looking at her directly. And
he kept himself nerved up with the thought of what lay ahead, and his
determination to regain what had been lost, and his hate. The present
condition was only temporary. But if he once let himself start to
think what it would mean to live a lifetime, to share bed and board,
with that--blackness--coldness--vacancy.
Other people noticed the difference all right. Like those crowds they'd
had to push through in New York yesterday. Somehow people always edged
away, so they wouldn't have to touch her, and he had caught more than
one following glance, poised between curiosity and fear. And when
that other woman started to scream--lucky they had been able to lose
themselves in the crowd.
The brief stopover at New York had provided him with some vitally
necessary materials, though he still felt hampered by the lack of his
library and notes. But he had been glad last night when it was over.
The compartment seemed a haven of privacy.
What was it those other people noticed? True, if you looked closely,
the heavy cosmetics only provided a grotesque and garish contrast to
the underlying pallor, and powder did not wholly conceal the ugly dark
bruise around the mouth. But the veil helped, and you had to look very
closely--the cosmetics were practically a theatrical make-up. Was it
her walk that they noticed, or the way her clothes hung--her clothes
always looked a little like a scarecrow's now, though you could not put
your finger on the reason. Or was it--
But that was what he must not think about.
* * * * *
"Magic is a practical science." He talked to the wall, as if dictating.
"There is all the difference in the world between a formula in
physics and a formula in magic, although they have the same name. The
former describes, in terse mathematical symbols, some cause-effect
relationship of wide generality. But a formula in magic is a way of
getting or accomplishing something. It always takes into account the
motivation or desire of the person performing the magic--be it greed,
love, revenge, or what-not. Whereas the experiment in physics is
essentially independent of the experimenter. In short, there has been
little or no "pure"--nonpractical--magic, comparable to pure science.
"This distinction between physics and magic is just an accident of
history. Physics is ultimately as practical as magic--but it possesses
a superstructure of theory that magic lacks. Magic could be given such
a superstructure by research in pure magic and by the investigation
and correlation of the magic formulas of different peoples and times,
with a view to deriving basic formulas which could be expressed in
mathematical symbols and which would have a wide application. Most
persons practicing magic have been too interested in immediate results
to bother about theory. But just as research in pure science has
ultimately led, seemingly by accident, to results of vast practical
importance, so research in pure magic might be expected to yield
similar results."
He waited a moment for comment, then went on.
"The subject matter of magic is akin to that of physics, in that it
deals with certain forces and materials, though these--"
"I believe it is more akin to psychology," the voice interrupted.
"How so?" He still looked at the wall.
"Because it concerns the control of other beings, the summoning of
them, and the constraining of them to perform certain actions."
"Good. That is very suggestive. Fortunately, formulas may still hold
good so long as their reference is clear, though we are ignorant of
the precise nature of the entities to which they refer. For example,
a physicist need not be able to give a visual description of an atom,
even if the term visual appearance has any meaning when applied to an
atom--which is doubtful. Similarly, a sorcerer need not be able to
describe the appearance and nature of the entity he summons. But the
point is well taken. Many seemingly impersonal forces, when broken down
sufficiently, become something very much like personality. It's not too
far-fetched to say that it would take a science resembling psychology
to describe the behavior of a single electron, with all its whims and
impulses, though electrons in the aggregate obey relatively simple
laws, just as human beings do when considered as crowds. The same holds
true of the basic entities of magic, and to a much greater degree.
"It is partly for this reason that magical processes are so tricky
and dangerous, and why their working can be so readily impeded if
the intended victim is on guard against them--as your formulas have
to our knowledge been nullified since Mrs. Gunnison stole your book.
That one formula I used on Sunday night worked only because it was not
anticipated that _I_ would be the operator. And even at that its
working was greatly hindered."
His words possessed for him an incredibly strange overtone. But it was
only by maintaining a dry, scholarly manner that he could keep going.
He knew that at the first touch of casualness or informality, the
latent morbidity of the situation would engulf him.
* * * * *
"There remains one all-important consideration," he went on swiftly.
"Magic appears to be a science which markedly depends on its
environment--that is, the situation of the world and the general
conditions of the cosmos at any particular time. For example, Euclidean
geometry is useful on Earth, but there are regions--and it would
be easy to imagine more--in which a non-Euclidean geometry is more
practical. The same is true of magic, but to a more striking degree.
The basic, unstated formulas of magic appear to change with the passage
of time, requiring frequent restatement--though it might conceivably
be possible to discover master-formulas governing that change. It has
been speculated that the laws of physics show a similar evolutionary
tendency--though if they do evolve, it is at a much less rapid rate
than those of magic. It is natural that the laws of magic should evolve
or change more swiftly, since magic depends on a contact between the
material world and another level of being--and that contact is complex
and may be shifting rapidly.
"Take astrology, for example. In the course of several thousand years,
the precession of the equinoxes has put the Sun into entirely different
celestial houses--signs of the Zodiac--at the same times of year. A
person born, say, on March 22nd, is still said to be born in Aries,
though he is actually born when the Sun is in the constellation Pisces.
A failure to take into consideration this evolutionary change since the
formulas of astrology were first discovered, has rendered the formulas
obsolete and invalidated them for--"
"It is my belief," the voice broke in, like a phonograph suddenly
starting, "that astrology has always been largely invalid. That it is
one of the many pretended sciences which have been confused with true
magic and used as a kind of window dressing. Such is my belief."
"I presume that may be the case, and it would help to explain why magic
itself has been outwardly discredited as a science--which is the point
I'm getting at.
"Suppose the basic formulas of physics--such as Newton's three laws
of motion--had changed several times in the last few thousand years.
The discovery of any physical laws at any time would have been vastly
more difficult. The same experiments would give different results
in different ages. But that is the case with magic, and explains why
magic has been periodically discredited and has become repugnant to the
rational mind. It's like what old Carr was saying about the run of the
cards at bridge. After a few shuffles of a multitude of cosmic factors,
the laws of magic change. A sharp eye can spot the changes, but
continual experimentation, of the trial-and-error sort, is necessary
to keep the crude practical formulas of magic in anything like working
order, especially since the basic formulas and the master-formulas have
never been discovered.
"Take a concrete example--the formula I used Sunday night. It shows
signs of recent revision. For instance, what did the original,
unrevised formula have in place of the phonograph needle?"
"A willow whistle of a certain shape, which had been blown only once,"
the voice told him.
"And the platinum or iridium?"
"The original formula mentioned silver, but a heavier metal serves
better. Lead, however, proved altogether ineffective. I tried it once.
It was apparently too unlike silver in other respects."
"Precisely. Trial-and-error experimentation. I have a modern substitute
for the flannel wrapping which may prove more effective. Moreover,
in the absence of thorough investigation, we cannot be sure that all
the ingredients of a magic formula are essential in making it work. A
comparison of the magic formulas of different countries and peoples
would be helpful in this respect. It would show which ingredients
are common to all formulas and therefore presumably essential, and
which are not essential. I have in mind a method for making such a
comparison."
* * * * *
There was a discreet knock at the door. Norman spoke a few words, and
the figure drew down its veil and turned toward the window, as if
staring stolidly at the passing fields. Then he opened the door.
It was lunch, as long in coming as breakfast had been. And there was
a new face--coffee-colored instead of ebony. Evidently the first
waiter, who had shown growing nervousness in his previous trips to the
compartment, had decided to sacrifice the tip and send someone else.
With a mixture of curiosity and impatience, Norman waited for the
reactions of the new-comer. He almost felt able to predict them. First
a very quick inquisitive glance past him at the seated figure--Norman
guessed they had become the major mystery of the train. Then a longer,
sideways glance while setting up the folding table, ending with the
eyes getting very wide; he could almost feel the coffee-colored flesh
crawl. Only hurried, almost unwilling glances after that, with a
growing uneasiness manifested in clumsy handling of the dishes and
glassware. Then a too-pleasant smile and a hasty departure.
Only once Norman interfered--to place the knives and forks so they lay
at right angles to their usual position.
The meal was a very simple one, almost ascetic. He did not look across
the table as he ate. There was something worse than animal greediness
about that methodical feeding. After the meal he put the left-overs
into a small cardboard box, covered them with a napkin he had used to
wipe all the dishes clean, and placed the box in his suitcase beside
an envelope containing clippings from his own fingernails. The sight
of the clean breakfast dishes had been one of the things which had
helped to disturb the first waiter, but Norman was determined to adhere
strictly to a complete set of taboos. They were an odd assortment,
gleaned from his memories of Negro, Polynesian, and Indian practices.
Of course, there might be no protection gained by observing taboos.
But then again there might be. So he collected food fragments, saw to
it that no knives or other sharp instruments pointed toward them, had
them sleep with their heads nearest the engine and their destination,
and enforced a number of other minor regulations. Eating in private
satisfied still another taboo, but there was more than one reason for
that.
He glanced at his watch. Only half an hour until Hempnell. He had
not realized they were quite so close. There was the faint sense of
an almost physical resistance from that region, as if the air were
thickening. And his mind was tossing with a multitude of problems yet
to be considered.
* * * * *
Deliberately turning his back, he said, "According to the myths, souls
may be imprisoned in all sorts of ways--in boxes, in knots, in animals,
in stones. Have you any ideas on this subject?"
As he feared, this particular question brought the usual irrelevant
response. The answering words had the same dull persistence.
"I want my soul."
His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened. This was why he had
avoided the question until now. Yet he had to know more, if that were
possible.
"But where exactly should we look for it?"
"I want my soul."
"Yes." It was hard for him to control his voice. "But how, precisely,
might it be hidden? It will help if I know."
There was a rather long pause. Then, "The environment of the soul
is the human brain. If it is free, it immediately seeks such an
environment. It may be said that soul and body are two separate
creatures, living together in a symbiotic relationship so intimate and
tight that they normally seem to be only one creature. The closeness of
this contact appears to have increased with the centuries. Indeed, when
the body it is occupying dies, the soul is usually unable to escape and
appears to die, too, or to migrate to another level of being--I have
no clear knowledge of that matter. But by supernatural means the soul
may sometimes be divorced from the body it is occupying. Then, if it is
prevented from re-entering its own body, it is irresistibly drawn to
another, whether or not that other body possesses a soul. And so the
captive soul is usually imprisoned in the brain of its captor, unable
either to escape from or to control that brain, in immediate contact
with the soul of the captor and forced to view and feel, in complete
intimacy, the workings of that soul. Therein lies perhaps its chief
torment."
Beads of sweat prickled his scalp and forehead.
His voice did not shake, but it was unnaturally heavy and sibilant as
he asked, "What is Evelyn Sawtelle like?"
The answer sounded as if it were being read verbatim from the summary
of a political dossier.
"She is dominated by a desire for social prestige. She spends most
of her time in unsuccessfully attempting to be snobbish. She has
romantic ideas about herself, but since they are too high-flown to
find satisfaction, she is prim and moralistic, with rigid standards of
conduct. She believes she was cheated in her husband, and is always
apprehensive that he will lose what ground she has gained for him.
Being unsure of herself, she is given to acts of maliciousness and
sudden cruelty. At present she is very frightened and constantly on
guard. That is why she had her magic all ready when she received the
telephone call."
"I can't wait until tomorrow," he told himself. "I must begin with her
this very afternoon."