Another round string of million years and we reach the Latest Thing.
The Latest Thing reclined in its dwelling-house of glass, and by sheer
mental effort communicated with other things afar off and exchanged
ideas with them--as we to-day by wireless telegraphy. The Latest Thing
was pliable and pink, with a head like an overgrown vegetable-marrow.
His brain towered up into a cranial cavity lifted three feet above his
face. His eyes twinkled like diamonds. He breathed through gills, and
had a mouth merely rudimentary, for he lived by smell. Upon his back
were wings of gauze; and when he moved, these became invisible, and he
floated gently through the air.
The Latest Thing’s wife wafted herself in from somewhere, and they
communicated by their brains and eyes.
“Oh, if Nature would only get on a little,” said the Latest Thing. “I
am impatient and she is so slow. Not one of our children appear to give
the least sign or evidence of advance and improvement.”
“I should hope not, indeed!” telegraphed back his wife. “The females
are exactly like me, and the males are exactly like you--bless the
little ducks! ‘Improvement!’ They are the most perfect young things
you’ll find, seek where you may.”
“Yet I hoped that they----”
“Your old craze. I tell you we are the high-water mark, the crest of
the wave, the ultimate best, the triumph of Creation--Perfection!”
But the Latest Thing shook his huge head. “I doubt it,” he flashed back
to her.