Steampunk Prime_ A Vintage Steampunk Reader - Mike Ashley [5]
Baxter, as all the world knows, has created life artificially, and he is now developing the process. I remember his speech at the last Academy dinner, when he responded for Science. “What I aim at producing,” he said, “is an automaton endowed with strong vitality, great muscular strength, and a rudimentary brain, an automaton capable of doing the work of an unskilled laborer or artisan. I will anticipate the criticism that such a production will have a profound influence on the labor market by stating that I shall never rest content until I have placed it within reach of the pocket of every working man, who will then have a mechanism in his house capable of doing his work for him at a minimum of cost, and enabling its owner to walk into the country, take part in his favorite sport, or spend his time in the public library — whichever course he may deem to be the best for advancing his immortal destiny. That is how I intend to employ my discovery for the benefit of the human race.”
Of course his speech was received with applause, but some thought he was going a bit too far. I think it was the Herald that said he ought to be content with having created life artificially before a committee of international scientists. It was certainly impious, and ought to be illegal, to create entities possessing rudimentary brains; and only a President of the Royal Society, an ex-president of the British Association, a man with a dozen high university degrees and an international reputation, who, moreover, had the Order of Merit, and was a peer of the realm, would have been allowed so much latitude. Lord Baxter was no doubt the master-mind and the superman of the twentieth century, but there was no reason that he should be put on the same level as the Law of Gravitation.
I thought of these words as I watched the little object in its ill-fitting clothes as it wandered casually about my room. I had no objection to Baxter making his brainy automata so long as he kept them to himself; but when they became a nuisance to others it was certainly time to stop him.
Still I will admit I was curious to see what sort of a thing my visitor was. “Won’t you take off your coat?” I said.
“I’ll take it off, if you’ll give me shelter till to-night,” it replied.
“All right,” I answered. “You can stay till to-night.” It was sheer curiosity that impelled me to say this. I could never make use of the incident in my work. I deal with the universal, and not the abnormal.
With a little giggle it threw off its coat and cap, and stood revealed. A feeling of repulsion came over me when I saw the build of the thing. It was about five feet high, and had the body of an animal, with human legs and arms, an animal head with a prodigious cranium, on the sides of which two animal ears stuck grotesquely upward. It was a species of Faun.
“Then you’re one of Baxter’s automata,” I said after a pause.
“I’m not,” it replied indignantly. “I’m one of his special experiments. He’s keen on animals with human brains just now, and I’m the biggest success he’s had so far.” It spoke with ridiculous complacency.
“Well,” I replied, “if you’re satisfied with Baxter, and he’s satisfied with you, what the blazes are you bothering me for? What are you doing in this direction at all? Baxter lives fifty miles away, doesn’t he?”
“I wish you wouldn’t speak so crossly,” said the Faun. “A very little makes me cry. I’ve run away from Baxter’s to see the world. I knew perfectly well he’d resolve me into my elements when he’d done with me, and I determined to run away some day. But it’s a big thing to do, for Baxter’s a difficult man to circumvent. I don’t think I should ever have got away but for Billiter.
“Who’s Billiter?” I asked.
“His assistant. He has a shocking record — was knocked off the medical register, and has all sorts of things against him. I’m sure he tortures — I’ve heard yells from his room. But Baxter doesn’t interfere. He generally has his frog singing to him at