The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [145]
“It was just an experiment. Are they making a fuss?”
“They are a bit. You can’t really blame them, you know.”
“They’ll get over it. As far as Murphy’s concerned it had to be a shock, mind you. There was no other way of doing it. But I gave him a couple of quid, so I don’t suppose he has any complaints. He’ll be as right as rain in an hour or two.”
Edward seemed calm and pleased with himself. The candlelight, however, throwing the lines and wrinkles of his face into sharp relief, gave him a haggard, insane look.
“It’s never been done before. Never actually measured, that is...so, of course, as far as science is concerned it hasn’t strictly speaking existed until now. Plenty of subjective reports, but they won’t wash for your scientist. If you want my opinion, Brendan, nobody has ever dared to do it before. In Cannon’s book The Wisdom of the Body he mentions a person who was captured by Chinese bandits and thought he was going to be shot. His mouth went dry, of course, but he didn’t bother to find out how dry...He was a scientist too, I gather. Still, I suppose it’s understandable.”
“You mean you threatened to shoot Murphy.”
“He believed me too. Went as white as a sheet. For a moment I was afraid he was going to pass out, which would have ruined the whole thing. I had to keep him talking for a while so that he could get a grip on himself...but not too much of a grip. Told him the first thing that came into m’head... that his service had been unsatisfactory and so forth, and that he had to be dealt with. Then I pulled both triggers. It made one hell of a noise...even scared me. I’d taken the shot out, of course, so it was only the caps going off. Even so, it brought down a cloud of plaster from the ceiling...” He gestured to a corner of the room where the Major perceived what looked like a snowdrift glimmering in the shadows. “The place needs doing up a bit.” He cleared his throat and got to his feet as a drop of rain from a new leak in the roof hurtled into the area of light and drummed on the white stomach of the frog lying beside the ink-well. Picking up one of the jam-jars from the floor, he edged the frog aside with it, then sat down again.
“Anyway, I dropped the gun and got him to spit out what saliva he could manage into the measuring-glass. D’you realize that he could only produce four c.c.? It’s incredible! Here, have a look. It may seem a bit more than that because I’m afraid a few drips of rain got into it before I realized what was happening.”
The Major looked dubiously at the white froth in the measuring-jar.
“I’m drafting a paper to send to the Royal Society. Maybe you’d like to see it before I send it off.”
“Yes, I would,” the Major said.
Above them, against the streaming, echoing bubble of blackness, the rain increased in intensity. Presently Edward said: “I always wanted to make a contribution, however small.”
The Major said nothing. Together they listened to the steady, musical drips in the jam-jars around them.
Nineteen-twenty-one. The rain continued to fall virtually without interruption into the New Year. By now most of the seasonal guests had disappeared, manifestly dissatisfied with their stay. But oh, if they had only known (reflected the Major) how much worse it might easily have been! He himself was so hardened that he no longer found it easy to sympathize about such matters as cold rooms and cold food, dirty towels and damp sheets. Besides, the near-escape of the dog Foch was still at the back of his mind. Compared with death itself these things pale into insignificance.
In spite of the continuing bad weather Edward refused to remove himself from the ballroom. The Major looked in on him once or twice and saw him sitting there, calmly dissecting a toad under an umbrella.