The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [102]
The machine-brained man stepped over to a trolley and lifted from it a syringe with a fearsomely long needle.
"What are you doing?" squealed Swinburne.
"This one is inquisitive, isn't he?" muttered Darwin to himself. "Yes, he is. Tall, too, which is unfortunate. Shall we test or discard immediately? Test, I think. Child, tell us: you are an orphan? Do you remember your parents? Were they also tall?"
Machine-brain levelled the syringe, its point touching Swinburne just below the centre of his forehead.
"For pity's sake, Darwin! I'm not an orphan, my parents are none of your damned business, and I'm no child! I'm twenty-four years old! I'm Algernon Charles Swinburne, the poet!"
There came a pause, then the syringe was lowered.
Machine-brain stepped away.
"You are a chimney sweep," declared Darwin. "Your skin and clothes are covered in soot. It is under your fingernails. Our collectors smelled it on you. They do not make mistakes."
Swinburne wrenched at the straps holding his wrists. They held firm.
"If by `collectors' you mean those wolf-things, I'm afraid they've been fooled this time. I'm a poet, I tell you! Let me go!"
"Fooled?"
"I was posing as a sweep."
"Why would a poet do such a thing?"
"To find out where the cursed wolves come from and why boys are being abducted!"
Darwin was silent for a moment, then said, "We are intrigued. Observe: we seem to have before us a man of a profoundly nonscientific bent. An evolutionary oddity, think you not? Of what use is a poet? Is he not merely an instance of self-indulgence; a decoration, if you will? That might be so, but pray consider the decorative qualities of certain species, say, for example, tropical birds. Do their colours and patterns not serve a purpose: to attract a mate or to confuse a predator? This creature, though his hair is of a remarkable hue, is notably puny in his development. Might we propose that his vocation has developed to compensate for his lack of physical prowess? Could it not be that, in the absence of an ability to attract a mate at a physical level, he has developed a'song' in much the same manner as a lark, which is a small dull-coloured bird with an extravagant call?"
"What the bleeding heck are you jabbering about!" shrilled Swinburne. "Let me off this damned rack! Unbuckle these straps at once!"
Darwin's huge head leaned to one side slightly and the beady eyes blinked.
"We must ask, though-why would a poet concern himself with our research?"
"What research?" demanded Swinburne. "Tell me what's going on here. Why are you abducting chimney sweeps? And what in the name of all that's holy has happened to your head, Darwin? It's damned disgusting! Why are you attached to those contraptions? Who is this automaton?"
A strange rattling emerged from the seated figure. Was it laughter?
"My, how inquisitive it is! So many questions! We have a proposal; a minor experiment; would it not be of interest to answer the young man? We have never explained ourselves to a nonrational mind. Will he show any capacity for thought that transcends moral outrage or will the fiction of God guide his response?"
"I don't believe in God!" screeched Swinburne.
"Ah! Listen! He claims disbelief. A faithless poet! We understand they classify themselves as `Bohemians.' On what basis does a mind that has neither scientific rationality nor superstitious faith operate? This is truly fascinating, do we not think? We do. We do. Proceed! Explain to him, and when we have analysed his response, he will be disposed of."
"What?" screamed Swinburne. "Disposed of? What does that mean?"
"Observe: the survival instinct in action," declared