Wyndham Smith. S. Fowler Wright

during the last hour, of the alternatives that lay before him—either to return to a barbarous, bloody world of which he had no recollection now, and of which he could only form a vaguely terrible picture, or to face the utter loneliness of a deserted earth, with no better prospect than solitary death at last, which would end his species with himself—one of these—or else to join the general euthanasia which was the deliberately selected doom of his fellow men.

      But the actual choice he had supposed to be even less than that. The accepted rule was that a transferred identity must be adjusted within two days unless both the egos concerned should prefer to continue in their exchanged tenements, and such an occurrence had never been. Was it likely now?

      The information she brought gave him a choice which he might not have had, and which might not be easy to make. It was welcome news. But it explained nothing. Before he discussed, he must understand. “Why,” he asked, “did you get him to tell you that?”

      “Because it was essential for me to know whether, if I should agree on something with you tonight, I should have to deal with someone else tomorrow.”

      Yes. He saw that. That was sense. But what bargain could she wish to make? “To what,” he asked, “do you want me to agree?”

      “Before I say that, will you tell me whether you mean to go back to the other life?”

      “It sounds the most natural thing to do.”

      “History tells us that it was very horrible. Pain. Heat. Cold. Quarrels. Bad food. Diseases. All sorts of muddle and dirt. Even insects under your clothes.”

      “We haven’t decided that this life is any good.”

      “But that must have been worse in ever so many ways.”

      “And yet people wished to live.”

      “But you are going to live. You’ve arranged that.”

      “Not in a very attractive manner.”

      “Then it is just to oblige Colpeck-4XP to come back to that, if he thinks even the twentieth century wouldn’t be so bad? It’s you who’ve done that for him, and then you won’t face it yourself.”

      “That’s foolish. He can end his life here, if he will. He’ll be no worse off than he was before. In fact, better. I’ve given him a chance that he wouldn’t have had the initiative to get for himself.”

      This was a disconcerting reply. She had hoped something from this argument of justice, knowing that the brain which Wyndham Smith now controlled was of a particular scrupulosity on points for honour. But his reply was difficult to rebut. She had a better hope when he added, “But I haven’t said yet that I won’t let him have his way.”

      She said, “There won’t be much pleasure in being the only creature alive, even though the machines go on working, as I suppose they will, more or less”

      “I doubt that. No. I don’t see that there will.”

      Their eyes met. Prompted by the insurgent ego of twentieth-century barbarism which now controlled it, the brain of Colpeck-4XP became alive to the implication of this amazing interview.

      “Suppose,” she said, refusing to withdraw the gaze which he met so disconcertingly, “that you were not quite alone?”

      He did not affect to misunderstand. He answered directly, “You could not do that, even if I would agree—if you would dare. You have voted for your own death.”

      “But I was the rebel child.”

      It was an audacious assertion, even though it might be a true guess. Yet what penalty could it now bear, even though it were believed, even though it should be broadcast to the 4,999,998, who would be shocked by its shameless boast? There can be little for fear or hope, for resentment or retribution, among those who have united to end their race.

      After this, there were some minutes of silence. The ego of Wyndham Smith warred with the brain, the acquired character, the traditions of Colpeck-4XP, and the conflict was confused beyond speedy determination or assurance of victory for either side.

      Vinetta understood something of this. She judged correctly that to ask too much at this moment might be to get nothing at all, which she must not risk.

      But these new sharp emotions of hope and doubt had a fighting quality which would not be still. She asked, “You will not go back?”

      He considered this. “No,” he said, with deliberation. “I will stay here. I will see it out. That is, if he agrees.”

      “He will agree,” she said confidently. Her voice had a note of victory, of exaltation, such as had not been heard for centuries from a human throat.

      With cautious boldness, she pushed forward her lines of attack, asking more, though much less than all. “You will not expose me that I have come here?”

      No,” he answered, with the same reluctant-seeming deliberation as before, as though being forced along a path that he feared to tread, “I will not do that.”

      “I wish,” she said, “you would eat. Why should you stay for me? It is I, not you, who transgress. The time is short now. You will miss your meal.”

      “So,” he answered, “will you.” He added, “I cannot eat while you are here. It is not done.”

      She saw, as he said this, that he waged a fight which she must help him to win. She must not forget that he was handicapped with a Colpeck brain, or rather with one that had been trained to value the Colpeck traditions, cautions, and inhibitions.

      She said, “There was a time when men ate in each other’s presence.”

      “There was a time,” he replied, “as you have reminded me, when insects might crawl upon human flesh.” His hand made a spasmodic shrinking movement as he said this. It was a vile thought for one before whose birth most insects had left the world.

      “There was a later time when it became a marriage custom to eat together, though all other men, except young children, would feed apart.”

      “But,” he replied, “that custom is long since dead in more decent times. It is left behind.”

      She asked, “Where will our customs be in a week’s time? We do well to boast! But there will be one custom that is ended now.”

      She reached over. She took his spoon. She ate a mouthful of food. After that, she went with averted eyes. Neither did he look at her. They were both ashamed at what she had done. But she had raised a chaos within his heart that he could not still.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      “I am not Colpeck-4XP. I am Wyndham Smith.” So he told himself a score of times as he paced his room during the night, sometimes in explanation, sometimes in self-excuse, sometimes in the endeavour to mould desire to the point of settled resolve.

      Yet it was hard to realise, if not to believe. Its truth was evident in the fact alone that he was awake and disturbed with conflicting thoughts. Every memory, every tradition of conduct, every argument with which his mind was stored was on the side of the race to which he was otherwise so remote, yet which, by one irrevocable word, had become his in its hour of death.

      He saw that he had three questions to vex his mind, of which he must dispose in an orderly rotation:

      (1) Did he really intend to survive the general race-suicide which he had been solitary to oppose?

      (2) If so, did he wish Vinetta to be his wife in the future days?

      (3) If he did, was there any possible method by which she could escape the common fate, after she had consented thereto?

      He saw that, if he should answer the first question in the negative, the other two did not arise, and that it should therefore have prior consideration. Similarly, if the second should be negatived, the third need not be asked, and that was further evidence that he had numbered them rightly.

      Yet