Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _A Martian Odyssey and Others_ published in 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. THE IDEAL _"This, " said the Franciscan, "is my Automaton, who at the proper timewill speak, answer whatsoever question I may ask, and reveal all secretknowledge to me. " He smiled as he laid his hand affectionately on theiron skull that topped the pedestal. _ _The youth gazed open-mouthed, first at the head and then at the Friar. "But it's iron!" he whispered. "The head is iron, good father. "_ _"Iron without, skill within, my son, " said Roger Bacon. "It will speak, at the proper time and in its own manner, for so have I made it. Aclever man can twist the devil's arts to God's ends, thereby cheatingthe fiend--Sst! There sounds vespers!_ Plena gratia, ave Virgo--" _But it did not speak. Long hours, long weeks, the_ doctor mirabilis_watched his creation, but iron lips were silent and the iron eyes dull, and no voice but the great man's own sounded in his monkish cell, norwas there ever an answer to all the questions that he asked--until oneday when he sat surveying his work, composing a letter to Duns Scotus indistant Cologne--one day--_ _"Time is!" said the image, and smiled benignly. _ _The Friar looked up. "Time is, indeed, " he echoed. "Time it is that yougive utterance, and to some assertion less obvious than that time is. For of course time is, else there were nothing at all. Without time--"_ _"Time was!" rumbled the image, still smiling, but sternly at the statueof Draco. _ _"Indeed time was, " said the Monk. "Time was, is, and will be, for timeis that medium in which events occur. Matter exists in space, butevents--"_ _The image smiled no longer. "Time is past!" it roared in tones deep asthe cathedral bell outside, and burst into ten thousand pieces_. * * * * * "There, " said old Haskel van Manderpootz, shutting the book, "is myclassical authority in this experiment. This story, overlaid as it iswith mediæval myth and legend, proves that Roger Bacon himself attemptedthe experiment--and failed. " He shook a long finger at me. "Yet do notget the impression, Dixon, that Friar Bacon was not a great man. Hewas--extremely great, in fact; he lighted the torch that his namesakeFrancis Bacon took up four centuries later, and that now van Manderpootzrekindles. " I stared in silence. "Indeed, " resumed the Professor, "Roger Bacon might almost be called athirteenth century van Manderpootz, or van Manderpootz a twenty-firstcentury Roger Bacon. His _Opus Majus_, _Opus Minus_, and _OpusTertium_--" "What, " I interrupted impatiently, "has all this to do with--that?" Iindicated the clumsy metal robot standing in the corner of thelaboratory. "Don't interrupt!" snapped van Manderpootz. "I'll--" At this point I fell out of my chair. The mass of metal had ejaculatedsomething like "_A-a-gh-rasp_" and had lunged a single pace toward thewindow, arms upraised. "What the devil!" I sputtered as the thingdropped its arms and returned stolidly to its place. "A car must have passed in the alley, " said van Manderpootzindifferently. "Now as I was saying, Roger Bacon--" I ceased to listen. When van Manderpootz is determined to finish astatement, interruptions are worse than futile. As an ex-student of his, I know. So I permitted my thoughts to drift to certain personal problemsof my own, particularly Tips Alva, who was the most pressing problem ofthe moment. Yes, I mean Tips Alva the 'vision dancer, the little blondeimp who entertains on the Yerba Mate hour for that Brazilian company. Chorus girls, dancers, and television stars are a weakness of mine;maybe it indicates that there's a latent artistic soul in me. Maybe. I'm Dixon Wells, you know, scion of the N. J. Wells Corporation, Engineers Extraordinary. I'm supposed to be an engineer myself; I saysupposed, because in the seven years since my graduation, my fatherhasn't given me much opportunity to prove it. He has a strong sense ofvalue of time, and I'm cursed with the unenviable quality of being lateto anything and for everything. He even asserts that the occasionaldesigns I submit are late Jacobean, but that isn't fair. They'rePost-Romanesque. Old N. J. Also objects to my penchant for ladies of the stage and'vision screen, and periodically threatens to cut my allowance, thoughthat's supposed to be a salary. It's inconvenient to be so dependent, and sometimes I regret that unfortunate market crash of 2009 that wipedout my own money, although it did keep me from marrying Whimsy White, and van Manderpootz, through his subjunctivisor, succeeded in provingthat that would have been a catastrophe. But it turned out nearly asmuch of a disaster anyway, as far as my feelings were concerned. It tookme months to forget Joanna Caldwell and her silvery eyes. Just anotherinstance when I was a little late. Van Manderpootz himself is my old Physics Professor, head of theDepartment of Newer Physics at N. Y. U. , and a genius, but a biteccentric. Judge for yourself. "And that's the thesis, " he said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. "Eh? Oh, of course. But what's that grinning robot got to do with it?" He purpled. "I've just told you!" he roared. "Idiot! Imbecile! To dreamwhile van Manderpootz talks! Get out! Get out!" I got. It was late anyway, so late that I overslept more than usual inthe morning, and suffered more than the usual lecture on promptness frommy father at the office. * * * * * Van Manderpootz had forgotten his anger by the next time I dropped infor an evening. The robot still stood in the corner near the window, and I lost no time asking its purpose. "It's just a toy I had some of the students construct, " he explained. "There's a screen of photoelectric cells behind the right eye, soconnected that when a certain pattern is thrown on them, it activatesthe mechanism. The thing's plugged into the light-circuit, but it reallyought to run on gasoline. " "Why?" "Well, the pattern it's set for is the shape of an automobile. Seehere. " He picked up a card from his desk, and cut in the outlines of astreamlined car like those of that year. "Since only one eye is used, "he continued, "The thing can't tell the difference between a full-sizedvehicle at a distance and this small outline nearby. It has no sense ofperspective. " He held the bit of cardboard before the eye of the mechanism. Instantlycame its roar of "_A-a-gh-rasp!_" and it leaped forward a single pace, arms upraised. Van Manderpootz withdrew the card, and again the thingrelapsed stolidly into its place. "What the devil!" I exclaimed. "What's it for?" "Does van Manderpootz ever do work without reason back of it? I use itas a demonstration in my seminar. " "To demonstrate what?" "The power of reason, " said van Manderpootz solemnly. "How? And why ought it to work on gasoline instead of electric power?" "One question at a time, Dixon. You have missed the grandeur of vanManderpootz's concept. See here, this creature, imperfect as it is, represents the predatory machine. It is the mechanical parallel of thetiger, lurking in its jungle to leap on living prey. _This_ monster'sjungle is the city; its prey is the unwary machine that follows thetrails called streets. Understand?" "No. " "Well, picture this automaton, not as it is, but as van Manderpootzcould make it if he wished. It lurks gigantic in the shadows ofbuildings; it creeps stealthily through dark alleys; it skulks ondeserted streets, with its gasoline engine purring quietly. Then--anunsuspecting automobile flashes its image on the screen behind itseyes. It leaps. It seizes its prey, swinging it in steel arms to itssteel jaws. Through the metal throat of its victim crash steel teeth;the blood of its prey--the gasoline, that is--is drained into itsstomach, or its gas-tank. With renewed strength it flings away the huskand prowls on to seek other prey. It is the machine-carnivore, the tigerof mechanics. " I suppose I stared dumbly. It occurred to me suddenly that the brain ofthe great van Manderpootz was cracking. "What the--?" I gasped. "That, " he said blandly, "is but a concept. I have many another use forthe toy. I can prove anything with it, anything I wish. " "You can? Then prove something. " "Name your proposition, Dixon. " I hesitated, nonplussed. "Come!" he said impatiently. "Look here; I will prove that anarchy isthe ideal government, or that Heaven and Hell are the same place, orthat--" "Prove that!" I said. "About Heaven and Hell. " "Easily. First we will endow my robot with intelligence. I add amechanical memory by means of the old Cushman delayed valve; I add amathematical sense with any of the calculating machines; I give it avoice and a vocabulary with the magnetic-impulse wire phonograph. Nowthe point I make is this: Granted an intelligent machine, does it notfollow that every other machine constructed like it must have theidentical qualities? Would not each robot given the same insides haveexactly the same character?" "No!" I snapped. "Human beings can't make two machines exactly alike. There'd be tiny differences; one would react quicker than others, or onewould prefer Fox Airsplitters as prey, while another reacted mostvigorously to Carnecars. In other words, they'd have--_individuality_!"I grinned in triumph. "My point exactly, " observed van Manderpootz. "You admit, then, thatthis individuality is the result of imperfect workmanship. If our meansof manufacture were perfect, all robots would be identical, and thisindividuality would not exist. Is that true?" "I--suppose so. " "Then I argue that our own individuality is due to our falling short ofperfection. All of us--even van Manderpootz--are individuals onlybecause we are not perfect. Were we perfect, each of us would be exactlylike everyone else. True?" "Uh--yes. " "But Heaven, by definition, is a place where all is perfect. Therefore, in Heaven everybody is exactly like everybody else, and _therefore_, everybody is thoroughly and completely bored! There is no torture likeboredom, Dixon, and--Well, have I proved my point?" I was floored. "But--about anarchy, then?" I stammered. "Simple. Very simple for van Manderpootz. See here; with a perfectnation--that is, one whose individuals are all exactly alike, which Ihave just proved to constitute perfection--with a perfect nation, Irepeat, laws and government are utterly superfluous. If everybody reactsto stimuli in the same way, laws are quite useless, obviously. If, forinstance, a certain event occurred that might lead to a declaration ofwar, why, everybody in such a nation would vote for war at the sameinstant. Therefore government is unnecessary, and therefore anarchy isthe ideal government, since it is the proper government for a perfectrace. " He paused. "I shall now prove that anarchy is _not_ the idealgovernment--" "Never mind!" I begged. "Who am I to argue with van Manderpootz? But is_that_ the whole purpose of this dizzy robot? Just a basis for logic?"The mechanism replied with its usual rasp as it leaped toward somevagrant car beyond the window. "Isn't that enough?" growled van Manderpootz. "However, "--his voicedropped--"I have even a greater destiny in mind. My boy, van Manderpootzhas solved the riddle of the universe!" He paused impressively. "Well, why don't you say something?" "Uh!" I gasped. "It's--uh--marvelous!" "Not for van Manderpootz, " he said modestly. "But--what is it?" "Eh--Oh!" He frowned. "Well, I'll tell you, Dixon. You won'tunderstand, but I'll tell you. " He coughed. "As far back as the earlytwentieth century, " he resumed, "Einstein proved that energy isparticular. Matter is also particular, and now van Manderpootz adds thatspace and time are discrete!" He glared at me. "Energy and matter are particular, " I murmured, "and space and time arediscrete! How very moral of them!" "Imbecile!" he blazed. "To pun on the words of van Manderpootz! You knowvery well that I mean particular and discrete in the physical sense. Matter is composed of particles, therefore it is particular. Theparticles of matter are called electrons, protons, and neutrons, andthose of energy, quanta. I now add two others, the particles of space Icall spations, those of time, chronons. " "And what in the devil, " I asked, "are particles of space and time?" "Just what I said!" snapped van Manderpootz. "Exactly as the particlesof matter are the smallest pieces of matter that can exist, just asthere is no such thing as a half of an electron, or for that matter, half a quantum, so the chronon is the smallest possible fragment oftime, and the spation the smallest possible bit of space. Neither timenor space is continuous; each is composed of these infinitely tinyfragments. " "Well, how long is a chronon in time? How big is a spation in space?" "Van Manderpootz has even measured that. A chronon is the length of timeit takes one quantum of energy to push one electron from one electronicorbit to the next. There can obviously be no shorter interval of time, since an electron is the smallest unit of matter and the quantum thesmallest unit of energy. And a spation is the exact volume of a proton. Since nothing smaller exists, that is obviously the smallest unit ofspace. " "Well, look here, " I argued. "Then what's in between these particles ofspace and time? If time moves, as you say, in jerks of one chronon each, what's between the jerks?" "Ah!" said the great van Manderpootz. "Now we come to the heart of thematter. In between the particles of space and time, must obviously besomething that is neither space, time, matter, nor energy. A hundredyears ago Shapley anticipated van Manderpootz in a vague way when heannounced his cosmo-plasma, the great underlying matrix in which timeand space and the universe are embedded. Now van Manderpootz announcesthe ultimate unit, the universal particle, the focus in which matter, energy, time, and space meet, the unit from which electrons, protons, neutrons, quanta, spations, and chronons are all constructed. The riddleof the universe is solved by what I have chosen to name the cosmon. " Hisblue eyes bored into me. "Magnificent!" I said feebly, knowing that some such word was expected. "But what good is it?" "What good is it?" he roared. "It provides--or will provide, once I workout a few details--the means of turning energy into time, or space intomatter, or time into space, or--" He sputtered into silence. "Fool!" hemuttered. "To think that you studied under the tutelage of vanManderpootz. I blush; I actually blush!" One couldn't have told it if he were blushing. His face was alwaysrubicund enough. "Colossal!" I said hastily. "What a mind!" That mollified him. "But that's not all, " he proceeded. "Van Manderpootznever stops short of perfection. I now announce the unit particle ofthought--the psychon!" This was a little too much. I simply stared. "Well may you be dumbfounded, " said van Manderpootz. "I presume you areaware, by hearsay at least, of the existence of thought. The psychon, the unit of thought, is one electron plus one proton, which are bound soas to form one neutron, embedded in one cosmon, occupying a volume ofone spation, driven by one quantum for a period of one chronon. Veryobvious; very simple. " "Oh, very!" I echoed. "Even I can see that that equals one psychon. " He beamed. "Excellent! Excellent!" "And what, " I asked, "will you do with the psychons?" "Ah, " he rumbled. "Now we go even _past_ the heart of the matter, andreturn to Isaak here. " He jammed a thumb toward the robot. "Here I willcreate Roger Bacon's mechanical head. In the skull of this clumsycreature will rest such intelligence as not even van Manderpootz--Ishould say, as _only_ van Manderpootz--can conceive. It remains merelyto construct my idealizator. " "Your idealizator?" "Of course. Have I not just proven that thoughts are as real as matter, energy, time, or space? Have I not just demonstrated that one can betransformed, through the cosmon, into any other? My idealizator is themeans of transforming psychons to quanta, just as, for instance, aCrookes tube or X-ray tube transforms matter to electrons. I will makeyour thoughts visible! And not your thoughts as they are in that numbbrain of yours, but in _ideal_ form. Do you see? The psychons of yourmind are the same as those from any other mind, just as all electronsare identical, whether from gold or iron. Yes! Your psychons"--his voicequavered--"are identical with those from the mind of--van Manderpootz!"He paused, shaken. "Actually?" I gasped. "Actually. Fewer in number, of course, but identical. Therefore, myidealizator shows your thought released from the impress of yourpersonality. It shows it--ideal!" Well, I was late to the office again. * * * * * A week later I thought of van Manderpootz. Tips was on tour somewhere, and I didn't dare take anyone else out because I'd tried it once beforeand she'd heard about it. So, with nothing to do, I finally droppedaround to the professor's quarter, found him missing, and eventuallylocated him in his laboratory at the Physics Building. He was putteringaround the table that had once held that damned subjunctivisor of his, but now it supported an indescribable mess of tubes and tangled wires, and as its most striking feature, a circular plane mirror etched with agrating of delicately scratched lines. "Good evening, Dixon, " he rumbled. I echoed his greeting. "What's that?" I asked. "My idealizator. A rough model, much too clumsy to fit into Isaak'siron skull. I'm just finishing it to try it out. " He turned glitteringblue eyes on me. "How fortunate that you're here. It will save the worlda terrible risk. " "A risk?" "Yes. It is obvious that too long an exposure to the device will extracttoo many psychons, and leave the subject's mind in a sort of moroniccondition. I was about to accept the risk, but I see now that it wouldbe woefully unfair to the world to endanger the mind of van Manderpootz. But you are at hand, and will do very well. " "Oh, no I won't!" "Come, come!" he said, frowning. "The danger is negligible. In fact, Idoubt whether the device will be able to extract _any_ psychons from_your_ mind. At any rate, you will be perfectly safe for a period of atleast half an hour. I, with a vastly more productive mind, coulddoubtless stand the strain indefinitely, but my responsibility to theworld is too great to chance it until I have tested the machine onsomeone else. You should be proud of the honor. " "Well, I'm not!" But my protest was feeble, and after all, despite hisoverbearing mannerisms, I knew van Manderpootz liked me, and I waspositive he would not have exposed me to any real danger. In the end Ifound myself seated before the table facing the etched mirror. "Put your face against the barrel, " said van Manderpootz, indicating astove-pipe-like tube. "That's merely to cut off extraneous sights, sothat you can see only the mirror. Go ahead, I tell you! It's no morethan the barrel of a telescope or microscope. " I complied. "Now what?" I asked. "What do you see?" "My own face in the mirror. " "Of course. Now I start the reflector rotating. " There was a faint whir, and the mirror was spinning smoothly, still with only a slightly blurredimage of myself. "Listen, now, " continued van Manderpootz. "Here is whatyou are to do. You will think of a generic noun. 'House, ' for instance. If you think of house, you will see, not an individual house, but yourideal house, the house of all your dreams and desires. If you think ofa horse, you will see what your mind conceives as the perfect horse, such a horse as dream and longing create. Do you understand? Have youchosen a topic?" "Yes. " After all, I was only twenty-eight; the noun I had chosenwas--girl. "Good, " said the professor. "I turn on the current. " There was a blue radiance behind the mirror. My own face still staredback at me from the spinning surface, but something was forming behindit, building up, growing. I blinked; when I focused my eyes again, itwas--_she_ was--there. Lord! I can't begin to describe her. I don't even know if I saw herclearly the first time. It was like looking into another world andseeing the embodiment of all longings, dreams, aspirations, and ideals. It was so poignant a sensation that it crossed the borderline into pain. It was--well, exquisite torture or agonized delight. It was at onceunbearable and irresistible. But I gazed. I had to. There was a haunting familiarity about theimpossibly beautiful features. I had seen the face--somewhere--sometime. In dreams? No; I realized suddenly what was the source of thatfamiliarity. This was no living woman, but a synthesis. Her nose was thetiny, impudent one of Whimsy White at her loveliest moment; her lipswere the perfect bow of Tips Alva; her silvery eyes and dusky velvethair were those of Joan Caldwell. But the aggregate, the sum total, theface in the mirror--that was none of these; it was a face impossibly, incredibly, outrageously beautiful. Only her face and throat were visible, and the features were cool, expressionless, and still as a carving. I wandered suddenly if she couldsmile, and with the thought, she did. If she had been beautiful before, now her beauty flamed to such a pitch that it was--well, insolent; itwas an affront to be so lovely; it was insulting. I felt a wild surge ofanger that the image before me should flaunt such beauty, and yetbe--_non-existent_! It was deception, cheating, fraud, a promise thatcould never be fulfilled. Anger died in the depths of that fascination. I wondered what the restof her was like, and instantly she moved gracefully back until her fullfigure was visible. I must be a prude at heart, for she wasn't wearingthe usual cuirass-and-shorts of that year, but an iridescentfour-paneled costume that all but concealed her dainty knees. But herform was slim and erect as a column of cigarette smoke in still air, andI knew that she could dance like a fragment of mist on water. And withthat thought she did move, dropping in a low curtsy, and looking up withthe faintest possible flush crimsoning the curve of her throat. Yes, Imust be a prude at heart; despite Tips Alva and Whimsy White and therest, my ideal was modest. It was unbelievable that the mirror was simply giving back my thoughts. She seemed as real as myself, and--after all--I guess she was. As realas myself, no more, no less, because she was part of my own mind. And atthis point I realized that van Manderpootz was shaking me and bellowing, "Your time's up. Come out of it! Your half-hour's up!" He must have switched off the current. The image faded, and I took myface from the tube, dropping it on my arms. "O-o-o-o-o-oh!" I groaned. "How do you feel?" he snapped. "Feel? All right--physically. " I looked up. Concern flickered in his blue eyes. "What's the cube root of 4913?" hecrackled sharply. I've always been quick at figures. "It's--uh--17, " I returned dully. "Why the devil--?" "You're all right mentally, " he announced. "Now--why were you sittingthere like a dummy for half an hour? My idealizator must have worked, asis only natural for a van Manderpootz creation, but what were youthinking of?" "I thought--I thought of 'girl', " I groaned. He snorted. "Hah! You would, you idiot! 'House' or 'horse' wasn't goodenough; you had to pick something with emotional connotations. Well, youcan start right in forgetting her, because she doesn't exist. " I couldn't give up hope, as easily as that. "But can't you--can'tyou--?" I didn't even know what I meant to ask. "Van Manderpootz, " he announced, "is a mathematician, not a magician. Doyou expect me to materialize an ideal for you?" When I had no reply buta groan, he continued. "Now I think it safe enough to try the devicemyself. I shall take--let's see--the thought 'man. ' I shall see what thesuperman looks like, since the ideal of van Manderpootz can be nothingless than superman. " He seated himself. "Turn that switch, " he said. "Now!" I did. The tubes glowed into low blue light. I watched dully, disinterestedly; nothing held any attraction for me after that image ofthe ideal. "Huh!" said van Manderpootz suddenly. "Turn it on, I say! I see nothingbut my own reflection. " I stared, then burst into a hollow laugh. The mirror was spinning; thebanks of tubes were glowing; the device was operating. Van Manderpootz raised his face, a little redder than usual. I laughedhalf hysterically. "After all, " he said huffily, "one might have a lowerideal of man than van Manderpootz. I see nothing nearly so humorous asyour situation. " The laughter died. I went miserably home, spent half the remainder ofthe night in morose contemplation, smoked nearly two packs ofcigarettes, and didn't get to the office at all the next day. * * * * * Tips Alva got back to town for a week-end broadcast, but I didn't evenbother to see her, just phoned her and told her I was sick. I guess myface lent credibility to the story, for she was duly sympathetic, andher face in the phone screen was quite anxious. Even at that, I couldn'tkeep my eyes away from her lips because, except for a bit too lustrousmake-up, they were the lips of the ideal. But they weren't enough; theyjust weren't enough. Old N. J. Began to worry again. I couldn't sleep late of mornings anymore, and after missing that one day, I kept getting down earlier andearlier until one morning I was only ten minutes late. He called me inat once. "Look here, Dixon, " he said. "Have you been to a doctor recently?" "I'm not sick, " I said listlessly. "Then for Heaven's sake, marry the girl! I don't care what chorus shekicks in, marry her and act like a human being again. " "I--can't. " "Oh. She's already married, eh?" Well, I couldn't tell him she didn't exist. I couldn't say I was in lovewith a vision, a dream, an ideal. He thought I was a little crazy, anyway, so I just muttered "Yeah, " and didn't argue when he saidgruffly: "Then you'll get over it. Take a vacation. Take _two_vacations. You might as well for all the good you are around here. " I didn't leave New York; I lacked the energy. I just mooned around thecity for a while, avoiding my friends, and dreaming of the impossiblebeauty of the face in the mirror. And by and by the longing to see thatvision of perfection once more began to become overpowering. I don'tsuppose anyone except me can understand the lure of that memory; theface, you see, had been my ideal, my concept of perfection. One seesbeautiful women here and there in the world; one falls in love, butalways, no matter how great their beauty or how deep one's love, theyfall short in some degree of the secret vision of the ideal. But not themirrored face; she was my ideal, and therefore, whatever imperfectionsshe might have had in the minds of others, in my eyes she had none. None, that is, save the terrible one of being only an ideal, andtherefore unattainable--but that is a fault inherent in all perfection. It was a matter of days before I yielded. Common sense told me it wasfutile, even foolhardy, to gaze again on the vision of perfectdesirability. I fought against the hunger, but I fought hopelessly, andwas not at all surprised to find myself one evening rapping on vanManderpootz's door in the University Club. He wasn't there; I'd beenhoping he wouldn't be, since it gave me an excuse to seek him in hislaboratory in the Physics Building, to which I would have dragged himanyway. There I found him, writing some sort of notations on the table that heldthe idealizator. "Hello, Dixon, " he said. "Did it ever occur to you thatthe ideal university cannot exist? Naturally not since it must becomposed of perfect students and perfect educators, in which case theformer could have nothing to learn and the latter, therefore, nothingto teach. " What interest had I in the perfect university and its inability toexist? My whole being was desolate over the non-existence of anotherideal. "Professor, " I said tensely, "may I use that--that thing of yoursagain? I want to--uh--see something. " My voice must have disclosed the situation, for van Manderpootz lookedup sharply. "So!" he snapped. "So you disregarded my advice! Forget her, I said. Forget her because she doesn't exist. " "But--I can't! Once more, Professor--only once more!" He shrugged, but his blue, metallic eyes were a little softer thanusual. After all, for some inconceivable reason, he likes me. "Well, Dixon, " he said, "you're of age and supposed to be of matureintelligence. I tell you that this is a very stupid request, and vanManderpootz always knows what he's talking about. If you want to stupefyyourself with the opium of impossible dreams, go ahead. This is the lastchance you'll have, for tomorrow the idealizator of van Manderpootz goesinto the Bacon head of Isaak there. I shall shift the oscillators sothat the psychons, instead of becoming light quanta, emerge as anelectron flow--a current which will actuate Isaak's vocal apparatus andcome out as speech. " He paused musingly. "Van Manderpootz will hear thevoice of the ideal. Of course Isaak can return only what psychons hereceives from the brain of the operator, but just as the image in themirror, the thoughts will have lost their human impress, and the wordswill be those of an ideal. " He perceived that I wasn't listening, Isuppose. "Go ahead, imbecile!" he grunted. I did. The glory that I hungered after flamed slowly into being, incredible in loveliness, and somehow, unbelievably, even more beautifulthan on that other occasion. I know why now; long afterwards, vanManderpootz explained that the very fact that I had seen an ideal oncebefore had altered my ideal, raised it to a higher level. With that faceamong my memories, my concept of perfection was different than it hadbeen. So I gazed and hungered. Readily and instantly the being in the mirrorresponded to my thoughts with smile and movement. When I thought oflove, her eyes blazed with such tenderness that it seemed as if--I--I, Dixon Wells--were part of those pairs who had made the great romances ofthe world, Heloise and Abelard, Tristram and Isolde, Aucassin andNicolette. It was like the thrust of a dagger to feel van Manderpootzshaking me, to hear his gruff voice calling, "Out of it! Out of it!Time's up. " I groaned and dropped my face on my hands. The Professor had been right, of course; this insane repetition had only intensified an unfulfillablelonging, and had made a bad mess ten times as bad. Then I heard himmuttering behind me. "Strange!" he murmured. "In fact, fantastic. Oedipus--oedipus of the magazine covers and billboards. " I looked dully around. He was standing behind me, squinting, apparently, into the spinning mirror beyond the end of the black tube. "Huh?" Igrunted wearily. "That face, " he said. "Very queer. You must have seen her features on ahundred magazines, on a thousand billboards, on countless 'visionbroadcasts. The oedipus complex in a curious form. " "Eh? Could _you_ see her?" "Of course!" he grunted. "Didn't I say a dozen times that the psychonsare transmuted to perfectly ordinary quanta of visible light? If youcould see her, why not I?" "But--what about billboards and all?" "That face, " said the professor slowly. "It's somewhat idealized, ofcourse, and certain details are wrong. Her eyes aren't that pallidsilver-blue you imagined; they're green--sea-green, emerald colored. " "What the devil, " I asked hoarsely, "are you talking about?" "About the face in the mirror. It happens to be, Dixon, a closeapproximation of the features of de Lisle d'Agrion, the Dragon Fly!" "You mean--she's real? She exists? She lives? She--" "Wait a moment, Dixon. She's real enough, but in accordance with yourhabit, you're a little late. About twenty-five years too late, I shouldsay. She must now be somewhere in the fifties--let's see--fifty-three, Ithink. But during your very early childhood, you must have seen her facepictured everywhere, de Lisle d'Agrion, the Dragon Fly. " I could only gulp. That blow was devastating. "You see, " continued van Manderpootz, "one's ideals are implanted veryearly. That's why you continually fall in love with girls who possessone or another feature that reminds you of her, her hair, her nose, hermouth, her eyes. Very simple, but rather curious. " "Curious!" I blazed. "Curious, you say! Everytime I look into one ofyour damned contraptions I find myself in love with a myth! A girl who'sdead, or married, or unreal, or turned into an old woman! Curious, eh?Damned funny, isn't it?" "Just a moment, " said the professor placidly. "It happens, Dixon, thatshe has a daughter. What's more, Denise resembles her mother. And what'sstill more, she's arriving in New York next week to study Americanletters at the University here. She writes, you see. " That was too much for immediate comprehension. "How--how do you know?" Igasped. It was one of the few times I have seen the colossal blandness of vanManderpootz ruffled. He reddened a trifle, and said slowly, "It alsohappens, Dixon, that many years ago in Amsterdam, Haskel van Manderpootzand de Lisle d'Agrion were--very friendly--more than friendly, I mightsay, but for the fact that two such powerful personalities as the DragonFly and van Manderpootz were always at odds. " He frowned. "I was almosther second husband. She's had seven, I believe; Denise is the daughterof her third. " "Why--why is she coming here?" "Because, " he said with dignity, "van Manderpootz is here. I am still afriend of de Lisle's. " He turned and bent over the complex device on thetable. "Hand me that wrench, " he ordered. "Tonight I dismantle this, andtomorrow start reconstructing it for Isaak's head. " * * * * * But when, the following week, I rushed eagerly back to van Manderpootz'slaboratory, the idealizator was still in place. The professor greeted mewith a humorous twist to what was visible of his bearded mouth. "Yes, it's still here, " he said, gesturing at the device. "I've decided tobuild an entirely new one for Isaak, and besides, this one has affordedme considerable amusement. Furthermore, in the words of Oscar Wilde, whoam I to tamper with a work of genius. After all, the mechanism is theproduct of the great van Manderpootz. " He was deliberately tantalizing me. He knew that I hadn't come to hearhim discourse on Isaak, or even on the incomparable van Manderpootz. Then he smiled and softened, and turned to the little inner officeadjacent, the room where Isaak stood in metal austerity. "Denise!" hecalled, "come here. " I don't know exactly what I expected, but I do know that the breath leftme as the girl entered. She wasn't exactly my image of the ideal, ofcourse; she was perhaps the merest trifle slimmer, and her eyes--well, they must have been much like those of de Lisle d'Agrion, for they werethe clearest emerald I've ever seen. They were impudently direct eyes, and I could imagine why van Manderpootz and the Dragon Fly might havebeen forever quarreling; that was easy to imagine, looking into the eyesof the Dragon Fly's daughter. Nor was Denise, apparently, quite as femininely modest as my image ofperfection. She wore the extremely unconcealing costume of the day, which covered, I suppose, about as much of her as one of the one-pieceswimming suits of the middle years of the twentieth century. She gave animpression, not so much of fleeting grace as of litheness and supplestrength, an air of independence, frankness, and--I say itagain--impudence. "Well!" she said coolly as van Manderpootz presented me. "So you're thescion of the N. J. Wells Corporation. Every now and then your escapadesenliven the Paris Sunday supplements. Wasn't it you who snared a milliondollars in the market so you could ask Whimsy White--?" I flushed. "That was greatly exaggerated, " I said hastily, "and anyway Ilost it before we--uh--before I--" "Not before you made somewhat of a fool of yourself, I believe, " shefinished sweetly. Well, that's the sort she was. If she hadn't been so infernally lovely, if she hadn't looked so much like the face in the mirror, I'd haveflared up, said "Pleased to have met you, " and never have seen heragain. But I couldn't get angry, not when she had the dusky hair, theperfect lips, the saucy nose of the being who to me was ideal. So I did see her again, and several times again. In fact, I suppose Ioccupied most of her time between the few literary courses she wastaking, and little by little I began to see that in other respectsbesides the physical she was not so far from my ideal. Beneath herimpudence was honesty, and frankness, and, despite herself, sweetness, so that even allowing for the head-start I'd had, I fell in love prettyhastily. And what's more, I knew she was beginning to reciprocate. That was the situation when I called for her one noon and took her overto van Manderpootz's laboratory. We were to lunch with him at theUniversity Club, but we found him occupied in directing some experimentin the big laboratory beyond his personal one, untangling some sort ofmess that his staff had blundered into. So Denise and I wandered backinto the smaller room, perfectly content to be alone together. I simplycouldn't feel hungry in her presence; just talking to her was enough ofa substitute for food. "I'm going to be a good writer, " she was saying musingly. "Some day, Dick, I'm going to be famous. " Well, everyone knows how correct that prediction was. I agreed with herinstantly. She smiled. "You're nice, Dick, " she said. "Very nice. " "Very?" "_Very!_" she said emphatically. Then her green eyes strayed over to thetable that held the idealizator. "What crack-brained contraption ofUncle Haskel's is that?" she asked. I explained, rather inaccurately, I'm afraid, but no ordinary engineercan follow the ramifications of a van Manderpootz conception. Nevertheless, Denise caught the gist of it and her eyes glowed emeraldfire. "It's fascinating!" she exclaimed. She rose and moved over to the table. "I'm going to try it. " "Not without the professor, you won't! It might be dangerous. " That was the wrong thing to say. The green eyes glowed brighter as shecast me a whimsical glance. "But I am, " she said. "Dick, I'm goingto--see my ideal man!" She laughed softly. I was panicky. Suppose her ideal turned out tall and dark and powerful, instead of short and sandy-haired and a bit--well, chubby, as I am. "No!" I said vehemently. "I won't let you!" She laughed again. I suppose she read my consternation, for she saidsoftly, "Don't be silly, Dick. " She sat down, placed her face againstthe opening of the barrel, and commanded. "Turn it on. " I couldn't refuse her. I set the mirror whirling, then switched on thebank of tubes. Then immediately I stepped behind her, squinting intowhat was visible of the flashing mirror, where a face was forming, slowly--vaguely. I thrilled. Surely the hair of the image was sandy. I even fancied nowthat I could trace a resemblance to my own features. Perhaps Denisesensed something similar, for she suddenly withdrew her eyes from thetube and looked up with a faintly embarrassed flush, a thing mostunusual for her. "Ideals are dull!" she said. "I want a real thrill. Do you know what I'mgoing to see? I'm going to visualize ideal horror. That's what I'll do. I'm going to see absolute horror!" "Oh, no you're not!" I gasped. "That's a terribly dangerous idea. " Offin the other room I heard the voice of van Manderpootz, "Dixon!" "Dangerous--bosh!" Denise retorted. "I'm a writer, Dick. All this meansto me is material. It's just experience, and I want it. " Van Manderpootz again. "Dixon! Dixon! Come here. " I said, "Listen, Denise. I'll be right back. Don't try anything until I'm here--please!" I dashed into the big laboratory. Van Manderpootz was facing a cowedgroup of assistants, quite apparently in extreme awe of the great man. "Hah, Dixon!" he rasped. "Tell these fools what an Emmerich valve is, and why it won't operate in a free electronic stream. Let 'em see thateven an ordinary engineer knows that much. " Well, an ordinary engineer doesn't, but it happened that I did. Not thatI'm particularly exceptional as an engineer, but I _did_ happen to knowthat because a year or two before I'd done some work on the big tidalturbines up in Maine, where they have to use Emmerich valves to guardagainst electrical leakage from the tremendous potentials in theircondensers. So I started explaining, and van Manderpootz keptinterpolating sarcasms about his staff, and when I finally finished, Isuppose I'd been in there about half an hour. And then--I rememberedDenise! I left van Manderpootz staring as I rushed back, and sure enough, therewas the girl with her face pressed against the barrel, and her handsgripping the table edge. Her features were hidden, of course, but therewas something about her strained position, her white knuckles-- "Denise!" I yelled. "Are you all right? _Denise!_" She didn't move. I stuck my face in between the mirror and the end ofthe barrel and peered up the tube at her visage, and what I saw left meall but stunned. Have you ever seen stark, mad, infinite terror on ahuman face? That was what I saw in Denise's--inexpressible, unbearablehorror, worse than the fear of death could ever be. Her green eyes werewidened so that the whites showed around them; her perfect lips werecontorted, her whole face strained into a mask of sheer terror. I rushed for the switch, but in passing I caught a single glimpse of--ofwhat showed in the mirror. Incredible! Obscene, terror-laden, horrifyingthings--there just aren't words for them. There are no words. Denise didn't move as the tubes darkened. I raised her face from thebarrel and when she glimpsed me she moved. She flung herself out of thatchair and away, facing me with such mad terror that I halted. "Denise!" I cried. "It's just Dick. Look, Denise!" But as I moved toward her, she uttered a choking scream, her eyesdulled, her knees gave, and she fainted. Whatever she had seen, it musthave been appalling to the uttermost, for Denise was not the sort tofaint. * * * * * It was a week later that I sat facing van Manderpootz in his littleinner office. The grey metal figure of Isaak was missing, and the tablethat had held the idealizator was empty. "Yes, " said van Manderpootz. "I've dismantled it. One of vanManderpootz's few mistakes was to leave it around where a pair ofincompetents like you and Denise could get to it. It seems that Icontinually overestimate the intelligence of others. I suppose I tend tojudge them by the brain of van Manderpootz. " I said nothing. I was thoroughly disheartened and depressed, andwhatever the professor said about my lack of intelligence, I felt itjustified. "Hereafter, " resumed van Manderpootz, "I shall credit nobody exceptmyself with intelligence, and will doubtless be much more nearlycorrect. " He waved a hand at Isaak's vacant corner. "Not even the Baconhead, " he continued. "I've abandoned that project, because, when youcome right down to it, what need has the world of a mechanical brainwhen it already has that of van Manderpootz?" "Professor, " I burst out suddenly, "why won't they let me see Denise?I've been at the hospital every day, and they let me into her room justonce--just once, and that time she went right into a fit of hysterics. Why? Is she--?" I gulped. "She's recovering nicely, Dixon. " "Then why can't I see her?" "Well, " said van Manderpootz placidly, "it's like this. You see, whenyou rushed into the laboratory there, you made the mistake of pushingyour face in front of the barrel. She saw your features right in themidst of all those horrors she had called up. Do you see? From then onyour face was associated in her mind with the whole hell's brew in themirror. She can't even look at you without seeing all of it again. " "_Good--God!_" I gasped. "But she'll get over it, won't she? She'llforget that part of it?" "The young psychiatrist who attends her--a bright chap, by the way, witha number of my own ideas--believes she'll be quite over it in a coupleof months. But personally, Dixon, I don't think she'll ever welcome thesight of your face, though I myself have seen uglier visages somewhereor other. " I ignored that. "Lord!" I groaned. "What a mess!" I rose to depart, andthen--then I knew what inspiration means! "Listen!" I said, spinning back. "Listen, professor! Why can't you gether back here and let her visualize the ideally beautiful? And thenI'll--I'll stick my face into that!" Enthusiasm grew. "It can't fail!" Icried. "At the worst, it'll cancel that other memory. It's marvelous!" "But as usual, " said van Manderpootz, "a little late. " "Late? Why? You can put up your idealizator again. You'd do that much, wouldn't you?" "Van Manderpootz, " he observed, "is the very soul of generosity. I'd doit gladly, but it's still a little late, Dixon. You see, she married thebright young psychiatrist this noon. " Well, I've a date with Tips Alva tonight, and I'm going to be late forit, just as late as I please. And then I'm going to do nothing but stareat her lips all evening.