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We walked behind the reader for perhaps a half-mile. When I thought it was safe to stop him, I called out to him. He halted and put his squirrel on the ground and waited for me.
I asked him if he had noticed Polivinosel lying on the path.
Puzzled, he shook his head.
“I saw you step over him,” I said.
“I stepped over nothing,” he insisted. “The path was perfectly clear.” He peered closely at me. “I can see you’re a newcomer. Perhaps you’ve had your first taste of the Brew. Sometimes, at first, it gives strange sensations and visions. Takes a little time to get adjusted to it, you know.”
I said nothing about that, but I did argue with him about Polivinosel. Not until I mentioned the name, however, did he look enlightened. He smiled in a superior ma
“Ah, my good man, you mustn’t believe everything you hear, you know. Just because the majority, who have always been igno-rami and simpletons, choose to explain the new phenomena in terms of ancient superstition is no reason for an intelligent man such as yourself to put any credence in them. I suggest you discard anything you hear—with the exception of what I tell you, of course—and use the rational powers that you were lucky enough to be born with and to develop in some university, providing, that is, you didn’t go to some institution which is merely a training ground for members of the Chamber of Commerce, Rotary, Odd Fellows, Knights of Columbus, Shriners, or the Lions, Moose, Elk, and other curious beasts. I scarcely—”
“But I saw Polivinosel!” I said, exasperated. “And if you hadn’t lifted your feet, you’d have fallen over him!”
“What’s yours?” I challenged.
“Dr. Durham invented some sort of machine that generates the unknown chemical with which he is now infecting the Illinois River. And eventually, we hope, the waters of the world. One of its properties is a destruction of many of the sociologically and psychologically conditioned reflexes which some term inhibitions, mores, or neuroses. And a very good thing, too. It also happens to be a universal antibiotic and tonic—such a combination!—besides a number of other things, not all of which I approve.
“However, he has, I must admit, done away with such societal and politico-economic structurologies and agents as factories, shops, doctors, hospitals, schools—which have hitherto devoted most of their time and energy to turning out half-educated morons—bureaucracies, automobiles, churches, movies, advertising, distilleries, soap operas, armies, prostitutes, and i
“Unfortunately, the rationalizing instinct in man is very hard to down, as is the power-drive. So you have charlatans posing as prophets and setting up all sorts of new churches and attracting the multitudes in all their moronic simplicity and pathetic eagerness to grasp at some explanation for the unknown.”
I wanted to believe him, but I knew that the Professor had neither ability nor money enough to build such a machine.
“What is the peasants’ explanation for the Brew?” I asked.
“They have none except that it comes from the Bottle,” said the Rational Man. “They swear that Durham derives his powers from this Bottle, which, by description, is nothing more than a common everyday beer bottle. Some declare, however, that it bears, in stiacciato, the image of a bull.”
Guilt brought sweat out on my forehead. So, it had been my gift! And I’d thought I was playing a harmless little hoax on my likable but daffy old Classical-Lit prof!
“That story is probably derived from his name,” I said hastily. “After all, his students used to call him ‘Bull.’ It wasn’t only the fact that his name was Durham. His wife led him around with a ring in his nose, and—”
“In which case, he fooled his students,” said the Rational Man. “For he was, beneath that mild and meek exterior, a prize bull, a veritable stallion, a lusty old goat. As you may or may not know, he has any number of nymphs stabled in his so-called Flower Palace, not to mention beautiful Peggy Rourke, now known as the—”
Alice gasped. “Then she is living! And with Durham!”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well that depends upon whether or not you listen to these charlatans. Some of them would have it that she has become transfigured in some mystical-muddled ma
He shook his head and said, “Oh, the rationalizing species that must invent gods and dogmas!” “Who’s Mahrud?” I asked.
I was getting so much data all at once that I was more mixed up than ever.
“Haven’t you ever seen Mahrud?” I asked.
“No, and I never shall. Those so-called gods just don’t exist, any more than the Allegory or the Ass. Nobody with a rational mind could believe in them. Unfortunately, the Brew, despite its many admirable qualities, does have a strong tendency to make one illogical, irrational, and susceptible to suggestion.”
He tapped his high forehead and said, “But I accept all the good things and reject the others. I’m quite happy.”
Shortly after this, we came out on a country road I recognized.
The Rational Man said, “We’ll be coming soon to my house. Would you two care to stop? We’ll have this squirrel to eat and lots of Brew from the well in the backyard. Some of my friends will be there, and we’ll have a nice intellectual talk before the orgy starts. You’ll find them congenial—they’re all atheists or agnostics.”
I shuddered at the idea of being asked to drink the hated Liquor. “Sorry,” I said. “We must be going. But tell me, as a matter of curiosity, how you caught that squirrel. You’re not carrying any weapon.”
“Can’t,” he replied, waving his book.
“Can’t? Why not?”
“No, not can’t. K-a-n-t. Kant. You see, the Brew has had this extraordinary effect on stimulating certain animals’ growth. More than that, it has, I’m sure, affected their cerebral systems. They seem much more intelligent than before. A combination of increase in size of brain and change in organization of neurons, probably. Whatever the effect, the change has been most remarkable in rodents. A good thing, too. Wonderful source of meat, you know.
“Anyway,” he continued, as he saw my increasing impatience, “I’ve found that one doesn’t need a gun, which no longer explodes in this area, anyway, nor a bow and arrow. All one has to do is locate an area abundant in squirrels and sit down and read aloud. While one is both enjoying and educating oneself, the squirrel, attracted by one’s monotonous voice, descends slowly from his tree and draws nearer.
“One pays no attention to him—one reads on. The beast sits close to one, slowly waving its bushy tail, its big black eyes fixed on one. After a while, one rises, closes the book, and picks up the squirrel, which is by now completely stupefied and never comes out of its state, not even when one takes it home and cuts it throat.
“I’ve found by experiment that one gets the best results by reading The Critique of Pure Reason. Absolutely stuns them. However, rabbits, for some reason, are more easily seduced by my reading Henry Millers Tropic of Capricorn. In the French translation, of course. Friend of mine says that the best book for the birds is Hubbard’s Dianetics, but one ought to take pride in one’s tools, you know. I’ve always caught my pheasants and geese with Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex.” We came to his estate and said good-by to him. Stepping up our pace, we walked for several miles past the many farmhouses along the gravel road. Some of these had burned down, but their occupants had simply moved into the barn. Or, if that had gone up in flames, had erected a lean-to.