The Great Fog (17 page)

“It's half-blind,” said Mather, turning the Jones-head down, raising the Jones-wrist, and looking at the wrist watch. “I can hardly see the watch hands!”

“You've never been able to see across the room. Look at those books in the bookcase over there.”

Jones saw Mather turn the Jones-head toward the books and become interested.

“Yes,” came the grudging acknowledgment. “It's queer to see as far as that with the naked eye.”

“And now look out of the window.”

Mather ambled the big Jones-body across the room.

“I feel a bit as though I were on stilts,” he giggled as he passed his own body. Then, at the window, he added: “It is rather fun with these long-distance eyes of yours. Spectacles don't quite give all that.”

For a few minutes they walked about, each trying out his borrowed surface senses. Jones was quite amused to see what amazing detail he could now see on the dial of his watch. Then he scanned the back of the hairy Mather-hand that had risen up and held itself in front of these new, shortly keen eyes which were now his, as though that hand had obeyed him all his life.

Next, he turned to trying out the ears. They were certainly different—not any sharper, he thought, but more inclined to relish sound just for itself. He remembered that Mather, of course, played the piano. He wondered what it would be like to play? Would one really have to care for music? Or would the fingers simply run away of themselves, up and down the keyboard, as quickly and as mechanically as one of those old Pianolas?

His interior investigations were disturbed by hearing his former body speak. Mather was complaining in that voice which he, Jones, was still certain that Mather was putting on to make him hear how ridiculous he sounded. Mather, too, was quiggling, in a ridiculous way, his borrowed hands.

“Why, they're nearly paralyzed,” he squeaked.

“Don't be insulting.”

“Well, don't make my voice sound so absurd. You've been doing that to insult me!” answered Mather.

So, Jones reflected, we sound equally ridiculous to each other. This mollified him considerably and he replied soothingly: “It's because you can play and I can't. It's amusing, this end, to feel a hand as live as that.”

Mather, too, was soothed, and a new sensation distracted Jones: something sharp that shot right up the inner side of his leg. He twisted the leg again, and again that pain shot, keen as toothache. Heavens, he thought, so that's sciatica.

The two figures walked up and down the big open study. An onlooker would have thought they were two philosophers lost in reflection over some shared intellectual problem. In truth, they were both engrossed in nothing but feeling. Each was wandering up and down the strange lodging in which he found himself; trying the doors, the odd cupboards, the back rooms; looking down mysterious ill-lit passages; listening in at private telephones; peering out from mysterious windows. It was like moving through a strange house at dusk and every now and then tripping over wires which gave you a shock, switched on a light, or rang a bell.

After a silence, Jones heard Mather muttering again in that provoking Jones-parody voice:

“It's a clumsy body,” the voice said.

“Nonsense,” he retorted. “It's simply because you don't know how to run a high-powered car. Don't you go flinging it about. It's a bigger thing than you're used to.”

“Well, you take care of mine. You're not used to as fine a piece of mechanism.”

A sudden gust of anger swept through Jones. He felt a strong temptation to pinch one of these highly prized fingers in the door—only then he, Jones, would have to endure all the pain.

Well, it was no use wrangling. Mather was so stupid as only to be vexed by this predicament, but he, Jones, should surely be interested in such a brilliant success. He was determined that he would be—though perhaps it was rather more of an adventure than he had been able to foresee. But, before going any further, there was a lot of interest to be gained from learning at firsthand—and indeed more than first
hand
—about another body's little ways. This was real exploration; going further, after all, than any human exploration had ever gone. And, once you got over your disgust, the actual way of exploring was rather fun. It was a little like being out on the road for the first time on a sort of mysterious bicycle which completely enclosed you, but which you had to balance and drive every moment. The machine gave queer little swoops and dives. In another way it was like being moved into a new house with a new set of servants. The things one used to require were still supplied, but were never to be found in quite the same places the old staff in the old house used to put them. This Mather-body had a number of odd tricks. For instance, you had to know when it really wanted to sneeze and play other pneumatic tricks, and when it was only shamming—or, at least, not intending to go through with the thing. You'd get all ready, standing by with a pocket handkerchief out, and, then, on the brink, the body would change its mind.

Suddenly, as Jones was congratulating himself on how well he was tumbling to its ways and getting its drift, it put up a new problem to him. It was a sort of itch, or perhaps craving would be a better word. Did it want food? No; there was certainly the remains of a meal in its stomach. A drink? No; the throat wasn't wanting liquid; that was clear. And yet the throat or mouth was wanting something. Jones was so puzzled that he glanced over to the Mather-possessed body. He saw Mather pull up the Jones-hand and put it into the pocket of the Jones-coat. Now, that was going too far! Swap bodies, maybe, but you must respect personal property. Next, Mather would be reading his private correspondence. In a sort of retaliation, Jones stuck one of the queer effeminate hands—which were all he had now to rely on—into Mather's pocket. It surprised him. It was hardly in before it closed on something and drew it out. A pipe! Of course, Mather smoked and he, Jones, did not. That queer craving must be for tobacco. He looked across and saw that his body had ceased to rummage in his pockets. Again there came that parody-laugh to which he couldn't get used.

“Of course,” Mather was saying to him, “of course, it's my body that wants to smoke, though, for a moment, I was absent-mindedly rummaging for my pipe, as I knew it was time for one.”

By that time Jones had found that his borrowed, burrowing fingers had lit on a tobacco pouch.

“You'd better have a smoke for me,” cackled the parody-voice. “Then I'll not be feeling nicotine starved when I get back.”

Fancy, thought Jones, having to stoke this beastly little body in this filthy way just to keep it comfortable for its tobacco-addicted owner.

But the demand was in him now. It was he who now felt the wish to smoke. But how? He'd never smoked in his life; had always hated the silly, dirty habit. His own body drew across to him and, through it, Mather said, “Here, give me the pipe and pouch.” But after some fumbling Mather exclaimed:

“Damn these chilblained fingers! They can't even pack a pipe.”

Jones had begun to want so much to smoke that he swallowed the insult. Together, they managed to get the pipe filled.

“Now, don't burn my suit or my fingers,” was Mather's last provoking advice. But as soon as he was sucking at the pipe a sense of ease and tolerance rose up in Jones's mind. He felt it was ridiculous, but there it was and, as it was pleasant, why not yield to it? Jones sat down. At least, until this pipe was finished, there was no need to do anything else. After all, it was the only pipe he would ever enjoy in his life. He knew, once back in his proper body, he would hate the beastly thing. He stretched himself back in a chair and noticed idly that, as he himself had become relaxed, Mather, in the Jones body, seemed to be becoming proportionately restless. After fidgeting about increasingly, he turned at last on Jones.

“Jones,” he called, “is there anything wrong with this body of yours? I'm beginning to feel queer, devilish queer. You didn't eat something at lunch which disagreed with you, and then slip out and sit smoking comfortably in my body while I have to do the digesting?”

He was obviously in angry distress which was evidently growing, so Jones hastened to reassure him, at least on that count.

“No, no,” he answered in quite a placatory tone—or, at least, in one that was as mollifying as he could make Mather's sharp little voice manage: “No, I assure you I didn't. Never do. I eat very sparingly. In fact, I'm on a moderate diet.”

As he said that, the thought, the explanation, flashed into his mind. Lord! How forgetful one becomes away from home! He put down the pipe he was now holding quite expertly and rose in real concern. He fumbled, found Mather's watch, and looked at it. Yes, it was true enough: it was full time—a bit over, in point of fact. He went over to his Mather-occupied body or, rather, the body that was now wholly occupying—engrossing Mather.

“It'll be all right in a minute. I'll show you what to do.”

Mather only looked at him with dumb distress in his Jones-eyes. Then the mouth muttered weakly: “Can't you get me out of this?” He was too tired, evidently, even to protest.

“Yes, yes,” said Jones reassuringly. “In a moment, in just a moment we'll change back. But just now—” He paused. The truth was that he was frightened, too—more frightened, maybe, than Mather was. For Mather didn't know what was wrong with him: what was giving out under him. Jones did. He didn't dare risk the change-over—with all that almost suffocating acceleration of the heart—when his body, with Mather inside it, might collapse before he was back in it and able to do what he knew must be done. What a fool he'd been not to keep an eye on the time. Of course, being out, of his body he wouldn't have the warning sensation and, equally of course, Mather wouldn't know what those first symptoms would be signaling.

Well, somehow he must face Mather and get him to do what had to be done. Otherwise there were only two other facts to be faced. Which of them would be the worse, he couldn't imagine. One was Mather's dying of the body Mather was now in, falling down and falling to pieces, and Mather's going—going, literally, only heaven knew where—and he, Jones, living, spending the rest of his life in this absurd little spidery body—already more than half a dozen years older than he was; and—horrors!—having to take up life in Mather's house—in Mather's body, it would be the only place he would be allowed to live. To have to share the house with wizened, frisky little Mrs. Mather—he who was unmarried and a misogynist—and those awful, noisy, impudent, dirty children.…

There was, of course, the one other choice: to be certified as a lunatic by maintaining the truth: that he was Jones in Mather's body and that Mather had died in Jones's.

The thought roused him to desperation. He seized his own body by the arm. How odd to feel one's body from the outside! But there was no more time for such reflections.

“Come,” he said hurriedly. “Lean on me if you feel you're going to faint.”

Somehow he got that huge, heeling bulk across the passage and up the three stairs into the bathroom. He snatched the hypodermic from the small mirror cabinet. He slumped the Jones body down on the seat, then propped it up and set about loading the syringe. But, heavens!, these neat little hands, which could deftly fill a pipe and run freely enough on the piano keyboard, now fumbled almost as though they were frostbitten. Once, he nearly dropped the little glass tube of the cylinder on the floor tiles. Then his inept fingers pulled the plunger out too far, and it came clean away from the tube. But at last, by dint of sheer schooling, he got those incompetent hands to carry the loaded instrument at the ready. He pushed back the sleeve on his old body's forearm. Mather was roused by this.

“What the devil are you doing?” he whispered in helpless anger.

“You'll be all right in a moment,” replied Jones. But would he? Anyhow, it was clear that a moment or two would decide, one way or the other, and, probably, for good. He pinched up the skin of the left forearm. He'd so often, quickly and deftly, plucked up the flesh on his leg in that way. But these wretched Mather-fingers fell down on that, too. At last he had a good fold fairly well held with the left hand. He brought the needle near with his right. Of course, it caught badly in the skin—wouldn't make a good piercing. He pressed the plunger feebly. The liquid began to ooze out over the skin. He jabbed savagely. Mather stirred in the collapsed body and just succeeded in making it say, “So, you're finishing me off with a shot of poison. That's why …” His voice trailed away.

But the needle had gone in with a tear—right in—too deep, really, but what did he care?—it was in. That was all that mattered now. He drove the plunger home and saw the skin swell above the buried slant of the hollow needle. He whipped it out, stuck a patch of cotton on the puncture, and waited, bent over the body—his body, which he must bring back. Gradually it stirred, though the eyes were now closed. He shuffled the hypodermic behind the bathroom seat. Yes, the body was coming alive. So great was his relief that he dragged the hulk on his shoulder, drew it out of the bathroom back into the sitting room, and plumped it into a chair. As the body sank back, he heard Mather saying in a vague, accentless voice, “What went wrong? What's wrong with this damned body anyway?”

Jones's mind was working quickly now. He dragged a stool forward to the right side of the chair in which his body sat, held up by the chair's straight back. He pushed himself forward in Mather's body, until the two bodies were left-breast to left-breast. He could actually feel the dull labored thump of the Jones heart like a slow bass scored under the hard, thick stroke of the Mather-heart, which had had some pretty stiff pumping to do in the last ten minutes. He swung the Mather-face close to his old face. The lids were still lowered.

“Mather!” he said. “Look at me!”