picked up the book that was lying on the largest pile of papers. It was one of the foci of his research, a rare volume of the aphorisms of the “master,” an anonymous and obscure sage.
This book had appeared mysteriously in Charn twenty months earlier, when a certain kind of careful humanism had been in vogue. It had enjoyed a tiny popularity, and at that time the author was supposed to be a prominent Caladonian essayist and lecturer, who had died the same month that the book appeared. Lucius Piltdown (formerly with the UC Department of Philosophy, now also deceased) had written the definitive paper on the subject, in which he had cited stylistic and internal evidence.
Deccan Blendish had another idea. The book had been a favorite of his mother’s. The volume in his hand had been her gift to him. She had told him not to believe the professor’s paper, which had been reprinted in the introduction to the book. In him also, something had rebelled against the fat, self-satisfied visage of the essayist, whose photograph had appeared as a frontispiece. Halfway through his first reading he was able to formulate his first objection: The essayist had lived in Caladon for his entire life. But in the master’s book, every metaphor was drawn from nature or from simple agriculture. It was not the product of a city mind. It could not be the product of a city intellectual, even one who had possessed (as Professor Piltdown dutifully claimed) a lifelong interest in botany.
Later, after reading it again, Deccan Blendish had acquired other clues. By the time he had started on his thesis, they had achieved a certain force: Some of the varieties of plants and animals that the master mentioned had a limited territorial range. And one especially, described in the section that he was leafing through the book to find, to see if it could distract him, or at the very least could offer him some consolation for what he had witnessed in the square. Here it was:
“No, my friend,” said the master gravely. “What you have said is neither true nor just nor wise nor sensitive, nor even kind. In this matter you are like the monkey in the sand, our predecessor, which can disguise itself with lies. You have tried to fill our minds with rainbows. But do not be downhearted. Never be downhearted. For the truth is like …”
He let the book sag to his lap. Surely he was right. Surely this passage was a reference to the so-called “hypnogogic” ape, that elusive and quasi-mythical creature that had figured so prominently in the folk legends and scientific speculations of the past.
Surely he could not be wrong. On the wall above his desk he had thumbtacked a square piece of ikat fabric, and next to it, one of the most recent survey maps. He had drawn a circle on the map eight hundred miles northwest of Charn, a circle with a radius of fifty miles. Now he cast the book upon the desk. He stood up. He had an appointment with his thesis adviser at seven o’clock the following morning, and as he paced to the window and then back, he marshaled his arguments in his mind. But soon his enthusiasm led his mind away, off on the same tangent—the hypnogogic ape! Which Parthian Starbridge (Spring-Summer, 00011) had claimed, perhaps erroneously since he had never seen one, was of all primates the most anatomically similar to man. Which had been reported at intervals during every summer except this one since the beginning of contemporary records, and never outside a certain fifty-mile radius. Which no one had ever succeeded in capturing or dissecting. Which nevertheless had been accepted in some circles as the “missing link” in man’s evolutionary chain. Which had the apparent ability, unique among animals, to alter the perceptions of both predators and prey. Which may, in fact, now be extinct. Which more than likely never had existed. The reference to which, in the master’s manuscript, was probably proof of Piltdown’s theory—the damned joke of the
This book had appeared mysteriously in Charn twenty months earlier, when a certain kind of careful humanism had been in vogue. It had enjoyed a tiny popularity, and at that time the author was supposed to be a prominent Caladonian essayist and lecturer, who had died the same month that the book appeared. Lucius Piltdown (formerly with the UC Department of Philosophy, now also deceased) had written the definitive paper on the subject, in which he had cited stylistic and internal evidence.
Deccan Blendish had another idea. The book had been a favorite of his mother’s. The volume in his hand had been her gift to him. She had told him not to believe the professor’s paper, which had been reprinted in the introduction to the book. In him also, something had rebelled against the fat, self-satisfied visage of the essayist, whose photograph had appeared as a frontispiece. Halfway through his first reading he was able to formulate his first objection: The essayist had lived in Caladon for his entire life. But in the master’s book, every metaphor was drawn from nature or from simple agriculture. It was not the product of a city mind. It could not be the product of a city intellectual, even one who had possessed (as Professor Piltdown dutifully claimed) a lifelong interest in botany.
Later, after reading it again, Deccan Blendish had acquired other clues. By the time he had started on his thesis, they had achieved a certain force: Some of the varieties of plants and animals that the master mentioned had a limited territorial range. And one especially, described in the section that he was leafing through the book to find, to see if it could distract him, or at the very least could offer him some consolation for what he had witnessed in the square. Here it was:
“No, my friend,” said the master gravely. “What you have said is neither true nor just nor wise nor sensitive, nor even kind. In this matter you are like the monkey in the sand, our predecessor, which can disguise itself with lies. You have tried to fill our minds with rainbows. But do not be downhearted. Never be downhearted. For the truth is like …”
He let the book sag to his lap. Surely he was right. Surely this passage was a reference to the so-called “hypnogogic” ape, that elusive and quasi-mythical creature that had figured so prominently in the folk legends and scientific speculations of the past.
Surely he could not be wrong. On the wall above his desk he had thumbtacked a square piece of ikat fabric, and next to it, one of the most recent survey maps. He had drawn a circle on the map eight hundred miles northwest of Charn, a circle with a radius of fifty miles. Now he cast the book upon the desk. He stood up. He had an appointment with his thesis adviser at seven o’clock the following morning, and as he paced to the window and then back, he marshaled his arguments in his mind. But soon his enthusiasm led his mind away, off on the same tangent—the hypnogogic ape! Which Parthian Starbridge (Spring-Summer, 00011) had claimed, perhaps erroneously since he had never seen one, was of all primates the most anatomically similar to man. Which had been reported at intervals during every summer except this one since the beginning of contemporary records, and never outside a certain fifty-mile radius. Which no one had ever succeeded in capturing or dissecting. Which nevertheless had been accepted in some circles as the “missing link” in man’s evolutionary chain. Which had the apparent ability, unique among animals, to alter the perceptions of both predators and prey. Which may, in fact, now be extinct. Which more than likely never had existed. The reference to which, in the master’s manuscript, was probably proof of Piltdown’s theory—the damned joke of the
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