The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

“In fact, his daughter Joan criticized him for that in her study of his life.”

“I didn’t know that,” Farrington said. “She must have written it after I died. Did you know much about her, what happened to her after London died, how she died?”

“I knew a London scholar who knew her well,” Peter said.

Actually, the scholar had only corresponded with her a little and had met her briefly. Peter didn’t mind exaggerating if it would get him a berth on the ship.

“She was a very active Socialist. She died in 1971, I think. Her book about her father was very objective, especially considering that he had divorced her mother for a younger woman.

“Anyway, I think that London wanted to be a Wolf Larsen because that would have made him insensitive to the world’s woes. A man who doesn’t feel for others can’t be hurt himself. At least, he thinks he can’t. Actually, he’s hurting himself.

“London may have realized this and was, in fact, trying to put this idea across. At the same time, he wished to be a Larsen, even if this meant being frozen inside, that is, a superbrute. But writers have countercurrents in their psychic sea, as all humans do. That’s why, when the critics have done with them, great writers are still enigmas. When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man.”

“I like that!” Farrington cried. “Who wrote that?”

“e.e. cummings. Another line of his that’s a favorite of mine is: Listen! There’s a hell of a good universe next door. . .Let’s go!”

Peter thought that he might be pouring it on too thick. Farrington, however, seemed to be enjoying it.

Once Frigate was on the ship, he could bring up subjects which might anger and would certainly irritate Farrington. For instance, the man’s knowledge of Nietzsche had been gotten mostly from dialogs with a friend, Strawn-Hamilton. He had apparently made some attempt to read the philosopher in English. But he had been so taken by the poetic phrases and the slogans that he had not taken in the full philosophy. He had picked what he liked from Nietzsche and ignored the rest-as Hitler had done. Not that Farrington was any Hitler.

What was it his daughter had said? ” “The glad perishers, “the Superman, “live dangerously!-these were more potent than wine.’ ”

As for Farrington’s knowledge of socialism, he had not read anything of Marx’s except The Communist Manifesto. But, as his daughter had said, ignoring Marx was a common practice among American Socialists then.

There were many other things to discuss-and contemn. London had wanted socialism only for the benefit of the Germanic peoples. He firmly believed that men were superior to women. Might made right. And he was not, in one sense of the word, a true artist. He wrote only for money, and if he had enough money would have quit writing. At least he had claimed he would. Frigate doubted this. Once a writer, always a writer.

“Well,” Peter said, “whatever else can be said against London, Fred Lewis Patton probably had the final word. He said it was easy to criticize him, easy to deplore him, but impossible to avoid him.”

Farrington liked that even more. But he said, “Enough of Lon­don , though I would like to meet him some day. Listen. Your idea of the superman sounds a lot like the ideal man of the Church of the Second Chance. It sounds even more like that of one of my crew, you know, the little Arab, though he isn’t really an Arab. He’s a Spanish Moor, born in the twelfth century a.d. He’s not a Chancer, though.”

He pointed to a man Frigate had seen among the crew of the Razzle Dazzle. He was standing in the center of a circle of Ruritanians, holding a drink and a cigarette. His speech seemed to be amusing; at least those around him were laughing. He was about 163 centimeters or a little less than 5 feet 5 inches tall, thin but with a suggestion of wiry strength, very dark, and big nosed. He looked like a young Jimmy Durante.