At first the hag-ridden apes did nothing; they simply stared at him like a jury. It went on that way for a long while. Satan’s whines changed to low, sobbing moans and he covered his face with his hands. Presently Vargas said, “Doctor! Look!”
“Where?”
“Lucy—the old female. There.” He pointed.
It was the matriarch of the family of consumptive gibbons. Her back was toward us; I could see that the slug thereon had humped itself together. An iridescent line ran down the center of it.
It began to split as an egg splits. In a few minutes only, the division was complete. One new slug centered itself over her spine; the other flowed down her back. She was squatting, buttocks almost to the floor; it slithered off and plopped gently on the concrete.
It crept slowly toward Satan. The ape must have peeked through his fingers, for he screamed hoarsely—and swarmed up into the top of the cage.
So help me, they sent a squad to arrest him. Four of the biggest—two gibbons, a chimp, and a baboon. They tore him loose and hauled him down and held him face down on the floor.
The slug slithered closer.
It was a good two feet away when it grew a pseudopod—slowly, at first—a slimy stalk that weaved around like a cobra. Then it lashed out and struck the ape on the foot. The others promptly let go of him but Satan did not move.
The titan seemed to pull itself in by the extension it had formed and attached itself to Satan’s foot. From there it crawled up; when it reached the base of his spine the ape stirred. Before it was settled at the top of his back Satan sat up. He shook himself and joined the others, stopping only to look us over.
Vargas and McIlvaine started talking excitedly, apparently quite unmoved otherwise. I wanted to smash something—for me, for Satan, for the whole simian race.
Vargas was insisting that nothing had been proved, while McIlvaine maintained that we were seeing something new to our concepts; an intelligent creature which was, by the fashion in which it was organized, immortal and continuous in its personal identity—or its group identity; the argument grew confused. In any case McIlvaine was theorizing that such a creature would have continuous memory of all its experiences, not just from the moment of fission, but back to its racial beginning. He described the slug as a four dimensional worm in space-time, intertwined with itself as a single organism, and the talk grew so esoteric as to be silly.
As for me, I did not know and did not care. All very interesting, no doubt, but the only way I cared about slugs was to kill them. I wanted to kill them, early and often and as many as possible.
About that uninterrupted “racial memory” idea: wouldn’t it be rather cumbersome to be able to recall exactly what you did the second Wednesday in March a million years ago?
XX
For a wonder, when I got back the Old Man was available and wanted to talk. The President had left to address a secret session of the United Nations and the Old Man had not been included in the party. I wondered if he had fallen out of official favor, but I did not say so.
He had me report fully on what I had seen at the zoo and questioned me closely; he had not been down there himself. I added my opinion of Vargas and McIlvaine. “A couple of boy scouts,” I complained, “comparing stamp collections. They don’t realize it’s serious.”
The Old Man took time out before answering. “Don’t sell those boys short, son,” he advised me. “They are more likely to come up with the answer than are you and I.”
“Humph!” I said, or something stronger. “They are more likely to let those slugs escape. Remember Graves?”
“I do remember Graves. You don’t understand scientific detachment.”
“I hope I never do!”
“You won’t. But it’s the ignition system of the world; without it, we’re sunk. Matter of fact, they did let one escape.”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t they tell you about the elephant?”