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Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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hairless squirrel, and Gogol, who should be a man, but who has no arms, no sweat glands, no brain. They’re not finished… they all lack formic acid and niacin, among other things. But—they’re alive.”
“And you don’t know—yet—how the crystals do it.”
He looked up at her without moving his head, so that she saw his eyes glint through his heavy brows. “I hate you,” he said, and grinned. “I hate you because I have to depend on you—because I have to talk to you. But sometimes I like what you do. I like what you said— yet. I don’t know how the crystals do their dreaming—yet.”
He leaped to his feet, the chair crashing against the wall as he moved. “Who understands a dream fulfilled?” he yelled. Then, quietly, as if there were no excitement in him, he continued evenly, “Talk to a bird and ask it to understand that a thousand-foot tower is a man’s finished dream, or that an artist’s sketch is part of one. Explain to a caterpillar the structure of a symphony—and the dream that based it. Damn structure! Damn ways and means!” His fist crashed down on the desk. Zena quietly picked up her wine glass. “How this thing happens isn’t important. Why it happens isn’t important. But it does happen, and I can control it.” He sat down and said to Zena, courteously, “More wine?”
“Thank you, no. I still—”
“The crystals are alive,” Monetre said conversationally. “They think. They think in ways which are utterly alien to ours. They’ve been on this earth for hundreds, thousands of years… clods, pebbles, shards of stone… thinking their thoughts in their own way… striving for nothing mankind wants, taking nothing mankind needs… intruding nowhere, communing only with their own kind. But they have a power that no man has ever dreamed of before. And I want it. I want it. I want it, and I mean to have it.”
He sipped his wine and stared into it. “They breed,” he said. “They die. And they do a thing I don’t understand. They die in pairs, and I throw them away. But some day I’ll force them to give me what I want. I’ll make a perfect thing—a man, or a woman… one who can communicate with the crystals… one who will do what I want done.”
“How do—how can you be sure?” Zena asked carefully.
“Little things I get from them when I hurt them. Flashes, splinters of thought. For years I’ve been prodding them, and for every thousand blows I give them, I get a fragment. I can’t put it into words; it’s a thing I know. Not in detail, not quite clearly… but there’s something special about the dream that gets finished. It doesn’t turn out like Gogol, or like Solum—incomplete or wrongly made. It’s more like that tree I found. And that finished thing will probably be human, or near it… and if it is, I can control it.”
“I wrote an article about the crystals once,” he said after a time. He began to unlock the deep lower desk drawer. “I sold it to a magazine—one of those veddy lit’ry quarterly reviews. The article was pure conjecture, to all intents and purposes. I described these crystals in every way except to say what they look like. I demonstrated the possibility of other, alien life-forms on earth, and how they could live and grow all around us without our knowledge— provided they didn’t compete. Ants compete with humans, and weeds do, and amoebae. These crystals do not—they simply live out their own lives. They may have a group consciousness like humans—but if they do, they don’t use it for survival. And the only evidence mankind has of them is their dreams—their meaningless, unfinished attempts to copy living things around them. And what do you suppose was the learned refutation stimulated by my article?”
Zena waited.
“One,” said Monetre with a frightening softness, “countered with a flat statement that in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter there is a body the size of a basketball which is made of
“And you don’t know—yet—how the crystals do it.”
He looked up at her without moving his head, so that she saw his eyes glint through his heavy brows. “I hate you,” he said, and grinned. “I hate you because I have to depend on you—because I have to talk to you. But sometimes I like what you do. I like what you said— yet. I don’t know how the crystals do their dreaming—yet.”
He leaped to his feet, the chair crashing against the wall as he moved. “Who understands a dream fulfilled?” he yelled. Then, quietly, as if there were no excitement in him, he continued evenly, “Talk to a bird and ask it to understand that a thousand-foot tower is a man’s finished dream, or that an artist’s sketch is part of one. Explain to a caterpillar the structure of a symphony—and the dream that based it. Damn structure! Damn ways and means!” His fist crashed down on the desk. Zena quietly picked up her wine glass. “How this thing happens isn’t important. Why it happens isn’t important. But it does happen, and I can control it.” He sat down and said to Zena, courteously, “More wine?”
“Thank you, no. I still—”
“The crystals are alive,” Monetre said conversationally. “They think. They think in ways which are utterly alien to ours. They’ve been on this earth for hundreds, thousands of years… clods, pebbles, shards of stone… thinking their thoughts in their own way… striving for nothing mankind wants, taking nothing mankind needs… intruding nowhere, communing only with their own kind. But they have a power that no man has ever dreamed of before. And I want it. I want it. I want it, and I mean to have it.”
He sipped his wine and stared into it. “They breed,” he said. “They die. And they do a thing I don’t understand. They die in pairs, and I throw them away. But some day I’ll force them to give me what I want. I’ll make a perfect thing—a man, or a woman… one who can communicate with the crystals… one who will do what I want done.”
“How do—how can you be sure?” Zena asked carefully.
“Little things I get from them when I hurt them. Flashes, splinters of thought. For years I’ve been prodding them, and for every thousand blows I give them, I get a fragment. I can’t put it into words; it’s a thing I know. Not in detail, not quite clearly… but there’s something special about the dream that gets finished. It doesn’t turn out like Gogol, or like Solum—incomplete or wrongly made. It’s more like that tree I found. And that finished thing will probably be human, or near it… and if it is, I can control it.”
“I wrote an article about the crystals once,” he said after a time. He began to unlock the deep lower desk drawer. “I sold it to a magazine—one of those veddy lit’ry quarterly reviews. The article was pure conjecture, to all intents and purposes. I described these crystals in every way except to say what they look like. I demonstrated the possibility of other, alien life-forms on earth, and how they could live and grow all around us without our knowledge— provided they didn’t compete. Ants compete with humans, and weeds do, and amoebae. These crystals do not—they simply live out their own lives. They may have a group consciousness like humans—but if they do, they don’t use it for survival. And the only evidence mankind has of them is their dreams—their meaningless, unfinished attempts to copy living things around them. And what do you suppose was the learned refutation stimulated by my article?”
Zena waited.
“One,” said Monetre with a frightening softness, “countered with a flat statement that in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter there is a body the size of a basketball which is made of
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