slid back a bolt on the metal lid that covered the octopus tank. “Octopuses love freedom, and they’re adepts in the art of escape. That’s why they have to be kept in closed tanks.” From under the bench he took a pair of transparent plastic pincers; they resembled coal tongs, but the handles were longer. He dipped them cautiously into the eel’s tank, reached down cautiously, then suddenly made a lunge. The water churned as the eel lashed violently, trying to bite the invisible jaws that gripped it.
Carlsen said: “I’m glad that’s not my hand.”
With a swift movement, Fallada raised the moray clear of the water and dropped it into the octopus tank. It swam down like an arrow through the green water. Fallada gestured at the monitor. “Now watch.”
Both graphs were visible: the octopus’s, still sluggish but intensified by alarm; the moray’s, surging now into peaks of anger. As Carlsen peered into the tank, Fallada said: “Watch the graphs.”
For the next five minutes, nothing seemed to change. In the tank, the moray had blundered around for a moment, blinded by the mud and vegetable particles churned up by its movements. The octopus had vanished completely; Carlsen had seen it slide between the rocks. The moray swam in the far corner of the tank, apparently unaware of its presence. “Do you see what is happening?”
Carlsen stared at the graphs. He now observed a certain similarity in their patterns. It would have been difficult to put into words, but there was a sense of counterpoint, as if the graphs were bars of music. The octopus’s graph was no longer sluggish; it was moving with a jerky movement.
Slowly, as if taking a stroll, the moray idled its way across the tank. There could now be no doubt about it; the two graphs were beginning to resemble each other in a way that reminded Carlsen of the courting rabbits. Suddenly the moray slashed sideways, driving into a crack in the rocks. A cloud of black ink darkened the water in the tank; the moray brushed the glass, its cold eyes staring out for a moment at Carlsen’s face. There was a lump of the flesh of the octopus in its jaws. He looked up again at the graphs. The moray’s had surged upwards: it moved forward with a series of peaks, like a rough sea. But the octopus’s graph had now changed completely. Once again, it had subsided into gentle undulations.
Carlsen asked: “Is it dying?”
“No. It has only lost the end of a tentacle.”
“Then what has happened?”
“I am not certain. But I think it has accepted the inevitability of death. It senses that nothing can save it. That graph is actually characteristic of pleasure.”
“You mean it’s enjoying being eaten?”
“I don’t know. I suspect the moray is exercising some kind of hypnotic power. Its will is dominating the will of the octopus, ordering it to cease to resist. But of course I could be wrong. My chief assistant thinks that it is an example of what he calls ‘the death trance.’ I once talked to a native who had been seized by a man-eating tiger. He said he experienced a strange sense of calm as he lay there waiting to be killed. Then someone shot the tiger, and he became aware that it had torn off most of his arm.”
The moray had returned to the attack. This time it gripped the octopus, trying to tear it away from the rock; the octopus was clinging with all its tentacles. The moray made a half turn then dived in to attack. This time it went for the head. There was more ink. On the monitor screen, the octopus’s graph suddenly leapt upwards, wavered and then vanished. The moray’s graph showed an upward sweep of triumph.
Fallada said: “That shows that the moray is very hungry. Otherwise, it would have eaten the octopus tentacle by tentacle, perhaps keeping it alive for days.” He turned away from the tank. “But you have still not seen the most interesting part.”
“God, don’t tell me there’s more!”
Fallada pointed to a grey box between the
Carlsen said: “I’m glad that’s not my hand.”
With a swift movement, Fallada raised the moray clear of the water and dropped it into the octopus tank. It swam down like an arrow through the green water. Fallada gestured at the monitor. “Now watch.”
Both graphs were visible: the octopus’s, still sluggish but intensified by alarm; the moray’s, surging now into peaks of anger. As Carlsen peered into the tank, Fallada said: “Watch the graphs.”
For the next five minutes, nothing seemed to change. In the tank, the moray had blundered around for a moment, blinded by the mud and vegetable particles churned up by its movements. The octopus had vanished completely; Carlsen had seen it slide between the rocks. The moray swam in the far corner of the tank, apparently unaware of its presence. “Do you see what is happening?”
Carlsen stared at the graphs. He now observed a certain similarity in their patterns. It would have been difficult to put into words, but there was a sense of counterpoint, as if the graphs were bars of music. The octopus’s graph was no longer sluggish; it was moving with a jerky movement.
Slowly, as if taking a stroll, the moray idled its way across the tank. There could now be no doubt about it; the two graphs were beginning to resemble each other in a way that reminded Carlsen of the courting rabbits. Suddenly the moray slashed sideways, driving into a crack in the rocks. A cloud of black ink darkened the water in the tank; the moray brushed the glass, its cold eyes staring out for a moment at Carlsen’s face. There was a lump of the flesh of the octopus in its jaws. He looked up again at the graphs. The moray’s had surged upwards: it moved forward with a series of peaks, like a rough sea. But the octopus’s graph had now changed completely. Once again, it had subsided into gentle undulations.
Carlsen asked: “Is it dying?”
“No. It has only lost the end of a tentacle.”
“Then what has happened?”
“I am not certain. But I think it has accepted the inevitability of death. It senses that nothing can save it. That graph is actually characteristic of pleasure.”
“You mean it’s enjoying being eaten?”
“I don’t know. I suspect the moray is exercising some kind of hypnotic power. Its will is dominating the will of the octopus, ordering it to cease to resist. But of course I could be wrong. My chief assistant thinks that it is an example of what he calls ‘the death trance.’ I once talked to a native who had been seized by a man-eating tiger. He said he experienced a strange sense of calm as he lay there waiting to be killed. Then someone shot the tiger, and he became aware that it had torn off most of his arm.”
The moray had returned to the attack. This time it gripped the octopus, trying to tear it away from the rock; the octopus was clinging with all its tentacles. The moray made a half turn then dived in to attack. This time it went for the head. There was more ink. On the monitor screen, the octopus’s graph suddenly leapt upwards, wavered and then vanished. The moray’s graph showed an upward sweep of triumph.
Fallada said: “That shows that the moray is very hungry. Otherwise, it would have eaten the octopus tentacle by tentacle, perhaps keeping it alive for days.” He turned away from the tank. “But you have still not seen the most interesting part.”
“God, don’t tell me there’s more!”
Fallada pointed to a grey box between the
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