III

'She's a very good cook,' Professor Keppel admitted. 'But about these Martians. We are letting our fancy play too wildly about them. Let's leave them for a bit. There's another point your patient has raised that's quite available for separate treatment. Practically another question. There may or may not be these sane and mature watchers over human destiny, these Celestial Uncles, these friends in the mdnight sky, but what does seem to be possible and even within our reach is this idea, that the species Homo sapiens, because of some possible increase or change in the direction of the cosmic rays, or from some other unknown cause, is starting to mutate, and mutate along some such line as that larger wisdom indicates.'

'Some sort of large wisdom,' said Dr. Holdman Stedding, 'a purely hypothetical wisdom.'

'You are very precise,' said Professor Keppel. 'But anyhow that is what we want to know. Is there such a biological movement going on? Is there any means of tracing it if it is going on? The real feeling at the back of both our minds is that, if there is not something of the sort going on, then this breed of pretentious, self–protective imbeciles—'

'Poor Homo sapiens!' murmured the doctor. 'How he catches it nowadays!'

'Is very near the end of its tether. It's no good pretending you disagree with that. Haven't all reasonable civilized men nowadays this feeling of being dilettantes on a sinking ship? We all want a break towards something better in the way of living. Hopes and our wishes speak together. And it may be—as we half hope. But how are we to test this idea? How are we to set about the investigation?'

'Without making everyone think we have gone crazy?'

'Precisely.'

'Nietzsche?' hazarded the doctor. 'Are these his supermen we are thinking about?'

'He brings too much Oriental bric–à–brac for my taste,' said Keppel. 'And so far as I can make out, he has at least two different meanings for that Ubermensch of his. On the one hand is a biologically better sort of man and on the other a sort of aggregate synthetic being like Hobbes's Leviathan. You never know how to take him. Let's rule Nietzsche out. Let us just follow up this question whether there is an increase in—what shall I call them?—high–grade intellectual types.'

The doctor helped himself with infinite restraint and discretion to just the merest splash more brandy. 'I think, Keppel, there may be a possible way to set this note of interrogation working.'

'We have our reputations to consider.'

'We have our reputations to consider, but quite possibly this fellow—well, to commit a very slight indiscretion—it is Mr. Joseph Davis, the man who writes those extremely popular, those florid—shall I say?—those almost too glorifying glosses, so to speak, on history—might do something for us in this respect. His writings, his association with what one might call the more romantic aspects of the human record, his almost strained belief in the faith, hope, and glory of our species, put him, I think, in a position to ask questions….'

'Joseph Davis,' considered Keppel. 'The man who wrote From Agincourt to Trafalgar? Him! You got this idea about the Martians from him!'

'I told him to think no more about it.'

'But he will?'

'He will. He wants to think about it. He wants to follow this up. He—something has shaken him up. I can't make up my mind whether he is going mad or going sane. But if I give him half a hint, he'll be off on the scent of these Martians now like a dog after a rabbit'