13

Norvel became at once a central figure of the reconstituted Group of administrators who now took charge of the world's affairs, and he showed the liveliest curiosity about the last hours of Rud. He insisted upon having the fullest particulars of his last illness from Carstall and his assistant Krause, and while he did so he looked hard at Carstall. But Carstall met his enquiring eye imperturbably and agreed that the cause of death was quite obscure. "Krause here," he said, "did the post–mortem. He ransacked the body."

"I want to see the body," said Norvel. "I want to see the body for my own good."

"We are going to treat him very much as they treated Lenin," said Carstall. "He has been embalmed, and presently all the world will be able to come here, like pilgrims, and see him for themselves."

Until the Mausoleum could be prepared Rud lay upon a slab in the clinic, and thither went Norvel and Carstall. The chief embalmer met and accompanied them and gave a few unnecessary explanations; then, having no reason to remain, he departed. Norvel regarded the yellow and waxy visage of the departed autocrat with tranquil distaste. Carstall was absolutely expressionless. "He's nothing much to see," said Norvel.

"They will want to see him," said Carstall.

Norvel had made his hostility to Rud no secret from Carstall. And Carstall had neither agreed nor dissented.

"To think of it!" said Norvel. Carstall turned silently attentive to hear what Norvel had to say.

"To think that such a creature should have terrified the world and made millions of normal men quibble and lie! Completest surrender of their dignity! And scores of millions, hundreds of millions, made a sort of God of him! To think of it!"

He grunted and shook his head.

"Do you know, Carstall, the other day I routed out his eldest brother Sam—and I got some realistic reminiscences of our God–Caesar out of him. Sam hated him. Always had hated him. Told me how he used to sit on his little pot in the nursery and threaten his brothers about what he would do to them directly he'd done. They used to make faces at him. And there was a story of a mess in the corner, the pot tilted over or something broke in some sort of scuffle, and that is why they called him the Stink. I forget the exact particulars already. I didn't think them as funny as brother Sam did. I thought they were nasty and pitiful. But evidently he was like that.

"I don't blame him very much for becoming Dictator of the World, Carstall, but, by God! I feel sick at the crawling of the millions before him. Was it really the snake that God condemned to go on its belly all the days of its life? Or the other party? I'm not so sure. Perhaps both parties were in default…

"It takes the heart out of life to think of all that subservience. I do what I can to respect myself. I make a brave story about myself. I tell myself I am doing my share in the making of a new mankind. I keep it up that we educators and biologists are setting out now to breed and educate a race of gods—statesmen, teachers, thinkers (as we used to call them), poets. And then I think of the recent history of mankind! I think how a thing like that thing lying dead there can lead them to war or worship or massacre! Mankind! Mud! Shall we ever do more than make mud pies out of them? What else can you do with mud? Educated mud is still mud. Adam was mud and all his seed are mud…

"And that is how you feel about it?" said Carstall. "You have the makings of a fine late–Georgian poet in you, Norvel. Did you ever contribute to their paper?—The Criterion, wasn't it? No? There ought to be a refrain to this little song of yours, 'Let us get drunk.' Does this mean you give up your mud–modelling work? Resign the directorate of education?"

"Not a bit of it," said Norvel. "What else is there for me to do?"

"Exactly," said Carstall.

"Conceiving what you say as a mere passing mood about mankind, I am inclined to agree with you," said Carstall. "But mud is mixed stuff and even in that"—he nodded to the embalmed Dictator—"there were some bright gleams."