‘Yes, and it’s a first edition, man, so keep your greasy fingers off.’
‘If Darwin were here I’d demand to know what theory of “natural selection” can possibly have produced something as ugly and as useless as an oyster.’
Luis laughed. ‘I dare say he’d have an answer.’
Hackett grunted. ‘And I’d invite Darwin to speculate on our own peculiar condition – and our future. I have followed his work since his accounts of the voyage of the Beagle, you know. Saw the man speak a couple of times, but never met him. It’s to my regret now that I didn’t approach him when I had the chance; he died a dozen years back – or was it more? But in a way it was his ideas that made me resolve to bring us together again – the three of us, the first of the Knights. And the last, I fear, for I’ve found no recent trace of the others with whom we worked. We need a way forward – for ourselves and our descendants. We three may go to the grave skulking like whipped dogs, but that’s not good enough for our children – for, believe me, some of ’em are going to inherit our uncomfortable, umm, faculties, just as you say, “Mr Smith”. And what’s to become of them, eh? What are we to do for them?’
‘Nothing,’ Burdon said. ‘For we’ll be long in our blessed graves. Let the future take care of itself.’
Luis said, ‘But it’s thirty years or more since Origin of Species was published. What is it that’s prompted you to call us together now, Hackett?’
Hackett actually clipped him around the back of the head for that indiscretion. ‘Good question, “Mr Smith”. The answer lies in the pages of this little book.’
The second tome on the table by his plate was a novel. ‘The Time Machine,’ Luis read from the spine.
‘By some chap who writes for the magazines. Calls it a “scientific romance”. The book’s a sort of fairy story about Darwin’s scheme of selection. Or a nightmare. It shows a future in which mankind changes, evolves – bifurcates – over a span of hundreds of thousands of years. Becoming something quite different from the modern stock.’ He searched their faces. ‘D’ye see? That’s one root of my idea, my scheme. The other comes from dear old Grandpa Darwin, and if you’ve ever read his book, which I’m sure you haven’t, you’d know that an early part of it, and a deuced long section it is and written in a rather lifeless tone, is all about pigeons.’
‘Pigeons?’
‘The breeding of fancy pigeons for particular traits. That’s the key to his argument, you see. Just as a man will breed his pigeons or his dogs for colour or body shape or whatnot by consciously matching up the types he wants to promote, so nature, all unconsciously, selectively shapes its stock of animals and plants using the blunt scalpels of hunger, a lack of room to live, changes in the weather, and extinction.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ Luis admitted cheerfully. ‘Our oysters have gone extinct, by the bye. Shall I order another round?’
Burdon ignored him. ‘You haven’t lost me, “Foyle”.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You’re talking about cross-breeding our children, aren’t you? The way a man breeds his horses.’
At that word, cross-breeds, Luis saw it, all of a sudden, and forgot about the oysters. ‘My God, man. How can you conceive of such a thing?’
Hackett sneered. ‘Thank you, Lord, for blessing me with companions of such small imagination! Forget horse breeders and pigeon fanciers. Think of arranged marriages. Haven’t our own aristocracy been pairing off their sprogs for generations? Not to mention the royalty. And I know for a fact, “Smith”, that the new mercantile rich you associate with are doing exactly the same thing now, purely to keep the wealth in a closed circle of families. All I’m suggesting is – let’s do the same. For our own protection, our families’. And,’ he added more ominously, ‘to improve the blood.’
Burdon said heavily, ‘You’d better tell us exactly what you propose.’
‘Simple enough. We establish an organization – a Fund, let’s call it, to be handled anonymously by one of the better banks – no, more than one, let’s spread the risk across institutions, indeed across nations – umm, “Mr Boyd”, you may be able to handle the American end. Now let’s suppose you have a grandson of marriageable age, “Smith”.’
‘Actually I do have a grandson.’
‘Good. While you, “Boyd”, might have a spare granddaughter of similar age. The Fund keeps a list of our families and others, the births and deaths and so forth – all quite above board, with operatives who have no idea of the true purpose. But when two eligible candidates pop up in the fullness of time, they are – approached.’
Burdon said, ‘Approached?’
‘It might work this way. Letters arrive, from a nominated bank. A meeting is arranged between the two youngsters. Each is told that if they would consider a liaison, then a gift would be available – call it a grant. We’d have to consider the wording; the only stipulation would be the birth of a sprog, of course, which is the point of the exercise. Perhaps there would be a sweetener to make the meeting in the first place: fifty per cent of the balance might be paid up at the marriage, and a further fifty per on the occasion of the first litter. But if the youngsters don’t hit it off, they can walk away with no harm done. D’ye see? There’s no compulsion, no hardship – everybody wins, including a young couple with an unexpectedly good start in life.’
Luis grunted. ‘How much of a “good start”?’
Hackett shrugged. ‘That’s to be decided between us. A thousand pounds, perhaps.’
Luis, who had started out earning shillings in flea-pit theatres, was nothing if not careful with his money. ‘A thousand pounds? Are you mad?’
‘Certainly not,’ Hackett growled, ‘and ye needn’t pretend, either of you, that we haven’t the resources between us to establish a fund healthy enough to generate such sums through the interest paid. And it needn’t just be the three of us.’ He produced a piece of paper, tucked into the endpapers of The Time Machine. ‘I’ve done some research – well, I’ve had plenty of time to do it, and the resources, and don’t ask me how. Beyond those I contacted like you two, there is a slew of families like ours, their histories studded with Waltzers, or possibilities anyhow, like true pearls on a paste necklace.’
Luis scanned the paper, which was a simple list of surnames. Blakeney. Burdon. Hackett. Orgill. Tallis. Tallyman. Valienté …
‘You need to be careful with that,’ Burdon murmured.
Hackett nodded and tucked the paper away. ‘You understand that we are strengthening the blood, increasing the chances of the faculty emerging in a given generation. Many species respond quickly to such domestication. I suspect Darwin would predict that the results ought to be visible in a very few generations. A century or so, perhaps.’
Luis said, ‘And when said cross-breeds produce a Waltzer child to order – what then? What’s to become of it? It will be in danger of just such a risk as we have faced in the course of our own lives – suspicion and persecution, especially if, despite appearances, the successors of Radcliffe are still on our elderly tails.’
Hackett nodded. ‘It’s a fair question. Initially there would need to be some way of keeping tabs, an agency on hand to advise the bewildered young parents of toddler Jimmy when he starts popping out of existence.’
‘But the need for that would fade with time, I imagine,’ Burdon said. ‘The more Waltzers there are, the more the families will know. Because Uncle Jerome or Aunt Ginnie will have had just the same peculiar trait.’