'For the most part they are imitative and cumbrous. Look at the complications needed to broadcast a message, and compare it with the simplicity by which a flock of migratory birds knows of its meeting-place, and the time of its flight.'
'But the very fact that we can broadcast, shows that we have recognised our limitation.'
'Does it? I doubt it. I should say that we recognised it as a limitation of the system we have evolved, not of ourselves. We put up an inferior substitute called telegraph and radio, and forget our limitations—but they are still there. How many men, do you suppose, realise the limitations of using words to convey our meanings? They may find that there are inconvenient misunderstandings, and blame language, but how many admit that the words are just a substitute for the thing they really lack—mental communication? Precious few. My point is that they do not realise the lack of direct mental communication, because they've never had it. They look on spoken or written language as a natural method of expression, whereas it is really a mechanical process more complicated than radio.'
'Yes, but you can't get over the fact that they have evolved a process to fulfil a need. And if that isn't a sign of recognising limitation, what is?'
'In some degree, but it is not fully recognised. There is a kind of mental myopia. Look at what happened. First there was the very arduous invention of the spoken language. Then it was seen that this only had a limited use— it could travel no great distance in either space or time— so there grew up a written language. This failed to reach enough persons in a short time; printing became necessary. In an effort to decrease the time-lag still further, electric communications followed. And all this process had to be gone through (and will be further elaborated) because the limitation was not clearly perceived in the beginning. The thing we really lacked was direct mental communication.'
'But that's impossible.' Mark was growing irritated.
Gordon's serious face relaxed into a sudden grin.
'Splendid. In effect, that's the power we've never had, and because we've never had it, you think we never will—practically "what you've never had, you never miss". Why should it be any more impossible than the vast array of substitutes we've managed to produce? Further, let me point out that your word "impossible" doesn't mean impossible at all—it merely means that the thing hasn't happened yet.'
Mark let the argument drop. He felt that it contained a sufficient number of weak links for him to split later. At present he was more interested in the sights about him. He required more information on the 'natives'.
'We don't see a lot of them,' Gordon admitted. 'They get sick of us and our continual surface reminiscences, and tend to keep to themselves.'
'They don't even want to know about surface life?'
'Not much. Apart from their scarcely believing the tales, they find that they have no bearing whatever on their life down here, and don't help them at all. A lot of the prisoners go half crazy after a few years, and live in a permanent state of melancholia which both puzzles and frightens the "natives". They're happier on the whole when they're not mixing with us. Just as well.'
'And they don't want to escape?'
'Not a bit. And it would be a poor day for most of them if they did—more than likely they'd have agoraphobia pretty badly if they couldn't look up and see rock all round them.'
By now they had reached the far end of the cavern. Its occupants, for the most part, paid little more attention to Mark than a stare as he passed. His surprise that they did not come flocking round to ask questions grew less when he remembered that Smith, Gordon, and Mahmud must have circulated all his news of any interest. Turning and looking back on the listless crowd, he asked:
'Is this all they do? Just hang about?'
'A few of the melancholies, but most of them take an occasional turn in the fungus caves. Does them good to work, cheers them up a bit—trouble is that not enough work's needed, so for the most part they just sit and brood, or sleep. About the only excitement they get is a fight now and then over one of the women.'
'But can't they be put on to making something?'
'What? Oh, you mean furniture or stuff like that. I should think they could, but you see there's no wood. Some of them do a bit of carving in stone. I'll show you.'
He led the way into a tunnel ten feet or so in height. After fifty yards of it he paused at a side turning and called:
'Zickle!'
A tall, well-built Negro came out of the smaller passage. He grinned at them both in a friendly fashion.
'Hullo, Zickle! I've brought Mr. Sunnet to have a look at your work.' The Negro grinned even more broadly, and beckoned them in. 'Zickle was brought up at a mission school,' Gordon explained. 'Hence his choice of a name, but the training seems to have been a bit superficial, as you'll see.'
They entered a rock chamber of about the same size as Mark's sick-room. But the walls of it, instead of being painted, were elaborately carved. Mark at first sight felt bewildered. Zickle continued to grin.
'Here is the piitce de resistance,' Gordon said, turning to the left-hand wall. 'What do you make of that?'
Mark examined it carefully. In the centre was an oddly conventionalised figure of a man, hanging upon an undoubted cross. But it was not the plain cross of tradition; curious symbolism and alien conceptions had been carved into it until it bore more resemblance to a totem pole. Above the head of the crucified man leered a face of most horrifying hideousness.
The Negro saw Mark recoil as he looked at it.
'Him scare devils,' he explained.
'It ought to scare anything,' agreed Gordon cheerfully. 'Come closer, Mark, and have a look at the detail.'
He obeyed, and began to examine the workmanship with a manifest admiration which delighted Zickle. He turned back to stare at the tall, black figure.
'You did all this?' He waved a comprehensive hand.
'Yes, sir. I done him all.'
Mark turned back. The Negro might have few words to express himself, but the carving came from the brain of a man of unlimited ideas. He began to feel a little awed. The ingenuity with which Christianity and paganism had been welded together—he felt that a study of the work might give a new conception of both. Nor was the technique itself a mere following of tradition. There was a single mode of thought running through the whole bas-relief, but it was the product of an experimenting mind, unafraid to attempt effects which sometimes failed, but more often succeeded brilliantly.
'It's genius,' Mark said.
'You're right,' Gordon agreed. 'I've seen a lot of African sculpture, wood and stone, but nothing to touch this. It is genius—and the world will never see it....'
'How long did it take to do all this?'
'Don't know. Zickle hasn't the slightest idea how long he has been in here. All I can tell you is that it was about a quarter done seven years ago, and has been complete for the last three. He carves most of the time when he isn't doing other work. Reckons it keeps him sane.' Gordon stared for a moment at the horrific head above the cross. 'I should say he's right—it must be better to get ideas like that out of the system.'
The Negro had been busy in another corner of the room. Presently he returned holding out a cup of polished stone to each of them. As they took them he pointed to some low stools carved carefully from stone, though in a fashion intended for wood. Gordon sat down and drank half his cupful at a gulp. Mark attempted the same, but the coarseness of the spirit set him coughing.
'My God, what is it?' he managed, at last.
'Stuff made from some of the fungi—it's an acquired taste.'