On a fine October eve, I was sitting in my parlor, discussing the dissection process used by my mentor, Dr. Cromston. My interlocutor was none other than Professor Marnask, a brilliant botanist, whose interest in other scientific matters could always be piqued. By a remarkable coincidence, that night I found the letter from Dr. Cromston on my desk. Normally, I am in the habit of reviewing the mail in the afternoon, but the arrival of Marnask had left me distracted from my usual routine, and the conversation went well into the night. I cannot describe the excitement I felt after reading his letter, but it was enough that, even now, I cannot quite recall much of the discussion from that night. I only know that, sitting by the fire, late in the night, I again read:
Mr. Pillberg,
By the time you receive this, I will be three days into a promising line of research that is so astounding, and of such secretive nature, there are few I can take into my confidence. As you know, I have been spent several years attempting to apply mathematical principles to evolutionary science. The original vision, yet to be achieved, was to find patterns in genetic and chromosomal structures in the hopes of determining formulaic solutions to the missing ancestral links of man. At present, while we have not had direct success, there has been another promising discovery. I would risk much by detailing the results in this letter, so I have made arrangements for you to be present three months hence, during which time we will be pausing our research for new instrumentation to be installed in our laboratory. You will not regret making the trip.
This changes everything.
Yours,
P.D. Cromston
And what a letter! Cromston had always imagined that the missing links of humanities evolution could be boiled down to mathematical representations. Even I, who would indulge him in even his loftiest speculations, had been skeptical. Could it be true? Could Dr. Cromston really have found a way to chart evolutionary progression as some kind of formula? I tried to imagine what such success might mean. Could we use a discovery of that magnitude to trace life to its origins? And if so...if so, would it ultimately mean that Cromston had cracked the code of life itself?
I found I could barely sleep that night as I considered the possibility. If mankind could create life, it would mean a control over nature that was unimaginable.
For two weeks, the thought of my visit to Dr. Cromston at his laboratory consumed me. Dining alone at a local cafe most afternoons, I regularly discovered that I was eating at high speed while my mind ran amok, trying to imagine what Cromston had stumbled upon. For the work to be so secretive hinted at some fantastical success.
One morning, trying to read to pass the time (for by now, I could hardly handle waiting another two months to make my trip), I collected the mail and sat down to get an early start on my correspondences. There was another letter from Dr. Cromston. I had to place it on the table and relax, going through the rest of the mail to calm my nerves. When I felt I could relax and read the letter, I picked it up, examined the envelope, then proceeded to dissect it with my letter opener. What it contained was a very disconcerting account.
Mr. Pillberg,
Things have taken a very strange and disheartening turn. The situation has become one of urgency, and must ask you to depart for my home as soon as possible, for I have much to tell you. Time is of the essence, and I urge you to drop everything and be on the next train. Do not even waste time to pack a bag. I will supply you with anything you require. Our results were so unexpected that no time can be wasted on cordiality. Get here, for the love of God. Get here immediately.
P.D. Cromston
What could account for such a letter? To what malevolence could Dr. Cromston's excitation be prescribed? Whatever it was, I knew Cromston would not demand my presence in so astonishing a manner without good reason. I closed up my study, locking my papers in my desk, and climbed the stairs to my room to begin packing. A sense of urgency filled me, and it was no longer the excited anticipation from before.
I was at the station hours before the morning train. The station master kindly offered me tea, and I nervously sipped my way through two full cups before boarding the train, taking my seat, and attempting to doze off for the trip. I was unable to fall asleep for more than fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. Each time I awoke, I found myself unable to fall asleep again as the worry consumed me. Had I opened the letter earlier, I might have been there by now, and indeed I would have followed Cromston's request and not bothered to pack a bag. For all I knew, I was too late for whatever discovery had left Cromston so distraught.
The train pulled into the station a few blocks away from the university. I moved quickly through the crowd to catch a cab. Giving the man Cromston's address, I was soon on my way. By mid afternoon, I was climbing the porch of Dr. Cromston's home and ringing the bell. I had been to Cromston's home on several occasions, and was very fond of his old world, three-story villa. It was nestled on a hill just before the farms beyond the city. Some of the exterior was falling apart, and inside, the floors creaked in many places, but his den was a cozy number with two exceptional chairs and a stone fireplace. With the weight of that letter skewing my perception, the place suddenly felt ominous.
Cromston opened the door, and looked at me with a smile that instantly disarmed me from worry. He thanked me for rushing over. As I was led to the den, I noted that he had a strange walk, as though falling to one side, and he made nervous movements of his arm, almost like he was having trouble holding himself up. When I asked him what was wrong, he waved me off, smiling, but clearly irritated.
We sat in those tremendously comfortable chairs, and I begged my colleague stall me no longer. I wanted to know the purpose behind that drastic letter. Both, in fact.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Pillberg, I will do so, I will do so. Please, let me fill our glasses first. My best wine. I may not have opportunity to use it again.”
The man was offering me the best wine from his distillery! Perhaps all of my notions had been in error. Why, of course! The Dr.'s urgency had been out of extreme excitement. As I took the wine he offered – and I can say with no uncertainty that it was a great luxury, indeed! – I relaxed a little, though still sat in wonder at what marvelous breakthrough Dr. Cromston would reveal.
He sat, a broad grin on his face. I barely noticed the way he tensed and sank into his chair, almost as if he could barely keep himself together.
“Well, Mr. Pillberg, if nothing else, we can rejoice. We have done it.”
“Your laboratory?” I inquired.
Cromston nodded, drank from his glass, placed it on the small table by his chair, and folded his arms.
“Yes, beyond everything we expected. We were almost there with the formula, too. A formula that could chart the evolutionary patterns of humanity to the missing link. And not just humanity.”
“You mean that you...?”
I almost dropped my glass, sitting forward in my chair. Dr. Cromston held up a gentle hand, smiling at me through his spectacles with beady eyes.
“Almost. Another year, and it is possible that I could have traced every major mutation of man, right back to the unicellular level. I could have used the same formula to describe alternate mutations, depict when and were, with incredible accuracy, one species diverged from another. Why, I've no doubt we could have traced everything to the origin of life itself.”
It was beyond incredible, yet I hesitated. Dr. Cromston seemed pleased with telling me all this, yet I didn't understand how it warranted the urgent letter. Even putting that aside, his choice of words confounded me.
“Why do you say, 'could?'”
A more solemn expression crossed Dr. Cromston's face. “Oh, Mr. Pillberg, there was no need. A freakish circumstance brought something to our attention, and after a much stranger and more fascinating discovery, it no longer mattered. No, let me put it another way. We had no use for it, because we had made the final discovery of mankind.”
I admit that at those words, I began to suspect my old mentor was not in possession of his senses. I gave a small laugh, trying not to offend. “What do you mean by a final discovery? Surely discovery is an endless process. Do you mean to say that you have discovered something that is so fantastic as to change the direction of science itself?”
At this, Cromston cleared his throat and took another, very swift, drink from his glass. He replaced it, and rather lacking in manners, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“My good man, it is the end of science itself.”
I had no response for that. Dr. Cromston, sensing my inability to form a reasonable response, relieved me of that responsibility and continued.
“There were five of us in the laboratory that day. A heated argument had broken out as we examined the formulas that we were so busy trying to understand. We had it down to the last detail. Formulas that determined the growth of fingers and thumbs, reverted them to paws, or even flippers. The numbers jumped across species. We were able to form rabbits from lobsters, in theory. The mechanism was beyond our understanding. How did nature manipulate these chemical bonds, and in what manner were they coded to produce changes over such long periods? We fell into shouting matches, each accusing the other of sabotaging the work, either for a malicious prank, or some petty dislike of one another. We were unable to accept, at the time, that the evolutionary process could jump species so wildly as our work was showing.
“You can well imagine how a team of grumpy scientists reacted in this situation. We began experimenting. Six long days, designing a system to mutate a rabbit with a specific genetic trait, testing with a combination of chemical experiments and electrical bonding methods. The basis of the latter was extremely hypothetical, and some of us were ready to quit the experiments after seeing the gruesome, burned corpses of our lab animals, day after day.
“But on paper, it was a remarkable success, and we all knew we would find the physical connection for it all, assuming one of us wasn't a rotten prankster.”
I was, at this time, sipping my wine out of a nervous desire to understand what all this was getting at. Cromston's theory being correct was no small deal, but it did not explain the haste, nor did it reveal to me the sinister, underlying secret that seemed to surround the experiments in question.
Cromston continued. He spoke quietly, and I became intensely aware of the crackling fire at our backs. A part of me wanted to run away, for the atmosphere in the room felt heavy and dark, but my thirst to understand had to be whetted.
“The bones, Mr. Pillberg. Do you understand the bones? No, I can see it in your eyes. We will get to the bones. Let us start with the dinosaurs. What killed the dinosaurs, Mr. Pillberg? A species that survived for an incredible amount of time on this earth. What killed them?”
I thought about that. It was a question that nobody had answered in full to this day. “Some seem to think that some event must have clouded the atmosphere, blocked out the sun, possibly destroying the vegetation that fed larger animals. As to myself, I have no personal theory on the subject.”
“We always find the bones, Mr. Pillberg. Little else, if anything. But the bones remain. I have a...Oh, the sand is back, one moment...”
To my surprise, Dr. Cromston pounded his knuckles into one side of his head about six times. He gave a shake, and the man leaned back in his chair, looking as if he'd just had a stroke. My instinct was to call a doctor, but he protested, breathing heavily and lifting an arm to beckon me back to my chair. I acquiesced, cautiously.
“That happens sometimes. A lot more now. There is not much time. You must listen. Listen, Mr. Pillberg.”
Dr. Cromston now took on a very swaying, fatigued look, leaning forward and drifting this way and that as he talked. He was staring at the floor. I had to strain to hear his voice, which seemed beleaguered by some combination of the wine and extreme strain.
“Mr. Pillberg. We find the bones. It's all they leave, because that is all it leaves. There were reports a few days ago about radio interference covering the county, but I can tell you, Mr. Pillberg, the interference covered the world. The kill switch. The reset button. We sent the signal in one direction, through electrodes in the brain of a rabbit. The universe screamed back, Mr. Pillberg.”
I was aghast. Dr. Cromston seemed to be another person. His voice croaked tiredly, and the man was having trouble holding himself up in his chair. I did not rise to help him, for fear had gripped me as I tried to put all these pieces together in my head. I remembered my own radio popping furiously and screaming with static during the eleven o'clock news. Later reports had mentioned some localized problem with radio towers, but that was all. And what did all this have to do with dinosaurs?
“Life, Mr. Pillberg, evolves along my formula, but the formula is only good for going backward. And if you go far enough back, as I discovered only days before sending you my letter, the formula appears to fall apart. A single set of chemical compounds becomes the first stage that expands all the patterns that are described within the complex mathematical structure I worked out to trace our human heritage. Then, the formulas dissolve into the common laws of the universe. Relativity, Mr. Pillberg. Thermodynamics. Everything from Newton all the way back to Euclid. All the discoveries, and some quite outlandish and yet undiscovered principles, all appear meticulously placed on a map within the equations that could be derived from my formula. The golden key to everything.”
“The last discovery of mankind.”
I had said the words with a sudden understanding of the implications. How could this be cause for anything but celebration? I was watching a man rapidly deteriorate before me, yet he ordered me to sit as I rose to help him. Again, the urgency in his voice stayed me from ignoring his request.
“That was not the last discovery. The dinosaurs didn't work, Mr. Pillberg. Something coded into life itself flipped the switch on them, and they unfolded from their myriad forms, just like the rabbit in our lab the night the signal went out. A thousand, or a million, or an endless number of voices filled our heads with that scream, and instead of our equipment feeding signals into the brain of the rabbit, the signal went the other way. Oh, it was far too powerful to just be our equipment and our little power amplifiers. It jumped out into the world and found a way to transmit. The code escaped. Look at the bones. Look at the bones! The rabbit bones sat there on the desk when we recovered our senses, but the room had filled with bugs that seemed to melt away as we chased them. They fell apart, each one, from centipedes, splitting into spiders, which buzzed away as flies that fell to the ground in a pile of ants, and the ants turned to fleas, and then they were gone. But the bones, Pillberg, they remained. The code for what did not work. That is why my formula took so long to develop. I included the bones. Remove them, and it is clear. The bones are what it leaves behind to remember. All those beautiful formulas before life comes together, in very certain circumstances, as if forced to by the call of the universe itself, none of them matter, because we have flipped the switch. Humanity is coming apart, my friend. There is a force at work here. It causes life to begin from churning tides and strange acids. It forms the worlds from dust. It presses the aether of space, and the voices scream from the beginning of time. The prime mover of all things is at work in every detail, to the earliest explosions, to invisible, molten thought that sat in whatever primordial ooze came before the physical world burst into existence. For what purpose did it create life? What comes next? Oh, if only I could turn that formula around, I could see! I could know the divine future of whatever species will rise in our dust and carry on this great, universal work! Mr. Pillberg, I hear them! I hear the voice of a thousand creatures, a million insects, a billion grains of sand! I am coming apart, Mr. Pillberg! That signal...there is no way to stop it. Everyone will share my fate! But do not lament, Mr. Pillberg! Our bones remain. Our mistakes are remembered. I tried to hold myself together all this time, just to warn you, Mr. Pillberg. There is no stopping what I have done. Humanity will be nothing but a memory in a few months, when the signal takes hold. You, too, will come apart, but this is not the end of all things. I believe that my voice, too, will live on inside the hidden signal of the universe. Oh! I fear I cannot hold it together any more, Mr. Pillberg! I am coming apart! I am..I am...we are...all of us...coming apart!”
I could do nothing. The words of Dr. Cromston were so fresh in my head that I had not yet made any sense of them, nor did I have the time. His head split in two, and I thought I would see the blood ooze from cracks as the man screamed. However, it was not Cromston who screamed. That had been the shrill shriek of the feathered creature that poured from his skull, splitting into three, as his body seemed to melt in the chair. To coyotes slid to the ground, and several snakes slithered away from the cuff of Dr. Cromston's rapidly deflating jacket. All of these animals twisted momentarily, bursting into smaller creatures as they slid to the ground in piles. Cats, lizards, fowl of all kind, rats, spilled to the floor and flowed in my direction. The outer creatures were already shifting and splitting into massive insects that I did not recognize, and they continued to expand and change into smaller and smaller creatures. I pulled my feet back on the seat of my chair. The sudden movement caused me to tip backward, and the chair rolled over on top of me. I clawed my way up, tossing the chair aside, and got to me feet, pressing my back to the wall. The advancing army of deterioration continued not just in my direction, but in every direction at once, as the million creatures that had once comprised Dr. Cromston flowed and unfurled into a carpet of unstoppable life.
Slowly, at the very edges, the breakdown became so small that the final visible insects seemed to vanish into thin air, and the horrendous miasma continued in this manner until every ounce of life evaporated into nothingness.
All that remained, drooped on the carpet in a sad pile of Dr. Cromston's clothes, was a perfect skeleton, cleaned of any trace of tissue.
I buried the bones that night in Cromston's yard, then raided his distillery, choosing inebriation over sleep. In the morning, the hangover went unnoticed as I reeled from the horror of Dr. Cromston's demise.
In the coming weeks, I heard the voices. My skin itched, like something wanted out. I heard more than just myself inside my head, and soon I could no longer listen to the radio to distract myself. Every report discussed the insanity sweeping the world – outlandish stories of people collapsing into piles of insects that vanished. They stopped being reports very quickly, too, as more and more people saw their friends fall apart, and heard the universe inside their head, telling them to return.
I feel it now. The voice is breaking me apart. I should thank Dr. Cromston for giving me the chance to find some peace at the end of everything. I can feel his voice, there in that great void that I cannot escape much longer. I feel pieces of myself, unfamiliar within, and the thousand voices beckon me; return, return! I have held myself together longer than most, but mankind has returned to that place where things will start again. Billions, then millions, then thousands. Hundreds of men left in this world at most.
It is time that I, too, come apart.