Part 1

Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

FAMILY TREE

BY CHARLES L. FONTENAY

_You don't like Darwin's theory of Evolution? Maybe you're right. Maybe Man's ancestors weren't monkeys after all...._

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

How do you get rid of a superman?

The method Masefield Truggles used was the tried-and-true Masefield Truggles method. Of course, he didn't know at the beginning that Blan Forsythe was a superman. But Forsythe had lived in Marston Hill most of his life--born there, in fact--while Truggles had been there only two years. So Truggles gave the case the full treatment with flourishes, including a careful reconnaissance to determine vulnerable spots in Forsythe's reputation.

Truggles determined that reform or removal of Forsythe would be his contribution to the moral welfare of Marston Hill as soon as he heard the rumors, some joking, some serious, about Forsythe's polygamous tendencies. This was a ready-made situation for Truggles.

Truggles began his research with Forsythe's ex-wife, Phyllis Allison. He had learned from experience that an ex-wife usually is a good source of information about vulnerable spots.

She served him tea in the parlor of her modest home. After a routine round of chit-chat designed to put her at ease, Truggles approached the point.

"As you may know, Mrs. Allison, I am president of our Social Standards Protective League," he said, fixing his deep blue eyes on her face.

"I've heard of it, Mr. Truggles," she said in a low voice. "My duties at home keep me too busy to belong to any organizations, though."

As if to emphasize her point, she put her arm around the shoulders of her young son. The boy sat quietly beside her, watching Truggles like a young animal. Truggles figured he must be about five years old--certainly he would be below school age, for school was in session--but he was big for his age. There was something disturbing about his intent gaze.

"I'm not here in the interest of your joining the League, Mrs. Allison, though we'd be glad to have you," said Truggles. "I came to ask you for some confidential information about the shameful way your former husband mistreated you."

Her eyes opened wide.

"Why, Blan never mistreated me!" she exclaimed. "Whoever told you such a thing? I loved Blan, and he loved me. I still love him."

"If he loved you, why did he leave you?" demanded Truggles triumphantly.

"I think you're asking questions about something that isn't any of your business, Mr. Truggles," said Phyllis Allison, her eyes flashing ominously. "Blan Forsythe is ... different. We agreed to separate because it appeared I could give him no children. We were wrong, but it was too late, then."

"So he turned to polygamy through a mad desire to produce children," murmured Truggles happily. "You say you were wrong? I thought the boy was your only child."

"Donald is my only child, but he is Blan's child," said Phyllis, patting the boy on the shoulder.

Truggles raised bushy eyebrows.

"Wasn't it seven years ago you and Mr. Forsythe were divorced?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes, and Donald is only five," she answered defiantly. "My husband--Dr. Allison--tells me I'm foolish to have the feeling I do that Donald is Blan's son. He says it's impossible. But I know it's true. I've been working with Donnie, and, Mr. Truggles...."

She leaned forward intently and fixed her gaze gravely on Truggles' face.

"... Donnie has the Power!" she said in a tense whisper.

Truggles blinked. Phyllis Allison sat back and looked embarrassed, as though she had not intended to confide so much.

Truggles asked no more questions. He did not pursue the line of inquiry this revelation at once brought to mind. He took his leave as graciously as possible and left the house.

He knew that both Phyllis Allison and her son watched him as he walked out the door with shoulders bent in a show of humility. But it was the boy's eyes he felt.

Phyllis Allison. The fresh memory of her slender beauty, her wide, honest eyes, struck pain in Truggles' heart. They were rare--but why did he seem to run across them so often?--these women who reminded him of _her_. His lost love, his long-lost love, the smiling fairy with the dancing heart, without whom life never had been quite complete again.

The woman really believed the boy was Blan Forsythe's child. It was pathetic. And that reference to Donald's having "the power:" Truggles wondered how many women he had known who thought their sons were "different," who even convinced themselves that the children had been sired by a dream prince or such like. Deluded souls, to so excuse their sins!

He straightened and ran his fingers through his short-clipped gray hair as he strode along the walk. The extensive lawn of Blan Forsythe's mansion stretched only two doors away from the bungalow he had just left. It was decked with flower beds and evergreens.

Truggles was too circumspect to do anything openly at this stage. But he shook a fist at the stone pile, mentally.

Behind him, Truggles had a record of nothing but successes. There had been the alcoholic in Hantown, the Negro fortuneteller in New Bacon, the member of some queer religious sect in Steckleville. Truggles had set his face against them. He had shown the people of these towns what manner of creatures they harbored in their bosoms. They had been driven out (it was unfortunate, in a way, that the alcoholic had been hit by a brick and killed in the confusion of public reaction, but such accidents happen); and eventually Truggles himself, purring inwardly at the consciousness of a job well done, had moved on to fields of further effort.

Blan Forsythe was not big enough to escape his righteousness.

* * * * *

If the mayor of Marston Hill would cooperate, it would save Masefield Truggles a lot of work and possibly some unpleasantness for everyone. Sometimes mayors did cooperate, especially when elections weren't far off.

Truggles was not offended that Mayor Ben Sands received him in the garden of his home on the edge of town. He had known many fine gentlemen with dirt on their hands who abhorred dirt in the mind.

"I haven't seen Blan much lately, but he used to spend a lot of time out here," said Sands, taking his battered pipe from his mouth to speak. "He was interested in the flowers. Those asters, now. They're tetraploid. He developed 'em. Used colchicine."

He looked at Truggles inquiringly, to see if he understood. Truggles allowed a smile to quirk his lips and shook his head slightly.

"Extract from the autumn crocus," said Sands. "Makes plants tend to double their chromosomes."

Around them, the garden was a solid blaze of color. Zinnias, marigolds, phlox cast their colorful bounty to the air.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a horticulturist," apologized Truggles.

"Well, it's like this," said Sands. "Every cell of every plant of the same species has the same number of chromosomes--you know, those bright little threads that hold the guiding genes of growth and development. Mutations in plants come when there are changes in individual genes from time to time. But when you hit them with colchicine, the chromosomes sometimes double without the cell dividing. Creates a new species, usually bigger, stronger, slower growing. Call them tetraploids. I've heard it called 'cataclysmic evolution.'"

"You mean man tampers with the basic laws of nature?" asked Truggles, awed and disturbed.

"I reckon you could call it that. Lots of plants have been treated that way--tomatoes, snapdragons, alyssum. Of course, it happens naturally, too. Wheat developed from the crossing of an inferior early species, einkorn, with a wild grass. Einkorn and the grass had seven chromosomes each, but in crossing the chromosomes were doubled. The result was Persian wheat, a superior variety with 14 chromosomes."

Sands took the pipe from his mouth and knocked the ashes out against the sole of his shoe. Pulling a sack of tobacco thoughtfully from his hip pocket, he began to refill it.

"Blan had a theory," he said, "that doubling of chromosomes in animals in the past could have given rise to new species and explain a lot of gaps in evolution. Man has 48 chromosomes in every cell, and Blan pointed out to me that 48 is double 24, which is double 12, which is double six, which is double three. He thought that was too much of a coincidence. I reckon I do, too."

He paused and struck a wooden match, holding it against the bowl of his pipe and sucking noisily.

"I don't hold with the evolutionary theory," said Truggles stiffly. "What I really wanted to ask you, Mayor Sands, was whether you are aware that Blan Forsythe is practicing polygamy, right here in Marston Hill?"

"You've been listening to those old hens gossip," accused Sands. "Look, I knew Blan right well when he was married to Phyllis Allison. Phyllis is my niece and I was sorry to see them break up, but the young people have to live their own lives. Blan has some ideas us old stick-in-the-muds might not understand, Mr. Truggles, but he's all right."

"A dozen women live with him in that big house of his," insisted Truggles. "I've found out there's a turnover, too. When one moves out, another moves in."

"I don't poke my nose into other people's business," said Sands bluntly. "But Dr. Allison tells me Blan maintains a staff, and it's convenient for them to live in that big house. He's doing biological research, along the lines I just explained."

"Biological research, I have no doubt," said Truggles, assuming his best organ-like tone. He fixed his blue eyes on Sands, but Sands' eyes were just as blue. They showed a gleam of anger. "You refuse to take any action against this abomination, then, Mayor?"

"I refuse to believe idle rumors," said Sands firmly. "And before you attempt to stir things up around here with your Social Standards Protective League, Mr. Truggles, I would recommend that you make some effort to secure accurate information. Dr. Allison is Blan's research assistant, and he can tell you much more of Blan's current experiments than I can."

Truggles bowed slightly and turned away. The sharp scent of the marigolds tickled his nostrils, making him want to sneeze.

"Dr. Allison," said Sands behind him, raising his voice slightly as Truggles walked away, "may even consent to tell you why Blan Forsythe's face is liver-colored. From what I hear of you, Mr. Truggles, that probably is your principal complaint against him."

Truggles straightened as though stabbed between the shoulder blades. He quickened his pace.

That had been a telling blow. Could Sands know? No, it was impossible. The recurring waves of time and travel had long since obliterated Truggles' distant past. The Brazilian was a secret demon in his own heart, his private, bitter hatred, the swarthy ogre who had crushed the flower of his life and whose face arose to torment him only in times of bitterness.

Sands was an idiot. All of these people in Marston Hill were idiots, letting a man like Forsythe fool them, liking him, looking up to him. They were empty shells, people, to be possessed alike by the strong, whether angel or demon. He, Truggles, would pit his strength against Forsythe.

As for Sands....

Old fool! Entrenched politician! Truggles had dealt with such civic laxity before. Direct action would be necessary.

* * * * *

There was a touch of frost on the grass the evening Masefield Truggles went again to the Allison home. Dr. Alex Allison, a chubby man with rimless spectacles, admitted him.

Truggles caught a glimpse of Phyllis Allison and the boy, Donald, in the kitchen as Allison led him through the dining room. They mounted a short flight of stairs to Allison's study.

Allison offered him wine and a cigar. Truggles refused. Allison placed the wine decanter back on the shelf unopened, but lit a cigar and settled back comfortably in his chair.

"Well, Mr. Truggles?" he asked briskly, with the air of a man who had no time to waste. Truggles looked him over, assessing him, and decided on the direct attack.

"I wonder if you are aware, Dr. Allison," he said softly, "that your employer is breaking up your home?"

He waited for the reaction. There was none. Allison puffed calmly on his cigar and waited. The light glinted from his spectacles as he kept his eyes fixed steadily on Truggles' face.

"Dr. Allison, your wife confessed to me that she still loves her former husband, Blan Forsythe," said Truggles, emphasizing every word.

"I was aware of that," said Allison unconcernedly. "Most women who know Blan are desperately in love with him. Is that all you came to see me about?"

He half rose from his chair. Truggles made a hurried gesture of protest. He realized he had tried to move too fast.

"No, no," said Truggles hastily. "Forgive me, Dr. Allison, but I was agitated over the situation. What I really came here for was to ask you to give me some information about Mr. Forsythe."

"Why?" asked Allison.

The flat question caught Truggles unprepared. He was aware that his mouth hung open foolishly as he tried desperately to frame an answer that would not be too revealing.

"Why--I was trying to lay to rest some rumors," he stammered at last. "Mayor Sands said you might tell me something about Mr. Forsythe."

Allison was silent for a long minute. He took the cigar from his mouth, knocked half an inch of ash into an ashtray and resumed his puffing.

"Mr. Truggles, how much do you know about mice?" Allison asked.

Truggles stared at him, unable to answer. This interview was beginning to take on a nightmarish aspect.

"What do you consider to be the principal difference between mice and men, Mr. Truggles?" pursued Allison.

"Really, Dr. Allison, I don't see--I don't know what point you're trying to make, but a mouse is an animal and a man is--well, a man."

"Nothing else?"

"Well, a man is bigger than a mouse." He began to feel familiar ground under his feet. "A man is bigger more ways than physically. He is bigger spiritually, emotionally. He thinks. He has a--"

"Ben Sands told me about his talk with you. So you don't believe in evolution? You don't believe the ancestors of men and monkeys came from a common stock?"

"I do not, sir. It is inconceivable...."

"How would mice strike you, then? Would you rather believe that men descended from mice than monkeys?"

Again the bewildered Truggles found himself physically incapable of answering.

"I have done a great deal of research, with the kind assistance of Blan Forsythe," said Allison precisely. "Blan is my friend. He has been my associate, even my experimental animal. I am preparing a paper on what I consider a revolutionary contribution to the theory of evolution--that men are related directly to the genus _rodentia_, and only more distantly so to the primates.

"Blan Forsythe is the real originator of this theory, as a result of his very personal interest in sudden evolutionary changes through doubling of chromosomes. It is reasonable to suppose that the ancestor of man himself, with all of his survival advantages, arose through such a process. Man has 48 chromosomes. Now, Mr. Truggles, what sort of animal would you guess has half that number--24 chromosomes?"

"Mice?" hazarded Truggles thinly.

"Precisely. Mice. The common house mouse. There is also a variety of squirrel that carries 24 chromosomes. The _peromyscus_ and _apodemus_ families of mice--and some other animals, including the rhesus monkey--have 48--cousins whose chromosome doubling eons ago started them up different paths from ours. Mr. Truggles, the ancestor of man was a rodent whose doubled chromosomes gave him new attributes that worked to his evolutionary advantage."

"Is that what is called a mutation?" asked Truggles, interested in spite of himself.

"Mutation? A mutation is a change in one gene. Men mutate every day. How many millions upon millions of years do you think it would take simple mutations to build a man from a rodent--or a lemur, either, for that matter?"

"Well, really, Dr. Allison, I believe you misunderstand what I asked you. Your theory is fine, I'm sure, among scientists, but I'm interested in information about Blan Forsythe."

"That's what I've given you. Blan Forsythe is a tetraploid man. His cells carry 96 chromosomes instead of the normal 48. Every cell of his body is doubled."

"Is that why his skin is liver-colored?" asked Truggles, remembering what Sands had said.

Allison smiled.

"Coincidence," he said. "It's true that liver cells have doubled chromosomes, but that isn't the reason for the color."

"What does all this mean, then?" asked Truggles.

Allison laid his half-smoked cigar carefully on the edge of the ashtray and gazed at Truggles through his spectacles.

"Blan Forsythe is a new species," he said slowly. "He is not man. Everyone has theorized that a superman might arise from a mutation, perhaps caused by radiation. My God, a hundred mutations of individual genes wouldn't make a superman overnight! But Blan Forsythe is one--a tetraploid man--a superman."

"And what is a superman, Dr. Allison?" asked Truggles drily, thinking of Nietzsche and the Sunday comic strips.

"Who knows? How can you and I comprehend the novel qualities, the undreamed-of abilities of such a creature? Do you think a mouse could understand a man's ability to reason, to talk, to build machines? Blan may not realize them himself. After all, he was reared in a human society, and no doubt the tetraploid rodent which is our ancestor seemed little different from his associates. There are two things I'm sure of: the differences are there, and they are qualities you and I could never point to and say, 'This is an ability of the superman.'"

Truggles' mouth twisted in a crooked smile. Allison had allowed his enthusiasm to draw him out. Allison was vulnerable now.

"And because this man--this creature--is different, you allow him to cuckold you?" he demanded in a low, ugly voice.

Allison was not vulnerable.

"Don't let Phyllis mislead you," he said quietly. "She thinks Donald is Blan's child because she always yearned to give Blan the child he wanted. Donald was born two years after they were divorced."

"She seems very sure," insinuated Truggles.

"It is possible for a tetraploid to be fertile in a mating with a normal diploid," said Allison. "Persian wheat, with 14 chromosomes, crossed with a grass which has seven chromosomes, to produce common wheat. That was Blan's hope while he and Phyllis were married, and it's still his hope with the others. I was his doctor and associate then, as I am now. Neither Phyllis nor Donald has more than the normal number of chromosomes, and Blan has not seen Phyllis since they were divorced."

"What, then, Dr. Allison, is this 'Power' that your wife says the boy has?"

Allison's face froze.

"That is a family matter, Mr. Truggles," he said icily. "I do not discuss my son's characteristics with strangers. Good night, sir."

Truggles saw Phyllis Allison as he left the house. Dr. Allison remained in his study when Truggles left, and Phyllis stepped from the darkened doorway of the dining room as Truggles opened the front door.

"Mr. Truggles," she said, placing her hand on his arm, "I don't know what your object is, but don't make any trouble for Blan Forsythe."

"My poor child, I am not trying to make trouble for him," said Truggles sadly. "I hope only to convince him that his unfortunate differences do not privilege him to flout the sound social customs of other men. If there is any trouble, it will be made by the man himself."

"You'll see him, then?"

"Certainly, I intend to try to convince him personally that what he is doing is wrong."

She sighed.

"I wish I could see him again," she murmured.

For this unhappy woman's sake if for no other reason, it would certainly be the thing to do to talk to Forsythe himself, Truggles thought as he left the house. The anticipation had a certain zest to it. Besides, Truggles believed in being fair. He always liked to give a man a chance to reform voluntarily, to bow to his righteous persuasion.

As for Allison, Truggles detested a man like that. The "scientific" mind, always so sure of its own theories. Such men could not see beyond the material, into the living realm of possession and power, the struggle between good and evil.

This theory that Forsythe was a superior creature ... Truggles shivered with resentment. Man was the apex, the conqueror--the conqueror through his service to the good way, the right way, through his militant demand that things be good and right.

A superior being. Truggles trembled again, this time overwhelmed by a feeling he hated, the feeling of inferiority. It swept over him from long, long ago, that bitter night when he had stood in tears before the Brazilian, when he had implored on his knees the only woman he had ever loved.

Something small and dark scurried across the walk in front of him.

Mice, he thought. The idea that man descended from a mouse was even more repellant than that man descended from monkey. But, if evolution had any basis in fact, mice might have certain claims. They lived in human habitations, they ate human foods. Their psychology was studied in mazes, and their physical makeup made them good subjects for experimentation in human diseases.

Mice. Truggles shrugged and walked on.

* * * * *

Masefield Truggles had seen Blan Forsythe at a distance, walking along the streets of Marston Hill, but Forsythe's appearance at close range was a severe shock.

The tetraploid man's skin was, as Sands and Allison had described it, the deep red color and texture of liver. His hair was short, mole-gray fur over the top of his head, and his eyes were a jade green that glowed with inner fires. Truggles was a tall man, but Forsythe stood a head taller and was massively built.

Forsythe's rugged features were not repulsive, when one became accustomed to their hue. Still, Truggles could not understand how a woman could be attracted to him. But the adoration that shone from the eyes of the pretty secretary who escorted him into Forsythe's office was unmistakable.

It was a spacious office, on the second floor of the mansion Truggles had passed so often. Why a man needed a business office to conduct private biological research was something Truggles could not understand, but this one would have fitted very well in a metropolitan skyscraper.

The weight of the pistol in its shoulder holster was comforting to Truggles. Others might not believe Forsythe dangerous. He did. He was protected.

"I understand you are determined to run me out of town, Mr. Truggles," said Forsythe pleasantly, leaning back in his swivel chair and putting his fingertips together. With his back to the window, his face was in slight shadow and he looked like a well-tanned business executive.

"You either have a well-organized spy network or some of the strange powers your associates attribute to you, Mr. Forsythe," replied Truggles easily. It would have been easier to deal with a man who did not exhibit such self-confidence, who was a little worried and nervous, but everyone seemed to be conspiring to make this project difficult for Truggles.

Forsythe smiled, and his teeth were white as shining ivory in his dark face.

"My extraordinary powers don't lie along those lines," he said. "I'd be obliged to someone who could tell me along what lines they do lie. I've had flashes of them from time to time, but I'm afraid they couldn't be explained to you."