Following a moment of rather bewildered silence, a plump hand rose shakily into the air-conditioned air.
“Blashford,” said Dr Vincent Trillby. “You have some apposite remark you wish to favour us with?”
“Something like that, sir, yes.”
“Onto your fat little feet then, lad, spit the fellow out.”
Blashford rose, a podgy youth.
A lover of women, a lover of truth.
The top of his class in advanced trigonometry.
Branches of physics and snappy geometry.
Though rather sweaty down under the arms
He was popular due to his eloquent charms.
And his optimism.
“Dr Trillby,” he said, in a polite and measured tone. “Dr Trillby, I am aware, as we all are, that this is THE END. There is no room left for doubt. If I might, perhaps, liken science to a lady’s silken undergarment. I, for one, would not expect to find the skidmark of error soiling its gusset. We, as the last men of science, know that everything that could possibly be achieved has now been achieved. That science has finally advanced to a point beyond which it cannot go. That all that can be done has been done. That—”
“Is there some point to this, Blashford?” Dr Trillby mimed golf swings. “Because I can hear the fairway calling.”
“Dr Trillby.” Blashford toyed with his tie. It had little cartoons of Einstein all over it. “Dr Trillby, sir. I do have to ask you this.”
“Well go ahead, lad, do.”
“Dr Trillby, what does it mean?”
“Mean, lad? Mean? It means that it’s THE END. That’s what it means. Mankind has come to a full stop. There can be no further progress. You said it yourself. All that can be done has been done. Everything.”
“If I might just slip a word in here.”
Clovis Garnett rose to speak.
Clovis with his fiery mane.
Clovis with his ruddy cheek.
Clovis with his ankle chain.
Clovis with his bright red blazer.
Clovis with his bright red tie[7].
Clovis sharp as any laser.
Fixed them with his cherry eye.
“I think, sir, what Fatty Blashford is trying to ask—”
“Oi!” cried Blashford. “Enough of that fatty talk.”
“What our esteemed and magnificently proportioned colleague is trying to ask—”
“That’s more like it,” said Blashford. “Nice tie, by the way.”
“What he is trying to ask,” said Clovis, “is: what happens next?”
“Nothing,” said Dr Trillby. “Nothing happens next. That’s the whole point of THE END. Nothing happens after it. Nothing can happen after it.”
“You’ll be playing golf,” said Blashford. “That will be happening.”
Clovis sniggered. “There’s nothing very happening about golf,” said he. “Golf was never a happening thing.”
Dr Trillby sighed. “All right,” he said. “I know it’s Sunday and I know it’s early in the morning and I know this is all very upsetting for you. So, as a special favour, I will run through it all just the one more time and then I am off to play golf.”
Three pairs of eyes, two pairs blue and one pair red, fixed upon Dr Trillby. Dr Trillby spoke.
“We have all read the Holy Writ of Saint Charles Darwin,” he said. “On the Origin of Species has been taught in every classroom and preached from every pulpit for nearly two thousand years. Mankind evolved, through the Will of God, by means of natural selection. Had natural selection continued, mankind would have continued to evolve. Into what? Who can say. A race of gods, perhaps. But the point is moot. Mankind did not continue to evolve. And for why? Because of science.
“During the latter part of the twentieth century and the earlier part of that following, natural selection ceased. Advances in medicine, food production, welfare, genetic modification, science, saw to it that all survived. Not just the fittest. But all.
“No more survival of the fittest. No more evolution.
“So, as human evolution had ceased, it became inevitable that the human race would one day reach a cut-off point. When mankind had finally achieved everything it was capable of achieving; when every book had been written, every piece of music composed; everything capable of invention invented; everything that could be accomplished accomplished. The lot. The entire caboodle. All. There is now nothing that anyone can think of that hasn’t been thought of before. It has all been done. Everything. We have reached THE END.
“And with that all said, again, would any of you now redundant fellows care to join me for a round of golf?”
“I have a question,” said Blashford.
“Perhaps you do, lad. But not one that hasn’t been asked before.”
“But what if I thought of something new?”
“You can’t, lad. There is nothing new that can be thought of.”
“It’s preposterous,” said Blashford.
“I know, lad, I know.” Dr Trillby mimed a winning putt. “It had to happen eventually and now it has. And that’s OFFICIAL.”
“So what will happen next?”
Dr Trillby sighed once more. “Nothing, lad. Go home and put your feet up. Watch some old rerun on the television.”
“I could write a new TV series,” said Blashford. “Put a new spin on an old idea.”
“Been done. Every new spin that could be spun has been spun. We have been watching reworkings of reworkings of reworkings for more years than I care to remember.”
“But there will be news. New news.”
“News of what? There is no more crime, there are no more wars, there is no more sickness. Due to genetic modification, we all live to be exactly one hundred and seventy-five years old. The world is governed and run by Porkie and is as near to Utopia as it can possibly be. And that’s OFFICIAL too!”
“Space travel,” said Blashford. “What about space travel?”
“We have reached the limit of scientific achievement regarding space travel. No further developments are possible.”
“Nothing is impossible to science,” said Blashford.
Dr Trillby offered up what he hoped would be the final sigh of the day. “There was a time,” said he, “when that was probably true. The time of St Charles Darwin. At that time everything seemed possible and perhaps was possible. But that time has now passed. All that science can achieve has been achieved. Do I need to have this engraved upon a mallet and beat you over the head with it?”
“I’ll hold him down if you want,” said Clovis.
“That won’t be necessary. Now, I’ve said all I intend to say on this matter. All, indeed, that can be said. I am off to tog up in my Fairisles. Goodbye, gentlemen, and thank you very much.”
“I’ll join you, then,” said Clovis. “I always beat you anyway.”
“Only because you cheat, Clovis. Only because you cheat.”
“Dr Trillby, sir.”
A reedy little voice spoke up. The doctor in his turn looked down.
“Ah,” said Dr Trillby. “Fourth Man Tripper, experts’ expert. What have you to say?”
Fourth Man Tripper gained his feet
And tiny feet they were.
Small boys mocked him in the street
Because he dressed in fur.
Fourth Man Tripper ran his thumb
Through golden head of hair.
Fourth Man Tripper, rarely dumb,
Pushed aside his chair.
“For a chap with only three days to live,” he said to Dr Trillby, “Your calmness does you credit.”
Dr Trillby consulted the lifespan chronometer he wore upon his wrist. “Your calculations are somewhat amiss,” he told Fourth Man Tripper. “I have another one hundred and five years, four months, three days, two hours and one minute to go before my clinical death, my next recloning and rebirth. I shall be around for many centuries to come. Such are the perks of being a scientist.”