Rausch made the introductions. “Dr. Kessler, allow me to present Dr. Langhof.”
Kessler put out his hand, and Langhof took it. “Happy to have you with us, Doctor,” Kessler said brightly. “We’re terribly overworked here in the Camp.”
“Thank you, sir,” Langhof said. He glanced toward one side of the room and saw what looked to be twenty or thirty female bodies stacked neatly, heads pointed toward the wall. They were all pregnant, and some of the fetuses had already crowned, the tops of their heads drooping from the vaginas. Langhof felt his stomach coil … the livers of some eighty women who had died suddenly …
“Don’t be alarmed, Dr. Langhof,” Kessler said gently.
Langhof stared palely at Kessler but said nothing.
“You no doubt find this somewhat unusual,” Kessler went on quietly, “perhaps even a bit macabre.”
Langhof tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“We don’t have very sophisticated facilities here,” Kessler continued, “and that sometimes makes for a certain amount of unpleasantness.”
“Of course,” Ludtz said quickly. He watched Langhof with worry.
Kessler smiled. “As I was explaining to Dr. Ludtz, in this ward we are examining various methods of sterilization. But first — as regards females — we must inquire into the whole process of gestation.”
Langhof summoned enough strength to nod politely.
Toward what was he nodding? What was it that he saw? The perversion of science? Of course, but what else? His own pitiful helplessness? Absolutely. Anything else? His own moral and intellectual superiority? Doubtless that, and he even felt a little undeserved shiver of decency, not to say humanity, pass over him. But beyond these things — and the stacked bodies — what?
Nothing.
For Langhof had not yet begun to absorb the Camp. He had not passed into its bloodstream. He still persisted in the belief that it was not his crime, even though at this point, he was — admittedly — an accessory to it. But still, he could not see it as his crime, so he could not objectify his experience and then place himself within it. At this point, he could only feel his own, personal distance from the things around him. He could only look down upon them, as if dangling from some lofty aerie.
“We begin by taking females in various stages of pregnancy,” Kessler explained. He stopped, dipped into his coat, pulled out a cigar, and lit it. “After that — oh, forgive me, would you like a cigar?”
“No, thank you,” Langhof said.
“I don’t smoke either,” Ludtz said.
Kessler laughed. “Oh, yes. Hygienists. I forgot.” He took another puff. “In any event, we extract the fetus — as I said, in various stages of development — and we observe it.”
“Observe it?” Langhof asked cautiously.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“How do you observe it?”
Kessler shrugged. “We simply look at it, Dr. Langhof. We make whatever notations seem fitting. You must understand that this is original research. We have to begin at the beginning … almost as the ancient physicians did.”
“Yes, I see,” Ludtz said.
“But that should not be discouraging,” Kessler said, his eyes fixed on Langhof. “And imagine the rewards to mankind if we are successful! By controlling the nature of the human population, by eliminating inferior strains, we can project the race toward a magnificent future at an undreamed-of speed.” He glanced at the bodies piled on the other side of the room. “The fact is, because of misguided sentimentalism, our forefathers allowed degenerate peoples to overbreed. In a limited world, this can no longer be tolerated. Surely you understand this, Dr. Langhof.”
“Yes,” Langhof said weakly.
“Good,” Kessler said happily, “then let’s begin.” He turned and called two prisoners into the room. “Quick, now,” he said to them, “I want you to place one specimen on each of the three tables here in the room. Be quick, we’ve already a late start this morning.”
The two prisoners set to work. One grabbed the hands, one the feet of a single body. Then they dragged it to one of the tables and hoisted it on top.
“Turn them face up,” Kessler said.
The prisoners struggled to turn the bodies. “Shit,” one of them blurted as one of the corpses slid to the floor.
“Come on, come on!” Kessler cried. “For Christ’s sake, watch what you’re doing.”
When they had finished, the two prisoners walked to one side of the room and stood waiting for their next orders.
Kessler glanced at Ludtz and Langhof. “Shall we begin? You each have one specimen. What we have to do is remove the fetus. As you know, this can be accomplished with a simple incision, at least in most cases. If the fetus has crowned, however — as I see yours has, Dr. Langhof — you must make the incision considerably lower.” He pointed his scalpel. “Here. Make it at this point to ensure that it will not be damaged.” He glanced at the cadaver on Ludtz’s table. “Yours will be a good deal simpler,” he said. “Yours, a bit messy, Dr. Langhof, but nothing you’re not used to.” He smiled gently. “All right, let’s begin.”
Langhof stood at his table, staring at the naked body that rested on it. He could hear Kessler’s voice like a steady drumbeat in the background. He placed the scalpel at the point Kessler had indicated, tucked it through the black, curly pubic hair, and then pressed down gently into the rubbery flesh at the apex of the mound of Venus.
PICTURE EL PRESIDENTE standing on one of the majestic turrets that rise above the palace. Picture him peering out into the night as his soul fills with that peculiar afflatus which comes when one identifies himself with the creative forces of history. If he does not look to the north — which he never does, because he cannot bear melancholy — he will see the lights twinkling in his impoverished suburbs. Out there, in the comforting distance, his subjects carry on the twin responsibilities of good citizenship: to work and to adore.
But what is the nature of the night he sees? Because he is a simpleton, he cannot be moved by its symbolism. Because he is a wastrel, he cannot see it as a time for rest. Because he is a debaucher, he does not need its darkness to inspire his loins. What is left, then, for El Presidente in regard to night? Nothing. Neither peace nor mystery, but only dread of the sleep it inevitably brings, that brief loss of consciousness which El Presidente abhors. Night ends each day with a terrible intimation of oblivion, suggesting, as it must to all great egotists, that nature is forever out of tune with their desire.
After the first day of work in the Camp, Langhof longed for sleep. For him the loss of consciousness became something wholly to be desired, a treasure beyond price. He lay on his bed, twisting, turning, his eyes clamped shut. But the little engine of his mind refused to close down. He tried to read, but the book seemed to dissolve before his eyes. He paced, tramping back and forth across the narrow room, the naked bulb swinging above his head like a pendulum.
“I heard you walking about,” Rausch said as he opened the door.
Langhof spun around. “Don’t you ever knock?”
Rausch smiled. “Don’t you need your sleep, Doctor?”
Langhof noticed that even at this late hour, Rausch remained in his immaculate black uniform. “I might ask you the same question,” he said.
Rausch walked past Langhof and stood by the window watching the distant pillar of smoke rise from the orange glow of chimneys. “What did you learn about creation today, Doctor?” he asked.
Langhof turned toward Rausch. “This attitude of yours — this —”