L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

“And what has all that to do with you, Doctor?” asked Shea.

“I shall come to that forthwith. When Vad Varo — formerly Ulysses Paxton of your world — transferred my brain from the worn-out body it then occupied to the body you now see before you, he did an excellent job. That is no cause for surprise, since he had the greatest possible teacher of neurosurgery, namely me.”

Shea asked. “What happened to the original brain of the body you are now using?”

It was incinerated. That was no great loss to civilization, since it was a brain of a relatively primitive, stupid type, who had left school for good as a child. But when these facts came out, sentimentalists raised such an ebullition that I was forced to give up my practice of brain transfer.

“In one respect, however, Vad Varo was never able to complete his task. The original body retained a battery of glands, whose functions affect even my superior brain. Therefore mundane urges and desires that I thought I had long since cast aside as mere irrational sentimentalism arise to plague me.

“In fact, I seem to be turning into the very sort of creature I most despised: an emotional, irrational sentimentalist. Why, finding myself recently in the company of two of Mors Kajak’s handsome nubile daughters, I found to my horror that I developed a hearty erection. Since on Barsoom we do not conceal the parts in question by those ridiculous costumes that Jasoomians wear, and since the phenomenon in question is, on Barsoom, accounted the worst possible breach of good manners, I was forced to mutter an excuse and beat a hasty retreat.

“So then, you may ask, why do I not simply mingle with others of my class and form such attachments as my glands dictate, as other mortals do? The difficulty is that, having steered my course for centuries by the ideal of a purely rational, objective, emotionless scientist, I find that I cannot freely mingle with the rabble. To be blunt, they do not like me and, further to aggravate matters, most of them bore me.

“In forming their personal relationships, they make no allowance for my obvious mental superiority. If I join a group happily chattering away about trivial matters, they fall silent at my approach. If I seek a social engagement with one of the more promising rabblites, of either sex, the object of my wish for good fellowship makes transparent excuses: he or she is unwell, or has a previous engagement, or has just lost a close relative, or some such fribbling pretext. Nobody ever invites me to anything! Intellectually I know that lonesomeness is just one more irrational sentiment, forced upon me by the primitive glands of the stupid previous owner of this body. But that fact does not make the emotion any less painful.”

Shea, grinning, said aside to Belphebe: “He reminds me of Edgar Poe.”

“Who or what is Edgar Poe?” snapped Ras Thavas.

“A crow I once knew.”

“What is a crow?”

“A large black Earthly bird, omnivorous and relatively intelligent. Edgar was found by a couple as a fledgling who had fallen out of its nest before it was airworthy. They took him home and fed him up, so that he grew into a big, handsome adult crow. Then the couple decided it was a shame to keep Edgar penned up indoors. They took him to a place they knew a flock of wild crows frequented and turned him loose.

“A fortnight later, one of them opened the back door. There was Edgar, taking the begging attitude, like this.” Shea squatted, half spread his arms, and looked up with his mouth open. “He was bald, because all the feathers had been pecked off the crown of his head.

“What had happened was that Edgar, having lived among human beings through his formative years, thought of himself as human and tried to behave accordingly. He had never learned proper crow manners and etiquette; so the other crows of the flock he tried to join set upon him. In the end, the couple had to take him back, although they confessed that the full-grown Edgar in the house was something of a nuisance. Now, what am I supposed to do about your problem?”

“You shall take me in hand and teach me the little sleights and dodges and mannerisms of friendly social intercourse — the details your Edgar failed to learn about his fellow crows. For centuries I have avoided learning such details with the rabble, lest they waste time that were better spent on my research. In other words, you shall teach me how to get along with people, even mere rabblites.”

“Jeepers!” cried Shea. “That would take a lot of doing. What makes you think an alien like me would know how to tinker with your mental works? You need a Dale Carnegie type.”

“A what type? Never mind, my superior telepathic powers convey the sense of your meaning. As a professional psychologist — an occupation entirely lacking on Barsoom, save for my own limited forays into that field — you are the best-qualified person on this planet. Psychologically, we Barsoomians are very close to you Jasoomians. The difference you will in due course discover and make allowances for. Your being an alien is an advantage, since it enables you to view Barsoomian society and customs with a coldly objective eye.”

Shea objected: “Meanwhile; what happens to our daughter Voglinda? I can’t chase after Malambroso and at the same time give you a crash course in human relations.”

“That is my condition,” said Ras Thavas. “Teach me the skills I have set forth, and I will do what I can to further your search for your daughter. Otherwise I will do naught, and with your ignorance of this world you will probably encompass your own speedy destruction.”

“Be reasonable! What you ask is as feasable as jumping out the window and flying by flapping my arms!”

“I am always reasonable. You have my condition.”

“May I make a suggestion?” asked Belphebe.

“By all means, do,” said Shea. “Whenever we get really stuck, I know I can count on you to pull a rabbit out of the hat.”

“What is a rabbit?” asked Ras Thavas.

“A mere figure of speech; ignore,” said Shea. “What’s your suggestion, darling?”

“Why don’t we bring Doctor Ras with us in searching for Voglinda? You can coach him daily in polite social intercourse and scold him when he makes a gaffe. If he be half as brilliant as he thinks he is, he would be a valuable guide in this alien world.”

“Depends on where we’re going.” Shea turned to Ras. “So, will you now tell us where we are going?”

“Do you agree to the lady’s scheme?” said Ras Thavas, “I hate to lose the research time; but the cold logic of my superior mind dictates that I agree to the lady’s scheme. Do you also agree?”

“Yes, I do, If you will guide and help us to our objective. I’ll do my best to make you over into a suave Barsoomian-of-the-world. I can’t guarantee success in changing your habits, fixed by a thousand years of conditioning; but I’ll do my best. So, where are they?”

Ras Thavas replied: “One of my informants in the city of Zodanga has reported that a man of alien aspect arrived from another world with a small child a day or two ago. From such details as I could elicit by wireless, the pair agree with your descriptions of Malambroso and Voglinda.”

“Where is Zodanga?”

“About three thousand haads from here, in a roughly northeasterly direction.”

Belphebe asked: “What’s that in Earthly measurements?”

Shea replied: “I don’t remember the exact conversion factor; but its something like two thousand miles. The haad comes close to the kilometer.”

“Quite a distance,” said Belphebe.

“One must get used to great distances on Barsoom. Although the planet is smaller than our Earth, the fact of having no oceans makes the land area over twice ours.”