Agatha Christie - Passenger to Frankfurt

'"But if you're going to make people nice-tempered and benevolent," I said, "what have you got to worry about?" And he said, "You don't understand, Matilda. You'll never understand. My fellow scientists in all probability would not understand either. And no politicians would ever understand. And so, you see, it's too big a risk to be taken. At any rate one would have to think for a long time."

'"But," I said, "you could bring people out of it again, just like laughing gas, couldn't you? I mean, you could make people benevolent just for a short time, and then they'd get all right again — or all wrong again — it depends which way you look at it, I should have thought." And he said, "No. This will be, you see, permanent. Quite permanent because it affects the –" and then he went into jargon again. You know, long words and numbers. Formulas, or molecular changes — something like that. I expect really it must be something like what they do to cretins. You know, to make them stop being cretins, like giving them thyroid or taking it away from them. I forget which it is. Something like that. Well, I expect there's some nice little gland somewhere and if you take it away or smoke it out, or do something drastic to it — but then, the people are permanently –'

'Permanently benevolent? You're sure that's the right word? Benevolence?'

'Yes, because that's why he nicknamed it Benvo.'

'But what did his colleagues think, I wonder, about his backing out?'

'I don't think he had many who knew. Lisa what's-her-name, the Austrian girl; she'd worked on it with him. And there was one young man called Leadenthal or some name like that, but he died of tuberculosis. And he rather spoke as though the other people who worked with him were merely assistants who didn't know exactly what he was doing or trying for. I see what you're getting at,' said Matilda suddenly. 'I don't think he ever told anybody, really. I mean, I think he destroyed his formulas or notes or whatever they were and gave up the whole idea. And then he had his stroke and got ill, and now, poor dear, he can't speak very well. He's paralysed one side. He can hear fairly well. He listens to music. That's his whole life now.'

'His life's work's ended, you think?'

'He doesn't even see friends. I think it's painful to him to see them. He always makes some excuse.'

'But he's alive,' said Admiral Blunt. 'He's alive still. Got his address?'

'It's in my address book somewhere. He's still in the same place. North Scotland somewhere. But — oh, do understand, he was such a wonderful man once. He isn't now. He's almost dead. For all intents and purposes.'

'There's always hope,' said Admiral Blunt. 'And belief,' he added. 'Faith.'

'And benevolence, I suppose,' said Lady Matilda.

Professor John Gottlieb sat in his chair looking very steadfastly at the handsome young woman sitting opposite him.

He scratched his ear with a rather monkey-like gesture which was characteristic of him. He looked rather like a monkey anyway. A prognathous jaw, a high mathematical head which make a slight contrast in terms, and a small wizened frame.

'It's not every day,' said Professor Gottlieb, 'that a young lady brings me a letter from the President of the United States . However,' he said cheerfully, 'Presidents don't always know exactly what they're doing. What's this all about? I gather you're vouched for on the highest authority.'

'I've come to ask you what you know or what you can tell me about something called Project Benvo.'

'Are you really Countess Renata Zerkowski?'

'Technically, possibly, I am. I'm more often known as Mary Ann.'

'Yes, that's what they wrote me under separate cover. And you want to know about Project Benvo. Well, there was such a thing. Now it's dead and buried and the man who thought of it also, I expect.'

'You mean Professor Shoreham.'

'That's right. Robert Shoreham. One of the greatest geniuses of our age. Einstein, Niels Bohr and some others. But Robert Shoreham didn't last as long as he should. A great loss to science — what is it Shakespeare says of Lady Macbeth: "She should have died hereafter."'

'He's not dead,' said Mary Ann.

'Oh. Sure of that? Nothing's been heard of him for a long time.'

'He's an invalid. He lives in the north of Scotland . He is paralysed, can't speak very well, can't walk very well. He sits most of the time listening to music.'

'Yes, I can imagine that. Well, I'm glad about that. If he can do that he won't be too unhappy. Otherwise it's a pretty fair hell for a brilliant man who isn't brilliant any more. Who's, as it were, dead in an invalid chair.'

'There was such a thing as Project Benvo?'

'Yes, he was very keen about it.'

'He talked to you about it?'

'He talked to some of us about it in the early days. You're not a scientist yourself, young woman, I suppose?'

'No, I'm –'

'You're just an agent, I suppose. I hope you're on the right side. We still have to hope for miracles these days, but I don't think you'll get anything out of Project Benvo.'

'Why not? You said he worked on it. It would have been a very great invention, wouldn't it? Or discovery, or whatever you call these things?'

'Yes, it would have been one of the greatest discoveries of the age. I don't know just what went wrong. It's happened before now. A thing goes along all right but in the last stages somehow, it doesn't click. Breaks down. Doesn't do what's expected of it and you give up in despair. Or else you do what Shoreham did.'

'What was that?'

'He destroyed it. Every damn bit of it. He told me so himself. Burnt all the formulas, all the papers concerning it, all the data. Three weeks later he had his stroke. I'm sorry. You see, I can't help you. I never knew any details about it, nothing but its main idea. I don't even remember that now, except for one thing. Benvo stood for Benevolence.'

Lord Altamount was dictating.

The voice that had once been ringing and dominant was now reduced to a gentleness that had still an unexpected special appeal. It seemed to come gently out of the shadows of the past, but to be emotionally moving in a way that a more dominant tone would not have been.

James Kleek was taking down the words as they came, pausing every now and then when a moment of hesitation came, allowing for it and waiting gently himself.

'Idealism,' said Lord Altamount, 'can arise and indeed usually does so when moved by a natural antagonism to injustice. That is a natural revulsion from crass materialism. The natural idealism of youth is fed more and more by a desire to destroy those two phases of modern life, injustice and crass materialism. That desire to destroy what is evil, sometimes leads to a love of destruction for its own sake. It can lead to a pleasure in violence and in the infliction of pain. All this can be fostered and strengthened from outside by those who are gifted by a natural power of leadership. This original idealism arises in a non-adult stage. It should and could lead on to a desire for a new world. It should lead also towards a love of all human beings of goodwill towards them. But those who have once learned to love violence for its own sake will never become adults. They will be fixed in their own retarded development and will so remain for their lifetime.'

The buzzer went. Lord Altamount gestured and James Kleek lifted it up and listened.

'Mr Robinson is here.'

'Ah yes. Bring him in. We can go on with this later.'

James Kleek rose, laying aside his notebook.

Mr Robinson came in. James Kleek set a chair for him, one sufficiently widely proportioned to receive his form without discomfort. Mr Robinson smiled his thanks and arranged himself by Lord Altamount's side.