Mr. Caxton’s eyes narrowed in malicious triumph. “No animal the size of man or larger could exist on Mars without some kind of natural oxygenating apparatus built into its body.
“A bird? Peter, I’m going to be completely honest with you. A certain kind of bird might just possibly be able to survive on Mars, but it would have to get along on very little oxygen.”
With an effort Peter summoned the courage to interrupt Mr. Caxton with a quite unnecessary reminder. “It was a bird, Mr. Caxton. I told you it had feathers!”
“Yes indeed, Peter. It was a bird you saw. You say you saw a huge bird standing in the doorway. Do you realize what a perfect pit you have just dug for yourself? Do you know what a Martian bird would look like? Have you ever tried to imagine how a real scientist feels when he knows that he can’t be wrong? Here, I’ll show you!”
With his gaze fixed triumphantly on Tommy Mr. Caxton removed a small writing pad from his weather jacket, and proceeded to draw upon it. Mr. Caxton used an ordinary lead pencil, and that his skill as an artist was of no mean order could be seen almost instantly.
With a few deft strokes Mr. Caxton traced out on the smooth paper a shape of incredible lightness and grace, a shape so fragile, slender and spiraling that only a miracle of the glassblower’s art could have translated it into three-dimensional reality.
A veritable wonder bird it seemed, a creature of light and fire with a bill three times the length of its body.
With skill in the arts there goes usually a certain gentleness, a generosity of spirit which shrinks from inflicting pain on others. But so closely was Mr. Caxton’s skill linked to the cruelty in his nature that he always saw to it that it aroused in the beholder bitterness and despair.
Mr. Caxton did not ask Peter how he liked the drawing. Instead, he thrust it at him, twisting him about and forcing him to stare at it.
“A Martian bird would look like that,” he said, with cold mockery in his stare. “Did the bird you claim to have seen look like that? Did it? Answer me!”
“No!” Susan cried.
“You keep out of it!” Mr. Caxton warned. “I’m waiting, Peter.”
“No, it didn’t,” Peter said. “Pop wouldn’t want me to say it did. He told me an explorer has to observe closely everything he sees.”
“I thought so—you little liar!” Mr. Caxton’s features hardened and his voice rang out accusingly. “You made the whole thing up.”
It is doubtful if Mr. Caxton would have struck a child in spiteful rage. The grotesque melodrama of self-righteous deceit that went on inside of him would have been thrown out of joint by such a flagrant violation of adult mores. Besides, the danger of retribution from Peter’s parents would have given him very serious and solemn pause.
What Mr. Caxton actually did was a far less grievous offense. He simply took the drawing and molded it carefully to Peter’s face. Then, with a quick, abrupt shove, he sent Peter reeling backward.
Peter let out a yell, lost his balance, and went down on the floor on his hands and knees.
It was not a too grievous offense, but if Mr. Caxton had delivered a stinging blow to Peter’s cheek with the flat of his hand he would have condemned himself less absolutely.
Some people can do a malicious thing once, but it doesn’t mean that they are completely evil. Even the sternest type of old English schoolmaster had redeeming qualities, and a knuckle rapping with a ruler has been forgiven by irate parents time and time again.
But by blindfolding Peter and sending him reeling Mr. Caxton had placed himself beyond the pale. There is nothing quite as shocking and unforgivable as a blow to the pride of a sensitive boy with no malice in his nature, and to Peter’s father, just coming in through the door, the affront seemed outrageous.
Peter’s mother, too, turned white with rage. She stood for an instant swaying in the doorway, unnerved by the mind-numbing realization that she had returned just in time to rescue her children from the clutches of a monster. Then she made straight for Mr. Caxton.
She was a frail little woman, and it seemed strange that Mr. Caxton should have been more terrified by her unbridled fury than by the more immediate threat of Dr. Ashley himself, who was now towering directly over him.
Dr. Ashley’s arm was drawn back, and his eyes were darting venom. But even when Dr. Ashley’s fist crashed against Mr. Caxton’s jaw with shattering violence Peter’s discredited guardian took the blow unblinkingly, his eyes still on Mrs. Ashley’s white and accusing face.
For a moment Mr. Caxton blacked out completely. He lay sprawled out on the floor at Dr. Ashley’s feet, and the little ribbon of crimson which dribbled from his mouth might have been a vehicle for cruel satire if Mr. Caxton had been less firmly convinced that there was no animal life on Mars.
For it looked suspiciously like a worm, a blood-hued crawler of the Martian night that in its own tiny way symbolized the many branching tunnels of corruption and decay that could exist inside a man.
It was to Dr. Ashley’s credit that he did not give Mr. Caxton a second glance when that very disheveled person got to his feet, and stared in sullen, despairing confusion at Peter picking himself up in sobbing defiance.
Dr. Ashley very deliberately allowed his anger to cool, his quick brown eyes flashing to Peter in radiant sympathy.
“It won’t happen again, son,” he promised.
“If it does, he’ll wish he never was born,” Mrs. Ashley agreed, staring at Mr. Caxton with a hate so cold and merciless it brought all of his terror back.
Perhaps buried somewhere deep in Mr. Caxton’s mind was a childhood
