The Ideal

nothing to do, I finally droppedaround to the professor's quarter, found him missing, and eventuallylocated him in his laboratory at the Physics Building. He was putteringaround the table that had once held that damned subjunctivisor of his,but now it supported an indescribable mess of tubes and tangled wires,and as its most striking feature, a circular plane mirror etched with agrating of delicately scratched lines.

  "Good evening, Dixon," he rumbled.

  I echoed his greeting. "What's that?" I asked.

  "My idealizator. A rough model, much too clumsy to fit into Isaak'siron skull. I'm just finishing it to try it out." He turned glitteringblue eyes on me. "How fortunate that you're here. It will save the worlda terrible risk."

  "A risk?"

  "Yes. It is obvious that too long an exposure to the device will extracttoo many psychons, and leave the subject's mind in a sort of moroniccondition. I was about to accept the risk, but I see now that it wouldbe woefully unfair to the world to endanger the mind of van Manderpootz.But you are at hand, and will do very well."

  "Oh, no I won't!"

  "Come, come!" he said, frowning. "The danger is negligible. In fact, Idoubt whether the device will be able to extract _any_ psychons from_your_ mind. At any rate, you will be perfectly safe for a period of atleast half an hour. I, with a vastly more productive mind, coulddoubtless stand the strain indefinitely, but my responsibility to theworld is too great to chance it until I have tested the machine onsomeone else. You should be proud of the honor."

  "Well, I'm not!" But my protest was feeble, and after all, despite hisoverbearing mannerisms, I knew van Manderpootz liked me, and I waspositive he would not have exposed me to any real danger. In the end Ifound myself seated before the table facing the etched mirror.

  "Put your face against the barrel," said van Manderpootz, indicating astove-pipe-like tube. "That's merely to cut off extraneous sights, sothat you can see only the mirror. Go ahead, I tell you! It's no morethan the barrel of a telescope or microscope."

  I complied. "Now what?" I asked.

  "What do you see?"

  "My own face in the mirror."

  "Of course. Now I start the reflector rotating." There was a faint whir,and the mirror was spinning smoothly, still with only a slightly blurredimage of myself. "Listen, now," continued van Manderpootz. "Here is whatyou are to do. You will think of a generic noun. 'House,' for instance.If you think of house, you will see, not an individual house, but yourideal house, the house of all your dreams and desires. If you think ofa horse, you will see what your mind conceives as the perfect horse,such a horse as dream and longing create. Do you understand? Have youchosen a topic?"

  "Yes." After all, I was only twenty-eight; the noun I had chosenwas--girl.

  "Good," said the professor. "I turn on the current."

  There was a blue radiance behind the mirror. My own face still staredback at me from the spinning surface, but something was forming behindit, building up, growing. I blinked; when I focused my eyes again, itwas--_she_ was--there.

  Lord! I can't begin to describe her. I don't even know if I saw herclearly the first time. It was like looking into another world andseeing the embodiment of all longings, dreams, aspirations, and ideals.It was so poignant a sensation that it crossed the borderline into pain.It was--well, exquisite torture or agonized delight. It was at onceunbearable and irresistible.

  But I gazed. I had to. There was a haunting familiarity about theimpossibly beautiful features. I had seen the face--somewhere--sometime.In dreams? No; I realized suddenly what was the source of thatfamiliarity. This was no living woman, but a synthesis. Her nose was thetiny, impudent one of Whimsy White at her loveliest moment; her lipswere the perfect bow of Tips Alva; her silvery eyes and dusky velvethair were those of Joan Caldwell. But the aggregate, the sum total, theface in the mirror--that was none of these; it was a face impossibly,incredibly, outrageously beautiful.

  Only her face and throat were visible, and the features were cool,expressionless, and still as a carving. I wandered suddenly if she couldsmile, and with the thought, she did. If she had been beautiful before,now her beauty flamed to such a pitch that it was--well, insolent; itwas an affront to be so lovely; it was insulting. I felt a wild surge ofanger that the image before me should flaunt such beauty, and yetbe--_non-existent_! It was deception, cheating, fraud, a promise thatcould never be fulfilled.

  Anger died in the depths of that fascination. I wondered what the restof her was like, and instantly she moved gracefully back until her fullfigure was visible. I must be a prude at heart, for she wasn't wearingthe usual cuirass-and-shorts of that year, but an iridescentfour-paneled costume that all but concealed her dainty knees. But herform was slim and erect as a column of cigarette smoke in still air, andI knew that she could dance like a fragment of mist on water. And withthat thought she did move, dropping in a low curtsy, and looking up withthe faintest possible flush crimsoning the curve of her throat. Yes, Imust be a prude at heart; despite Tips Alva and Whimsy White and therest, my ideal was modest.

  It was unbelievable that the mirror was simply giving back my thoughts.She seemed as real as myself, and--after all--I guess she was. As realas myself, no more, no less, because she was part of my own mind. And atthis point I realized that van Manderpootz was shaking me and bellowing,"Your time's up. Come out of it! Your half-hour's up!"

  He must have switched off the current. The image faded, and I took myface from the tube, dropping it on my arms.

  "O-o-o-o-o-oh!" I groaned.

  "How do you feel?" he snapped.

  "Feel? All right--physically." I looked up.

  Concern flickered in his blue eyes. "What's the cube root of 4913?" hecrackled sharply.

  I've always been quick at figures. "It's--uh--17," I returned dully."Why the devil--?"

  "You're all right mentally," he announced. "Now--why were you sittingthere like a dummy for half an hour? My idealizator must have worked, asis only natural for a van Manderpootz creation, but what were youthinking of?"

  "I thought--I thought of 'girl'," I groaned.

  He snorted. "Hah! You would, you idiot! 'House' or 'horse' wasn't goodenough; you had to pick something with emotional connotations. Well, youcan start right in forgetting her, because she doesn't exist."

  I couldn't give up hope, as easily as that. "But can't you--can'tyou--?" I didn't even know what I meant to ask.

  "Van Manderpootz," he announced, "is a mathematician, not a magician. Doyou expect me to materialize an ideal for you?" When I had no reply buta groan, he continued. "Now I think it safe enough to try the devicemyself. I shall take--let's see--the thought 'man.' I shall see what thesuperman looks like, since the ideal of van Manderpootz can be nothingless than superman." He seated himself. "Turn that switch," he said."Now!"

  I did. The tubes glowed into low blue light. I watched dully,disinterestedly; nothing held any attraction for me after that image ofthe ideal.

  "Huh!" said van Manderpootz suddenly. "Turn it on, I say! I see nothingbut my own reflection."

  I stared, then burst into a hollow laugh. The mirror was spinning; thebanks of tubes were glowing; the device was operating.

  Van Manderpootz raised his face, a little redder than usual. I laughedhalf hysterically. "After all," he said huffily, "one might have a lowerideal of man than van Manderpootz. I see nothing nearly so humorous asyour situation."

  The laughter died. I went miserably home, spent half the remainder ofthe night in morose contemplation, smoked nearly two packs ofcigarettes, and didn't get to the office at all the next day.

  * * * * *

  Tips Alva got back to town for a week-end broadcast, but I didn't evenbother to see her, just phoned her and told her I was sick. I guess myface lent credibility to the story, for she was duly sympathetic, andher face in the phone screen was quite anxious. Even at that, I couldn'tkeep my eyes away from her lips because, except for a bit too lustrousmake-up, they were the lips of the ideal. But they weren't enough; theyj
ust weren't enough.

  Old N. J. began to worry again. I couldn't sleep late of mornings anymore, and after missing that one day, I kept getting down earlier andearlier until one morning I was only ten minutes late. He called me inat once.

  "Look here, Dixon," he said. "Have you been to a doctor recently?"

  "I'm not sick," I said listlessly.

  "Then for Heaven's sake, marry the girl! I don't care what chorus shekicks in, marry her and act like a human being again."

  "I--can't."

  "Oh. She's already married, eh?"

  Well, I couldn't tell him she didn't exist. I couldn't say I was in lovewith a vision, a dream, an ideal. He thought I was a little crazy,anyway, so I just muttered "Yeah," and didn't argue when he saidgruffly: "Then you'll get over it. Take a vacation. Take _two_vacations. You might as well for all the good you are around here."

  I didn't leave New York; I lacked the energy. I just mooned around thecity for a while, avoiding my friends, and dreaming of the impossiblebeauty of the face in the mirror. And by and by the longing to see thatvision of perfection once more began to become overpowering. I don'tsuppose anyone except me can understand the lure of that memory; theface, you see, had been my ideal, my concept of perfection. One seesbeautiful women here and there in the world; one falls in love, butalways, no matter how great their beauty or how deep one's love, theyfall short in some degree of the secret vision of the ideal. But not themirrored face; she was my ideal, and therefore, whatever imperfectionsshe might have had in the minds of others, in my eyes she had none.None, that is, save the terrible one of being only an ideal, andtherefore unattainable--but that is a fault inherent in all perfection.

  It was a matter of days before I yielded. Common sense told me it wasfutile, even foolhardy, to gaze again on the vision of perfectdesirability. I fought against the hunger, but I fought hopelessly, andwas not at all surprised to find myself one evening rapping on vanManderpootz's door in the University Club. He wasn't there; I'd beenhoping he wouldn't be, since it gave me an excuse to seek him in hislaboratory in the Physics Building, to which I would have dragged himanyway.

  There I found him, writing some sort of notations on the table that heldthe idealizator. "Hello, Dixon," he said. "Did it ever occur to you thatthe ideal university cannot exist? Naturally not since it must becomposed of perfect students and perfect educators, in which case theformer could have nothing to learn and the latter, therefore, nothingto teach."

  What interest had I in the perfect university and its inability toexist? My whole being was desolate over the non-existence of anotherideal. "Professor," I said tensely, "may I use that--that thing of yoursagain? I want to--uh--see something."

  My voice must have disclosed the situation, for van Manderpootz lookedup sharply. "So!" he snapped. "So you disregarded my advice! Forget her,I said. Forget her because she doesn't exist."

  "But--I can't! Once more, Professor--only once more!"

  He shrugged, but his blue, metallic eyes were a little softer thanusual. After all, for some inconceivable reason, he likes me. "Well,Dixon," he said, "you're of age and supposed to be of matureintelligence. I tell you that this is a very stupid request, and vanManderpootz always knows what he's talking about. If you want to stupefyyourself with the opium of impossible dreams, go ahead. This is the lastchance you'll have, for tomorrow the idealizator of van Manderpootz goesinto the Bacon head of Isaak there. I shall shift the oscillators sothat the psychons, instead of becoming light quanta, emerge as anelectron flow--a current which will actuate Isaak's vocal apparatus andcome out as speech." He paused musingly. "Van Manderpootz will hear thevoice of the ideal. Of course Isaak can return only what psychons hereceives from the brain of the operator, but just as the image in themirror, the thoughts will have lost their human impress, and the wordswill be those of an ideal." He perceived that I wasn't listening, Isuppose. "Go ahead, imbecile!" he grunted.

  I did. The glory that I hungered after flamed slowly into being,incredible in loveliness, and somehow, unbelievably, even more beautifulthan on that other occasion. I know why now; long afterwards, vanManderpootz explained that the very fact that I had seen an ideal oncebefore had altered my ideal, raised it to a higher level. With that faceamong my memories, my concept of perfection was different than it hadbeen.

  So I gazed and hungered. Readily and instantly the being in the mirrorresponded to my thoughts with smile and movement. When I thought oflove, her eyes blazed with such tenderness that it seemed as if--I--I,Dixon Wells--were part of those pairs who had made the great romances ofthe world, Heloise and Abelard, Tristram and Isolde, Aucassin andNicolette. It was like the thrust of a dagger to feel van Manderpootzshaking me, to hear his gruff voice calling, "Out of it! Out of it!Time's up."

  I groaned and dropped my face on my hands. The Professor had been right,of course; this insane repetition had only intensified an unfulfillablelonging, and had made a bad mess ten times as bad. Then I heard himmuttering behind me. "Strange!" he murmured. "In fact, fantastic.Oedipus--oedipus of the magazine covers and billboards."

  I looked dully around. He was standing behind me, squinting, apparently,into the spinning mirror beyond the end of the black tube. "Huh?" Igrunted wearily.

  "That face," he said. "Very queer. You must have seen her features on ahundred magazines, on a thousand billboards, on countless 'visionbroadcasts. The oedipus complex in a curious form."

  "Eh? Could _you_ see her?"

  "Of course!" he grunted. "Didn't I say a dozen times that the psychonsare transmuted to perfectly ordinary quanta of visible light? If youcould see her, why not I?"

  "But--what about billboards and all?"

  "That face," said the professor slowly. "It's somewhat idealized, ofcourse, and certain details are wrong. Her eyes aren't that pallidsilver-blue you imagined; they're green--sea-green, emerald colored."

  "What the devil," I asked hoarsely, "are you talking about?"

  "About the face in the mirror. It happens to be, Dixon, a closeapproximation of the features of de Lisle d'Agrion, the Dragon Fly!"

  "You mean--she's real? She exists? She lives? She--"

  "Wait a moment, Dixon. She's real enough, but in accordance with yourhabit, you're a little late. About twenty-five years too late, I shouldsay. She must now be somewhere in the fifties--let's see--fifty-three, Ithink. But during your very early childhood, you must have seen her facepictured everywhere, de Lisle d'Agrion, the Dragon Fly."

  I could only gulp. That blow was devastating.

  "You see," continued van Manderpootz, "one's ideals are implanted veryearly. That's why you continually fall in love with girls who possessone or another feature that reminds you of her, her hair, her nose, hermouth, her eyes. Very simple, but rather curious."

  "Curious!" I blazed. "Curious, you say! Everytime I look into one ofyour damned contraptions I find myself in love with a myth! A girl who'sdead, or married, or unreal, or turned into an old woman! Curious, eh?Damned funny, isn't it?"

  "Just a moment," said the professor placidly. "It happens, Dixon, thatshe has a daughter. What's more, Denise resembles her mother. And what'sstill more, she's arriving in New York next week to study Americanletters at the University here. She writes, you see."

  That was too much for immediate comprehension. "How--how do you know?" Igasped.

  It was one of the few times I have seen the colossal blandness of vanManderpootz ruffled. He reddened a trifle, and said slowly, "It alsohappens, Dixon, that many years ago in Amsterdam, Haskel van Manderpootzand de Lisle d'Agrion were--very friendly--more than friendly, I mightsay, but for the fact that two such powerful personalities as the DragonFly and van Manderpootz were always at odds." He frowned. "I was almosther second husband. She's had seven, I believe; Denise is the daughterof her third."

  "Why--why is she coming here?"

  "Because," he said with dignity, "van Manderpootz is here. I am still afriend of de Lisle's." He turned and bent over the complex device on thetable. "Hand me that wrench," he
ordered. "Tonight I dismantle this, andtomorrow start reconstructing it for Isaak's head."

  * * * * *

  But when, the following week, I rushed eagerly back to van Manderpootz'slaboratory, the idealizator was still in place. The professor greeted mewith a humorous twist to what was visible of his bearded mouth. "Yes,it's still here," he said, gesturing at the device. "I've decided tobuild an entirely new one for Isaak, and besides, this one has affordedme considerable amusement. Furthermore, in the words of Oscar Wilde, whoam I to tamper with a work of genius. After all, the mechanism is theproduct of the great van Manderpootz."

  He was deliberately tantalizing me. He knew that I hadn't come to hearhim discourse on Isaak, or even on the incomparable van Manderpootz.Then he smiled and softened, and turned to the little inner officeadjacent, the room where Isaak stood in metal austerity. "Denise!" hecalled, "come