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FAMILY TREE
BY CHARLES L. FONTENAY
How do you get rid of a superman?
The method Masefield Truggles used was the tried-and-true Masefield Truggles method. Of course, he didn't know at the beginning that Blan Forsythe was a superman. But Forsythe had lived in Marston Hill most of his life--born there, in fact--while Truggles had been there only two years. So Truggles gave the case the full treatment with flourishes, including a careful reconnaissance to determine vulnerable spots in Forsythe's reputation.
Truggles determined that reform or removal of Forsythe would be his contribution to the moral welfare of Marston Hill as soon as he heard the rumors, some joking, some serious, about Forsythe's polygamous tendencies. This was a ready-made situation for Truggles.
Truggles began his research with Forsythe's ex-wife, Phyllis Allison. He had learned from experience that an ex-wife usually is a good source of information about vulnerable spots.
She served him tea in the parlor of her modest home. After a routine round of chit-chat designed to put her at ease, Truggles approached the point.
"As you may know, Mrs. Allison, I am president of our Social Standards Protective League," he said, fixing his deep blue eyes on her face.
"I've heard of it, Mr. Truggles," she said in a low voice. "My duties at home keep me too busy to belong to any organizations, though."
As if to emphasize her point, she put her arm around the shoulders of her young son. The boy sat quietly beside her, watching Truggles like a young animal. Truggles figured he must be about five years old--certainly he would be below school age, for school was in session--but he was big for his age. There was something disturbing about his intent gaze.
"I'm not here in the interest of your joining the League, Mrs. Allison, though we'd be glad to have you," said Truggles. "I came to ask you for some confidential information about the shameful way your former husband mistreated you."
Her eyes opened wide.
"Why, Blan never mistreated me!" she exclaimed. "Whoever told you such a thing? I loved Blan, and he loved me. I still love him."
"If he loved you, why did he leave you?" demanded Truggles triumphantly.
"I think you're asking questions about something that isn't any of your business, Mr. Truggles," said Phyllis Allison, her eyes flashing ominously. "Blan Forsythe is ... different. We agreed to separate because it appeared I could give him no children. We were wrong, but it was too late, then."
"So he turned to polygamy through a mad desire to produce children," murmured Truggles happily. "You say you were wrong? I thought the boy was your only child."
"Donald is my only child, but he is Blan's child," said Phyllis, patting the boy on the shoulder.
Truggles raised bushy eyebrows.
"Wasn't it seven years ago you and Mr. Forsythe were divorced?" he asked pointedly.
"Yes, and Donald is only five," she answered defiantly. "My husband--Dr. Allison--tells me I'm foolish to have the feeling I do that Donald is Blan's son. He says it's impossible. But I know it's true. I've been working with Donnie, and, Mr. Truggles...."
She leaned forward intently and fixed her gaze gravely on Truggles' face.
"... Donnie has the Power!" she said in a tense whisper.
Truggles blinked. Phyllis Allison sat back and looked embarrassed, as though she had not intended to confide so much.
Truggles asked no more questions. He did not pursue the line of inquiry this revelation at once brought to mind. He took his leave as graciously as possible and left the house.
He knew that both Phyllis Allison and her son watched him as he walked out the door with shoulders bent in a show of humility. But it was the boy's eyes he felt.
The woman really believed the boy was Blan Forsythe's child. It was pathetic. And that reference to Donald's having "the power:" Truggles wondered how many women he had known who thought their sons were "different," who even convinced themselves that the children had been sired by a dream prince or such like. Deluded souls, to so excuse their sins!
He straightened and ran his fingers through his short-clipped gray hair as he strode along the walk. The extensive lawn of Blan Forsythe's mansion stretched only two doors away from the bungalow he had just left. It was decked with flower beds and evergreens.
Truggles was too circumspect to do anything openly at this stage. But he shook a fist at the stone pile, mentally.
Behind him, Truggles had a record of nothing but successes. There had been the alcoholic in Hantown, the Negro fortuneteller in New Bacon, the member of some queer religious sect in Steckleville. Truggles had set his face against them. He had shown the people of these towns what manner of creatures they harbored in their bosoms. They had been driven out ; and eventually Truggles himself, purring inwardly at the consciousness of a job well done, had moved on to fields of further effort.
Blan Forsythe was not big enough to escape his righteousness.
If the mayor of Marston Hill would cooperate, it would save Masefield Truggles a lot of work and possibly some unpleasantness for everyone. Sometimes mayors did cooperate, especially when elections weren't far off.
Truggles was not offended that Mayor Ben Sands received him in the garden of his home on the edge of town. He had known many fine gentlemen with dirt on their hands who abhorred dirt in the mind.
"I haven't seen Blan much lately, but he used to spend a lot of time out here," said Sands, taking his battered pipe from his mouth to speak. "He was interested in the flowers. Those asters, now. They're tetraploid. He developed 'em. Used colchicine."
He looked at Truggles inquiringly, to see if he understood. Truggles allowed a smile to quirk his lips and shook his head slightly.
"Extract from the autumn crocus," said Sands. "Makes plants tend to double their chromosomes."
Around them, the garden was a solid blaze of color. Zinnias, marigolds, phlox cast their colorful bounty to the air.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a horticulturist," apologized Truggles.
"Well, it's like this," said Sands. "Every cell of every plant of the same species has the same number of chromosomes--you know, those bright little threads that hold the guiding genes of growth and development. Mutations in plants come when there are changes in individual genes from time to time. But when you hit them with colchicine, the chromosomes sometimes double without the cell dividing. Creates a new species, usually bigger, stronger, slower growing. Call them tetraploids. I've heard it called 'cataclysmic evolution.'"
"You mean man tampers with the basic laws of nature?" asked Truggles, awed and disturbed.
"I reckon you could call it that. Lots of plants have been treated that way--tomatoes, snapdragons, alyssum. Of course, it happens naturally, too. Wheat developed from the crossing of an inferior early species, einkorn, with a wild grass. Einkorn and the grass had seven chromosomes each, but in crossing the chromosomes were doubled. The result was Persian wheat, a superior variety with 14 chromosomes."
Sands took the pipe from his mouth and knocked the ashes out against the sole of his shoe. Pulling a sack of tobacco thoughtfully from his hip pocket, he began to refill it.
"Blan had a theory," he said, "that doubling of chromosomes in animals in the past could have given rise to new species and explain a lot of gaps in evolution. Man has 48 chromosomes in every cell, and Blan pointed out to me that 48 is double 24, which is double 12, which is double six, which is double three. He thought that was too much of a coincidence. I reckon I do, too."
He paused and struck a wooden match, holding it against the bowl of his pipe and sucking noisily.
"I don't hold with the evolutionary theory," said Truggles stiffly. "What I really wanted to ask you, Mayor Sands, was whether you are aware that Blan Forsythe is practicing polygamy, right here in Marston Hill?"
"You've been listening to those old hens gossip," accused Sands. "Look, I knew Blan right well when he was married to Phyllis Allison. Phyllis is my niece and I was sorry to see them break up, but the young people have to live their own lives. Blan has some ideas us old stick-in-the-muds might not understand, Mr. Truggles, but he's all right."
"A dozen women live with him in that big house of his," insisted Truggles. "I've found out there's a turnover, too. When one moves out, another moves in."
"I don't poke my nose into other people's business," said Sands bluntly. "But Dr. Allison tells me Blan maintains a staff, and it's convenient for them to live in that big house. He's doing biological research, along the lines I just explained."
"Biological research, I have no doubt," said Truggles, assuming his best organ-like tone. He fixed his blue eyes on Sands, but Sands' eyes were just as blue. They showed a gleam of anger. "You refuse to take any action against this abomination, then, Mayor?"
"I refuse to believe idle rumors," said Sands firmly. "And before you attempt to stir things up around here with your Social Standards Protective League, Mr. Truggles, I would recommend that you make some effort to secure accurate information. Dr. Allison is Blan's research assistant, and he can tell you much more of Blan's current experiments than I can."
Truggles bowed slightly and turned away. The sharp scent of the marigolds tickled his nostrils, making him want to sneeze.
"Dr. Allison," said Sands behind him, raising his voice slightly as Truggles walked away, "may even consent to tell you why Blan Forsythe's face is liver-colored. From what I hear of you, Mr. Truggles, that probably is your principal complaint against him."
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