The Messiah of the CylinderEmanuel, V. R. (Victor Rousseau)
Philosophy
The Messiah of the Cylinder
Emanuel, V. R. (Victor Rousseau)
Science fiction
I offered him one of the smaller pieces, rather in fear of giving
offense, but he pocketed it at once, and then, with a new aggressiveness
toward the gathering crowd, took me upstairs to the Strangers’ Bureau.
Here I was stripped and examined by two physicians, and photographed in
three positions; my finger prints were taken, and the three indexes.
Then a dapper little clerk in blue passed a tape measure in several ways
about my head and beckoned to me mysteriously to come to his desk.
“It’s too bad,” he exclaimed.
“What is too bad?” I inquired.
“The difference is five centimeters, and—well, I’m afraid you’re a
brach. I’d like to help you out, but—well, if I can—”
The meaning of the word suddenly revealed itself to me. “You mean my
head is brachycephalic?” I asked.
“There is, unfortunately, no doubt,” he answered, and, coming closer
under the pretense of measuring me again, began to whisper. “You know,
the measure is flexible,” he said, glancing furtively about him. “The
revising clerk passes all my measurements without referring back to the
doctors. There’s an understanding between us. Now I could get you into
the dolicoph class—”
“The longheads?”
“Yes,” he murmured, looking at me with an expression of mutual
understanding.
“But what advantage would that be to me?” I inquired.
“They say,” he whispered, “that the Council is going to penalize the
brachs several points. It is Doctor Sanson’s new theory, you know, that
the brachs are more defective than the dolicophs. Now I’d risk making
you a dolicoph for—would it be worth a hektone to you?”
I flushed with indignation. “Do you suppose I am going to bribe you—?” I
began loudly.
The clerk leaped back. “This subject is a brach!” he yelled, and gave
the figures to a clerk at the next desk, who made a note on a form and
looked at me with intense disgust.
So I was set down as broad-headed. Then I was made to sit before a Binet
board, containing wooden blocks of various shapes, which had to be set
in corresponding holes within a period timed on a stop-watch. Word
associations followed, a childish game at which I had played during the
course of my medical training; we had regarded this as one of those
transitory fads born in Germany and conveyed to us through the American
medium, which came and went and left no by-products except a little
wasted enthusiasm on the part of our younger men. I accomplished both
tasks easily, and I thought the physicians seemed disappointed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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