Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,30
recondite basis since early history—and not just as hocus-pocus and charlatanry.”
“As I have suggested,” Dr Thackeray nodded, drawing on his cigar and tilting his padded desk chair a fraction closer to overbalance.
“Pity Kirk isn’t here to talk with a kindred soul,” Geoff Metzger continued. “He used to drag out all manner of evidence to support his claim. Go on about Egyptian artifacts, Greek thinkers, Byzantine and later Roman writings, Islamic studies after the Roman Lake changed owners, Jewish cabalism, secret researches by certain monks, on through the Dark Ages and into the so-called Renaissance—even threw out bits of Chinese history. He’d go wild talking about the quattrocento and the cinquecento and dozens of Italian names no one else had heard of—then Central Europe and France and England, and people like Bacon and Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. That was really the astonishing thing. I mean, all of us at St Johns were supposed to be well read and well versed in the classics and those great and moldy books, but Kirk was something else. God knows how much that guy must have read!”
“Your friend Walker sounds like a man I ought to meet,” Dr Thackeray broke in.
Metzger’s face saddened. “I’m sorry to say you can’t. Quite a tragic story about old Kirk. He went on to med school after St Johns, too—some big Southern school of notable reputation. Wasn’t happy there for some reason, and ran afoul of the administration. Left after a rather stormy scene. Died not long thereafter—Hodgkins, I believe. Everyone felt bad about it at the time.”
“A pity.”
“Yes, it was. I must say I’m surprised to find someone of your position giving credence to such similar ideas. Guess maybe we took Kirk more lightly than we might have. Still, he was always one for elaborate jokes. Strange guy.” Geoff’s eye fell to wandering along the impressively filled shelves which lined Dr Thackeray’s office. These walls of conglomerate knowledge—concentrated to blocky solidity, properly bound and systematically shelved—exuded the weighty atmosphere of learned dignity that one expected for the sanctum of the Chairman of the Department of Medicine.
“And why did your friend believe this unsuspected depth of scientific knowledge was kept in secret?” the older man asked carefully.
“Kirk was vague,” returned Metzger, downing his acrid coffee before it got colder. A grimy residue stained the bottom of the Styrofoam cup, and he reflected bitterly that hospital coffee deteriorated with every medical center he came to.
“He had several reasons, though. For one thing, he’d argue that our basic conception of the past comes through writings of the past, and that these writers viewed their world from their own particular set of terms. The idea of progress—in fact, the conception of science as we understand it—is a relatively modern development of thought. In another age this was altogether different. To the bulk of the populace, scientific knowledge would have been no more than a pointless exercise, useless to them. What would a serf care about a microscope? It wouldn’t clothe and feed him. What would an intellectual care about the discovery of microorganisms? Plagues were the punishment of God or the work of Satan.
“And the language of the day was totally different; there simply were no words—nor even systems of thought—to convey scientific conceptions. Thus every man who studied the stars was an astrologer, while the thoughtful investigator of elemental or molecular structure was only another alchemist seeking to create gold. And to be sure, many of these men were only superstitious dabblers in the occult. With the ignorance or even hostility of most writers of the day, fool and genius were lumped together, and the early scientist was categorized as being in league with the devil. He was ignored and mocked at best, more often persecuted by the authorities of the land. We know of several brilliant thinkers who were condemned to the stake for their efforts—or had near misses, like Galileo.
“It is any wonder then that Walker’s proto-scientists kept their work secret, shared their discoveries only with a select brotherhood? At least, that was Kirk’s theory.”
Dr Thackeray considered his cigar. “Interesting. And, as you say, tragic. Medicine needs men of his caliber—and men like yourself, Dr Metzger.”
Geoff smiled at the compliment. Coming from the Grand Old Man, it meant a lot. “I consider myself fortunate to be associated with the medical center here.”
“Good. And I’ll say that we’re all delighted you decided to join us. You’re a capable man, Dr Metzger; your record is brilliant. Those of us who have