“Typing at a glance—I’d never attempt it seriously. But you can tell a lot about typology by the kind of things people say. Christ, now; tradition and all the pictures represent Him as a cerebrotonic ectomorph, and that raises a theological point that should interest you, Simon. If Christ was really the Son of Man, and assumed human flesh, you’d have thought he’d be a 444, wouldn’t you? A man who felt for everybody. But no—a nervy, thin type. Must have been tough, though; great walker, spellbinding orator, which takes strength, put up with a scourging and a lot of rough-house from soldiers; at least a three in the mesomorphic range.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? There you are, Simon, a professional propagandist and interpreter of a prophet who wasn’t, literally, your type at all. Just off the top of my head, I’d put you down as a 425—soft, but chunky and possessed of great energy. You write a good deal, don’t you?”

I thought of The New Aubrey, and nodded.

“Of course. That’s your type, when it’s combined with superior intelligence. Enough muscle to see you through; sensitive but not ridden with nerves, and a huge gut. Because that’s what makes your type come out so far in front, you see? Some of your viscerotonics have a gut that is almost double the length of the gut in a real cerebrotonic. They haven’t got a lot of gut, but they’re beggars for sex. The muscular ones aren’t sexy to nearly the same extent and the fatties would just as soon eat. It’s the little, skinny ones who can never let it alone. I could tell you astonishing things. But you’re a gut-man, Simon. And just right for your kind of parson: fond of ceremony and ritual, and of course a big eater. Fart much?”

How much is much? I did not take up this lead.

“I expect you do, but on the sly, because of that five at your cerebrotonic end. But writers—look at them. Balzac, Dumas, Trollope, Thackeray, Dickens in his later years, Henry James (a lifelong sufferer from constipation, by the way), Hugo, Goethe—at least forty feet of gut in every one of them.”

Ozy had quite forgotten about scientific calm and was warming to his great theme.

“You’ll want to know, though, what this has to do with faeces. I just got a hunch, remembering Osier, that there might be variations in composition, according to type, and that might be interesting. Because what people forget, or don’t consider, is that the bowel movement is a real creation; everybody produces the stuff in an incidence that ranges with normality from three times a day to about once every ten days, with, say, once every forty-eight hours as a mean. There it is, and it’d be damned funny if there was nothing individual or characteristic about it, and it might just be that it varied according to health. You know the old country saying: “Every man’s dung smells sweet in his own nose”. But not in anybody else’s nose. It’s a creation, a highly characteristic product. So let’s get to work, I thought.

“Setting up an experiment for something like that is a hell of a job. First of all, Sheldon identified seventy-six types that are within the range of the normal; of course there are some wild combinations in people who are born to severe physical trouble. Getting an experimental group together is a lot of work, because you have to interview so many people, and do a lot of explaining, and rule out the ones who could become nuisances. I guess my team and I saw well over five hundred, and managed to keep things fairly quiet to exclude jokers and nuts like Brown. We ended up with a hundred and twenty-five, who would promise to give us all their faeces, properly contained in the special receptacles we provided (and they cost a pretty penny, let me tell you), as fresh as possible, and over considerable lengths of time, because you want serial inspection if you are going to get anywhere. And we wanted as big a range of temperament as we could achieve, and not just highly intelligent young students. As I told you, Simon, we have to pay our test group, because it’s a nuisance to them, and though they understand that it’s important they have to have some recompense. We expect them to have tests whenever my medical assistant calls for it, and they have to mark a daily chart that records a few things—how they felt, for instance, on a one-to-seven scale ranging from Radiant to The Pits. I often wish we could do it with rats but human temperament can’t be examined in any cheap way.”

“Paracelsus would have liked you, Dr. Froats,” said Maria: “he rejected the study of formal anatomy for a consideration of the living body as a whole; he’d have liked what you say about faeces being a creation. Have you read his treatises on colic and bowelworms?”

“I just know him as a name, really. I thought he was some kind of nut.”

“That’s what Murray Brown says about you.”

“Well, Murray Brown is wrong. I can’t tell him so for a while—maybe for a few years—but there’ll be a time.”

“Does that mean you’ve found what you are looking for?” I said. I felt that I had better get Maria away from Paracelsus.

“I’m not looking for anything. That’s not how science works; I’m just looking to see what’s there. If you start with a preconceived idea of what you are going to find, you are liable to find it, and be dead wrong, and maybe miss something genuine that’s under your nose. Of course we’re not just sitting on our hands here; at least half a dozen good papers from Froats, Redfern, and Oimatsu have appeared in the journals. Some interesting stuff has come up. Want to see some more pictures? Oimatsu prepares these. Wonderful! Nobody like the Japanese for fine work like this.”

These were slides showing what I understood to be extremely thin slices of faeces, cut transversely, and examined microscopically and under special light. They were of extraordinary beauty, like splendid cuttings of moss-agate, eye-agate, brecciated agate, and my mind turned to that chalcedony which John’s Revelation tells us is part of the foundations of the Holy City. But as Maria had been unsuccessful in persuading Ozy to hear about Paracelsus I thought I would have no greater success with references to the Bible. So I fished around for something which I hoped might be intelligent to say.

“I don’t suppose there’d be such a thing as a crystal-lattice in those examples?”

“No, but that’s a good guess—a shrewd guess. Not a crystal-lattice, of course, for several reasons, but call it a disposition towards a characteristic form which is pretty constant. And if it changes markedly, what do you suppose that means? I don’t know, but if I can find out”—Ozy became aware that he was yielding to unscientific enthusiasm—“I’ll know something I don’t know now.”

“Which could lead to—?”

“I wouldn’t want to guess what it might lead to. But if there is a pattern of formation which is as identifiable for everybody as a fingerprint, that would be interesting. But I’m not going to go off half-cocked. People can do that, after reading Sheldon. There was a fellow named Huxley, a brother of the scientist—I think he was a writer—and he read Sheldon and he went to foolish extremes. Of course being a writer he loved the comic extremes in the somatotypes, and he lost his head over something Sheldon keeps harping on in his two big books. And that’s humour. Sheldon keeps saying you have to deal with the somatotypes with an ever-active sense of humour, and damn it, I don’t know what he’s talking about. If a fact is a fact, surely that’s it? You don’t have to get cute about it. I’ve read a good deal, you know, in general literature, and I’ve never found a definition of humour that made any sense whatever. But this Huxley—the other one, not the scientist—goes on about how funny it would be if certain ill-matched types got married, and he thought it would be a howl to see an ectomorph shrimp and his endomorphic slob of a wife in a museum looking at the mesomorphic ideal of Greek sculpture. What’s funny about that? He rushed off in all directions about how soma affects psyche, and how perhaps the body was really the Unconscious that the psychoanalysts talk about—the unknown factor, the depth from which arises the unforeseen and uncontrollable in the human spirit. And how learning intelligently to live with the body would be the path to mental health. All very well to say, but just try and prove it. And that’s work for people like me.”