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It was almost dark when young Dr. Phillips swung his sack to his shoulder and left the tide pool. He climbed up over the rocks and squashed along the street in his rubber boots. The street lights were on by the time he arrived at his little commercial laboratory on the cannery street of Monterey. It was a tight little building, standing partly on piers over by the water and partly on the land. On both sides the big corrugated iron sardine canneries crowded in on it.

Dr. Phillips climbed the wooden steps and opened the door. The white rats in their cages scampered up and down the wire, and the captive cats in their pens mewed for milk. Dr. Phillips turned on the glaring light over the dissection table and dumped his clammy sack on the floor. He walked to the glass cages by the window where the rattlesnakes lived, leaned over and looked in.

The snakes were bunched and resting in the corners of the cage, but every head was clear; the dusty eyes seemed to look at nothing, but as the young man leaned over the cage the forked tongues, black on the ends and pink behind, twittered out and waved slowly up and down. Then the snakes recognized the man and pulled in their tongues.

Dr. Phillips threw off his leather coat and built a fire in the tin stove; he set a kettle of water on the stove and dropped a can of beans into the water. Then he stood staring down at the sack on the floor. He was a slight young man with the mild, preoccupied eyes of one who looks through a microscope a great deal. He wore a short blond beard.

The draft ran breathily up the chimney and a glow of warmth came from the stove. The little waves washed quietly about the piles under the building. Arranged on shelves about the room were tier above tier of museum jars containing the mounted marine specimens the laboratory dealt in.

Dr. Phillips opened a side door and went into his bedroom, a book-lined cell containing an army cot, a reading light and an uncomfortable wooden chair. He pulled off his rubber boots and put on a pair of sheepskin slippers. When he went back to the other room the water in the kettle was already beginning to hum.

He lifted his sack to the table under the white light and emptied out two dozen common starfish. These he laid out side by side on the table. His preoccupied eyes turned to the busy rats in the wire cages. Taking grain from a paper sack he poured it into the feeding troughs. Instantly the rats scrambled down from the wire and fell upon the food. A bottle of milk stood on a glass shelf between a small mounted octopus and a jellyfish. Dr. Phillips lifted down the milk and walked to the cat cage, but before he filled the containers he reached in the cage and gently picked out a big rangy alley tabby. He stroked her for a moment and then dropped her in a small black painted box, closed the lid and bolted it and then turned on a petcock which admitted gas into the killing chamber. While the short soft struggle went on in the black box he filled the saucers with milk. One of the cats arched against his hand and he smiled and petted her neck.

The box was quiet now. He turned off the gas for the airtight box would be full of gas.

On the stove the pan of water was bubbling furiously about the can of beans. Dr. Phillips lifted out the can with a big pair of forceps, opened the beans and emptied them into a glass dish. While he ate he watched the starfish on the table. From between the rays little drops of milky fluid were exuding. He bolted his beans and when they were gone he put the dish in the sink and stepped to the equipment cupboard. From this he took a microscope and a pile of little glass dishes. He filled the dishes one by one with sea water from a tap and arranged them in a line beside the starfish. He took out his watch and laid it on the table under the pouring white light. The waves washed with little sighs against the piles under the floor. He took an eyedropper from a drawer and bent over the starfish.

At that moment there were quick soft steps on the wooden stairs and a strong knocking at the door. A slight grimace of annoyance crossed the young man’s face as he went to open. A tall lean woman stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a severe dark suit—her straight black hair, growing low on a flat forehead, was mussed as though the wind had been blowing it. Her black eyes glittered in the strong light.

She spoke in a soft throaty voice, “May I come in? I want to talk to you.”

“I’m very busy just now,” he said half-heartedly. “I have to do things at times.” But he stood away from the door. The tall woman slipped in.

“I’ll be quiet until you can talk to me.”

He closed the door and brought the uncomfortable chair from the bedroom. “You see,” he apologized, “the process is started and I must get to it.” So many people wandered in and asked questions. He had little routines of explanations for the commoner processes. He could say them without thinking. “Sit here. In a few minutes I’ll be able to listen to you.”

The tall woman leaned over the table. With the eyedropper the young man gathered fluid from between the rays of the starfish and squirted it into a bowl of water, and then he drew some milky fluid and squirted it in the same bowl and stirred the water gently with the eyedropper. He began his little patter of explanation.

“When starfish are sexually mature they release sperm and ova when they are exposed at low tide. By choosing mature specimens and taking them out of the water, I give them a condition of low tide. Now I’ve mixed the sperm and eggs. Now I put some of the mixture in each one of these ten watch glasses. In ten minutes I will kill those in the first glass with menthol, twenty minutes later I will kill the second group and then a new group every twenty minutes. Then I will have arrested the process in stages, and I will mount the series on microscope slides for biologic study.” He paused. “Would you like to look at this first group under the microscope?”

“No, thank you.” He turned quickly to her. People always wanted to look through the glass. She was not looking at the table at all, but at him. Her black eyes were on him but they did not seem to see him. He realized why—the irises were as dark as the pupils, there was no color line between the two. Dr. Phillips was piqued at her answer. Although answering questions bored him, a lack of interest in what he was doing irritated him. A desire to arouse her grew in him.

“While I’m waiting the first ten minutes I have something to do. Some people don’t like to see it. Maybe you’d better step into that room until I finish.”

“No,” she said in her soft flat tone. “Do what you wish. I will wait until you can talk to me.” Her hands rested side by side on her lap. She was completely at rest. Her eyes were bright but the rest of her was almost in a state of suspended animation. He thought, “Low metabolic rate, almost as low as a frog’s, from the looks.” The desire to shock her out of her inanition possessed him again.

He brought a little wooden cradle to the table, laid out scalpels and scissors and rigged a big hollow needle to a pressure tube. Then from the killing chamber he brought the limp dead cat and laid it in the cradle and tied its legs to hooks in the sides. He glanced sidewise at the woman. She had not moved. She was still at rest.

The cat grinned up into the light, its pink tongue stuck out between its needle teeth. Dr. Phillips deftly snipped open the skin at the throat; with a scalpel he slit through and found an artery.

With flawless technique he put the needle in the vessel and tied it in with gut. “Embalming fluid,” he explained. “Later I’ll inject yellow mass into the venous system and red mass into the arterial system—for blood stream dissection—biology classes.”

He looked around at her again. Her dark eyes seemed veiled with dust. She looked without expression at the cat’s open throat. Not a drop of blood had escaped. The incision was clean. Dr. Phillips looked at his watch. “Time for the first group.” He shook a few crystals of menthol into the first watch glass.

The woman was making him nervous. The rats climbed about on the wire of their cage again and squeaked softly. The waves under the building beat with little shocks on the piles.

The young man shivered. He put a few lumps of coal in the stove and sat down. “Now,” he said. “I haven’t anything to do for twenty minutes.” He noticed how short her chin was between lower lip and point. She seemed to awaken slowly, to come up out of some deep pool of consciousness. Her head raised and her dark dusty eyes moved about the room and then came back to him.

“I was waiting,” she said. Her hands remained side by side on her lap. “You have snakes?”

“Why, yes,” he said rather loudly. “I have about two dozen rattlesnakes. I milk out the venom and send it to the anti-venom laboratories.”

She continued to look at him but her eyes did not center on him, rather they covered him and seemed to see in a big circle all around him. “Have you a male snake, a male rattlesnake?”

“Well it just happens I know I have. I came in one morning and found a big snake in—in coition with a smaller one. That’s very rare in captivity. You see, I do know I have a male snake.”

“Where is he?”

“Why right in the glass cage by the window there.”

Her head swung slowly around but her two quiet hands did not move. She turned back toward him. “May I see?”

He got up and walked to the case by the window. On the sand bottom the knot of rattlesnakes lay entwined, but their heads were clear. The tongues came out and flickered a moment and then waved up and down feeling the air for vibrations. Dr. Phillips nervously turned his head. The woman was standing beside him. He had not heard her get up from the chair. He had heard only the splash of water among the piles and the scampering of the rats on the wire screen.

She said softly, “Which is the male you spoke of?”

He pointed to a thick, dusty grey snake lying by itself in one corner of the cage. “That one. He’s nearly five feet long. He comes from Texas. Our Pacific coast snakes are usually smaller. He’s been taking all the rats, too. When I want the others to eat I have to take him out.”

The woman stared down at the blunt dry head. The forked tongue slipped out and hung quivering for a long moment. “And you’re sure he’s a male.”

“Rattlesnakes are funny,” he said glibly. “Nearly every generalization proves wrong. I don’t like to say anything definite about rattlesnakes, but—yes—I can assure you he’s a male.”

Her eyes did not move from the flat head. “Will you sell him to me?”

“Sell him?” he cried. “Sell him to you?”

“You do sell specimens, don’t you?”

“Oh—yes. Of course I do. Of course I do.”

“How much? Five dollars? Ten?”

“Oh! Not more than five. But do you know anything about rattlesnakes? You might be bitten.”

She looked at him for a moment. “I don’t intend to take him. I want to leave him here, but—I want him to be mine. I want to come here and look at him and feed him and to know he’s mine.” She opened a little purse and took out a five dollar bill. “Here! Now he is mine.”

Dr. Phillips began to be afraid. “You could come to look at him without owning him.”

“I want him to be mine.”

“Oh, Lord!” he cried. “I’ve forgotten the time.” He ran to the table.

“Three minutes over. It won’t matter much.” He shook menthol crystals into the second watch glass. And then he was drawn back to the cage where the woman still stared at the snake.

She asked, “What does he eat?”

“I feed them white rats, rats from the cage over there.”

“Will you put him in the other cage? I want to feed him.”

“But he doesn’t need food. He’s had a rat already this week. Sometimes they don’t eat for three or four months. I had one that didn’t eat for over a year.”

In her low monotone she asked, “Will you sell me a rat?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I see. You want to watch how rattlesnakes eat. All right. I’ll show you. The rat will cost twenty-five cents. It’s better than a bull fight if you look at it one way, and it’s simply a snake eating his dinner if you look at it another.” His tone had become acid. He hated people who made sport of natural processes. He was not a sportsman but a biologist. He could kill a thousand animals for knowledge, but not an insect for pleasure. He’d been over this in his mind before.

She turned her head slowly toward him and the beginning of a smile formed on her thin lips. “I want to feed my snake,” she said. “I’ll put him in the other cage.” She had opened the top of the cage and dipped her hand in before he knew what she was doing. He leaped forward and pulled her back. The lid banged shut.

“Haven’t you any sense,” he asked fiercely. “Maybe he wouldn’t kill you, but he’d make you damned sick in spite of what I could do for you.”

“You put him in the other cage then,” she said quietly.

Dr. Phillips was shaken. He found that he was avoiding the dark eyes that didn’t seem to look at anything.

He felt that it was profoundly wrong to put a rat into the cage, deeply sinful: and he didn’t know why. Often he had put rats in the cage when someone or other had wanted to see it, but this desire tonight sickened him. He tried to explain himself out of it.

“It’s a good thing to see,” he said. “It shows you how a snake can work. It makes you have a respect for a rattlesnake. Then, too, lots of people have dreams about the terror of snakes making the kill. I think because it is a subjective rat. The person is the rat. Once you see it the whole matter is objective. The rat is only a rat and the terror is removed.”

He took a long stick equipped with a leather noose from the wall. Opening the trap he dropped the noose over the big snake’s head and tightened the thong. A piercing dry rattle filled the room.

The thick body writhed and slashed about the handle of the stick as he lifted the snake out and dropped it in the feeding cage. It stood ready to strike for a time, but the buzzing gradually ceased. The snake crawled into a corner, made a big figure eight with its body and lay still.

“You see,” the young man explained, “these snakes are quite tame. I’ve had them a long time. I suppose I could handle them if I wanted to, but everyone who does handle rattlesnakes gets bitten sooner or later. I just don’t want to take the chance.” He glanced at the woman. He hated to put in the rat. She had moved over in front of the new cage; her black eyes were on the stony head of the snake again.

She said, “Put in a rat.”

Reluctantly he went to the rat cage. For some reason he was sorry for the rat, and such a feeling had never come to him before. His eyes went over the mass of swarming white bodies climbing up the screen toward him. “Which one?” he thought. “Which one shall it be?” Suddenly he turned angrily to the woman. “Wouldn’t you rather I put in a cat? Then you’d see a real fight. The cat might even win, but if it lost it might kill the snake. I’ll sell you a cat if you like.”

She didn’t look at him. “Put in a rat,” she said. “I want him to eat.”

He opened the rat cage and thrust his hand in. His fingers found a tail and he lifted a plump, red-eyed rat out of the cage. It struggled up to try to bite his fingers and failing hung spread out and motionless from its tail. He walked quickly across the room, opened the feeding cage and dropped the rat in on the sand floor. “Now, watch it,” he cried.

The woman did not answer him. Her eyes were on the snake where it lay still. Its tongue flicking in and out rapidly, tasted the air of the cage.

The rat landed on its feet, turned around and sniffed at its pink naked tail and then unconcernedly trotted across the sand, smelling as it went. The room was silent. Dr. Phillips did not know whether the water sighed among the piles or whether the woman sighed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her body crouch and stiffen.

The snake moved out smoothly, slowly. The tongue flicked in and out. The motion was so gradual, so smooth that it didn’t seem to be motion at all. In the other end of the cage the rat perked up in a sitting position and began to lick down the fine white hair on its chest. The snake moved on, keeping always a deep S curve in its neck.

The silence beat on the young man. He felt the blood drifting up in his body. He said loudly, “See! He keeps the striking curve ready. Rattlesnakes are cautious, almost cowardly animals. The mechanism is so delicate. The snake’s dinner is to be got by an operation as deft as a surgeon’s job. He takes no chances with his instruments.”

The snake had flowed to the middle of the cage by now. The rat looked up, saw the snake and then unconcernedly went back to licking his chest.

“It’s the most beautiful thing in the world,” the young man said. His veins were throbbing. “It’s the most terrible thing in the world.”

The snake was close now. Its head lifted a few inches from the sand. The head weaved slowly back and forth, aiming, getting distance, aiming. Dr. Phillips glanced again at the woman. He turned sick. She was weaving too, not much, just a suggestion.

The rat looked up and saw the snake. He dropped to four feet and backed up, and then—the stroke.

It was impossible to see, simply a flash. The rat jarred as though under an invisible blow. The snake backed hurriedly into the corner from which he had come, and settled down, his tongue working constantly.

“Perfect!” Dr. Phillips cried. “Right between the shoulder blades. The fangs must almost have reached the heart.”

The rat stood still, breathing like a little white bellows. Suddenly he leaped in the air and landed on his side. His legs kicked spasmodically for a second and he was dead.

The woman relaxed, relaxed sleepily.

“Well,” the young man demanded, “it was an emotional bath, wasn’t it?”

She turned her misty eyes to him. “Will he eat it now?” she asked.

“Of course he’ll eat it. He didn’t kill it for a thrill. He killed it because he was hungry.”

The corners of the woman’s mouth turned up a trifle again. She looked back at the snake. “I want to see him eat it.”

Now the snake came out of his corner again. There was no striking curve in his neck, but he approached the rat gingerly, ready to jump back in case it attacked him. He nudged the body gently with his blunt nose, and drew away.

Satisfied that it was dead, he touched the body all over with his chin, from head to tail. He seemed to measure it and to kiss it. Finally he opened his mouth and unhinged his jaws at the corners.

Dr. Phillips put his will against his head to keep it from turning toward the woman. He thought, “If she’s opening her mouth, I’ll be sick. I’ll be afraid.” He succeeded in keeping his eyes away.

The snake fitted his jaws over the rat’s head and then with a slow peristaltic pulsing, began to engulf the rat. The jaws gripped and the whole throat crawled up, and the jaws gripped again.

Dr. Phillips turned away and went to his work table. “You’ve made me miss one of the series,” he said bitterly. “The set won’t be complete.” He put one of the watch glasses under a low power microscope and looked at it, and then angrily he poured the contents of all the dishes into the sink.

The waves had fallen so that only a wet whisper came up through the floor. The young man lifted a trapdoor at his feet and dropped the starfish down into the black water. He paused at the cat, crucified in the cradle and grinning comically into the light. Its body was puffed with embalming fluid. He shut off the pressure, withdrew the needle and tied the vein.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I shall be going pretty soon.”

He walked to her where she stood in front of the snake cage. The rat was swallowed, all except an inch of pink tail that stuck out of the snake’s mouth like a sardonic tongue. The throat heaved again and the tail disappeared. The jaws snapped back into their sockets, and the big snake crawled heavily to the corner, made a big eight and dropped his head on the sand.

“He’s asleep now,” the woman said. “I’m going now. But I’ll come back and feed my snake every little while. I’ll pay for the rats. I want him to have plenty. And sometime—I’ll take him away with me.” Her eyes came out of their dusty dream for a moment. “Remember, he’s mine. Don’t take his poison. I want him to have it. Good-night.” She walked swiftly to the door and went out. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, but he could not hear her walk away on the pavement.

Dr. Phillips turned a chair around and sat down in front of the snake cage. He tried to comb out his thought as he looked at the torpid snake. “I’ve read so much about psychological sex symbols,” he thought. “It doesn’t seem to explain. Maybe I’m too much alone. Maybe I should kill the snake. If I knew—no, I can’t pray to anything.”

For weeks he expected her to return. “I will go out and leave her alone here when she comes,” he decided. “I won’t see the damned thing again.”

She never came again. For months he looked for her when he walked about in the town. Several times he ran after some tall woman thinking it might be she. But he never saw her again—ever.

[The end of A Snake of One's Own by John Steinbeck]