The following day was one of excitement and petty anxieties. I
constantly feared the wonderful young woman would, at the last moment,
change her mind and electing to remain faithful to her “Fancy,” declare
the tour off. But I was far from understanding Alpha Centauri. She
directed preparations with a cool energy that was beyond alteration, and
impatient to depart, would have sailed from Centur before noon but
superstition prevailed—a lucky voyage must always be started at
sun-down.
I accompanied Alpha to the Temple of the Sun where she led the high-noon
devotions. For the time she forgot her new emotions in fanatical worship
of the Sun as the broad rays streamed upon her. All Centur knew she
would that evening set out to see the world, and people crowded the
streets to cheer their beloved Priestess and wish her bon voyage. They
cheered her beauty and piety, and because she had sent King Benlial to
his Belt disappointed. I alone knew the object of the tour.
* * * * *
That evening, at sun-down, we boarded the good ship _Centur_. As the
great wings fluttered and the vessel slowly rose, vast crowds shouted
good luck to us, and Alpha waved the colors of Centauri in response.
Then suddenly we darted ahead into infinite blue plains and the search
for a god began.
It is impossible to describe the many strange, wonderful sights seen
upon those travels. We skimmed swiftly over marvelous violet-blurred
cities, dense forests cut with silvery, winding streams, and over long
snow-capped mountain ranges. Frequently the ship fluttered to earth, and
a day was idled away in fishing or gathering wild fruit and flowers, and
once we nestled upon a lofty peak that pierced the clouds and viewed the
mountain girdled with sleet, ice and snow, yet where we rested the grass
grew rank, and some delicate pink blossoms I gathered drooped at the
breast of Alpha Centauri.
It took nearly two days to cross a great tract of prairie land and we
flew with dizzy velocity over five great oceans; the roaring,
mountainous waves swirled frantic for life. It seemed impossible ships
ever navigated these fierce waters, yet they did centuries ago, but
disasters had been appalling. As we gazed downward, awed by the
stupendous vastness of the earth, the universe, we reverently pondered
over the reason of this gigantic creation.
“Bred of Sol, Virgillius. It is the true faith; how obscured the
intellect that reasons otherwise. Sol, do not doubt, Virgillius, Sol
always.”
Argument is more debilitating than cold in the head. The extraordinary
belief of this beautiful Centaurian made her adamant, and I desired the
woman, not the belief.
We visited all the large cities of this world; great cities of commerce
and gigantic industry, and were royally entertained. Our approach,
heralded hours in advance, signaled great festivities. These people of
advanced views proclaimed Wisdom sovereign, but Old Centauri is monarch
of this land of wise men, and Equality is as mythical here as in my
world. The Great Family is supreme, and Alpha, my Alpha, is Princess of
Centauri.
One continual nationality lacks individuality; travel in my world is far
more interesting, yet Centauri is beautiful, a wonderful vision of
superb development; but see one city and you’ve seen them all.
Alpha Centauri entered these marvelous cities quivering with
expectations, radiant with hope, but departure was invariably hastened
by bitter disappointment and, in despair, she finally suggested the
return to Centur. I brusquely advised her to continue traveling,
reminding her that once in Centur all hope was ended. Then endeavoring
to console I talked long and earnestly about ideals never realized and
succeeded in rousing anger, which is better. She reproached me for
“planting this image of torture in my brain,” and “you class me with the
absurdities of six centuries ago.”
“Ah, Virgillius,” she continued: “this phantom of my brain has an
adoration far exceeding mine, a powerful magnetism forced me upon this
tour. All ideas, no matter how fabulous, have had previous existence.
What the brain conceives can be realized; nothing is impossible. Life is
the most fabulous illusion in the universe—a marvelous creation of Sol.
Virgillius, the magnetism of your idea forced you into a stupendous
folly, but you realized.”
“I realize, but it does not bring me peace or happiness,” I retorted.
“You sought and worshipped beyond your sphere,” she quickly answered.
“The current of Thought met, crashed, and lost power in evaporation; the
union of magnets creates disaster. Virgillius, I have a great longing to
return to Centur, some force urges me. To travel farther is needless.
Ah, how selfish is my passion! I follow your advice, the tour
continues.”
So we sailed onward, and into a corner of her vast knowledge Alpha
Centauri stored the wisdom of deceit. She smiled and appeared gay,
happy, when heart-sick, disappointed and bored. She preferred solitude,
lost her brilliant coloring and the grave, frank eyes became dull,
fatigued. Those traveling with us paid little heed to her erratic ways,
believing she was deep in the study of some new scientific
discovery—which she was—and had it not been for my pleasant surroundings
it would have been a toss-up between the air ship and Saxe. After all,
Saxe. & Co. were to be envied. The _Propellier_ was faithful to Saxe.,
the stars true to Saunders. Only Sheldon and myself were excavating with
doubts as to our landing.
Alpha Centauri had gathered about her many charming people, their
entertaining company made life bearable during the tedious ending of the
tour. There were several ladies with husbands, two young girls with
cavaliers, and an interesting Mamma who did the talking for them. The
girls were very pretty and the cavaliers devoted. One was a young
doctor—we’ve all met him. The other was a descendant of the man who
melted the emerald and kept it to himself. Naturally the young man was
rather mournful and stilted, his pride was inherited—keeping a secret is
a most acrobatic feat. There was a companionable literary man constantly
deep in inspired thought. He did not alarm with allusions to the plot of
his forthcoming book, but occasionally boasted of a world of his own—as
they all do—and limited his conversation to current topics. His
briefness was fascinating—an art.
Then we had a mineralogist whose deep scientific problem was—sleep.
Occasionally he woke up and became as frisky as a boy of fifty. His wife
was the only woman I ever met who could keep up an incessant chatter and
still be interesting. There was a tragedian, playwright, all in one,
including a wife. The tragedies this gentleman wrote were excellent
farces. He was the greatest humorist of the time. His wit was sharp,
broad and frequently coarse, but he handled his subject with such rare
delicacy that it took a couple of days to discover that he shouldn’t
have told the joke and we shouldn’t have laughed. The wife was a
beautiful, fair woman of that type that most men are willing some other
fellow shall possess.
Everybody was very kind to me, and were I not so desperately in love and
therefore desperately unhappy, I would have greatly enjoyed the trip
throughout this strange land.
The country was rapidly changing in appearance. We sailed over a range
of burnt, dwarfed mountains enclosing completely a vast desert which
narrowed to meet a neck of land that stretched across the ocean,
connecting Centauri with the Vespa Belt. This connecting land was fifty
miles long, twenty wide, and most of the time submerged.
“You are viewing the ancient battlefield of the Vespas and Centauris,”
the literary man informed me. “The last war they had lasted forty years,
closed with carnage, and should be eliminated from history. The reading
is not elevating and neither have anything to be proud of. It occurred
during the early ages when civilization ignored the earth which was
inhabited by savages and beasts, the beasts being superior and more
humane. What the war was over I’ve never discovered, nor has any one
else; but it was conducted upon the most hellish plans. During one
engagement the Vespas invaded too deeply the Centauri desert, their idea
to surprise the enemy, who were ambushed in the hills. They were
permitted to advance well inland, then suddenly the Centauris appeared
and surrounded them. Not one Vespa returned to the Belt, but scouts
informed the crescent people what had happened. The ancient King Benlial
was a demon, the Vespas were enraged, and early the following day the
Centauris were astounded to see another Vespa army marching across the
neck. The Centaurians yelled their scorn of the advancing army and
rushed to meet it. The battle was fought upon the peninsula, the Vespas
gradually retreating; then suddenly, as though panic-stricken, turned
tail and fled. The Centaurians, wild, drunk with victory, pursued them
closely and at first did not see the tremendous wall of water rising,
cutting off all escape. They realized when the land sank and mountainous
waves engulfed them. It was a fiendish revenge; the Vespas are rightly
named.”
The literary man gave a shrug of disgust. I had passed from his vision
long ago. He was conversing with himself, a habit most literary people
effect, and he walked away as unconcernedly as though I’d never existed.
I wondered if he had really repeated history or simply reviewed a scene
from his new romance.
We were crossing this historical neck of land now and all were on deck,
gazing curiously at the dim outlines of the Vespa Belt.
Alpha Centauri joined us, pale, listless, heavy-eyed, and gave orders
for low sailing that we could more distinctly view the possessions of
King Benlial. She confidentially told me she would remain in seclusion
during the journey over the Vespa Belt, and mournfully shook her head
when I begged permission to visit her.
“The Vespa Belt has no charms for me,” she murmured. “Ah, Virgillius, do
not be downhearted, you have taught me the value of unhappiness, life is
incomplete without it. I am not despondent, but tortured with doubts; he
whom I seek waits at Centur, but I have suffered disappointment so often
I dread another. Do not think of me, join the others. I shall not see
you again till we are crossing the Great Ocean.”
She sighed heavily and entered her cabin before I could prevent. The
door closed between us and bitterly I regretted teaching her the
knowledge of misery. Love had robbed her of individuality, damning her
with a craving for the unattainable worse than death, whose soothing
balm of peace, rest and vacant identity was far more cheerful than
eternal yearning. From my heart I wished I could make her the radiant,
soulless, happy creature she was before we met. I would give all I
possess if I had never crossed the Pole, and suddenly a longing came
over me to see once again dear old Middleton.
Traitorous thoughts galloped upon me. I had become enamoured with a
bright, glorious vision. Reproaches, sad eyes, mournfulness were killing
my passion. Bah! the vision still exists; I created it; but Centauri,
who enslaved me, was fading.
I joined the others, who were leaning over the ship’s side, gazing
curiously at a village we were sailing over. We could see the people
crowding into the narrow streets and from our ship came a faint report,
followed by a cloud of deep violet smoke which curled upward, twisted
and looped till finally the word “Centauri” floated in space beside us.
At the sight the crowds below shouted and cheered; we bellowed response.
Toward evening we passed over a lovely bay, the air was soft, balmy and
we remained upon deck till near midnight. The time passed swiftly
between the Literary Man and Humorist, while the ladies sang in clear,
sweet voices. We turned in when a sudden icy squall struck us, and the
last view we had of the new country was of dark, gloomy mountains.
Next morning before sunrise I was on deck, but my traveling companions
were earlier and joshed me unmercifully. The Literary Man was
persistently witty about oversleeping—he’d been up all night and regaled
us about the wondrous sights we’d missed. We had sailed over three great
cities brilliant with light, humming with revelry, some celebration
going on. “And,” he continued, “these Vespa savages have built wonderful
cities of superb architecture. I think we’re approaching the royal city
of Benlial. See the height of those monstrous domes, the steeple of one
temple has tried to pierce the sun. The ancient city of Benlial has for
ages been the theme of poets.”
We were sailing over vast grain fields and meadow-land where thousands
of cattle grazed, and far in the distance, gleaming white, phantom-like
through the mist, we saw a great city. As we neared this spectral, poem
city, the mist cleared before the strong, hot rays of the rising sun,
and beneath us stretched a scene of fabulous beauty. Thoroughfares of
marble lined with gigantic palms, whose huge branches arched from side
to side, high domed buildings of pure white marble surrounded with vast
gardens gorgeous with bloom. Poverty could not exist in this luxurious
city. The ship sailed lower that we might view closer this paradise of
earth. Nestling in the center of extensive gardens, miniature lakes and
streams, forced cataracts and high spraying fountains was the jewel-like
palace of Benlial—a long, flat, shining building.
“Here in the heart of civilization is a barbaric relic of what the Vespa
people were,” remarked the Literary Man. “They have been working
centuries upon that palace and are still adding to it; it will never be
completed. The architecture is valuable only for antiquity and
hideousness,” he continued, “and tasks the ingenuity of modern
architects to follow the original plan. The building is entirely of
mosaic.”
“Taken as a whole it is of remarkable beauty,” I blurted out. “There’s
not another building to compare with it in the wide world.”
Everybody became greatly interested in the strange palace with its
numerous domes, steeples and beautiful lacey archways—an abode for
gnomes and fairies, the crown jewel of the Vespa Belt, its diadem of
artistic glory. Centauri with all her wonders could not boast of any
work to compare with this marvelous palace.
Slowly, reluctantly, we sailed from the superb marble city with its
gleaming white edifices, mosaic palaces and vast boulevards haunting the
memory, so that in dreams the beautiful scene is revisited again and
again. This crescent-shaped country was cultivated from point to point,
and boasted a population of over forty millions. The Vespas worshipped
the Sun, but enjoyed the dusk. In Centauri twilight is unknown, and the
state of progression between the two countries was not worth warring
over—they were _tanto per tanto_.
The morning of the third day we reached the extreme north point of the
Belt and sighted the Great Ocean. The air was misty, ice cold, and a
piercing salt breeze suddenly turned to a terrific gale and tore and
whistled around the ship forcing her ahead at a dizzy speed.
“We’ll be out of it in a second,” the literary gent assured us. “I
feared we were venturing rather near the danger point. There four wind
currents meet; anything caught in it is lost. The gale we’re flying
before is merely one of the four. Imagine the extreme north point of the
crescent. It is said that at one time this land extended half across the
ocean; but these four gales blowing constantly for ages have gradually
blown the Belt to its present small dimensions. Possibly in a few
centuries more the Belt will vanish and the crescent country become one
of the great legends of Centauri.”
The ladies laughed incredulously, but the men pretended to take the
speaker seriously.
“You speak with prophetic wisdom,” said the tragedian. “An interpreter
of tragedies can be blunt, and his words always taken in jest. The Vespa
Belt will never be swallowed by the Four Winds, but in less than ten
years she will be submerged by Centauri. For perfect civilization,
progression, harmony, there must be unity. I do not jest, but a
tragedian is always a jester.”
He was vigorously applauded and encouraged to continue, but, bowing,
modestly refrained commenting further upon the subject and suggested we
go above, as the wind had calmed. We trooped up on deck and were greeted
by a hot, blazing sun, a deep blue sky, and a fierce ocean with
mountainous waves boiling white beneath us. Far in the distance were the
snow mountains and white cliffs of the Vespa Belt, which in the clear
sunlight showed up a perfect crescent.
“We have entered another zone,” the writing gent informed us. “We have
emerged from the wind regions, and—er—ahem!——.”
He ended abruptly; no one was listening to him. All looked in one
direction, and, as I looked the blood rushed to my head. Alpha Centauri
stepped from her cabin, radiantly beautiful, garbed in white.
In an instant I was beside her. With passionate ardor I pressed her hand
to my lips. Her face flushed delicately, pallor, dejection had vanished;
her eyes gleamed and burned, she was the personification of joy.
“In a few days we will be in Centur—think what that means to me,
Virgillius,” she murmured.
“You are positive then?”
“As though I were already there,” she replied. “He waits me. Centur ends
all disappointments. I will talk with you later, this is a day of
worship. I am the Priestess of the Sun.”
Rising to her full height majestically she walked down the deck with
upstretched arms waving toward the Sun. High, clear, rang out her
clarion voice in the call to worship, and people flocked from all parts
of the ship, circled around her, and kneeled.
With swaying form she chanted in low, weird tones. The glorious eyes did
not blink before the dazzling rays that enveloped her. She twisted,
undulated, as though to have the streaming fiery light bathe every
portion of her body; then suddenly, as in ecstasy, out came the cry of
devotion, high, clear, sweet. At that moment the Sun’s rays slanted, and
in the golden shadow the glorious Priestess stood silent, rapt; then her
arms fell to her sides and devotions ended.
All rose and went about their various duties. Alpha turned to me with a
smile as placid as a child’s.
“Always the Priestess of the Sun,” she murmured. “I love, Sol, how I
love! this new worship absorbs my whole life, but—always the Priestess
of the Sun, Virgillius.”
I led her to the other side of the ship, away from the others.
“Virgillius,” she murmured, “do not think me childish because I sought
seclusion while sailing over the Belt. I did not think of the Vespas,
but could conceal my unhappiness no longer. Solitude has no prying,
curious eyes; I was alone, gloomy, morose, despairingly worshipping a
fancy, and believe as you wish, Virgillius, I know not if I dreamed or
was awake, but for the instant the veil of obscurity lifted and I saw
the future. Scenes like great paintings were revealed, then slowly slid
from view; only two was I permitted to gaze upon with memory. I saw the
palace at Centur sparkling in the vivid light of noon. Wandering
disconsolately through the halls was a form swathed in twilight. I tried
to peer through the flickering dusk and listened to my name repeatedly
called, frequently imploringly, always with passion. Like a magnet I was
drawn within the mystic gloam; I tried to touch, to speak with the
shadow, then like a flash the scene shifted and I floated over the Ocsta
Mountains. Standing upon the cliffs, gazing with grave anxiety into the
waters of the Otega, was your friend, the great Sheldon. Suddenly he
raised his face, white, wild with terror and shouting, he leaped with
great bounds from cliff to cliff. His cries brought the men from the
caves and I saw my father among them, calm, magnificent, giving
directions, commanding order. I heard an awful rumbling noise, the
mountains swayed as trees in the wind, the sky became suffused, lurid,
the air suffocating. There was a terrific explosion, a huge funnel of
fire rose, meeting the heavens, and monstrous columns of yellow, red,
black smoke swallowed all nature. I shrieked in horror and obscurity
clouded the frightful scene. Once more the future was a blank, dark,
illusive. Virgillius, I did not sleep or dream; Centauri, Sheldon and
all with them are in peril. I shall save them. Speed has been doubled,
the ship travels swifter than the wind, and we will reach the mountains
toward evening of the day after to-morrow. It is the fastest time ever
made over the Great Ocean, and the Ocstas is the first land sighted,
then—Centur. Come, Virgillius, this will never do, we must join the
others. Artoisti will teach you the game he is eternally playing with
Dreaisti.”
Artoisti was the literary gent, and he of Dreaisti the dramatist. I
argued against both gentlemen and the game, and feelingly pleaded to
remain with her the afternoon. She laughingly refused to listen to me
and made sport of my earnestness. We joined the others.
Artoisti called me to the table where he was playing with Dreaisti. I
watched the game some time, but was soon convinced that in a hundred
years I couldn’t master it. It was tedious, complicated, and played with
oblong ivory chips the size of a match ornamented with fine threads of
color. The game seemed a mixture of chess, checkers and hop-scotch,
played upon a board similar to the chart of the heavens. The splintery
chips were twirled in the air and fell upon the chart in squares,
triangles, circles. Where the tricks, points, came in I have still to
discover. The gentlemen invited me to take a “flip” in the game, but I
hastily retreated, amid shouts of derision.
We were warned from the deck as the ship suddenly lowered and zigzagged
at terrific speed. The great wings fluttered heavily, and frequently the
ship crested the turbulent waves like a monster sea-gull.
We had reached the danger zone. Safety lay in hugging the water to avoid
the fierce wind currents crashing above, but we soon outdistanced danger
and gradually floated upward high and higher; by noon we coursed in our
accustomed sphere, but speeded on with a hurricane following swiftly.
From the little signal house Alpha and I watched the storm gathering and
strengthening.
“We speed ahead,” she murmured; “but if caught—devotions to Sol, all is
over.”
I pressed her close to me; at that moment death with her seemed rapture,
then she was mine forever. But I shall never forget that frightful
night. The din, uproar of thunderous cannonading as great black, red,
lightning-pierced clouds met the ocean was terrifying; the ship creaked
and groaned threateningly in her wild flight before the hurricane.
With ill-concealed alarm I sat up all night, but the others retired as
usual. The Centaurian equipoise will remain forever an enigma.
Dawn ended our peril. We still traveled before a gale, but had outsailed
the tempest. Above was a clear, blue sky, and the soft radiance of the
rising sun enveloped the ship. Toward noon we reached the dead calm
ocean tropics, the heat flamed upon oily, slothful waters, but we sailed
with the swiftness of a bird, and far in the distance a heliotrope ridge
met our vision.
“The Ocstas!” cried Alpha, delighted. “We shall reach them in the early
evening.”
And all day she watched till the violet line became a positive purple,
gradually deepening into peak and curve with soft velvety slopes, yet as
we neared the mountains I noticed, with astonishment, that they reached
the water’s edge without beach, perpendicular cliffs with smooth,
shining surface, barren, upright, a gigantic wall that huge ocean waves
dashed against in high bounding sprays.
It was rosy twilight when we sailed over these uncanny mountains so
sharply divided by cold, barren cliffs on one side and deep forests,
rich valleys on the other.
Anxiously Alpha gazed downward and called my attention to the ominous
rumbling, which I supposed was the roar of the ocean.
“I fear we are too late,” she murmured. “It seems we will never reach
the place where the great Sheldon and Centauri are imperiling their
lives tampering with the volcanic Otega.”
In vain I tried to calm her. Words made her desperate, and as the
detonations increased she clasped her hands tightly in agony. The air
grew dense, sultry, vibrating with electricity. All scented danger,
calamity and clustered together in alarmed little groups, murmuring:
“The Otega; the Otega.”
The ship slackened speed as we sighted the Otega, and her great wings
fluttered as though about to lower. Upon earth all was agitation, the
ocean boiled furiously, at high tide crashing over the steep cliff wall
and flooding the land; people, panic-strickened, scurried in all
directions. Then Centauri appeared. We knew him by his long white beard.
The little crowd gathered about him, but suddenly, all with one accord,
rushed to the side of the mountain, where, in a hollow, their ship
rested. We could see them scrambling over the side of the vessel,
working, tugging with desperation to loosen her. We lowered a little to
give assistance, but the ship bounded free, the great bat wings
vigorously unfurled; then shouts of distress coming from land startled
us and we saw a man running, mad with terror. He reached the ship,
grasping the side just as she lurched upward, jerking his body out with
the shock, then banging it back with terrific force. I turned sick,
covering my eyes—the man was Sheldon. My blood curdled as I thought of
his awful death, expecting, of course, that he’d fallen to earth and was
dashed to pieces, but Alpha whispered he was safe, that he’d clung to
the vessel as he had to his theory and Centauri had dragged him from his
awful position. I could see him lying on the deck. The two vessels
sailed close and established communication. Alpha talked with her
father, and I learned the great Otega would soon be in eruption after a
quiet of six centuries. We lingered to view the phenomenon.
“I am glad the matter is settled for all time,” murmured Alpha.
“Certainly the great Sheldon’s visit to Centauri has been of some
benefit, his laughable theories have obtained positive results and
settled forever a grave doubt to the satisfaction of every one.”
She laughed as I suggested that Sheldon, to a certain extent, had been
deceived.
“He deceived himself,” she replied. “No one disputed his positive
assertions, and consequently he believed all agreed with him, but every
one went up to the Ocstas bent upon private investigations. Your friend
was intent upon discovering the source of that body of water and
delegates from four geographical-geological societies accompanied him
solely to determine whether the volcano was extinct or not—all have been
successful. Isn’t it strange, Virgillius,” she continued, “that water
was so fresh, wholesome, beneficial to the system, yet fish could not
live in it. We tried, and——”
A warning shout came from Centauri’s ship. Ours shot upward like a
rocket and slanted across the sky, swift as an arrow.
A terrific explosion took place, thunder rolled from the heavens, while
earth responded with tremendous detonations. The incessant roaring,
sizzling noise was frightful—the majestic fury of the Otega had awakened
from its long trance. Sulphurous flames played about the volcano, giving
it a terrible, weird appearance, steam rose in monstrous clouds, and
waves of liquid fire boiled and dashed against the cliffs overflowing
the huge caldron in broad streams of molten mass deluging the earth with
devastation. Ashes, rock, lava shot skyward in monster geysers of
incandescent matter that gave forth prismatic lights and in stinging,
serpent-like coils writhed to the sea.
Voluminous waves hedged in the Ocstas, and their steady blaze cast a
deep crimson, purple glare over the heavens that must have reached to
Centur. We were ten miles away, our ship had a heavy coating of cinders
and the sickening odor of sulphur suffocated. A scorching smoke devoured
the air and hung like a pall over all nature, obscuring everything
except the splendid, diabolical phenomenon, belching flame and lightning
forking from the gigantic crested columns that shot upward hundreds of
feet. It was a fearsome, stupendous spectacle.
Time seemed infinite, so absorbed had I been watching the magnificent
Otega, that from a light touch I started as from a dream, mumbling
gruffly.
“Awake, Virgillius, you are fascinated by the splendid Otega.”
A sudden dazzling flash illuminated the ship and I saw her. She laughed
teasingly as I caught her hand and pressed it against my face.
“We are going to Centur,” she told me. “All lights have been
extinguished. Thousands are on their way to view the volcano. Should it
become known that I have returned the loyal people will forego that
marvelous sight and accompany us back to Centur. The lava streams are
rushing down the other side of the mountain into the sea. The flow will
continue many days and there will be intermittent eruptions for months,
then the Otega will be dormant, probably forever.”
“Much damage done?”
“Some,” she answered, “to the Potolilis. The Ocstas is the property of
the Potolilis. They know the Otega and avoid it. There is much timber
lost, but the Potolilis are a tribe of vast wealth. Centauri has ordered
his ship brilliantly illuminated, so all may know he has not perished.”
Our ship had ceased its aimless floating and slanted straight for
Centur. Far in the distance, speeding toward the Ocstas, were thousands
of red globe lights traveling thickly together, resembling the Milky Way
suddenly lowered to our sphere. We darted in a westerly direction
avoiding the flying multitude, which gradually sailed past like a great
stream of meteors, traveling in groups or long straggling lines, and all
heavily laden with sightseers. One huge vessel, sailing apart from the
others, edged us closely. She was gayly illuminated and decorated with
the colors of Centauri. We did not clear her in time, and she spied our
dark hulk and saluted. We flashed farther into the darkness, but the
sound of gay music, wild singing, shouts and shrill laughter of the men
and women aboard followed us.
“A private vessel, party of pleasure-loving young people out for a
lark,” I suggested.
Alpha watched the vessel till it appeared but a pale stream of light
against the sky.
“Possibly a wedding party,” she replied. “But the ship floated the
colors, which signals some great personage aboard. Banners are hoisted
only upon national fête days. This ship carried the flag of Centauri.
Odd this particular ship should stray aside just as we pass to nearly
collide with us.”
She gazed perplexedly into the darkness and silently, thoughtfully,
studied the starry horizon, then with a murmured “Good-night” and gentle
hand-clasp she left me.
Suddenly our ship blazed with lights and the Centauri banners were
hoisted. We cut sharply across the heavens separating entirely from the
speeding sightseers, our lights only distinguishable. No one dreamed
Alpha Centauri was returning to Centur.
“It is three hours on the new day, why do you not retire?” a deep voice
rumbled close to my ear.
With a start I turned and confronted the Literary Man.
“Why don’t you seek rest yourself?” I snapped.
“I have rested too long. I am far in arrears with my work, but have put
everything aside to complete an Ode upon the joyful emotions Alpha
Centauri is supposed to entertain when beholding Centur once again.”
His eyes twinkled and he chuckled without smiling.
“You are humorous,” I told him. “Do you doubt the joyful emotions?”
“I never answer questions,” he replied. “They always lead to argument
and time is too limited for that. An argument should last at least a
month, both sides talking all the time. How very young, inexperienced,
you must be, Virgillius; you still have to discover that women have no
emotions. The Centaurians are all humorists, tragedy is an obliterated
evil; and, Virgillius, we reach Centur at sunrise. I must go and finish
my Ode to Joy. We will meet again.”
He hurried away, chuckling, glancing over his shoulder to smile
good-humoredly at me. Alone, a sudden depression came upon me. I was
living in a nerve-racking atmosphere of doubt and anxiety. Dejectedly I
entered my cabin to wait in gloomy misery for day, but deadly wearied,
unknowingly I sank into deep slumber, which lasted till heavy movements
about the ship roused me. I hurried on deck, the morning was flushed
with the rising sun, we sailed over a deep blue bay, and just ahead
glistened the crystal city of Centur. Everybody was on deck to view the
magnificent scene, but exchanged amused glances and smiled openly at my
tardiness, while Alpha, radiant, buoyant with hope, greeted me with
laughter and jest. Repose had not banished despondency; I chilled with
dread and black forebodings. In all the travels, when constantly fearing
the possible materializing of the “adored,” I never experienced the
positive hopelessness that now warned me of sure and bitter, bitter
disappointment. Alpha Centauri would treasure the ideal forever. I was
miserable, cruelly fated to worship a phantom which was fading from my
life. I knew it. In an agony of wretchedness caught her hand, holding it
tight, and she—God!—laughed in her mirthful mood, taunting my gloomy
countenance. The others joined in her sport, gayly encouraging me and
quipped my depression; yet smile I could not. The dramatist declared
would make tragedy popular again, and the literary genius told me he
would never regret our meeting, as I had colored the closing chapter of
his forthcoming romance, which finale would crown him with immortality.
“You shall jest no longer at my Virgillius!” cried Alpha, leading me
away, though laughing merrily.
It matters not what passed between us, she spoke seriously, and of the
future.
“I am glad to return,” she murmured; “do not begrudge me the scant
joy of expectancy. It is only on the surface. In my heart I
fear—ah!—I cannot, I cannot envelop you with the sweet foolishness
lavished upon the impossible, but you taught me to love—I belong to
you—and—er—Virgillius, we may both be happy yet.”
God! I gasped, scarcely believing what I heard. My senses tingled, I
seemed to choke. She gazed at me with wide open, tender eyes, and
passionately I pressed her hand to my lips. She flushed at my ardor and
turned aside. In mad adoration I caught her in my arms and crushed her
to me. I cared not if the whole world spied upon us. I kissed my
glorious Alpha upon the lips, eyes and sweetly flushed cheeks.
Snickering, smothered guffaws roused my drugged senses; protesting
vigorously, yet good-naturedly, against my ardent caresses, Alpha freed
herself, calling me a “wild boy, but lovable.”
“And look,” she cried, running to the ship’s side; “look, Virgillius, we
have reached Centur.”