[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sand-thing was powerful, lonely and
strange. No doubt it was a god--but who wasn't?
Stinson lay still in the sand where he fell, gloating over the success
of his arrival.
He touched the pencil-line scar behind his ear where the cylinder was
buried, marveling at the power stored there, power to fling him from
earth to this fourth planet of the Centaurian system in an instant.
It had happened so fast that he could almost feel the warm, humid
Missouri air, though he was light years from Missouri.
He got up. A gray, funnel-shaped cloud of dust stood off to his left.
This became disturbing, since there was scarcely enough wind to move
his hair. He watched it, trying to recall what he might know about
cyclones. But he knew little. Weather control made cyclones and other
climatic phenomena on earth practically non-existent. The cloud
did not move, though, except to spin on its axis rapidly, emitting
a high-pitched, scarcely audible whine, like a high speed motor. He
judged it harmless.
He stood on a wide valley floor between two mountain ranges. Dark
clouds capped one peak of the mountains on his left. The sky was deep
blue.
He tested the gravity by jumping up and down. Same as Earth gravity.
The sun--no, not _the_ sun. Not Sol. What should he call it, Alpha or
Centaurus? Well, perhaps neither. He was here and Earth was somewhere
up there. This was _the_ sun of this particular solar system. He was
right the first time.
The sun burned fiercely, although he would have said it was about four
o'clock in the afternoon, if this had been Earth. Not a tree, nor a
bush, nor even a wisp of dry grass was in sight. Everywhere was desert.
The funnel of sand had moved closer and while he watched it, it seemed
to drift in the wind--although there was no wind. Stinson backed away.
It stopped. It was about ten feet tall by three feet in diameter at the
base. Then Stinson backed away again. It was changing. Now it became a
blue rectangle, then a red cube, a violet sphere.
He wanted to run. He wished Benjamin were here. Ben might have an
explanation. "What am I afraid of?" he said aloud, "a few grains of
sand blowing in the wind? A wind devil?"
He turned his back and walked away. When he looked up the wind devil
was there before him. He looked back. Only one. It had moved. The sun
shone obliquely, throwing Stinson's shadow upon the sand. The wind
devil also had a shadow, although the sun shone through it and the
shadow was faint. But it moved when the funnel moved. This was no
illusion.
Again Stinson felt the urge to run, or to use the cylinder to project
himself somewhere else, but he said, "No!" very firmly to himself. He
was here to investigate, to determine if this planet was capable of
supporting life.
Life? Intelligence? He examined the wind devil as closely as he dared,
but it was composed only of grains of sand. There was no core, no
central place you could point to and say, here is the brain, or the
nervous system. But then, how could a group of loosely spaced grains of
sand possibly have a nervous system?
It was again going through its paces. Triangle, cube, rectangle,
sphere. He watched, and when it became a triangle again, he smoothed
a place in the sand and drew a triangle with his forefinger. When it
changed to a cube he drew a square, a circle for a sphere, and so on.
When the symbols were repeated he pointed to each in turn, excitement
mounting. He became so absorbed in doing this that he failed to notice
how the wind devil drew closer and closer, but when he inhaled the
first grains of sand, the realization of what was happening dawned with
a flash of fear. Instantly he projected himself a thousand miles away.
* * * * *
Now he was in an area of profuse vegetation. It was twilight. As he
stood beside a small creek, a chill wind blew from the northwest. He
wanted to cover himself with the long leaves he found, but they were
dry and brittle, for here autumn had turned the leaves. Night would be
cold.
He was not a woodsman. He doubted if he could build a fire without
matches. So he followed the creek to where it flowed between two great
hills. Steam vapors rose from a crevice. A cave was nearby and warm air
flowed from its mouth. He went inside.
At first he thought the cave was small, but found instead that he was
in a long narrow passageway. The current of warm air flowed toward him
and he followed it, cautiously, stepping carefully and slowly. Then it
was not quite so dark. Soon he stepped out of the narrow passageway
into a great cavern with a high-vaulted ceiling.
The light source was a mystery. He left no shadow on the floor. A
great crystal sphere hung from the ceiling, and he was curious about
its purpose, but a great pool of steaming water in the center of the
cavern drew his attention. He went close, to warm himself. A stone
wall surrounding the pool was inscribed with intricate art work and
indecipherable symbols.
Life. Intelligence. The planet was inhabited.
Should he give up and return to earth? Or was there room here for
his people? Warming his hands there over the great steaming pool he
thought of Benjamin, and Straus, and Jamieson--all those to whom he had
given cylinders, and who were now struggling for life against those who
desired them.
He decided it would not be just, to give up so easily.
The wide plaza between the pool and cavern wall was smooth as polished
glass. Statues lined the wall. He examined them.
The unknown artist had been clever. From one angle they were animals,
from another birds, from a third they were vaguely humanoid creatures,
glowering at him with primitive ferocity. The fourth view was so
shocking he had to turn away quickly. No definable form or sculptured
line was visible, yet he felt, or saw--he did not know which senses
told him--the immeasurable gulf of a million years of painful
evolution. Then nothing. It was not a curtain drawn to prevent him from
seeing more.
There was no more.
* * * * *
He stumbled toward the pool's wall and clutched for support, but
his knees buckled. His hand slid down the wall, over the ancient
inscriptions. He sank to the floor. Before he lost consciousness he
wondered, fleetingly, if a lethal instrument was in the statue.
He woke with a ringing in his ears, feeling drugged and sluggish.
Sounds came to him. He opened his eyes.
The cavern was crowded. These creatures were not only humanoid, but
definitely human, although more slight of build than earth people. The
only difference he could see at first sight was that they had webbed
feet. All were dressed from the waist down only, in a shimmering skirt
that sparkled as they moved. They walked with the grace of ballet
dancers, moving about the plaza, conversing in a musical language with
no meaning for Stinson. The men were dark-skinned, the women somewhat
lighter, with long flowing hair, wide lips and a beauty that was
utterly sensual.
He was in chains! They were small chains, light weight, of a metal that
looked like aluminum. But all his strength could not break them.
They saw him struggling. Two of the men came over and spoke to him in
the musical language.
"My name is Stinson," he said, pointing to himself. "I'm from the
planet Earth."
They looked at each other and jabbered some more.
"Look," he said, "Earth. E-A-R-T-H, Earth." He pointed upward,
described a large circle, then another smaller, and showed how Earth
revolved around the sun.
One of the men poked him with a stick, or tube of some kind. It did not
hurt, but angered him. He left the chains by his own method of travel,
and reappeared behind the two men. They stared at the place where he
had been. The chains tinkled musically. He grasped the shoulder of the
offender, spun him around and slapped his face.
A cry of consternation rose from the group, echoing in the high
ceilinged cavern. "SBTL!" it said, "ZBTL ... XBTL ... zbtl."
The men instantly prostrated themselves before him. The one who had
poked Stinson with the stick rose, and handed it to him. Still angered,
Stinson grasped it firmly, with half a notion to break it over his
head. As he did so, a flash of blue fire sprang from it. The man
disappeared. A small cloud of dust settled slowly to the floor.
Disintegrated!
Stinson's face drained pale, and suddenly, unaccountably, he was
ashamed because he had no clothes.
"I didn't mean to kill him!" he cried. "I was angry, and...."
Useless. They could not understand. For all he knew, they might think
he was threatening them. The object he had thought of as a stick was
in reality a long metal tube, precisely machined, with a small button
near one end.
This weapon was completely out of place in a culture such as this.
Or was it? What did he know of these people? Very little. They were
humanoid. They had exhibited human emotions of anger, fear and, that
most human of all characteristics, curiosity. But up to now the tube
and the chain was the only evidence of an advanced technology, unless
the ancient inscriptions in the stone wall of the pool, and the statues
lining the wall were evidences.
* * * * *
There was a stirring among the crowd. An object like a pallet was
brought, carried by four of the women. They laid it at his feet, and
gestured for him to sit. He touched it cautiously, then sat.
Instantly he sprang to his feet. There, at the cavern entrance, the
wind devil writhed and undulated in a brilliant harmony of colors. It
remained in one spot, though, and he relaxed somewhat.
One of the women came toward him, long golden hair flowing, firm
breasts dipping slightly at each step. Her eyes held a language all
their own, universal. She pressed her body against him and bore him to
the pallet, her kisses fire on his face.
Incongruously, he thought of Benjamin back on earth, and all the others
with cylinders, who might be fighting for their lives at this moment.
He pushed her roughly aside.
She spoke, and he understood! Her words were still the same gibberish,
but now he knew their meaning. Somehow he knew also that the wind devil
was responsible for his understanding.
"You do not want me?" she said sadly. "Then kill me."
"Why should I kill you?"
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. "It is the way of the Gods," she
said. "If you do not, then the others will."
He took the tube-weapon in his hands, careful not to touch the button.
"Don't be afraid. I didn't mean to kill the man. It was an accident. I
will protect you."
She shook her head. "One day they will find me alone, and they'll kill
me."
"Why?"