_The Spokesmen of the Gens_
For a long moment Sarka looked broodingly out across the world beyond
the metalized glass which formed the curving dome of his laboratory
roof. There was little that could be seen, for always the mighty, cold
winds, ruffed with flurries of snow and particles of ice, swept over
this artificial roof of the world. Here and there huge portions of the
area within the range of his normal vision were swept clear and clean of
snow and ice--and looked bluely, bitterly cold and hostile.
Without the Sarka-Belts, people who ventured forth from their hives
would instantly freeze to the consistency of marble in those winds and
storms. For the people of Earth had built their monster habitation
toward the stars until they reached up into the altitude of perpetual
cold.
Only under that gleaming roof was there warmth. Many of the men, and
women, and children who had lost in the now century-old fight for
survival had merely been tossed out of the hives. A painless, swift
death--but each death, in a world so highly specialized that each grown
person fitted into his niche naturally and easily, was a distinct loss,
not much, perhaps, but enough for the loss to be felt.
* * * * *
Sarka, closing his eyes for a moment as though to shut out a horror
which in his mind he could visualize, turned back to the Revolving
Beryl, in which he kept in constant touch with all parts of the world at
will.
"It _must_ be done!" he muttered. "I must take action. It means the loss
of thousands, perhaps millions of lives, in such a war as the mind of
man has not hitherto conceived; but for a Cause greater than any which
has ever hitherto been an excuse for armed conflict. But I must discuss
it with the Spokesmen of the Gens!"
On the table before Sarka was a row of vari-colored lights, whose source
was beneath the floor of the laboratory, out of the heart of the
master-mountain, part of the intricate machinery of this laboratory
which had been almost twenty centuries in the perfecting. In the
dwelling place of each of the Spokesmen was a single light, colored like
one of the lights on Sarka's table. To speak with any one of the
Spokesmen Sarka had but to dim the properly colored light by covering it
with the palm of his hand. The light in the home of the thus signalled
Spokesman was dimmed, and the Spokesman would know that Sarka desired
to converse with him.
Sarka noted the blue light, and shuddered. For if he covered it with his
palm it would summon Dalis, a great scientist, but an erratic one, as
Sarka the First had so clearly shown.
Sarka turned again to the Beryl. The area of which Dalis was Spokesman
was, roughly speaking, that part of what had once been the Pacific
Ocean, north of a line drawn east and west through the southernmost of
the Hawaiian Islands, northward to the Pole. The home of Dalis was in
the heart of what had once been an island historians claimed had been
called Oahu, now a mountain peak still retaining a hint of the
pre-Discovery name: Ohi.
* * * * *
The total number of the Spokesmen, the oldest of earth's inhabitants,
was twelve, and the remainder of the Earth not under the tutelary rule
of Dalis was divided up among the other eleven Spokesmen. Cleric, for
example, father of Jaska, was Spokesman of that area which men had once
called Asia, the vast valleys of the once Indian Ocean and the
Mediterranean; while the youngest of the Spokesmen, in a manner serving
his apprenticeship, was tutelary head of the vast plateau once called
Africa. The name of this man was Gerd.
"He, at least," thought Sarka, thinking of each Spokesman in turn and
cataloguing each in his mind, "will be with me. I wonder about the
others, and especially Dalis. He has always hated us!"
Then, with the air of a man who has made up his mind and crosses his
particular Rubicon in a single step, Sarka rose to his feet and passed
along the row of vari-colored lights, covering each one with his hand in
rapid succession.
Then he sat down again, almost holding his breath, and waited. As he
stared at the row of lights his eyes lingered longest on two which were
almost golden in color--and his face was very gentle, almost reverent.
For those two lights were signals to Sarka the First and Sarka the
Second, his grandfather and his father!
* * * * *
It was Dalis, the irascible, the fiery tempered, the erratic, who first
made answer.
"Yes! What is it now?"
Sarka smiled a trifle grimly as he spoke a single word.
"Wait!"
The voice of Dalis, which Sarka had good cause to remember, had sounded
as loudly in the laboratory as though Dalis had been present there in
person, for men had learned to communicate by voice almost without the
aid of radio and its appurtenances though the principle upon which the
first crude beginnings of radio were fashioned still applied. Each man's
dwelling place was both a "sender" and a "receiver," and men could talk
and be talked to no matter where they lived--individuals telepathically
summoned at desire of anyone wishing verbal contact.
"Gerd is here!" came the voice of that Spokesman.
To him also Sarka spoke one word.
"Wait!"
"I am here, Sarka!" came a musical voice. "And Jaska is with me,
listening!"
That would be Cleric, loyal friend, master scientist, but always shy of
contact with people, though swift to anger and self-forgetfulness when
he knew himself right and was opposed. Sarka darted a look back at the
Revolving Beryl, adjusted swiftly the Beryl-microscope, and smiled into
the faces of Jaska and Cleric, who looked enough alike that they might
have been brother and sister, though Cleric had been born ten centuries
before his daughter Jaska. They smiled back at him.
* * * * *
He shifted the Beryl-microscope and stared for a second at Dalis, there
in the Beryl, and marked the antagonism Dalis was at no pains to hide.
One by one the Spokesmen reported.
Klaser, from the Americas; Durce from the valleys of the vanished
Atlantic; Boler from that part of the Artic Circle not included in the
wedge which the Gens of Dalis thrust northward to the Pole: Vardee;
Prull; Yuta; Aal; Vance and Hime. Each from his appointed area, each
from the official headquarters of his Gens, the name given to those
people who acknowledged the tutelage of a Spokesman. Each Spokesman,
therefore, was the mouthpiece of millions of men, women and children.
And over the Spokesmen, and not themselves Spokesmen, were three
scientists: The Sarkas, First, Second and Third.
When all twelve of the Spokesmen had reported and been bidden by Sarka
to wait, a smile touched the face of Sarka for an instant as two other
voices, so nearly alike they might have been the voice of a single
person, reported themselves.
"I am here, son! What is it?"
Oddly enough, Sarka's father and grandfather reported with exactly the
same words. Sarka smiled at a whimsical thought of his own. It had been
some time since the three scientist Sarkas had been together, and
despite the vast differences in their ages they might have been
triplets!
* * * * *
The reports were in and the Spokesmen were waiting; but for almost a
minute Sarka waited still. Then he spoke swiftly those words for which
there could be no recall:
"Gentlemen, the time is come when we must go to war!"
For a long moment after he had spoken there was no answer. Then it came,
in the jeering laughter of the antagonistic Dalis.
"War? Against whom? The Sarkas are always dreaming!"
"And Dalis," continued Sarka, "shall be one of the leaders of Earthlings
in this war which I am about to propose! You doubtless recall a proposal
you once made to Sarka the First? Your proposal to halt for a few
moments the headlong whirl of the earth about its axis, thus to
flood--"
"Stop!" interrupted Dalis. "Stop! Immediately!"
And Sarka stopped. He had forgotten, in the excitement of his urge to
explain his plans, that the millions of people who gave official
allegiance to Dalis had never been informed of the hideous proposal he
had made, back there centuries ago, as a corrective for a world rapidly
approaching over-population. Had his people known, never again would the
voice of Dalis be heard in life. The Spokesmen knew, and the Sarkas; but
no others. Sarka understood the protest of Dalis; honored it.
"Dalis," he went on, more softly, "after I have explained what I wish to
do, you will come to me here, prepared to explain to me exactly how you
planned doing what you proposed to my grandfather--for your knowledge
will be necessary to me...."
"Isn't it enough that your grandfather stole from me, and amplified, an
idea that would have made me forever famous, without his grandson also
stealing the fruit of my brains?"
"Your brains," said Sarka sharply, "belong to your people. What I plan
is for their betterment. But it means war, war which may last a century,
two centuries, in which lives of countless thousands may be lost."
* * * * *
Sarka's last words were almost drowned out by the humming sound that
came out of the Revolving Beryl, that perfected device which was the
ultimate in the evolution of television and vibration-transference.
Sarka's heart sank, for he knew the meaning of that sound. So did the
Spokesmen.
"You see?" came the rasping voice of Dalis. "You hear? Look into your
Beryl! See the clenched fists of the earth's myriads being shaken at
you! Listen to the protests of the millions who hear your every word!
See what Earthlings think of the prospect of war!"
For a moment Sarka spoke directly to the people.
"Be silent and listen! It will be war, yes; but not such a skulking,
hideous war as ye wage among yourselves for a place to live! You,
fathers, are guilty of slaying your sons! You, sons, of slaying your
fathers! Merely by thrusting them forth from the hives, into the Outer
Cold! This war I propose shall be a war that shall match your manhood,
if ye indeed be men! Listen to me, and I will find for you new lands to
conquer, new homes for your holding, if ye can take them!"
"But where," interrupted the sarcastic voice of Dalis, "are these new
lands of which you speak? Inside the Earth? Already our hives reach into
the Earth a distance of eight miles. Where else, then?"
"For shame, Dalis!" snapped Sarka, "and you a scientist! Every bit of
habitable land on this globe is some man's dwelling place! Spokesmen of
the Gens of Earth, look out your windows! Look out and upward--and read
Dalis' answer in the stars!"
* * * * *
For a full minute there was silence throughout the earth, and Sarka saw
that the Spokesmen were doing his bidding. He himself looked out, out
through the swirling storm which tore at the crest of the Himalayas, a
dark and forbidding Outside, in the starred dome of which rode the pale
orbed moon!
"It is obvious, son," came the voice of Sarka the First, "what you mean.
But how accomplish it?"
"Fifteen centuries ago, my father's father," cried Sarka, "Dalis told
you that he possessed the power to halt for a moment the headlong whirl
of the world on its axis about the sun! He could do it then--and no man,
whatever he may think of Dalis as a man, has ever known him to lie! If,
fifteen centuries ago, he could bring the whirling world to pause, why
can we not, now...."
And, even though he had thought of this for years upon end, had spoken
over and over to himself the words he was now using, rehearsing his
proposed argument to the Spokesmen of the Gens, Sarka found himself for
a moment almost afraid to continue and speak them.
"I understand, Sarka!" came the excited voice of Gerd, youngest of the
Spokesmen. "And I follow wherever you think it best to lead! You mean
... you mean...."
"Exactly!" Sarka managed at last. "If the Earth can be stayed on its
axis, it can be diverted from its orbit entirely! I know, for I have
found the manner of its doing, though I need the genius of Dalis to
check my work and my calculations! We have no new land on this Earth to
conquer; but the Universe is filled with countless other worlds! What
say ye, Spokesmen of the Gens? What say ye, Gens of Earth?"
But for the time of a thousand heartbeats neither the Spokesmen or the
Gens made answer to Sarka, and all the world fell utterly silent,
absorbing this unbelievable thing of which Sarka had hinted.
* * * * *
Over the metalized roof of the world the snows and storms, the winds and
the wraiths of the long dead moaned and screamed as with an icy voice of
abysmal warning.
And for the time of those thousand heartbeats, the world was pausing to
listen.
When realization came, the answer would come from the Spokesmen and from
the Gens; and here in the Sarka laboratory, his Rubicon crossed at last,
sat Sarka, staring through the Beryl-microscope into the depths of the
Revolving Beryl. His face was dead white, his eyes narrowed.
The first voice which came startled him.
"It is mad, Sarka! Mad! Mad! But I am with you, always!"
It was the voice of Jaska, daughter of Cleric!