WORLD EDITIONS, Inc.
105 WEST 40th STREET
NEW YORK 18, NEW YORK
Copyright 1951
by
WORLD EDITIONS, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
THE GUINN CO., Inc.
New York 14, N.Y.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Just speculate for a moment on the enormous challenge to archeology
when interplanetary flight is possible ... and relics are found of a
race extinct for half a million years! A race, incidentally, that was
scientifically so far in advance of ours that they held the secret of
the restoration of life!
One member of that race can be brought back after 500,000 years of
death....
That's the story told by this ORIGINAL book-length novel, which has
never before been published! You can expect a muscle-tightening,
sweat-producing, mind-prodding adventure in the future when you read
it!
_CHAPTER ONE_
Out beyond the orbit of Mars the _Lavoisier_ wallowed cautiously
through the asteroid fields. Aboard the laboratory ship few of the
members of the permanent Smithson Asteroidal Expedition were aware
that they were in motion. Living in the field one or two years at
a time, there was little that they were conscious of except the
half-million-year-old culture whose scattered fragments surrounded them
on every side.
The only contact with Earth at the moment was the radio link by which
Dr. Delmar Underwood was calling Dr. Illia Morov at Terrestrial Medical
Central.
Illia's blonde, precisely coiffured hair was only faintly golden
against, the stark white of her surgeons' gown, which she still wore
when she answered. Her eyes widened with an expression of pleasure as
her face came into focus on the screen and she recognized Underwood.
"Del! I thought you'd gone to sleep with the mummies out there. It's
been over a month since you called. What's new?"
"Not much. Terry found some new evidence of Stroid III. Phyfe has a
new scrap of metal with inscriptions, and they've found something that
almost looks as if it might have been an electron tube five hundred
thousand years ago. I'm working on that. Otherwise all is peaceful and
it's wonderful!"
"Still the confirmed hermit?" Illia's eyes lost some of their banter,
but none of their tenderness.
"There's more peace and contentment out here than I'd ever dreamed of
finding. I want you to come out here, Illia. Come out for a month. If
you don't want to stay and marry me, then you can go back and I won't
say another word."
* * * * *
She shook her head in firm decision. "Earth needs its scientists
desperately. Too many have run away already. They say the Venusian
colonies are booming, but I told you a year ago that simply running
away wouldn't work. I thought by now you would have found it out for
yourself."
"And I told you a year ago," Underwood said flatly, "that the only
possible choice of a sane man is escape."
"You can't escape your own culture, Del. Why, the expedition that
provided the opportunity for you to become a hermit is dependent on
Earth. If Congress should cut the Institute's funds, you'd be dropped
right back where you were. You can't get away."
"There are always the Venusian colonies."
"You know it's impossible to exist there independent of Earth."
"I'm not talking about the science and technology. I'm talking about
the social disintegration. Certainly a scientist doesn't need to take
that with him when he's attempting to escape it."
"The culture is not to blame," said Illia earnestly, "and neither is
humanity. You don't ridicule a child for his clumsiness when he is
learning to walk."
"I hope the human race is past its childhood!"
"Relatively speaking, it isn't. Dreyer says we're only now emerging
from the cave man stage, and that could properly be called mankind's
infancy, I suppose. Dreyer calls it the 'head man' stage."
"I thought he was a semanticist."
"You'd know if you'd ever talked with him. He'll tear off every other
word you utter and throw it back at you. His 'head man' designation
is correct, all right. According to him, human beings in this stage
need some leader or 'head man' stronger than themselves for guidance,
assumption of responsibility, and blame, in case of failure of the
group. These functions have never in the past been developed in the
individual so that he could stand alone in control of his own ego. But
it's coming--that's the whole import of Dreyer's work."
"And all this confusion and instability are supposed to have something
to do with that?"
"It's been growing for decades. We've seen it reach a peak in our own
lifetimes. The old fetishes have failed, the head men have been found
to be hollow gods, and men's faith has turned to derision. Presidents,
dictators, governors, and priests--they've all fallen from their high
places and the masses of humanity will no longer believe in any of
them."
* * * * *
"And _that_ is development of the race?"
"Yes, because out of it will come a people who have found in themselves
the strength they used to find in the 'head men.' There will come a
race in which the individual can accept the responsibility which he
has always passed on to the 'head man,' the 'head man' is no longer
necessary."
"And so--the ultimate anarchy."
"The 'head man' concept has, but first he has to find out that
has nothing to do with government. With human beings capable of
independent, constructive behavior, actual democracy will be possible
for the first time in the world's history."
"If all this is to come about anyway, according to Dreyer, why not try
to escape the insanity of the transition period?"
Illia Morov's eyes grew narrow in puzzlement as she looked at Underwood
with utter incomprehension. "Doesn't it matter at all that the race is
in one of the greatest crises of all history? Doesn't it matter that
you have a skill that is of immense value in these times? It's peculiar
that it is those of you in the physical sciences who are fleeing in
the greatest numbers. The Venusian colonies must have a wonderful time
with physicists trampling each other to get away from it all--and Earth
almost barren of them. Do the physical sciences destroy every sense of
social obligation?"
"You forget that I don't quite accept Dreyer's theories. To me this is
nothing but a rotting structure that is finally collapsing from its own
inner decay. I can't see anything positive evolving out of it."
"I suppose so. Well, it was nice of you to call, Del. I'm always glad
to hear you. Don't wait so long next time."
"Illia--"
But she had cut the connection and the screen slowly faded into gray,
leaving Underwood's argument unfinished. Irritably, he flipped the
switch to the public news channels.
Where was he wrong? The past year, since he had joined the expedition
as Chief Physicist, was like paradise compared with living in the
unstable, irresponsible society existing on Earth. He knew it was a
purely neurotic reaction, this desire to escape. But application of
that label solved nothing, explained nothing--and carried no stigma.
The neurotic reaction was the norm in a world so confused.
He turned as the news blared abruptly with its perpetual urgency that
made him wonder how the commentators endured the endless flow of crises.
The President had been impeached again--the third one in six months.
There were no candidates for his office.
A church had been burned by its congregation.
Two mayors had been assassinated within hours of each other.
It was the same news he had heard six months ago. It would be the same
again tomorrow and next month. The story of a planet repudiating all
leadership. A lawlessness that was worse than anarchy, because there
was still government--a government that could be driven and whipped by
the insecurities of the populace that elected it.
Dreyer called it a futile search for a 'head man' by a people who would
no longer trust any of their own kind to be 'head man.' And Underwood
dared not trust that glib explanation.
Many others besides Underwood found they could no longer endure the
instability of their own culture. Among these were many of the world's
leading scientists. Most of them went to the jungle lands of Venus. The
scientific limitations of such a frontier existence had kept Underwood
from joining the Venusian colonies, but he'd been very close to going
just before he got the offer of Chief Physicist with the Smithson
Institute expedition in the asteroid fields. He wondered now what he'd
have done if the offer hadn't come.
* * * * *
The interphone annunciator buzzed. Underwood turned off the news as
the bored communications operator in the control room announced, "Doc
Underwood. Call for Doc Underwood."
Underwood cut in. "Speaking," he said irritably.
The voice of Terry Bernard burst into the room. "Hey, Del! Are you
going to get rid of that hangover and answer your phone or should we
embalm the remains and ship 'em back?"
"Terry! You fool, what do you want? Why didn't you say it was you? I
thought maybe it was that elephant-foot Maynes, with chunks of mica
that he thought were prayer sticks."
"The Stroids didn't use prayer sticks."
"All right, skip it. What's new?"
"Plenty. Can you come over for a while? I think we've really got
something here."
"It'd better be good. We're taking the ship to Phyfe. Where are you?"
"Asteroid C-428. It's about 2,000 miles from you. And bring all the
hard-rock mining tools you've got. We can't get into this thing."
"Is _that_ all you want? Use your double coated drills."
"We wore five of them out. No scratches on the thing, even."
"Well, use the Atom Stream, then. It probably won't hurt the artifact."
"I'll say it won't. It won't even warm the thing up. Any other ideas?"
Underwood's mind, which had been half occupied with mulling over his
personal problems while he talked with Terry, swung startledly to what
the archeologist was saying. "You mean that you've found a material
the Atom Stream won't touch? That's impossible! The equations of the
Stream prove--"
"I know. _Now_ will you come over?"
"Why didn't you say so in the first place? I'll bring the whole ship."
* * * * *
Underwood cut off and switched to the Captain's line. "Captain Dawson?
Underwood. Will you please take the ship to the vicinity of Asteroid
C-428 as quickly as possible?"
"I thought Doctor Phyfe--"
"I'll answer for it. Please move the vessel."
Captain Dawson acceded. His instructions were to place the ship at
Underwood's disposal.
Soundlessly and invisibly, the distortion fields leaped into
space about the massive laboratory ship and the _Lavoisier_ moved
effortlessly through the void. Its perfect inertia controls left no
evidence of its motion apparent to the occupants with the exception of
the navigators and pilots. The hundreds of delicate pieces of equipment
in Underwood's laboratories remained as steadfast as if anchored to
tons of steel and concrete deep beneath the surface of Earth.
Twenty minutes later they hove in sight of the small, black asteroid
that glistened in the faint light of the faraway Sun. The spacesuited
figures of Terry Bernard and his assistant, Batch Fagin, clung to the
surface, moving about like flies on a blackened, frozen apple.
Underwood was already in the scooter lock, astride the little
spacescooter which they used for transportation between ships of the
expedition and between asteroids.
* * * * *
The pilot jockeyed the _Lavoisier_ as near as safely desirable, then
signaled Underwood. The physicist pressed the control that opened
the lock in the side of the vessel. The scooter shot out into space,
bearing him astride it.
"Ride 'em, cowboy!" Terry Bernard yelled into the intercom. He gave a
wild cowboy yell that pierced Underwood's ears. "Watch out that thing
doesn't turn turtle with you."
Underwood grinned to himself. He said, "Your attitude convinces me of a
long held theory that archeology is no science. Anyway, if your story
of a material impervious to the Atom Stream is wrong, you'd better get
a good alibi. Phyfe had some work he wanted to do aboard today."
"Come and see for yourself. This is it."
As the scooter approached closer to the asteroid, Underwood could
glimpse the strangeness of the thing. It looked as if it had been
coated with the usual asteroid material of nickel iron debris, but
Terry had cleared this away from more than half the surface.
The exposed half was a shining thing of ebony, whose planes and angles
were machined with mathematical exactness. It looked as if there were
at least a thousand individual facets on the one hemisphere alone.
At the sight of it, Underwood could almost understand the thrill of
discovery that impelled these archeologists to delve in the mysteries
of space for lost kingdoms and races. This object which Terry had
discovered was a magnificent artifact. He wondered how long it had
circled the Sun since the intelligence that formed it had died. He
wished now that Terry had not used the Atom Stream, for that had
probably destroyed the validity of the radium-lead relationship in the
coating of debris that might otherwise indicate something of the age of
the thing.
Terry sensed something of Underwood's awe in his silence as he
approached. "What do you think of it, Del?"
"It's--beautiful," said Underwood. "Have you any clue to what it is?"
"Not a thing. No marks of any kind on it."
The scooter slowed as Del Underwood guided it near the surface of the
asteroid. It touched gently and he unstrapped himself and stepped off.
"Phyfe will forgive all your sins for this," he said. "Before you show
me the Atom Stream is ineffective, let's break off a couple of tons of
the coating and put it in the ship. We may be able to date the thing
yet. Almost all these asteroids have a small amount of radioactivity
somewhere in them. We can chip some from the opposite side where the
Atom Stream would affect it least."
"Good idea," Terry agreed. "I should have thought of that, but when
I first found the single outcropping of machined metal, I figured it
was very small. After I found the Atom Stream wouldn't touch it, I was
overanxious to undercover it. I didn't realize I'd have to burn away
the whole surface of the asteroid."
"We may as well finish the job and get it completely uncovered. I'll
have some of my men from the ship come on over."
It took the better part of an hour to chip and drill away samples to be
used in a dating attempt. Then the intense fire of the Atom Stream was
turned upon the remainder of the asteroid to clear it.
"We'd better be on the lookout for a soft spot." Terry suggested. "It's
possible this thing isn't homogeneous, and Papa Phyfe would be very
mad if we burned it up after making such a find."
* * * * *
From behind his heavy shield which protected him from the stray
radiation formed by the Atom Stream, Delmar Underwood watched the
biting fire cut between the gemlike artifact and the metallic alloys
that coated it. The alloys cracked and fell away in large chunks,
propelled by the explosions of matter as the intense heat vaporized the
metal almost instantly.
The spell of the ancient and the unknown fell upon him and swept him up
in the old mysteries and the unknown tongues. Trained in the precise
methods of the physical sciences, he had long fought against the
fascination of the immense puzzles which the archeologists were trying
to solve, but no man could long escape. In the quiet, starlit blackness
there rang the ancient memories of a planet vibrant with life, a
planet of strange tongues and unknown songs--a planet that had died
so violently that space was yet strewn with its remains--so violently
that somewhere the echo of its death explosion must yet ring in the far
vaults of space.
Underwood had always thought of archeologists as befogged antiquarians
poking among ancient graves and rubbish heaps, but now he knew them
for what they were--poets in search of mysteries. The Bible-quoting of
Phyfe and the swearing of red-headed Terry Bernard were merely thin
disguises for their poetic romanticism.
Underwood watched the white fire of the Atom Stream through the lead
glass of the eye-protecting lenses. "I talked to Illia today," he said.
"She says I've run away."
"Haven't you?" Terry asked.
"I wouldn't call it that."
"It doesn't make much difference what you call it. I once lived in an
apartment underneath a French horn player who practised eight hours a
day. I ran away. If the whole mess back on Earth is like a bunch of
horn blowers tootling above your apartment, I say move, and why make
any fuss about it? I'd probably join the boys on Venus myself if my job
didn't keep me out here. Of course it's different with you. There's
Illia to be convinced--along with your own conscience."
"She quotes Dreyer. He's one of your ideals, isn't he?"
"No better semanticist ever lived," Terry said flatly. "He takes the
long view, which is that everything will come out in the wash. I agree
with him, so why worry--knowing that the variants will iron themselves
out, and nothing I can possibly do will be noticed or missed? Hence,
I seldom worry about my obligations to mankind, as long as I stay
reasonably law-abiding. Do likewise, Brother Del, and you'll live
longer, or at least more happily."
* * * * *
Underwood grinned in the blinding glare of the Atom Stream. He wished
life were as simple as Terry would have him believe. Maybe it would be,
he thought--if it weren't for Illia.
As he moved his shield slowly forward behind the crumbling debris,
Underwood's mind returned to the question of who created the structure
beneath their feet, and to what alien purpose. Its black, impenetrable
surfaces spoke of excellent mechanical skill, and a high science that
could create a material refractory to the Atom Stream. Who, a half
million years ago, could have created it?
The ancient pseudo-scientific Bode's Law had indicated a missing planet
which could easily have fitted into the Solar System in the vicinity
of the asteroid belt. But Bode's Law had never been accepted by
astronomers--until interstellar archeology discovered the artifacts of
a civilization on many of the asteroids.
The monumental task of exploration had been undertaken more than a
generation ago by the Smithson Institute. Though always handicapped by
shortage of funds, they had managed to keep at least one ship in the
field as a permanent expedition.
Dr. Phyfe, leader of the present group, was probably the greatest
student of asteroidal archeology in the System. The younger
archeologists labeled him benevolently Papa Phyfe, in spite of the
irascible temper which came, perhaps, from constantly switching his
mind from half a million years ago to the present.
In their use of semantic correlations, Underwood was discovering, the
archeologists were far ahead of the physical scientists, for they had
an immensely greater task in deducing the mental concepts of alien
races from a few scraps of machinery and art.
Of all the archeologists he had met, Underwood had taken the greatest
liking to Terry Bernard. An extremely competent semanticist and
archeologist, Terry nevertheless did not take himself too seriously. He
did not even mind Underwood's constant assertion that archeology was
no science. He maintained that it was fun, and that was all that was
necessary.
At last, the two groups approached each other from opposite sides of
the asteroid and joined forces in shearing off the last of the debris.
As they shut off the fearful Atom Streams, the scientists turned to
look back at the thing they had cleared.
* * * * *