"So there must be something that becomes visible only in a field of
radiation of about that wave length," said Underwood. "Keep going and
see if anything else turns up, or if this proves to be permanent after
exposure to that frequency."
Back in the laboratory, they sat down at the desk and went through
the file of hundreds of photographs that were now pouring out of the
darkroom.
"Not a thing except that one," said Terry. "It looks like a message
intended only for someone who knew what frequency would make it
visible."
* * * * *
Underwood shook his head. "That sounds a little too melodramatic for
me. Yet it is possible that this thing is some kind of repository, and
we've found the key to it. But what a key! It looks as if we've got to
decipher the language of the Stroids in order to use the key."
"The best men in the field have been trying to do that for only about
seventy-five years. If that's what it takes, we may as well quit right
now."
"You said that this was nothing like any other Stroid characters that
you had seen. Maybe this belongs to a different cultural stratum. It
might prove easier to crack. Who's the best man in the field on this
stuff?"
"Dreyer at the semantics lab. He won't touch it any more. He says he's
wasted fifteen years of his life on the Stroid inscriptions."
"I'll bet he will tackle this, if it's as new as you think it is. I've
seen some of those antiquarians before. We'll get Phyfe to transmit
some copies of this to him. Who's the next best man?"
"Probably Phyfe himself."
"It won't be hard to get him started on it, I'll bet."
It wasn't. The old scientist was ecstatic over the discovery of the
inscriptions upon the huge gem. He took copies of the pictures into his
study and spent two full days comparing them with the known records.
"It's an entirely new set of characters," he said after completing the
preliminary examination. "We already have three sets of characters that
seem to be in no way related. This is the fourth."
"You sent copies to Dreyer?"
"Only because you requested it. Dreyer admitted long ago that he was
licked."
* * * * *
During the week of Phyfe's study, the work of radiation analysis had
been completed. It proved completely negative with the single exception
of the 150 A. radiation which rendered visible the characters on the
gem. No secondary effects of any significance whatever had been noted.
The material reflected almost completely nearly every frequency imposed
upon it.
Thus, Underwood found himself again at the end of his resources. It
was impossible to analyze material that refused to react, which was
refractive to every force applied.
Underwood told Terry at the conclusion of a series of chemical tests,
"If you want to keep that thing out here any longer, I'm afraid
you've got to think of some more effective way of examining it than
I have been able to do. From a physical standpoint this artifact is
in about the same position as the language of the Stroids had been
semantically--completely intractable."
"I'm not afraid of its being sent back to the museum now. Papa Phyfe's
got his teeth into it and he won't let go until he cracks the key to
this lingo."
Underwood didn't believe that it would ever be solved, unless by
some lucky chance they came upon a sort of Rosetta Stone which would
bridge the gap between the human mind and that of the alien Stroids.
Even if the Stroids were somewhat anthropomorphic in makeup as the
archeologists believed, there was no indication that their minds would
not be so utterly alien that no bridge would even be possible.
Underwood felt seriously inclined to abandon the problem. While
completely fascinating, it was hardly more soluble than was the problem
of the composition of the stars in the days before the spectroscope
was invented. Neither the archeologists, the semanticists, nor the
physicists yet had the tools to crack the problem of the Stroids. Until
the tools became available, the problem would simply have to go by the
boards. The only exception was the remote possibility of a deliberate
clue left by the Stroids themselves, but Underwood did not believe in
miracles.
His final conviction came when word came back from Dreyer, who said,
"Congratulations, Phyfe," and returned the copies of the Stroid
characters with a short note.
"Well, that does it," said Underwood.
Phyfe was dismayed by Dreyer's reply. "The man's simply trying to
uphold a decaying reputation by claiming the problem can't be solved.
Send it to the museum and let them begin work on it. I'll give it my
entire time. You will help me, if you will, Doctor Bernard."
* * * * *
Terry himself was becoming somewhat dismayed by the magnitude of the
mystery they had uncovered. He knew Phyfe's bulldog tenacity when he
tackled something and he didn't want to be tied to semantics for the
rest of the term of the expedition.
Underwood, however, had become immersed in X-ray work, attempting
to determine the molecular structure of the artifact from a
crystallographic standpoint, to find out if it could be found it might
be possible to disrupt the pattern.
After he had been at it for about a week, Terry came into the lab in a
disgruntled mood at the completion of a work period.
"You look as if Papa gave you a spanking," said Underwood. "Why the
downcast mood?"
"I think I'll resign and go back to the museum. It's useless to work on
this puzzle any longer."
"How do you know?"
"Because it doesn't follow the laws of semantics with respect to
language."
"Maybe the laws need changing."
"You know better than that. Look, you are as familiar with Carnovan's
law as I am. It states that in any language there is bound to be a
certain constant frequency of semantic conceptions. It's like the
old frequency laws that used to be used in cryptographic analysis
except a thousand times more complex. Anyway, we've made thousands of
substitutions into Carnovan's frequency scale and nothing comes out.
Not a thing. No concept of ego, identity, perfection, retrogression, or
intercourse shows up. The only thing that registers in the slightest
degree is the concept of motion, but it doesn't yield a single key
word. It's almost as if it weren't even a language."
"Maybe it isn't."
"What else could it be?"
"Well, maybe this thing we've found is a monument of some kind and
the inscriptions are ritualistic tributes to dead heroes or something.
Maybe there's no trick at all about the radiation business. Maybe
they used that frequency for common illumination and the inscription
was arranged to show up just at night. The trouble with you strict
semanticists is that you don't use any imagination."
"Like to try a hand at a few sessions with Papa Phyfe?"
"No, thanks, but I do think there are other possibilities that you
are overlooking. I make no claim to being anything but a strictly ham
semanticist, but suppose, for example, that the inscriptions are not
language at all in the common sense."
"They must represent transfer of thought in some form."
"True, but look at the varied forms of thought. You are bound down to
the conception of language held as far back as Korzybski. At least to
the conception held by those who didn't fully understand Korzybski. You
haven't considered the concept of music. It's a very real possibility,
but one which would remain meaningless without the instrument. Consider
also--Wait a minute, Terry! We've all been a bunch of thoroughbred
dopes!"
"What is it?"
"Look at the geometrical and mechanical perfection of the artifact.
That implies mathematical knowledge of a high order. The inscriptions
could be mathematical measurements of some kind. That would explain the
breakdown of Carnovan's principles. They don't apply to math."
"But what kind of math would be inscribed on a thing like that?"
"Who knows? We can give it a try."
* * * * *
It was the beginning of their sleeping period, but Terry was fired with
Underwood's sudden enthusiasm. He brought in a complete copy of all the
inscriptions found upon the facets of the black gem. Underwood placed
them on a large table in continuous order as they appeared around the
circumference.
"It's mud to me," said Terry. "I'm the world's worst mathematician."
"Look!" exclaimed Underwood. "Here's the beginning of it." He suddenly
moved some of the sheets so that one previously in the middle formed
the beginning of the sequence. "What does it look like to you?"
"I've seen that until I dream of it. It's one Phyfe tried to make the
most of in his frequency determinations. It looks like nothing more
than some widgets alongside a triangle."
"That's exactly what it is, and no wonder Phyfe found it had a high
frequency. That is nothing more nor less than an explanation of the
Stroid concept of the differential. This widget over here must be the
sign of the derivative corresponding to our dy/dx."
Hastily, Underwood scrawled some symbols on a scratch pad, using
combinations of "x"s and "y"s and the strange, unknown symbols of the
Stroids.
"It checks. They're showing us how to differentiate! Not only that,
we have the key to their numerical system in the exponentials,
because they've given us the differentiation of a whole series of
power expressions here. Now, somewhere we ought to find an integral
expression which we could check back with differentiation. Here it is!"
* * * * *
Terry, left behind now, went to the galley and brewed a steaming pot of
coffee and brought it back. He found Underwood staring unseeingly ahead
of him into the dark, empty corners of the lab.
"What is it?" Terry exclaimed. "What have you found?"
"I'm not sure. Do you know what the end product of all this math is?"
"What?"
"A set of wave equations, but such wave equations as any physicist
would be thought crazy to dream up. Yet, in light of some new
manipulations introduced by the Stroids, they seem feasible."
"What can we do with them?"
"We can build a generator and see what kind of stuff comes out of
it when we operate it according to this math. The Stroids obviously
intended that someone find this and learn to produce the radiation
described. For what purpose we can only guess--but we might find out."
"Do we have enough equipment aboard to build such a generator?"
"I think so. We could cannibalize enough from equipment we already have
on hand. Let's try it."
Terry hesitated. "I'm not quite sure, but--well, this stuff comes about
as near as anything I ever saw to giving me what is commonly known as
the creeps. Somehow these Stroids seem too--too _anxious_. That sounds
crazy, I know, but there's such alienness here."
"Nuts. Let's build their generator and see what they're trying to tell
us."
_CHAPTER THREE_
Phyfe was exuberant. He not only gave permission to construct the
generator, he demanded that all work aboard the lab ship give priority
to the new project.
The design of the machine was no easy task, for Underwood was a
physicist and not an engineer. However, he had two men, Moody and
Hansen, in his staff who were first rate engineers. On them fell
the chief burden of design after Underwood worked out the rough
specifications.
One of the main laboratories with nearly ten thousand square feet of
floor space was cleared for the project. As the specifications flowed
from Underwood's desk, they passed over to Moody and Hansen, and from
there out to the lab where the mass of equipment was gathered from all
parts of the fleet.
An atomic power supply sufficient to give the large amount of energy
required by the generator was obtained by robbing the headquarters
ship of its auxiliary supply. Converter units were available in the
_Lavoisier_ itself, but the main radiator tubes had to be cannibalized
from the 150 A equipment aboard.
Slowly the mass of improvised equipment grew. It would have been a
difficult task on Earth with all facilities available for such a
project, but with these makeshift arrangements it was a miracle that
the generator continued to develop. A score of times Underwood had to
make compromises that he hoped would not alter the characteristics of
the wave which, two weeks before, he would have declared impossible to
generate.
When the equipment was completed and ready for a trial check, the huge
lab was a mass of hay-wiring into which no one but Moody and Hansen
dared go.
The completion was an anti-climax. The great project that had almost
halted all other field work was finished--and no one knew what to
expect when Hansen threw the switch that fed power from the converters
into the giant tubes.
As a matter of fact, nothing happened. Only the faint whine of the
converters and the swinging needles of meters strung all over the room
showed that the beam was in operation.
On the nose of the _Lavoisier_ was the great, ungainly radiator a
hundred feet in diameter, which was spraying the unknown depths of
space with the newly created power.
Underwood and Terry were outside the ship, behind the huge radiator,
with a mass of equipment designed to observe the effects of the beam.
In space it was totally invisible, creating no detectable field. It
seemed as inactive as a beam of ultraviolet piercing the starlit
darkness.
* * * * *
Underwood picked up the interphone that connected them with the
interior of the ship. "Swing around, please, Captain Dawson. Let the
beam rotate through a one hundred and eighty degree arc."
The Captain ordered the ship around and the great _Lavoisier_ swung
on its own axis--but not in the direction Underwood had had in mind.
He failed to indicate the direction, and Dawson had assumed it didn't
matter.
Ponderously, the great radiator swung about before Underwood could
shout a warning. And the beam came directly in line with the mysterious
gem of the universe which they had found in the heart of the asteroid.
At once, the heavens were filled with intolerable light. Terry and
Underwood flung themselves down upon the hull of the ship and the
physicist screamed into the phones for Dawson to swing the other way.
But his warnings were in vain, for those within the ship were blinded
by the great flare of light that penetrated even the protective ports
of the ship. Irresistibly, the _Lavoisier_ continued to swing, spraying
the great gem with its mysterious radiation.
Then it was past and the beam cut into space once more.
On top of the ship, Underwood and Terry found their sight slowly
returning. They had been saved the full blast of the light from the gem
by the curve of the ship's hull which cut it off.
Underwood stumbled to his feet, followed by Terry. The two men stood
in open-mouthed un-belief at the vision that met their eyes. Where the
gem had drifted in space, there was now a blistered, boiling mass of
amorphous matter that surged and steamed in the void. All semblance to
the glistening, faceted, ebon gem was gone as the repulsive mass heaved
within itself.
"It's destroyed!" Terry exclaimed hoarsely. "The greatest archeological
find of all time and we destroy it before we find out anything about
it--"
"Shut up!" Underwood commanded harshly. He tried to concentrate on the
happenings before him, but he could find no meaning in it. He bemoaned
the fact that he had no camera, and only prayed that someone inside
would have the wit to turn one on.
As the ship continued its slow swing like a senseless animal, the
pulsing of the amorphous mass that had been the jewel slowly ceased.
And out of the gray murkiness of it came a new quality. It began to
regain rigidity--and transparency!
* * * * *
Underwood gasped. At the boundary lines of the facets, heavy ribs
showed the tremendously reinforced structure that formed the skeleton.
And each cell between the ribs was filled with thick substance that
partially revealed the unknown world within.
But more than that, between one set of ribs he glimpsed what he was
sure was an emptiness, a doorway to the interior!
"Come on," he called to Terry. "Look at that opening!"
They leaped astride the scooters clamped to the surface of the lab
ship and sped into space between the two objects. It required only an
instant to confirm his first hasty glimpse.
They navigated the scooters close to the opening and clamped them to
the surface. For a moment, Underwood thought the gem might be some
strange ship from far out of the Universe, for it seemed filled with
mechanism of undescribable characteristics and unknown purposes. It was
so filled that it was impossible to see very far into the interior even
with the help of the powerful lamps on the scooters.
"The beam was the key to get into the thing," said Terry. "It was
intended all along that the beam be turned on it. The beam had to be
connected with the gem in some way."
"And what a way!"
The triangular opening was large enough to admit a man. Underwood and
Terry knelt at the edge of it, peering down, flashing their lights
about the revealed interior. The opening seemed to drop into the center
of a small room that was bare.
"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," quoted Terry. "I
don't see anything down there, do you?"
"No. Why the spider recitation?"
"I don't know. Everything is too pat. I feel as if someone is watching
behind us, practically breathing down our necks and urging us on the
way he wants us to go. And when we get there we aren't going to like
it."
"I suppose that is strictly a scientific hunch which we ignorant
physicists wouldn't understand."
But Terry was serious. The whole aspect of the Stroid device was
unnerving in the way it led along from step to step, as if unseen
powers were guiding them, rather than using their own initiative in
their work.
Underwood gave a final grunt and dropped into the hole, flashing his
light rapidly about. Terry followed immediately. They found themselves
in the center of a circular room twenty feet in diameter. The walls
and the floor seemed to be of the same ebony-black material that had
composed the outer shell of the gem before its transmutation.
* * * * *
The walls were literally covered from the floor to the ten-foot
ceiling with inscriptions that glowed faintly in the darkness when the
flashlights were not turned on them.
"Recognize any of this stuff?" asked Underwood.
"Stroid III," said Terry in awe. "The most beautiful collection
of engravings that have ever been found. We've never obtained a
consecutive piece even a fraction this size before. Dreyer has got to
come now."
"I've got a hunch about this," said Underwood slowly. "I don't know a
thing about the procedures used in deciphering an unknown lingo, but
I'll bet you find that this is an instruction primer to their language,
just as the inscriptions outside gave the key to their math before
detailing the wave equations."
"You might be right!" Terry's eyes glowed with enthusiasm as he looked
about the polished walls with the faintly glowing characters inlaid in
them. "If that's the case, Papa Phyfe and I ought to be able to do the
job without Dreyer."
They returned to the ship for photographic equipment and to report
their finding to Phyfe. It was a little difficult for him to adjust to
the view that something had been gained in the transformation of the
gem. The sight of that boiling, amorphous mass in space had been to him
like helplessly standing on the bank of a stream and watching a loved
one drown.
But with Terry's report on the characters in Stroid III which lined the
walls of the antechamber which they had penetrated, he was ready to
admit that their position had improved.
Underwood was merely a by-stander as they returned to the gem. Two
photographers, Carson and Enright, accompanied them along with Nichols,
assistant semanticist.
Underwood stood by, in the depths of speculation, as the photographers
set up their equipment and Phyfe bent down to examine the characters at
close range.
Terry continued to be dogged by the feeling that they were being led
by the nose into something that would end unpleasantly. He didn't know
why, except that the fact of immense and meticulous preparation was
evidenced on all sides. It was the reason for that preparation which
made him wonder.
* * * * *
Phyfe said to Underwood, "Doctor Bernard tells me your opinion is that
this room is a key to Stroid III. You may be right, but I fail to find
any indication of it at present. What gives you that idea?"
"The whole setup," said Underwood. "First, there was the impenetrable
shell. Nothing like it exists in Solarian culture today. Then there
was the means by which we were able to read the inscriptions on the
outside. Obviously, if heat and fission reactions as well as chemical
reactions could not touch the stuff, the only remaining means of
analysis was radiative. And the only peoples who could discover the
inscriptions were those capable of building a generator of 150 A.
radiations. We have there two highly technical requirements of anyone
attempting to solve the secret of this cache--ability to generate the
proper radiation, and the ability to understand their mathematics and
build a second generator from their wave equations.
"Now that we're in here, there is nothing more we can do until we can
understand their printed language. Obviously, they must teach it to us.
This would be the place."
"You may be right," said Phyfe, "But we archeologists work with facts,
not guesses. We'll know soon enough if it's true."
* * * * *
Underwood felt content to speculate while the others worked. There was
nothing else for him to do. No way out of the anteroom was apparent,
but he was confident that a way to the interior would be found when the
inscriptions were deciphered.
He went out to the surface and walked slowly about, peering into the
transparent depths with his light. What lay within this repository
left by an ancient race that had obviously equaled or surpassed man
in scientific attainments? Would it be some vast store of knowledge
that would come to bless mankind with greater abundance? Or would it,
rather, be a new Pandora's box, which would pour out upon the world new
ills to add to its already staggering burden?
The world had about all it could stand now, Underwood reflected. For a
century, Earth's scientific production had boomed. Her factories had
roared with the throb of incessant production, and the utopia of all
the planners of history was gradually coming to pass. Man's capacities
for production had steadily increased for five hundred years, and
at last the capacities for consumption were rising equally, with
correspondingly less time spent in production and greater time spent in
consumption.
But the utopia wasn't coming off just as the Utopians had dreamed of
it. The ever present curse of enforced leisure was not respecting the
new age any more than it had past ages. Men were literally being driven
crazy with their super-abundance of luxury.
Only a year before, the so-called Howling Craze had swept cities
and nations. It was a wave of hysteria that broke out in epidemic
proportions. Thousands of people within a city would be stricken at
a time by insensate weeping and despair. One member of a household
would be afflicted and quickly it would spread from that man to the
family, and from that family it would race the length and breadth of
the streets, up and down the city, until one vast cry as of a stricken
animal would assault the heavens.
Underwood had seen only one instance of the Howling Craze and he had
fled from it as if pursued. It was impossible to describe its effects
upon the nervous system--a whole city in the throes of hysteria.
Life was cheap, as were the other luxuries of Earth. Murders by the
thousands each month were scarcely noticed, and the possession of
weapons for protection had become a mark of the new age, for no man
knew when his neighbor might turn upon him.
Governments rose and fell swiftly and became little more than
figureheads to carry out the demands of peoples cloyed with the
excesses of life. Most significant of all, however, was the inability
of any leader to hold any following for more than a short time.
Of all the inhabitants of Earth, there were but a few hundred thousand
scientists who were able to keep themselves on even keel, and most of
these were now fleeing.
As he thought of these things, Underwood pondered what the opening of
the repository of a people who sealed up their secrets half a million
years ago would mean to mankind. This must be what Terry felt, he
thought.
For perhaps three hours he remained on the outside of the shell,
letting his mind idle under the brilliance of the stars. Suddenly, the
phones in his helmet came alive with sound. It was the voice of Terry
Bernard.
"We've got it, Del," he said quietly. "We can read this stuff like
nursery rhymes. Come on down. It tells us how to get into the thing."
Underwood did not hurry. He rose slowly from his sitting position and
stared upward at the stars, the same stars that had looked down upon
the beings who had sealed up the repository. This is it, he thought.
Man can never go back again.
* * * * *
He lowered himself into the opening.
Doctor Phyfe was strangely quiet in spite of their quick success in
deciphering the language of the Stroids. Underwood wondered what was
going through the old man's mind. Did he, too, sense the magnitude of
this moment?
Phyfe said, "They were semanticists as well. They knew Carnovan's
frequency. It's right here, the key they used to reveal their language.
No one less advanced in semantics than our own civilization could have
deciphered it, but with a knowledge of Carnovan's frequency, it is
simple."
"Practically hand-picked us for the job," said Terry.
Phyfe's sharp eyes turned upon him suddenly behind the double
protection of his spectacles and the transparent helmet of the
spacesuit.
"Perhaps," said Phyfe. "Perhaps we are. At any rate, there are certain
manipulations to be performed which will open this chamber and provide
passage to the interior."
* * * * *
"Where's the door?" said Underwood.
Following the notes he had made, Terry moved about the room, directing
Underwood's attention to features of the design. Delicately carved,
movable levers formed an intricate combination that suddenly released
a section of the floor in the exact center of the room. It depressed
slowly, then revolved out of the way.
For a moment no one spoke while Phyfe moved to the opening and peered
down. A stairway of the same glistening material as the walls about
them led downward into the depths of the repository.
Phyfe stepped down and almost stumbled into the opening. "Watch for
those steps," he warned. "They're larger than necessary for human
beings."
_Giants in those days_ came to Underwood's mind. He tried to vision the
creatures who had walked upon this stairway and touched the hand rail
that was shoulder high for him.
The repository was divided into levels and the stairway ended abruptly
as they came to the level below the anteroom. The chamber in which
they found themselves was crowded with artifacts of strange shapes and
varying sizes. Not a thing of familiar cast greeted them. But opposite
the bottom of the stairway was a pedestal and upon it rested a booklike
object that proved to be hinged metallic sheets, covered with Stroid
III inscriptions, when Terry climbed up to examine it. He was unable
to move it, but the metal pages were locked with a simple clasp that
responded to his touch.
"It looks as if we've got to read our way along," said Terry. "I
suppose this will tell us how to get into the next room."
Underwood and the other expedition members moved cautiously about,
examining the contents of the room. The two photographers began to make
an orderly pictorial record of everything within the chamber.
Standing alone in one corner, Underwood peered at an object that
appeared to be nothing but a series of opaque, polychrome globes
tangent to each other and mounted on a pedestal.
Whether it were some kind of machine or monument, he could not tell.
"You feel it, too," said a sudden quiet voice behind him. Underwood
whirled about in surprise. Phyfe was there behind him, his slight
figure a shapeless shadow in the spacesuit.
"Feel what?"
"I've watched you, Doctor Underwood. You are a physicist and in
far closer touch with the real world than I. You have seen me--I
cannot even manage an expedition with efficiency--my mind lives
constantly in the past, and I cannot comprehend the significance of
contemporary things. Tell me what it will mean, this intrusion
of an alien science into our own."
A sudden, new, and humbling respect filled Underwood. He had never
dreamed that the little archeologist had such a penetrating view of
himself in his relation to his environment.
"I wish I could answer that question," said Underwood, shaking his
head. "I can't. Perhaps if we knew, we'd destroy the thing--or it might
be that we'd shout our discovery to the Universe. But we can't know,
and we wouldn't dare be the judges if we could. Whatever it is, the
ancient Stroids seem to have deliberately attempted to provide for the
survival of their culture." He hesitated. "That, of course is my guess."
In the darkened corner of the chamber, Phyfe nodded slowly. "You are
right, of course. It is the only answer. We dare not try to be the
judges."
* * * * *
Underwood saw that he would get nowhere in his understanding of
the Stroid science by merely depending on the translations given him
by Terry and Phyfe. He'd have to learn to read the Stroid inscriptions
himself. He buttonholed Nichols and got the semanticist to show him the
rudiments of the language. It was amazingly simple in principle and
constructed along semantic lines.
The going became rapidly heavier, however, and it took them the
equivalent of five days to get through the fairly elementary material
disclosed in the first level below the antechamber.
The book of metal pages did little to satisfy their curiosity
concerning either the ancient planet or its culture. It instructed them
further in understanding the language, and addressed them as Unknown
friends--the nearest human translation.
As was already apparent, the repository had been prepared to save the
highest products of the ancient Stroid culture from the destruction
that came upon the world. But the records did not even hint as to the
nature of that destruction and they said nothing about the objects in
the room.
The scientists were a bit disappointed by the little revealed to them
so far, but, as expected, there were instructions to enter the next
lower level. There, an entirely different situation confronted them.
The chamber into which they came after winding down a long, spiral
stairway, narrow, yet with the same high steps as before, was spherical
in shape and seemed to be concentric with the outer shell of the
repository. It contained a single object.
The object was a cube in the center of the chamber, about two feet on
a side. From the corners of the cube, long supports of complicated
spring structure led to the inner surface of the spherical chamber.
It appeared to be a highly effective shock mounting for whatever was
contained within the cube.
* * * * *
The sight before the men was impressive in simplicity, yet was
anticlimactic, for there was nothing here of the great wonders that
they had expected. There was only the suspended cube--and a book.
Quickly, Phyfe advanced along the narrow catwalk that led from the
opening to the cube. The book lay on a shelf fastened to the side of
the cube. Phyfe opened it to the first sheet and read haltingly and
laboriously:
"Greetings, Unknown Friends, Greetings to you from the Great One. By
the token that you are now reading this, you have proven yourselves
mentally capable of understanding the new world of knowledge and
discovery that may be yours.
"I am Demarzule, the Great One the greatest of great Sirenia--and the
last. And within the storehouse of my mind is the vast knowledge that
made Sirenia the greatest world in all the Universe.
"Great as it was, however, destruction came to the world of Sirenia.
But her knowledge and her wonders shall never pass. In ages after, new
worlds will rise and beings will inhabit them, and they will come to a
minimum plane of knowledge that will assure their appreciation of the
wonders that may be theirs from the world of Sirenia.
"You have minimum technical knowledge, else you could not have created
the radiation necessary to render the storehouse penetrable. You have a
minimum semantic knowledge, else you could not have understood my words
that have brought you this far.
"You are fit and capable to behold the Great One of Sirenia!"
As Phyfe turned over the first metal sheet, the men looked at each
other. It was Nichols, the semanticist, who said, "There are only two
possibilities in a mind that would write a statement of that kind.
Either it belonged to a truly superior being, or to a maniac. So far,
in man's history, there has not been encountered such a superior being.
If he existed, it would have been wonderful to have known him."
Phyfe paused and peered with difficulty through the helmet of the
spacesuit. He continued, "I live. I am eternal. I am in your midst,
Unknown Friends, and to your hands falls the task of bringing speech to
my voice, and sight to my eyes, and feeling to my hands. Then, when you
have fulfilled your mighty task, you shall behold me and the greatness
of the Great One of Sirenia."
Enright, the photographer said, "What the devil does that mean? The guy
must have been nuts. He sounds like he expected to come back to life."
The feeling within Underwood was more than bearable. It was composed
of surging anticipation and quiet fearfulness, and they mingled in a
raging torrent.
The men made no sound as Phyfe read on, "I shall live again. The Great
One shall return, and you who are my Unknown Friends shall assist me to
return to life. Then and only then shall you know the great secrets of
the world of Sirenia which are a thousand times greater than your own.
Only then shall you become mighty, with the secrets of Sirenia locked
in my brain. By the powers I shall reveal, you shall become mighty
until there are none greater in all the Universe."
* * * * *
Phyfe turned the page. Abruptly he stopped. He turned to Underwood.
"The rest of it is yours," he said.
"What--?"
Underwood glanced at the page of inscription. With difficulty he took
up the reading silently. The substance of the writings had changed and
here was a sudden wilderness of an alien science.
Slowly he plodded through the first concepts, then skimmed as it became
evident that here was material for days of study. But out of his hasty
scanning there came a vision of a great dream, a dream of conquest of
the eons, the preservation of life while worlds waned and died and
flared anew.
It told of an unknown radiation turned upon living cells, reducing them
to primeval protoplasm, arresting all but the _symbol_ of metabolism.
And it spoke of other radiation and complex chemical treatment, a
fantastic process that could restore again the life that had been only
_symbolized_ by the dormant protoplasm.
Underwood looked up. His eyes went from the featureless cube to the
faces of his companions.
"It's alive!" he breathed. "Five hundred million years--and it's alive!
These are instructions by which it may be restored!"
None of the others spoke, but Underwood's eyes were as if a sudden,
great commission had been placed upon him. Out of the turmoil of his
thoughts a single purpose emerged, clear and irrevocable.
Within that cube lay dormant matter that could be formed into a
brain--an alien but mighty brain. Suddenly, Underwood felt an
irrational kinship with the ancient creature who had so conquered time,
and in his own mind he silently vowed that if it lay within his power,
that creature would live again, and speak its ancient secrets.
_CHAPTER FOUR_
"Del!" The shock of surprise and the flush of pleasure heightened the
beauty of Illia's delicate features. She stood in the doorway, the
aureole of her pale golden hair backlighted by the illumination from
within the room.
"Surprised?" said Underwood. He always found it difficult to speak for
a moment after the first sight of Illia. No one would guess a beauty
like her to be the top surgeon of Medical Center.
"Why didn't you let me know you were coming? It's not fair--"
"--not to give you time to build up your defenses?"
She nodded silently as he took her into his arms. But quickly she broke
away and led him to the seat by the broad windows overlooking the night
lights of the city below.
"Have you come back?" she said.
"Back? You put such a confusing amount of meaning into ordinary words,
Illia."
She smiled and sat down beside him, and swiftly changed the subject.
"Tell me about the expedition. Archeology has always seemed the most
futile of all sciences, but I've supposed that was because I could find
nothing in common between it and my medical science, nothing in common
with the future. I've wondered what a physicist could find in it."
"I think you'll find something in common with our latest discovery. We
have a living though dormant creature on an equal or superior plane of
intelligence with us. Its age is around half a million years. You will
be interested in the medical aspects of that, I am sure."
* * * * *
For a moment Illia sat as if she hadn't heard him. Then she said, "That
could be a discovery to change a world, if you're sure of what you've
found."
Underwood felt irritation more because he had been trying to fight down
the same idea himself than because she had spoken it. "Your semantic
extensions would turn Phyfe's whiskers white. We haven't found any such
world-shaking discovery. We've found a creature out of another age and
another culture, but it's not going to disrupt or change our society."
"If it's a scientifically superior culture, how do you know what it
will do?"
"We don't, but to apply so many extensions only confuses our
interpretation more. I mention it because we are going to need a
biological advisor. I thought you might like to be it."
Her eyes were staring far out across the halo of the city's lights. She
said, "Del, is it human?"
"Human? What's human? Is intelligence human? Can any other factor of
our existence be defined as human? If you can tell me that, perhaps I
can answer. So far, we only know that it is a sentient creature of high
scientific culture."
"Then that alone makes its relationship with us a sympathetic one?"
"Why, I suppose so. I see no reason why not."
"Yes. Yes, I agree with you! And don't you see? It can be a germ
of rejuvenation, a nucleus to gather the scattered impulses of our
culture and unify them in an absorption of this new science. Look
what biological knowledge the mere evidence of suspended animation
indicates."
"All right." Underwood laughed faintly in resignation. "There's no use
trying to avoid such a discussion with you, is there, Illia? You'd take
the first flower of spring and project a whole summer's glory from it,
wouldn't you?"
"But am I wrong in this? The people of Earth need _something_ to cement
them together in this period of disillusionment. This could be it."
"I know," said Underwood. "We talked it over out there before we
decided to go ahead with the restoration. We talked and argued for
hours. Some of the men wanted to destroy the thing immediately because
it is impossible to forecast the effect of this discovery from a
strictly semantic standpoint. We have no data.
"Terry Bernard definitely fought for its destruction. Phyfe is afraid
of the possible consequences, but he maintains that we haven't the
right to destroy it because it is too great a heritage. I maintain
that from a purely scientific standpoint we have no right to consider
anything but restoration, regardless of consequences.
"And there is something more--the personal element. A creature whose
imagination and daring were great enough to preserve his ego through an
age of five hundred thousand years deserves something more than summary
execution. He deserves the right to be known and heard. Actually, it
seems ridiculous to fear anything that can come of this. Well, Phyfe
and Terry are expert semanticists, and they're afraid--"
"Oh, they're wrong, Del! They _must_ be wrong. If they have no data,
if they have only a hunch, a prejudice, it's ridiculous for them as
scientists to be swayed by such feelings."
"I don't know. I wash my hands of all such aspects of the problem.
I only know that I'm going to see that a guy who's got the brains
and guts this one must have had has his chance to be heard. So far,
I'm on the winning side. Tomorrow I'm going to see Boarder and the
Director's Committee with Phyfe. If you're interested in taking the job
I mentioned, come along."
* * * * *
The enthusiasm of the directors was even greater than that of Illia,
if possible. None of them seemed to share the fears of some of the
expedition members. And, somehow, in the warm familiarity of the
committee room, those fears seemed fantastically groundless. Boarder,
the elder member of the committee of directors, could not hold back
his tears as he finished the report and Underwood had given verbal
amplification.
"What a wonderful thing that this should have happened in our
lifetime," he said. "Do you think it is feasible? The thing seems
so--so fantastic, the restoration of a living creature of half a
million years ago."
"I'm sure I don't know the answer to that," said Underwood. "No one
does. The construction of the equipment described by the Stroid,
though, is completely within range of our technical knowledge. I'm
certain that we can set it up exactly according to specifications. It
is possible that too much time has passed and the protoplasm has died.
It is possible that Demarzule thought in terms of hundreds of years,
or, at the most, a few thousand, before he would be found. There is
no way to know except to construct the equipment and carry out the
experiment, which I will do if the Directors wish to authorize the
expenditure."
"There is no question of that!" said Boarder. "We'd mortgage the entire
Institution if necessary! I'm wondering what laboratory space we can
use. Why not put it in the new Carlson Museum building? The specimens
for the Carlson can stay in the warehouse for a while longer."
Boarder looked about the circle of Directors facing him. He saw nods
and called for a vote. His proposal was upheld.
With approval given, Phyfe returned to the expedition to supervise
the transfer of the repository of Demarzule to Earth, while Underwood
began infinitely detailed planning for the construction and setup of
equipment as specified by the instructions he had brought from the
Stroid repository.
The great semanticist, Dreyer, was asked to help in a consulting
capacity for the whole project; specifically, to assist in
retranslation of the records to make absolutely certain of their
interpretation of the scientific instructions.
Dreyer was a short, squat man who had never been caught without a thick
black cigar from which billowed endless columns of pale blue smoke. His
face was round and baby-calm. He gave the impression of having achieved
the impossible goal of complete serenity in a world that swirled with
unceasing turmoil.
* * * * *
He listened quietly when approached, and when Phyfe and Underwood had
finished their stories, he said, "Yes, I shall be glad to help. This is
a thing of great importance."
But Underwood was forced to shed his mind of sociological and semantic
implications of the job they were doing. The technical work involved
was of tremendous complexity and magnitude. A mountainous quantity of
complicated equipment had to be designed and built, but as Underwood
deciphered the instructions of the Stroids and had it verified by
Dreyer, he could find no short cuts, nor did he dare attempt any.
The Carlson Museum had been designed along the lines of an ancient
Greek temple and was set prominently on a low hill apart from other
groups of buildings of the Smithson. Its glistening marble columns
made a landmark for miles. It was rather symbolical in a way, Underwood
thought, that such an imposing edifice should be appointed for the
resurrection of the ancient Great One.
The central hall of the museum was cleared of display cases which had
already been set up. Electronic and biological equipment began to flow
in as Underwood sent strange fabrication orders to scattered shops and
plants throughout the country.
* * * * *
When it was announced that the Carlson would not open on the date
previously set, the worldwide news associations were interested and
Underwood was suddenly besieged by reporters. He briefly outlined their
discovery. It would make some good science supplement yarns, Underwood
supposed, and by the time the reporters got through with the stories
they would have a whole race of monsters out of space being restored in
the Carlson.
Underwood told them as much.
But Davis of the Science Press shook his head. "No, that's not the
angle. Archeology always makes good stories, but this is the first
time archeology has ever produced any live specimens. We'll build the
creature up big from the sympathetic angle. What did you say the
inscriptions called him? The Great One?"
Underwood nodded.
"That's it! The mysterious, all knowing brain that has lain dormant in
the void for ages, waiting for the touch of a merciful hand to restore
life to that mighty intellect and receive in payment the magnificent
store of knowledge locked within it. That's the angle we'll use."
Underwood mentally gagged and returned to his work.
Slowly the equipment took shape within the large hall. The center
of construction was the ceramic bath which would hold the mass
of protoplasm in its nutrient solution and keep it in controlled
temperatures and pressures. The complex observation panel was being
assembled beside it. From this point every physiological function
of the developing mass could be observed as it progressed. Scores
of meters would give electronic readings which could be interpreted
in terms of developing functions. It was almost like watching the
development and growth of a foetus, for that appeared almost to be the
course of growth that was to be expected.
Automatic valves would control the injection into the bath of nutrient
materials with an accuracy of a thousandth of a milligram. A dozen
operators would be trained, were now being selected, for the precise
task of watching the bath during every second of the growth of the
organism.
The upper half of the walls of the bath was transparent, as was the
cover. Inside, under the cover, the broad reflecting cone of the
radiator would spray the long dormant protoplasm with life-giving
radiation. Giant generators required to provide this radiation filled
other parts of the hall.
* * * * *
It was five months after the actual discovery of the repository that
the restoration equipment was completed and tested and ready for use.
Public interest in the project had been aroused by the sensational news
reports, and a constant stream of people passed the Carlson to glimpse
the activities going on inside.
The news stories built up the Stroid as the magnificent benefactor of
mankind, as Davis had promised. They presented a sympathetic aspect
of a creature imprisoned and doomed throughout the ages, and now
being released from bondage and ready to pour out blessings upon his
benefactors.
Underwood didn't pay much attention to the news stories, but the
increasing swarms of people began to get in his way and hampered
operations. He was forced to ask the directors to fence off a large
area about the Carlson.
During this time the _Lavoisier_ had been slowly swinging in an orbit
about the Earth to keep the repository, taken bodily into its hold, at
the temperature of space, until time for the transfer of the protoplasm
to the nutrient bath.
Now, with everything completed at the Museum, Underwood and Phyfe
returned to the repository to direct the removal of the container
of protoplasm, leaving Terry Bernard in charge at the museum. The
operators and technicians were ready to take over their duties.
Removal of the protoplasm to Earth was a critical operation. The bath
at the Carlson had been brought down to absolute zero and would be
brought up a few degrees at a time.
Boarder and the other directors of the Institution did not share
Underwood's reluctance for publicity. They were accustomed to the ways
of the publicity writers, for much of the income of the Institute
depended upon such publicity which drew substantial contributions.
So it was that the arrival of the _Lavoisier_ was widely announced. A
crowd of ten thousand gathered to watch the removal of the protoplasm
that had once been a great and alien being.
Underwood stood in the control room watching the landing area beside
the Carlson as the ship settled deep into Earth's atmosphere. Gradually
he made out the identity of the black smear covering the landscape
about the white stone building that gleamed like a Grecian temple.
* * * * *
Terry, beside him, exclaimed, "Look at that mob! The whole town must be
out to welcome our guest."
"If they don't get out of the landing area, they'll be smeared over the
landscape. Collins, contact the base and get that field cleared!"
The communications officer put the call in. The laboratory ship circled
idly while the mob moved slowly back to permit the ship to touch down
beside the building.
Underwood raced out of the ship and into the building. His technicians
were standing by. Each one in turn reported his position operating
properly. Then Underwood called back to the ship and ordered the
portable lock released.
At once the massive cargo hold was thrown open and the thick-walled
lock, bearing the container of protoplasm, was wheeled out.
The crowd caught sight of it as it rolled swiftly into the building.
Someone in the far ranks sent up a cry. "Hail the Great One! Welcome
to Earth!"
The shout was taken up by hundreds, then thousands of throats until
a sea of sound washed against the ears of those within the building.
Underwood paused and turned to look out as the sound caught him. A
faint chill went through him.
"The fools," he said angrily to Terry. "They'll drive themselves into
hysteria if they keep that up. Why didn't the directors keep this whole
business quiet? They ought to have known how it would affect a mob of
bystanders."
From a distance, Illia and Dreyer watched silently. Underwood hurried
away to give attention to the cargo. The lock was wheeled close to
the bath and a passage was opened as the two containers were brought
adjacent. On sterile slides, the frozen protoplasmic mass slid forward
and came to rest at last within the machine for which it had waited
half a million years.
There was utter lack of response to that final placement of the mass.
Yet those who watched knew that the great experiment had begun. In six
months, they would find out if they were successful.
Underwood sent the carriage back to the ship, and the _Lavoisier_
moved to the Institute's spaceport. Then Boarder entered with a score
of photographers and newsmen in his wake. They took pictures of the
equipment and technicians, and of the protoplasm lying inert within the
bath, in which the nutrient liquids would be placed after a temperature
of a hundred degrees had been reached.
Underwood did not have time to pay any attention to the newsmen. He
tried to be everywhere at once, inspecting meters and gauges, assuring
himself that all was functioning well. Every piece of equipment was
triply installed for safety in case of breakdown. The instructions
warned that, once started, the process of restoration must not be
interrupted or death to the Great One would result.
When he had finished his inspection, Underwood felt suddenly exhausted.
He turned away to avoid the newsmen whom Boarder was now lecturing on
the subject of the strange repository in space and its even stranger
inhabitant.
Underwood spied the aged figure standing almost unseen near the recess
between two panels. It was Phyfe and he spoke slowly as Underwood
approached.
"It is begun," the old archeologist said slowly. "And it can never be
undone."
Underwood felt again that chill of apprehension and looked sharply at
Phyfe, but the latter was staring straight ahead--straight at the inert
block of protoplasm.
_CHAPTER FIVE_
Phyfe asked to be relieved of his duties as head of the expedition
still in the field in order that he might devote his entire time to
a study of Stroid records and manuscripts now in existence. Terry
Bernard gave up field work to assist him in order to be near the site
of restoration. With them was Dreyer, who attacked with feverish effort
the translation of the language that had defied him so long.
Underwood was concerned with the resurrection itself. He sensed that
the very secret of life was involved in the work he was doing. The
instruction book left by the Stroid was in the nature of an operating
manual, however, rather than a theoretical text, and now that the
experiment was actually under way, Underwood abandoned everything in an
attempt to study fully the processes that were taking place.
So occupied were they with their own studies that the scientists
scarcely noticed the public reaction to the creature they were
attempting to restore.
The first outward sign had been that wild cry of welcome the day the
protoplasm was brought to Earth.
The next was the Sunday sermon preached by one of the multitude of
obscure religious leaders in a poorly attended meeting in a luxurious
church in that same city.
William B. Hennessey had been a publicity man in his early years
before the full breakdown began to show, and he was conscious of good
publicity values. But perhaps he half believed what he wrote and the
mere preaching of it convinced him it was so. It is probable that there
were other preachers who took the same theme that Sunday morning, but
William B. Hennessey's was the one that got the news publicity.
He said, "How many of this congregation this morning are among those
who have given up in the race of life, who have despaired of values
and standards to cling to, who have forsaken the leadership of all who
would lead you? Perhaps you are among the millions of those who have
given up all hope of solving the great problems of life. If you are,
I want to ask if you were among those who witnessed the miraculous
arrival of the Gift out of the Ages. Were you among those who saw the
Great One?"
William B. Hennessey paused. "For centuries we have looked for
leadership in our own midst and not found it. They were, after all,
merely human. But now, into the hands of our noble scientists, has been
imparted the great task of awakening the sleeping Great One, and when
they have completed their work, the Golden Age of Earth will be upon us.
"I call upon you to throw off the shackles of despair. Come out of the
prison of your disillusionment. Make ready to greet the Great One on
the day of his rising. Let your hearts and minds be ready to receive
the message that he shall give, and to obey the words of counsel you
shall surely be given, for truly from a greater world and a brighter
land than ours has come the Great One to preserve us!"
* * * * *
Within an hour Hennessey's words were flashed around the world.
Terry was the only one of the scientists on the project who heard about
it. He went over to the museum in the afternoon and found Underwood and
Dreyer at the test board.
"Some crackpot preacher this morning gave out a sermon on Oscar here."
He jerked a thumb toward the bath. "He says we've got the solution to
all the world's ills. He's calling on the people to worship Oscar."
"You might know some fool thing like that would happen."
Dreyer emitted a single, explosive puff of cigar smoke. "A religious
cult based upon this alien intelligence. We should have predicted that
development. I wonder why our computations failed to indicate it."
"I think it's dangerous," said Terry. "It could turn into serious
business."
"What do you mean? I don't get it," said Underwood.
"Don't you see the implications? The whole trouble with our culture
is disillusionment, lack of leadership. If this thing turns out to be
sentient, intelligent--even superior--why, it could become anything the
people wanted to make it, president, dictator, god, or what not."
"Oh, take it easy," Underwood said. "This is just one little tin-horn
preacher who probably didn't have more than a hundred in his
congregation. The news broadcasts must have treated it as a humorous
commentary on our experiments. Just the same, we should never have
allowed the news to be broadcast. It all started with that hysterical
mob the day we brought the protoplasm here."
Dreyer shook his head amid the smoke aura. "No. It began long ago when
the first cave man plastered up his clay gods and found them cracked
in the Sun and washed away with the rains. It began when the first cave
chieftain was slain by a rival leader and his disillusioned followers
looked about for a new head man. It has been going on ever since."
* * * * *
"It's no concern of ours," said Underwood.
Dreyer went on slowly, "As one by one the gods and chieftains fell, men
cast about for new leaders who would bear the burdens of mankind and
show the way to that illusive paradise that all men sought. Through the
ages there have always been those who would let themselves be lifted up
and called great, who would undertake to lead. Some had their eyes on
faraway starry places that man could never reach and their disciples
fell away, heartbroken and discouraged. Others sought their goal by
mastery over foreign men and nations and bathed their followers in
blood and disaster. But always their star fell and men never found the
elusive goal which they could not name nor define."
"And so the Age of Disillusion," said Underwood bitterly.
"But disillusion is a healthy thing. It leads to reality."
"How can you call this healthy?" Underwood demanded. "Men believe in
nothing. They have lost faith in life itself."
"Faith in life? I wonder what that means," said Dreyer, musingly.
"Watch your extensions, Dr. Underwood."
Underwood flushed, recalling Illia's remark that Dreyer would tear off
every other word and throw it back at him. "All right, then. There are
no governments, no leaders, no religions to lean upon in times of need,
because men have no confidence in such sources."
"All of which is a sign that they are approaching a stage in which they
will no longer need such support. And, like a baby in his first steps,
they stumble and fall. They get bruised and cry, as I detect that many
of our scientists have done, else they would not have run away to Venus
and other places."
Underwood blinked from the sting of Dreyer's rebuke. "That's the second
time I've been accused of running away," he said.
"No offense," Dreyer said. "I am merely stating facts. That you do
not believe them is not to your condemnation, only a commentary on
the state of your knowledge. But our discussion is on the restoration
of the alien, and your knowledge may have far-reaching effects in the
disposition of this project."
"Policy is controlled by the directors, who will be guided by your
recommendations--"
Dreyer shook his head. "No, I think not, unless it pleases them. Should
I ever recommend destruction of the alien, I would have to work through
you. And that would take much convincing, would it not?"
"Plenty," said Underwood. "Are you recommending that now?"
"Not yet. No, not yet."
Slowly, Dreyer moved away toward the massive bath that housed the
alien, Demarzule, Hetrarra of Sirenia, the Great One.
* * * * *
Underwood watching the beetle-back of the semanticist felt deflated by
the encounter. Dreyer seemed always so nerve-rackingly calm. Underwood
wondered if it were possible to acquire such immunity to turmoil.
He turned back to Terry, who had stood in silent agreement with Dreyer.
"How are you and Phyfe coming along?"
"It's a slow business, even with the help of the key in the repository.
That was apparently pure Stroid III, but we have two other languages or
dialects that are quite different and we seem to have more specimens
of those than we do of Stroid III. Phyfe thinks he's on the way to
cracking both Stroid I and II, though. Personally, I'd like to get
back out to the asteroids, if it weren't for Demarzule. I wasn't meant
to be a scholar."
"Stick with it. I'm hoping that we can have some kind of idea what the
Stroid civilization was like by the time Demarzule revives."
"How is it coming?"
"Cell formation is taking place, but how organs will ever develop
is more than I can see. We're just waiting and observing. Four
motion picture cameras are constantly at work, some through electron
microscopes. At the end of six months we'll at least have a record of
what occurred, regardless of what it is."
The mass of life grew and multiplied its millions of cells. Meanwhile,
another growth, less tangible but no less real, was swiftly rising and
spreading through the Earth. The mind of each man it encompassed was
one of its cells, and they were multiplying no less rapidly than those
of the growth within the marble museum building. The leadership of men
by men had proven false beyond all hope of ever restoring the dream of
a mortal man who could raise his fellows to the heights of the stars.
But the Great One was something else again. Utterly beyond all Earthly
build and untainted with the flaws of Earthmen, he was the gift of the
gods to man--he _was_ a god who would lift man to the eternal heights
of which he had dreamed.
The flame spread and leaped the oceans of Earth. It swept up all creeds
and races and colors.
Delmar Underwood looked up from his desk in annoyance as a pompous,
red-faced man of short, stout build was ushered in by his secretary.
The man halted halfway between the door and the desk and bowed slightly.
He said, "I address the Prophet Underwood by special commission of the
Disciples."
"What the devil--?" Underwood frowned and extended a hand toward a
button. But he didn't ring. The visitor extended an envelope.
"And by special authorization of Director Boarder of the Institute!"
* * * * *
Still keeping his eyes on the man, Underwood accepted the envelope and
ripped it open. In formal language and the customary red tape manner,
it instructed Underwood to hear the visitor, one William B. Hennessey,
and grant the request that Hennessey would make.
Underwood knew him now. His throat felt suddenly dry. "What's this all
about?"
The man shrugged disparagingly. "I am only a poor Disciple of the Great
One, who has been commissioned by his fellows to seek a favor at the
hands of the Prophet Underwood."
As Underwood looked into the man's eyes, he felt a chill, and a wave of
apprehension swept over him with staggering force.
"Sit down," he said. "What is it you want?" He wished Dreyer were here
to place some semantic evaluation upon this crazy incident.
"The Disciples of the Great One would have the privilege of viewing the
Master," said Hennessey as he sat down near the desk. "You scientists
are instruments selected for a great task. The Great One did not come
only to a select few. He came to all mankind. We request the right to
visit the temple quietly and view the magnificent work you are doing
as you restore our Master to life so that we may receive of his great
gifts."
Underwood could picture the laboratory filled with bowing, praying,
yelling, fanatic worshippers crowding around, destroying equipment and
probably trying to walk off with bits of holy protoplasm. He pressed
a switch and spun a dial savagely. In a moment the face of Director
Boarder was on the tiny screen before him.
"This fanatic Hennessey is here. I just wanted to check on the possible
liability before having him thrown out on his ear."
Boarder's face grew frantic. "Don't do that! You got my note? Do
exactly as I said. Those are orders!"
"But we can't carry on an experiment with a bunch of fanatics yapping
at our heels."
* * * * *
"I don't care how you do it. You've got to give them what they want.
Either that or fold up the experiment. The latest semi-weekly poll
shows they effectively control eighty million votes. You know what that
means. One word to the Congressional scientific committee and all of us
would be out on our ear."
"We could shut the thing up and call it off. The protoplasm would just
quietly die and then what would these birds have to worship?"
"Destruction of government property _can_ carry the death penalty,"
said Boarder ominously. "Besides, you're too much of the scientist to
do that. You want to see the thing through just as much as the rest of
us do. If I had the slightest fear that you'd destroy it, I'd yank you
out of there before you knew where you were--but I haven't any such
fears."
"Yes, you're right, but these--" Underwood made a grimace as if he were
trying to swallow an oyster with fur on.
"I know. We've got to put up with it. The scientist who survives in
this day and age is the one who adjusts to his environment." Boarder
grinned sourly.
"I went out to space to escape the environment. Now I'm right back in
it, only worse than ever."
"Well, look, Underwood, why can't you just build a sort of balcony with
a ramp running across the lab so that these Disciples of the Great One
can look down into the bath? You could feed them in at one end of the
building and run them out the other. That way it wouldn't upset you.
After all, it's only going to last six months."
"When the Stroid revives, they'll probably want to put him on a throne
with a radiant halo about his head." Boarder laughed. "If he represents
the civilization whose artifacts we've found on the asteroids, I think
he'll take care of his 'Disciples' in short order. Anyway, you'll have
to do as they demand. It won't last long."
Boarder cut off and Underwood turned back to the bland Hennessey, who
sat as if nothing would ever disturb him.
"You see," Hennessey said, "I knew what the outcome would be. I had
faith in the Great One."
"Faith! You knew that the scientific committee would back you up
because you represent eighty million neurotic crackpots. What will you
do when your Great One wakes up and tells you all to go to hell?"