"What type of mentality would attempt to preserve itself through a
planetary catastrophe that destroyed all its contemporaries?" asked
Phyfe. "I find some great interstellar conflict and whose enemies
eventually traced them and destroyed for the second time the world
on which they lived. Out of all that ancient people, destroyed as
completely as was Carthage, only this single individual remained.
"Do you see the significance of that? If he lives, he will live again
with the same war-born hate and lust for revenge that filled him as he
saw his own world fall!"
"It won't survive the knowledge that all that he fought for
disappeared geologic ages past," objected Underwood. "Besides, you are
contradicting yourself. If he was so unconcerned about his own world,
perhaps he had no interest in the conflict. Maybe he was the supreme
genius of his day and wanted only to escape from a useless carnage that
he could not stop."
"No, there is no contradiction," said Phyfe earnestly. "That is typical
of the war leader who has brought his people to destruction. At the
moment when disaster overwhelms them, he thinks only of himself. The
specimen we have here is a supreme example of what such egocentric
desires for self-preservation lead to."
Phyfe abruptly rose from the chair and tossed a sheaf of papers on the
laboratory bench. "Here it is. Read it for yourself. It's a pretty free
translation of the story we found on Dickens' records."
* * * * *
He left abruptly. Illia and Underwood turned to the short script he had
left behind and began reading.
The hundred mighty vessels of the Sirenian Empire flung themselves
across space that was made tangible by their velocity. The impregnable
heart of the fleet was deep in the hull of the flagship, _Hebrian_,
where the Sirenian Hetrarra, Demarzule, slumped sullenly before the
complex panel that reported all the workings of his vast fleet.
Beside him was the old but sinewy figure of Toshmere, the genius who
had saved this remnant of the once mighty empire that could have put a
million vessels like these into space at one time.
Toshmere said, "Further flight is useless. Our instruments show that
the Dragbora are gaining. Their fleet outnumbers us ten to one. Even
with my protective screens, we can't hope to resist long. They've got
the one weapon we can't withstand. They're determined to wipe out the
last of the Sirenian Empire."
"And I'm determined to wipe out the last of the Dragbora!" Demarzule
snapped in sudden fury. He rose out of the chair and paced the room. "I
shall live! I shall live to see their world blasted to energy and the
last Dragbor dead. Is the repository nearly ready?"
Toshmere nodded.
"And you are certain of your method?"
"Yes. Would you care to see our final results?"
Demarzule nodded and Toshmere led the way through the door and down the
long corridor to the laboratory where lay Demarzule's hopes of spanning
the eons and escaping the enemy who had sworn no quarter.
The Sirenian Hetrarra watched impassively as the scientist put a
small animal into a bowl-like chamber. He backed away behind a shield
and pressed a switch. Instantly, the animal was bathed in a flood of
orange glow and a terrible look of pain crossed the animal's face while
hideous cries came from its throat.
* * * * *
"It is not pleasant," observed Demarzule.
"No," said Toshmere. "But it is necessary that it be done with full
consciousness of mind. Otherwise, proper restoration cannot be made."
The ruler was impassive as the animal's cries slowly died while its
body melted under the glow of the beam--literally melted until it
flowed into a pool at the bottom of the bowl where it quivered with
residual life forces.
"Pure protoplasm," explained Toshmere. "It can be frozen to absolute
zero and the remaining metabolism will be undetectable, yet life will
remain, perhaps for a thousand _ela_, long enough for new worlds to
form and old ones die."
"Long enough for the last Dragbor to die--while I, Demarzule, Hetrarra
of Sirenia, live on in glory and triumph."
Toshmere smiled a thin smile that Demarzule did not see in his own
preoccupation. What a tragedy for the civilizations of the Universe
if Demarzule or any remnant of the Sirenian Empire should survive,
Toshmere thought. The Dragbora had well considered their plans when
they set upon a program of complete extermination for the Sirenians.
His own life would be far more worthy of salvation from the impending
doom than that of Demarzule. From the first moment that he had
conceived the repository and presented the idea to Demarzule, Toshmere
had planned that it would hold not Demarzule, but Toshmere himself.
There was only one way to go ahead with such a gigantic project,
however, and that was letting Demarzule believe that it would be for
him. Since it could not be prepared in secret, Demarzule would have to
assent to the construction. He would do that if he thought it were for
himself. The idea would appeal to his egotistical mind; the thought of
his own personality spanning the eons, while all the civilization he
knew decayed and was swept away, would delight him.
"The revival," said Demarzule. "Let me see how life is to be brought
back."
Toshmere swung another projector into line above the bowl and snapped
another switch. Invisible rays suddenly bathed the mass of shapeless
protoplasm within the bowl. As they watched, it quivered and flowed,
swiftly changing shapes, and growth and life took possession of it.
* * * * *
The ruler of the Sirenians watched the reformation of the animal in the
bowl. Limbs and torso formed in shadowy gray outline, then abruptly
solidified and the animal leaped up, alive and startled.
Even Demarzule was somewhat taken aback by the seeming miracle. "It is
swift," he remarked. "The specimen is unharmed?"
"Completely," said Toshmere. "The process is not so rapid after a long
period of time has elapsed. The level of life is very low, but never
will it completely disappear. The lower it is, however, the longer it
takes for restoration. After many hundred _ela_, it might require as
much as a _tor-ela_."
"But it would be sure to succeed regardless?"
Toshmere nodded.
The hundred ships of the Sirenian bore on their steady course with the
enemy constantly gaining even though Galaxies away. At last the lookout
spotted a likely System in which the fifth planet showed signs of
habitability. Demarzule ordered preparations be made for a halt.
The planet they found was inhabited by the remnants of a dying
civilization that had retro-graded almost to its infancy. The
opposition offered was quickly disposed of and the Sirenian refugees
began the frantic and hopeless task of constructing defenses against
the coming of the overwhelming force of the Dragbora, defenses they
knew were as penetrable as air to the new, fearful weapon strength of
the enemy.
But while gigantic screen generators were swiftly reared against
the sky and beam emplacements were dug, the best and wisest of the
scientists were busy preparing the repository for the Hetrarra,
Demarzule.
The huge, crystal-like container, which would be rendered impervious to
all known forces except the key frequency whose formula was inscribed
upon the outside, was to be lowered thousands of feet into the great
ore beds of the planet, in the hope of avoiding the final blast that
would shear the planet.
Two men would go into that repository, but only one would survive the
eons.
Toshmere was the only one completely acquainted with the entire process
so that it would be necessary for him to direct the operation of the
instruments. But Toshmere knew that Demarzule had no intention of
allowing him to leave the repository with knowledge of its secrets--any
more than Toshmere intended that Demarzule should be the one to benefit
by those secrets.
For three _tor-ela_ the Sirenians worked frantically, putting up
their mighty defense works, and then their lookout posted a hundred
thousand light years out in space announced the arrival of the terrible
Dragboran fleet--just before a tongue of light from that fleet lashed
out at him and swept him into the eternities.
* * * * *
Toshmere approached Demarzule in his headquarters as the word came.
"There is not much time left, Hetrarra. The repository is ready."
Demarzule looked out upon the sprawling works and great machines so
pitifully huddled together on an alien planet. This was all that
remained of the vast empire which he had dreamed of extending to the
limits of space itself, the empire over which he was to have been
supreme Hetrarra. And in a short moment this remnant would be wiped out
under the devastating supremacy of the now mightier Dragbora.
He looked at Toshmere hesitantly. In the face of certain death the old,
lean, sinewy scientist showed nothing but calm. The Hetrarra took one
final glance at the remnants of his Sirenian Empire and nodded.
"I am ready," he said.
They went out to the entrance to the shaft leading toward the heart of
the planet. The shaft had been built with the knowledge of only a few
Sirenians and none of them were aware of its purpose, thinking rather
that it was a means of defense.
Nobody saw the Hetrarra and the genius Toshmere enter the elevator that
carried them forever into the depths below the surface of the planet.
Underwood and Illia came to the end of the page and Underwood swore
softly as he thumbed through the few remaining sheets. There was no
more about the ancient Demarzule and Toshmere.
The writer of the history had apparently been one of the Sirenian
scientists, a confidant and friend of Toshmere who had been close to
him in those last days. He had been one of the few to witness the
descent of the two into the depths of the planet, but he knew nothing
of what happened when they reached the bottom and sealed the repository.
_He did not know which one had survived in that mighty struggle that
must have taken place below._
And shortly no one of the Sirenians cared what the fate of their
deserting Hetrarra might have been, for the great Dragboran fleet was
upon them. With the mighty, unknown weapon that struck terror to the
mightiest of Sirenia, they sped out of space and swiftly nullified the
Sirenian defenses. It was a carnage that was frightful even to the
Sirenians, so schooled in the methods of shedding blood. Their defenses
might not have existed for all the effect they had on their enemy. At
first one by one, and then by tens, the operators were touched by death
and their machines turned to molten ruin.
At last, when only incandescent metal and sprawling dead lay of the
Sirenian fleet, the enemy ships withdrew, and the handful of survivors
dared hope that there might be escape for them.
* * * * *
But there was none. As the fleet withdrew beyond their vision, a
single small ship appeared in the heavens and they screamed with the
knowledge of what it was. But they were dead long before the planet
exploded into its component fragments which hurtled in all directions
into space.
Underwood put the manuscript down, his mind reluctant to close the
scene of vast and terrible battle that had occurred so long ago. It
had answered some of the problems raised by asteroidal archeology. It
explained the utter lack of relationship between Stroid III, which
was the language of the Sirenians, and Stroid I and II, which were
undoubtedly native to the vanished planet.
But this snatch of history prepared by the unknown scientist companion
of Toshmere raised the greatest enigma of all.
Illia's eyes looked up into Underwood's. "Who could have won?" she
said. "If it was Toshmere, the alien will be all that we hoped he would
be. If it is Demarzule, then Terry is right--he should be destroyed."
Underwood glanced out toward the nutrient bath where the alien slept,
where the shadowy outlines of a faintly human figure already appeared
in the misty depths of the nutrient solution.
"It's got to be Toshmere," he said, and hoped he was right.
_CHAPTER SEVEN_
The viewing balcony above the floor of the museum hall was completed
and the disciples of the Great One began to flow through in a
never-ending stream. To Underwood, it was a sickening, revolting sight.
As he watched the faces of those who came and worshipped at the shrine,
he saw them transformed, as if they had seen some great vision. They
came with burdens of care lining their faces--all ages, young and
old--and they left with shining eyes and uplifted faces. There were
even sick and crippled who came and left crutches, eyeglasses and
trusses.
Twice a day, William B. Hennessey stood upon the balcony and uttered a
prayer to the Great One, and the stream of fanatic worshipers stopped
and bowed down.
One of Underwood's biologists, Craven, was so fascinated by the
exhibition of mass hysteria that he asked for permission to make a
study of it.
Underwood forced the spectacle out of his mind. He knew he couldn't
endure staying there at the museum if he allowed his mind to dwell upon
the decadence of mankind.
The mass of protoplasm in the nutrient bath was becoming more and more
a typical mammalian embryo, anthropomorphic in most respects, but with
differences that Illia and Underwood could not assign to the natural
development of the creature, or to the unusual circumstances of its
revival, because there was no standard with which to compare it.
Then, one day near the end of the fourth month, Underwood received an
urgent call from Phyfe.
"Come over at once!" he said. "We've found the answer in the
repository. We know who the Great One is."
"Who?"
"I want you to see for yourself."
Underwood swore as Phyfe cut off. He turned his observations over
to the operator on duty and left the building. The lexicography and
philography sections of the institute were in an old sprawling block
across the city by the spaceport; the semantics section was also housed
there. The repository had been taken there for continued examination.
Dreyer and Phyfe met him. The old archeologist was trembling with
excitement. "I've found the mummy!" he said.
"What mummy?"
"The mummy of the one in the repository who was killed by the
successful one."
"Who was it?"
"You'll see. He left a record for the discoverers of the repository."
* * * * *
They went into the enclosure that had been built to house the alien
structure. Inside, the repository looked many times the size it had
appeared in space. Underwood followed them into the familiar passages.
They went down into the main chamber which had held the protoplasm of
the Great One. Then Underwood observed an opening leading lower down.
"You found a way into the rest of the repository?"
"Yes, and how unfortunate we were not to have found our way into that
portion first. But come."
Phyfe disappeared through the narrow opening and they passed three
levels filled with unknown artifacts. Then at last they came to the
smallest chamber formed by the curve of the outside hull. It was too
small for them to stand upright and filled rapidly with Dreyer's cigar
smoke.
"There it is, right where we found it," said Phyfe.
Underwood looked at the thing without recognition. It appeared as if a
rather huge, dried-up bat had been carelessly tossed into the corner of
the chamber.
"Completely dessicated," said Phyfe. "He didn't stay here long enough
between his death and the destruction of the planet for decay to
set in. He simply dried up as the molecules of water were frozen and
dispersed. I wish there were some way the biologists could find to
restore him. He's so shapeless it's difficult to tell what he looked
like."
"But who is he?"
"Here is the record he left. Apparently they had some kind of small
electric tool they carried with them to write on metallic surfaces. How
they read them is a mystery because we have to have a mass of equipment
as big as this chamber to decipher the stuff. Here are photographs of
his message that we have rendered visible."
Underwood took the sheaf of photographs. They showed the walls of the
chamber including the dried mummy lying inert where it had fallen
in pain and death. But standing out in sharp white characters was a
lengthy inscription written by the ancient creature of eons ago.
"Can you read it?" asked Phyfe.
Underwood scanned the characters and nodded slowly. He had not been
able to keep up on the language as Phyfe had, but he could read it now
with fair facility.
The first part of the message was a brief reiteration of the history
of the ill-fated refugees that he already knew, but then he came to a
fresh portion.
"Demarzule has slain me!" the message read.
* * * * *
The words were like pellets of ice suddenly shot with bullet speed into
his face. He looked up at the impassive faces of the other two men and
read there the decision they had made.
Then, slowly, his eyes lowered to the sheet again and he went on
deliberately with the reading.
"I have attempted to get to the main chamber and destroy the
transformation equipment, but I cannot. Demarzule has learned how to
operate the equipment. Though there is nothing creative in him, and all
his aims are of conquest and destruction, he still has the command of
vast stores of Sirenian science.
"I am not a warrior or clever in the ways of fighting. It was not
difficult for Demarzule to best me. I die soon, therefore it is for you
who may read this in the ages to come. This is my message to you, my
warning: Destroy the contents of the protoplasm chamber without mercy.
Demarzule is there and he will be the scourge of any civilization in
which he arises. He dreams of conquest and he will not rest until he
is master of the Universe. He has destroyed galaxies; he will destroy
others if he lives again. Kill him! Erase all knowledge of the dreadful
Sirenian Empire from your memory!
"Should you be tempted to restore the Hetrarra and believe your science
a match for ours, remember that the knowledge required to enter this
repository is only the minimum. It is the lowest common denominator of
our civilization. Therefore, kill--"
The record ended with the last scrawled admonition of the ancient
scientist, Toshmere.
For long moments, the chamber of the repository was silent. Phyfe made
no comment as Underwood finished. He saw the tensing of the physicist's
jaw and the staring fixation of his eyes, as if he would penetrate
the ages with his naked vision and try to picture the dying scientist
scrawling his message on the walls of the death chamber.
Then Phyfe said at last, "We can't risk the revival of Demarzule now,
Del. Think what it would mean to turn loose a mentality having command
of such a superior science."
"We're not exactly planning to turn him loose," said Underwood
defensively. "We'll still have control when he revives. He can be kept
in suitable confinement--and finally disposed of, if necessary. It
seems worth it if we could tap the science he knows."
"Are you forgetting that we do _not_ have control of him in any
sense of the word? The Disciples have. We're under direction of
the Institute, which can be wiped out in an instant by the Science
Committee. They, in turn, are mere puppets of the Disciples who hold
the voting power. When Demarzule revives, he'll have a ready made
following who'll regard him not only as Emperor, but as god. I tell you
we have no alternative but destruction."
* * * * *
Underwood's jaws tightened further. Within his grasp was a science
that might represent thousands of years of normal development of the
Solar system. He could not give up a gift such as the Sirenian culture
offered.
Then his eyes found those of Dreyer, who had said nothing, who sat
on his heels placidly in his haze of smoke. And there he read the
irrevocable answer.
"All right," he said. "You win--you and old Toshmere. Let's get inside
to a phone and I'll give the word to turn the radiation off."
Swiftly now they clambered up the stairs as if to escape some foul tomb
of the long-dead. They hurried into the building and into the office of
Phyfe. There Underwood called Illia.
She answered instantly, as if she had been waiting for his message,
fearfully and without hope.
"It's Demarzule, the conqueror," he said. "Turn off the radiation and
drain the tank. We'll stand the consequences of that, but we dare not
go on with the restoration."
Illia bit her lip and nodded. "It might have been Earth's great
chance," she said, and there was something like a sob in her voice.
"I'll turn it off at once."
Phyfe said, "Know what, Underwood? There's going to be trouble over
this. I think I'll ask for a transfer back to the expedition. Would you
like to come along with us?"
"I suppose so, but I'm afraid the Scientific Committee won't let us
get away that easily. You and I are through for the rest of our lives.
Didn't you think of that, Phyfe? We'll be lucky if we don't have to
spend the rest of our lives in prison. But, Dreyer, you don't need to
be caught in this. Get away before they come for us."
"I hadn't considered it that way," said Phyfe, "but I suppose you're
right. The Disciples won't be likely to let us get away this easy, will
they?"
Before Dreyer could speak, a call came through on the office
interphone. Phyfe switched on and the frantic face of Esmond, one of
the junior archeologists, appeared.
"Phyfe!" the man exclaimed. "I don't know what it is all about, but the
police are on the way down to your office. They have warrants for the
arrest of you and Dr. Underwood!"
* * * * *
Phyfe nodded. "Thanks, Esmond. I'll see that there's no trouble for
you because of this. I appreciate it. They didn't lose any time,
did they?" he said to Underwood. "But as long as Demarzule has been
destroyed, we've accomplished what we've tried to do."
"Wait a minute!" said Underwood. "Do we know that Demarzule has been
destroyed? Something must have gone wrong; the police came too quickly."
"Look!" Shaken out of his customary calm, Dreyer was pointing through
the window across the city.
There, where they knew the Carlson to be, was a great shining bubble of
light.
"A force shell!" Underwood exclaimed. "How--?"
"They have evidently been prepared for a long time," said Dreyer.
Underwood tried the phone again and called for Illia, but there was
no response from inside the shell of impenetrable energy. A moment of
terrible fear caught Underwood up in its turbulence. What of Illia? Was
she all right?
"Whatever the answer," Phyfe exclaimed, "it's a ten to one shot that
Demarzule is not destroyed. In which case we'd better not be taken!"
"What can we do? They'll have the building surrounded. There'll be no
chance of getting out."
"This is an old building. There are rooms and sub-basements that few
know about, and the staff are all scientists. They'll be loyal. Come
on!"
"No, wait," said Underwood. "Nothing can be gained by my hiding in
this rabbit warren underneath the city. There is only one chance of
destroying Demarzule, and that is my getting back to the museum and
doing it personally."
"You're crazy! The Disciples will never let you back in there. Come on,
man, we're wasting time!"
"You two go on and hide, Phyfe. I'll try to lay the blame on you and a
group of scientists, and swear my own innocence. It's the only way to
get access to Demarzule. Get going. Wait--have you got a burner?"
"In the drawer there. We'd better take it."
* * * * *
Underwood yanked open the drawer and found the weapon. Then he held the
muzzle a short distance from his upper arm and fired. His face twisted
involuntarily with pain and Phyfe stared in amazement. "What for?" the
archeologist demanded.
Underwood tossed him the weapon as the room filled with the stench of
his burned flesh. "You shot me when I refused to order the radiation
off. It's a thin story and if they won't believe it I'll be a goner.
But if we don't risk it, Demarzule will be the next ruler of Earth."