The proton current had been entirely cut off. The interior of the cabin
was solid in appearance once more. The Frazia motors were still droning
and the plane hung motionless in a night that was without wind. Below
it, now, lay a scene of complete normality: the sea was rolling up on
the white sand and the moon, almost at its zenith, bathed the green
island in a silvery, red-tinged light. And from the tip of the island,
quite near its southern branch, Loto's narrow beam of blue-white light
was flashing upward into the sky.
They descended, in a gentle glide. The beach was broad and firm; they
landed upon it, swooping along. It was like racing an automobile along
the sand in the moonlight, with the ocean on one side--far out at low
tide now--and a jungle of green, tropical vegetation on the other.
Rogers, at the controls, saw a number of human figures standing on the
beach ahead of him. They scattered hastily, and the plane, rapidly
losing velocity, went past them and stopped a hundred yards farther.
"_We're here!_" George cried. "Let's get out. Was that Loto we passed?
Where's the light? Are we near it?"
The light could be seen no more than a hundred feet away among the
palms. They climbed hastily from the plane. A figure was coming forward
along the beach at a run; a slight figure in wide trousers of white
cloth, and a short, flapping jacket.
"Loto!" shouted George. "That you, Loto?"
From a distance came a faint, "Hello-o... George!" The runner increased
his speed. It was Loto.
"Well," he exclaimed, as he shook their hands. "You got here right away,
didn't you? I've only had that light up two or three hours."
"We're tired out," said Rogers, when the greetings were over. "Do we
stay in the plane or can we leave it?"
A man was standing fearfully at the edge of the green jungle nearby, and
Loto called him forward. He was dressed in wide trousers, like Loto's
except that they were smeared with dirt and sand, and his feet and torso
were bare. He came, timidly, and Loto spoke to him apart. The man nodded
his head, indicating that he understood his orders. Then he trotted
away, joining three or four others of his kind, gesticulating toward the
plane. They all approached it reluctantly.
George plucked at the flaring sleeve of Loto's short jacket, his only
garment above the waist. "How's Azeela, Loto? Is she...is everything
all right?"
"Yes, she's all right. But I needed you and father here. Wait! Not now.
I'll tell you later."
Rogers joined them. "We're about exhausted, Loto. We must have some
sleep."
"Yes, of course. I knew you'd be. I've a house near here--only a hundred
yards or so. They'll guard the plane." His gesture indicated the men who
were now on the sand, moving about the plane, but evidently afraid to
touch it.
"You can trust them?"
"Implicitly."
They followed Loto. George was tired, but so excited that he did not
realize it. The night air was warm and heavy with moisture. It was
oppressive; it reminded him somehow of the steam room of a Turkish bath.
He found himself perspiring.
They left the moonlit beach and, following a tiny, white-sand path,
plunged into the depths of the jungle. Palms of every variety stood
about, their graceful fronds interlacing overhead. There were huge trees
loaded with fruit, bananas, mangoes, grapefruit. Some of the other fruit
trees George dimly remembered having heard of but could not name, and
still others he was sure were entirely new.
It was dark in the jungle here, and very silent. The steamy air was
redolent with perfume--orange blossoms, George thought. The light signal
was nowhere to be seen. George wondered if it had burned out, or if Loto
had ordered those men to extinguish it.
"Here we are," said Loto abruptly.
A house was standing at their right, in an open space with the moonlight
gleaming on it--a large, tropical-looking bungalow. There was a broad
veranda on three sides, with windows opening into the house. The house
itself was raised some four feet off the ground on coconut posts, and a
brown-thatched roof spread over everything like a mound.
It seemed to be a house that would have ten rooms, at least. George
wondered what made it look so peculiar. Then he realized that its board
walls were not vertical, but sloped inward toward the top, so that its
rooms would be smaller at the ceiling than the floor. It looked like a
house of cards.
Loto had turned into another path. A brown picket fence enclosed the
house with perhaps an acre of ground. Inside was a flower garden, abloom
with an extraordinary profusion of flowers.
A short flight of wooden steps led to the veranda. There Loto stopped.
"I think we should retire at once," Rogers said. "We have so much to
talk of--but it will wait."
"Yes," Loto agreed. "Come with me, Father. George, you stay here. I'll
be right out."
George sat down on the veranda, with his back against a round palm trunk
that was supporting its roof. He realized now how tired he was, and this
heavy air made him sleepy, he heard the others moving away, entering the
house. He took off his coat, then his shirt and, using them for a
pillow, stretched himself out at full length on the board flooring of
the veranda.
In a moment, when Loto returned to take him to the room they were to
occupy together, he found George sleeping peacefully.
* * * * *
George awakened with the morning sun streaming through a window. He was
on a broad couch, and in a chair beside him, Loto was reclining
comfortably, smoking his black brier pipe. He smiled.
"Oh, you're awake, are you? You ought to be--it's hours after sunrise."
A vague memory of being taken into the house by Loto the night before
drifted back to George. He remembered being half-asleep and talking to
his friend, but it was all like a dream.
The room was small, queer-looking, with its walls sloping together
toward the ceiling. But it was bright and clean, with brown fibre
matting on the floor.
The air was as moist and heavy as ever, and even warmer. George sat up,
mopping his forehead with his shirt sleeve.
"I've got your clothes," Loto said, indicating a stool with garments
lying on it. "You don't need much in this heat. Get up and try them on."
George was presently arrayed, like Loto, in low, tight slippers of soft
hide--clipped dog-skin, Loto told him--with trousers of white material,
bulging above the knees and tight at the ankles, and a brown and green
cloth jacket, ornamented with little metal coins. The jacket was
square-cut and short; it just covered the waist-band of the trousers in
back. It was lined with something soft, thin and yet absorbent; it felt
smooth and comfortable next to George's skin. But it would not meet in
front; it left his chest and stomach bare. He stood regarding it
ruefully until Loto showed him how to fasten it closed across his
stomach.
"Nice and cool--when you get used to it," George commented, staring down
at his exposed chest. "How do I look? Kind of queer, don't I?" He
twisted himself around, trying to see down over the side bulge of his
trousers.
Roger's voice, calling, interrupted them.
"I've got a million things to talk to you about," George was telling
Loto. "Hurry it up--I'll be out in the garden."
They met, a few minutes later, on the side veranda where they were to
have breakfast. George's self-consciousness vanished immediately; Rogers
was dressed almost exactly as he was, and he flattered himself he looked
at least as well as his companion.
It seemed to the new arrivals, at this first glance, a primitive world
indeed into which they had fallen, the heat, the palms, the thatched
bungalow, and their costumes all might have existed in some
out-of-the-way tropical land of their own time-world.
During the meal George was insistent with questions, but Loto smilingly
refused to talk. Instead, he led his father into a brief description of
their flight forward through time and south through space. When the meal
was over Loto took them out to the front veranda.
"I've a great deal to tell you," he said, "and I know you're as
impatient to hear it as I am to tell you. I've been here on the island
five months--"
"We realize it," George murmured. "Didn't I watch for that light through
every day and night of 'em?"
Loto smiled. "I put the signal up last night because I felt that I
needed you. Before we do anything, I must tell you of our affairs here.
You notice I say 'our affairs.' They are a part of me now. I don't
exactly know why, but the thing here grips me. I want to help these
people... I feel already that I am one of them."
It was no mystery to George.
"Where's Azeela?" he demanded with apparent irrelevancy.
"In Anglese City, the capital and largest center of population on the
island. It's north of here--on the channel. I've been living there; I
came down here merely to meet you. The situation here is drastic,
Father. War has been impending, and now it will not be postponed much
longer. This Toroh--as I told you, he is an Anglese renegade--is
organizing the barbarians of the north, the Noths, as they are called.
They are a people of low intelligence--brutes of men with thick black
hair on their bodies.
"God knows how many Noths there are--hordes of them are scattered about
the northern wastes. Toroh has been organizing them. He has a base up
north where he is manufacturing scientific weapons. There is class
hatred here on the island, but, thank Heaven, in the face of an outside
invasion, the Anglese will stick together."
"You're preparing for war," George interposed. "You--"
"Yes, of course. The Anglese have had no warfare for several
generations; they were totally unprepared, but now they're getting
things in shape."
Loto's tone was optimistic, but the anxiety of his expression belied it.
"I wanted you here, Father--you and George. Without Toroh, we would not
fear the Noths. But Toroh is a scientist, and what weapons he will have
been able to manufacture we do not know. We can only--"
A man came dashing up the garden path; a man in the familiar wide
trousers, torn and dirty. His red-brown, naked torso gleamed with sweat;
a white cloth was tied about his forehead to keep the damp hair from his
eyes.
Loto leaped to his feet, and the man, gazing at the strangers with one
swift, surprised glance, flung himself prostrate on the steps.
"What--" began Rogers.
"Wait! A messenger from Azeela. Something has gone wrong."
Loto raised the man up, and listened to his flood of frightened words
with obvious concern. A sharp question from Loto, a crisp order, and the
messenger was dashing away. Loto's gaze, following him, came back to his
companions on the porch.
"Bad news, Father. We must get up to Anglese City at once. Spies have
appeared in Orleen--a city at the western end of the island--spies from
Toroh, former Anglese, banished like himself. They're being put to death
as fast as they can be caught. But meanwhile they're talking to the
lower class--telling the people that Toroh is for them, and only against
their government. There is class hatred here. The people are listening
to the emissaries. We may be facing a revolution--an internal break--on
the eve of fighting the Noths! We will lose if that happens--_lose to
Toroh inevitably_!"
They were down on the beach in five minutes more. The plane stood there,
undisturbed. Half a dozen figures rose from the sand beside it and stood
respectfully waiting for Loto to approach.
Rogers took his seat beside the Frazia controls. They were presently in
the air, flying northward over the palm-covered island that lay calm,
serene in its false security and peacefulness.
Loto sat close to his father, with George beside them.
"I must tell you briefly the conditions here," Loto said. "Then you will
be able to understand--be able to help with your advice and judgement as
well as actions."
He spoke briskly but carefully, and his manner regained its poise.
George was gazing down through one of the side windows.
"That's Azeela's messenger," Loto commented, "going back to Anglese
City."
They were flying hardly five hundred feet above the palms. A white road
lay beneath them; along it a huge, shaggy dog was running, with the
figure of a man on its back. The dog's neck was stretched forward, its
body low to the ground as it ran with almost incredible speed, the man
lashing its flanks with a leather thong. The plane passed very slowly
and drew away.
"We will not land in the heart of the city," Loto added. "He'll be with
Azeela before we are."
"Go on and tell us about things," George urged. "We've got the time now;
maybe we won't have it later."
Loto nodded. "I will. We have here on the island three social classes.
How they developed throughout the centuries you will have to imagine for
yourself. Ancient, almost prehistoric Egypt was no more than a quarter
as far into the past of our time-world as we are now ahead of it.
Considered in that light, the changes have been rather less radical than
you would anticipate.
"The lowest class--you would call them peons in our old Latin
America--are now termed the Bas. They include more than nine-tenths of
all the inhabitants of the island. Most of them are ignorant,
uneducated; yet they include, also, many intelligent, learned
individuals.
"It is the lowest class which is now plunged into almost intolerable
conditions. They are the workers. Through generations of working in the
sun, their skin has become a reddish brown. The higher class--the
nobility--are the Arans. As the governing class, the Arans live for the
most part in idleness and luxury, while the Bas are held down to almost
universal poverty.
"You haven't seen the Arans yet. We will be in their chief city shortly.
You will find them white-skinned, their women especially, for they
shield themselves carefully from the sun. They are cultured, yet
without great learning. Can you appreciate that condition? They're the
ones who really show the decadence of this time-world."
"Is there a third class?" Rogers prompted.
"Yes. The Scientists--to me the most interesting of all. You will
appreciate that in long past ages, science was supreme. In war it was
everything. The Anglese came to this island and grew apathetic, but the
Scientists, in some measure, clung to their learning. Gradually, their
attitude must have changed to secrecy. They became a sect, holding
knowledge for its own sake, keeping it among themselves.
"The real power lay with them, and they knew it. But curiously enough,
their science seemed all-sufficient. As a body, they never desired
governing power; no individual rose among them with a yearning for
conquest--except Toroh.
"Foreign wars came. The Scientists offered their help, and when the wars
were over, retired with their knowledge to themselves. The sect, as you
will find it today, is on the downgrade. It has dwindled to a thousand
or two individuals who are scattered throughout the island. They call
themselves the League--I should say, a word that means about that. They
have their own officers; a council of a hundred in Anglese City, and a
lifetime president, Fahn, Azeela's father.
"Thus, you understand, the League of Scientists really controls
everything. But its members are content with the prestige their position
gives them. The government itself has for centuries fostered this
secrecy of all that pertains to science. In times of war, the Arans are
helpless, and leave it all to the League. In times of peace they forget
the possibility of war and go back to ruling the Bas in their own
fashion."