"I'd be glad to go in any capacity--"
"Have you special qualifications? Knowledge of the language? Of
archæology?"
"No."
The professor picked up a tray of letters. "These letters--more than
three hundred--are all from young men--and women--who would like to join
my expedition."
"I think I should be useful," Hugo said, and then he played his trump,
"and I should be willing to contribute, for the favour of being
included, a sum of fifty thousand dollars."
Professor Hardin whistled. Then his eyes narrowed. "What's your object,
young man? Treasure?"
"No. A life--let us say--with ample means at my disposal and no definite
purpose."
"Boredom, then." He smiled. "A lot of these other young men are
independently wealthy, and bored. I must say, I feel sorry for your
generation. But--no--I can't accept. We are already adequately
financed."
Hugo smiled in response. "Then--perhaps--I could organize my own party
and camp near you."
"That would hamper me."
"Then--a hundred thousand dollars."
"Good Lord. You are determined."
"I have decided. I am familiar with the jungle. I am an athlete. I speak
a little Spanish--enough to boss a labour gang. I propose to assist you
in that way, as well as financially. I will make any contract with you
that you desire--and attach no strings whatever to my money."
Professor Hardin pondered for a long time. His eyes twinkled when he
replied. "You won't believe it, but I don't give a damn for your money.
Not that it wouldn't assist us. But--the fact is--I could use a man like
you. Anybody could. I'll take you--and you can keep your money."
"There will be a check in the mail to-morrow," Hugo answered.
The professor stood. "We're hoping to get away in three weeks. You'll
leave your address with my secretary and I'll send a list of the things
you'll want for your kit." He held out his hand and Hugo shook it. When
he had gone, the professor looked over the roof-tops and swore gleefully
to himself.
Hugo discovered, after the ship sailed, that everyone called Professor
Hardin "Dan" and they used Hugo's first name from the second day out.
Dan Hardin was too busy to be very friendly with any of the members of
his party during the voyage, but they themselves fraternized
continually. There were deck games and card games; there were long and
erudite arguments about the people whom they were going to study. What
was the Mayan time cycle and did it correspond to the Egyptian Sothic
cycle or the Greek Metonic cycle. Where did the Mayans get their jade?
Did they come from Asia over Bering Strait or were they a colony of
Atlantis? When they knew so much about engineering, why did they not use
the keystone arch and the wheel? Why was their civilization decadent,
finished when the _conquistadores_ discovered it? How old were
they--four thousand years or twelve thousand years? There were
innumerable other debates to which Hugo listened like a man new-born.
The cold Atlantic winds were transformed overnight to the balm of the
Gulf stream. Presently they passed the West Indies, which lay on the
water like marine jewels. Ages turned back through the days of
buccaneering to the more remote times. In the port of Xantl a rickety
wharf, a single white man, a zinc bar, and a storehouse filled with
chicle blocks marked off the realm of the twentieth century. The ship
anchored. During the next year it would make two voyages back to the
homeland for supplies. But the explorers would not emerge from the
jungle in that time.
An antiquated, wood-burning locomotive, which rocked along over
treacherous rails, carried them inland. The scientists became silent and
pensive. In another car the Maya Indians who were to do the manual
labour chattered incessantly in their explosive tongue. At the last
sun-baked stop they disembarked, slept through an insect-droning night,
and entered the jungle. For three weeks they hacked and hewed their way
forward; the vegetation closed behind them, cutting off the universe as
completely as the submerging waves of the sea. It was hot, difficult
work, to which Hugo lent himself with an energy that astounded even
Hardin, who had judged him valuable.
One day, when the high mountains loomed into view, Hugo caught his first
glimpse of Uctotol, the Sacred City. A creeper on the hillside fell
before his machete, then another--a hole in the green wall--and there it
stood, shining white, huge, desolate, still as the grave. His arm hung
in mid-air. Over him passed the mystic feeling of familiarity, that
fugitive sense of recognition which springs so readily into a belief in
immortality. It seemed to him during that staggering instant that he
knew every contour of those great structures, that he had run in the
streets, lived, loved, died there--that he could almost remember the
names and faces of its inhabitants, dead for thousands of years--that he
could nearly recall the language and the music--that destiny itself had
arranged a home-coming. The vision died. He gave a great shout. The
others rushed to his side and found him trembling and pointing.
Tons of verdure were cut down and pushed aside. A hacienda was
constructed and a camp for the labourers. Then the shovels and picks
were broken from their boxes; the scientists arranged their
paraphernalia, and the work began, interrupted frequently by the
exultant shouts that marked a new finding. No one regretted Hugo. He
made his men work magically; his example was a challenge. He could do
more than any of them, and his hair and eyes, black as their own, his
granite face, stern and indefatigable, gave him a natural dominion over
them.
All this--the dark, starlit, plushy nights with their hypnotic silences,
the vivid days of toil, the patient and single-minded men--was respite
to Hugo. It salved his tribulations. It brought him to a gradual
assurance that any work with such men would be sufficient for him. He
was going backward into the world instead of forward; that did not
matter. He stood on the frontier of human knowledge. He was a factor in
its preparation, and if what they carried back with them was no more
than history, if it cast no new light on existing wants and
perplexities, it still served a splendid purpose. Months rolled by
unheeded; Hugo gathered friends among these men--and the greatest of
those friends was Daniel Hardin.
In their isolation and occasional loneliness each of them little by
little stripped his past for the others. Only Hugo remained silent about
himself until his reticence was conspicuous. He might never have spoken,
except for the accident.
It was, in itself, a little thing, which happened apart from the main
field of activity. Hugo and two Indians were at work on a small temple
at the city's fringe. Hardin came down to see. The great stone in the
roof, crumbled by ages, slipped and teetered. Underneath the professor
stood, unheeding. But Hugo saw. He caught the mass of rock in his arms
and lifted it to one side. And Dan Hardin turned in time to perceive the
full miracle.
When Hugo lifted his head, he knew. Yet, to his astonishment, there was
no look of fear in Hardin's blue eyes. Instead, they were moderately
surprised, vastly interested. He did not speak for some time. Then he
said: "Thanks, Danner. I believe you saved my life. Should you mind
picking up that rock again?"
Hugo dismissed the Indians with a few words. He glanced again at Hardin
to make sure of his composure. Then he lifted the square stone back to
its position.
Hardin was thinking aloud. "That stone must weigh four tons. No man
alive can handle four tons like that. How do you do it, Hugo?"
Hot, streaming sun. Tumbled débris. This profound question asked again,
asked mildly for the first time. "My father--was a biologist. A great
biologist. I was--an experiment."
"Good Lord! And--and that's why you've kept your past dark, Hugo?"
"Of course. Not many people--"
"Survive the shock? You forget that we--here--are all scientists. I
won't press you."
"Perhaps," Hugo heard himself saying, "I'd like to tell you."
"In that case--in my room--to-night. I should like to hear."
That night, after a day of indecision, Hugo sat in a dim light and
poured out the story of his life. Hardin never interrupted, never
commented, until the end. Then he said softly: "You poor devil. Oh, you
poor bastard." And Hugo saw that he was weeping. He tried to laugh.
"It isn't as bad as that--Dan."
"Son"--his voice choked with emotion--"this thing--this is my life-work.
This is why you came to my office last winter. This is--the most
important thing on earth. What a story! What a man you are!"
"On the contrary--"
"Don't be modest. I know. I feel. I understand."
Hugo's head shook sadly. "Perhaps not. You can see--I have tried
everything. In itself, it is great. I can see that. It is, objectively,
the most important thing on earth. But the other way--What can I do?
Tell me that. You cannot tell me. I can destroy. As nothing that ever
came before or will come again, I can destroy. But destruction--as I
believe, as you believe--is at best only a step toward re-creation. And
what can I make afterwards? Think. Think, man! Rack your brains! What?"
His hands clenched and unclenched. "I can build great halls and palaces.
Futile! I can make bridges. I can rip open mountains and take out the
gold. I am that strong. It is as if my metabolism was atomic instead of
molecular. But what of it? Stretch your imagination to its uttermost
limits--and what can I do that is more than an affair of petty profit to
myself? Mankind has already extended its senses and its muscles to their
tenth powers. He can already command engines to do what I can do. It is
not necessary that he become an engine himself. It is preposterous that
he should think of it--even to transcend his engines. I defy you, I defy
you with all my strength, to think of what I can do to justify myself!"
The words had been wrung from Hugo. Perspiration trickled down his face.
He bit his lips to check himself. The older man was grave. "All your
emotions, your reflections, your yearnings and passions, come--to that.
And yet--"
"Look at me in another light," Hugo went on. "I've tried to give you an
inkling of it. You were the first who saw what I could do--glimpsed a
fraction of it, rather--and into whose face did not come fear, loathing,
even hate. Try to live with a sense of that. I can remember almost back
to the cradle that same thing. First it was envy and jealousy. Then, as
I grew stronger, it was fear, alarm, and the thing that comes from
fear--hatred. That is another and perhaps a greater obstacle. If I found
something to do, the whole universe would be against me. These little
people! Can you imagine what it is to be me and to look at people? A
crowd at a ball game? A parade? Can you?"
"Great God," the scientist breathed.
"When I see them for what they are, and when they exert the tremendous
bulk of their united detestation and denial against me, when I feel rage
rising inside myself--can you conceive--?"
"That's enough. I don't want to try to think. Not of that. I--"
"Shall I walk to my grave afraid that I shall let go of myself,
searching everywhere for something to absorb my energy? Shall I?"
"No."
The professor spoke with a firm concentration. Hugo arrested himself.
"Then what?"
"Did it ever dawn on you that you had missed your purpose entirely?"
The words were like cold water to Hugo. He pulled himself together with
a physical effort and replied: "You mean--that I have not guessed it so
far?"
"Precisely."
"It never occurred to me. Not that I had missed it entirely."
"You have."
"Then, for the love of God, what is it?"
Hardin smiled a gentle, wise smile. "Easy there. I'll tell you. And
listen well, Hugo, because to-night I feel inspired. The reason you have
missed it is simple. You've tried to do everything single-handed--"
"On the contrary. Every kind of assistance I have enlisted has failed me
utterly."
"Except one kind."
"Science?"
"No. Your own kind, Hugo."
The words did not convey their meaning for several seconds. Then Hugo
gasped. "You mean--other men like me?"
"Exactly. Other men like you. Not one or two. Scores, hundreds. And
women. All picked with the utmost care. Eugenic offspring. Cultivated
and reared in secret by a society for the purpose. Not necessarily your
children, but the children of the best parents. Perfect bodies,
intellectual minds, your strength. Don't you see it, Hugo? You are not
the reformer of the old world. You are the beginning of the new. We
begin with a thousand of you. Living by yourselves and multiplying, you
produce your own arts and industries and ideals. The new Titans!
Then--slowly--you dominate the world. Conquer and stamp out all these
things to which you and I and all men of intelligence object. In the
end--you are alone and supreme."