A voice that was louder, higher, more frenetic than any of the others.
His memory of his own voice, calculated but inspired, as he'd heard it
on play-backs of his own speeches.
The voices of children chanting, "To thee, O Number One--" He couldn't
remember the rest of the words, but they had been beautiful words. That
had been at the public school meet in the New Los Angeles. How strange
that he should remember, here and now, the very tone of his voice and
inflection, the shining wonder in their children's eyes. Children only,
but they were willing to kill and die, _for him_, convinced that all
that was needed to cure the ills of the race was a suitable leader to
follow.
"_All is lost!_"
And suddenly the monster jet-craft were swooping downward and starkly he
realized what a clear target he presented, here against the white
moonlit beach. They must see him.
The crescendo of motors as he ran, sobbing now in fear, for the cover of
the jungle. Into the screening shadow of the giant trees, and the
sheltering blackness.
He stumbled and fell, was up and running again. And now his eyes could
see in the dimmer moonlight that filtered through the branches overhead.
Stirrings there, in the branches. Stirrings and voices in the night.
Voices in and of the night. Whispers and shrieks of pain. Yes, he'd
shown them pain, and now their tortured voices ran with him through the
knee-deep, night-wet grass among the trees.
The night was hideous with noise. Red noises, an almost _tangible_ din
that he could nearly _feel_ as well as he could see and hear it. And
after a while his breath came raspingly, and there was a thumping sound
that was the beating of his heart and the beating of the night.
And then, he could run no longer, and he clutched a tree to keep from
falling, his arms trembling about it, and his face pressed against the
impersonal roughness of the bark. There was no wind, but the tree swayed
back and forth and his body with it.
Then, as abruptly as light goes on when a switch is thrown, the noise
vanished. Utter silence, and at last he was strong enough to let go his
grip on the tree and stand erect again, to look about to get his
bearings.
One tree was like another, and for a moment he thought he'd have to stay
here until daylight. Then he remembered that the sound of the surf would
give him his directions. He listened hard and heard it, faint and far
away.
And another sound--one that he had never heard before--faint, also, but
seeming to come from his right and quite near.
He looked that way, and there was a patch of opening in the trees above.
The grass was waving strangely in that area of moonlight. It moved,
although there was no breeze to move it. And there was an almost sudden
_edge_, beyond which the blades thinned out quickly to barrenness.
And the sound--it was like the sound of the surf, but it was continuous.
It was more like the rustle of dry leaves, but there were no dry leaves
to rustle.
Mr. Smith took a step toward the sound and looked down. More grass bent,
and fell, and vanished, even as he looked. Beyond the moving edge of
devastation was a brown floor of the moving bodies of _kifs_.
Row after row, orderly rank after orderly rank, marching resistlessly
onward. Billions of _kifs_, an army of _kifs_, eating their way across
the night.
Fascinated, he stared down at them. There was no danger, for their
progress was slow. He retreated a step to keep beyond their front rank.
The sound, then, was the sound of chewing.
He could see one edge of the column, and it was a neat, orderly edge.
And there was discipline, for the ones on the outside were larger than
those in the center.
He retreated another step--and then, quite suddenly, his body was afire
in several spreading places. The vanguard. Ahead of the rank that ate
away the grass.
His boots were brown with _kifs_.
Screaming with pain, he whirled about and ran, beating with his hands
at the burning spots on his body. He ran head-on into a tree, bruising
his face horribly, and the night was scarlet with pain and shooting
fire.
But he staggered on, almost blindly, running, writhing, tearing off his
clothes as he ran.
This, then, was _pain_. There was a shrill screaming in his ears that
must have been the sound of his own voice.
When he could no longer run, he crawled. Naked, now, and with only a few
_kifs_ still clinging to him. And the blind tangent of his flight had
taken him well out of the path of the advancing army.
But stark fear and the memory of unendurable pain drove him on. His
knees raw now, he could no longer crawl. But he got himself erect again
on trembling legs, and staggered on. Catching hold of a tree and pushing
himself away from it to catch the next.
Falling, rising, falling again. His throat raw from the screaming
invective of his hate. Bushes and the rough bark of trees tore his
flesh.
* * * * *
Into the village compound just before dawn, staggered a man, a naked
terrestrial. He looked about with dull eyes that seemed to see nothing
and understand nothing.
The females and young ran before him, even the males retreated.
He stood there, swaying, and the incredulous eyes of the natives widened
as they saw the condition of his body, and the blankness of his eyes.
When he made no hostile move, they came closer again, formed a
wondering, chattering circle about him, these Venusian humanoids. Some
ran to bring the chief and the chief's son, who knew everything.
The mad, naked human opened his lips as though he were going to speak,
but instead, he fell. He fell, as a dead man falls. But when they turned
him over in the dust, they saw that his chest still rose and fell in
labored breathing.
And then came Alwa, the aged chieftain, and Nrana, his son. Alwa gave
quick, excited orders. Two of the men carried Mr. Smith into the chief's
hut, and the wives of the chief and the chief's son took over the
Earthling's care, and rubbed him with a soothing and healing salve.
But for days and nights he lay without moving and without speaking or
opening his eyes, and they did not know whether he would live or die.
Then, at last, he opened his eyes. And he talked, although they could
make out nothing of the things he said.
Nrana came and listened, for Nrana of all of them spoke and understood
best the Earthling's language, for he had been the special protege of
the Terran missionary who had lived with them for a while.
Nrana listened, but he shook his head. "The words," he said, "the words
are of the Terran tongue, but I make nothing of them. His mind is not
well."
The aged Alwa said, "Aie. Stay beside him. Perhaps as his body heals,
his words will be beautiful words as were the words of the Father-of-Us
who, in the Terran tongue, taught us of the gods and their good."
So they cared for him well, and his wounds healed, and the day came when
he opened his eyes and saw the handsome blue-complexioned face of Nrana
sitting there beside him, and Nrana said softly, "Good day, Mr. Man of
Earth. You feel better, no?"
There was no answer, and the deep-sunken eyes of the man on the sleeping
mat stared, glared at him. Nrana could see that those eyes were not yet
sane, but he saw, too, that the madness in them was not the same that it
had been. Nrana did not know the words for delirium and paranoia, but he
could distinguish between them.
No longer was the Earthling a raving maniac, and Nrana made a very
common error, an error more civilized beings than he have often made. He
thought the paranoia was an improvement over the wider madness. He
talked on, hoping the Earthling would talk too, and he did not recognize
the danger of his silence.
"We welcome you, Earthling," he said, "and hope that you will live among
us, as did the Father-of-Us, Mr. Gerhardt. He taught us to worship the
true gods of the high heavens. Jehovah, and Jesus and their prophets the
men from the skies. He taught us to pray and to love our enemies."
And Nrana shook his head sadly, "But many of our tribe have gone back to
the older gods, the cruel gods. They say there has been great strife
among the outsiders, and no more remain upon all of Venus. My father,
Alwa, and I are glad another one has come. You will be able to help
those of us who have gone back. You can teach us love and kindliness."
The eyes of the dictator closed. Nrana did not know whether or not he
slept, but Nrana stood up quietly to leave the hut. In the doorway, he
turned and said, "We pray for you."
And then, joyously, he ran out of the village to seek the others, who
were gathering bela-berries for the feast of the fourth event.
When, with several of them, he returned to the village, the Earthling
was gone. The hut was empty.
Outside the compound they found, at last, the trail of his passing.
They followed and it led to a stream and along the stream until they
came to the tabu of the green pool, and could go no farther.
"He went downstream," said Alwa gravely. "He sought the sea and the
beach. He was well then, in his mind, for he knew that all streams go to
the sea."
"Perhaps he had a ship-of-the-sky there at the beach," Nrana said
worriedly. "All Earthlings come from the sky. The Father-of-Us told us
that."
"Perhaps he will come back to us," said Alwa. His old eyes misted.
* * * * *
Mr. Smith was coming back all right, and sooner than they had dared to
hope. As soon in fact, as he could make the trip to the shack and
return. He came back dressed in clothing very different from the garb
the other white man had worn. Shining leather boots and the uniform of
the Galactic Guard, and a wide leather belt with a holster for his
needle gun.
But the gun was in his hand when, at dusk, he strode into the compound.
He said, "I am Number One, the Lord of all the Solar System, and your
ruler. Who was chief among you?"
Alwa had been in his hut, but he heard the words and came out. He
understood the words, but not their meaning. He said, "Earthling, we
welcome you back. I am the chief."
"You were the chief. Now you will serve me. I am the chief."
Alwa's old eyes were bewildered at the strangeness of this. He said, "I
will serve you, yes. All of us. But it is not fitting that an Earthling
should be chief among--"
The whisper of the needle gun. Alwa's wrinkled hands went to his scrawny
neck where, just off the center, was a sudden tiny pin prick of a hole.
A faint trickle of red coursed over the dark blue of his skin. The old
man's knees gave way under him as the rage of the poisoned needle dart
struck him, and he fell. Others started toward him.
"Back," said Mr. Smith. "Let him die slowly that you may all see what
happens to--"
But one of the chief's wives, one who did not understand the speech of
Earth, was already lifting Alwa's head. The needle gun whispered again,
and she fell forward across him.
"I am Number One," said Mr. Smith, "and Lord of all the planets. All who
oppose me, die by--"
And then, suddenly all of them were running toward him. His finger
pressed the trigger and four of them died before the avalanche of their
bodies bore him down and overwhelmed him. Nrana had been first in that
rush, and Nrana died.
The others tied the Earthling up and threw him into one of the huts. And
then, while the women began wailing for the dead, the men made council.
They elected Kallana chief and he stood before them and said, "The
Father-of-Us, the Mister Gerhardt, deceived us." There was fear and
worry in his voice and apprehension on his blue face. "If this be indeed
the Lord of whom he told us--"
"He is not a god," said another. "He is an Earthling, but there have
been such before on Venus, many many of them who came long and long ago
from the skies. Now they are all dead, killed in strife among
themselves. It is well. This last one is one of them, but he is mad."
And they talked long and the dusk grew into night while they talked of
what they must do. The gleam of firelight upon their bodies, and the
waiting drummer.
The problem was difficult. To harm one who was mad was tabu. If he was
really a god, it would be worse. Thunder and lightning from the sky
would destroy the village. Yet they dared not release him. Even if they
took the evil weapon-that-whispered-its-death and buried it, he might
find other ways to harm them. He might have another where he had gone
for the first.
Yes, it was a difficult problem for them, but the eldest and wisest of
them, one M'Ganne, gave them at last the answer.
"O Kallana," he said, "Let us give him to the _kifs_. If _they_ harm
him--" and old M'Ganne grinned a toothless, mirthless grin "--it would
be their doing and not ours."
Kallana shuddered. "It is the most horrible of all deaths. And if he is
a god--"
"If he is a god, they will not harm him. If he is mad and not a god, we
will not have harmed him. It harms not a man to tie him to a tree."
Kallana considered well, for the safety of his people was at stake.
Considering, he remembered how Alwa and Nrana had died.