It was hours later, toward the end of the hot, brilliant afternoon,
that we parted at last from Kethra and his men. On the green earth
around that brown pit where once had stood the city of cylinders, the
Khlun air-boats were resting, ready for their long flight homeward
across the ice. Our own time-car lay behind us, for in that tense
moment before the city had collapsed under the sound-rays' vibrations,
a hovering air-boat had spied our car in the little glade where we had
left it, and had managed to raise it from the ground before the crash.
And now, with our four friends, we stood beside it, bidding Kethra
farewell.
We had heard from him the story, as amazing as our own, of what had
befallen his forces when they pursued the Raider into the future, how
they had chased him almost to the world's end, indeed, pursuing him
into time so far that the sun grew old and small, and the world a world
of death and twilight; of how they had forced the Raider to desert the
Kanlar cars it held, which they had destroyed; and of how it had eluded
them in time and come racing back to confront us on the temple's roof.
He told, too, of how the messenger sent through time by Lantin and
me had finally found him and brought him back in the nick of time to
destroy Raider, hordes and city.
Kethra, and all his men, had pressed us to return with them to Kom,
but we refused. An intolerable nostalgia, a longing for our own time,
filled us, and our four friends were as eager to return to their own
centuries as we were. And so, standing with them beside our time-car,
we bade our friends of Kom farewell.
"You do wisely, men of the past," said Kethra. "It is not good that a
man should leave his own time and venture into others. The secret of
time-traveling is an evil secret. And when our fleet has returned to
Kom, every car in it will be stripped of the time-wave apparatus, and
all those time-wave mechanisms will be destroyed by us. For now that
our end has been accomplished, and the Raider destroyed, none of us
will ever again venture into past or future."
"You speak truth," said Lantin, sadly; "for though we came on through
the ages ourselves, we could not save our friend. And when we have
returned our four friends here to their own ages, and reached ours
again, we too will destroy this car. And the secret of time-traveling
will remain with us, a secret."
We each grasped Kethra's hand, waved farewell to the hundreds in the
air-boats on the ground around us, and then entered our own car. With
our four friends, its interior was crowded, but there was enough room
for Lantin to manipulate the controls, and so the car rose swiftly,
circled for a moment above the air-boats on the ground, then fled
swiftly toward the southwest.
Behind us the green, warm land of the Kanlars faded to a speck against
the ice, and as we sped on, we moved through time also, passing swiftly
into the past.
* * * * *
Three hours later we hung above a vast highland country, having
penetrated into the past to the year 1520, four hundred years before
our own time. And below us hung the white city of Tenochtitlan,
metropolis of the Aztec people.
We slanted down toward it, through the darkness, for we had come to
it at night. Toward the city's edge was the glimmer of a broad lake,
and from great pyramids flashed burning fires of crimson. In its dark
streets was a stir of movement, and up to us came the roar of a fierce
battle, with cries of wounded, and twang of bows, and here and there
the roar of an arquebus or cannon.
Ixtil leaned toward the window, gazed down with tense interest. "It is
my people," he said, turning to us, "my city, my time."
And so, swooping down upon the city through the concealing darkness, we
halted the car on a flat, white roof, and Ixtil stepped out. He turned,
and with more emotion than I had ever yet seen upon his fierce face,
bade us farewell.
D'Alord, Denham, Fabrius, each wrung his hand silently, and then the
Aztec turned to me. He drew the saw-edged sword from his belt, and
handed it to me, hilt-foremost.
"Take it," he told me. "I can give you nothing else, and it may remind
you of our fight on the stair, comrade, when you have reached your own
time."
I took the weapon, stammered my thanks, and he inclined his head
gravely, then turned and sped from the roof, down through the building
to the battle in the street below, racing toward it with fierce haste.
D'Alord broke the silence that followed. "What a fighter!" he
exclaimed. "And now he is gone. Well, on, friends!"
So we rose again from the roof, above the body-choked streets, where we
knew the conquistadors of Cortez strove with the city's people. The car
rose high, and then raced east with the power opened to the last notch.
In the hours that followed, as we rocketed over the gray Atlantic at
a speed of nearly ten miles a minute, we were again speeding into the
past, back still farther, so that when the green, leg-shaped peninsula
of Italy lay beneath us, we had gone back to the First Century of the
Christian era, as nearly as possible to the year which Fabrius claimed
as his own.
We left him there, on a bare, grassy hilltop outside the city of Rome.
Before parting, he too unbuckled his heavy shortsword and handed it to
me. "Ixtil gave you his sword," he said, "and when it is your car that
has brought me back to my own world, I can do no less." He stepped back
and said simply, "_Vale!_" and then we had sped on into time and left
him.
We turned, now, in time, sped on to the first year of the Seventeenth
Century, and in space fled north till we hung over southern France. And
with D'Alord guiding our course from the window, exclaiming at every
familiar landmark on the ground below, we came finally to the little
village where he desired to be left.
"'Twas there I was stationed when the Raider seized me, curse him!" he
told us; "so set me down outside it."
Again the car came down to the ground, in a field beyond the village,
just at sunrise. D'Alord opened the car's door, then hesitated.
"_Sacré!_" he exclaimed. "When I was in the pit I was afire to get back
to my own time, but now I half wish that we could have stayed together,
comrades. But Kethra was right. Every man to his own time."
He drew and regarded his long, heavy sword. "It's for you, comrade,"
he told me. "Like Ixtil and Fabrius, it's all I can give you. Though I
don't think you'll need it to make you remember our fight on the stair,
eh?" His laugh rang out. "_Dieu_, what a fight was that!"
He grasped the hands of Denham and of Lantin and me, and with forced
gayety slapped us on the back, then sprang quickly out of the car, and
stood beside it. I closed the door, and our car rose swiftly above the
field. And looking down, I saw the receding figure of D'Alord, still
standing where we had left him, waving his hat toward us in a final
gesture of farewell, the wind of dawn blowing through his hair.
And so we left him, and raising the car high above the earth, sped back
again across the broad Atlantic. And too, we came on farther into time
until when we came into view of the New Jersey coasts, we had come on
into time a space of almost two hundred years, for the dials registered
the fact that our car had reached the year 1777, when Denham had been
seized by the Raider.
We had offered to land him in England, but he had refused. "I'm a
soldier," he told us, "and it would be desertion. Let me down at
Philadelphia, or near it." So the car planed down through the darkness
to a field beyond Camden, and there came to rest in deep snow, for we
had stopped our time-progress in the dead of winter, and at night.
Denham stepped out of the car, and we followed him. There was no moon,
but the stars above were brilliant, the sheen of their light reflected
from the glistening, silent fields around us. It was bitterly cold, and
we shivered, standing there.
"And so the last of us part," said Denham. "Curse me if I like it,
either. Think of it, Wheeler: Ixtil and Fabrius and D'Alord are already
dead and dust, have been for centuries."
"They're not, Denham," I said. "They're only separated from us by time,
as well as space. At least we have learned one thing, that time is
largely a delusion, after all, and that the men of one age are not much
different from those of another."
"It's so," he said. "And I never had better friends than Ixtil and
D'Alord and Fabrius, and Lantin and you. We've seen some things
together, since we met in the city of cylinders, Wheeler. Well, we
shan't meet again. And so--good-bye."
He shook my hand, and Lantin's, and then, like the other three, drew
and handed to me his slender rapier.
"You have four swords now, Wheeler. And each from a different time.
It may be that they'll remind you of all we went through together, in
the city of cylinders and in the pit below it. I am only sorry that
we could not find your friend Cannell in time to save him. But it was
fate."
"It was fate," Lantin repeated, "and he died nobly. So, in a measure, I
am content."
Lantin and I stepped back into our car, now. Outside, as we rose above
the ground, Denham called to us again.
"Good-bye, Wheeler! Good-bye, Lantin!"
I answered, waving to him at the car's window, and thus we left him,
a dark, dwindling figure against the starlit fields of snow. We raced
north, now, and sped on toward our own time, back to the year, the
month, the day, when we had started. We swept down upon pinnacled
Manhattan, through the warm darkness of the summer night, and after
hovering for a time above the perplexing maze of buildings, sank gently
down upon the roof from which we had started.
The car stopped, and we stepped out on the roof, looking around us
strangely. The scene was the same as when we had left, the panorama
of the city's lights around us, the brilliant stars above, and the
stabbing search-lights of the anchored battleship.
Lantin stepped across the roof into his apartment. He snapped on the
lights, then called to me. When I entered the room and stood beside
him, he pointed mutely toward a clock above the fireplace. I looked,
and a strange feeling swept over me.
We had made our momentous start from the roof at 10 o'clock exactly,
when we had first ventured into time. And now it was but eight minutes
past 10, but eight minutes later in that same night.
Eight minutes!
We had gone on into the future fifteen thousand years, had lain for
days imprisoned, in the city of the cylinders and the city of the pit.
We had met our friends of the pit, had planned and executed our daring
escape, had fled madly to our car, pursued by the guards, and had
then flashed south across countless leagues of ice. We had stayed for
days at Kom, amid the wonders of Kom, had raced back north with the
great fleet of Kethra, had met and battled the Kanlars, and had held
the ravening thousands of the pit in check upon the great stair, with
our friends. We had seen the Raider destroyed, had sped back in time
to hang above the wonder-city of the Aztecs, while Aztec and Spaniard
battled in the streets below us. Had sped across the world to Rome,
in the days of its imperial glory, back through time to Seventeenth
Century France, and so on to our own land, to stop once and part with
the last of our friends and then speed down to the very roof from which
we had made our start. From the far past to the far future, we had
ranged through time, from the Rome of the Cæsars to the mighty city of
the Khluns.
Eight minutes!
_EPILOGUE_
So our great adventure ended, and so this record of it comes to a
close. We destroyed the time-car, and burned all of our written records
of the experiments connected with it. For never again, through the
knowledge that we gathered, shall men venture into time.
Yet because we felt that some part of what we had learned belonged to
the world of science, Lantin and I, in this history and in our two
technical works, have striven to record part of what we saw and did.
Reading, men will not be able to build time-cars for themselves, but
they may gain suggestions and do work that will make better our own
life, our own world.
Lantin and I live quietly enough, now, sharing a small Long Island
cottage. Yet for all our work at the Foundation, and our contacts with
our friends there, I do not think that either of us takes much interest
in the world around us, or in our fellow-men. I think that the day's
best hours, for each of us, are those of evening, when we can sit
quietly together, recalling to mind the things we saw and did in that
far time which the world will not see for fifteen thousand years to
come.
We speak often of that strange being of alien terror which we called
the Raider. Speak, too, of the Kanlars and their city of cylinders, of
the barbaric city of the pit, and the Babel-like hordes that filled
it, of Kom and the men of Kom. And sometimes, gazing musingly into our
fireplace in the length of the winter evenings, Lantin will speak of
Cannell, whom we crossed a hundred centuries to rescue, and who plunged
down to a voluntary death to save his friend.
Always, though, sooner or later, there comes a halt to our speech and
we look up with a common impulse to a spot where a sheaf of four swords
is fastened to the wall. Four strange weapons, from four different ages.
One is a thick shortsword of bronze, its edges scarred and dented.
Another is a saw-toothed weapon, the like of which you may see in more
than one museum, but which I saw flashing in deadly action. The third
blade is a long one, a silver fleur-de-lys inlaid upon its heavy hilt.
And the last is a slender, flexible rapier, which took toll of half a
hundred lives in our last mad battle.
Where are they now, our four friends, who stood with us on the great
stair when six men held back thousands, who planned and fought and bled
with us until together we brought about the destruction of the Kanlars
and the Raider? Shall we ever see them again?
I do not know. But one thing I do know, that was known even to the
supreme wisdom of Kethra and the men of Kom. And that is that there is
a power above man's, a wisdom above his, secrets that will never be
his. So if, on the other side of death, there lies a timeless world,
we'll yet foregather there with our four friends, strike hands in
friendship once again, and range that world together, as once we ranged
through time.