The First One answered with the same deliberation as before, but with a

cold finality, as one delivering a judgment from which no appeal could

be made. “For six months’ time, unless you sooner yield, there is no man

will come near you. If you are rebellious longer, we shall use such

force as may be needed that our wills may conquer, and thereafter there

will be nothing of the Place of Twilight, nor of the Blue Darkness, nor

of the Place of Preparation.

“If your seats be in the Upper Slopes at the time of the Great Assembly,

are not these seats made by the hands of men? Are they not known as the

Given Places?

“That which we give we can take.

“If there be any wisdom among you, all these things may continue; but

for your daughters is a different way.”

His thought smote the mind decisively, as a doom relentless and

unescapable, but it did not daunt the courage nor abase the mockery of

the thought that met it. “You threaten that which is beyond your power,

nor do we fear, nor believe you. In six months’ time you will not waste

the Blue Darkness nor the Place of Twilight, for if we do not have the

girl by the next new moon, we will ourselves destroy them. _Tell your

young men that._ Tell them that we shall uproot the Wilderness and the

Five Approaches. You may counsel; but will they refrain? You may

threaten; but will they act?

“You are old and weary of life, but we are not old, and we shall never

weary. Life is ours, and we have learnt by your failure. But we will not

resign our customs either in the Choosing of Males, or in the Rites of

the Preparations. Shall our daughters be less than we? Or shall we

degrade ourselves that others may come after us? We are ourselves the

race, and it is in ourselves that it shall continue.”

At this point, as a book may be illustrated, so the thought changed to

picture, and we had a moment’s sight of the protagonists as they had

appeared as these thoughts were contended.

They were in a lighted space in a hall of vast and shadowy gloom, so

that even their giant forms were dwarfed by its proportions. They were

in the midst of a great assembly, through and over which there was a

diffused light, coming from no visible source, so that the gloom

deepened on every side towards the vaulted roof, and the invisible

distance of the walls.

She stood forward from a group of women, vital as herself,

multi-coloured in their nudity. But she stood out from them like a

living flame, the ruddy orange of her hair continuing in a lengthened

ridge along the spine, dividing the fire-hued back that softened forward

to a paler gold.

There was no speech from her lips, for their thoughts leapt out too

swiftly for words, but they were parted in mockery, and her eyes were

alight with defiance, as The First leaned forward from his high throned

seat, and threw out sudden hands of pleading as he increased the

intensity of the thought with which he assailed her.

“You boast that you will not die, as we have boasted before you. You

boast that you will not tire. Are there no women in the Place of

Forgetting? Are there not those among them that are as vigorous as

yourself, and with a beauty that may last for millenniums? Yet love

cannot allure them. If those that have been dearest approach, they

regard them with indifferent eyes. We show them birth, and they are not

wakened: they see death, and have no care to avoid it.

“Look at myself!”--he rose up from the throne, and stood erect, strong,

active, as though he were an ivory statue of perpetual youth,--“is there

one of the young men who seek the Place of Twilight who is more strong

or more graceful?--One whom I could not overcome with my hands in the

Place of Trials? Will it not still be so for a millennium of the years

to be.--And for another--and another?

“_And yet I know._ I have heard the call that will grow louder. I have

felt the desire of the Silence,--and it will grow, though to-day it be

powerless. It will conquer, though to-day it be impotent.

“As you boast to-day, have we not boasted before you?

“We think to last in the Perpetual Places, but the night will find us,

even as it falls on the rain-drenched roof of the world, where our

ancestors once crouched and shivered.

“We have conquered cold. We have defeated darkness. We have tamed heat

till it licks our feet like a fawning dog. We have resisted corruption.

But there is a night of the soul that falls across the procession of

unending years, against which, one by one, we fight a battle that is

always lost.

“... And every year our race declines, and our women-children are fewer.

“Therefore, each for each, shall you take the Males of our choosing,

forgetting the Caprice of Choice, and the Seven Grounds of Rejection.

Therefore shall the girl go not to the Place of Preparation, but to the

toil of the fish-tanks, and so in turn shall the two that are

younger----”

It was at this point that my comrade interrupted, not impatiently, but

with a quick suggestion that the discussion to which we were attending

was of no immediate assistance, and when I assented somewhat

reluctantly,--for I had been more interested than she in the situation

which was revealed by the disputation,--she went on to suggest that the

book we were consulting so industriously was not likely to contain

anything of a greater value.

She added, “I think that we are not merely wasting time, but incurring a

needless peril. I think that there is little doubt that we have

penetrated into the Sacred Places where the Dwellers did not wish us to

enter, and it may be that we have already encountered the reason for

this reluctance. It is not likely that they would wish this information

as to the condition of their nation to be known, even to their friends,

and still less that there should be any possibility that it might be

carried farther to those who are at enmity with them. There may be other

things which might be learnt which would be still more to their

detriment. It might be fatal to both of us should we be discovered in

this occupation, while we have little hope of any resulting gain, for it

is not the history of past days which we need to know, but rather the

place where your friend is confined, the means of secret approach, the

method by which he may be freed, and the safest road of escape to the

outer world when we have released him.”

I answered, “You are right, as you usually are. But we have a proverb

that we may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, which appears

applicable to our present circumstances. If our movements and occupation

be within the knowledge of the Dwellers, our prospect of escape is

already too small to be interesting. If they have no knowledge, as yet,

of where we are, I suggest that we may do well to discover the library

from which this volume had apparently been taken, where there may be

other books of a more direct utility.”

My companion assented, though doubtfully. “It is an added risk, for an

uncertain gain; yet it is true that if we turn back now, we have very

little to set against the certain peril which we have incurred by

penetrating into these secret places. Nor have we any guidance to direct

our search in subterranean ways, the extent of which may be greater even

than we have previously anticipated,--and even the search for the

library which we suppose to exist does not appear to be a very simple

enterprise.”

I knew that. The librarian, if such she were, had followed us down the

passage, and must have come either from the surface world, or from one

of the other passages that we had passed. The latter was the more

probable supposition. But which passage should we prefer? And how far

should we explore it before turning back and attempting the other?

The search for such a library, even should it exist, might be as

difficult as for the ultimate destination at which we were aiming. I saw

also that time had become of greater importance to my companion than to

myself. I had still the best part of the year before me. She had days

only, if she were to return within the limit fixed by the treaty. To

both of us it might be of the greatest moment to escape unseen from the

Sacred Places, if these were really they. For myself, there was the

consideration that, should she return within the allotted period, I

should be left without the aid of her counsel, or the support of her

vitality.

It was under the influence of these thoughts that I suggested, “Suppose

we wait here for a time, watching from the farther side of the passage.

It may be that she will wake, and herself return the book to the

library, and we would follow unseen. Otherwise, we might follow her in

any other direction which she might take, which would be as likely to

bring us to some definite issue, as wandering blindly in the darkness of

these passages--and we know how much easier is the walking when she goes

before us. But if she should sleep beyond our patience we will search

ourselves without further waiting.”

My companion answered, still doubtfully, “I don’t think it likely that

she brought the book simply to return it, for why then should she not

have given it the information where it was, without bringing it here at

all? But it may be so. It is all guesses. It shall be as you will.”

Before we commenced our vigil, however, I made a further venture into

the lighted room, for I had seen that both water and food (the

bread-like cake which I had found when first I ventured below the

surface) were among the articles that stood against the left-hand wall,

and the chance was too good to lose.

I have wondered since, in the light of these experiences, how far the

furtive lives of those creatures who exist behind the skirting-boards of

our houses, are to be either pitied or envied. I feed, as a mouse feeds,

venturing audaciously for bedside crumbs while a light still burns, and

the fear, real enough, and with sufficient cause, which came as I

watched the huge form that might rise at any moment and chase me with a

monstrous hand outstretched, must be off-set by the satisfaction that

the meal gave to the alertness of my physical being, and to the joyous

sense of a hazard won with which I rejoined my companion in the outer

darkness.

For (have I not said already?) the darkness in the passage was absolute.

Even immediately in front of the open doorway, the darkness fell like a

curtain.

Here arises an issue on which I am in two minds continually. In this

strange world we were constantly surrounded by phenomena which were not

explicable by any knowledge I possessed, nor consistent with any

previous experiences. So was it here. I was accustomed to light that

invaded darkness and gradually died as its source was distanced, but

here was light which was sharply defined in its area,--which ended

evenly and abruptly. To explain this is necessary for my narrative. But

that necessity is incidental. We were surrounded by phenomena which were

equally new, but which were entirely irrelevant. Sometimes I was able to

imagine an explanation: sometimes not. Sometimes the cause became clear

subsequently, or was told to me. I should like to tell of all these

things, but I have a tale to tell also. I am of one mind to turn aside,

and of another mind to go forward. But I see that if I would reach the

conclusion at which I aim, I must restrain my desire to wander.

We sat for some time in the darkness against the opposite wall watching

the form of the Dweller, who did not move, and was still apparently

sleeping. There was no means of judging the passage of time, but it was

long since I had slept, and after the meal I had to confess to an

increasing drowsiness, on which my companion suggested that I should use

the time in sleep, which I required at shorter intervals than herself,

while she would watch for us both.

CHAPTER X

VISIONS

I do not know how long I slept, but suppose it to have been for many

hours. I waked to find that nothing had changed.

Invigorated by rest, I was quite willing to agree that we should wait no

longer, but proceed upon our own investigations.

Rising with this purpose, our eyes were first attracted to the wall

behind us in which was depicted one of those living scenes with which we

had already become familiar.

Strange and wonderful as they then seemed, I have since realised that

there were many simpler-seeming things around me which are less easily

explicable.

Knowing, as we do, that sight travels through space, bearing the vision

of that which was, to the infinite distances, and that we ourselves can

behold the stars of earlier millenniums in positions which they have

long ceased to occupy, it is not difficult to understand that the

Dwellers must have discovered a process by which such visions could be

deflected or reflected back to the earth from which they originated, and

that it was the past history of the earth which was unfolded through the

walls of these dark and (as we subsequently realised) seemingly unending

corridors.

The substance of the walls on or through which these scenes were

displayed excited but did not gratify my curiosity. The effect was as

though looking through a dark mirror which gave a moving scene on a

large scale. The impression was not as is that of a moving picture, but

of great actual distances opening before us. Or, in another place, the

view might be blocked immediately by rising ground, by trees, or by

buildings. There did not appear to be any selection either of place or

time. They were not scenes of dramatic moment, or of selected beauty:

they were not seen from any position of special advantage. They appeared

to develop at the same rate that they had done in original fact, so

that, if you should wish to know what would happen next month you must

watch or return at that interval, to observe it.

I tried to place my hand on the wall, expecting to encounter some

substance of a glassy smoothness, but I felt no physical contact

whatever.--Only an inability to move my hand farther forward.

My companion, more sensitive than myself to any neighbouring substance,

could only tell me that she had an impression as of a transparent

solidity, but of a substance which she had never previously encountered.

It was another point of interest, for which I have no explanation, that

these scenes, or pictures, were not continuous, nor were they divided

sharply from one another, but the outlines would become faint and

blurred, till they were no more than faintly-coloured mist, which, as we

continued to move beside it, would again show blurred outlines that

would develop, farther on, into a quite different scene.

The view which we now beheld was that of a sunny downland, unfenced and

green, beside which we might not have paused but for the sight of a mass

of rock, the memento doubtless of some volcanic or glacial activity,

which rose from the level green. It was flat-sided at its nearest view,

and a figure crouched before it, with his back towards us, but somewhat

sideways. He was man-like in shape and size, quite naked, olive-green in

colour, with a round blue patch, of the size of a tea-plate, stained or

painted between his shoulders. It may have been a mark of honour, or a

sign of servitude, or of merely ornamental significance. His hair, which

was thickly coarse, and black, was drawn over one shoulder in a heavy

plait.

He was sitting on doubled legs, the feet showing clearly. They were

strangely long, and slender. The middle toe was the longest, and ended

in a strong curving claw.

He was carving on the face of the rock with some rude tool that I could

not see plainly. He was so absorbed in his work that a small bird, which

was hovering restlessly near, took courage, and slipped into a thorny

gorse-like bush, which grew against the stone, doubtless to the rescue

of eggs that were chilling. I cannot say that it was gorse. It was not

in flower. But the grass might have grown on the downs of my own time. I

saw the fragile blue of harebells among it, and only one plant, a

clover-like copper-coloured herbage, which I could not recognise. Yet

the man, if such I may call him, was strange enough, and so was a small

rabbit-like creature, with a long tail, thick at the root, which slapped

the ground as it moved, which was feeding nearer and nearer to the

silent figure,--only to disappear with a series of zig-zag rushes when

the man sat back suddenly.

But he had only paused to consider his work. He showed his face now,

low, broad, angular, but not uncomely, or unintelligent, having very

prominent black brows that balanced the sharp projecting tusk-like teeth

at the mouth-corners.

He sat back now to survey his work, with eyes that were yellow and very

bright. He was evidently absorbed in it, to the exclusion of other

consciousness. As he sat and considered it, he bent round a flexible leg

and scratched his belly absently with the long central toe. It was not a

human action. I could see what he had drawn now. It was a bird, in shape

somewhat like a hen, of the old-English game-fowl breed, not with the

distorted lankiness of the show-pen monstrosities which succeeded it.

But it had an impression of great size, and, rudely though it was drawn,

the head and beak had an expression of vulture-like rapacity. There were

no spurs on its legs.

And then we saw the bird itself, advancing quietly over the down behind

him.

It must have been eight or nine feet in height, possibly more. It was

obviously stalking him, moving with careful slowness, foot by foot, its

neck stretched before it, its great beak half-open, its wings (which

were short, and showed a mass of fluffy feathers, somewhat like those of

an ostrich) lifted, but not moving.

He was absorbed in his work again, and appeared unaware of the

approaching danger. I felt an impulse to call, to warn him. It was all

so near, so real, watching the sunny scene, and seeing the grass move as

the wind stirred it.

The great bird was within twenty yards now, a greedy anticipation in the

eyes that never left the prey they were stalking. I knew that the lifted

wings and the stretched neck were in a tremor of anticipation for the

final rush, when it should have crept so near that to attempt escape

would be hopeless. Would nothing warn him? Had those long, queer

flexible legs the power to outdistance such a creature? Or had he any

means of defence should the warning come?

The twenty yards were ten now,--and the rush came. It was too swift and

sudden for the eye to follow, and yet it failed of its object. The

bird’s impetus simply dashed against the bare rock, on which itself was

depicted. The expected victim--had he really heard the approach and

feigned his ignorance till the last second?--had leapt straight upward,

more, I thought, like a kangaroo than a man, touched a moment upon the

top of the stone, and descended upon the farther side.

The bird rushed round it. So did the man. The circuit was so short, the

speed so great, that it was difficult to say which was pursuing the

other. I thought that if the man increased his speed but a trifle he

would be on the flying heels of his pursuer. In fact, that happened. The

bird knew it, and tried to turn, but was a half-second too late, as it

had been previously. The man had leapt on to its back. Its beak was

twisted round to tear him, but his two hands gripped the scraggy

feathered throat and held it off. The long neck jerked desperately. But

the man’s grip was inexorable. It found that, with all its wrenching, it

could not break clear: with all its efforts it could not get its beak

near enough to tear him.

Balancing on one leg, it raised the other to pull him off, as a hen

scratches her eye. An olive-green thigh reddened where a long claw

caught it, but then the man’s leg, that seemed so strangely flexible,

was twisted round the attacking limb, and had gained control of the

danger.

The bird staggered, and its leg came to ground again. As it did so, I

saw the man reach up his other foot, the long central claw catching in

the skinny throat, just below where he had gripped it beneath the beak.

He drove it in, and tore downward. The bird plunged violently. Bird and

man came to the ground together in a flurry of feathers. Then the man

leapt clear. He leapt far forward, over its head, a bound of twenty

feet, if not thirty, with a head that looked back as he did so. But the

bird did not follow. It lay where it had fallen. Blood poured from the

opened throat, a bright scarlet on the green grass. The legs kicked, and

were still.

The man came back cautiously. The bird had died just beneath the picture

which he had made. He looked from one to the other, and his gaze was

troubled. He picked up the head, and raised it with the limp neck till

it was at the height of his shoulder. He appeared to compare it with his

drawing, and was not contented.

It was only after this that he showed consciousness of his own wound.

There was a long gash on the side of the thigh, and the blood ran to his

foot. Probably it was not deep. He jumped twice, and the bleeding

increased. He threw back his head, and his mouth opened widely. We

supposed that he was calling loudly, though we could hear nothing. He

did this several times. Then he sat down by the dead bird, and waited.

We stood there for a few minutes longer, but nothing happened, and we

passed on.

I was puzzled by the sight of creatures different from anything of which

bone or fossil had told us, and yet seeming to be of an earlier world

than mine. But perhaps they were later. There had been time for many

changes since then.

Then I caught sight of my companion’s foot, with its central toe. A

grotesque resemblance struck me between the two feet. Had I witnessed a

link which connected her through the changing millenniums with my

earlier humanity? No, there was no other resemblance. The idea was

absurd.

Yet I gave her the thought when she asked it, though I meant it for her

amusement only.

She took it with an abstract seriousness, pausing before she answered,

“You are giving me new thoughts, as you often do. The resemblance seems

slight, and the connection unlikely. What is the shape of a foot,

considered beside the other differences? In many ways we are less unlike

to each other than is either to the creature we have been watching. But

I have not thought of these changes. In many centuries there has been

little difference in the sea-creatures. Perhaps such changes take place

more rapidly on the land. Yet there have been changes in the sea, enough

to show that such things are.

“And if they be, they must have been in every grade of difference, and

in others beyond thought or counting. Can we, who are the thoughts of

God, imagine what He had not thought? Must it not be, if we think it?”

I answered, “I cannot follow that. To the thinking of my kind, we are,

in part at least, alien from, and displeasing to our Creator, Whose

thoughts are very different from ours.”

She replied, “You may be right. I have no opinion on that. For, to me,

your thought has no meaning.”

CHAPTER XI

WAR

I do not think that I should have been content to leave the argument,

for it was ever our way to continue through disagreement or

misunderstanding until we had arrived at a point of harmony, but that,

at the moment, we both became aware of steps that were approaching to

meet us.

We had not gone many yards from the lighted doorway, and we withdrew

against the wall in a common impulse of silence.

The steps were evidently those of another of the Dwellers, and as he

passed without apparently becoming aware of our presence in the

darkness, and continued along the passage, we should probably have gone

on our proposed way, as soon as the dangers of detection were over, had

he not turned in at the open doorway, on seeing which we were at one in

our inclination to return sufficiently to observe what would happen.

We were well content that we had done this, when we observed him go to

the living ball, and bend down beside it, putting a hand to the ground

after removing the imprisoning ring, on which it began at once to

clamber up the slanting arm, turning over with a ball-like motion, and

perching on his shoulder, in the manner which we had observed already.

We noticed that the newcomer was much less in height than were the

Dwellers, either man or woman, that we had observed previously, and from

this, and other youthful indications, it was not difficult to understand

that we were watching a youth who had not yet gained his full stature.

The sleeping figure did not stir, nor did he address himself to her, and

I suppose that he would have gone on to the library to which the book

was to be returned (for we had been right in this supposition, as the

event proved, excepting only that it was the work of a subordinate, and

not of the Librarian herself), but that, as he turned to leave the

chamber, he was confronted by another youth, of his own age, who came

from the opposite direction, and with an appearance of haste and

excitement, such as I had not observed among these people previously.

He commenced speaking immediately, and, as he did so, the Librarian

arose from her couch so instantly and so quietly as to lead me to wonder

whether she had been asleep at all.

The messenger assailed her mind as she rose with a pressure of thought

of which I could feel the impact, though I could not interpret it

clearly, and appeared to be unable to avoid supplementing it with a

useless triplication of speech and gesture. His auditor surveyed his

excitement with a cool detachment which emphasised the millenniums of

years that divided them. When he had finished, she took back the book

from his waiting companion, and gave it an obviously quieter and briefer

narrative. Then she lay down again, while the two youths left the

chamber together, taking the book with them.

It was doubtless their excited condition that caused them to move so

rapidly that we had to quicken to a run to keep within sound of their

footsteps.

They led us back to the end of the passage, and then along the curving

way, till we came to the next of the dark openings,--the one that led

directly opposite to that by which we had entered beneath the temple. We

followed them along it for about a quarter of a mile, finding it was in

all respects alike to the other, being entirely dark, but having similar

scenes developing within its walls continually. Had I been alone, I

think that I could hardly have controlled my curiosity concerning some

of them,--for I kept sufficiently close to the wall to observe them as

we hurried past,--but I was too conscious of the useless folly of

lingering to make such a suggestion to my companion.

I had short glimpses of a score of scenes which I had no time to

consider, and which left no clear impression, but of a bewildering

variety of landscapes, and once of a tossing windswept sea, beneath a

clouded moon. I caught no sight of human life, except once only, when I

thought there was a distant string of horsemen trailing wearily along a

muddy trampled road, but the scene was obscured by a storm of hail, and

before I could be sure of what I had seen, it had been left behind.

Following in the wake of the two youths, we moved without difficulty,

and kept so nearly behind them that it became necessary to stop very

abruptly when they halted in the darkness.

We heard them turn to the left-hand wall and then a vertical line of

fuchsia-coloured light showed and widened, as a double door slid

backward on either hand.

They went in through this door, and we followed to the entrance, secure

in the fact that no light fell outward. It rose up like a wall of purple

transparency where the door had opened, but it did not penetrate the

darkness in which we stood.

Looking inward we saw, on either hand, high and low, long tiers of racks

on which such living books as that which we had already seen were ranged

in close and orderly rows. They were of somewhat different sizes,

usually about twice that of a man’s head, but more like a large marble

in the hands of those who owned them.

The space between the shelves was wide enough for the two Dwellers to

move side by side, and was more than proportionately lofty; yet, by

reason of its length, it had an effect of narrowness.

Down this alley the bearer of the living history strode for a few paces,

to put it in its place on the rack to which it belonged, his friend

moving beside him. My companion’s mind called me, “Come quickly” and

together we crossed the threshold.

As in our own libraries, the lowest tier of books was close to the

ground. There was just room beneath the rack for us to stand in comfort.

We were under it in a moment.

As we reached this shelter, they turned back. They went out, and the

sliding doors closed behind them.

I disliked the closing of those doors. It reminded me of one that had

closed three nights ago in the darkness. My companion read my mind with

some amusement. “It was your proposal,” she suggested.

“But I don’t like being shut in.”

“How can it matter, till we want to get out?” she answered. “Why will

you always worry over troubles you haven’t got? We wanted to find the

place, and here it is. We wanted to get into it, and here we are. Even

though we should worry later, when we may want to get out, we ought to

be glad now. Let us be glad that we are undisturbed, and see what

knowledge we can acquire which may aid us.”

Her coolness made my fears seem foolish, (as, indeed, they were), and it

was in a recovered serenity that I joined her mind to my own in

exploring the storehouse of knowledge which we had penetrated so

strangely.

We emerged from our cover, and walked along the lofty aisle between the

racks,--pigmies whose hands would scarcely reach to the second shelf,

and whose heads did not reach to the first one.

It was a strange sensation. Even in a library of dead books there is an

atmosphere of knowledge, and of the presence of many forgotten, ghostly

minds. Each room has its own aroma. You may wander with closed eyes into

the divinity section, but you will know at once that you are not in that

of fiction or biography. The atmosphere in a room devoted to sporting

books is different from that of one which is occupied with medical

subjects. That is so with dead books; but these were living. Living

books on either side, clamouring to be read, and we could not read them.

Their desire met ours, but we had no key to their treasures. They would

each answer to the right question, but having no knowledge of what they

contained, we asked of each in turn for that which it could not give,

and an unwilling silence rebuffed us.

Faced by this dilemma, we decided to seek the one book which we knew,

and gain the information which it had received since last we probed it.

We found it without difficulty, about forty yards along on the seventh

tier on the left hand. We both recognised it, high above us though it

was, for these books were not alike. They were all of the same colour,

lobster-red, but the shades varied with each. They all had the little

swaying hands that turned and balanced the living globes, but there was

a difference in each: a difference of personality. They were subtly

individualised by the kind of knowledge which they contained.

So we came to the one of which we knew something already, and received

the last record which we had seen communicated to it. It was brief and

colourless, compared to the evident excitement and long report of the

mind which had brought it, but it was sufficiently momentous, even to

me, and more so when my companion (who had already followed much of it,

and on some points had learnt more detail than was in the recorded

narrative) had explained it to me. It ran thus:

At one fifth after dawn on (here followed a symbol of

date, which conveyed no meaning to my mind) the

fourteenth patrol, on reaching the coast-ridge, observed

two Antipodeans approaching from the east. After

skirting the protective belt for some distance, one of

them attempted to turn into it, lost balance, and

recovered with difficulty. They then soared to a height

of ... (about four miles) when one of them drew

backward, and charged the belt at a very high speed. It

fell when the most part of its bulk was over the belt,

but so that its tail lay in the sea. It was then

inspected as closely as possible, and was seen to be

disabled, but not dead. It was observed to be

differently formed from any previously seen, so that it

was less damaged than would have been anticipated from

so great a fall. It was presumed to be dying, as its

companion descended to the surface of the water, and

commenced to take off its contents through the tail.

Orders were given for the Blue Fire to be used, which

was done twice, but with only partial success, so that

seven Dwellers are dead. Before noon, it was observed

that life was extinct in its main cell, and its

companion retreated. Report was made to the

laboratories; from which orders were issued for the

sufficient flaying of two thousand of the grey-skinned

males.

It was clear from this, even to me, that war was commenced against the

Dwellers by some alien species; but the record was exasperating in its

brevity, and puzzling in the particulars which it supplied, so that I

turned to my companion for explanation.

She answered me readily, though not without a suggestion that we were

wasting time over matters that did not directly concern us.

“Of the last sentence I can give no explanation, but the remainder is

clear enough, excepting only that I do not know how or why there should

have been any deaths to the Dwellers. We knew already that war was

recommencing between the Antipodeans and themselves, which could only

mean that they are being attacked, as it is not likely that they would

attempt to cross the sea or air to assail the Antipodeans, which would

be absurd. Why should they? It would be too unpleasant. The Dwellers

cannot travel under water, and even we avoid the surface around the

coasts of the Antipodeans. Some of my nation have seen the Dwellers

experimenting with the Blue Fire, though I have not. That was many

centuries ago. It moves about like a living thing. The report suggests

to my mind that the result of the attack is not entirely satisfactory to

the Dwellers, though it had resulted in the destruction of one of their

enemies. But if we allow our minds to be occupied by these events, which

do not concern us, we are making them detrimental rather than helpful.”

I answered, “But, surely, they are of interest to you, because of the

alliance you have mentioned, for which I suppose that your own nation

might suffer, should the Dwellers fail in the conflict.”

But this suggestion did not perturb her.

“It is difficult to imagine how we could suffer,” she replied, “for

though we might, in theory at least, be attacked on the Grey Beaches, it

could not be done without our having ample time to vacate them, and we

could retire, were the need sufficient, to the ocean depths, where we

could dwell for ever, and where neither side could pursue us.

“The position of the Dwellers is different. Although they have made

their homes within the body of the earth, they appear to find it

necessary to control, or have access to, some portion of the surface;

or, at least, they are unwilling to resign it. Obviously, they could not

hold it in safety or comfort, if the Antipodeans were always likely to

be feeding upon them.”

“I wish,” I answered, “you would give me some explanation, or sight, of

what these Antipodeans are, when many things might be clearer to me. The

Dwellers do not appear to me as creatures who would be easily eaten, or

who lack means of defence. I suppose that these creatures, which have

the power of flight (which the Dwellers do not attempt?) must be as

formidable in mind as they appear to be huge in body.”

“They are certainly large,” she answered, “but I can say little as to

their minds. I am not sure that they have any. They are not easy to

understand. But I can show you them as they appeared in the mind of the

messenger, when he reported of this fighting.”

Then she gave my mind a vision of sunlit space, with some white cumulus

clouds drifting below, and of a flying insect,--nothing more than that.

It had three pairs of transparent horizontal wings, and beetle-like,

copper-coloured wing-cases, stiffly lifted, but moving occasionally, as

though to steer or balance the flying form.

It seemed small to me, because there was no standard of comparison in

that high void, and because I had a mind which assumed the smallness of

insects.

It drew back--hovered--flew forward at its utmost speed, with wing-beats

too swift to follow,--checked in its flight with an incredible

suddenness, as though it had struck an invisible obstacle,--and fell

headlong.

My mind followed it as it fell, and it was only as the earth rushed

upward to meet it that I was aware that it was of such a size that an

elephant might have travelled as a flea on its back. Though it fell

headlong, it did not turn over in the air, but appeared to be steadied

from the tail.

Though it was so huge, and fell from so great a height, it was not

destroyed by the impact. It was not even broken. It lay with wings

spread flatly over such a growth of glossy leaves as I had seen on my

first morning with the pink tongues licking upward between them.

There was no height of cliff at this point. Compared with the monster’s

bulk, the shore showed no great shelving. It lay with a long tail in the

water, and the end afloat on a calm sea.

But though it was unbroken, it did not appear uninjured. It had a

curiously flattened appearance, and though the tail moved at times, the

rest of the body appeared unable to do so.

Then the scene blurred, as though the narrator’s mind had failed to

picture its report, and cleared again to show it lying beneath a hail of

blue lightning. Only, the shafts of light did not flash and cease, but

remained visible, like blue whiplashes, striking and recoiling around

their disabled victim. I could not see from where they came.

Beneath this attack, the gauze-like wings shrivelled and disappeared.

The long tail lashed out, beating the water to tempest.

But when the lightnings struck the still-lifted wing-sheathes, or the

lustrous head, they slipped off harmlessly; and when some of them

attempted to penetrate beneath the sheathes, they were not repelled, but

appeared to be drawn in against their own wills, by a force which they

resisted vainly, though some made a better struggle than others, and

disappeared very slowly.

Then I was aware of another of these monstrous insects flying low over

the water. As it neared the conflict, its head drew back into a

neck-like collar, which shone with a metallic lustre, similar to that of

the wing-sheathes. The front pair of sheathes lifted and adjusted their

positions, till they formed a vertical shield to the advancing monster.

The blue lightnings, under no visible controls, grouped and advanced

through the air to meet their new adversary.

Swiftly as an eyelid winks, a glow of petunia-red appeared and faded on

the polished sheathes.

Instantly, the lightnings separated, and drew back. They reminded me,

grotesquely enough, of a pack of dogs that had brought a beast to bay

which they would not leave, but lacked the strength to pull down.

Then, almost too swiftly for sight to follow, they struck,--all, I

thought, at one spot beneath the withdrawn head. As they did so, the

petunia light glowed again, and in the same instant they recoiled,

writhing curiously, as though sentient and damaged.

After that, they disappeared entirely.

Freed from the annoyance of these attacks, the fallen monster lay quiet.

The convulsions of its tail ceased.

The rescuer, still almost upon the surface of the water, turned its head

seaward, and twined its tail around that of its companion.

So it remained for some time, with rapidly-beating wings, stationary

above the water. While it did so, its bulk appeared to increase, while

that of the fallen appeared to lessen, so that it lay flatter than

before, and its tail became flabby.

When they parted, the one lay inert, with no further sign of life, while

the other rose heavily, as though sated by a full meal.

I was stopped from further observation by the impatience of my

companion’s mind.

“Shall we not seek the things that more nearly concern us?” she

suggested.

I agreed, but added, “I am puzzled by what I have seen, and it would

take you little time to explain it, if you are able to do so. Are these

great bulks alive? Or do they contain smaller living creatures that

control them, as did an airship in the world I left?”

She answered, “Why not both? And if both, why should you suppose that

the smaller will control the greater?” And when she saw that her thought

confused my mind for a moment, she went on, “You know that I have a body

which is entirely mine, and which is clear of any alien life; and I know

that you have a body over which you have little influence, except in

some of its muscular activities, because a countless number of separate

lives are within you, and do not accept your authority. You have shown

me that you do not control the actions of a single corpuscle of your

blood, and were you able, you have not the requisite knowledge to enable

you to do so intelligently.

“But why should there not be such separate smaller life existing either

in subordination, or in control, of a larger physical body, and yet able

to sever connection without loss of vitality, as the dominant will may

direct?”

“The idea you give me,” I answered, “is as that of a living ship, which

is yet controlled by the crew it carries. Are the Antipodeans really of

this kind?”

“I cannot tell you that,” she replied, “I only showed you that you were

assuming more than is indicated by what we have seen. I can only tell

you that they dominate the most part of the world, and that their dead

bodies are so frequently lying on the shores of the lands they inhabit

as to suggest that they must be very short-lived. But they are too

antipathetic for us to land on those shores, or have any dealings with

them.”

CHAPTER XII

THE FATE OF TEMPLETON

Whatever interest might lie in the spectacle of Titanic conflict which

we had witnessed, it was of little direct assistance to our present

purpose. It showed that the Dwellers might be sufficiently occupied by

more important matters to be unlikely to give much attention to our

escape or capture, but we had known that already. If the moment were

propitious, there were the greater reason for acting swiftly, and when

we found that there was nothing further to be gained from the one volume

which we had been able to interrogate, we resolved to cut the knot of

our difficulty by a systematic inquiry, from corridor to corridor, for

any record of the Vivisection Department, which had been mentioned as

dealing with one, at least, of those for whom I was searching.

Even then, our inquiry might have been long and difficult, had we not

obtained an immediate response from an index, which was almost beside

us, at the entrance to the library, from which point we had resolved to

commence our inquiry.

It replied, “The 92nd on the 14th row, in the Hall of Dead Books,

contains a plan of the Level of the Inquirers, which includes the Bureau

of Prehistoric Zoology, and the Places of Vivisection. The plan is that

of the 28th of the Lower Levels, below the Division. The 73rd book on

the 2nd tier on the left-hand side of the 83rd corridor, contains an

account of all vivisections during the last five moons.”

We went at once to the latter book, as it was the nearer, and it was

here that we gained the first sight,--at least in picture,--of one of

those whose absence had brought me on this strange adventure.

After we had inquired through much detail, sometimes fascinating in its

enigmatic suggestions, sometimes repellent in its exhibitions of what

appeared to me to be a very callous brutality, we were shown a table, by

the side of which, as I thought at the first glance, a naked man stood

with a pair of pincers in his right hand, in which something of the size

of a large rat was squirming.

There was a row of five large jars upon the table before him, into the

first of which he plunged the object of his attention, holding it

immersed for about half-a-minute, and withdrawing it in a half-drowned

condition.

I saw it clearly as it came out, and recognised the red hair of

Templeton with a shock of horror.

Instantly, the proportions of the room were changed by my knowledge of

the identity of the victim. I recognised in the naked man the giant form

of a Dweller, and became aware of the huge size of the row of jars

before him.

I watched Templeton, now hanging limply in the pincers, plunged into a

second, third, and fourth of these jars, being raised to the level of

the operator’s eyes, and inspected carefully after each immersion. But

the fourth inspection was more prolonged than the others, and after

making it the Dweller turned to another table, and laid his victim,

still in the grip of the pincers, upon a yellow disc that was let into

its surface. As the limp body touched the metal it was galvanised into

an activity that kicked and writhed with a furious impotence. Lifted

again, it was plunged into a globe of light of a white intensity,

against which its body showed transparent, every organ, every internal

movement in lung, and artery, and intestine, being clearly indicated.

It appeared that this test had confirmed the unfavourable indications of

the fourth immersion, for the body was now withdrawn from the light, and

thrown carelessly into a mesh-sided tray upon the floor, in which a

number of non-human creatures of unfamiliar kinds were already heaped

and squirming. The Dweller pressed a stud with his foot, and the tray

slid from the room. I did not follow it further.

I felt almost physically sick with repulsion from the brutality which I

had witnessed, as I waited while my companion’s mind continued to

receive the picture.

After a short time, she broke connection also and addressed herself to

me.

“We now know,” she thought, “the fate of at least one of your

companions, and it must be a cause of satisfaction to you that you have

pursued your inquiries successfully, and that you are relieved of

further trouble by the fact that he had a body which was not worth

preservation.”

“I felt sure that they were about to destroy him,” I answered, “and

could not endure to look longer. How did they do it?”

She showed me an instant’s picture of the scene as her mind had followed

it. I saw his still-living body in the jaws of half-a-dozen pig-like

animals to whom it had been thrown for their fattening. My companion

recognised the repulsion that disturbed my mind with a puzzled wonder,

and a sympathetic curiosity.

“I wish,” she thought, “that I could understand the feeling which moves

you.”

“I wish,” I answered, “that I could understand how you can reject all

violence as evil, and yet condone such actions.”

“I condone nothing,” she replied, with a friendly coolness which tended

to reduce the temperature of my own thoughts. “I am not concerned to

defend or condemn. I am merely curious of your own repulsion. Your

fellow-primitive introduced a body which is diseased or defective. It is

so seriously so that the Dwellers, after a patient examination, do not

think it either fit to continue, or to be used for their own food, and

they therefore use it for the fattening of healthier creatures. What

better could they do? If you identify yourself with him, should you not

be grateful for the trouble to which they went?”

I paused a moment, knowing that the query required something better than

a random answer, and the pause lengthened to silence.

Feeling might still remain, but judgment answered too plainly.

I had forgotten once again that we were alien and inferior creatures, of

an uninvited coming. Did not my own race feed one living animal to

another in their zoological reservations? Would they have taken the

preliminary trouble to examine the body of such a creature? When they

decided to reduce the number of the tame and trusting doves in their

capital city, had they sufficient care or intelligence to select the

weaker or diseased for destruction?

Did they not kill and torture countless thousands of other creatures,

even including those that they had bred and trained to friendship, to

gratify curiosity or to gain some possible advantage to themselves in

combating the diseases that their vices earned?

Could that which I had seen be properly described as vivisection of any

kind? Such things might be; and I had little confidence that the

Dwellers would hesitate to practise such infamies, but, in fact, I had

not seen them.

I answered simply, “I was unreasonable, and you have taught me wisdom,

as you do so often.”

“I am less sure of that,” she answered doubtfully, “for there is

something in your mind by which my own is confused and baffled. I can

neither understand it, nor be sure that you are entirely in error. We

stand aloof from violence, as you do not, nor do the Dwellers. But you

have two standards of judgment. You regard your own violence to others

as more tolerable than is theirs to you. This to me appears as though

you make assertion of your own inferiority. But I do not know.... Shall

we inquire further as to the fate of your second friend?”

“Will you do it for me,” I answered, “I do not wish to see it.”

She assented mutely, and after a short interval she reported the success

of her investigation.

“Your second friend is alive and happy. His body has been cleaned and

improved. I cannot discover more, as there is no record of the

intentions of those who are dealing with him, but only of the facts

which are past already. But I think you would do well to leave him, and

inquire no further. Shall we not return to the surface together, where

you may find some place of hiding, and perhaps of a permanent security?”

“I cannot do that,” I answered definitely. “I could not return to say

that I have learnt that he is living, and made no effort to reach him.”

My thought reacted more sharply to her suggestion because I feared the

adventure as I had not done previously, and was aware that, should I

hesitate, my cowardice might be the harder to conquer. “Did you

ascertain how far distant he has been taken?”

I suppose she recognised the finality of my decision, for she made no

further protest, but answered quietly.

“He appears to be immediately beneath us, though at a great depth. But

we shall have to inquire of the other book of which we were told, to

learn the way by which we may reach him.”

“Let us do it quickly,” I replied, for the thought of Templeton writhing

in the clutch of the giant pincers, while the Dweller gazed upon him and

decided, coolly and judicially, upon his destruction, would not leave my

mind, and I was eager to be diverted by action.

We found the Hall of the Dead Books at the farther end of that in which

we were. The dead books were a livid white, and, for the most part, the

little hands had withered and fallen. They lay round them in a dry dust,

or hung shrivelling from those that had not been long dead.

We found the book we sought without difficulty, and though it did not

react to our queries with the urgent impatience of the living, its

responses were mechanically prompt and accurate.

I do not tell all that we learnt as we searched the pages of this book,

such as the maps of the reverse surface of the interior, and stranger

things on which I am entirely silent, because we did not actually see

them, and they are too incredible to be lightly added to a narrative

which must appear fictitious, in any case, to the obtuse and

unimaginative. It is not every one who can realise that the human mind

has no real power of invention, nor that it is impossible to add to that

which is infinite.

We went down in vision for five hundred miles by one continuing spiral,

seeing glimpses of inexplicable things on many levels, until we came to

a place in which were two colonies of the older Dwellers, each

attempting to postpone the weariness of years by activities of the mind,

and who were known (by the nearest synonyms in our language) as the

Seekers of Wisdom, and the Seekers of Science. I write _science_ rather

than _knowledge_ because the impression I received was similar to that

which has degraded the use of the former word, so that its implication

is of the assertion of speculative theories with a dogmatism equal to

that of the theologians whom it despises, and with a lack of imagination

and spiritual perception which insures that scientific hand-books of one

decade become the derision of the next.

We ascertained and memorised very carefully the passages by which the

descending spiral could be reached, and the ways which must be taken

when we left it. We could not discover whether they were the channels of

crowded traffic, or lonely as the dark tunnels which we had already

penetrated, but we had gained much in having learnt the way by which we

must go, and our next task was to find an exit from the library.

We should have pursued this purpose, and might have continued the

adventure together, and completed it successfully, had we not been drawn

aside to observe a movement among the books at the farther side of the

library.

It was foolish in itself, and disastrous in its consequence, but the

sight which drew us was sufficiently curious to be some excuse for our

error.

CHAPTER XIII

SEPARATION

In a large room, or recess, at the side of the library, there was a tank

completely covering its floor, and filled, to a depth of about three

feet, with a watery liquid, slightly tinged with carmine.

An arrangement of gently-sloping boards had enabled the books of several

tiers of shelves to make their way to this tank, into which they

plunged, and floated with an appearance of satisfaction, working their

hands in such a way that they turned over continually, in a very comical

manner.

It required no very great penetration to see that this was a place of

refreshment, or nourishment, which was needed to maintain their

vitality, but it was one which they could not reach without an

intervening danger.

As they crossed the final plank, which was horizontal, they passed over

a trap which was so adjusted that it would give way if a sufficient

weight were upon it, and resume its position afterwards, and the weight

required to spring it was that of a book which was mature and completed.

There was a square vat beneath this trap, filled with an indigo-coloured

liquid, into which, as we watched about fifty of these books hurry over

the plank, two fell, their little hands struggling frantically as they

slowly sank to the bottom, having found a place of death instead of the

enjoyment to which they had hurried.

It was reasonable to assume that these activities indicated some

directing attendant, and I had little cause for surprise when my

companion’s thought reached me quietly, “Do not attempt escape. We are

discovered. I think you had better leave this to me. Can you be serene

and confident?” Her mind closed from me, as we turned to observe the

dreaded form of one of the Dwellers advancing upon us.

He stopped as we faced him, and I knew that my companion had already

engaged him in the mental combat on which our lives depended. I could

not follow their thoughts, which were not intended for me. I never did

take the thoughts of the Dwellers with quite the same ease with which I

received those of the Amphibians. Now I was conscious only of a tension

of conflict, as when the swords of two duellists meet and hold, and

either knows that his life is staked upon the strength of wrist that

presses his opponent’s blade. There was a long minute during which their

wills fought in this posture, and then it was as though her blade

pressed sideward, inch by inch, the one that met, and inch by inch slid

down it.

Size has no absolute meaning. It is only relative, and, even so, it is

of little importance. The smallest insect might control the earth as

easily as an elephant, had either of them the brains to do so, though

the one be many million times the size of the other.

Our protagonist could have crushed us both in one hand, but I felt that

her will had triumphed against him. Not entirely; for minutes passed,

and I knew that they still warred with contending thoughts which I could

not read, but these were rather of the terms of treaty than of an

unconditioned hostility.

While they fought, I had endeavoured to maintain the poise of mind which

she had asked. I knew that I must not think of Templeton. I fixed my

attention upon the giant form which confronted us. He was similar to the

others I had seen, except in one particular. He moved with a slight

limp, and his left hip showed a long downward scar, deepening to an

actual pit at its lower end, and being black, with an aspect of charred

wood. It showed that their bodies, however perfect and enduring, were

not exempt from the danger of accident.

She turned to me at last. “Come,” her mind said only. “There is an open

way.”

I followed her down a corridor which we had not previously penetrated,

and we came to a doorway standing open, by which the attendant had

entered, and to which he had directed her. As we retreated, I saw him

bending over the vat, as though he were unaware of our existence.

In the darkness of a passage such as those with which we were already

familiar, we sat down together.

“I have made terms,” she commenced at once, “but it was not easy to do,

and you may not like them. We are in the Sacred Places, as we had

thought likely, and if we should be found here, or should it be known

that we have been here, the things we have learnt will certainly cause

our destruction. But I have given pledges which must be kept, and it

will be as though he had not seen us. I could not have done it, were he

not apart from his race, through the wound he bears, and angered by its

cause, which does not concern us. He refused my will until he thought of

the Seven Causes of Rejection, and his mind wavered.

“But the agreement is this. I must return at once to my own people, by a

way which will be unobserved, which he has shown me, telling to none

that I have seen him, nor of the things which we have seen and heard

since we forced the barrier of silence.

“That was easily agreed; but your case was more difficult. He would have

been willing that you should return with me, but we know that that would

not be possible. He would have agreed that you should escape to the

surface, and hide in the mountain caves, but I knew that you were

resolved to seek your friend, and I feared that, if I should make such

an agreement for you, you would not keep it. He showed me that it is a

way of death to go downward, and I was not willing to leave you to

perish. In the end, I have done little, but I have learnt this which may

aid you. When you have found your friend, and have learnt (as I think

you will), that you can do nothing to aid him, if you can then make your

way to the Place of the Seekers of Wisdom, you will be in a sanctuary

from which none will seek to remove you. They will question you of the

life you left, and so long as you can tell them of new things they will

be very sure to keep you in safety. Even beyond that time, there is a

possibility that they may transfer you to depths into which our minds

have not inquired, and of which I know nothing, where you might even

find that some of your own kind are existing, as do the Bat-wings, on an

inner surface of the earth.”

Her mind paused, expectant, to receive my pleasure.

Consternation replied,--confused, hopeless, and yet protesting. Why had

she agreed thus to our parting? Had she not herself urged, and did she

not again suggest, that Brett was beyond my rescue? Was it not her own

plan that I should return to the surface? Two passions, grief and fear,

rose in an alliance of opposition. She was my one friend in a world in

which I was worse than outcast,--was I to part from her for ever? She

was the actual physical strength, as she was the moral confidence, by

which I hoped to have overcome the dangers and difficulties of the

descent,--having feared to adventure it in her company, was I now to go

lonely?

She realised my mind with a sympathy which was without comprehension, as

one might sympathise with pain who had never felt it. Perceiving it, she

met it with all her strength of will and reason, as she had fought the

mind of our recent opponent.

“Did you not say yourself that it was a needful thing that you should go

downward? Had I not agreed that we should part, I should have lost all

that I have won for both of us. If our meeting has been a pleasure (as

it has to me), shall we spoil it with foolish protest now that it is

completing? It will not cease to be, because the event is over. Will it

not be actual in our minds as long as we desire to recall it?... Do you

not think too much of your body, and of the risks which it must take for

your service? If you heed it thus it is of less use than even so poor a

tool might be under a control more confident.... You think of the period

of time which will divide us, should you succeed in that which you have

attempted, and return to your own people. But is not your presence here

a proof that you are vexed by illusions only? When we consider time or

space, we know that they are, and yet we know that they are both

impossible.... Were it otherwise, would it not be true that if two

companions were to turn apart for a moment, though they were both

immortal, and were to continue forward on their different ways, seeking

each other for a million million of eons, they would be eternally

separate, with a separation which would increase through all eternity?

That is evident; but it is also incredible.... Can you not learn to

become fearless of circumstance, so that you may find the freedom of

living, and learn the joy of that liberty?”

So her mind struck, thought for thought, against the confusion of the

thoughts I showed her.

Then she added, “I will do that which I can to secure the safety of the

body which you value so greatly. I will ask my Leaders for their help

when I rejoin them. If we should still be allied in the war which is

coming, it will be a slight thing to require it. But does it matter so

greatly? Is it not true that life is only good while we regard it

lightly?”

At this she closed her mind, and rose, and left me. She gave no sign of

regret, or of farewell, nor did she hasten nor loiter.

She left me with no further hope of her vitality to give me strength, or

spirit to give me confidence, with a feeling of loneliness and despair

such as I had not felt before, even in this strange and hostile world.

CHAPTER XIV

LOVE AND WAR

So we parted. Of the months that followed I do not write in detail for

sufficient reason. I did not go straight down, as I had hoped to do.

Time after time I was driven aside to avoid detection. Under the stress

of war the spiral which had been comparatively little used, except at

certain seasons, had become an artery of traffic. For many weeks I lived

a furtive life of lurking peril. I fed at instant risk of detection, and

slept without assurance of safety. On one Level, I went not only in fear

of the Dwellers, but of other vermin, larger and better-armed than

myself, that maintained a tolerated existence in a place that was given

over to the incineration of garbage.

Once I spent a period which I cannot estimate, without food or water, in

the interior of a machine of which I did not know the purpose, nor how

or when it might become active to my destruction. There I lay, watching

with sleepless vigilance for a moment when I might hope to escape

unnoticed.

Concerning much I am silent, because it could be nothing more than a

confused narrative of inexplicable things.

During the whole time I was conscious that the war continued, and that

it was maintained at an increasing cost of life and effort.

In the end, when I had passed the Division, (at which point the

gravitation changes, being about four hundred and fifty miles below the

surface), and, after many delays and deflections, had reached the place

I sought in the Lower Levels, when I was at the very threshold of the

domain of the Seekers of Wisdom, a moment’s incautious boldness betrayed

me, and I was seen and captured. I found myself held in pincers such as

those in which I had seen the writhing body of Templeton, and was

carried thus into the great laboratory, and laid aside as my captor was

called to a more urgent occupation.

The pincers were not uncomfortable. Their jaws were of a rubber-like

substance, ductile to the shape of the body they held,--firmly as in a

vice, and yet with an almost cushion-like softness.

I was laid so that I hung a few feet over the edge of a table, suspended

sideways in the gripping jaws.

Expecting that death or mutilation were only delayed for a moment, I

found myself roused to a vivid consciousness of the moving drama around

me. I can see it still, in every detail, as, for several hours, I

surveyed it.

War had invaded the laboratory, and it had become a theatre of

operations, the most seriously injured bodies in which life still

lingered being brought down this great distance for the facilities which

it provided.

Those who had sought to postpone the desire of death by searching for

curious knowledge in the bodies of other creatures, were now working

with a recovered energy to repair those of their younger fellows. Those

who had boasted that their youth was of an invincible immortality, were

now being carried in, broken or maimed or in divided parts, to be

repaired or rejected. And those who were past repair were not cast aside

for fire or corruption to feed upon them, but the portions of their

bodies which were still sound were used for the repair of their more

lightly-injured companions, and for this purpose, (if not immediately

required), they were hurried into a freezing-chamber, if possible before

life had entirely left them.

I saw a surgeon stoop over a body which had been bitten through at the

waist, so that it was almost entirely severed, and give a gesture of

negation, on which it disappeared at once in the direction from which

bodies, or parts of bodies were being brought and thawed as they were

required for the repairing of others; muscles, or bones, or missing

organs being grafted upon those who retained sufficient life to connect

them.

On the distant surface of the world the fighting must have been of a

desperate character, for while I was laid aside and forgotten a

succession of wounded, most of them with ghastly injuries, were brought

in, till it seemed that the ample floor of the laboratory would be too

small to contain them.

One of the last was a woman.

I had only known her before in a moment’s vision, but I could not forget

or mistake that flame of life as I had seen it assert defiant youth

against the deepest laws of the Universe which conceived it. And the

flame of life was still there, and still unconquered, though the body

was torn and opened, soiled with filth from the upper surface of the

earth which had been the place of its conflict, and discoloured in

places to a sulphurous yellow from the action of its antagonist.

It was in tribute to that dominating vitality that the attendants paused

in their work, the consciousness of my own peril left my mind, and the

dying turned to regard her, as she gave her thought to the surgeon who

was bending to observe her injuries.

“The tide is turned,” (and the thought was less a speech than a song of

victory), “the tide is turned, and we have found the way that will

triumph. Eight of them we have brought down in the place of fighting, on

the Grey Beaches of the Amphibians,--eight we have brought down, and the

rest are scattered.... Tell the women from me that every one who is

above the Youth of Motherhood is to go upward. It is the last order I

give them. There are better things than the delights of the Five

Approaches. Tell them that I have found death, and I do not fear it.”

Her eyes met those of the surgeon who was considering her injuries, and

her thought was derisive. “Can you not see that I am spoiled beyond your

mending? Am I one who would walk crutched who have been the Centre of

Circles? You will pass me very quickly into the Place of Freezing. There

are two women that follow whom you may repair from that which is

uninjured, if you lose no time in the doing. You will not wait till I

die...?” I was aware of a note of protest in the mind of the surgeon

that met her own, and was swept aside, weak as a bird’s wing in the

tempest. It was not his protest alone, but that of all, the injured and

the attendants, who heard her. There was one thought that broke through

like a cry of agony, and called my attention to a wounded form from

which it came, which had been carried in behind her. With a surprise of

recognition, I knew my captor of the first night,--he who had called in

sleep for that which he would never gain.

But their thoughts were beaten down by the indignation with which she

perceived them. “Do you think to thwart my will because I am fallen?” It

seemed that her thought swept the other protests aside to reach the form

that was behind her. “_You_ who would have come a thousand miles had I

called you? Who would have waited to know my pleasure like a crouching

dog. You have followed well where the stings were striking. Will you

follow now where I lead you?”

“Yes,” he said, “I will follow.”

There was no further protest. I heard the gates withdrawn, and the two

litters, with their living burdens, passed into the Place of Freezing.

I saw that eons pass, but Love and War will continue.

CHAPTER XV

RELEASE

I remained for several hours gripped in that soft inflexible pressure,

knowing not what of death or torture or mutilation I must undergo when

they had leisure for my insignificance, and watching with an

extraordinary mental clarity and aloofness the operations by which they

built up the bodies of some of the less hopelessly injured with the

limbs or organs of those who were themselves beyond saving.

But the time came when the pincers were lifted once again, and I was

aware of the hatefully impartial eyes which considered my destiny. At

this extremity of peril I recalled the methods of the Amphibians.

Desperately I fought for the self-control which I could not gain:

desperately I fought to reach some contact with the mind on which my

fate depended. But I failed utterly. It was natural for the creatures he

examined to protest and struggle, and the fact did not interest his

mind. My thoughts were nothing to him, and he did not heed them.

But I was more fortunate than Templeton. Instead of being immersed in

the successive jars, I was plunged immediately into the white light

which had condemned him. The sensation was not unpleasant,--might,

indeed, be described as ecstatic for a mind untroubled. My body tingled

with life. Looking down, I was conscious of a new nakedness. I could see

everything which my body held, and yet through them. The activities in

every vein were transparent.

I was held there for some time, and then lifted out, examined, and

plunged back for a further period. When I expected to be thrown aside, I

was carried, still held in that vice-like grip, to a further room, where

I was thrust into one of a great number of little cages which lined its

walls.

I considered my position, and was not sure that I might not come to envy

even the fate of Templeton. The operation I had undergone had already

disfigured me. There was no hair, long or short, left upon me. Even my

hands showed an unaccustomed bareness. I looked round, and I cannot say

what I saw. It is best forgotten.

I will only say that Harry Brett was in an opposite cage, and though I

called over to him, he did not know me. He was quite mad, and it was

true that he was quite happy. Like a child, he enjoyed to watch the

colour of his flesh change ... but I have resolved that I will not tell

it.

... A Dweller passed before my cage, thinking slowly and clearly. He

inquired for a Primitive of the False-skin Age who was claimed by

the Amphibians. With a stir of hope I responded.

After a moment’s questioning, he allowed my identity. He told me, “You

are released at the request of the Leaders of the Amphibians. There has

been fighting on the Grey Beaches, at which they helped us to conquer.

They might have had what they would, but they asked for this thing

only.” He looked at me with more curiosity than contempt, and I knew

that he would have cut me open without scruple had he felt free to do

so, to discover the secret of my importance. He went on, “You are to be

given to the Seekers of Wisdom. You will be safe with them so long as

you tell them some new thing continually.... It needn’t be true,--that

doesn’t matter,” he added more to himself than to me.

He lifted me from the cage, and walked on at a quiet pace, and I trotted

behind him.

* * * * *

I was with the Seekers of Wisdom many months, till the year was

completed.

During that time I was examined incessantly on every detail of the

civilisation from which I came. I defended it as best I might, and I

explained it where I was able. But I found that I knew few things

thoroughly, and my explanations halted continually. I met a readier

understanding of social life from creatures which were more after my own

kind than had been possible to the Amphibian mind, but I was still vexed

by the contempt with which my race was regarded. I reflected that the

antipathy which we feel for anything which is different from our own

customs might be theirs also, and that they might be less than fair to

us in consequence. Brief as our own lives are, we know that many of us

live too long to remain in harmony with the changes which a generation

brings. I could not see that their own methods of life were as far

advanced as they thought them.

Yet the reactions of their minds will not leave me as they learnt of the

filth of our polluted rivers, and the pall of our blinded skies.

I must still see, as they saw them, the pity of our neglected land, the

folly that leaves our fields half barren while the shadow of starvation

is but ten years distant, the foulness of our congested cities, the

insane worship of movement which leaves its thousands slain or maimed

unpitied in our bloody streets....

But to write of these things in detail would be to begin a book when it

is time for the ending.

I lost the count of days, and the time came unlooked for when the year

was over....

CHAPTER XVI

RETURN

“Danby,” I said, “you might fetch me an overcoat.”

Having been provided with this useful garment, I sat once more at the

familiar fireside.

I looked at the clock, which had indicated three minutes after eight

when I had shaken hands with the Professor, with a disliked solemnity,

before I commenced the experiment. The hand was now at seven minutes

after the hour.

I had noticed a lump of half-burnt coal that had poised perilously over

the top bar of the grate as I had risen to leave them. It broke now, as

I gazed, and fell noisily into the ashpan.

Yes,--it was the same fire,--the same night. It would be no use to tell

them.

And yet I saw that they were impatient for me to begin, but how could I?

How could I expect them to believe?--And so much was beyond the reach of

words to tell it.

“Did you find them?” said the Professor, with a note of suppressed

anxiety in his voice which would have been less surprising from one of

the others, and which reminded me that the question was not merely of my

own adventures. I realised the different values of that room from those

of the world that I had left behind (or before) me.

“I’m afraid you won’t see them again,” I answered, “Templeton is dead.

Brett is insane, and can’t live much longer. They are torturing him

horribly. At least, I don’t know whether that is a fair word. He enjoys

being tortured.”

Then I told them, in a confused way, with many interruptions and

discursions. Frequently I saw the doubt in the eyes of one or other, and

then they looked at me, and something in my appearance caused the doubt

to die.

I rose, and looked in the pier-glass.

“Professor,” I said, with a moment’s bitterness, “I shouldn’t have asked

for an overcoat only. I need a skull-cap.”

But it was not only that I was so utterly hairless. My face was

different,--younger, and more virile, and there was a subtle change in

the eyes, which I could not define. It was the face of a stranger.

I became conscious also of a bodily alertness and vigour, very different

from the physical conditions of the earlier evening.

“It may grow,” he answered mildly. I don’t think he was hopeful. I know

I wasn’t.

“I think you’ve made me a freak for this world. Perhaps I’d better go

back,” I said, thoughtlessly.

“Would you go forward again?” The Professor’s voice was eager.

“I don’t know----” I began, doubtfully.

“Isn’t he the principal witness for the defence?” Bryant interpolated.

“I think,” said the Professor, “he might better be described as the sole

witness for the prosecution. But I don’t think that we have any legal

responsibility. They took the risk freely. Besides, they’re not dead

yet.--Of course, we’re all sorry, but exploration is always hazardous.

Really,” he said seriously, “we have postponed their deaths for a rather

long period.”

Certainly, the legal position was somewhat complicated, but I felt that

there must be a flaw in the argument somewhere. I couldn’t help the

retort, “Just as you’ve prolonged the life of my hair for the same

period.”

The Professor was not often disconcerted, but this silenced him for a

moment. Then he said, “But you have come back, and they have not.

Surely, even you can see the difference.”

“I would rather see my hair where it used to be.”

“Hair,” said the Professor, “has become a useless parasitic growth,

which we are in process of discarding. You are only ahead of your time.”

“A bald head,” I replied, and felt the joke was out of place as I spoke

it. The Professor ignored me, and Bryant reverted to the earlier

discussion. “I don’t see how we can have any legal trouble, though it

may be awkward to explain the disappearances of two guests in

succession. Mrs. Brett will have something to say. But isn’t there a law

that you can’t accuse any one of murder unless you can exhibit a body?”

“I believe that is so,” said the Professor, with relief in his voice. “I

suppose that is why they always dig up the garden.”

This roused young Danby. “They won’t dig up this one.--Not till the

bulbs are over.”

“Oh, but they will,” I retorted. I felt that they deserved that much.

Why hadn’t they gone themselves, instead of passing on the risk to

others? “The police are most painstaking in these matters, especially

when one of their own number is concerned. You mustn’t forget that

Templeton was a retired inspector. Why not divert their minds to the

cellar?--a few bricks out of place, and a little soil, and just a trace

of quicklime. They’d never miss that.... They’ll dig for a week.”

I saw that the Professor thought my levity was ill-timed. There was

nothing new in that. But Bryant gave a fresh turn to the discussion.

“You say that Brett isn’t dead? Suppose he comes back while the

investigation’s proceeding?”

We looked at one another in consternation. In the condition in which I

had seen him last he would be an awkward fact to explain to the official

mind. I imagined the sarcasm of the prosecuting counsel as I told my

tale in the witness-box. Doubtless, the dock would follow. The Professor

was the only one who was unmoved by the suggestion.

“He cannot return now. Were he doing so, he would have been back before

to-night.”

“I have no doubt he is dead,” I added, “I think they had nearly finished

him when I saw him.”

“Yes,” said the Professor, “he will die during the year.” He was the

only one of us who was not confused in his tenses. He thought a moment,

and then turned to me seriously. “I regret the capillary singularity of

which you complain, but you will admit that you did not go without

warning. I am about to ask you a further favour. I want you to write a

careful narrative of your experiences, making it as accurate as is

possible to your journalistic mind. For this narrative, if it be written

promptly and clearly, I will give you £2000. I shall publish it,--as

fiction, if necessary,--and may recover the money.

“Afterwards, I hope that, in the interests of science, rather than for

any prospective pecuniary advantage, you will consent to explore this

strange world somewhat further. You have shown considerable adroitness

in avoiding its dangers, and you will have a great advantage over a less

experienced adventurer.”

He looked for my reply with a very real anxiety, and I answered slowly.

“I will write the book willingly, but as to going again,--well, I

wouldn’t do it alone. Perhaps, if Clara would come with me....”

“_Clara!_” exclaimed the Professor.

“Yes,” I said, “she might.... I know her better than you do.... I’ll

think it over.”

And so, here is the book. It isn’t all I saw or heard, and it leaves

much unexplained. How can a year of such experiences be clearly told, or

crowded into a single volume? But I have tried to be accurate.

As to adventuring once again,--well, it depends on Clara. I’ll ask her

now.