“Perhaps you would like to meet some of my friends now?"
The apartments extended for a hundred yards along the face of the mountain and for unmeasured distances into the mountain. The thirty-odd persons in residence were far from crowded; there were many rooms not in use. In the course of the morning Bierce introduced them to most of the inhabitants.
They seemed to be of all sorts and ages and of several nationalities. Most of them were occupied in one way, or another, usually with some form of research, or with creative art. At least Bierce assured them in several cases that research was in progress — cases in which no apparatus, no recording device, nothing was evident to indicate scientific research.
Once they were introduced to a group of three, two women and a man, who were surrounded by the physical evidence of their work — biological research. But the circumstances were still confusing; two of the trio sat quietly by, doing nothing, while the third labored at a bench. Bierce explained that they were doing some delicate experiments in the possibility of activating artificial colloids. Ben inquired, “Are the other two observing the work?"
Bierce shook his head. “Oh, no. They are all three engaged actively in the work, but at this particular stage they find it expedient to let three brains in rapport direct one set of hands."
Rapport, it developed, was the usual method of collaboration. Bierce had led them into a room occupied by six persons. One or two of them looked up and nodded, but did not speak.
Bierce motioned for the three to come away. “They were engaged in a particularly difficult piece of reconstruction; it would not be polite to disturb them."
“But Mr. Bierce," Phil commented, “two of them were playing chess."
“Yes. They did not need that part of their brains, so they left it out of rapport. Nevertheless they were very busy."
It was easier to see what the creative artists were doing. In two instances, however, their methods were startling. Bierce had taken them to the studio of a little gnome of a man, a painter in oil, who was introduced simply as Charles.
He seemed glad to see them and chatted vivaciously, without ceasing his work. He was doing, with meticulous realism but with a highly romantic effect, a study of a young girl dancing, a wood nymph, against a pine forest background.
The young people each made appropriate appreciative comments. Coburn commented that it was remarkable that he should be able to be so accurate in his anatomical detail without the aid of a model.
“But I have a model," he answered. “She was here last week. See?" He glanced toward the empty model’s throne. Coburn and his companions followed the glance, and saw, poised on the throne, a young girl, obviously the model for the picture, frozen in the action of the painting.
She was as real as bread and butter.
Charles glanced away. The model’s throne was again vacant.
The second instance was not so dramatic, but still less comprehensible. They had met, and chatted with, a Mrs. Draper, a comfortable, matronly soul, who knitted and rocked as they talked.
After they had left her Phil inquired about her.
“She is possibly our most able and talented artist," Bierce told him.
“In what field?"
Bierce’s shaggy eyebrows came together as he chose his words. “I don’t believe I can tell you adequately at this time. She composes moods — arranges emotional patterns in harmonic sequences. It’s our most advanced and our most completely human form of art, and yet, until you have experienced it, it is very difficult for me to tell you about it."
“How is it possible to arrange emotions?"
“Your great grandfather no doubt thought it impossible to record music. We have a technique for it. You will understand later."
“Is Mrs. Draper the only one who does this?"
“Oh no. Most of us try our hand at it. It’s our favorite art form. I work at it myself but my efforts aren’t popular — too gloomy."
The three talked it over that night in the living room they had first entered.This suite had been set aside for their use, and Bierce had left them with the simple statement that he would call on them on the morrow.
They felt a pressing necessity to exchange views, and yet each was reluctant to express opinion. Phil broke the silence..“What kind of people are these? They make me feel as if I were a child who had wandered in where adults were working, but that they were too polite to put me out."
“Speaking of working — there’s something odd about the way they work. I don’t mean what it is they do — that’s odd, too, but it’s something else, something about their attitude, or the tempo at which they work."
“I know what you mean, Ben," Joan agreed, “they are busy all the time, and yet they act as if they had all eternity to finish it. Bierce was like that when he was strapping up your leg. They never hurry." She turned to Phil. “What are you frowning about?"
“I don’t know. There is something else we haven’t mentioned yet. They have a lot of special talents, sure, but we three know something about special talents — that ought not to confuse us. But there is something else about them that is different."
The other two agreed with him but could offer no help. Sometime later Joan said that she was going to bed and left the room. The two men stayed for a last cigaret.
Joan stuck her head back in the room. “I know what it is that is so different about these people," she announced, — “They are so alive."
Chapter Six
Ichabod!
Philip Huxley went to bed and to sleep as usual. From there on nothing was usual.
He became aware that he was inhabiting another’s body, thinking with another’s mind. The Other was aware of Huxley, but did not share Huxley’s thoughts.
The Other was at home, a home never experienced by Huxley, yet familiar. It was on Earth, incredibly beautiful, each tree and shrub fitting into the landscape as if placed there in the harmonic scheme of an artist. The house grew out of the ground.
The Other left the house with his wife and prepared to leave for the capital of the planet.
Huxley thought of the destination as a “capital" yet he knew that the idea of government imposed by force was foreign to the nature of these people. The “capital" was merely the accustomed meeting place of the group whose advice was followed in matters affecting the entire race.
The Other and his wife, accompanied by Huxley’s awareness, stepped into the garden, shot straight up into the air, and sped over the countryside, flying hand in hand. The country was green, fertile, park — like, dotted with occasional buildings, but nowhere did Huxley see the jammed masses of a city.
They passed rapidly over a large body of water, perhaps as large as the modern Mediterranean, and landed in a clearing in a grove of olive trees.
The Young Men — so Huxley thought of them — demanded a sweeping change in custom, first, that the ancient knowledge should henceforth be the reward of ability rather than common birthright, and second, that the greater should rule the lesser. Loki urged their case, his arrogant face upthrust and crowned with bright red hair. He spoke in words, a method which disturbed Huxley’s host, telepathic rapport being the natural method of mature discussion. But Loki had closed his mind to it.
Jove answered him, speaking for all: “My son, your words seem vain and without serious meaning. We can not tell your true meaning, for you and your brothers have decided to shut your minds to us. You ask that the ancient knowledge be made the reward of ability. Has it not always been so? Does our cousin, the ape, fly through the air? Is not the infant soul bound by hunger, and sleep, and the ills of the flesh? Can the oriole level the mountain with his glance? The powers of our kind that set us apart from the younger spirits on this planet are now exercised by those who possess the ability, and none other. How can we make that so which is already so?
“You demand that the greater shall rule the lesser. Is it not so now? Has it not always been so? Are you ordered about by the babe at the breast? Do
es the waving of the grass cause the wind? What dominion do you desire other than over yourself? Do you wish to tell your brother when to sleep and when to eat? If so, to what purpose?"
Vulcan broke in while the old man was still speaking. Huxley felt a stir of shocked repugnance go through the council at this open disregard of good manners..“Enough of this playing with words. We know what we want; you know what we want. We are determined to take it, council or no. We are sick of this sheeplike existence. We are tired of this sham equality. We intend to put on end to it. We are the strong and the able, the natural leaders of mankind. The rest shall follow us and serve us, as is the natural order of things."
Jove’s eyes rested thoughtfully on Vulcan’s crooked leg. “You should let me heal that twisted limb, my son.
“No one can heal my limb!"
“No. No one but yourself. And until you heal the twist in your mind, you can not heal the twist in your limb."
“There is no twist in my mind!"
“Then heal your limb."
The young man stirred uneasily. They could see that Vulcan was making a fool of himself.
Mercury separated himself from the group and came forward.
“Hear me. Father. We do not purpose warring with you. Rather it is our intention to add to your glory. Declare yourself king under the sun. Let us be your legates to extend your rule to every creature that walks, or crawls, or swims. Let us create for you the pageantry of dominion, the glory of conquest. Let us conserve the ancient knowledge for those who understand it, and provide instead for lesser beings the drama they need. There is no reason why every way should be open to everyone. Rather, if the many serve the few, then will our combined efforts speed us faster on our way, to the profit of master and servant alike. Lead us. Father! Be our King!"
Slowly the elder man shook his head. “Not so. There is no knowledge, other than knowledge of oneself, and that should be free to every man who has the wit to learn. There is no power, other than the power to rule oneself, and that can be neither given, nor taken away. As for the poetry of empire, that has all been done before. There is no need to do it again. If such romance amuses you, enjoy it in the records — there is no need to bloody the planet again."
“That is the final word of the council. Father?"
“That is our final word." He stood up and gathered his robe about him, signifying that the session had ended. Mercury shrugged his shoulders and joined his fellows.
There was one more session of the council — the last — called to decide what to do about the ultimatum of the Young Men. Not every member of the council thought alike; they were as diverse as any group of human beings. They were human beings — not supermen. Some held out for opposing the Young Men with all the forces at their command — translate them to another dimension, wipe their minds clean, even crush them by major force.
But to use force on the Young Men was contrary to their whole philosophy. “Free will is the primary good of the Cosmos. Shall we degrade, destroy, all that we have worked for by subverting the will of even one man?"
Huxley became aware that these Elders had no need to remain on Earth. They were anxious to move on to another place, the nature of which escaped Huxley, save that it was not of the time and space he knew.
The issue was this: Had they done what they could to help the incompletely developed balance of the race? Were they justified in abdicating?
The decision was yes, but a female member of the council, whose name, it seemed to Huxley, was Demeter, argued that records should be left to help those who survived the inevitable collapse. “It is true that each member of the race must make himself strong, must make himself wise. We cannot make them wise. Yet, after famine and war and hatred have stalked the earth, should there not be a message, telling them of their heritage?" The council agreed, and Huxley’s host, recorder for the council, was ordered to prepare records and to leave them for those who would come after. Jove added an injunction: “Bind the force patterns so that they shall not dissipate while this planet endures. Place them where they will outlast any local convulsions of the crust, so that some at least will carry down through time."
So ended that dream. But Huxley did not wake — he started at once to dream another dream, not through the eyes of another, but rather as if he watched a stereo-movie, every scene of which was familiar to him.
The first dream, for all its tragic content, had not affected him tragically; but throughout the second dream he was oppressed by a feeling of heartbreak and overpowering weariness.
After the abdication of the Elders, the Young Men carried out their purpose, they established their rule. By fire and sword, searing rays and esoteric forces, chicanery and deception.
Convinced of their destiny to rule, they convinced themselves that the end justified the means.
The end was empire — Mu, mightiest of empires and mother of empires.
Huxley saw her in her prime and felt almost that the Young Men had been right — for she was glorious! The heart-choking magnificence filled his eyes with tears; he mourned for the glory, the beautiful breathtaking glory that was hers, and is no more.
Gargantuan silent liners in her skies, broadbeamed vessels at her wharves, loaded with grain and hides and spices, procession of priest and acolyte and humble believer, pomp and pageantry of power — he saw her intricate patterns of beauty and mourned her passing.
But in her swelling power there was decay. Inevitably Atlantis, her richest colony, grew to political maturity and was irked by subordinate status. Schism and apostasy, disaffection and treason, brought harsh retaliation — and new rebellion.
Rebellions rose, were crushed. At last one rose that was not crushed. In less than a month two-thirds of the people of the globe were dead; the remainder were racked by disease and hunger, and left with germ plasm damaged by the forces they had loosed. But priests still held the ancient knowledge.
Not priests secure in mind and proud of their trust, but priests hunted and fearful, who had seen their hierarchy totter. There were such priests on both sides — and they unchained forces compared with which the previous fighting had been gentle.
The forces disturbed the isostatic balance of the earth’s crust.
Mu shuddered and sank some two thousand feet. Tidal waves met at her middle, broke back, surged twice around the globe, climbed the Chinese plains, lapped the feet of Alta Himalaya.
Atlantis shook and rumbled and split for three days before the water covered it.
A few escaped by air, to land on ground still wet with the ooze of exposed seabottom, or on peaks high enough to fend off the tidal waves. There they had still to wring a living from the bare soil, with minds unused to primitive art — but some survived.
Of Mu there was not a trace. As for Atlantis, a few islands, mountaintops short days before, marked the spot. Waters rolled over the twin Towers of the Sun and fish swam through the gardens of the viceroy.
The woebegone feeling which had pursued Huxley now overwhelmed him. He seemed to hear a voice in his head: “Woe! Cursed be Loki! Cursed be Venus! Cursed be Vulcan! Thrice cursed am I, their apostate servant, Orab, Archpriest of the Isles of the Blessed. Woe is me! Even as I curse I long for Mu, mighty and sinful. Twenty-one years ago, seeking a place to die, on this mountaintop I stumbled on this record of the mighty ones who were before us. Twenty-one years I have labored to make the record complete, searching the dim recesses of my mind for knowledge long unused, roaming the other planes for knowledge I never had. Now in the eight hundred and ninety-second year of my life, and of the destruction of Mu the three hundred and fifth, I, Orab, return to my fathers."
Huxley was very happy to wake up.
Chapter Seven
“The Fathers Have Eaten Sour Grapes,
and the Children’s Teeth Are Set on Edge"
Ben was in the living room when Phil came in to breakfast. Joan arrived almost on Phil’s heels. There were shadows under her eyes and she looked unhappy. Ben spoke in a t
one that was almost surly, “What’s troubling you, Joan? You look like the wrath to come."
“Please, Ben," she answered, in a tired voice, “don’t heckle me. I’ve had bad dreams all night,"
“That so? Sorry — but if you think you had bad dreams all night, you should have seen the cute little nightmares I’ve been riding."
Phil looked at the two of them. “Listen — have you both had odd dreams all night?"
“Wasn’t that what we were just saying?" Ben sounded exasperated.
“What did you dream about?"
Neither one answered him.
“Wait a minute. I had some very strange dreams myself." He pulled his notebook out of a pocket and tore out three sheets. “I want to find out something. Will you each write down what your dreams were about, before anyone says anything more? Here’s a pencil, Joan."
They balked a little, but complied.
“Read them aloud, Joan."
She picked up Ben’s slip and read," 'I dreamed that your theory about the degeneracy of the human race was perfectly correct.’ “
She put it down and picked up Phil’s slip." 'dreamt that I was present at the Twilight of the Gods, and that I saw the destruction of Mu and Atlantis.’ “
There was dead silence as she took the last slip, her own.
“My dream was about how the people destroyed themselves by rebelling against Odin."
Ben was first to commit himself. “Anyone of those slips could have applied to my dreams."
Joan nodded. Phil got up again, went out, and returned at once with his diary.
He opened it and handed it to Joan.
“Kid, will you read that aloud — starting with 'June sixteenth’?"
She read it through slowly, without looking up from the pages. Phil waited until she had finished and closed the book before speaking. “Well," he said, “well?"
Ben crushed out a cigaret which had burned down to his fingers. “It’s a remarkably accurate description of my dream, except that the elder you call Jove, I thought of as Ahuramazda."
Off The Main Sequence Page 43
