The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

  Gaynor’s voice rustled dryly. “They were humanoid, Wade, the people who build that ship. If nothing else made sense, the things we saw showed that. But the people who made that ship were not of the city. They we’re spawned on some planet circling another sun.”

  “They came here,” Harlan rasped. “They came—and they left that ship behind—Jon…they came…and they never left this World—”

  “Wade—I’m thinking. There might have been other ships—”

  Harlan touched the butt of his positron blaster, and his face was pale. “We’ve got to look, Jon. That’s something we’ve got to know.”

  They lifted into the air. Circling and dipping, they searched. The sun was at zenith when they found the second ship. By mid-afternoon they had found a third and a fourth. The fourth was the Ark, the hyperspacial cruiser in which old Mark Gaynor and his band of Purists had left the Earth some one hundred and twenty years before.

  The four ships which Gaynor and Harlan had found had two things in common. Each had been built by a different humanoid people, and each was completely deserted. Other than this, there was no basis of comparison between them. Each was separate and distinct, unique in its alienness. Even the Ark, long outmoded, seemed strange.

  In the Ark, Gaynor and Harlan found nothing to indicate what had happened to its passengers. Everything was orderly and neat—more, even in the most excellent condition. Nothing written had been left behind, not the slightest scrap of rotting paper.

  Gaynor whispered, “They did come here, then. And the same thing happened to them that happened to all the rest of the people who landed here. The same thing, I’m sure, that happened to the builders of the city. Why did they leave these ships behind? Where did they go? What could have happened to them?”

  Harlan shook his red head somberly. “We’d better not know that. If we stay and try to find out, the same thing will happen to us. That government expedition which discovered this planet encountered the same mystery—but they didn’t try to find out. They returned to Earth. Jon—we’d better get back to the Paragon. We’d better leave while we can.”

  “And in time more people would come to settle here. And there would be more empty ships.” Gaynor’s lips tightened to a stubborn line. “Wade—I’m not leaving until I crack the mystery of this place. I’m going to find what happened to old Mark and the Purists. We’ve been warned—we’ll be on the alert.”

  Harlan met Gaynor’s determined gaze, and then he looked away. He moistened his lips. After a long moment he gave a stiff nod. His voice was very low.

  “Then we’ve got to start at the beginning, Jon. Those pictures—”

  “Yes, Wade, the pictures. I’m sure they hold the answer to the whole thing. We’ve got to find that beginning. You’ve noticed how the city is strung out. At one end is the beginning, at the other—”

  “The end!” Harlan said abruptly. “No. Wade. The answer.”

  They returned first to the Paragon, to satisfy pangs of hunger too intense to be ignored any longer. Then, donning their antigravity flight units once more, they took to the air. They circled several times, set out finally for a point on the horizon where the city thinned out and finally terminated.

  Their flight ended at a single, slender tower set in the midst of a park-like expanse. That they had reached the end of the city, they knew, for ahead of them no other building was in sight. They floated to the ground, stared silently at the tower. It glowed with a chaste whiteness in the late afternoon light—serene, somewhat aloof, lovely in its simplicity and solitariness.

  Harlan spoke softly. “The beginning? Or—the end?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” Gaynor responded. “We’re going in there, Wade.”

  The interior of the tower was dark and cool, filled with the solemn hush of a cathedral. It consisted solely of one great room, its ceiling lost in sheerness of height. And except for the ever-present wall paintings, it was empty—utterly bare.

  Gaynor and Harlan gazed at the paintings, and then they looked at each other, and slowly they nodded. Silently they left.

  “That…that wasn’t the beginning,” Harlan stated slowly.

  “No, Wade. That was the end. The beginning lies on the opposite side of the city. But we’ll have to postpone our investigation until morning. We wouldn’t reach the other end of the city until dark.”

  They returned to the Paragon. The sun was setting behind the towers of the city to the east, sinking into a glory of rose and gold. Slowly the paling fingers of its radiance withdrew from the city. Night came in all its starry splendor.

  * * * *

  Gaynor and Harlan were up with the dawn. Eagerness to be back at their investigations fired them. They hurried impatiently through breakfast. Then, attaching kits of emergency ration concentrates to their belts and donning their antigravity flight units, they took to the air.

  As they flew, Gaynor and Harlan had to remind themselves that this was the second day of their visit and not the first, so closely did the new day resemble the one preceding. Nothing had changed. The city beneath them still dreamed on. And far away and high in the blue, glittering clouds of the crystal creatures darted and danced, their chimings and tinklings sounding like echoes of melody from an elfin world.

  The sun was bright and warm when Gaynor and Harlan reached the end of the city opposite the one which they had investigated the day before. Here they found no slender tower. There was nothing to show that this part of the city was in any way different from the rest. The general plan of tower-encircled courts was the same as everywhere else. The city merely terminated—or looking at it the other way, merely began.

  Gaynor and Harlan glided down into one of the very first of the tower-encircled courts. They touched ground, switched off their flight units, stood gazing slowly about them.

  Gaynor muttered, “The beginning? Or—Maybe we were wrong, Wade. Maybe there is no beginning.”

  “Those towers should tell us,” Harlan said. “Let’s have a look inside them, Jon.”

  They entered an arching doorway, strode into a great foyer. Within this they had their first indication that this part of the city actually was different from the rest. For within the foyer was no dais and force shaft as they had found previously. Instead, a broad stairway led to the floors above.

  They mounted the stairs. The walls of the first apartment they investigated were covered with paintings, as everywhere else, but this time the spacious rooms were not empty. They were furnished. Gaynor and Harlan gazed upon softly gleaming objects which very clearly were tables and chairs, deep, luxurious couches, and cabinets of various sizes and shapes. At first everything seemed strange to them, and as they glanced about, they found themselves comparing the furniture to that which they had seen in homes on Earth. And after a while things no longer seemed strange at all.

  Gaynor blinked his eyes rapidly several times. He frowned puzzledly. “Wade—either I’m crazy, or this room has changed.”

  Harlan was gazing at the wall paintings. His voice came as from far away. “Changed? Why, yes. Things are as they should be—now.”

  Gaynor gazed at the walls, and then he nodded. “That’s right, Wade. Of course.”

  Gaynor walked over to a low cabinet. Somewhere before he had seen a cabinet like this one. He felt that he should know its purpose, yet it eluded him. He stared at it musingly. And then he remembered something—his eyes lifted to the paintings on the wall. No. The other wall? Yes.

  Gaynor looked at the cabinet again—and now a slow murmur of melody arose within the room. Hauntingly familiar, poignantly sweet, yet formless. Gaynor looked at the walls again. The melody shaped itself, grow stronger, and the lilting strains of a space-man’s song flooded richly through the room.

  I’m blasting the far trails,

  Following the star trails,

  Taking the home trails,

&n
bsp; Back, dear, to you—

  “The Star Trails Home to You,” Gaynor whispered. Sudden nostalgia washed over him in a wave. Home. The Earth—His eyes lifted to the walls, and he was comforted.

  Gaynor looked around for Harlan. He found the other standing before a second cabinet across the room. Gaynor approached him, noting as he did so that Harlan stood strangely rigid and still. In alarm, Gaynor ran the remaining distance. Harlan did not seem to notice. His face was rapt, trancelike.

  Gaynor grasped Harlan’s arm, shook him. “Wade! Wade—what is it? Snap out of it?”

  Harlan stirred. Expression came back into his features—his eyes sharped upon Gaynor’s face. “What…what— Oh, it’s you, Jon. She…she had red hair, and…and her arms were around me, and—”

  Harlan broke off, flushing.

  * * * *

  Investigation of the cabinets in the other rooms produced still more interesting results. One had a spigot projecting from its front, with a catch-basin below, much like a drinking fountain. Gaynor looked at the wall paintings, and then he looked at the spigot, and suddenly liquid jetted from it. He tasted it cautiously, nodded approvingly, not at all surprised.

  “Scotch,” he said. “I’ll have it with soda.”

  “Hurry up, then,” Harlan prompted impatiently.

  There was another cabinet that they found particularly interesting. This one had a foot-square opening in its front, and after Gaynor and Harlan had gotten their proper instructions from the paintings, they moved on—each munching at a delicious leg of roast chicken.

  Not all the cabinets produced things which were edible or audible, but all opened up new vistas of thought and experience. Gaynor and Harlan learned the purpose of each, and already in their minds they were devising new methods of test and application. The wall paintings were very expressive, and they were learning rapidly.

  That was the beginning—After the cabinets, which supplied every possible physical or mental want, came the machines. Simple things at first, for Gaynor and Harlan were still in the equivalent of kindergarten. But they were humanoid—and, therefore, inquisitive. The machines were delightful and of absorbing interest. Once their purpose and function became known, however, their novelty died, and Gaynor and Harlan quested on for new fields to conquer. Thus, in a very few days, they moved to the next unit.

  Here was the same plan of tower-encircled court, but the cabinets and machines had become more complicated, more difficult of operation. But Gaynor and Harlan had become quite adept at reading the wall paintings which were their primers. They learned—

  Instruction followed application, and in a very few days, again, Gaynor and Harlan moved on. Thus they went, from unit to unit, and always the wall paintings pointed out the way.

  The sun rose and the sun set, and the city dreamed on. And always, high in the sky, the crystal creatures circled and soared, tinkling and chiming. The days passed gently, mere wraiths of sunlight.

  The machines grew larger, more intricate, ever more difficult of solution. Each was a new test upon the growing knowledge of Gaynor and Harlan. And each test was harder than the last, for the wall paintings no longer pointed out the way, but merely hinted now.

  * * * *

  Gaynor and Harlan progressed more slowly, though none the less steadily. They were not impatient. They had no sense of restless striving toward a future goal. They lived for the present. They were submerged heart and soul in the never-ending fascinations of their environment to the exclusion of all else.

  The machines continued to grow larger. At one point they were so huge, that a single machine filled an entire apartment. But that was the climax, for afterward the machines grew smaller, ever smaller, until at last they came to a unit the apartments of which were empty. Empty, that is, except for the wall paintings and the jewels in their niches.

  Harlan peered about him, frowning. “I seem to remember this place.”

  “It is familiar,” Gaynor said. His brows drew together, and after a time he nodded. “We were here before, I think. But that was many days ago, when we were children.”

  “Yes—when we were children. I recall it, now.” Harlan smiled reminiscently. “It is strange we knew so little as children that it should be so easily forgotten.”

  “Yes, we have grown. The memories of childhood are very dim. I can recall some things, but they are not very clear. There was a purpose that brought us to the city. A purpose—But what else could it have been than to learn? And there was a mystery. But there is nothing mysterious about the city, nothing strange at all. Mere imaginings of childhood perhaps—meaningless trifles at best. We will not let them concern us now. We have grown.”

  Harlan nodded gravely, and his blue eyes, deep with an ocean of new knowledge, lifted to the painting-covered walls. “Events of the past should no longer concern us. We have entered upon the Third Stage. The tasks of this alone should occupy our thoughts.”

  “Yes—the past has been left behind.” Gaynor was looking at the walls. “The Third Stage. The tasks will be very difficult, Wade—but interesting. We’ll be putting our knowledge into practice—actually creating. This means we’ll have to deal directly with the powers of the various soldani and varoo. As these are extra-dimensional, control will be solely by cholthening at the sixth level, through means of the taadron. We’ll have to be careful, though—any slightest relaxation of the sorran will have a garreling effect—”

  “I guessed that. But there must be some way to minimize the garreling effect, if it should occur.”

  “A field of interwoven argroni of the eighth order should prevent it from becoming overpowering.”

  “We can try it. You’re working on the woratis patterns?”

  “Yes. I’ve managed to cholthen them into the fifth stage of development.”

  “Mine’s the vandari patterns. I’ve found them more interesting than those of the woratis. Fourth stage of development. I’m starting at once. I’ll use the next room.”

  * * * *

  Harlan left, and Gaynor took the jewel from its niche—the taadron, that is—and set his cholthening power at the sixth level. The thing flamed gloriously in his hand—light pulsed out in great, soft waves, washed over the wall paintings, made them glow with exquisite richness. Unearthly melody filled the room, tuneless, silver-sweet. Gaynor was creating. And as he did so, things began to take on form and substance within the room—things which might have been machines, but weren’t machines, because they were intelligent and alive in a way no machine can ever be. Finally, Gaynor and his creations communicated. It was somewhat difficult at first, but he was well along now, and took the difficulty in his stride.

  Gaynor learned things—just as, in the other room, Harlan was learning, too. And then he took up the taadron again and cholthened. The things which he had created vanished. He began to develop the woratis patterns into the fifth stage—

  * * * *

  Bright day blended into bright day, gently, unnoticeably. The city floated on the gentle, green swells of the planet, and floating, dreamed.

  After a time, Gaynor and Harlan moved on to the next unit. Then the next—and the next. Soon it came to pass that they entered the Fourth Stage. This, they knew, was the last one, but what came afterward did not worry them. They had reached a level of mind which was beyond all worrying.

  The Third Stage had changed them greatly, though they were not aware of it. They would not have been concerned even if they had. They no longer used their natural vocal apparatus, now, for they had come to think in terms which simply could not have been put into words. They had become telepathic, conversing in pure ideas of the highest order. And they no longer materialized their food from the atoms of the air. A simple rearrangement of their body cells—simple, when understood as they understood it—now enabled them to feed directly upon certain nourishing extra-dimensional subatomic energies. And the antigravity
flight units, which they had reduced to the size of peas for convenience, were now discarded entirely. They had learned to fly without the aid of any device.

  The Fourth Stage changed them still further. They created now—the word does not quite describe their activities—without the aid of the taadron, for they had learned to ennathen, which was as great an advancement over cholthening as telepathy is over speech. Thus it came about that Gaynor and Harlan—or the beings who once had been Gaynor and Harlan—found their bodies an annoying encumbrance. For arms and legs, heart and lungs, and the senses and nerves which use of these required, had become quite unnecessary to them. They had outgrown these impedimenta of their childhood.

  They spoke of this now by a telepathic means that was not quite telepathy, and they wondered what to do. For though they had mastered well the wall paintings which were their college textbooks, there was no clear answer. Their discussion of the problem could not have been made understandable, however roughly it might have been put, but suffice it to say that at last they reached a decision.

  They had progressed from one end of the city to the edge of the other. Not quite the edge, though—for there was one building in which they had not yet narleened. They had examined it before, of course, but that was when they had been children—in those dim, pale days when they did not understand.

  They decided to vogelar to this very last building. Here, perhaps, every question would be answered.

  It was dawn when they vogelared through the arching doorway. The first feeble rays of morning crept through the opening—the interior of the Temple was very dark and cool. All the dreaming of the city seemed to be concentrated here in one vast stillness.

  The beings who once had been Gaynor and Harlan narleened the paintings on the walls of the Temple, gazed upon them with this new, all-embracing sense which went far beyond the limited realms of mere vision—so that almost the paintings spoke to them and they answered back. They narleened the paintings.