In orderly groups the domes lay, separated by wide thoroughfares, bands of palest blue that threaded the incredible city in every direction. In the wide spaces at the intersections were fountains—but fountains of weaving, vibrating light rather than water! They reminded Don of color organs, sending forth their brilliant symphonies in leaping, living streams, rather than projecting them upon flat, unresponsive screens.
Through the streets moved throngs of people, some hurrying, some wondering about idly; they were so far below the cliff-top that they looked like tiny, scurrying insects. Strangely, they seemed to clash with their surroundings.
THERE was one great discord in this fairyland of color, one break in the harmony. It was a spherical structure far larger than its domelike fellows, colored a drab, dull, dead gray! It stood apart from the other brilliant buildings, close to the wall, a thing of grim ugliness, something that did not belong.
“The Time Sphere,” the thought came from Gorg Merlo. He had mentioned it before, Don recalled idly.
Suddenly the strangest feature of the entire scene struck his senses. Despite all that motion and life and color—there was no sound! The city was silent; he could hear nothing but the howl of the arctic wind rushing past his ears. He looked questioningly at his little companion.
Gorg Merlo nodded his great head toward the hazy wall of blue. “Touch it!”
Obediently Don stretched forth his hand, thrust it against a surface of polished, metallic hardness; it vibrated with a curious, electrical warmth!
“A wall of energy,” Gorg Merlo answered his unspoken question, “created by the Great Brains to protect their city from the cold—and from the Black Ones! But even if the wall were not there, you would hear nothing—for in this place there is no sound save that created by the Time Exiles, and them you could not hear . . . But, come let us go down into the city.”
He began moving along the edge of the ice; about to follow, Don remembered the armored men and the brain-thing that had been following them. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned completely around astonished. They were not there!
The thought of Gorg Merlo seemed amazed. “I told you they were not real; they were no longer needed—so they vanished. Should they be required again, they—or others—will appear instantly.”
Don shook his head dubiously. This little man with a big head talked in riddles most of the time. A wall of energy, the Black Ones, the Time Exiles; men who came and vanished at will! . . . Abruptly he clamped his jaws together and frowned. He couldn’t understand a tenth of what was taking place—but he wouldn’t let it shake his nerve!
“Lead on, MacDuff,” he snapped. “I’m game!”
They followed the edge of the declivity for several hundred feet, then Gorg Merlo paused to inspect the wall with minute care—and stepped into it. He was surrounded by the blue mists, seeming to stand on the transparent substance of the wall, supported by it. “They permit us to enter,” he explained. Another riddle, Don thought, as he followed without hesitation.
Suddenly something gave way beneath them, and they began sliding swiftly down an enormous, invisible incline. It reminded Don of a great slide at some seashore resort, magnified a thousand times. But there was no wind, no rush of acceleration, no sound. Down, down they sped, swiftly—then abruptly their speed was checked and without a jar they came to rest on the valley floor.
Don stepped out of the azure wall behind Gorg Merlo into a realm of tropical warmth. He had not realized, until then, how cold he had been, despite the fur suit of the brute-man, Kwa. His face, ears, and hands were numb. But in this temperature he’d soon be comfortable.
“TO the Time Sphere,” the little man directed, and he moved toward the distant gray globe with Don following. Viewed from this comparative proximity, Don became aware of its enormity. It was a colossal structure fully five hundred feet in height. The surrounding brilliantly colored and highly polished domes, literally hemispheres, at their highest point, reached no more than twenty feet above the glass-smooth surface of the pale blue street. Don surveyed his surroundings cursorily—then forgot them in his interest in the people who thronged the streets.
Never had he seen so heterogeneous an aggregations of human beings. It seemed as though the Stream of Time had overflowed its banks, and had washed ashore beings from every age since the birth of humanity. Low browed, broad jowled brutes like Kwa brushed against intellectuals with huge heads and dwarfted bodies similar to Gorg Merlo; great yellow haired Vikings in their colorful trappings mingled with men of Don’s era. Yellow men, black men, brown men, there were, some in the depths of savagery, almost naked, others clad in strange, unfamiliar costumes, fierce warriors of forgotten ages. Men with heads slightly larger than Don’s; men from every age between that of Don and Gorg Merlo and some even beyond the latter!
But all, ail were men! No women, no children—only men in their prime! And all were silent; they spoke no word.
Wonderingly Don turned to Gorg Merlo. “What ails them? Why are they here?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Looks like a living record of the evolution of Man.”
Gorg Merlo answered audibly in this thin, uncertain voice, his words poorly pronounced, as before. “There’s still more t’ be seen. I’ll ’splain ’t all af’er we get t’ th’ Time Sphere. These’r on’y phan’oms—cr’at’d by th’ Gray Brain.” He supplemented his statements telepathically. “They are like the armored men who followed us over the ice, created by the Keeper, and directed by his thoughts.”
Through the moving, silent throng they made their way. The phantoms aroused within Don a sense of vast wonder. Purposely he touched some of them; they seemed solid enough—but then the wall of pale blue light had seemed solid too, and they had passed through it!
Another question occurred to Don. “Where are these Great Brains?”
“They’re in the domes, of course. Each dome contains a single white brain, resting on the widened top of a tall pedestal, their atrophied bodies dangling in the pedestals’ hollow centers. . . I saw one—the King of Thought—shortly after I arrived here.”
With his curiosity still only partly satisfied, Don moved on with his little companion toward the Time Sphere. In a short time they reached it; it towered above them like an ominous gray shadow.
In the base of the sphere Don saw the only doorway he was to see during his stay in the Kingdom of Thought. It was an ordinary opening, exactly like a doorway, except that Don could see no way of closing it. Together they approached it, and with Gorg Merlo leading, entered.
Don stopped short, a sudden droning hubbub of voices checking him like a physical force. Here the throng of the streets was depicted on a large scale—but these men were talking, some in ordinary conversational tones, others in violent discussion—an incredibly jumbled confusion of strange tongues.
The utter strangeness of the spectacle impressed Don. The interior of the dull gray sphere, illuminated by a circular disc of yellow light in the ceiling; tiers upon tiers of wide steps completely encircling the wall, except where they were interrupted by the door. They started from the floor and rose up majestically almost halfway to the top of the sphere. In the center of the globe a towering pedestal with a widened top supported the Gray Brain whose image Don had seen out on the ice; and about it thronged men in all stages of evolution, of different races, and clad in fantastic variations of costumes. Truly it was an amazing spectacle.
EXILES of Time. They were well named.
The motley gathering of men paid scant attention to the newcomers; a few of the nearer ones glanced in their direction as they entered, then ignored them. Gorg Merlo motioned toward one of the high steps, which apparently formed beds and seats for the Time Exiles.
As they approached it, there came a sharp, guttural growl from the throng, and a giant brute-man, fully as huge as Kwa, caught Don by the shoulder, spun him around, and sniffed at his reeking fur garments. His heavy lips drew back in a fearsome snarl, and he uttered a cry of mingled pain and
rage. Before Don knew what it was all about, he was seized in a powerful grasp and was swung high above the brute-man’s head!
Like a cat he squirmed in the mighty grip, striving to seize the other’s arms. But those great hands held him in an iron grasp. An involuntary cry escaped him as he felt the fingers tighten and start toward the floor.
Then abruptly a huge, light-haired figure leaped from a small group of Time Exiles, and with one motion caught Don and the arms of his assailant, and wrapped his legs around the latter’s hairy body. The three crashed to the floor in a tangled heap—and Don rolled free.
With a shout he sprang to his feet, his body crouched and his eyes blazing. A single, sweeping glance revealed Gorg Merlo rooted to the floor at a safe distance, the heterogeneous assembly of men ranged about him in a semi-circle, his unknown rescuer standing behind the slowly-rising brute-man, a grim smile on his strong face—and he saw the snarling visage of his attacker, with bared fangs and bloodshot eyes.
Simultaneously they sprang, the one heavy, lumbering, thick muscled; the other quick, wiry, light-footed. They met with a solid impact, and Don’s left arm drove out with whip-lash speed, his clenched fist cracking on the brute’s face. The knuckles came away bloodstained, where the flesh had split on the high cheek bone.
Leaping back, Don waited. The hairy one followed with a sort of awkward, sprawling attack, and Don gave ground on tip-toe, both fists beating a rapid tattoo on his enemy’s face, body and jaw. The other only bared his teeth, and his snarl grew louder. Not once did he attempt to strike a blow, but his long hands groped hungrily for a hold.
Suddenly Don changed his mode of attack. He rushed in, swung both fists heavily to the body, and, the force of his rush carrying him, clinched. Immediately he regretted the action, for a hand like hot steel tore at his throat, and another gripped his side, sinking deeper and deeper. With a tremendous straining effort he managed to wriggle one arm up and push his elbow into the corded neck of the other, who coughed in a strangled way as he hurled Don from him, stumbling after him to secure a new hold. The watchers yelled excitedly in many strange tongues. In and out the fighters swayed, Don retreating steadily, lashing home a crushing fist whenever opportunity presented itself. He knew that to come to grips with the brute-man a second time would almost certainly end the battle. His blows seemed to have little effect; but he had a plan.
With a sudden little backward spurt around the edge of the encircling mob, he widened the distance between them.
Crouching, he flung himself forward in a ferocious tackle, wrapped his arms around the other’s legs. The huge bulk crashed to the smooth, hard floor with stunning force.
Don was on his knees in an instant, his expression one of anger and triumph. Viciously he buried his fingers, clawlike, in the monster’s throat. Straining his wiry muscles, he raised the great head and body and beat them against the floor. The face below him contorted horribly with pain, and the great mouth jarred open, a choking gasp coming from between the yellow fangs.
Slowly Don’s face cleared, and his grip relaxed. After all, he had no quarrel with this primitive man. He didn’t even know why he had been attacked—unless this was a friend of Kwa. Quickly he arose, dragging his vanquished assailant with him.
“Have enough?” he demanded.
The savage looked at him for an instant with fear and hatred in his eyes; then he stumbled to his feet, turned and shambled away, losing himself in the crowd.
“THUNDER of God, man, a goodly combat!” A deep, sonorous voice spoke behind Don Steele. “Not since far off Merry England have I seen better!”
Whirling, Don came face to face with the blond giant who had saved him from being dashed to the floor. Instantly he thrust out his hand, smiling broadly.
“Thanks, friend—if it hadn’t been for you, there wouldn’t’ve been a scrap. You stepped in when you were needed most.”
The other caught the extended hand and wrung it, shaking his head in negation.
“Nay, friend; I but saw that fair play was done. And if I had had my good sword, I’d have run him through, as a butcher spits his roast. But ’twere a shame to stain bright steel with the blood of a beast—and unnecessary, by the saints!”
Don smiled at the odd speech of his new-found friend, and very frankly surveyed him. The Englishman, he observed, was doing likewise for him.
Don saw a herculean figure in a sleeveless leather jacket with breeches of the same material. A heavy belt looped from his right shoulder to his left hip, supporting an empty sheath, designed to hold a mighty weapon. Thick, yellow hair; a high forehead that retreated at almost the same angle as the nose; lips somewhat compressed, but smiling now; a strong, square jaw—these completed the picture.
“I’m Don Steele,” Don said cordially. “And what’s your name, buddy? And how’d you happen to get here? How long ago?”
“Steele! A goodly name, in very sooth. I am Peter Northam, a maker of swords in London Town. Many a fine blade have I hammered out on my anvil. As for my coming to this accursed place—verily do I believe it to be black magic, the work of the devil! But a few days since, I labored beside my forge in free England in the year of our Lord, 1484; a little joust with four knaves on the highway, the flat of a sword on my skull; and now I am in this heathen land, surrounded by beings no man ever saw. Mayhap we’re dead, and this is the devil’s domain!”
He chuckled deep in his throat. “Thunder of God, it is good to hear words that can be understood—though the manner of your speech is passing strange.”
Don smiled. “Looks like we’re in the same boat, Peter. About five hundred years between us—but that’s only a drop in the bucket compared with the hop into time that both of us seem to have taken.
“BROTHERS three!” the thought came from Gorg Merlo. “Peter, Don, and Gorg—brother Exiles in Time.”
Don Steele and Peter Northam faced the little man with the great head. There was surprise on the Englishman’s face, for he had received the thought, knew its source, but could not determine how it had come.
“The hairy one is the brother of Kwa whom you killed, Don; he recognized the furs. Better that you remove them, for you will have no need of them here.”
While Don divested himself of the uncured hides, Gorg Merlo spoke to Peter Northam in his creaking voice. “Pet’r, there’s much ’n this age ye can’t und’stand—but jus’ f’rget’t. I’ll ’splain some things—th’ res’ ’gnore. Mos’ ’f th’ time I won’ talk—jus’ think th’ mess’ge, but don’t be puzzl’d; ’t’s quite natur’l . . . I’m Gorg Merlo.”
The Englishman grinned, stretched out his hand, and grasped the other’s diminutive one.
“M’ lord Gorg, I am your man! In this mad place sane men must needs stand back to back.” He indicated Don Steele. “This lad is much to my liking, albeit a little strange of speech, even as you are; and it is plain that a great and mighty brains fills your skull. So, as you wish it, I’ll be brother to the twain of ye, I swear it “I’ God’s name!”
Casting aside the heap of furs, Don nodded quickly. “It’s a go!”
“I am agreed,” Gorg Merlo added telepathically. “It is as it should be . . . But come; let us climb to the top of the steps; there I have my tools, and can fashion a suit like mine for both of you while I explain things that you should know.”
He led the way through the strange assemblage, up past men lounging on the steps, to the very top. There, beside a long, flat box of the same silvery metal that formed Gorg Merlo’s garments, they sank down. Don looked at the box questioningly. How was it that no one had molested it while its owner was away?
“It is a rule of the Keeper that no one may disturb the possessions of another,” Gorg Merlo answered his thought, “and the Keeper’s word is law. None can disobey even if they wish to do so.”
Opening the box by pressing upon two of its comers, he took out a number of intricate tools and instruments, and a long bolt of silvery cloth. With these he set to work; and as his fin
gers began forming two costumes like his own for Don Steele and Peter Northam, his mind explained some of the mysteries of the Kingdom of Thought.
First, though handicapped by the Englishman’s lack of basic knowledge, he strove to give him a conception of the Time Channel and the occurrence that had placed him in his present predicament. Then, with his broad, high forehead wrinkled in thought, he addressed them both.
“In order that you may fully comprehend my later statements I believe I had better start at the beginning—the very beginning of life on this earth. You, Peter, may be unable to grasp the meaning of some of my thoughts, but do not be concerned; the essentials will be clear.
“When dead matter began as a one-celled mass of protoplasm, it was almost as inert as matter—though, obviously, as in all matter, its molecules, atoms, and electrons were in motion. It took a stationary form as if the vital impulse were too weak to risk the adventure of motion. But life was not content with a static existence; that was contrary to its nature; it began a slow change, a gradual growth, an advance away from the security of inaction toward freedom. At first that growth—evolution—was entirely a matter of instinct, a blind groping in the dark. For ages it was so.
“But after countless centuries of slow progress, life began to branch out along three lines of evolution. In one it relapsed into the torpor of plants whose sole aim was security; in another its spirit and effort concentrated and congealed into pure instinct—the insects; but in the vertebrate it took the dare of freedom, cast off its readymade instincts, and ventured forth into the endless risks of thought!
Forgotten Fiction Page 36
