Forgotten Fiction

by Lloyd Eshbach

  “Centuries passed—centuries beyond number, while this slow, steady evolution continued. During that time instinct still remained, but intelligence grew ever stronger and bolder and wider in its scope. It began to exercise some control over the progress of men, weak, unconscious control at first, it is true—but it was the beginning of real progress. Before that impulse and desire were the active, though instinctive, forces in evolution; afterward it was mind—thought—that controlled.

  “LET us consider mind and thought. To begin, we perceive things through our senses—since we have not yet reached the point where intelligence can dispense with them. These tools I am using—they stimulate certain nerves, and I become aware of their existence and nature. Did that perception occur as an automatic action? No; the mind is necessary to receive and correlate these varied stimuli. The mind molds sensation into sense.

  “Without mind to comprehend the messages our senses receive, the world would be, to us, an incredibly disordered place. Sounds, sights, sensations—all would be formless, without meaning. But mind works. It takes unorganized stimulus and re-forms it into sensation; sensation becomes organized into preception; preception becomes conception or knowledge; and knowledge is organized into science, or wisdom. Each is a greater degree of order, sequence, unity, brought about by mind and thought.

  “THE world, then, has order, not of itself, but because of thought that gives it order. And what is thought? A mere dance of molecules, or atoms, or electrons in the brain? No; electronic memory might not be beyond comprehension, like the ‘fatigue’ of overburdened metal; but how could there be electronic foresight, or electronic planning? Thought is the power that controls mind, the very life of mind, and the greatest force in the universe. Like all other forces thought obeys certain laws. And the laws of thought are also the laws of things, for things are known to us only through this thought that must obey these laws, since it and they are one.

  “In this age, so remote that the sun is cooling, thought is approaching its apex. Ages must pass before even intelligent control of evolution can achieve the final goal of progress—pure, free intelligence, unhampered by anything physical—but these brains are drawing close to that goal. In you two instinct is still present to an appreciable degree; in me it has diminished; and in the Great Brains it is entirely absent. So powerful have their minds become, that matter, the physical world, is merely the material to be used for their ends, to be completely controlled by their intelligence and will. Everything—the wall of energy, the phantoms, this globe, the domes, the food we eat—all are mental conceptions of the Great Brains, given physical form by the power of mind over matter!”

  Gorg Merlo paused at the end of his lengthy dissertation on thought, his attention apparently fully centered on the garment almost complete in his hands.

  Peter Northam laughed shortly in a puzzled sort of way. “Worthy Gorg,” he said, “I am more ignorant of this mystery of which ye speak than the smallest child; I am unschooled, lacking in understanding—yet will I accept your statements as fact. Thunder of God! but thought is a wondrous thing; ye have proved it by your own unspoken words.”

  “And I’m afraid it’s a little over my head, too,” Don Steele added slowly. “But don’t let it bother you. I get your drift—I think. But what about the Black Brains—and White Brains—and this gray one? Advanced forms of evolution, of course—but what’s actually going on here? And where do we fit into the picture?”

  “Yes; the white, black, and gray! The phantoms, and the Time Exiles!” The thoughts began flowing steadily again.

  “When the mental being began to overcome the physical, evolution in vertebrates divided into two distinct groups, one engrossed in beauty and the glorious, undisturbed life of creative thinking; the other, more interested in what in your eras would be called evil. The former group chose to live in the sunlight, surrounded by beauty; the latter, in the dark places where nefarious deeds and creations were spawned by vile minds. Gradually, through the unending ages the gap between the two groups widened, and the differences in their natures grew more pronounced. And, since their minds controlled their evolution, one group became white, and the other became black.

  “Between the two was unending warfare, the black beings striving constantly to destroy the white ones, and the latter always on the defensive. But the balance of power seemed to be with the brains whose thoughts dwelt upon beauty. Ages of warfare passed with the black attackers meeting defeat after defeat.

  “AND finally, the Gray Brain came into being—as you may have surmised, apparently a cross between the two opposing races. How it happened, no one seems to know. Sex has vanished here as an active agent; the races are perpetuated, new beings created, by the power of thought. Yet it happened.

  “The Gray Brain grew and gained power among the Whites. And since he had some of the Black within him, he was not content with mere resistance; he advocated attacking and exterminating the enemy. But the White Brains and the King of Thought could not view the matter as he did—it seemed so purposeless, they said. Finally, they compromised and gave the Gray Brain free rein in any enterprise he cared to attempt—so long as it did not interfere with them.

  “Immediately he created this gray sphere, and began capturing men from various points in-the Channel of Time. Some, like us three, were unfortunate enough to reach this age, and of course, were not permitted to leave. The Gray Brain became the Keeper of the Time Exiles.

  “Then began a series of unusual battles between the two races. A vast horde of beings was created by the Keeper, counterparts of the Exiles, and launched upon the city of the Black Brains. The latter in turn created swarms of the most horrible monstrosities that could be conceived by minds steeped for ages in thoughts of utter foulness. They battled, but, since they were only creations of the mind, with no actual result. Men were slain, beasts were slain; and in the end the bodies vanished.

  “But the Keeper had a definite reason for these sham battles. On the inside walls of this sphere he projected a vision of all that occurred for the Time Exiles to see. And with each fight, in the hearts of the barbarians is stirred a battle-lust. After each such encounter the Keeper impresses upon the watchers the fact that the monstrosities they have seen are only mental creations, powerless to harm. For, once that truth is grasped, they really can do no harm; the mind of their foe renders them innocuous.

  “Eventually, when the knowledge of the monsters’ lack of power is firmly established, the Keeper plans an attack of both phantoms and living men—the living men can pass the black phantoms, and once they enter the Black City, victory is certain. Is everything clear?”

  Peter Northam nodded. After a momentary hesitation Don Steele exclaimed:

  “Clear enough—but something sounds fishy! Personally, if I were in the White Brains’ shoes, I wouldn’t trust this gray bird any further than my nose! I think—”

  “Stop!” Gorg Merlo cried, an expression of actual fear flashing across his face. His hand leaped out and closed Don’s mouth.

  “Fool!” he exclaimed, his thin voice quivering with anger and dread. “Don’t thing ’t! Th’ Keep’r knows y’r v’ry tho’ts!”

  “Yes, he knows the thoughts of all of you!” A deep, ironic voice seemed to speak above them; and glancing up they saw a facsimile of the Gray Brain with its dangling, atrophied body. “An excellent explanation of things, Gorg Merlo, truly excellent! I see, with the aid of your impetuous friend, you escaped the brute. Well—perhaps I shall amuse myself another time!”

  A tangible wave of blighting force came from the tremendous brain, striking Don Steele with its full power.

  “As for you, Donald Steele, I would speak to you alone—at once! Approach the central pillar!”

  The voice ceased; the phantom brain vanished; and Don Steele strode slowly down the wide steps, and out through the sphere toward the colossal pillar in the center. His limbs moved against his will, jerkily, mechanically, like those of an automaton.

  Gorg
Merlo and Peter Northam watched him go with consternation in their eyes.

  CHAPTER III

  Brothers Three

  “THUNDER of God!” the Englishman growled, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. “The man is bewitched! Methinks brother Don will need our help. Would that I had a good blade in my grasp!”

  He sprang down the steps in Don Steele’s wake. A backward glance revealed Gorg Merlo at his heels.

  Without looking to right or left, staring fixedly ahead, Don strode toward the pillar of the Gray Brain. He walked like a man hypnotized. His vacant eyes saw nothing of the men he passed, saw nothing of the assortment of strange weapons heaped about the base of the tall, gray post, yet he paused when he reached it. Behind him his two friends stopped short.

  “I summoned only the first beast,” the wrathful thought reached Peter and Gorg. “Do you wish to share his fate?” Peter Northam looked up at the huge, membrane-incased mass of nerve tissue and smiled coolly. “Aye, m’lord, that we do. Whatever that fate may be—I make no doubt but what it would be better than our present company!”

  The complete power of the Keeper’s thoughts swept over the intrepid Englishman, and he staggered. He raised his arms before his eyes, fighting the crushing weight of thought with all his will.

  The instant the Gray Brain’s attention was transferred to Peter Northam, Don Steele’s face lost its vacuity, and he shook his head as though to clear away his mental fog. Abruptly he straightened, his eyes blazing with anger, and his jaw set at a pugnacious angle.

  Gorg Merlo stood close by, his head bowed as though lost in deepest thought.

  “You got me that time,” Don snarled at the Keeper, “but it won’t be so easy if you try it again! I’m not afraid of you—or any other fool like you!”

  For an instant it seemed as though the Keeper would annihilate both Don and Peter, so terrible was the force of his wrath; but at the moment his attitude changed, became one of utter vindictiveness, of cold malice.

  “So you would share each other’s fate, regardless of its nature? Ignorant brute minds!” The thought was filled with scorn. “That cannot be. You, Donald Steele, will be singularly honored. I shall permit you to visit the city of the Black Brains—alone—to learn of their plans! And, of course, with your fearlessness, you will have no difficulty in overcoming all opposition! As for you, Gorg Merlo and Peter Northam, you will . . .

  In the midst of his statement the Keeper’s thought ceased. The three waited, Gorg Merlo’s head still bowed, Don and Peter wondering what had caused the interruption. Suddenly the little man raised his head, a triumphant smile on his thin lips. He flashed a thought to his friends:

  “NOTHING to fear now; I have secured aid!”

  For several moments longer they stared at the Keeper, waiting; then the thought of the latter reached them again. But now it was strangely subdued; it had lost some of its scorn and arrogance.

  “The three of you will visit the Black City; it is my command. When you return, if you can return, report to me what you have learned. I have not yet finished with you! Now go!”

  Don and Gorg Merlo turned on their heels, but Peter Northam was not ready to leave. He was busily surveying the heap of weapons. With mockery in his eyes he glanced up at the Keeper and bowed.

  “A good blade is a friend whose value cannot be expressed in words,” he said. “By your leave, m’lord, I shall find me one!” He continued his search for a few more moments, then cried suddenly: “Ah! the sword I made with my own hands! ‘The Smiter’ !” Sheathing the long weapon, he followed his waiting companions.

  In silence they moved through the ill-assorted crowd. Men stepped aside to permit them to pass. Reaching the steps they mounted to the top, and at Gorg Merlo’s mental direction, removed their clothes and donned the metal garments he had made. Not a word was spoken. Then, dressed alike, from skull cap to sandals, and surrounded by a dim veil of light, they strode toward the exit.

  A strange, striking trio—Gorg Merlo, with his huge bald head and spindling body, in the lead; Don Steele, rather tall, a wiry, well developed athlete, behind him; and in the rear, Peter Northam, a blond haired giant with great, bulging muscles that rippled and surged under his skin with every movement.

  Brains; brains and brawn; brawn!

  Outside they paused. Curiously Don Steele turned to Gorg Merlo. “What did you do to make—him—change his plans? He certainly switched his ideas in a hurry.”

  The little man smiled. His thought came slowly: “I took what you would call a ‘long chance’. You remember that I mentioned having seen the interior of one of these domes. I did so because one of these White Brains—the ruler of them all, the King of Thought—took a strange interest in me when I reached this time. He gave me all the information I have about the events and history of both races. I believe he has a plan in which I—and possibly you two—have a part.

  “Hoping that the Keeper’s thoughts were completely concentrated on you two, I strove to establish mental communication with the Thought King—and succeeded. He intervened in our behalf; and since the Gray Brain may do nothing that interferes with the others, he had to yield. It is the law.”

  Peter Northam grinned broadly. “By my sword, but it was good to see yon bloated knave bested. I fear him not a whit—though his thoughts are like a heavy blade striking a helmet squarely.”

  “You’re right, Pete!” Don exclaimed, “they’re all of that—only heavier. Anyway, we’re still together—and I guess we’ll be heading for the Black City. I don’t think we could disobey that order if we tried.”

  Solemnly Gorg Merlo agreed. “No, we could not disobey. And that command is equivalent to a death sentence. There is nothing in the reasoning of the Black Brains but utter extinction for all life but their own. Fortunately they have ignored the Time Channel—or humanity would fall prey to a ghastly foe . . . However, we have one hope—the fact that the Great Brain, who helped us, wants to see us before we leave. We are going there now.”

  SIDE by side they started through the silent throngs that filled the pale blue streets. The gleaming, gemlike domes colored the air about them with every hue of the rainbow. Despite the fact that they would soon be embarking upon an adventure in which they might be menaced by inconceivable danger, thoughts of the future left Don’s mind in his wonder at the inexpressible beauty of the strange city. Only the gray sphere and the men in the streets were anomalies—the rest seemed to be the embodiment of harmony.

  At first their progress was easy, but after a few moments the beings Don knew as phantoms, hemmed them in on every side. They seemed to have gathered from every part of the city, and were forcing themselves into an almost inextricable mass. Black, brown, yellow, white, they crowded the three friends. Finally, in desperation, Peter Northam began swinging his great fists in sledge-hammer blows, and a path cleared instantly. Then fists began swinging back at them.

  “Remember,” Gorg Merlo admonished, “they cannot injure you!” With that thought in mind they flung themselves into the strange group—and all opposition ceased instantly; they moved on unmolested.

  “What caused this sudden attack, brother Gorg?” the Englishman asked. “And why stayed they their blows so soon? Thunder of God! I have little chance here to keep my muscles limbered. I grow as stiff as rusted armor.” Don Steele grinned happily. “Well, I think I distributed a few black eyes and split lips—if they show up on these babies!”

  Gorg Merlo shook his head. “Have you forgotten that these—beings—are but creations of the Keeper, and that he controls them? When he saw that he could not stop us, he ceased activities. And, of course, his tools stopped too.”

  At length they paused before a dome that shimmered like the gigantic fire-opal it resembled, throbbing and pulsating as though it possessed life. It was larger than the other domes; Don remembered having seen it from the ice cliff. The home of the Thought King! Mutely they watched it, Don and Peter waiting for they knew not what. Then abruptly in the wall of the
hemisphere a round opening appeared, an aperture large enough for them to pass through with ease.

  Immediately Gorg Merlo entered; and an instant later he summoned his companions. Without hesitation they followed.

  Surreptitiously Don glanced around the interior of the dome—a hemispherical hollow flooded with a soft, opalescent light. The apparent outward size of the structure had been deceptive; there was far more space within than he had thought possible. The dome and its central pillar seemed to be formed of a single mass; nowhere was there evidence of a joint or a break in the complete smoothness. The polished floor merged gradually with the curved wall and ceiling; the slender pillar as smoothly joined the floor—and even where the opening had been was only glass-smooth opalescence!

  But the wonderful thing was not the building; its occupant was cause for genuine awe. A White Brain, white as whitest marble, resting on the gleaming support, outwardly very like the Keeper, though slightly larger; but here was an entity, an intelligence, that radiated a tremendous, benevolent power, a strength of will and thought, beside which that of the Gray Brain was insignificant!

  AND suddenly Don surmised the cause of the latter’s weakness; a half-caste, it embodied only the lesser powers of both races—semi-good, and semi-evil!

  All this had flashed through his mind in an instant; the three were now ranged before the White Brain. A mist seemed to settle over them, a tenuous veil of energy—like the substance of the blue wall, it seemed to Don. Beyond that mist—nothing seemed to exist; utter silence, complete finality were within it; it seemed to be an isolated portion of creation, cut off from all extraneous things.

  And protected, concealed by that veil, the thoughts of the Great Brain poured into the consciousness of the three. There were no words, as there had been when the Keeper addressed them; merely conceptions, complete, sentient pictures. First, a vast sense of reassurance, a benign feeling of peace, as though they were being incased in impregnable armor. There followed the knowledge that that security would remain with them during their visit to the Black City, protecting them—for that security was the thought of the King of Thought! Even the power of the Keeper could not penetrate that barrier, and read their minds.