He moved catfootedly through the deserted Express; even the crew had gone off to view the delights of this decadent civilization. He tried the doors of Melius and Pennyfeather. They were locked; but that was no obstacle. A few moments of manipulation, and Kels was inside, first in one room and then another. He went carefully through their baggage, tested the walls, searched in the bedding, but with no result. There was nothing; no plans, no contraband matter, not even a book. According to the rules no books or pamphlets of any kind were permitted, for fear of hidden references to machines.
Then he went back to the salon, and ensconced himself in a chair where he could see the ramp and entrance ports. It was tedious watching, but Kels was possessed of a rare quality of patience. At about eleven in the evening, their own time, the tourists returned, chattering, laughing, breathless with the wonders they had seen. Exclamations of admiration, of delight, mingled with some critical dispraise of the already manifest physical and mental degeneration of the race, came floating to his sharpened ears.
CHAPTER III
The Year 4800
Kels passed each one in review, raking their innermost souls for some sign of furtiveness. There was none. Then, almost at the stroke of midnight, Professor Melius and young Pennyfeather came hurrying on board. Their faces were set, sharp etched lines furrowed their brows. At the salon they swerved, each disappearing to his own room without a word of greeting to their fellow tourists.
Kels followed their retreating figures with a mild chuckle. It was evident that they had met with disappointment in whatever mission they had set out to accomplish.
Satisfied, he withdrew to his own room, locked himself in, and promptly went to sleep. Even the rapid vibration of his body when the Express started into the future again did not awaken him.
It was the gong that awakened him out of a healthy dreamless sleep. He drew on his clothes, went hastily into the salon. A first glance showed Kels that something had gone wrong. Something of hysteria manifested itself in the distracted faces of the tourists, while Bolton was white under his florid skin. Only Melius leaned against a wall, sardonic, cool.
“Please do not feel alarmed,” Bolton tried hard to keep his voice steady. “There must have been a miscalculation, and our time dials are functioning too rapidly. We should have reached our destination in 3975 an hour ago, yet we are still vibrating. Stay quietly in your seats; no doubt we shall come to a halt any moment."
“May not the timedrome of 3975 have been destroyed?" Melius interjected quietly from his vantage point against the wall. “We know that the revolt against the machines was successful just before that time.
"But the timedrome was left intact by the World Council of that year."
“Does the Time Express inevitably come to a halt at the exact moment in time on each trip?”
“No-o-o,” Bolton admitted. “There is sometimes a lag of several days."
“There’s the answer then,” Melius said wryly. “The lag in time on this particular journey must have extended over a year. We know from what we are told by the denizens of 4800 that the Council of 3976 decided to destroy the timedrome; and that it was not rebuilt until 4790. That is why your Company was never able to arrange for any intermediate stops.”
There was a sensation. Many of the women were openly hysterical now; cries of alarm, wails, moans of despair came even from the men.
“We are lost in time!” someone cried. “We’ll keep on going forever, until the end of the world!”
The two young girls started to giggle, high-pitched, hysterical, interminable. There was no stopping them. Bolton looked around helplessly; he could not stop the mounting panic. Melius surveyed the frenzied throng with sardonic malice. In another minute there would be frothing madness, a riot in which irreparable damage might be done.
Already a wild-eyed man was pounding on the metallic wall of the Express, in an insane desire to break through.
Denton Kels walked slowly to the platform, pushed the numbed Bolton gently aside. His mild inconspicuous features stared down at the fear-stricken, distorted faces. His personality was not commanding, yet somehow a sense of quiet confidence exuded from him. The tumult died gradually, even the hysterical giggling slackened. Then he spoke.
“What are you afraid of? Granted that we vibrated past 3975 through some unforeseen mischance. That does not mean that anything has happened to the timedrome in 4800. It would be an impossible coincidence for that also to have been destroyed. We shall stop there, as the tours have always done. There is nothing to worry about. You have lost the opportunity to do a little sightseeing, that is all."
Something of the man’s quiet power came across to the bewildered people, made them feel ashamed of their causeless panic. Voices arose, eager to show the essential bravery of their possessors, in cries of approval. The crisis was over!
Kels slipped off the platform, merged indistinguishably with his fellow passengers. He desired no undue notoriety.
Ten minutes later, seated in the dining chamber, eating and chatting gaily, men chaffed each other on their groundless alarm. The day passed, Kels ceaselessly on the watch, without result. The smuggler, if smuggler there was, kept well hidden.
As the time approached for the halt in 4800, however, there were evidences of uneasiness. Logic had been with Kels, but man, especially in the mass, is not normally a logical creature. The cheerfulness died down, conversation became monosyllabic, inconsecutive. Men listened to the beating of their hearts. The great illuminated time dial in the salon became the cynosure of furtive eyes. The minutes flashed by inexorably. Kels had a momentary vision of the Express breaking through the inhibiting timedrome, careening on and on in time with its cargo of helpless passengers.
A great shout aroused him. The illuminated arrow of the time dial flicked to the appointed hour, and almost simultaneously, the pointer of the velocometer began to swing slowly backward. The timedrome of 4800 was functioning normally. Men slapped their nearest neighbors heartily on the shoulder, laughed, said unmeaning things. The strain on them had been terrific. Yet no two had taken it alike. Pennyfeather had been flushed and shaking, Bolton white, yet steady; only Melius had preserved his mocking sardonic calm.
VERY slowly the Time Express returned to normal atomic vibrations. The white of Bolton’s face had given way to a high color. It was with difficulty that he kept his voice even.
“Now please remember,” he said. “We are in the year 4800 only on sufferance. The slightest false move on anyone’s part and we shall be packed back incontinently to our own time, and all future tours prohibited. Keep close to your guards; do not attempt any conversation. Follow these instructions carefully and you will have no trouble. All ready now.”
The great exit port slid slowly open. Kels stationed himself unobtrusively to one side.
There was a general surge of eager tourists for the port.
“Stand back, everyone.” Power, infinite authority was in that voice. The tourists fell back, amazed, and a man stalked into the salon. Kels’ gaze flicked up at him, held taut.
He was a giant among men, over seven feet tall; broad of shoulder and sinewy of body, yet gracefully proportioned. His brow was wide and calm, his eyes luminous with informed intelligence; his features instinct with dignity and repose.
A fluttering sigh of admiration greeted him from the more susceptible ladies. The men among the tourists felt uneasy, small, in silent self-comparison with this god-like giant of the future.
Behind him a company of six similar beings moved silently in, took up their stations at the entrance port. Strapped to their chests were oval disks, pierced in the center by a tiny hole. Kels learned afterward that these were the only weapons of offense possessed in that marvelous time. Each disc contained nearly a thousand tiny arrows, exquisitely sharp and of toughened metal. An ingenious catapult arrangement inside the disk, activated by a peculiar contraction of the soldier’s chest muscles, shot the slotted arrows through the orifice with astounding forc
e. They could penetrate two inches of armor plate. To such astonishing virtuosity had the purely hand-fashioned civilization of 4800 risen.
The leader surveyed the somewhat awed tourists as if from an Olympian height. Kels felt particularly small and undeveloped when the calm luminous eyes swept over his insignificant form. But there was nothing of condescension, rather a gracious courtesy, in the man of the future when he spoke again.
“People of an earlier time,” he said, “you are welcome. It is unfortunate that we may not make you free of our time and land, but you bear within you, unwittingly, it is true, the seeds of death and destruction. You represent an early stage of the Machine Age that ultimately caused the almost complete degeneracy of the race. It was only through the mighty effort of a few that mankind survived and continued to evolve. The curse of machinery has been eradicated, yet there are misguided ones among us who still long for the slothful ease that only the slavish machines could grant them.”
Kels watched Melius. The professor’s dark eyes burned; gone was his sardonic ease. Pennyfeather glanced swiftly at him, moistened his lips nervously, and glanced away. The calm, voice continued.
“In order to save them from their folly, and to prevent the loss of our hard-gained achievements, the World Council has decreed death to any one, be he a denizen of our own age or any prior age, who attempts to introduce any type of power-operated machine, or description or plans thereof from which it might be fashioned.”
His grave eyes took in the breathless tourists, and each shrank guiltily at the impact of that luminosity.
“On former tours the restrictions have been faithfully observed, but information has come to us that some foolish individual among you has been rash enough to bring the forbidden plans with him, in the thought of disposing of them to our malcontents for a substantial reward."
“If this be so,” and his voice grew measured, “let the culprit freely confess his crime, deliver the plans to us for destruction, and he shall not be harmed. Let him grasp his chance while he may.”
He paused. There ensued an oppressive silence. The tourists, men and women both, shrank into themselves, seeking each other with averted eyes. Pennyfeather was pale as any ghost; Melius with folded arms stared back defiance. Yet no one came forward.
“Very well then,” the man of 4800 sighed as at an unpleasant duty. “Each of you will pass in front of me, slowly, one at a time, then out into the timedrome.”
Bolton protested, his voice respectful.
“It is unnecessary to search our people, Eltor Milak. That has been done by the Council of our time at the point of embarkation.”
Milak smiled slightly.
“I know the World Council of 2124 has been conscientious, but we have certain methods. It will not prove embarrassing. Let you be the first one, John Bolton, to show your people who are innocent, that they have nothing to fear.”
The tour leader stept forward without hesitation, passed slowly in front of the inquisitor. Kels leaned forward eagerly. He noted the tiny mirror set in Milak’s scarlet tunic, where the soldiers had their arrow catapults.
The mirror glowed, and immediately Bolton faded into a misty wavering. Little cries of fear broke from the women, gasps from the men. But Milak smiled reassuringly.
“Do not be alarmed. It is merely a development of your earlier X ray. See!” He pointed to a dark blob in the nebulous form. “Any concealed substance on the body shows up plainly.”
The mirror ceased glowing, and Bolton slowly regained solidity. He was rather pale.
“You have a leather-covered booklet in your inside pocket,” said Milak. “Let me see it.”
Bolton hesitated, then took it out silently. Milak leafed through it carefully and smiled.
“Ah, you write very fair poetry,” he observed pleasantly, and returned it to its owner.
Willingly enough the tourists filed in procession before the giant man of 4800 and were searched with the penetrating glow of the mirror. Nothing untoward was discovered; several small secrets perhaps about which Milak maintained a discreet silence.
Kels was the last. He had deliberately hung back. The others were out in the timedrome, waiting. The giant gazed down at the insignificant, mild-looking little man, glowed his mirror at him casually. But Kels was already slipping his dynol pistol out of his shoulder holster, handed it over to Milak without comment.
The man of 4800 turned it over curiously. No weapon had ever been taken before on a tour.
"What is this?"
Kels explained.
Milak’s brow contracted. “We do not permit tourists to carry lethal weapons.”
“I am on the same mission you are on,” Kels said calmly. “I am employed by the World Council of 2124 to prevent any smuggling defiance of your laws.”
Milak smiled down with benign irony.
“Have you been successful, my friend?”
“Not yet,” Kels acknowledged. “But I usually get my man.”
HE was out in the timedrome now, a superb creation of lustrous glazed brick in shifting, shimmering colors. The party was waiting impatiently for him to emerge; Bolton had marshaled them in some sort of order, and they were flanked by the six giantyguards.
Kels attached himself silently to the throng; he must keep his wits about him now. This would be the supreme chance for the smuggler to slip a sheaf of papers to some citizen of the age who might brush by the party in their wanderings.
They were out of the drome and in the heart of a great city. Little ecstatic cries from the women; more manly grunts of admiration from the men. It was a city such as pervaded the dreams of poets and the visions of colorists.
On every hand stretched glowing parks, riotous with fantastic blooms and iridescent fountains. Well spaced, and open to the cleansing winds of heaven, were softly curving structures, gloriously proportioned, of lustrous glazed tile, harmonious to the eye in infinite gradations of jeweled colors. They were not large, these buildings, the hand-fashioned tile unsupported by gaunt steel beams did not permit height, but the angularities and arrogant spires of early New York seemed somehow crude against this glowing city. Even the Parthenon and Taj Mahal paled to the commonplace.
Bolton was talking; a little rapidly, as though his breath were short.
“There is no doubt that 4800 has attained unbelievable heights in its development of the handicrafts. These structures that you see, the beautiful simplicity of their interiors, the superbly equipped private dwellings, the irrigation canals even, are products of hand labor and such tools as could be fashioned without power machinery. The culture of the age is of an extraordinarily high order; before its knowledge ours pales to elementary gropings.
“Yet in spite of everything, these people must work all their lives, a minimum of six hours daily. And it is toil of their hands too; physical labor as well as cunning of brain. The World Council claims that it is only by pitting brawn and mental equipment against the resistant forces of nature that the present generation of men has achieved its high development of body and mind. Perhaps! But it does seem a pity not to utilize those very forces of nature to slave for them, to perform the menial tasks of life and leave them free to enjoy the fruits of leisure.”
Milak looked down with grave reproof at the flushed tour leader. “Methinks you have been warned on prior tours, John Bolton, against such subversive talk.”
Bolton held his peace thereafter. He seemed oddly excited. The party was moving through an extensive park now. The ground was soft underfoot and the fountains musical. A building of Byzantine design, shading from aquamarine to a pale lavender, loomed directly ahead. This was the Museum of Fine Arts. A Rembrandt, “The Lady with the Pink,” and a Cezanne, “The Bather,” were priceless treasures there; all that were left of the artistic genius of the world to the year 2000. All else had been destroyed in the era of readjustment after the smashing of the machines.
A gently sloping ramp, flanked on either side by close-woven giant blooms, led up to the po
rtals. Milak was in the lead, Bolton a little behind him, eyes restlessly moving from right to left. A few paces in back came the main body of the time-travelers, disorderly, chattering, laughing. On either side marched three soldiers, huge, silent, gently but firmly detouring denizens of their own time who chanced to pass the pilgrims. Kels straggled a little to the rear, his mild speculative eyes roaming over the individual members of the party. He was sorely puzzled, but alert.
CHAPTER IV
An Intrigue Exposed!
A PARTICULARLY gorgeous bloom in the dense thicket of flowers caught his eye. It was swaying slightly. But there was no wind; the air was warm and breathless.
The tall interlaced blooms swayed violently. The air was thick with whirring sounds. Tiny needled flashes sped through the sunlight.
Four of the soldier guard fell transfixed at the first onslaught. Placid old Hardscrabble opened his mouth slowly in foolish astonishment, clapped his hand to his heart, and pitched headlong. One of the giggling sisters would never find source for merriment in the humorous spectacle of the world any more; she sprawled awkwardly on the ground, a thin trickle of blood oozing out of pale set lips.
Panic swept the affrighted tourists into a mad scramble from the invisible attack. Screams and groans rent the air. The pleasant place was a shambles.
Milak had stopped short, gave unhurried, swift commands. He had no weapon. The two surviving soldiers faced the thicket bravely, contracted their chest muscles. The strapped disks shot fort an unending stream of arrows. Then they went down, literally riddled with a cross fire. Milak started forward, toppled slowly.
When The Future Dies Page 6
