Where Eternity Ends Page 8

  Crouching within the shadows of the corridor, they watched as dozens of plant-people came pattering from several directions, searching every vantage. One alien peered directly into their retreat, and they froze into breathless statues. The creature finally shivered distastefully and left, unaware of them. The group gradually moved along, out of sight, and the hunted humans stepped out.

  “Our lives hang by a thread!” said Angus Macluff sonorously. “The moment they find us they’ll kill us, the blood-thirsty savages!”

  “We would do the same, in their place,” sighed Dr. Bronzun. “In their eyes, we’re the forerunners of a ruthless, powerful race. And in the last analysis, we have no right to this world. It is theirs, by right of birth and evolution. It would be wrong to wrest it from them, no matter how ideal this planet is for our race. A cosmic crime!”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” muttered Fostar. He reflected that this problem was by far the most important facing mankind in its exodus from Earth—to find a suitable world uninhabited by previous intelligence.

  “But,” he added, “we have our personal problem, here and now—to reach our ship.” He snapped on his belt-radio. “There’s just a chance that Marten Crodell heard the shots and is trying to contact us—”

  The little instrument hissed out as he turned up the power, but the ether was silent. Unhooking the tiny microphone he barked into it: “Fostar calling Marten Crodell!”

  He repeated the call several times before giving up, with a shake of his head.

  “Like a fool,” he said in self-reproach, “I neglected to arrange specified contact, on the hour, when we left.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” admonished Alora. “Everything looked so peaceful and quiet on this new world. None of us dreamed any of this might happen. But father will try to make contact soon, alarmed at our absence.”

  Fostar nodded. “I’ll try the radio every fifteen minutes. I can’t keep it open or the batteries will bum out too soon.” He strode forward. “In the meantime, we’ll keep moving in hopes of striking the right avenue. Keep a watchful eye out for our green friends!”

  Eyes darting about, they stepped along among the ruins of a once-magnificent city. More and more Fostar pondered about the race that had been the inhabitants—certainly not the plant-people, who were more or less children of nature, requiring open sunlight. Were the builders extinct?—or had they moved to some other part of the planet?

  Fostar stopped suddenly as something caught his eye. For a moment, he had almost imagined seeing a human figure perched on the next pile of rock debris. They approached and saw what it was—a stone statue, miraculously unbroken. Amazed, they examined its clean-cut limbs, straight body, finely-shaped head.

  “Why it’s—it’s almost human!” gasped Alora, her amber eyes widening.

  It was, though there were differences. The feet were small and had six toes, as the small hands had six delicate fingers. Its legs were long and its body lean, perhaps seven feet tall. The face was rather large and heavy-set. Yet the living form, from which the statue had been modeled, must certainly have resembled man more nearly than any of the anthropoids of Earth itself!

  “The builders of the city!” breathed Fostar. He pointed to a sort of frieze lying next to the statue. In miniature, dozens of the semi-human figures were represented, doing various tasks.

  They went on. Every fifteen minutes Fostar tried the radio, hoping for contact with Marten Crodell. At times he climbed fallen blocks and walls for a chance view of the ship, but could see no more than ruins. Yet his thoughts, strangely, were occupied mainly with the mystery of the vanished city-builders. He felt, somehow, that there was some significant relationship between them and the green plant-people.

  Turning a comer, Alora’s sharp gasp warned Fostar. His finger was already pressing the trigger of his gun, when he spied the alien they had come upon. He was alone, rooted in surprise. Fostar suddenly eased up on his trigger.

  “Don’t shoot!” he warned the others. Then he spoke to the alien, concentrating on the thought. “Throw away your weapon, don’t call your fellows—and we won’t kill you! I want to speak with you!”

  THE plant-man stared for a moment with his great single eye, as though digesting the strange offer. Then he tossed his weapon away, as any reasoning creature might, under the circumstances.

  “I will talk with you,” he agreed. Fostar led the creature into a shadowed nook among heaped stone blocks. They were not likely to be seen, save in one direction, and Fostar told Angus to keep sharp watch for other aliens.

  “This is going to be in the nature of a cross-examination,” Fostar informed the others.

  He faced the captive. “What is the story of the race who built this city?” he asked, wondering if he would get coherent information.

  “Our race destroyed them!” replied the green being, quite readily, his telepathic voice reverberating clearly in the Earth people’s minds. “They were Eaters, much like you in appearance. They had many cities. They ruled this planet, at one time. We destroyed them all. They are extinct today. We rule their world now!”

  “Their world!” echoed Fostar, catching his breath. “Did you come from another world?”

  The plant-man’s crown of petals flipped in what might have corresponded to a nod. “Our race evolved on—” Then he stopped suddenly, as though abruptly realizing the significance of what he was revealing.

  Fostar pointed the barrel of his gun directly at the creature’s eye. “You will talk—or die!” he threatened grimly.

  The plant-man unmistakably quailed. With him, as with perhaps any other creature in the universe, the individual will to live was a dominant factor. For a moment, his unwinking eye stared with stubborn defiance, and then he said:

  “The next outward planet, the fifth, is our home world!”

  “Go on!” commanded Fostar, glancing around at his companions. “How did your race get to this planet? How did you destroy the Eaters? Tell me as much as you can!”

  “It is a long story,” returned the alien. “I do not know all of it. Much of it is almost legend. About five thousand”—Fostar’s mind interpreted the next vague term as “years”—“ago, our race achieved a peak of civilization. We were the dominant life-form. Our world had always been a prolific floral environment. Evolution produced a moving plant-form—our ancestral type—that prospered because it could seek its own sunlight, instead of struggling against all other rooted plants. Intelligence evolved, with our limbs. And telepathy, since we had no”—the appropriate word seemed to be “vocal chords,” in Fostar’s mind. The plant-man resumed.

  “But our sun had been gradually, cooling from its original super-hot state. Sunlight, our very life, fell in intensity. When we achieved space-travel, we came to this world and found it much more suitable. We multiplied rapidly, through spore reproduction. The Eaters, a rising civilization, objected. War flamed!” The alien stirred, as though coming to the climax of his narrative. “We prevailed! Two thousand years ago, the last city of the Eaters fell to our hordes and weapons. We had gained a new world!”

  “Murder!” whispered Fostar tensely. “Race murder!”

  The plant-man seemed to sigh, ignoring the accusation. “Since then, as some of us maintain, we have degenerated. Life has been too easy on this new world. Much of our science is lost. We do not even have space-ships anymore! We have only one primitive weapon, for protection against wild beasts. We spend our time sunning ourselves, absorbing the good things of this world—” The telepathic impulses of the plant-man became fainter and rambling, as though he were thinking to himself, and had forgotten his audience.

  Fostar sprang up, eyes glowing. “There’s our answer, Dr. Bronzun!” he exclaimed. “We have as much right to this world as they have. They murdered an entire race, ruthlessly. Is there any reason now why we can’t lead our people here?”

  “None at all I” agreed the scientist, heaving a sigh with the release of a depressing problem. “Our search for
a new world is ended!”

  “It’s a horrible thought,” shuddered Alora, gazing around at the ruins. “That this once-great civilization was destroyed—mercilessly. In a way, we’ll be revenging these people—”

  “Need I remind you gentlemen,” interposed Angus Macluff mildly, “that we have yet to reach our ship? Earth will never hear of this world from us, I’m afraid!”

  FOSTAR tried his radio again, realizing that now, more than ever, it was vital for them to reach the ship and return to Earth. “Fostar calling Marten Crodell. Fostar cal—”

  And then, over the quiet hiss of the tiny receiver, a voice interrupted. “Marten Crodell answering. I’ve been trying to contact you. Why have you been gone so long? Is Alora safe?” His tones were anxious.

  “We’re lost and in trouble!” Fostar went on in clipped phrases, giving their story.

  “That explains these green beings watching the ship!” said the land-owner. He went on slowly, half hesitantly. “I had told myself I would neither hinder nor help you, Rolan Fostar, since I’ve been in your ship!”

  Fostar gasped. They were the words of a cold, practical man, one who had all his life believed himself fanatically right. How incredible his attitude seemed now, under the light of an alien sun, perhaps even to himself! There was a strange, thoughtful undertone of doubt in his tones, as though he had been thinking deeply while they had been gone.

  “However, under the circumstances,” Marten Crodell went on, “I’m with you! My daughter is in danger. I can’t fly the ship to Earth alone. And we are facing a common enemy—if not a common cause. I’ll help, Fostar, in whatever way I can!”

  “All right!” snapped Fostar. “You know something of the ship’s controls. Start the rocket-motor, let it Idle. We’ll get our bearings from the sound. When we get near the ship, be ready with a rifle to cover us. Start the motor now.”

  They waited tensely. A minute later, a steady low rumble sounded over the quiet of the dead city. “Let’s go!” cried Fostar, facing the direction from which it came.

  “And I think we’d better hurry!” remarked Angus Macluff. “That green beggar you were talking to slipped away while we weren’t looking. He’ll have his companions after us before long!”

  And so it proved. Pattering feet sounded behind them as they hurried through the demolished city. But now, at least, they knew their goal. At a flying pace, they managed to keep well ahead of the pursuers.

  “If only we aren’t cut off!” panted Fostar.

  It seemed they would be at the next intersection, but the group facing them was small. Their gun-blasts cleared the way. Again, further, a flanking group of the enemy appeared, but too late to intercept the flying Earth-people.

  His gun hot and smoking in his hand, Fostar laughed grimly. As fighters and strategists, the green plant-men were clumsily incompetent. Degenerate, ineffective, they certainly were. Mankind would have little trouble eliminating them—thus avenging the race murder of the original, human-like inhabitants.

  Finally, the panting Earth-people saw their ship, near now, glinting brightly in the sunlight. Dr. Bronzun gave a hoarse shout of relief, then stumbled, falling back. Angus Macluff flung a brawny arm around his waist and hurried him on. Fostar slipped Alora’s arm into his and pulled her along, to keep up their speed.

  They reached the edge of the ruins.

  As they ran into the clearing beyond, a group of the aliens stood between them and the ship. A withering blast from the Earth-people’s guns failed to disperse them. Bullets hummed back.

  Then, from the lock of the ship sounded the barking hiss of a blast-rifle. Marten Crodell stood there, pumping away methodically, raking the aliens from the back.

  Under this double deluge of death, the remaining plant-men broke. They scattered, in utter rout. The way was clear!

  Exhausted, the four stumbled into the ship. Marten Crodell closed the lock, shutting out the menace of the plant-people.

  FOSTAR sat at the controls, a month later, watching the sun—their sun—slowly expand in the void. Their argosy among the stars was over. Thinking back, the last six months of orthodox time seemed crowded with a lifetime of incredible events. It had been like a fantastic dream, sometimes nightmarish, sometimes too starkly realistic. Mankind doomed—mankind saved! And he had been an instrument of destiny!

  When they had come within the confines of the Solar System, and Fostar had slowed their superpace to less than light-speed, he tuned the radio for news from their home world.

  After a while, a message repeated in a variety of ways blared forth.

  “Dr. Bronzun’s theory of doom is now believed corroborated! The observatories of Oberon, Titan and Io report a decrease in the cosmic rays. Space-time is thinning. Earth and the whole Solar System are careening to the Edge of Space! And out there lies—annihilation!”

  “At last—they realize it!” cried Dr. Bronzun. He exchanged quiet glances of triumph with Angus Macluff and Fostar.

  But Fostar and Alora were watching Marten Crodell. They saw the swift, unbelieving shock that spread over his face. Stunned, he stared out into space—out toward the Beyond. His body shook.

  Fostar pitied him. The land-owner was seeing his lifelong empire of money and land crumbling about his head. He, more than any one else In the Solar System, felt the doom as a personal blow. It was not till an hour later that he turned, facing them.

  “I was wrong,” he said simply. “And you were right!” He squared his angular shoulders. “Come, let us tell them of the new world!”

  A YEAR later, at Yorkopolis’ greatest space-port, the five again stood together. Television apparatus hummed busily, recording a memorable event. Dr. Bronzun and Marten Crodell stood shaking hands, as a commentator spoke to the millions listening in.

  “These two men, people of earth, have done great service to humanity, but will do infinitely more. Dr. Bronzun is in charge of the Great Migration. Marten Crodell, formerly our greatest interplanetary organizer, will be his first assistant. To the side you see Rolan Fostar, chief pilot in charge of the transport fleet. Alora Crodell, with him, is to become his bride, in the first marriage on the new world! Angus Macluff, chief engineer of the fleet, will be their best man. And today, they lead us to our new Earth!”

  Ceremonies over, the party stepped within the huge, trim ship nearby, and a moment later it took off. With a roaring crescendo, ship after ship followed, carrying the first of humanity—save for the previous military expeditions—to their new home far out in the void. The long line of the ferry fleet spiraled off into space.

  Within the officers’ cabin of the flagship, Fostar ordered the auxiliary pilot room to take over, then sneaked a kiss from Alora. Dr. Bronzun and Marten Crodell pretended to be interested in the wall charts.

  “Marriage is a dangerous tiling!” said Angus Macluff dolefully. “I’m afraid you two will be very unhappy!”

  “You old fraud!” accused Alora, wrinkling her nose at him. “You know you mean just the opposite!”

  EPILOGUE

  TWENTY years later, Yorkopolis lay quiet and empty, as were all the other cities and habitations of man, borne by the deserted Earth toward destruction. Queerly, however, some few hundreds of people kept vigil, having refused to leave Earth, unable to bear the thought of taking up life on a new world.

  Suddenly Manhattan Island lifted itself into the sky and floated gently oceanward. The ocean became as smooth as glass, as natural laws reversed themselves inexplicably, with thinning space-time. The sun shed down an eerie green light, and under it grass grew a mile high at elevator speed. These were the beginnings of chaos . . .

  But humanity lived on in a new world, under a new sun, safe from the doom.

 

 

 
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