by Earl
Boswell complied readily, for even those few minutes in an upright posture had drained his strength so that he would have fallen back anyway. He turned his eager eyes on the other, waiting to hear those things that would all be in the nature of revelations to him.
“You and your companion,” went on the man of the future in his pleasing voice, “had been entombed in suspended animation for a long time—how long I cannot tell you just yet until I compare our time system with yours. When you awoke and stepped out of your casket, you were able to think and talk and move only because the excitement bore up your spirit. We left you alone when your companion was resurrected so that you two might greet each other unmolested. However, we had our eye on you and saw you both fall helpless. I might say now that it took all our efforts to keep you from death; the spark of life had indeed burned low after that short time of renewed activity. You have been sick for a long time—longer than you imagine—constantly hovering between life and death. I will not tell you about the numerous times we gave you up for lost, only to find a new strength arise within you whose source we do not know. Suffice it to say that finally we won the battle. During your long, gradual recovery—you were kept in constant drugged sleep for certain medical reasons—we have taken the liberty of doing certain things.
“We have increased the rate of your respiration to offset the lower percentage of oxygen available in this atmosphere; we have increased your heart action and your body functions to raise the temperature of your body because of the fact that this air is cooler than any to which you have been accustomed. We have also operated on you to remove all excreta from your alimentary system. From now on you will no longer produce waste products. Our food is so made that the total of it is assimilated by the body. None of these changes, let me add, will harm you in the least, and in view of the fact that you will probably live here the rest of your lives, they were necessary for your own convenience. You agree with me?”
Boswell nodded his head vigorously, his mind already whirling from the astounding things his visitor had told him.
“Furthermore,” continued the other, “we have placed in your minds by processes which are beyond your ability to understand as yet, a rudimentary knowledge of our language, enough of it so that you can understand me. The complete command of our language will not come to you until later, when you have been duly instructed in its intricacies.
“All measurements of any sort are meaningless to you at present—although you might recognize the sound of the words—because we have as yet no common basis of comparison. For good reasons, I must ask you for certain items of information. First of all, how many times did the earth rotate on its axis for every revolution around the sun at the time you were buried?”
“There were 365% rotations for one revolution,” answered Boswell.
For the first time that he could remember, young Boswell saw a look in the other’s face that might be akin to astonishment. They had seemed to have calmness that nothing could jar—even at the opening of Boswell’s casket, he remembered that when they had first looked at him, there was nothing of astonishment in their faces.
“365 rotations.” repeated the other. “That is remarkable. Now tell me what you called in your language that period of rotation and revolution and any other divisions.”
l Boswell ran through the scale: century, year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second. The bulbous-headed man would repeat the word in English and its equivalent in the time system and then nod his head as each was explained.
“That is taken care of,” said the visitor. “I need these facts to form a basis of comparison between our present system and yours. Now for linear measurement. What was the diameter of the earth in your system?”
“Approximately 8.000 of what we call ‘miles’,” answered Boswell.
“That will do for the present. Later we will establish a more accurate basis. Now give me the divisions of that unit.”
Boswell went down the linear scale: mile, rod, yard, foot, inch, and mentioned the metric system and its connection with the English system.
“Enough,” said the other. “Time and distance will do for the present. Area and volume we can compare at some future time. Now about your physical habits. You took solid food in the age from which you come, at definite intervals, and indulged in a coma, also at regulated intervals?”
“Yes,” replied Boswell. “We ate food three times a ‘day,’ and slept about eight ‘hours’ each ‘day.’ ”
“I see,” nodded the other. “From now on, however, you will not have to eat. That is. not solid food”—he amended the statement at Boswell’s look of surprise—“at regular intervals. The air you breathe contains a gas which is a perfect blending of the materials needed by the body cells to thrive and live. Every breath you take is depositing in your lungs this food, which is easily dissolved into the blood stream. As for sleeping, I am afraid that we cannot do away with that until sometime in the future when we have examined your nervous systems more thoroughly. We will let you sleep at regular intervals until such time.”
Boswell, much as his expansive mind could absorb things never before suspected, could not help asking: “You people do not sleep at all?”
“Never,” answered the other. “That evil habit died out long ago. The word ‘sleep’ is an obsolete one in our language. It was merely an unnatural condition of the human nervous system. You have been accustomed to drink water?”
At Boswell’s nod, he went on: “But no longer. Water is only needed in excess when food is imperfect, as an aid to digestion. The little water you need to replace that lost in respiration is perfectly balanced by the amount absorbed. This atmosphere contains the exact amount of moisture necessary for that purpose. Your physical action in the future will be so regulated that the unnecessary process of perspiration will never occur. And now, my friend from the past, I will leave you. You are still not very well, and until such time as we find you fit to arise, you and your companion will remain in a reclining state.”
“One thing,” called Boswell. “Don’t you think that it would be convenient for us to know each other’s names?”
“Yes, it would,” answered the other. “Let me tell you first what a name is to us. It indicates the following things: time of birth, sex, vocation, and avocation. I will tell you more of vocation and avocation some future time. However, my name is Monituperal. The ‘al’ indicates masculine sex. The feminine suffix is ‘in’. The source of the rest of the name would be meaningless to you until you knew further of present life. And what are your names?”
“My companion is Professor Reinhardt; I am Andrew Boswell.”
“Very odd names to my ear,” said the other with again a faint smile which seemed unable to break the ice of melancholy that was characteristic of these people’s faces. “Some time you will tell me more about them. But now I will leave.”
Boswell stared long at the part of the wall through which the visitor had vanished, his thoughts a mixture of all the emotions which are akin to surprise. And yet he sensed that the few things he had learned so far were but a tenth of the wonders that were yet to come.
Professor Reinhardt had slept peacefully during the conversation but now he began to stir and twist in the soft material on which he lay. At Boswell’s call he opened his eyes and turned his head.
“Professor,” said Boswell excitedly, leaning on his elbow, “I just had a visitor while you slept and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m dreaming or not. He came in through the wall as usual—oh, by the way, how do you feel?”
“A little weak, Andrew, but go ahead with what you are saying.”
“Well, he came in, as I said, and talked to me. . . .”
“Talked to you?” repeated the biologist amazed. “How. . . . when did he learn English?”
“Talked to me in his own tongue,” said Boswell, using the language new to them and watching his companion curiously the while.
Professor Reinhardt started as he realized tha
t he understood the words.
“So we know the language,” he said in the same tongue. “Well, go ahead Andrew,” he finished in English.
“Here’s what he told me,” continued Boswell. “We’ve been sick a long time, even near death. During our recovery they increased our rate of respiration, heart action, and body functions and taught us their language—why, even now while I’m talking in English, it seems stiff and lame compared to theirs. Then, from now on we will breathe in our food and water and . . .
“Now hold on. Andrew,” cried the professor. “You’ve got to go slower than that. I’m dizzy listening.”
“All right,” chuckled Boswell. “But I’m going to use their language because it’s much more expressive.”
Thereupon he recounted all that had transpired between him and Monituperal. all those things that marked their entrance into this world of the future.
“They are remarkable physiologists.” commented the professor as his companion finished. “Andrew. I have a feeling that we are going to come up against many things soon that our intellects will fail to comprehend. Just how far in the future we are from our century, I don’t know, but it is so far ahead that I doubt that we will ever fully understand these things that will be revealed to our wandering eyes. You see, intelligence is a product of growth. Without the background of knowledge—inherited, but yet intangible—that these people have, we can never hope to equal their ability for understanding. You have felt, haven’t you, Andrew, a mental shrinking in their presence?”
“Exactly, professor,” agreed Boswell, “a feeling that they are on a mountain top and I in a valley, in respect to intelligence. But have you noticed, professor, that look of inifinite sadness in their features, as if they carried an immense load of sorrow in their hearts? Perhaps you haven’t . . .”
“On the contrary,” returned the biologist, “that reminds me that I wanted to ask you about that very thing. During the past few days—or maybe it has been weeks—while we have been sick, I have had numerous dreams and visions and momentary waking spells—although I don’t know which are which. The people that figured in the incidents, however, always had that sadness about them that provoked my curiosity. I just wonder if some disaster has befallen them, or is due to come, or what.”
“I’ve wondered myself,” remarked Boswell. “It seems to me that with the advancement and enlightenment that they must now have, they should be the most happy and contented people in the universe.”
“That would be logical. But it’s useless to guess till we know more facts,” the biologist said practically. “For the present, all we can do is hope for speedy recovery. It ought to be speedy, too, for I can just feel the invigorating, healing influence of this wonderful air. Perhaps it contains not only food but medicines so that with every breath we draw, we are that much closer to normal. What a remarkable thing, my young friend, this idea of combining breathing with eating. We are like the plants, now, extracting food from the air. Speaking of plants, that reminds me. I wonder what the outside world looks like? We can expect it to be vastly different. Sunlight will be weaker, the days will be longer, topography is probably very different, forests might be nonexistent, animal life might also be a thing of the past. Then among other things, we may be able to visit other planets, see other forms of life in our solar system, find the answer to the mystery of Mars’ canals and Venus’ rotation and the rings of Saturn and the possible existence of other planets besides the nine we knew and. . . .”
l Professor Reinhardt stopped and smiled. “My young friend and companion, the curse of imagination runs away with my tongue. It was that same imagination that is the cause of our being here. . . . here where we hardly belong, I’m tempted to say.”
“Nonsense,” cried Boswell, whose eyes had been shining while the biologist mentioned the things they might soon witness. “We have a perfect right to be here. We might even prove of a certain historical value to these people; it is wholly possible that they have lost all records of the age in which we lived so that our information will be priceless to them. Personally, I wouldn’t trade places with anybody right now. This is really Adventure with a capital A.”
“Bravo,” smiled the biologist. “Fate took a terrible toll in the loss of our two companions, but She has very kindly left you, for which I am thankful. Honestly, my young friend, I would actually dread being here alone in this age. I am afraid these things that lose their mystery somewhat as we talk them over, would soon drive me mad were I all alone.”
“I have felt that way myself, Professor. Perhaps you can imagine how I felt when I saw two of the caskets mutilated and hardly dared look at yours for fear I would see the same thing,” remarked Boswell.
The biologist sighed heavily as he thought of the two broken caskets. “Callahan and Goodwin. . . . they must have died centuries ago. There can be nothing left of them. Even the cotton on which they lay would disintegrate gradually and escape as flying atoms and molecules. If we ever care to open their caskets—which have become their coffins—all we would find would be two aluminum plates, scratched with writing . . . .”
Then there was a long silence. Boswell found himself thinking about his life in the long ago past, his work, his recreation. his circle of life—how insignificant and futile it seemed now, how utterly and unthinkably narrow. It had been a cage—a man-made cage, and this. . . . this was the open field.
When next he looked to his companion, he found him fast asleep. Young Boswell felt his own eyes grow heavy and dropped to peaceful slumber.
CHAPTER VI
Life of the Future
l When next Boswell opened his eyes, he looked directly into the melancholy face of Monituperal. He sensed that he had emerged from a sleeping state as by a signal, for he noticed that Professor Reinhardt sat up at the same time he had. Monituperal seemed in no hurry and waited montionlessly until they had rubbed the sleep out of their eyes. Then he spoke.
“Andrew Boswell and Professor Reinhardt, you have now fully recovered. I have told you of the alterations made on your bodies’ functions while you were yet in the coma. Another thing we have done is remove from your bodies all germs that can cause sickness. Some of those germs are curiosities to us; we have never seen them before. Another step we plan to take, but we will not do so without your full accord, is to remove that unsightly hair on various parts of your body. It is unnecessary and unclean. However, we will leave that for the present Right now I ask that you accompany me to another room where we will discuss certain matters. Stand here with me and hold my hands.”
Obediently they jumped from their “beds” and stood on either side of Monituperal, each holding one of his hands. They saw the wall glow red, and in a trice felt themselves whisked away. With the most contused of impressions, they found themselves in what might be called a lounging room. Their guide pointed to cup-shaped, artistically designed seats and lowered himself into one facing them.
Boswell found himself wanting to ask how they had been transported so magically to this room, but felt too much in awe of the bulbous-headed man to do so. Above him he noticed a spherical object with a number of frosted orbs and tubes set in its surface. He choked down a gasp when he noticed that it was suspended in mid-air, apparently connected with nothing. It was motionless and silent until Monituperal looked up to it. Then it slowly swung horizontally till it was poised at a point midway between the three men. Then it seemed to lock into place.
“My friends from the past,” began Monituperal, “you know who I am by name only. Let me further explain that my avocation, or what you may call ‘hobby,’ is ancient history. Some time ago your caskets were found and turned over to me as being of most value in my pursuit.
“First of all, you know that you are on the planet nearest the sun. What is your name for it?”
“Mercury,” gasped Professor Reinhardt. “But, may I ask, why did you bring us to Mercury? Why did you take us away from Earth?”
Only a slight widening of the eyes
indicated the surprise that Monituperal felt. “Is it possible,” he asked, “that you do not know that Earth. . . .”
He stopped and changed the question: “How many of your ‘years’ do you. think you have been in suspended animation?”
“At the time we left our age,” supplied the biologist, “we had planned on being dug up and revived not more than, twenty thousand ‘years’ afterward. Of course, I realize that it may be all of a half million ‘years’, from certain deductions of my own.”
For a long minute there was utter silence as Monituperal looked from, one to the other. Under the lash of impatience, Boswell squirmed in his seat.
“My friends from the past,” finally came from Monituperal slowly, “prepare your minds for a shock.” He paused and then continued still more slowly, “You were buried approximately two billion of your ‘years’ ago.”
l Boswell felt his brain grow numb. The statement lashed into his mind like a whip and left a sting that tingled more and more as he found himself repeating out loud, “Two billion years! two billion years! Let’s see, that’s two thousand million years—two thousand million years!” To his dim consciousness came a mumble from his companion who was dazedly saying, “Twenty million centuries! Twenty million centuries!”
Then Boswell heard Professor Reinhardt say in a hushed voice: “Are you sure there is no mistake, Monituperal?”
“Quite,” said he without hesitation. “We have figured back in time with the data that the earth rotated 365 times for every revolution in your age. At present your earth no longer rotates that fast. It presents one face to the sun all the time, thus making one rotation per revolution. Furthermore, it is much nearer to the sun and revolves in less time than formerly. Incidentally, the sun is no longer the sun you knew; its fires have abated through the ages. This is the sun. . . .”
The room suddenly became pitch black. They seemed to be out in space, surrounded by a multitude of stars. Then, as if turning around in the void, the sun came into view. First came a slight haze of yellow, all that remained of the magnificent corona of the past, then a disc of a dull red sphere. Gone was the fiery brilliance that they had known of the sun of yore, those long streamers of rose and yellow and the burning intenseness that it once possessed. Now they could look directly at it without hurting their eyes; a dull, black-spotted, slightly glowing cinder. shedding a feeble stream of rays that seemed to die in weakness in mid-space.