by Earl
His tone became more practical.
“Six months from today, the World Convention of delegates will meet again, to finally vote for or against the new government. It will not be forced on you, for that would make meaningless the very words of the Magna Charta. It must be ratified by a majority of the Tribal-states.
“Thus for six months, I am still Lord of Earth. I suggest only one thing, before my voice has no more authority—that my eldest son, Stuart, be elected the first president of the new government. I believe him suited to guide the World Congress in its first years.”
Fleetingly again, Knight’s 20th century mind contrasted this with the vanished past. A man “stumping” for office, without one microphone before him. No journalists, cameramen, or publicity agents. No radio to fling his voice; no telegraph network to tap out his words to all corners of Earth. A tribal chief, exhorting his little flock, huddled around a campfire. Not quite that, but close to it.
Knight went on.
“Now, I have the privilege to announce a new invention—the steamship!”
He pointed out over their heads. On the broad Hudson, a mile away, sailed a ship. But it moved without sails, rapidly. And faintly could be heard the hissing chug-chug of its engine. Magic to the crowd, they stared in awe, those who could see down unimpeded avenues. The rest hardly believed, when told.
For the first time, Knight felt an uplift of spirit. Stone Age world, yes. But he had not been idle, in his twenty-five years of reincarnation. The rebirth of science! Such had been his striving since his advent. The steamship was the latest of a long list of resurrected things from olden days.
“It will replace all sail-driven craft, in time,” Knight resumed. “It will cross the Atlantic Ocean in a week, without need of trade winds. The engine propelling it was developed by my second son, Perry.”
KNIGHT looked at them proudly, his two sons, reaching for his wife’s hand.
Stuart, child of two ages, combined the best of his parents: Knight’s rugged physique, thoughtful brow and determined chin; his Nartican mother’s finely-chiseled features, fair skin, and calm poise. Form-fitting garments and a silken shoulder cape set off his broad, well-proportioned figure. He was young, but already marked by circumstance for leadership.
Knight’s eyes shifted to his second son.
Perry, a year younger, was darker. A mop of black hair overhung rough-cut features that had been Knight’s own, in youth. He was slightly shorter, slimmer—and yes, boyish. But somehow, he was more of Knight himself. Knight had been boyish, too, when he emerged from his crypt, till the flint of events had brought out the steel in him.
Caught by the spirit of the moment, Knight spoke gravely.
“You are just twenty-four, Stuart. But I’m getting old. You must show this Second Stone Age the way toward civilization.”
Knight faced his second son.
“You’ll be Stuart’s right hand. You will obey him and build as he directs.”
He put his hands on their shoulders.
“Leader and builder,” he said solemnly, “I place the world in your young hands.”
The two sons of Knight looked at each other, and then out over the city and harbor, out over the world. They gripped hands silently. Below, gusts of cheers came from the crowd.
Knight thought of one thing more. It would lighten the moment.
“Stuart, why not announce your engagement to Leela now? Their soon-to-be president, son of a man from the past and a woman of Nartica, taking a Triber girl as his wife. It will please the people—”
Stuart turned to look at the girl, Leela, standing with his mother. Her eyes dropped before his, girlishly. They had grown up together. He flushed, with the great crowd looking on. Finally he took her hand and started to speak—
But there was interruption.
CHAPTER II
Two Out of Time
A DRONE had sounded from the sky.
All eyes turned, for aircraft were not a commonplace in the 50th century. Off in the distance a silvery speck grew and became a metal bird, soaring down from the heights. It drummed low on hissing rocket jets and circled over the Capitol, as warning of landing.
“One of our ships from Europe,” Perry said wonderingly. “What is it doing here?”
Knight watched curiously.
Its flight had been swift, no more than six hours from the shores of Europe to those of America, propelled by the rocket-jets of alcohol and liquid-air. In this one thing, the decadent science of isolated, buried Antarctica had contributed something—aircraft. Super-aircraft, in fact, by 20th century standards.
On the way, it had soared over countless sail-driven vessels on the broad Atlantic. Singular contrast! The mechanical eagle of advanced science, and the windjammers of a pre-steam era. They existed side by side in this queer interlude between the Stone Age and power-and-metals civilization.
Some day, Knight told himself often, there would be great fleets of the rocket ships, and fleets of the engine-driven sea vessels, to carry commerce. Some day—then there were enough factories.
The ship dropped downward in the hands of its Nartican navigators, along a concrete runway beside the Capitol. Its wheels touched and it roared to a stop as the front jets burst out. It must be something important, for the ship to come directly here.
Knight signified dismissal to the crowd, then led the way from the balcony, down through the building and out. A side lane gave directly on to the airfield, avoiding the dispersing people.
As Knight and his party strode toward the ship, its cabin hatch opened. A Nartican pilot stepped out, followed by two figures—a man and a girl. They stood for a moment, peering about. The man was short and stocky, about fifty years in age. The girl was young. They were father and daughter, in similarity of features.
Knight stopped before them.
He was aware suddenly that there was something strange about the two. They wore tunics of glinting texture that could only be fine-spun glass. There was no spun-glass known in the 50th century. And they stared about with an air of complete bewilderment. Not only had they never seen this place before, but they had never heard of it. It was obvious in their attitude.
Knight felt growing wonder.
Where could they be from? From what unsuspected spot on Earth where the people used spun-glass clothing, and knew nothing of resurrected New York?
“Who are they?” Knight asked the Nartican pilot.
I brought them from Vinna, in central Yorp,” he answered. “A runner came from Hal Doth, Chief of Vinnastate, yesterday, to Lord Perry’s laboratory. His message was that a buried stone vault had been uncovered, on the bank of the Danube River. They opened it, then decided to inform you, since it was ancient. But not long after, these two stepped out. Chief Hal Doth could not understand their speech, nor I. I brought them directly here.”
Knight had stiffened.
Stone-vault—ancient—two people stepping out!
His own burial and resurrection he had thought unique. There were no records, no fables even, of any other human being passing from one age to another. The Egyptians had left their mummies, for a future time to see. And there was a record that the remarkably preserved body of Lenin had been on view as late as 2400 A.D. But never had there been a whisper of a living body revived after its natural period of time.
Still, why not? If a scientist of the 20th century had developed the electro-leptic[1] process of suspending life, why not a later one?
KNIGHT found himself trembling.
Two other beings orphaned from the world he and they had known! He looked into their eyes, and already felt the kinship of their mutual misplacement in history.
They were still staring around, like two lost beings.
Knight spoke to them.
“You are from the past?” Then, on second thought: “Do you understand my words at all?” He had pronounced meticulously.
Old Aran Deen, the scholar, had shuffled forward eagerly. This was something in hi
s line.
“Spun-glass costumes were in vogue in the 30th century,” he stated. “If they are from that time, our present-day speech is mere gibberish.”
“Try their language,” Knight urged, impatient now.
“You speak,” Aran Deen suggested to the two, pointing to their mouths and pantomiming speech. In an aside to the others he said: “There were many languages in their 30th century. But they should know English, an early form of it. If I hear their precise accent, I think I can converse with them.”
The man spoke.
“Wir verstehen nicht. Sprechen Sie Deutsck?”
ARAN DEEN and Knight looked blankly at one another.
The man waved for attention and spoke again, in a changed language.
“Do you happen to understand English?” He went on wearily, half to his companion. “Good Lord, what crazy kind of world is this? No one understands us. That primitive chief, or whatever he was, in Europe. Now these people—”
Aran Deen had listened with his head cocked forward, but it was Perry who understood first.
“It’s your language, dad!” he cried excitedly. “Your 20th century English as you taught it to me so I could read your science books!”
Knight started as though stung. He had listened blankly, unaware it was his own tongue, strange to his own ears. But Perry was right. Except for a queer twang of the vowels, and a glib sliding over the consonants, it was 20th century English! And he realized now that their first words had been 20th century German.
“Of course!” Knight exclaimed, and Aran Deen was also nodding. “Of course your language is like mine. I should have thought of it, when Aran Deen mentioned the 30th century.”
Knight found himself speaking haltingly. His own birth-tongue, little used in 25 years, came out as though he quoted old stilted Latin or Greek. He went on, gaining fluency.
“Printing and radio kept English basically unchanged, all through the following thousand years, till the Second Dark Age. But I’m confusing you. My name is Stuart Knight.”
Relief had swept over their faces. The man inclined his head, smiling.
“Thank Heaven some one finally understands us. We are from the year 2907. My name is Lar Tane. This is my daughter Elda.”
He went on, as though eager to explain.
“Two days ago our vault was opened. At the first ray of light let in, an automatic pump drew air into our sealed glass chambers. Also its levers injected adrenalin below our hearts. Radium-motor, time lasting. We revived, from suspended animation. After two days hopelessly trying to talk with our rescuers, the plane came to take us here.”
“I welcome you to this time, Lar Tane and Elda,” Knight said quickly. The amenity seemed appropriate.
The two smiled, but a little in amazement.
“We understand you quite well,” Lar Tane said. “But your accent is strange. Very strange. Because, instead of sounding as we expected English might sound, somewhat futurized, it sounds—archaic! Has English gone back to a stilted form in this future time?”
KNIGHT smiled strangely.
This was a moment more unique than his own awakening. At his revival, coming from the 20th century, he had been greeted by the 50th century. But these two of the 30th century were being greeted by both the 20th and 50th! By people 2000 years in their “future,” and by one 1000 years in their “past!”
It was a queer tableau. Knight answered.
“No. The reason I speak in archaic English is because I’m from the 20th century.”
The two stared. For a moment an angry flush burned into the man’s face, as if he had been made sport of.
“It’s the truth, believe me,” Knight said hastily. “Not these others, just myself. I was buried in a vault like yours, in electro-lepsis, in the year 1940.”
Lar Tane waved helplessly.
“Then I must believe you. But it’s amazing. You’re from a thousand years before me. 1940—Himmel! The century of the first scientific war. You saw the first airplane, first radio, first World War!”
There was a little of awe in his voice, as if he looked at a being who had been present at Creation.
An amused smile then creased his features.
“We awake from suspended animation, in our future, and the first person we talk to, with understanding, is from a remote past! The gods themselves could not have planned a neater trick.”
He became serious.
“But now tell me. What year is this?”
He and his daughter tensed forward.
“5000 A.D.,” Knight answered.
Lar Tane and Elda started as though they were puppets on strings. Their eyes slowly widened in disbelief.
“This time you must be lying,” Lar Tane said dazedly. “I can’t believe it!”
He stared searchingly at Knight, for a sign of mockery. He stared at all their faces, and a staggered look came into his own.
“So it’s the truth!” he cried. “5000 A.D. The 50th century. 2000 years beyond our time. Even in our wildest imaginings—”
He composed himself suddenly, with a poise that seemed able to withstand any shock.
“You didn’t expect to be buried that long?” Knight asked.
“Not more than a hundred years,” Lar Tane said, shaking his head. “Oh, perhaps two or three centuries at the most. We had our vault buried—secretly—a certain distance from the city limits of Vinna. We assumed that within a century or two, the city would creep there, growing, and workmen would uncover it. And we would step out into 3000 or 3100. But the 50th century—”
His head was still shaking.
A brooding pain haunted his eyes.
“I saw Vinna as ruins that sawtoothed the horizon. Vinna was so magnificent, so bright and gay, in my time. Now it’s a skeleton.”
CHAPTER III
Our Civilization Died!
KNIGHT knew how it must have shaken him. So he had felt when he saw mighty New York laid low, at his awakening.
Lar Tane looked up, speaking sharply.
“What happened in central Europe?
We were taken in oxen-drawn carts from the vault to a primitive village of unlettered people. There was a backward aspect to everything. When the rocket plane came to take us away, I thought sure we would be taken to some center of civilization, wherever it is today. But when we looked down, before landing—”
He waved disdainfully.
Knight knew what he meant.
Soaring down over Manhattan Island, Lar Tane had seen a single power-plant and factory as signs of civilization. North of them, a city in the process of construction. Foundations going up. Open areas that would be the sites of future parks. One building completed, the Capitol, its white stone columns and dome gleaming in the sun. No skyscrapers.
The upper half of the island was just being cleared, emerging from an age-long state of ruin. Far to the north, the skeleton towers of a previous New York still reared, as at the site of ancient Vinna. This was not the great, bustling New York either Knight or Lar Tane had known. It was a ghost, a pitiful caricature.
Knight took a deep breath.
“This is the center of civilization today,” he said.
Lar Tane’s face was stunned.
“This! A half-built city rising out of ruins?”
Knight nodded, knowing he could not stave off the denouement much longer. Twenty-five years before, Knight had gone through the same crescendo of wonder and stark mental shock. In sympathy, he hoped to soften the brutal blow as much as possible for them. Lead up to it gradually.
It was not easy to awaken from civilization and find the ghost of it. Not easy to find your world knocked out from under you. Not easy to come from a science age and find the Second Stone Age.
“You saw our power-plant,” Knight said. “And the adjunct factory and alloy-industry, and the towers of a future radio station. Also my laboratory. The city will be a model one when it’s done, without congestion or slums. We’re proud of what we’ve done so far—”
Lar Tane burst in impatiently.
“One power-plant, one factory, one alloy industry, one radio station, one laboratory, one new building. One of everything. And this is the center of civilization!”
His voice became harsh.
“What is the rest of the world like?”
Knight tried to say it, but Lar Tane had already come to his own conclusion.
“The second Dark Age!” he whispered. “You used the term before.” He grinned mirthlessly, already gripping himself with a stoic control he seemed to have. “Or the second Stone Age! Isn’t that closer to it, Stuart Knight?”
It was a statement, not a question. He went on broodingly.
“I remember now what old Jonz, my science collaborator, said in farewell: He declined interment with us, saying he did not wish to ‘see the curtain fall’. I thought he was a senile croaker, but he was right.”
He took his daughter’s hand.
“Well, Elda. Now that we know, it isn’t so bad, is it?”
“There are at least things to do in this kind of world,” she responded.
It was an admirable spirit, in both father and daughter, though within must be a hollow ache.
THE girl had spoken her first words for the ears of history. This would all go down in the meticulous recordings of Aran Deen, as official historian. He grinned toothlessly as he noticed Stuart and Perry unconsciously straining forward to hear. Her voice had been low and melodious.
“She is beautiful!” the old seer said slyly.
It was ho overstatement.
Her iridescent tunic outlined a tall, slender figure of graceful lines and softly-rounded breasts. The arms and legs were bare, molded of ivory. Her features were fine and patrician, framed by a cascade of coppery hair. She was more an exquisite statue, shaped by hands of genius, than human.
But the eyes were most striking. They were green—green as the sea on a misty day, as emerald as dew-dropped sward in quiet woodland.