by W. J. Stuart
I drew a deep breath. I did not look at either of my passengers as I spoke. I said, “We are so deep here, gentlemen, that heat and pressure variations may trouble you. But don’t be alarmed, there are no lasting effects.”
I released the hood, and Adams opened the door beside him and we stepped out onto the narrow platform. There was nothing here for them to see; only the endless low arching of the tunnel, its rock gleaming dull under the lamps.
I said, “We are standing some fifty miles beneath the surface of the planet,” and heard Ostrow catch his breath and some muttered indistinguishable word from Adams. Their faces glistened with moisture, their breathing was harsh and fast.
I broke the ray-lock and pushed back the screen. I stepped up into the alcove, beckoning them to join me.
They stared at the bulbous excrescence upon one wall, and the mouth of the funnel-like scope which sprang from the floor to face it.
“More miles below us—” I pointed to the rock beneath our feet—“is the answer to that question of Major Ostrow’s which brought us here. The source of power.” I reached out and released the cover of the great mirror, and then swung the mirror itself down upon its supports until it locked.
I said, “Look in that mirror—and nowhere else. Nowhere else!”
They stared at me, and Ostrow murmured, “ ‘Thou canst not look upon the Gorgon’s face and live,’ ” and took Adams by the arm and turned him to face the mirror.
I stood beside them and touched the switch that slid back the cover from the mouth of the funnel in the floor behind us . . .
This was the moment I had waited for; the moment when, as they looked into the mirror, I should look at their faces. But I did not. I could not. I should have known that the fascination of that terrible, that awe inspiring sight would hold me oblivious of all else. As it had before. As it always must . . .
The sea of leaping flame, shot through with every color of the greater spectrum . . . The mouth of hell—or the gateway to Godhead . . .
I do not know how long we stood there—but at last I reached for the switch and closed it and heard the cover slide into place over the scope behind us.
The mirror was blank again, and I was free. Now I looked at the faces; they were bloodless and glistening with sweat, the eyes wide and gazed. When I spoke I could see the effort it cost to focus not only the eyes themselves but the minds behind them.
I said, “Does that answer the question? . . . Power the equal of ten thousand nuclear reactors in tandem . . . The power of an exploding star . . . Cosmic power . . .”
They looked at each other, and then at me. They still did not speak. I led the way out of the alcove and locked the screen in position. I staggered as I turned to the car, and realized suddenly that I had reached a dangerous pitch of exhaustion.
Ostrow put out a hand as if to help me, but I brushed it aside.
I leant over the car and turned the seats around, finding that I had to support myself with a hand upon the door. With a great effort I stood straight and gestured to Ostrow.
He climbed into the car without a word, but as I took the center seat beside him, Adams behind me, I saw that he was studying me again. And now with the physically appraising eye of his profession.
I was determined to show no weakness. I made a slow business of neutralizing the control set I had used on the journey down; then was slower still in uncovering the set I must use on the return.
I said, “We are going back to the surface,” exercising care to keep my voice at its previous pitch. “There may be small discomfort as the pressure alters, and the temperature—”
I had intended to go on; to tell them they need not be alarmed. But it became too great an effort . . .
I pressed the hood switch—and then, when we were covered, made the starting contact . . .
I was conscious all the time of Ostrow’s eyes, watching me—
SIX
Major C. X. Ostrow
I was anxious about Morbius. He looked a sick man and I couldn’t stop myself wondering what we would do if he collapsed before we reached the surface again . . .
But he didn’t. In fact, he seemed to pick up the moment we began to mount and the temperature and pressure started to ease. And when the car stopped, and we found ourselves back at the door to the laboratory, he seemed to be at least as well as he had been when we started on that unbelievable journey.
He led the way through the laboratory and back to his study, and through that to the living-room. The Robot was standing by the rear door, and somehow the sight of him—of it—was startling. Morbius waved us to chairs and dropped onto a settee himself. He said, “Robby—wine,” and the thing turned and went out and I realized this was the first time any one of us had spoken since we’d turned away from that indescribable sight fifty miles under our feet.
And none of us spoke now. The Robot came back, with a wine decanter and glasses on a tray. For me there was still an uncanny quality about his butler-like efficiency. He filled the glasses, and handed them to us. He set the decanter down on a table near Morbius—and went out again.
Adams drained his glass and sat forward in his chair. I wondered what he was going to say.
He said to Morbius, “The Krells’ objective was to do without physical instrumentalities?”
Morbius said, “That is correct, Commander.”
Adams said, “That’s one hell of an instrument you’ve just been showing us.”
Morbius flushed. It was a dark, purplish flush and I didn’t like it. He didn’t speak.
I gave Adams a warning glance. I said, “Maybe they had to have it. To teach themselves how to do without it.”
Morbius stared at me. The flush leaving his face too quickly, he said, “You see glimmerings of the truth, Major.”
Adams’ face was set, completely expressionless. He said, “We shouldn’t be fooling around trying to get in audio touch with Base. This thing’s too big. It ought to be reported on. Fully, and right away.” He kept his eyes on Morbius. “You ought to know that, sir. No one man can monopolize a great discovery this way.”
Morbius came to his feet in one convulsive movement. He said, “I’ve been expecting that from you, Commander, ever since I was forced to show you some of the work of the Krell.” His face was white, even his lips. “What do you mean to do? Try and take me back, whether I am willing or not? So that I can waste years explaining the inexplicable to fools!”
Adams said, “What else can I do? Report you’re working out the secrets of the universe? And that maybe you’ll give out with the recipe—when you’re good and ready?”
Morbius began to pace, his hands clenched at his sides. He was making a terrific effort to control himself.
He said, “For nearly twenty years, Commander—ever since I first began to study the lore of the Krell—I have debated this question with myself. Dispassionately, I hope, and examining every facet of the problem.”
He paused, staring into Adams’ face as if he were trying to read his thoughts. He said, slowly and deliberately, “I have come to the inevitable, the unalterable conclusion that Man is not yet ready, not yet fit, to receive such knowledge.” He stopped abruptly, keeping his eyes on Adams’.
Adams said, “Mankind isn’t ready, huh? But the great Doctor Morbius is?”
The dark flush stained Morbius’ face again, and he turned away with a violent, oddly futile gesture. I could see his whole body trembling.
I said quickly, “Maybe Doctor Morbius has special qualifications,” and shot Adams another warning look.
But if he saw it, he ignored it. He stood up to face Morbius. “Let’s go back a bit,” he said. “To what brought me here—the sabotage last night. You will say you had nothing to do with it? Know nothing about it? Can’t even guess?”
The blood ebbed from Morbius’ face, leaving only an ugly patch over each cheekbone.
“You fool!” he said suddenly. “I warned you, didn’t I? Before you ever landed your ship, I warn
ed you—”
“You mean your mysterious ‘Force’?” Adams said. “You mean that’s on the loose again?”
It was the tone more than the words that proved the last straw. Morbius raised his clenched hands above his head, and I thought for an instant he was going to smash them into Adams’ face. “You—you—” he began, but then rage seemed to choke him and he suddenly staggered . . . I just got to him in time. I grabbed him and eased him back to the settee and down onto it.
“What the hell—” said Adams from behind me, and I told him savagely to shut up and bent over Morbius.
His eyes were closed, and his breathing was too fast and too light. I unbuttoned the collar of his tunic and felt for his pulse. It was heavy and irregular, I said to Adams, “Get the emergency-kit from the tractor. Quick.”
He was hardly out of the room before Morbius was struggling to sit up. His eyes were open and he was mumbling something. I heard, “. . . so tired . . . so tired . . .”
Gently, I pushed him back against the cushions. I said, “It’s all right—take it easy—”
I loosened another button of the tunic and lifted his legs up until he was lying straight. He watched me all the time. His eyes were eminently sane, but they had a gaze on them which bore out the snap diagnosis my mind had already made.
“Tired—” he muttered again. “. . . too tired . . .” That was the clincher. Until another doctor came along, my patient was suffering from complete exhaustion, nervous and otherwise.
Adams came back with the emergency kit, and as soon as Morbius saw him he started trying to sit up. He said, “Commander—I insist—if you doubt my word—”
I waved at Adams and he moved back out of sight. I got Morbius lying down once more. I said to him, “Just take it easy now . . . Do as I say and you’ll be all right . . .”
He started to speak, but gave it up as too much effort. His eyes closed.
I moved quietly away from the couch and joined Adams. He was standing by the window, looking out, but turned quickly as I came up. I said, very low, “I’m in charge for the moment. Get the hell outside while I put him to bed.”
“What’s the matter with him?” His tone matched mine.
“Looks like exhaustion,” I said. “Whatever it is, you’re not helping it any—”
“Sure it isn’t an act, Doc?”
“Don’t be a fool; do what I tell you!” I gripped him by the arm. “Think where you’d be if he had a stroke and died on us!”
That got him. He gave me one of his sudden grins and said, “Okay, Doc—okay.”
He walked out into the entrance hall, and I heard the big door open and close.
I went back to my patient. He was trying to sit up again. I quieted him and opened the kit, my shoulder turned so that he couldn’t see what I was doing.
While I filled a syringe he started talking, his voice thick and blurred. He said, “Doctor—doctor—I don’t want to go to sleep . . . I don’t want to go to sleep!”
There was no point in fighting him. I said smoothly, “Who’s going to put you to sleep? . . . We want to wake you up.” I showed him the syringe. “And this is the stuff to do it!”
He eyed me suspiciously, but let me push back his sleeve. He winced a little as the needle jabbed into his arm.
In less than a minute, he was out. So dead asleep that even a Krell couldn’t have waked him.
I stood up and put the syringe back in the kit. I lit a cigarette and looked down at the man and thought he should be in bed. I wondered where Altaira was. She ought to be told about her father, and he ought to be left alone for at least twelve hours, and I ought to be told where his bedroom was.
I considered finding Robby and getting him to help me. But then it occurred to me that I’d have to activate him, and somehow the idea didn’t appeal to me . . .
I went outside for Adams. I was sure he’d be on the patio, but he wasn’t. The tractor was in my way and I walked out onto the blue-grey track and around it.
And then the silence hit me. There was too much of it.
It made me realize what a terrifying adjective unearthly could be.
I looked uneasily around at the house, and the windows stared back at me. I looked out across the grassy stretch where we’d watched Altaira and her animals, and there was nothing but the grass. Suddenly, I found I didn’t like its color. I wanted it to be green instead of gold. I wanted the sky to be blue, and the hot sunlight yellow . . .
I started toward the grove of trees which lined the road, but when I’d gone a few yards changed my mind for no reason and started across toward the pool.
I found I was almost running, and forced myself to stop. I was just about at the point where Altaira had stood to feed her animals when the thought struck me that I might shout. In the silence my voice ought to carry for miles.
I was cupping my hands around my mouth, and filling my lungs, when I suddenly saw him.
He was less than a hundred yards away, pacing slowly up and down the paved walk on the far side of the pool, appearing and reappearing through the screen of the shrubbery. His hands were thrust into his pockets, his head was bent. He was so deep in thought I doubted he even knew where he was.
Seeing him made everything feel very different. I was thankful I hadn’t shouted, and instead of thinking about myself I began thinking about him. No wonder he was pacing. Even yesterday he’d had enough on his mind to frighten a Marshal, let alone a young SE Commander. And look what today had brought! The added, the incalculable responsibility of finding that Morbius was the sole holder of knowledge which must be communicated to Mankind!
And Morbius was sick. And Morbius would fight against sharing his knowledge. And there was no one to decide how he should be dealt with; no one except Commander John Justin Adams . . .
And, unless I had missed my best guess, John Justin Adams was in love with Morbius’ daughter.
I started toward the pool. But I’d only gone a step or so when I stopped dead in my tracks. As if my thinking about her had conjured her, there was Altaira, face to face with Adams just as he emerged into my line of sight again. She had come from the trees behind the pool, and her arms were full of flowers she had been gathering. They were great red-and-purple blossoms on long white stems, and she was looking down at them.
Neither of them saw the other until they had almost collided. They were only a pace apart when they stopped, and raised their heads, and stared at each other, motionless.
There was something about the little tableau—an exquisite tension, a purely natural drama of line and color—that held me as still as they were. They hadn’t seen me, and wouldn’t. So it was plain I must either get out of there or hail them.
But I didn’t move. I went on watching them.
I don’t know how long it was they stood there, gazing at each other. But I do know they didn’t speak. Although they were too far away for me to hear or even see, I knew that. There was something defiant in the way they looked; some nuance of posture which made me know—particularly about Altaira—that there was conflict here; conflict I knew nothing about . . .
Then the whole static picture burst into movement. She did speak—and as she spoke she started to turn away . . .
And then Adams moved for the first time. His hand shot out and caught her by the shoulder. She faced him again, her head flung back as if in protest . . .
And then her arms opened, and the flowers fell at her feet. And his arms went around her and hers went around his shoulders and they were locked in a kiss . . .
I came to myself. I turned quickly away and started back toward the house. My feet made no sound in the grass, but I found myself walking on tiptoe . . .
I was nearly back to the tractor when I looked around. I couldn’t help it.
I could see them through the shrubs. They were walking away from the pool, slowly, and Adams’ arm was around the girl as they walked.
They disappeared into the trees . . .
II
I went back into the house. I didn’t mind the thought of Robby so much now, and started looking for him. He was standing, startlingly dead-seeming, just behind the rear door to the living room. I activated him by using his name, and he not only showed me Morbius’ room but carried him there.
It was a small, monastic place, just off the corridor which led back from the living room. When we had my still sleeping patient in bed I sent Robby out and checked the man’s heart and respiration and blood pressure. They were all much better than I’d expected, and when I’d made sure he was lying comfortably I went out of the room myself.
And was faced with a problem I hadn’t contemplated. Robby was activated; how did one de-activate him?
The answer was simple, but it only came to me after I’d kept myself busy for half an hour thinking up orders to give him. For some reason, I found he made me more uncomfortable ‘alive’ and waiting, with that one light glowing behind the louvres, than he did as an inanimate hunk looming in a corner.
He gave me the answer himself—because I asked him. I said, “Robby—how do I switch you off?” and he told me, whirring and clicking. It was as easy as that. I said, “That’s all now—” and it was. He stood there, a dead lump of metal again.
Then I sat by the windows, looking out over the patio and smoking one cigarette after the other and trying to keep awake by telling myself this was no time to get tired . . .
I was on my second or third cigarette when I thought I heard the distant spit-crack-hiss of a D-R pistol. I jumped up and ran to the entry and pulled open the door . . .
And stopped on the threshold, wondering whether I’d dreamed the sound. There was something so absolute about the silence that somehow I couldn’t imagine it had just been broken, and the more I thought, the less certain I was that I had really heard it . . .
But then I saw Adams and Altaira. They were walking toward the house over the gold-tinted turf. They were very close together.
But they hadn’t seen me, and I backed in and closed the door, slowly and quietly, and crossed to the rear of the living room and sat myself in a big chair.