“But it will take millennia!”
“You must remain here,” Theron stated. “How many of us survived the voyage from Kyria? You must wait, Ardath, even a million years if it is necessary. Our stasis ray kept us in suspended animation while we came across space. Take the ship beyond the atmosphere. Adjust it to a regular orbit, like a second satellite around this world.
“Set the controls so you will awaken eventually, and be able to investigate the evolutionary progress of this planet. You will wait a long time, I admit. But finally you will find men.”
“Men like us?”
Theron shook his head regretfully.
“No. Super-mentality is a matter of eugenically controlled breeding. Occasionally a mental giant will be born, but not often. On Kyria we bred and mated these mental giants, till eventually their progeny peopled the planet. You must do the same with this world.”
“I will,” Ardath consented. “But how—”
“Go through the ages. Do not stop till you find one of these mental giants. He will be easily recognized, for, almost from infancy, he will be far in advance of his contemporaries. He will withdraw from them, turning to the pursuit of wisdom. He will be responsible for many of the great inventions of his time. Take this man—or woman, perhaps—and go on into time, until you have found a mental giant of the opposite sex.
“You could never mate with a female of this world, Ardath. Since you are from another system, it would be biologically impossible. The union would be sterile. This is your duty—find a super-mentality, take him from his own time-sector, and find a mate for him in the more distant future. From that union will arise a race of giants equal to the Kyrians. In a sense, you will have been their foster-father.”
Theron sighed turned his head till his cheek lay against the bare rock of the shore.
“May the great Architect guide you, Ardath,” he said softly.
Abruptly his head slumped, and Theron was dead.
The gray waves whispered a requiem. Ardath stood silent, looking down at the worn, tired face, now relaxed in death.
He was alone, infinitely far from the nearest human being.
Then another feeling came, making him realize that he was no longer a homeless wanderer of space.
NEVER in his life had Ardath stood on a world’s surface. The others had told him of Kyria, and on the pictorial library screens he had seen views of green and sunset lands that were agonizingly beautiful. Inevitably Ardath had come to fear the black immensity of the starlit void, to hate its cold, eternal changelessness. He had dreamed of walking on grassy, rolling plains. . . .
That would come, for he knew Theron had been right. Cycads and ferns would grow where Ardath now stood. Amphibiae would come out of the waters and evolve, slowly of course, but with inexorable certainty. He could afford to wait.
First, though, he needed power. The great atomic engine of the ship was useless, exhausted.
Atomic power resembled dynamite in that it needed some outside source of energy to get it started. Dynamite required a percussion cap. The engine of the golden ship needed power. Solar energy? Lenses were required. Besides, the cloudblanket was an insurmountable handicap, filtering out most of the necessary rays. Coal? It would not exist here for ages.
A tremble shook the ground, and Ardath nodded thoughtfully. There was power below the power of seething lava, enormous pressures, and heat that could melt solid rock. Could it be harnessed?
Steam . . . a geyser! That would provide the necessary energy to start the atomic motor. After that, anything would be possible.
With a single regretful glance at the dead Theron, Ardath set out to explore the savage new world.
For two days and nights he hunted, growing haggard and weary. At last he found an area of lava streams, shuddering rock, and geysers. Steam feathered up into the humid air, and to the north a red glow brightened the gray sky.
Ardath stood for a while, watching. His quest was ended. Long weeks of ardous work still lay ahead, but now he had no doubt of ultimate success. The steam demons would set the atomic motor into the operation. After that, he could rip ores from the ground and find chemicals. But after that?
The ship must be made spaceworthy again, though not for another long voyage. Such a course would be fruitless. Of all the planets the Kyrians had visited, only this world was capable of supporting life.
As yet, mere cells of blind, insensate protoplasm swarmed in the sullen seas, but those cells would develop. Evolution would work upon them. Perhaps in a million years human beings, intelligent creatures, would walk this world. Then, one day, a super-mentality would be born, and Ardath would find that kindred mind. He would take that mental giant into the future, in search of a suitable mate. After dozens of generations there would arise a civilization that would rival that of Kyria—his home planet now utterly destroyed without trace.
Time passed as Ardath worked. He blasted out a grave for Theron on the shore where the old Kyrian had died. He repaired the golden craft. Tirelessly he toiled.
FIVE months later, the repaired space ship rose, carrying its single passenger. Through the atmosphere it fled. It settled into an orbit, became a second, infinitesimal moon revolving around the mother planet.
Within it Ardath’s robot machinery began to operate. A ray beamed out, touching and bathing the man’s form, which was stretched on a low couch.
Slowly consciousness left Ardath. The atomic structure of his body was subtly altered. Electrons slowed in their orbits. Since they emitted no quanta, Ardath’s energy was frozen in the utter motionlessness of stasis. Neither alive nor dead, he slept.
The ray clicked off. When Ardath wakened, he would see a different world older and stranger. Perhaps it would even be peopled by intelligent beings.
Silently the space ship swept on. Far beneath it a planet shuddered in the titanic grip of dying fires. The rains poured down, eroding, endless. The tides flowed and ebbed. Always the cloud veil shrouded the world that was to be called Earth. Amid the shattering thunder of deluges, new lands rose and continents were formed.
Life, blind, hungry and groping, crawled up on the beaches, where it basked for a time in the dim sunlight.
CHAPTER II
Youth
ON August 7, 1924, an eight-year-old boy caused a panic in a Des Moines theater.
His name was Stephen Court. He had been born to a theatrical family of mediocre talent—the Crazy Courts, they were billed. The act was a combination of gags, dances and humorous songs. Stephen traveled with his parents on tour, when they played one-night stands and small vaudeville circuits. In 1924, vaudeville had not yet been killed by the films. It was the beginning of the Jazz Age.
Stephen was so remarkably intelligent, even as a child, that he was soon incorporated into the act as a “mental wizard.” He wore a miniature cap and gown, and was introduced by his parents at the end of their turn.
“Any date—ask him any historical date, my friends and he will answer! The gentleman in the third row. What do you want to know?”
And Stephen would answer accurately. When did Columbus discover America? When was the Magna Charta signed? When was the Battle of Hastings? When was Lafayette born?
“Mathematical questions? You, there—”
Stephen would answer. Mathematics was no riddle for him, nor algebra. The value of pi? He knew it. Formulas and equations slipped gliby from his tongue. He stood on the stage in the spotlight, his small face impassive, a small, dark-haired child with curiously luminous brown eyes, and answered all questions.
He read omnivorously every look he could manage to obtain. He was coldly unemotional, which distressed his mother, and he hid his thoughts well.
Then, on that August night, his life suddenly changed.
The act was almost over. The audience was applauding wildly. The Courts stood on each side of the boy, bowing. And Stephen stood motionless, his strange, glowing eyes staring out into the gloom of the theater.
“Take yo
ur bows, kid,” Court hissed from the side of his mouth.
But the boy didn’t answer. There was an odd tensity in his rigid posture. His expressionless face seemed strained. Only in his eyes was there life, and a terrible fire.
In the theater, a whisper grew to a murmur and the applause died. Then the murmur swelled to a restrained roar, until someone screamed:
“Fire!”
Court glanced around quickly. He could see no signs of smoke or flame. But he made a quick gesture, and the orchestra leader struck up a tune. Hastily the man and woman went into a routine tap dance.
“Steve!” Court said urgently. “Join in!”
But Stephen just stood there, and through the theater the roar rose to individual screams of panic. The audience no longer watched the stage. They sprang up and fought their way to the exits, cursing, pushing, crowding.
Nothing could stop it. By sheer luck no one was killed. But in ten minutes the theater was empty—and there had been no sign of a fire.
IN his dressing room, Court looked queerly at his son.
“What was wrong with you tonight, kid?” he asked, as he removed greasepaint from his face with cold cream.
“Nothing,” Stephen said abstractedly.
“Something funny about the whole thing. There wasn’t any fire.”
Stephen sat on a chair, his legs swinging idly.
“That magician we played with last week—” he began.
“Yeah?”
“I got some ideas from him.”
“Well?” his father urged.
“I watched him when he hypnotized a man from the audience. That’s all it was. I hypnotized the entire audience tonight.”
“Oh, cut it out,” Court said, grinning.
“It’s true! The conditions were right. Everyone’s attention was focused on me. I made them think there was a fire.”
When Court turned and looked at the boy, he had an odd feeling that this was not his son sitting opposite him. The round face was childish, but the eyes were not. They were cold, watchful, direct.
Court laughed without much conviction.
“You’re crazy,” he said, turning back to the light-rimmed mirror.
“Maybe I am,” Stephen said lightly. “I want to go to school. Will you send me?”
“I can’t afford it. Anyway, you’re too big an attraction. Maybe we can manage later.”
Stephen did not argue. He rose and went toward his mother’s dressing room, but he did not enter. Instead, he turned and left the theater.
He had determined to run away.
Stephen already knew that his brain was far superior to the average. It was as yet unformed, requiring knowledge and capable training. Those he could never get through his parents. He felt no sorrow or pity on leaving them. His cool intellect combined with the natural cruelty of childhood to make him unemotional, passionlessly logical.
But Stephen needed money, and his youth was a handicap. No one would employ a child, he knew, except perhaps as a newsboy. Moreover, he had to outwit his parents, who would certainly search for their son.
Strangely there was nothing pathetic about Stephen’s small figure as he trudged along the dark street. His iron singleness of purpose and his ruthless will gave him a certain incongruous dignity. He walked swiftly to the railroad station.
On the way he passed a speakeasy. A man was lying in the gutter before the door, an unshaved derelict, grizzled of hair and with worn, dissolute features. He was mumbling drunkenly and striving helplessly to rise.
Stephen paused to watch. Attracted by the silent gaze, the man looked up. As the two glances met, inflexible purpose grew in the boy’s pale face.
“Wanna—drink,” the derelict mumbled. “Gotta—they won’t give old Sammy a drink. . . .”
Stephen’s eyes again grew luminous. They seemed to bore into the watery eyes of the hobo, probing, commanding.
“Eh?” the drunkard asked blankly.
SAMMY’S voice died off uncertainly as he staggered erect. Stephen gripped his arm, and the two went down the street. In a dark doorway they paused.
The foggy, half-wrecked brain of the tramp was no match for Stephen’s hypnotic powers. Sammy listened as the boy talked.
“You’re catching a freight out of town. You’re taking me with you. Do you understand?”
“Eh?” Sammy asked vaguely.
In a monotonous voice the boy repeated his commands. When the drunkard finally understood, the two headed for the railway station.
Stephen’s plans were made. To all appearance, he was a mere child. He could not possibly have fulfilled his desires alone. The authorities would have returned him to his parents, or he would have been sent to a school as a public charge. What man could recognize in a young boy an already blossoming genius? Stephen’s super-mentality was seriously handicapped by his immaturity.
He needed a guardian, purely nominal, to satisfy the prejudices of the world. Through Sammy he could act. Sammy would be his tongue, his hands, his legal representative. Men would be willing to deal with Sammy, where they would have laughed at a child. But first the tramp would have to be metamorphosed into a “useful citizen.”
That night they rode in a chilly boxcar, headed east. Hour after hour Stephen worked on the brain of his captive. Sammy must be his eyes, his hands, his provider.
Once Sammy had been a mechanic, he revealed under Stephen’s relentless probing. The train rolled on through the darkness, the wheels beating a clicking threnody toward the East.
It was not easy, for the habits of years had weakened Sammy’s body and mind. He was a convinced tramp, lazy and content to follow his wanderlust. But always Stephen drove him on, arguing, commanding, convincing. Hypnosis played a large part in the boy’s ultimate success.
Sammy got a job, much against his will, and washed dishes in a cheap restaurant for a few weeks. He shaved daily and consistently drank less. Meanwhile Stephen waited, but he did not wait in idleness. He spent his days visiting automobile agencies and studying the machines. At night he crouched in a cheap tenement room, sketching and designing. Finally he spoke to Sammy.
“I want you to get another job. You will be a mechanic in an automobile factory.” He watched Sammy’s reaction.
“Aw, I can’t, Steve,” the man protested. “They wouldn’t even look at me. Let’s hit the road again, huh?”
“Show them these,” Stephen ordered, extending a sheaf of closely written papers and drawings. “They’ll give you a job.”
At first the foreman told Sammy to get out, after a glance at his red-rimmed eyes and weak, worn face. But the papers were a magic password. The foreman pondered over them, bewilderedly scrutinized Sammy, and went off to confer with one of the managers.
“The man’s good!” he blurted. “He doesn’t look it, but he’s an expert mechanic, just the kind of man we need. Look at these improvements he’s worked out! This wiring change will save us thousands annually. And this gear ratio. It’s new, but it might work. I think—”
“Send him in,” the manager said hastily.
THUS Sammy got his job. Actually he wasn’t much good, but every month or two he would show up with some new improvement, some unexpected invention, that got him raises instead of dismissal. Of course Stephen was responsible for all this. He had adopted Sammy.
Stephen saw to it that they moved to a more convenient apartment, and now he went to school. Needing surprisingly little sleep, he spent most of his time studying. There was so much to learn, and so little time! To acquire the knowledge he wanted, he needed more and more money to pay for tutoring and equipment.
The years passed with a peaceful lack of haste. Sammy drank little now, and took a great deal of interest in his work. But he was still a tramp at heart, eternally longing for the open road. Sometimes he would try to slip away, but Stephen was always too watchful.
At last the boy was ready for the next step. It was then early in 1927. After months of arduous toil, he had completed several inv
entions which he thought valuable. He had Sammy patent them, and then market them to
the highest bidders.
The result was more money than Stephen had expected. He made Sammy resign his job, and the two of them retired to a country house. He brought along several tutors, and had a compact, modem laboratory set up. When more money was required, the boy would potter around for awhile. Inevitably he emerged with a new formula that increased the already large annual income.
Tutors changed as Stephen grew older and learned more. He attended college for a year, but found he could apply his mind better at home. He needed a larger headquarters, though. So they moved to Wisconsin and bought a huge old mansion, which he had renovated.
His quest for knowledge seemed endless, yet he did not neglect his health. He went for long walks and exercised mightily. When he grew to manhood, he was a magnificent specimen, strong, well formed and handsome. But always, save for a few occasional lapses, he was coldly unemotional.
Once he had detectives locate his parents, and anonymously arranged to provide a large annual income for them. But he would not see either his father or mother.
“They would mean emotional crises,” he told Sammy. “There would be unnecessary arguments. By this time they have forgotten me, anyway.”
“Think so?” Sammy muttered, chewing on the stem of his ancient pipe. His nut-brown, wrinkled face looked rather puzzled under his stiff crop of white hair. “Well, I never did think you was human, Stevie.”
He shook his head, put the pipe away, and pottered off in search of his rare drinks. Stephen returned to his work.
What was the purpose of these years of intensive study? He scarcely knew. His mind was a vessel to be filled with the clear, exhilarating liquor of knowledge. As Sammy’s system craved alcohol, so Stephen’s brain thirsted for wisdom. Study and experiment were to him a delight that approached actual ecstasy. As an athlete gets keen pleasure from the exercise of his well trained body, so Stephen exulted in the exercise of his mind.
Unimaginable eons before, in the teeming seas of a primeval world, life-forms had fed their blind hunger. That was appetite of the flesh.
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