Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (105 page)

“We must go faster than this!”

A short fat man with a red face and reddish hair put his arm beneath Winters’ shoulders and half carried him along. His face was familiar, and Winters remembered the man he had seen in the televisor the day before. His strength was enormous and his energy indefatigable—a tie that drew Winters to him in this age of indolence. “I am Stalvyn of History at the next orig,” he boomed at Winters as they hurried along. “You are so valuable to me that I hope you do not mind if I take a personal interest in your protection!”

* * * *

They had a quarter of a mile to go and had half accomplished the distance when a mob of shouting youths burst from behind a house just ahead of them. There was a pause as if their natural disinclination to physical exertion might even yet prevent the clash. But their leaders evidently were urging them on and suddenly they charged down amid a shower of stones and waving clubs. In an instant the shock was felt and a furious melee commenced—a primitive angry fight without science or direction.

Two youths beat an elderly man senseless with clubs, then sprang in unison upon the next victim. Some mature, full-muscled bull of a man ran berserk among striplings, crushing them in his great arms or flailing fists like hams at their onrushing faces. As they fought, they kept moving toward their objective and had gone almost another hundred yards before the youths retreated. The superior numbers of the older ones had swung the balance.

Fifty men, however, were all that remained around the Chief Forester. The others had either deserted the fight or been injured—perhaps killed, thought Winters, looking back at a score of still figures lying on the earth. The youths had retired only a hundred feet and still kept pace with the fugitives. Fresh bands of young men were hurrying from every direction, and in only a matter of minutes the attack would recommence with the odds on the other side this time.

Winters and Stalvyn, his self-appointed bodyguard, had not taken part in the straggle, for they had been in the center of the rescue party. Now they worked to the front of the party where the Forester strode along determinedly. Winters showed his pistol. “With this thing I can kill them as they run there. Shall I use it, sir?”

The Forester granted. “Kill them, then. They are coming now to kill you!”

As he spoke, the mob of youths rushed upon them in a murderous fury. The elder men closed together in a compact mass and Winters shot into the front rank of the attackers, three of whom toppled over and thereby lessened the shock of the charge, for those who followed tripped over the fallen. Then Stalvyn and the Forester stepped forward, and around these immovable figures the fight raged. Winters crouched behind them, swiftly pulled back his lever, loaded bullets and pulled the trigger like an automaton in a nightmare. Cries of passion and pain mingled with the thud of blows and the panting gasps of the fighters. It was a savage scene, the more shocking because of the unfitness of these quiet people for such work.

Suddenly the attackers withdrew sullenly, bearing injured with them. Two dozen remaining Oldsters looked dazedly around—free now to proceed to shelter. Fifty or more figures lay about on the ground and the Forester called out to the watchers in the windows to come and give first-aid to friend and foe alike. This work was commenced at once, but with characteristic slowness, and he led his little band to the door of his house and inside.

“Give the stranger some food and drink, Stalvyn,” drawled a tall, thin man with ungainly limbs, who proved to be the biologist from an orig nearly a thousand miles away. “If I know our Youth they would never have wasted sustenance on a man who was so soon to die!” and he smiled a lazy sardonic smile at Winters as he placed in his hands a tumbler full of brown liquid. “Drink it without fear. It will both stimulate and nourish.”

Winters was in a state of collapse now and Stalvyn had to help him drink and then carried him over to a couch. The biologist spent a few minutes examining him. “He must rest,” he announced. “There will be no questions asked him today. I will prepare some medicine for him.” Whereupon everyone left the room and Winters swallowed more drink and dropped fathoms deep in slumber. A man was set to guard the door of his room and the biologist tended him day and night. For a full week he was not permitted to wake. He had vague impressions as he slept of being rolled over, bathed, fed, massaged and watched over—impressions that were as dreams in an ordinary sleep. Under such expert ministration the thin cheeks filled out and the wasted flesh became plump and smooth.

When Winters awoke it was late afternoon. His blood pulsed strongly through his body and he was wide awake the instant his eyes opened. There on a stool were set out his clothes, and he got to his feet and dressed. His belt still contained the pistol and hatchet as well as the smaller tools. Feeling like a new man, he strode to the door and opened it. Immediately he was surrounded in another room by a swarthy group of a dozen of the greatest scientists in the world—for the news had by this time spread everywhere and there had been time for travel from even the most distant points. There followed a long period of questions and examinations. Stalvyn and the historians plied Winters with posers as to the life and habits of his world; the biologists demanded the secret of his sleeping potion and control of the period of suspended animation. He was put before the fluoroscope and his appendix photographed; his measurements were taken and plaster molds of his hand, foot and head were cast for a permanent record.

Through it all Winters had a feeling of consummation—this was one of the things he had planned when he set off on his voyage into the future. Here was sane intelligence taking advantage of his work and respecting him for his exploit. But one thing was lacking completely. He had no sense of belonging to these people. He had hoped to find gods in human form living in Utopia. Instead, here were men with everyday human passions and weaknesses. True, they had progressed since his day—but his insatiable curiosity itched to learn what the future might produce.

After an evening meal which all partook together, Winters retired to his room with the Chief Forester, the biologist, and Stalvyn. There the four men sat talking lazily.

“What do you plan to do now” drawled the biologist.

Winters sighed. “I don’t know exactly.”

“I would ask you to settle down in my orig here,” remarked the Forester, “but most of our young people and many of the Oldsters who should know better hold you to blame for the recent troubles. I am helpless before them.”

“Hold
me
to blame!” exclaimed Winters bitterly. “What had I to do with it?”

“Nothing, perhaps. But the principle of the rights of the new Generation is still unsettled. The Council of Youth is obstinate and must be brought to see the sensible side of the matter. Their leaders pretend you, in some way, have been brought here to persuade them to cut down trees right and left at the whim of the nearest Oldster. Where it will end, I cannot say.”

* * * *

Stalvyn laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Human nature is seldom reasonable. Of course there is no logic in their attitude. Forget it! We will get you quietly into an airship and you shall come away from here and live with me. Together we will review and rewrite the history of your times as it has never been done!”

“Stop a moment! Do you mean that I shall have to escape secretly from this village?”

The others looked sheepish and the Forester nodded his head. “I am helpless in the matter. I could get perhaps twenty or thirty men to do my bidding—but you see, most of the villagers will not concern themselves with your fate. It is too much trouble to bother about it at all.”

“Are they afraid of the youngsters?”

“No, of course not! They greatly outnumber the youths. They merely are not willing to work beyond the village figure of one hour and fifty minutes a day, so they say. I’m afraid you will not find any men to take your side except the four of us and a handful of my oldest men. That’s the way the world is made, you know!” and he shrugged his shoulders expressively.

“It is a simple matter to escape from this house,” suggested the biologist. “Why not tour quietly around the globe and see our entire world before you decide upon your future plans?”

Winters shook his head wearily. “I thank you for your kindness, gentlemen. I would never find a place for myself in this age. I gave up my own age for the sake of an ideal. I am searching for the secret of happiness. I tried to find it here, but you do not know it any more than we did three thousand years ago. Therefore I shall say good-bye and—go on to some future period. In perhaps five thousand years I shall awaken in a time more to my liking.”

“Can your body support another long period of emaciation?” drawled the biologist. “To judge from your appearance you have hardly aged at all during your last sleep—but…five thousand years!”

“I feel as if I were a little older than when I left my own times—perhaps a year or two. Thanks to your attention I am again in excellent health. Yes, I should be able to survive the ordeal once again.”

“Man! Oh man!” groaned the redheaded Stalvyn. “I would give my right hand to take a place with you! But I have my duty to my own times.”

“Is your hiding place near here?” asked the Forester.

“Yes. But I prefer to tell no one where it is—not even you three. It is well hidden and you cannot help me.”

“I can!” put in the biologist. “I studied your metabolism as you lay unconscious all this week and I have prepared a formula. From it I shall make a drink for you to take with you. When—or
if
—you wake from your long sleep you must swallow it. It will restore your vitality enormously in a few hours.”

“Thank you,” said Winters. “That might make all the difference between success and failure.”

“How are you going to reach your hiding place? Suppose some youth sees you and follows—remembering old grudges as youth can?”

“I must leave here secretly just before dawn,” said Winters thoughtfully. “I know in a general way where to go. By daylight I shall be close by and shall have hidden myself forever long before anyone in the village is awake.”

“Well—let us hope so! When will you start?”

“Tomorrow morning!”

They parted for the night with many a last word of caution and advice. Winters lay down to sleep and it seemed only a few seconds before the Forester stood over him shaking him awake. He arose and made sure of such things as he was to take with him. Stalvyn and the biologist were on hand in the darkness—they did not dare show a light—and Winters took a light breakfast and said his good-byes. The three friends watched his body become shadowy against the trees and vanish into the dark night.

Winters walked with great care along the hard-surfaced roadway for almost an hour. He was sure he had made not the slightest sound. When he felt he must be near the right spot, he left the road for the woods, waiting impatiently for the graying east to brighten. He spent half an hour in the shrubbery beside the road before he could see clearly enough to proceed. Just before he turned away, he glanced from his leafy hiding place back along the stretch of highway. In the distance, to his horror, he observed two figures hurrying toward him!

With panting fear he slipped back into the woods and cruised over the ground looking for his one particular tree trunk out of all those thousands. Seconds seemed like hours, and his ears were strained back for some sign of his pursuers. Sweating, panting, heart pounding, he ran backward and forward in an agony of directionless movement.

Then he became frantic and hurried faster and faster until his foot caught some piece of stone and sent him sprawling. He rose to his knees and stopped there, frozen, for he heard voices! They were still distant, but he dared not rise. His eyes fell upon the stone over which he had stumbled. It was flat and thick and rather square in outline. Some marks appeared on the top—badly worn by weather. He brushed aside a few dead leaves listlessly, hopelessly, and before his startled eyes there leaped the following legend:

Carstairs, a gardener, lies here—faithful servant to the end—he was buried at this spot upon his own request.

Buried here at his own request—poor old Carstairs! Could it be? If this grave were directly above his underground chamber, then there, only fifty feet to the south, must lie the entrance! He crawled with desperate hope over the soft ground. Sure enough, there was a familiar tree with a leaf-filled depression at its base! The voices were approaching now as he slithered desperately into the hole, pushing the drifted leaves before him with his feet. Then he gathered a great armful of leaves scraped from each side and sank out of sight, holding his screen in place with one hand. With the other hand he reached for some pieces of cut roots and commenced weaving a support for the leaves. He was half done when his heart stood still at the sound of voices close by. He could not make out the words but waited breathlessly second after second. Then he heard the voices again—receding!

Winter came and the frogs found their sleeping places beneath the mud of the little pond that lay where once there was the lake. With the next spring, the great tree began spreading a new mat of roots to choke forever the entrance to that lead-lined chamber where, in utter blackness, a still figure lay on a couch. The sleeper’s last hazy thoughts had taken him back in his dreams to his own youth, and the wax-white face wore a faint smile, as if Winters had at last found the secret of human happiness.

* * * *

Copyright © 1933 by Gernsback Publications, Inc.