Fletcher Pratt (17 page)

*
Akelshard. Meaning obscure. Not mentioned again in

the narrative.

"But don't you have public receptions and speeches and honors for people who have accomplished noteworthy things here?"

"Honors? Oh, yes, I am made Acle ... I told you that. No public receptions."

"But you have practically saved your world, haven't you?"

"No more than many others who have done actions of -eminence. I have received my honor; that is sufficient.... Ah, I recall seeing the same in some of your books. People on Earth crowd around men of accomplishment to see them and shout at them. It is very primitive. What do you wish to see?"

The subject was dismissed. What did I wish to see? "You said something about being surprised that Hadeg had not taken me to a museum. I wonder if I could see one of your museums or art galleries."

"Surely." He jumped from the chair. "But pause. What is an art gallery? Extraordinary I find now many things I do not know of your Earth since I left it. Art gallery? An artfully built tunnel? We have them."

"No, a place where pictures are kept."

"We do not have them. Permanent pictures are not considered of art any longer on Murashema, though I believe they did have them in the historical past. Come."

He took off his helmet, then glanced a moment at the armor he was wearing. "Oh, hell, I cannot go into the city so improperly dressed. Pause."

He turned the key in the living room—the one that gave on the blank panel, and when the voice came, said a few rapid words. In a moment came the announcer and he opened the waiter to take from it a suit in magenta and dark gray (sufficiently vivid combination) which, when he had it on, though far from the remarkable fit of the tailored suit I wore, was yet good enough to be considered excellent on Earth. The shoulder bore no emblem, but from a pocket he produced one which he attached with one of the tongue-clasps universal there, and we were ready for the trip.

Whether through weariness or excitement, I had hardly noticed the architecture of the building when we came in, several days before, and the trips Hadeg and I had made, to the roofs were mere whiskings of an elevator there and back. Now I took the trouble to look. The halls, like my own rooms, had high ceilings and were very light. I assumed quite correctly that the whole outer surface of the buildings was devoted to living or working quarters. The architecture as a whole was almost Gothic in character, everything being carried on delicate columns which sprayed out above into the most exquisite tracery of fan vaulting around the circles where the lights were fixed.

Colors, subdued to pastel shades, were everywhere. Indeed, one might almost say that all Murasheman life went to the music of color—their dress, their buildings, their appliances, their food even. Walls and columns were softer to the touch than any Earthly building material; yet for all their slenderness and surface softness, they carried huge weights. The walls between columns were merest curtain walls at best; those in my own rooms were hardly an inch in thickness, save where they gave on dumbwaiters or something of the sort. I asked Ashembe of what material the building was made.

"All architecture is in nickel, chrome, palladium and other steel alloys according to the amount of strain carried," he said, "with some platinum."

"But the surface?"

"After construction everything is coated with a plastic in which colors are placed. Building is done by operations with machines in which the mercury tube forms a part. Proper alloy is made under the tube and at once poured into molds in liquid state."

By this time we had reached the elevator.

"How far away is it?" I asked.

"Next building only. This center does not have a museum. Oh, you do not know—attend. Each building is a living and working center. Living' quarters are at the top of the building and working quarters at the base. It is found that living at high altitude induces great energy and better workmanship when worker descends to lower levels. Therefore, all living quarters are at least thirty-five stories above working quarters. Each building is round and is a city in itself. A circle of seven buildings, six around the periphery and one in the middle is a 'center,' all workshops being around the periphery and the central building being devoted to educational and amusement purposes."

"And how many stories to a building?"

"Mostly two hundred twenty. Atargol is a two hundred twenty city, but Ursel Gnyfian at the south pole is a three hundred city and Fornogos in the east is a two hundred eighty city. All buildings throughout the same city are similar."

"At the south pole!" I said. (We were going down in the elevator.)

"Surely. Why not? It is waste of space to build cities on lands that might produce products or be used for otherwise purposes. The poles are useless, therefore we build cities on them."

"But doesn't it cost a lot of energy to produce the heat for them? I should think that with the weakness of your sun—"

"But our sun has been so weak for so long that it would be insufficiently warm in almost any city. We have for long foreseen its extinction. All cities are completely lighted and heated by artificial means and it takes very little more at the poles than other places."

"How do you heat your buildings?"

"The architecture is tubular in construction. Even between your walls there is a slight space as sound deadening device. Heat is applied to currents of air which circulate through the building. Very simple."

"Should think it would dry everything out. Heat through metals is supposed to be drying, isn't it?"

"Oh, it is proved that dry heat is more healthful. There are less bacteria in dry heat. However certain small amounts of humidity are supplied through the cleaning tubes. Enough remains in the atmosphere. You have a prejudice in favor of extreme dampness from your planet where it rains perpetually and you have large oceans of water."

We had reached the level where we were to cross to the next building, and I stepped out after my conductor on a spidery flying bridge high above the level of the street on which we had entered the building. Down the long vista between the structures I could see cars, like the one we had arrived in, passing back and forth, and the clear glassy walls of the buildings rising far above into the hazy distance where, the roof of the city stood. A moment more and we were again indoors, passing down a corridor.

And here I must note another curious feature—the almost universal silence of those Murasheman cities. Down at the ground level (if it were the ground level and not an illusion) where we had entered, there was a clamor of tongues and sounds; farther upward, it sank into a hardly distinguishable murmur.

We paused before a door. "Would you like to see instruction of children?" Ashembe asked, and when I nodded, turned a key and slid back a panel.

We were in a long, wide room, its ceiling carried on brackets instead of the fairy arches of the halls, its walls cheerfully decorated with mechanical designs of a somewhat less intricate character than those of my room. It was filled with rows of little cots. On each lay a child, clad in a single garment that stopped at the thighs. They all seemed to be asleep and every child had on one of the tensal helmets. From an unseen source a voice was speaking, slowly and carefully enunciating every word.

"This," whispered Ashembe, "is a schoolroom for the Hetheleg, the manual workers. They are now having a geographical and historical lesson."

"How long do you keep them in school?" I asked.

"As long as the child can continue to absorb information without strain. Two hours a day is sufficient for all lessons, however. You see, everything is learned by use of the tensal. There is no repetition."

"And the parents of these children? At work?" "Certainly, or asleep, or doing what they like. Do children still live with parents in your country? I remember. It is not so here. All parents may keep children as long as they wish, but few do so."

"But who takes care of the children?"

"Most care is automatic like this. The Biyamo give what personal attendance is needed. Hadeg is one."

"It all sounds heartless."

"Heartless? What is this word? It has to do with passions, perchance. We have outlawed passions."

There was a step behind us. I turned to see a pale womanish face above a brown suit whose shoulder bore the same emblem Hadeg's had. The owner glanced at the stars on our shoulders with something like awe, and passed into the room to the end where she began to remove the tensals from the children.

"Come," said Ashembe, "the study hour is closed. We will go to the museum."

We passed down the hall to another room. It was dark within and the darkness made it look so low that I involuntarily ducked. It was not until my eyes became acclimated that I realized the size of the place. To left and right galleries ran off around the arc of a circle so enormous that the room must have occupied the entire center of the building—a space nearly as large as a city block. Overhead a tracery of metal indicated another room like the schoolroom.

"What do you wish?" asked Ashembe. "These are all educational exhibits. You can have an astronomy exhibit or history or biology or anything."

Astronomy would be a little too much. I had had enough of that to last a while. "How about a biology exhibit?" I said. "Did you ever have dinosaurs and that sort of thing here?"

"Reptilian forms? They come early in the series. I will show."

He led the way down a darkened passage at the side of the central room and turned a key in an invisible panel. I found myself in a room not unlike one of the intimate theaters that were the fashion when I left New York. There was a dim light around the stage at the lower end of the room and we had entered behind the uppermost row of tiered seats. We seated ourselves (there was no one else in the place) and Ashembe turned the key that projected from the back of the seat before him. A panel slid back soundlessly and we were looking at a picture of an open, desolate plain, covered with cactus-like growths and bunches of heavy, dusty grass shimmering under a sun of tropical intensity and reaching back to a range of distant mountains.

"Why, it's marvelous," I said, admiringly. "It's almost as though the picture had three dimensions."

"It has three dimensions," replied Ashembe. "All our exhibits have."

Presently, from one side of the pictured landscape there stepped forth a creature as strange as a madman's dream. It was sandy yellow in color, spotted with green and brown, somewhat like a big lizard in form, if one can imagine a lizard with a huge frill like an umbrella projecting from its neck. It had curiously short legs, and held them in bent position as it ran, with quick light steps toward a tuft of the grass at the center of the scene; then rocked itself up and down on its limbs, turning its head this way and that as though looking about for danger.

Apparently it saw none; lowering its head rapidly, it began to feed on the grass, and as it did so, another animal, smaller and so swift of foot that I hardly caught a glimpse of it, dashed out and off at one side of the picture. "Fahit nexar; he'ag," said a voice and fell silent. I looked at Ashembe. "These are the names of the animals," he said. "Attend."

At the right of the scene I caught a glimpse of another animal, a glimpse and no more. But I had seen a low, ugly, crocodilian head, a row of savage teeth in that instant, and I knew that I was watching the hunter and the hunted. The first animal went on feeding quietly. Suddenly it paused, lifted its head. The frill at its neck spread and swelled, standing straight up, and then it leaped for safety. But it leaped too late. There was a sudden vision of a jumping figure, a brief moment of struggle, and the frill-neck was groveling on the ground, its back broken, while the other bent to tear a great piece of flesh from the quivering body. "Lectodya," announced the sound device.

Save for the accompanying voice, the scene had hitherto been without a sound. Now there was a sudden fierce hiss from the cactus-like growth in the rear. The lectodya paused in its banquet and stood at gaze in the direction of the sound. From behind the growth came another animal, like the others, flat-bodied and marked with spots of tan on a background of mingled colors. Its little head and high-placed eyes bespoke a bestial lack of intelligence, but it had long savage teeth and one could actually hear the rustle of the claws on the sandy soil. But the strangest feature of the beast was the double row of bony spines that projected from its back, and as it sidled hissing toward the lectodya, these spines rose and fell with a rhythmical movement. "Oughlipi," said the voice and the two ran together with quick pattering footsteps. For a moment they were in contact, snapping and clawing; then the lectodya had enough of it and turned to run. The other leaped for his back; almost missed, striking the long narrow tail, which broke off close to the lectodya's body and snapped around on the ground with a motion of its own, the oughlipi struggling fiercely with it. The sound device made a few remarks and the picture faded.

"How do you do it?" I asked Ashembe. "It's the most lifelike thing I ever saw."

"These are merely educational devices for older children," he informed me. "Not difficult to make. It is all mechanical. Same thing will be repeated for the next visitor. Some of the better ones, such as good histories, are the work of great artists. You should really see them. This is a representation of conditions during our age of reptilians."

He turned the key again and the panel slid back on an altogether different scene, on which another drama of blood and death began to unfold itself. For the best part of three hours we must have stayed there, with the spectral voice from the wings describing each scene. We saw these dragons of old time through their lives, emerging from the egg, struggling through the dangers of youth, pairing and bearing and finally run down by younger and stronger beasts, or dying of mere old age in some deserted corner. After I had gotten over my first feeling of awe for the wonder of the Murasheman craftsmanship, I began to find the spectacle depressing.

At last I shuddered openly at some particularly gruesome slaughter. Ashembe glanced up quickly and then shut off the key.

"You grow weary?" he asked.

"No ... but are they all as bloody as this?"

He looked at me in plain non-comprehension. "You object to the deaths?"

"Well, I suppose I'm a bit of a humanitarian." "Humanitarian? I do not know the word. Curious ... but I forget. You belong to a sentiment age. In Murashema we have long discarded such things. Death is the normal end to life."

"But is that all? Don't you believe in anything higher than humanity, any after-life?"

He laughed. "Oh, you mean primitive religion. No, we do not have such manifestations. I believe the Biyamo maintain some superstitions. Some of the philosophers comment on them. But we of the Bodrog class know better. The body is only a series of chemical reactions, which include even the thoughts. When the chemical reactions stop or go wrong, that is an end. That is all." *