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diff --git a/68202-0.txt~ b/68202-0.txt~ new file mode 100644 index 0000000..93af3fa --- /dev/null +++ b/68202-0.txt~ @@ -0,0 +1,716 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68202 *** + + NOON + + By Henry Kuttner + + Writing under the pseudonym Hudson Hastings + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from + Thrilling Wonder Stories, August 1947. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + _John Weston balks death—but not destiny—when + he tries to save Serena, mindless perfect + woman, from the Flame Blossom!_ + + +When he looked up from the pool, the garden was—different. In the water +Weston had seen the reflection of blue sky and sunset clouds, and the +shape of a plane going over. The deep buzzing of the engines had +suddenly died. It had been sunset; now it was noon—and he was no longer +in Versailles. + +It had taken months. But the miracle was that it had happened at all. +People who search for miracles seldom find them. Yet John Weston, +perhaps because he was idle and footloose and wealthy enough to indulge +his impulses, had come searching for a phantom, and had found it. Dunne +had been right, and the theory of serial time could be right, and the +authenticated tales of temporal apparitions in the Versailles garden +were more than merely tales. + +The first day he had come here he had sensed a shifting and a +strangeness, but it had passed quickly. Still, it was enough to anchor +him here, strolling through the old paths, not quite believing that he +would ever again see that face he had glimpsed momentarily through a +shimmer of spray. Time-traveling was nothing you could weigh and +balance. It either happened or it didn’t. + +And now it happened. + +Weston stood without moving, looking around. The trees had moved and +changed, and not far away were low blue buildings with conical roofs. +Underfoot was a thick, soft moss instead of grass. The pool was still at +his feet. + +After the initial shock of incredulous amazement had passed, he began to +walk toward the cone-roofed buildings. + +Then the second miracle happened. Three people came out of one of the +structures and began to walk toward him. One of them was the girl whose +face he had already seen. The others were young men, thin, wearing +tunics of shining bronze-green, like the girl’s, and a curious vitality +seemed to shimmer from them as they walked. + +As Weston looked at them, he felt certain that this was another world or +a far-distant era in time. They were almost unbelievably slender, but +not awkward or angular, nor were their thin, pointed faces sharp. +Bronze-green eyes looked at him. + +Weston opened his mouth. The impossibility of communication occurred to +him. But they were waiting. + +“Hello,” Weston stuttered almost at random. + +The three smiled at him and repeated his greeting. It might have been +merely a friendly echo. Weston, slightly stunned, tried again. + +“Where am I?” he asked. “What place is this?” + +“This is Jekir’s,” the girl answered. + +“Oh. W-what year is this?” + + * * * * * + +But this time they looked at him, still smiling, but waiting for +something. It was very quiet; leaves rustled somewhere. + +One of the men turned and walked softly away. + +“He has work to do,” the girl said. “Have you finished yours for a +while? My name is—” + +It sounded something like _Serena_. + +Weston had not expected this placid acceptance. He began to explain and +question, but the girl interrupted him. + +“I must get back to my work, too.” She turned, and Weston, hesitating, +glanced helplessly at the other man. + +There was no help there. + +Weston went after Serena, feeling baffled. She had gone into one of the +buildings. It was an amazing place, Weston found. There were corridors +and little irregular rooms and floors like balconies, and all the +partitions were translucent, like the walls. Lights came in green, deep +blue, and ocean-purple. + +[Illustration: The glass globe Serena carried was translucent and glowed +with a strange greenish light] + +When Weston caught up with the girl, he saw that she was carrying a +globe of glass. Not until they emerged in the daylight did he see that +it was apparently full of smoke, a trickle of it escaping through an +opening in the top and drifting back as Serena walked. + +She put the sphere down on the moss and began her work, totally ignoring +Weston. She made fires spring up—Weston was completely puzzled by the +method—and simply sat, and looked at the flames. That seemed to be all +there was to it. + +Twice Weston spoke to her, but she did not answer. He finally began to +explore the buildings. In the end, he was no wiser than when he began, +and he had not encountered either of the two men. Whatever he had +expected, it wasn’t this. + +He thought: Why aren’t they surprised? Had time-traveling become common +or was there another answer? + +The noon passed into afternoon and the beginnings of blue evening, while +Weston moved like a ghost through that strange, incomprehensible place +that was too alien for him to understand. Finally he saw Serena and the +men sitting on the moss before one of the buildings. He went out to +them, and saw that they were eating. He joined them. + +It was the strangest meal Weston had ever had. The earth served him! A +little pool opened in the lawn at his feet, exactly like an opening +mouth. It was full of something like jelly. Weston, watching the others, +scooped up some of the stuff in his palms and tried it. It was palatable +enough. + +Then, around the pool, a ring of small green plants pushed themselves +up, budded without blossoming, and put out round fruits like little +balloons which swelled as he watched. Serena plucked one and ate it. +Weston closed his mind temporarily to questions and—had dinner! + +When they finished, the pool closed, and the tiny plants fell to bright +pink dust that sifted into the moss. The three aliens sat back, paying +little attention to Weston, and talked. + +“The fires were burning well today,” Serena said. “It was easy to handle +the clay.” + +“I had a little trouble,” one of the young men murmured. + +“Will you finish soon?” Weston asked, and they looked at him with odd +eagerness. + +“I shall. I think I shall,” Serena answered. “How far along are you?” + +“That isn’t my job,” Weston found himself saying. “I’m from a different +time. This isn’t my world at all. I—I—” + +He stopped, because they were looking at him with polite inattention. +Then they went on with their talk as though he hadn’t spoken. + +It grew darker. Time in that world was different. Weston had left +Versailles at sunset and stepped into noon. Finally Serena stood up and +led the way back into a grove of tall trees. Four branches were hanging +low, and at the end of each branch was an enormous folded flower. The +flowers opened slowly. + +Serena stepped into the soft trough of the nearest and stretched out. +The petals folded about her, and the branch rose. The two men also +relaxed in similar fantastic hammocks. One flower remained. + +Weston hesitated, alone in the gathering darkness. He had not had a +single question answered satisfactorily since he came here. He had met +only acceptance. Even this world accepted him without an inquiry. There +were now _four_ flowers—perhaps last night there had been only three. + +Serena and the men were invisible in their blossom-hammocks above +Weston’s head. He drew a long breath and turned away. He went to the +pool that was that gateway back to his own time, but something stopped +him from making any definite move toward return. This opportunity might +never come again. He had what he had wanted. He was in another +time-world—but such a world! How could he find out? + + * * * * * + +In the end, he returned to the fourth flower and lay down. The petals +folded around him. There was a sweet, cool scent in his nostrils, a warm +rocking—and that was the last thing he remembered. The next day— + +The next day the two men tried to kill him. + +The flowers opened at dawn, and the four bathed in a pool of glowing +water that felt like silk. And another tiny crater opened in the moss to +feed them all. Afterwards, ignoring Weston’s futile questions, Serena +went away to her work. The two men watched Weston follow her, their eyes +coldly interested. + +By now Weston knew he must leave very soon. If he did not get his +questions answered quickly, they would never be answered. So he kept +interrupting Serena at her work, asking what it was she did, what this +world was like, a thousand other queries that apparently meant nothing +at all to her. Sometimes she spoke, but only once did she give Weston +any real help. Once she said: + +“You must ask The Knowledge about that.” And she gave Weston directions. + +Perhaps it was merely to get rid of his annoying presence. + +At any rate, he followed Serena’s instructions, feeling like an ignorant +child in a place of inconceivable maturity. Yet The Knowledge sounded +very helpful. A library of talking books or pictures, or a radio-atomic +brain. Weston began to feel rising excitement as he searched in the +building Serena had indicated. + +At first he couldn’t find it. The room looked ordinary, insofar as any +of those rooms of deep, cool light and color could ever seem ordinary. +But after a while one of the men brushed past Weston in the doorway and +crossed the floor to stand before the far wall. + +In the wall an oval of shining light dawned. The man seemed to listen. +Then he turned and went softly out by another door. The bright oval +faded. + +When Weston stepped in front of it, the panel came to life again. It was +The Knowledge, all right. And it was the equivalent of a super-library. +A machine—yes, a radio-atomic brain, a mechanical colloid that was the +culmination of the thinking machines of Weston’s own time. It could +answer questions. Serena’s race had come to need a radio-atomic brain, +because they had lost a certain human factor, over the long, long ages. + +They had lost intelligence. + +They had initiative. So has a plant. So has a flower. And their’s was +the force that activates unreasoning things. The Knowledge explained +that, in answer to Weston’s silent questioning. + +But it was only a machine—it didn’t know all Weston wanted to learn. He +found himself looking for some human understanding to go with the more +than human wisdom it seemed to have—some friendliness!—behind that +shining panel, and of course there was nothing like that at all. A +radio-atomic brain, keyed to perform certain functions, but without +initiative, to give the humans knowledge as they needed it. + +Weston got his answers at last. + +After a time he stepped outside to get some fresh air. He felt stifled. +He could see Serena and the others working away at their unearthly +fires, and overhead was the burning sunlight of mankind’s long noon. + +Yes, it was noon. It had been noontide for a millennium! + +What Weston had expected to find in the future was problematical. But he +had not expected this—what The Knowledge had told him. He stood there, +sweating and curiously unwilling to move. Around him were tiny rustlings +in the moss. He could hear the flames roar up, and twice he heard a very +deep sighing, like a giant drawing the first breaths of life. + +It was noon. That was the answer. A noon that might have lasted for a +million years. Weston tried to comprehend it. But he was used to flux. +He found it hard to realize that when you reach perfection, by the +definition of that term you can’t go up or down. + +Serena’s race had achieved perfection. It had stopped at mankind’s +midday. There would never be afternoon or twilight but, Weston thought +coldly, in the end, there would be night! + +It had happened before, he knew. Ants and bees were found in fossil form +a million years old, exactly like ants and bees today. And the ordinary +cockroach is a hundred million years old in its form. When it achieved +perfection, absolute adaptation to its environment—it stopped. As the +human race had stopped, too. + +Noon.... + + * * * * * + +Weston looked for Serena. He still couldn’t quite believe that she +was—what she was. He saw her working with the two men, and amid the +fires a giant figure stood motionless. Weston called to the girl. + +Noon! + +He knew now the kind of work they did, and why it absorbed them so +utterly. He knew that they were creating—life. Creating it endlessly, +hopelessly, in unstable forms that flickered out or were destroyed as +they sprang flawed from the fires. He knew a little of the myriad +experiments they had tried and found useless. And perhaps, in a way, he +guessed why they worked, and why they failed. + +It was clear to him too, by analogy, what had happened to the human race +in the interval between his own time and this. He went looking for +Serena presently. He wanted to gaze on her strange, vibrant, +otherworldly brightness and try to convince himself that she was—what +she was. + +For already he was finding something almost hypnotic about the girl. +Such brilliance, such dazzling perfection, such incredible sureness in +all she did, without a wasted motion or a moment of indecision. Of +course that was possible to her—as it is impossible in ordinary +humans—because she was what she was. Still, he had to look at her. + +He found her working with the two men and among the fires he saw a giant +figure stand motionless, looming above them. + +“Serena!” he called. + +He thought: If I could tell her, make her believe what has happened, +perhaps she’ll really notice me. + +She came forward, wiping the flames from her hands like water. There was +a look even brighter than usual on her glowing face. + +“We will succeed this time,” she said, and Weston went cold. “Now that +you’ve come, a new factor is made available for us. You! We need you. +The Knowledge has just told us that if we use your mind-factor, we have +a better chance to succeed.” + +He looked into her eyes and read the emptiness there. Her hand was +suddenly on his arm, tightening. And she was strong—terribly strong. +The two men had left their fires and the giant figure, and were moving +toward Weston. + +He tore free and went running across the moss, running as hard as he +could toward the time-door by the pool, under the bright, timeless +noonday sky. + +Then out of the moss a subtle rustling stirred again, and suddenly +Weston felt his feet caught and held. He pitched forward and slid along +the ground. + +When he sat up, he was looking around at a ring of incredible tiny +beings—not human or insect or animal. Brightly tinted little beings +that shimmered around their edges with an unreal glimmer. As he looked, +two of them seemed to dissolve and vanish upon the air. The others, low +down in the moss, stood watching with hard, jewel-bright eyes. + +Experiments. The failures ... He closed his mind to the thought. +Serena and the two men stood above him, looking down with polite, +waiting eagerness—waiting, he thought, to feed him into the flames and +remould his flesh into— + +Serena smiled and held out her hand. + +If he could make her understand! Deep panic chilled him. He must play +for time! + +It could be done. They were not really intelligent. He knew that now. + +He stood up. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll go with you, but let’s make quite +sure first. There’ve been mistakes enough already. Come back with me to +The Knowledge, and listen to what it says when I question it.” + +They came quite willingly. The flock of tiny bright things rolled after +them, unreal, shimmering. Weston thought of Eden. + +The oval window opened in the wall. Weston asked a question, and in his +mind and in the minds of the others an unexpected answer took shape. + +“Yes,” said The Knowledge, “You have a factor of the mind that could +mean success. A factor I have sensed in the Golden Light itself, which +is the essence of perfection. But the woman here has more. It is +recessive in her brain, but far stronger than the dominant factor in +yours.” + +Weston spoke to gain time. + +“The Golden Light? What is that?” + +“I am not capable of answering. That is unknown.” + +Serena had not listened. + +“Will we succeed if I use myself as material in the work?” she said +tranquilly. + +“Serena, you can’t do that,” Weston said. + + * * * * * + +She didn’t hear. She turned and went out, the men after her. One of the +men looked back briefly at Weston, and the cool deadliness was gone from +his eyes. For Weston didn’t matter any more. Not to them. + +He could tell that the personal danger to him had passed. And now that +he could have made his way to the time-door without hindrance, he did +not. He had to see what was happening to Serena. So he followed the +three. + +This time he had a better look at the figure being moulded in the +flames. It was a man, a giant, more than eight feet high, beautiful as a +god and quivering with half-sentient life. But its eyes were blank. + +The three humans were busy around a new fire they had kindled. Weston +stood watching. They completed their preparations. Serena steadied +herself on one of the men’s arms and prepared to step into the fire. +Weston found himself lunging forward—in time. + +He got her by the shoulders and pulled her back. The men glanced at him +calmly, incuriously. The fires seethed up. + +“Serena, you can’t!” Weston said. “I won’t let you!” + +She didn’t answer. His words meant nothing. He could feel the continuous +steady pressure of her body as she leaned toward the fire, ready to +enter it the moment he let her go. + +One of the men seized his wrist and tried to free her. Weston was glad +for an excuse for explosion; he was on surer ground there. He swung +around and struck once at the man, very hard, hitting him on the corner +of the jaw. The man was lightly built. He went down in a heap and lay +there looking at Weston without surprise or anger, but with a clear +intent in his eyes. + +Weston swung Serena off her feet and started away at a heavy run, +carrying her. When he reached the corner of the buildings he paused to +look back. The men had returned to the other fire where the giant figure +stood, and they were working on that, deftly and fast, wasting no +motions. Twice they pointed after Weston. + +He put Serena down, keeping hold of her wrist. She didn’t resist, though +once when his grip slipped she turned instantly and began walking back +toward the fires. Weston caught her again and hurried her away toward +the time-door that led to Versailles and the Twentieth Century. + +He couldn’t find it. And, quite soon, around one of the domed buildings +the giant came walking, unsteadily, tentatively, his eyes fixed on +Serena. He was tremendous. He was unsteady, because he had just been +created, Weston knew, but he came on relentlessly. + +The enormous hands gripped Serena gently, pulled her free and started to +carry her back to the waiting men. + +Weston jumped on the giant’s back and got a judo hold. Serena fell free, +but Weston found he couldn’t hurt his opponent. The giant didn’t try to +fight; he merely strove to escape, and he was tremendously strong. It +was even possible to feel, under that satiny, pallid skin, that the +muscles weren’t normal human tissue; they were tougher, like +heart-muscle. The only reason Weston could cope with him at all was that +the monster was so new. He hadn’t learned to coordinate yet. He had only +that single drive, Weston thought—to get Serena. Nothing in the world +could turn him from that. + +And Serena was walking back toward the fires. It was a nightmare. Weston +let go of the giant and ran after her, lifting her in his arms. She lay +there lax. There was no use trying to find the time-door now; he simply +ran. And the giant came slowly after them. + +Weston knew that he had to increase his lead fast, so that he could +circle back and hunt for the time-door before the giant learned to +coordinate. It was burning noon. Time seemed to be playing queer tricks. +He let Serena down after a while, but he kept tight hold of her wrist. +She had a sort of homing instinct, though the fires were out of sight by +now. + +After a few hours Weston lost his bearings completely. The world of that +time was a park. Nothing changed. The whole world, indeed, seemed to be +a highly developed machine for the support of the human race.... + +When he was hungry, the moss fed Weston. When he was thirsty, pools +opened. And in all that desperate flight, with the giant looming +sometimes on the horizon and sometimes out of sight beyond it, there was +nothing except the undulating mossy hills, and one other thing. + +The Golden Light. Weston hadn’t understood when he saw it. That happened +later, when he was exhausted. Serena was untiring. He tried to talk to +her. She answered when he touched the right chord and she had a response +to give, but it didn’t mean anything. But Weston couldn’t put away the +thought that if he could only make her understand, force her to +comprehend the fantastic motivations behind her life, she might awaken. + + * * * * * + +The giant was gaining. He wasn’t half a mile behind them now. The sun +was dropping. It would be dark soon. + +There’s no twilight here, Weston thought. Only burning daylight, and +then the darkness. As it will be for man! + +He talked to her. + +“Serena. Listen to me. The Knowledge told me—listen! I know you’re +not—not intelligent; you have a different instinct. But if I could make +you realize that—” + +They plodded on. He kept glancing at her placid, lovely face. + +“Call it tropism, Serena. Tropism that makes plants turn toward light. +Or taxis, that guides insects. Insects have a perfect life, in a way. +Instinct tells them exactly what to do and they can no more resist doing +it than they can help being alive. A stimulus registers, on them, and +they act as their taxis commands. Listen! + +“That’s what’s happened to the human race—your race! You haven’t any +powers of reason. You can respond only to certain stimuli, like +automata. Like The Knowledge itself. If I ask you questions you’re +geared to answer, you’ll answer. Ask you anything else, and you won’t +even hear. Do you hear me now?” + +It was growing dark. There was no moon. But far away was a golden +glimmer of light on the horizon. Weston turned toward it. He didn’t +know, in the darkness, how close the giant was. But he could still make +speed, for there were no obstacles and the moss was resilient and level. +The golden shining brightened as they neared it. But Weston was +exhausted. His mind went around in circles. After a time he began to +talk to Serena again. + +“You’re not human. You lost that a million years ago. Absolute +perfection—yes, your race achieved that, at the cost of humanity. Now +you don’t need machines. A long while ago you learned to harness natural +dynamics, the force of growing things. And eventually the technique of +mastering that power was born in you. You have it, don’t you, Serena? +I’ve seen you use it. + +“So you didn’t need reason. You got yourself a paradise and tailored +your very minds to fit. So the answer was +stagnation—mindlessness—tropism. Serena, don’t you see the race wasn’t +ready yet for perfection? It still had a job to do. I don’t know what. +But it must have had. Idleness in paradise must have seemed horrible to +your race, or they wouldn’t have had to sacrifice intelligence to endure +it.” + +He glanced again at her calm, half-visible profile. No response stirred +there. + +“You’ve got to understand. Somebody understood once, a long time ago. +The Knowledge told me that. A great scientist. I suppose psychological +biogenetics would have been his field. He saw that the race was +accepting paradise before it had earned it, and so—well, he knew the +race was doomed, but he hoped that the search might go on. + +“He set them a job to do. He gave them the job of creating life. That’s +your tropism—that’s your taxis. Your own race is lost and damned, +Serena, but you’re trying, by instinct now, to create a new race, a race +that will carry on where your forefathers lost the way. With natural +dynamics, and those life-fires you kindle, trying for a thousand years +to create a greater race than your own—driven by the impulse born in +you, Serena. + +“Ants or bees. Alien. I can’t understand you or your race or your world. +I have only—intelligence! + +“But that’s the answer, Serena. I can’t let you commit suicide. You’d go +back to the fires and walk right into them, like a moth. The tropism +would make you do that. Serena, Serena!” + +He had been walking in a dream. And suddenly he saw that the Light rose +directly before them. + +It was a tall flower of cool pale flame, swaying a little. The shower of +gold that came to Danae—it was like that. There were ruins embedded in +the moss, as though once a temple had risen around the Light. Perhaps it +had once been worshipped. It was tall as a man, and it glimmered, and +seemed to wait. + +Weston was ineffably tired. But he knew that a last struggle still lay +before him. Or, rather, behind him, for heavy footsteps came out of the +dark, and the resilient ground quivered a little, and out of the +blackness strode the newest life-form the last men had created. + +Weston pushed Serena behind him. He stood there, waiting, watching the +reflections of the Light glimmer on the magnificent pallid body of the +giant as he marched forward. + +And—marched past! + + * * * * * + +Ignoring Weston and Serena, the giant moved forward toward the light! + +Weston stood gaping. The monster never glanced aside. He was trying to +touch the light with big, uncertain hands that seemed to strike an +invisible barrier between him and the flame. He kept on trying +futilely—ignoring Weston. + +Serena slipped free and went calmly away in the dark, following her +homing instinct toward the faraway fires. Weston was dizzy with fatigue. +He went after her, watching the giant across his shoulder. The Titan was +staring at the light, hypnotized, trying in vain to touch it with his +hands. + +He did not follow. + +Weston never remembered much about the trip back. He must have slept on +his feet, stumbling toward the moss, holding Serena’s wrist as she led +the way toward the fires that waited for her. They went slowly; her +patience was fathomless and somehow terrible. + +Late in the morning they reached the blue buildings again. The men +looked up from their work briefly, and then bent again over the figure +they were moulding. “Almost ready now,” Serena murmured. “No time was +lost, after all. Soon—soon, perhaps!” + +Then nightmare. Weston had to exert constant effort simply to keep his +fingers locked around her wrist. He was looking for the time-gate. But +his eyes kept closing and sleep washed up exactly like a tide rising, so +that twice he snapped awake in time to see Serena walking toward the +fires. He caught her scarcely in time. + +Perhaps the gateway had moved with the time-flow. Perhaps he had simply +forgotten its exact location. He searched and searched, in a dull, +grinding interval of aching exhaustion, all through that terrible +noontide of a race that would soon move on into its night, searching for +its own destruction. + +A dreamy sort of horror grew slowly upon him. The men seemed to be +working so fast. Their blind tropism, their ancient, inbred instinct +drove them. Weston stumbled on around the little pool, dragging Serena— + +Then he was in the Versailles garden, by the pool, again, and a plane +was droning overhead, and he still gripped Serena’s wrist. He had +brought her back through time, from noon to morning. + +And that was his damnation—and hers. + + * * * * * + +South of Suva a coral island stands in the empty seas. Once there were +natives there, Kanaka boys, but not now. There is a walled garden, and a +deserted house; already pandanus grows wild, and the lichen and the +swift tropical vines are beginning to devour them both. And there is +something else, eternal and alien, that stands on the island untouched +by the hurricanes that roar yearly along the trades and loose their fury +on the islet. + +The skippers of a few trading ships know that John Weston once lived +there. They used to bring supplies, food and equipment and the luxuries +a wealthy man need not be deprived of, even though he lives in the +middle of the South Pacific. But no ships anchor there any more. As for +the Kanaka boys, no one pays attention to their drunken stories. And +they will not go back. They are afraid. + +Weston lived on the island for nearly thirty years. + +He was in love with Serena, you see. She was the ultimate perfection of +the human race. As man strives for perfection, so in his own way he +wanted Serena—to keep her with him always—to bask in that shining, +vital glow she radiated. + +He couldn’t understand her. But he couldn’t stay away from her. She had +never known grief or indecision or despair. So, after Versailles, after +he had found that nothing else was possible, he took her to the Pacific +island. He built her a walled garden there. She knew how to make the +moss and the trees grow; the power to control natural dynamics was +inbred in her race. She kindled her life-fires—and she began to work +again. + +The man lived on the island, too—watching Serena, worshipping her. +Watching her create life and destroy it. Year after year he watched her +follow that single taxis. She answered when Weston asked the right +questions, but there was never any real contact. The gulf between them +was too vast. She was perfection—and all he had was intelligence. + + * * * * * + +Sometimes he thought of taking her back to her own world. But he knew he +could never do that. The two men would be waiting, and the fires would +be waiting, and Serena would be ready to sacrifice herself to create the +new race that would supersede mankind.... + +Nearly thirty years. She did not seem to age. But Weston did. And then, +one day, the end came at last. + +He unlocked the door of the garden and went in, calling Serena’s name. +She had always answered before. But this time only silence greeted him. + +He went down the winding path, and at its end he saw the flame, burning +like an unearthly flower, tall, pale gold, swaying in the uprush of its +own fire. It lived and burned and waited. He knew, then, instantly. +Serena was still in the garden. But she was beyond answering. + +It was success. It was what Serena and her race had been trying, for so +long, to achieve. The new race. She, herself, had possessed whatever +quality it was that had been required—she had, at last, found the right +formula for the new life. She was the life. Or part of it. + +Weston stood there, watching. He remembered what he had seen so far away +in the future, burning in that wilderness of mossy hills. This, then, +was why the giant had forgotten Serena and turned to the Golden Light. +The Golden Light was Serena. It was the new race. She had used herself +to create the next step beyond mankind. She had brought it into being a +million years before she, herself, had been born! + +And all through those eons, her people were spending their energies +striving to accomplish what Serena had already achieved far in their +past! + +There had been a barrier guarding the light—in the future. But now? Had +it developed yet? + +In green twilight the flame burned on. It was new. This was the first +night it would illumine—but the mind could not grasp the concept of the +countless nights to come through which it would burn. Millions upon +millions upon millions of nights and days, while the seas shrank and the +tides of time rolled relentlessly over the planet. While mankind found +paradise and sank into the long, terribly perfect noontide of the human +race. + +And after that somehow, sometime, it must waken, for it was the first of +its superhuman, alien race. After man it would come. And part of it was +Serena. + +“Serena!” Weston breathed. + +And then he was moving forward, his face bright, his eyes eager, into +the alien heart of that living fire. + +The garden was empty, except for the tremendous flame. Its shining +enigma glowed through the night. No man would ever know the secret of +its power or the nature of the alien life that burned in its heart, +dormant, sleeping—not yet ready to waken and inherit the earth, to +waken from man’s eternal, doomed noon into the bright morning of its +unimaginable future. + +The garden lay silent. No human foot moved through it. Only the golden +fire burned like a flower against the darkness. + +Now there would be a million years to wait. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68202 *** |