The Man Who Mastered Time 7 – Cummings · Verses Across
Literature · Adventure
The Man Who Mastered Time 7Chapter 7
18
Literature · Adventure
The Man Who Mastered Time 7
Chapter 7
CummingsEnglish
The proton current had been entirely cut off. The interior of the cabin was solid in appearance once more. The Frazia motors were still droning and the plane hung motionless in a night that was without wind. Below it, now, lay a scene of complete normality: the sea was rolling up on the white sand and the moon, almost at its zenith, bathed the green island in a silvery, red-tinged light. And from the tip of the island, quite near its southern branch, Loto's narrow beam of blue-white light was flashing upward into the sky.
They descended, in a gentle glide. The beach was broad and firm; they landed upon it, swooping along. It was like racing an automobile along the sand in the moonlight, with the ocean on one side--far out at low tide now--and a jungle of green, tropical vegetation on the other.
Rogers, at the controls, saw a number of human figures standing on the beach ahead of him. They scattered hastily, and the plane, rapidly losing velocity, went past them and stopped a hundred yards farther.
"We're here!" George cried. "Let's get out. Was that Loto we passed? Where's the light? Are we near it?"
The light could be seen no more than a hundred feet away among the palms. They climbed hastily from the plane. A figure was coming forward along the beach at a run; a slight figure in wide trousers of white cloth, and a short, flapping jacket.
"Loto!" shouted George. "That you, Loto?"
From a distance came a faint, "Hello-o... George!" The runner increased his speed. It was Loto.
"Well," he exclaimed, as he shook their hands. "You got here right away, didn't you? I've only had that light up two or three hours."
"We're tired out," said Rogers, when the greetings were over. "Do we stay in the plane or can we leave it?"
A man was standing fearfully at the edge of the green jungle nearby, and Loto called him forward. He was dressed in wide trousers, like Loto's except that they were smeared with dirt and sand, and his feet and torso were bare. He came, timidly, and Loto spoke to him apart. The man nodded his head, indicating that he understood his orders. Then he trotted away, joining three or four others of his kind, gesticulating toward the plane. They all approached it reluctantly.
George plucked at the flaring sleeve of Loto's short jacket, his only garment above the waist. "How's Azeela, Loto? Is she...is everything all right?"
"Yes, she's all right. But I needed you and father here. Wait! Not now. I'll tell you later."
Rogers joined them. "We're about exhausted, Loto. We must have some sleep."
"Yes, of course. I knew you'd be. I've a house near here--only a hundred yards or so. They'll guard the plane." His gesture indicated the men who were now on the sand, moving about the plane, but evidently afraid to touch it.
"You can trust them?"
"Implicitly."
They followed Loto. George was tired, but so excited that he did not realize it. The night air was warm and heavy with moisture. It was oppressive; it reminded him somehow of the steam room of a Turkish bath. He found himself perspiring.
They left the moonlit beach and, following a tiny, white-sand path, plunged into the depths of the jungle. Palms of every variety stood about, their graceful fronds interlacing overhead. There were huge trees loaded with fruit, bananas, mangoes, grapefruit. Some of the other fruit trees George dimly remembered having heard of but could not name, and still others he was sure were entirely new.
It was dark in the jungle here, and very silent. The steamy air was redolent with perfume--orange blossoms, George thought. The light signal was nowhere to be seen. George wondered if it had burned out, or if Loto had ordered those men to extinguish it.
"Here we are," said Loto abruptly.
A house was standing at their right, in an open space with the moonlight gleaming on it--a large, tropical-looking bungalow. There was a broad veranda on three sides, with windows opening into the house. The house itself was raised some four feet off the ground on coconut posts, and a brown-thatched roof spread over everything like a mound.
It seemed to be a house that would have ten rooms, at least. George wondered what made it look so peculiar. Then he realized that its board walls were not vertical, but sloped inward toward the top, so that its rooms would be smaller at the ceiling than the floor. It looked like a house of cards.
Loto had turned into another path. A brown picket fence enclosed the house with perhaps an acre of ground. Inside was a flower garden, abloom with an extraordinary profusion of flowers.
A short flight of wooden steps led to the veranda. There Loto stopped.
"I think we should retire at once," Rogers said. "We have so much to talk of--but it will wait."
"Yes," Loto agreed. "Come with me, Father. George, you stay here. I'll be right out."
George sat down on the veranda, with his back against a round palm trunk that was supporting its roof. He realized now how tired he was, and this heavy air made him sleepy, he heard the others moving away, entering the house. He took off his coat, then his shirt and, using them for a pillow, stretched himself out at full length on the board flooring of the veranda.
In a moment, when Loto returned to take him to the room they were to occupy together, he found George sleeping peacefully.
George awakened with the morning sun streaming through a window. He was on a broad couch, and in a chair beside him, Loto was reclining comfortably, smoking his black brier pipe. He smiled.
"Oh, you're awake, are you? You ought to be--it's hours after sunrise."
A vague memory of being taken into the house by Loto the night before drifted back to George. He remembered being half-asleep and talking to his friend, but it was all like a dream.
The room was small, queer-looking, with its walls sloping together toward the ceiling. But it was bright and clean, with brown fibre matting on the floor.
The air was as moist and heavy as ever, and even warmer. George sat up, mopping his forehead with his shirt sleeve.
"I've got your clothes," Loto said, indicating a stool with garments lying on it. "You don't need much in this heat. Get up and try them on."
George was presently arrayed, like Loto, in low, tight slippers of soft hide--clipped dog-skin, Loto told him--with trousers of white material, bulging above the knees and tight at the ankles, and a brown and green cloth jacket, ornamented with little metal coins. The jacket was square-cut and short; it just covered the waist-band of the trousers in back. It was lined with something soft, thin and yet absorbent; it felt smooth and comfortable next to George's skin. But it would not meet in front; it left his chest and stomach bare. He stood regarding it ruefully until Loto showed him how to fasten it closed across his stomach.
"Nice and cool--when you get used to it," George commented, staring down at his exposed chest. "How do I look? Kind of queer, don't I?" He twisted himself around, trying to see down over the side bulge of his trousers.
Roger's voice, calling, interrupted them.
"I've got a million things to talk to you about," George was telling Loto. "Hurry it up--I'll be out in the garden."
They met, a few minutes later, on the side veranda where they were to have breakfast. George's self-consciousness vanished immediately; Rogers was dressed almost exactly as he was, and he flattered himself he looked at least as well as his companion.
It seemed to the new arrivals, at this first glance, a primitive world indeed into which they had fallen, the heat, the palms, the thatched bungalow, and their costumes all might have existed in some out-of-the-way tropical land of their own time-world.
During the meal George was insistent with questions, but Loto smilingly refused to talk. Instead, he led his father into a brief description of their flight forward through time and south through space. When the meal was over Loto took them out to the front veranda.
"I've a great deal to tell you," he said, "and I know you're as impatient to hear it as I am to tell you. I've been here on the island five months--"
"We realize it," George murmured. "Didn't I watch for that light through every day and night of 'em?"
Loto smiled. "I put the signal up last night because I felt that I needed you. Before we do anything, I must tell you of our affairs here. You notice I say 'our affairs.' They are a part of me now. I don't exactly know why, but the thing here grips me. I want to help these people... I feel already that I am one of them."
It was no mystery to George.
"Where's Azeela?" he demanded with apparent irrelevancy.
"In Anglese City, the capital and largest center of population on the island. It's north of here--on the channel. I've been living there; I came down here merely to meet you. The situation here is drastic, Father. War has been impending, and now it will not be postponed much longer. This Toroh--as I told you, he is an Anglese renegade--is organizing the barbarians of the north, the Noths, as they are called. They are a people of low intelligence--brutes of men with thick black hair on their bodies.
"God knows how many Noths there are--hordes of them are scattered about the northern wastes. Toroh has been organizing them. He has a base up north where he is manufacturing scientific weapons. There is class hatred here on the island, but, thank Heaven, in the face of an outside invasion, the Anglese will stick together."
"You're preparing for war," George interposed. "You--"
"Yes, of course. The Anglese have had no warfare for several generations; they were totally unprepared, but now they're getting things in shape."
Loto's tone was optimistic, but the anxiety of his expression belied it. "I wanted you here, Father--you and George. Without Toroh, we would not fear the Noths. But Toroh is a scientist, and what weapons he will have been able to manufacture we do not know. We can only--"
A man came dashing up the garden path; a man in the familiar wide trousers, torn and dirty. His red-brown, naked torso gleamed with sweat; a white cloth was tied about his forehead to keep the damp hair from his eyes.
Loto leaped to his feet, and the man, gazing at the strangers with one swift, surprised glance, flung himself prostrate on the steps.
"What--" began Rogers.
"Wait! A messenger from Azeela. Something has gone wrong."
Loto raised the man up, and listened to his flood of frightened words with obvious concern. A sharp question from Loto, a crisp order, and the messenger was dashing away. Loto's gaze, following him, came back to his companions on the porch.
"Bad news, Father. We must get up to Anglese City at once. Spies have appeared in Orleen--a city at the western end of the island--spies from Toroh, former Anglese, banished like himself. They're being put to death as fast as they can be caught. But meanwhile they're talking to the lower class--telling the people that Toroh is for them, and only against their government. There is class hatred here. The people are listening to the emissaries. We may be facing a revolution--an internal break--on the eve of fighting the Noths! We will lose if that happens--lose to Toroh inevitably!"
They were down on the beach in five minutes more. The plane stood there, undisturbed. Half a dozen figures rose from the sand beside it and stood respectfully waiting for Loto to approach.
Rogers took his seat beside the Frazia controls. They were presently in the air, flying northward over the palm-covered island that lay calm, serene in its false security and peacefulness.
Loto sat close to his father, with George beside them.
"I must tell you briefly the conditions here," Loto said. "Then you will be able to understand--be able to help with your advice and judgement as well as actions."
He spoke briskly but carefully, and his manner regained its poise. George was gazing down through one of the side windows.
"That's Azeela's messenger," Loto commented, "going back to Anglese City."
They were flying hardly five hundred feet above the palms. A white road lay beneath them; along it a huge, shaggy dog was running, with the figure of a man on its back. The dog's neck was stretched forward, its body low to the ground as it ran with almost incredible speed, the man lashing its flanks with a leather thong. The plane passed very slowly and drew away.
"We will not land in the heart of the city," Loto added. "He'll be with Azeela before we are."
"Go on and tell us about things," George urged. "We've got the time now; maybe we won't have it later."
Loto nodded. "I will. We have here on the island three social classes. How they developed throughout the centuries you will have to imagine for yourself. Ancient, almost prehistoric Egypt was no more than a quarter as far into the past of our time-world as we are now ahead of it. Considered in that light, the changes have been rather less radical than you would anticipate.
"The lowest class--you would call them peons in our old Latin America--are now termed the Bas. They include more than nine-tenths of all the inhabitants of the island. Most of them are ignorant, uneducated; yet they include, also, many intelligent, learned individuals.
"It is the lowest class which is now plunged into almost intolerable conditions. They are the workers. Through generations of working in the sun, their skin has become a reddish brown. The higher class--the nobility--are the Arans. As the governing class, the Arans live for the most part in idleness and luxury, while the Bas are held down to almost universal poverty.
"You haven't seen the Arans yet. We will be in their chief city shortly. You will find them white-skinned, their women especially, for they shield themselves carefully from the sun. They are cultured, yet without great learning. Can you appreciate that condition? They're the ones who really show the decadence of this time-world."
"Is there a third class?" Rogers prompted.
"Yes. The Scientists--to me the most interesting of all. You will appreciate that in long past ages, science was supreme. In war it was everything. The Anglese came to this island and grew apathetic, but the Scientists, in some measure, clung to their learning. Gradually, their attitude must have changed to secrecy. They became a sect, holding knowledge for its own sake, keeping it among themselves.
"The real power lay with them, and they knew it. But curiously enough, their science seemed all-sufficient. As a body, they never desired governing power; no individual rose among them with a yearning for conquest--except Toroh.
"Foreign wars came. The Scientists offered their help, and when the wars were over, retired with their knowledge to themselves. The sect, as you will find it today, is on the downgrade. It has dwindled to a thousand or two individuals who are scattered throughout the island. They call themselves the League--I should say, a word that means about that. They have their own officers; a council of a hundred in Anglese City, and a lifetime president, Fahn, Azeela's father.
"Thus, you understand, the League of Scientists really controls everything. But its members are content with the prestige their position gives them. The government itself has for centuries fostered this secrecy of all that pertains to science. In times of war, the Arans are helpless, and leave it all to the League. In times of peace they forget the possibility of war and go back to ruling the Bas in their own fashion."
Loto glanced out one of the windows. "Look down there."
The island was mountainous; a constant succession of green hills and valleys. A small lake came into view, with steam rising from it. Everywhere the scene was dotted with thatched huts and, occasionally, a more pretentious bungalow like the one in which the visitors had passed the previous night. As they flew low over the hills, they could see small brown and white patches of cultivated land scattered everywhere.
"That is the way the Bas live," Loto commented. "Sometimes they bring their produce to the cities and sell it for ridiculously small sums. If there's a food shortage, the Arans come out and take it--paying for it nominally."
"But their factories, their industries?"
"In the cities, Father. Reduced to a minimum, and for the use and welfare of the Arans and Scientists almost exclusively. Skilled labor is performed by the higher types of the Bas. They are allowed to live in the cities, but are paid so little that they must live unpretentiously. Everything is done for the welfare of the Arans and the League of Scientists."
"And the government?"
"A monarchy. A king, his council of fifty and his personal cabinet of five. A hereditary monarch, wholly inefficient, except in forcing his laws upon the Bas."
"I should think that would be somewhat difficult," Rogers commented.
"There is a large police force made up of swaggering young men of the Arans. They serve for the joy of it; they're mostly arrogant individuals who take pleasure in the enforcement of the personal power they hold. And they abuse it, of course. Their task is easy, for they have the Scientists behind them. If one of them were killed, or even attacked by a Bas, it would mean the death of that Bas and all his family.
"I said the Bas were under conditions almost intolerable. And that's exactly why these spies of Toroh's are dangerous to us just now. The whole social condition here is wretched, but, I suppose, logical enough under the circumstances of environment and racial development. Fundamentally, the difficulty has been a limited land area. The race cannot expand, hence numerically it must be restrained."
"How?" demanded Rogers. "By birth control?"
"Obligatory birth control--applicable only to the Bas. More Bas are not desired, hence births are limited. The desire just now--more than to hold the population even--is to cut it down. Hence, a Bas woman is allowed only two offspring."
"But suppose she has three?" George suggested.
"The mother and her child--illegitimate in a new sense--are banished from the island." Loto's voice rose to sudden vehemence. "Can you understand what that sometimes does? I have seen a mother with her newborn infant, two or three weeks old, pleading before the King's Council. She would not murder it at birth, as the Bas women sometimes do, and I saw her plead for its right to live on the island. And then, with her plea denied, she took it away into the frozen north. Her husband did not follow her. That is optional. This one stayed behind, keeping the other two children, and letting her take the infant alone. And she went, to save its life--her child, born without a birthright."
There was a silence. Rogers was staring down at a hilltop where, as the plane swept past, a woman with two naked children at her side stood in front of a small shack.
"And when you have seen the Arans, living their life of luxury and immorality," Loto went on, "you will wonder why the Bas have stood it so long. 'After us--the deluge,' has always been the Aran reasoning."
The plane was climbing to pass over a jagged, volcanic-looking peak. Behind, nestled in a hollow, with a curving stretch of white sand and the blue waters of the channel beyond, lay the capital city of the Arans: reckless, pleasure-loving, secure in its beauty and supremacy, yet trembling from so many causes upon the brink of disaster.
