Chapter IV: Part 4

They were falling fast now, heading for the open port of the large spaceship. They could see some of the crew members and scientists emerging, weapons ready to protect their landing. They sped down below the level of the top of the hull and the vast sheets of plate seemed to flow past the port of the flier like a river of steel.

It stopped flowing. They hit hard, and Terry yanked open the door. They tumbled out in the midst of their defenders, while spurts of flame showed in the sunlight all about them.

"Get in!" one of the men shouted. "We almost had to leave without you. They'll be bringing reinforcements." It was Mason, the physicist.

Underwood nodded. "We're ready. Is everyone else aboard who is going?"

"Yes."

There was a sudden cry beside Underwood and one of the crewmen dropped his gun and clutched an arm in pain. Mason and Terry clutched him in supporting arms and dragged him into the vessel. Underwood clasped Illia's hand and hurried through the port. Behind them the last of the men slammed the door and dogged it tight.

"Phyfe's waiting for you in the control room," Mason said. "We'll take care of Peters, here. Terry had better stay for treatment also."

Underwood nodded and raced along the corridor with Illia. They passed other men intent upon their own tasks. Some of them he knew; others he had never seen before. He hoped that Phyfe and Terry had chosen carefully. The remembrance of the biologist, Craven, came to his mind. They came to the entrance to the control room. Captain Dawson was in technical command, waiting for instructions to take off. Apparently Mason was assuming charge of the takeoff, for his voice came through the audio system as Underwood entered. Phyfe nodded assent to Captain Dawson. "Take it up!"

* * * * *

Almost instantly, the ship soared aloft.

"Wait!" Underwood exclaimed, as he entered the control room.

Phyfe and Dawson looked toward the door. "There can be no waiting," said Phyfe. "We had almost given up you and Terry and Illia. The police have been searching for us for weeks, and now that we're out in the open they'll spare no force to take us."

"We can't go without the Stroid records," said Underwood. "Terry tells me I've been elected to head this outfit. If that's so, then my first order is to pick up every scrap of Stroid record and artifact that has ever been found before we take off."

Dreyer came in and looked interestedly as Underwood spoke, but he said nothing.

* * * * *

"Why?" said Phyfe. "I don't understand."

"There was a weapon," said Underwood, "a weapon that the Sirenians were afraid of, which apparently was responsible for the power of the Dragbora over them. If any trace of that weapon remains in the Universe, our goal is to find it. It may be our one hope of defeating Demarzule."

The others looked at him as if doubting his sanity, yet hoping he was on the trail of a solution.

"But that was five hundred thousand years ago!" said Phyfe. "How could we hope to find such a weapon that disappeared that long ago? We have no clues--"

"We have the Stroid records. That's why I want them."

"But the Sirenians seemed to know nothing about the nature of the weapon."

"We're not so sure of that. But even if that's so, there was the great civilization of the Dragbora. We don't know that it is extinct, and we know nothing of its location--but the weapon may be there. And the clue to _its_ location may be in the Stroid records."

Dreyer nodded and gave a violent puff of smoke. "He's right, Phyfe. We hadn't thought of it, but that may be our one chance. At least it gives us an objective instead of just plunging into purposeless flight."

"I suppose so," Phyfe said doubtfully. "But I don't see how--"

"I'll take care of that. Show us where the records are. We'll get the repository first, however; I want the whole thing brought aboard."

Underwood turned swiftly to Dawson and ordered the ship lowered beside the temporary structure housing the repository near the Stroid museum building. Then he stepped to the ship's interphone and explained their maneuver. He called for twenty volunteers to man scooters and weapons to cover those who were to transfer the records.

Below them, on the ground, the police forces who watched their prey escape stood puzzledly as the _Lavoisier_ turned and moved slowly across the group of buildings and began dropping again. Three deadly police fliers hovered in the air about the great spaceship.

It was the fliers that Underwood watched with intent study. The twenty men he had selected out of the volunteers gathered around the viewing plates with him.

"The first objective will be to down those fliers," said Underwood. "Then you will provide constant cover for those of us who leave the ship to bring the records back. Go to your assigned airlocks. I'll signal when the fliers are in the best position for one group of you to attack it."

Byers, the engineer mechanic appointed captain of the group, nodded.

"They won't know what hit 'em," he promised.

"I hope so," said Underwood. "All right, take your stations and signal when you're ready."

The men filed out of the room while the big ship slowly settled toward the Earth. The three police fliers continued to move about with deadly inquisitiveness. Then the sudden signal from Byers indicated the men were positioned and ready.

Underwood watched the fliers. One was out of sight of the other two near the nose of the _Lavoisier_. Underwood called sharply: "Number three, attack!"

Almost instantly, a lock opened behind the unsuspecting police flier and three scooters darted out, their riders firing a deadly stream which came to a focus on the tail of the flier. A sudden blossom of flame sent up a plume of black smoke and the flier nosed Earthward without its occupants knowing what had struck.

But now the second flier was rounding the hull and the three scooters were spotted. The police fired and one scooter plummeted out of sight.

* * * * *

"Number seven!" Underwood ordered.

A lock near the top of the hull opened and a second trio of scooters darted out. The flier was beneath them, and its pilots had time to look up and see the blasting fire that poured through the transparent bubble over them. But they had no time to retaliate.

Fire began rising from the ground forces now and the scooter riders were forced to dodge and twist to avoid being hit. At the same time they dived close to the ground and sprayed the attackers.

From above, however, the third flier joined with devastating fury. Two more scooters dropped. Underwood ordered the remaining scooters to the attack. Simultaneously, they poured from the ship, swept over the remaining flier in a wave of destruction and dropped it onto the ground forces.

The latter spread out now and hunted for cover before the mounting destruction of the scooter riders.

"Align cargo hatch number one by the repository shelter," Underwood instructed the Captain. "We'll load that first."

The ship settled to the surface without a jar. The immediate area around the shelter was cleared. Mason, taking charge of the loading, ordered the hatch swung open. Portable cargo units were passed out and strapped to the periphery of the huge, faceted artifact, whose bulk almost filled the hatchway.

Sporadic fire continued from the hidden police, but the scooter riders were holding it below an effective level without losing any more of their own number.

Mason turned the current into the cargo units, and slowly the huge mass rose from the spot where it rested. Then a G-line attached to it began reeling in, drawing the repository toward the ship.

As the hatch clanged shut over it, Underwood exhaled heavily. "That's the main part of our job! Another half hour to scoop up the records in the building and we'll be through."

Illia gave a sudden shrill cry. "Del! The building--it's on fire!"

The men stared. From the museum where the Stroid records lay, there rose billows of smoke and licking flames.

"They must have known what we were after," said Phyfe, "and they fired the building. There's no chance now of getting any of them."

"Yes, there is! Most of the records are metallic." Underwood stepped to the interphone. "Every man but the takeoff crew in spacesuits. Carry sidearms and be ready to enter the museum at once."

"What are you going to do?" Illia cried.

* * * * *

Already he was at the nearest locker, struggling into the ungainly spacesuit. "These will be enough protection from the fire to enable each man to bring out one load, perhaps."

The old building, as if symbolic of the times, was submitting willingly to the flames. Its ancient, only partly fireproofed construction was giving way, and the fire protection system had failed completely.

Rapidly, Underwood went over the plan Phyfe had given him locating the bulk of the records, then raced toward the cargo hold where the others were nearly ready. He ordered each pair of men to tow a cargo carrier.

It was a weird procession of unworldly figures that made their way clumsily from the ship and up the steps of the burning building.

Underwood and Mason were together, towing their carrier, which rested a foot off the floor. Almost blinded by the smoke, they led the way through the halls and into the stacks where the half-million-year-old records lay on shelves.

"Load up! This is it," Underwood called. Like creatures in some fantastic hell, he saw the others file into the large room behind him. They began emptying over the shelves, filling the carriers with whatever came to hand.

The wooden beams supporting the high, archaic roof structure were dry and roaring with flames. Somewhere out of their line of sight, a beam gave way and a shower of plaster and masonry filled the air.

"There won't be time for any more," Mason said. "Our carrier's full. Let's go."

Underwood shoved the carrier toward the doorway through which they had come. Its inertia was its only opposition.

"You drag the carrier," said Underwood. "I'll get another armful."

While Mason vanished out through the pall of smoke, Underwood scooped up another armful of materials. Then, almost blindly, he sought the exit.

Nearly all the others were loaded and dragging their carriers now. Underwood glanced back. What secrets might yet lie here among the records they must leave behind! He hoped the gods of chance had been merciful enough to guide their hands toward some record that would direct the scientists to the ancient enemy of the Sirenian Empire, the Dragbora, whose dreadful weapon had been so feared by the Sirenian hordes.

Back in the ship, Underwood glanced back longingly at the flame-ravaged building. It was useless to attempt another trip.

* * * * *

The police had apparently hoped the fire would defeat the purposes of the scientists, but after the successful rescue of tons of records and artifacts, they resumed their attack with increasing fury.

Underwood called to Byers and the scooter riders to come in. Slowly, the protective forces withdrew to the ship, and as they did so, the police began firing into the opening ports. The scooters poured into the ship, more than one bearing a mortally wounded crewman.

Altogether, only fourteen returned.

"That's all," Byers said grimly. "The rest of the boys won't be coming back."

For a drastic moment of uncertainty, Underwood wondered if his demand for the records would be worth that sacrifice. It had to be, he told himself. Without hope of a weapon to defeat the Sirenian, there was no purpose in flight into space.

He returned to the control room and gave the order to lift ship.

_CHAPTER TEN_

Through the ports Underwood watched the nearby buildings drop away. The Sun's disk shot up over the horizon and bathed them in golden glow. Then the pilot adjusted the controls and sudden, crushing acceleration was applied to the ship, but to the occupants it was imperceptible.

Like the tired old man that he was, Phyfe slumped down in a cushioned seat beside the navigator's table.

"You look as if you'd had a pretty rough time of it since I saw you last," said Underwood.

Phyfe smiled disparagingly. "For fifty years I've been a scholar and archeologist. It's much too late to find myself in the midst of a planetary crisis, and expect to be able to cope with it."

"You've done a fine job so far."

"I could never even lead an expedition very satisfactorily, and certainly not a group of this kind. Terry might, but he lacks the physical knowledge you have. Mason might, but he knows nothing of the Sirenians. You're the best qualified of us all for the job."

"I want to be sure the rest think so. It might not be a bad idea to hold an election."

"We should call a meeting of everyone, anyway. Many of the scientists are not adequately acquainted with the problem. They should be organized according to their specialties, and we ought to prepare some system of defense."

With the ship no farther than the orbit of the moon, a meeting was called of the hundred and twenty-five scientists and crewmen of the _Lavoisier_. Phyfe, as nominal chairman, presented Underwood formally as leader of the group. Acceptance was unanimous and enthusiastic, for Underwood was known to nearly all of them by reputation if not personally.

* * * * *

Briefly, he outlined the events concerning the discovery and restoration of Demarzule, the futile attempts of the scientists to stand against humanity's demand for a new god. Then he called on Dreyer to describe the characteristics of the enemy who opposed them.

"In the ages of Earth's past history," Dreyer said, "there have been conquerors, emperors, dictators and tyrants, but there has never been Demarzule, the Sirenian. To the Sirenians, conquest and leadership were as essential as food. There was only one solution for them as they expanded in the Galaxy, and that was complete mastery of the Galaxies--or extinction. It was undoubtedly fortunate for our own world that the Dragbora succeeded in destroying them.

"As to our present problem, Demarzule will sell the peoples of Earth the idea of their complete superiority over all other races in the Universe. They're ripe for acceptance of such doctrine. He'll use the supernatural aspect of his appearance among us and encourage a worshipful attitude. Then he is, I think, certain to begin the construction of battle fleets and the assembly of weapons and armies--not the ships and weapons we know, but the best that Sirenian science could produce half a million years ago.

"Within a few hours from now he'll be sure to learn of our escape and our identity as enemies. It is impossible to believe he will not dispatch pursuit ships to destroy us. Our only chance is to be too far away for them to catch up with us. At least in Terrestrial ships. By the time Sirenian designs are built, we must have an answer.

"That, then, is the nature of the problem we face. Our one hope--and it is a slim one--appears to be the discovery of the weapon by which the Dragbora overpowered the Sirenian hordes long ago. If we remain limited by the range of our own science, I am convinced the problem is hopeless, though I'm aware that happily there are those of you whose minds differ radically from mine and would not admit defeat even with such limitations."

* * * * *

"Some of you had objections to our flight, arguing that we should remain and conduct an underground opposition movement. You were those who lacked a correct evaluation of our enemy. I want you to understand that such a movement would have been absolutely futile. A successful underground movement must be that of an oppressed majority against a minority of ruling numbers. Humanity _wants_ Demarzule. Never forget it. That is why we are fleeing.

"But our battle is not with our fellow men; their faults are rooted in the dark processes of evolution and racial development. The appearance of Demarzule is an extraneous factor, however, one that evolution did not allow for. Without him, men would eventually attain maturity and balance out of the conflicts of their racial adolescence. With Demarzule as god and leader, generations of development may be wiped out.

"You must remember that we have committed ourselves to the only possible course--escape. We're nothing but children beside the racially old Demarzule. He's a superman from a super-race that outstripped ours long before our first cave ancestor discovered fire. Let us hope that we find the weapon of the Dragbora, so our kind may climb the long evolutionary ladder upon which they have stumbled so sorely."

After Dreyer's speech it was a solemn group of men that faced Underwood. The semanticist had conveyed for the first time to most of them the immensity of the threat that confronted them.

They proceeded then with the organizing of the large group into smaller units according to their specialties. Underwood found there was a preponderance of physicists and biologists. The thirty physicists were grouped under the leadership of Mason. To them went the task of investigating the possible weapons and defenses which could be employed against the attacks that would certainly come.

The men with strictly engineering qualifications were assigned to work with Mason's group.

The biological group included a dozen surgeons and four psychiatrists under Illia's leadership. Dreyer and his fellow semanticists were assigned with the archeologists to examine the records they had salvaged from the fire in the hopes of finding a clue to the Dragboran world and the weapon that might be there.

Most of the physical scientists had varying degrees of skill with machine tools and equipment and could assist in the fabrication of armaments for the ship.

The first task was to rig the ship with absorbing screens to prevent radar echoes and nullify this means of locating them from Earth. It was a relatively easy project and one that was completed by the end of their first twenty-four hours in space. That left only astronomical means by which they could be detected from Earth, and with each passing hour, this possibility became more remote. Underwood, however, could not put off the uneasiness that beset him in the face of the pursuit he knew must surely come.

Six days out and a hundred thousand light years from Earth, Phyfe uncovered the first evidence that fortune was with them.

He and Dreyer, along with Terry and Underwood and the other semanticists and archeologists, were working in the single large chamber allotted to study of the records. Phyfe's sudden exclamation burst upon the silence of the room. He held up a small metal roll, fused on the outside, but unrolled in a spiral coil where he had broken the fused portions away.

"This looks as if it might have been the log of one of the refugee ships," he said. "Look at it."

Underwood bent over the small machine they had devised for supplying the correction radiation which would render the characters visible. Normally, they stood out against their dull, metallic background like white fire, but these were dim almost to the point of obliteration. He read slowly, aloud.

"Meathes. 2192903. One _detela_ since leaving Sirenia. Lookout reports Dragboran vessels within range. A thousand of them, which means we are outnumbered ten to one. Flight bearings 3827--"

Underwood looked up. He could read no further. "Those last figures--"

"Could they be the relationship between his own fleet and the home planet?" said Phyfe.

"More likely it would be the bearings of the Dragboran fleet in relation to the Sirenians. In any case, such figures would be a clue to the location of the worlds, because they would be related to their Galactic references. That's the catch, though, finding those references. To us, they would be entirely arbitrary. But if this is a log, it may give the location of the planets and their Galaxy that we can identify. If we can work out the changes in astronomical positions that take place in five hundred thousand years."

He took the roll from the machine and examined it more closely. "It's almost hopeless to get any more out of this. Is there any other specimen that was found in the same locality?"

Phyfe checked the records and shook his head. "This was found stuck to a completely fused mass of iron, apparently part of the ship in which it lay when the Dragbora struck. We may as well send it to the lab for restoration. If it becomes possible to read it, it may help."

* * * * *

In four hours the duplicate record came back, restored as completely as possible, but there were long blanks which were un-intelligible. Underwood turned up the maximum radiation which helped bring out the characters, but also burned them rapidly away if left on too long. Suddenly he caught his breath.

"Listen to this: 'Our bearings are now 6749367 Sirenia, having traveled 84 _tre-doma_, Sirenia. In two _te-ela_ we land. Perhaps for the last time--'"

"That's it!" Phyfe exclaimed.

"All but the key to their co-ordinate system," said Underwood. "Do you see any possibility of interpreting it, Dreyer?"

The semanticist shook his head. "It must be based upon entirely arbitrary reference points as ours is. I see no hope of interpretation with the figures we now have. Perhaps our astronomers could suggest something."

Masterson and Ebert, the two astronomers included in the group, were called in from their task of preparing star charts of the Universe of half a million years ago. They considered the facts Underwood presented.

Masterson said, "I'm afraid the bearings given by the Sirenians won't be much help. The distance is of value. That shows us that we have a shell at a radial distance of approximately ninety million light years from the Solar System. At best, then, we have this shell, which may be considered as several thousand light years thick, in which to search. If we could find even approximately the proper sector of this shell, we might soon isolate the possible planetary systems to which the Dragbora and Sirenians belonged, but without being able to narrow down the possible sectors of that shell, it becomes an impossible task. Just a single reference to some Island Universe that we might identify would do it, perhaps."

Underwood and Dreyer had to agree. They had gained something; if they could just obtain one more scrap of astronomical information, it might give them the key.

The search for that key went on among the records and artifacts. The repository itself was searched inch by inch--and still almost none of the artifacts found there could be identified or explained. Apart from the repository, most of the material they had was native to the planet on which the Sirenians landed.

By the eighth day Mason's crew had managed to construct equipment for throwing a force shell about the _Lavoisier_, and Underwood breathed considerably easier. They could travel indefinitely behind the protection of that impenetrable shield. Data for navigation was obtained through almost infinitesimal pilot units set outside the shell and connected through hair-fine leads running through equally small holes in it.

* * * * *

Underwood was proud of this accomplishment. With their limited facilities for manufacture, it was little short of a miracle that they had been able to turn out the mass of complex equipment in so short a time. Somehow, it seemed symbolic to him, as if there were definite laws favoring their success--the success of Earth.

And then on that same eighth day, when they were almost beyond the limit at which such small, dark objects could be identified, the lookout observer on duty sounded a warning to the control center.

"Fleet departing from Earth. Twenty warships. Corius type. Apparent course 169 46 12 and 48 19 06. Velocity--"

Underwood looked at Phyfe, who was beside him at the time. "This is it," he said.

The warning went throughout the ship and the men looked up from their tasks a moment, then resumed with grimmer eyes and firmer mouths. Mason's group was working on the problem that had baffled armament men for generations, the problem of firing the Atom Stream through the force shell. Underwood had little confidence that they would solve the problem, but as it was they had no offense whatever.

As Underwood and Phyfe moved to the navigator's table to check their course and that of the pursuing fleet, he said, "I wonder how they spotted us. Our echo screen couldn't have broken down. It must have been sheer astronomical luck that put them on our trail."

Lieutenant Wilson, the navigator, frowned as he pointed to their course charts. "I don't believe that fleet is following us," he said. "If they are, they're going the long way around, because their course at present is heading more than fourteen degrees from ours."

* * * * *

Phyfe and Underwood studied the trajectories, projecting them into space, estimating the rate at which the fleet would approach, considering its superior velocity and the divergent courses.

"It's easy enough to determine whether they're following or not," said Underwood. "We could simply change our own course by ninety degrees. Perhaps they haven't detected us after all, but are merely shooting blind in the general direction we might be, based only on the observations of the police as we took off. In that case, they may hope merely to approach near enough to obtain adequate radar echoes."

Dreyer had heard the news over the interphone and came into the navigation cell. He overheard Underwood's last statement.

"Demarzule would not send out a mere fishing expedition," he said flatly.

"Then what's the answer?" Underwood asked, but in his own mind he was evolving a wild theory. He wondered if Dreyer would confirm it.

"If we were merely going blindly into space to escape, Demarzule would have no concern with us, but if we were going to a destination where our arrival would be malevolent to him--then he would be concerned."

Underwood's eyes lighted. He read in Dreyer's face the same conclusions he had reached.

"And Demarzule would send his fleet not after us particularly, but to that destination to see that we didn't reach it. Therefore, this fleet is headed for the Dragboran world!"

"Not so fast!" Phyfe objected. "Demarzule would be assuming that we know where it is. He has no basis for such an assumption."

Dreyer shook his head. "He doesn't know whether we know the way or not. He knows only that it must be guarded from any possible exploitation by us. If we don't go there, we are no menace to him. If we do, the fleet is there to take care of us."

Phyfe considered, then slowly nodded. "You're right."

"And Demarzule is going to show us the way to the Dragboran weapon!" said Underwood fiercely.

_CHAPTER ELEVEN_

The course was changed so that the flight of the _Lavoisier_ paralleled that of the Terrestrian fleet. The acceleration was increased to a twenty per cent overload of the inertia units, making it necessary for each man to use a small carrier unit against his own increased weight.

Still the fleet crept up, lessening the distance between them, but Underwood felt confident that the distance between their parallel courses was great enough to prevent detection by any means the fleet could mount.

There was new life in the ship as the working and sleeping periods passed rapidly. It was easier to concentrate on their work now that everyone felt he was heading toward a definite goal--they dared not doubt that that goal would yield what they hoped from it.

Under Phyfe's direction, daily classes in Sirenian culture were held. Every fact of existence they tried to view from the Sirenian viewpoint and anticipate its semantic significance to that ancient conquering race.

The trip was estimated at approximately three months. A little impromptu party was held when the fleet passed them near the halfway mark. From then on it was a desperate race to see that the other ships didn't get out of range of the instruments of the _Lavoisier_.

* * * * *

In the last week of the third month, a sudden, sharp deceleration was observed in the ships of the battle fleet. Underwood alerted his entire crew. If their deductions had been right, they were within a few hundred thousand light years of the Dragboran world.

As the _Lavoisier_ braked some of its tremendous velocity by the opening of the entropy dissipators, the fleet appeared heading for a small galaxy with a group of yellow stars near its outer rim.

Underwood allowed their ship to close somewhat the enormous gap between them and the enemy, but he wanted to maintain a reasonable distance, for the fleet would certainly begin to sweep-search the skies of the alien planet when they arrived and found the _Lavoisier_ had not landed.

The fleet was finally observed to close in upon one of the yellow suns which had a system of five planets. It was the fourth planet toward which the fleet drove. Underwood watched six of the twenty ships land upon it.

"Let's line up behind one of the other planets," he instructed Dawson. "The second appears closest. Then we can swing over and come in behind the moon of number four. We'll probably land on that moon and look the fleet over before deciding our next action."

The only disadvantage in the maneuver was that they could not keep a sufficiently close check on the fleet. They came out of the shadow of the planet for two hours and then were eclipsed by the moon of the fourth planet. During that interval they were in the light of the sun, and they saw no evidence of the fleet at all. The photographers busied themselves with taking pictures of the Dragboran world.

Like the second planet, the moon appeared to be a barren sphere at first glance, but as they approached and moved farther around its six-thousand-mile circumference, they found an area of lush vegetation occupying about an eighth of the surface.

It was the night side at the moment of their approach. No sign of habitation was apparent, though Underwood thought for an instant he glimpsed a smoke column spiraling upward in the night as they dropped to the surface. Then it was gone, and he was not sure that he had really seen anything.

The _Lavoisier_ came to rest on the grassy floor of a clearing in the vegetated corner of the otherwise barren world.

At that instant Mason came into the control room. "I don't know what you expect to find on that planet down there," he said. He handed a batch of photos to Underwood. "We must have pulled a boner somewhere."

Underwood felt a sting of apprehension. "Why? What's the matter?"

"If there's any habitation there, it's under bottles. There isn't a speck of atmosphere on the whole planet."

"That makes it definitely an archeological problem, then," Phyfe said. "It was too much to hope that an advanced civilization like the Dragboran could have existed another half million years. But the photos--what do they show?"

He glanced over Underwood's arm. "There are cities! No question that the planet was once inhabited. But it looks as if it had only been yesterday that those cities had been occupied!"

"That would be explained by the absence of atmosphere," said Underwood. "The cities would not be buried under drifted mounds in an airless world. Some great cataclysm must have removed both atmosphere and life from the planet at the same time. Perhaps our problem is easier, rather than more difficult, because of this. If the destruction occurred reasonably soon after the Dragbora defeated the Sirenians, there may be ample evidence of their weapons among the ruins."

* * * * *

As Dreyer, Terry, and Illia drifted into the control room after the landing, an impromptu war council was held.

"We'll have to wait until the fleet gives up and goes back," said Terry. "We can't hope to go in and blast them out of the way."

"How do we know they'll give up?" asked Illia. "They may be a permanent guard."

"We don't know what they will do," said Underwood. "They might stay for months, anyway, and that is too long for us to wait. Even twenty ships are not a large force on a planet of that size. My plan is to make a night landing in some barren area, then advance slowly up to one of the larger cities and hide the ship. We can make explorations by means of scooter to determine if any of the fleet is in the city. If so, we can move on; if not, we can begin searching. It makes no difference where we begin until we get some kind of idea of the history and culture of the Dragbora."

"It's so hopeless!" Phyfe shook his head fiercely. "It would be a project for a thousand archeologists for a hundred years to examine and analyze such ruins as those down there, yet a hundred of us propose to do it in weeks--hiding from a deadly enemy at the same time! It's utterly impossible."

"I don't think so," said Underwood. "We are searching only for one thing. We know it is a weapon. It is not unreasonable to believe there might be wide reference to it in the writings and history of the Dragbora, since it was the means of destroying their rival empire. The only real difficulty is with the fleet, but I think we can work under their noses for a long enough time."

"You're an incurable optimist," said Terry.

"So are the rest of you, or you'd never have come on this trip."

"I'm agreeable," said Illia. "There's only one thing I'd like to suggest. If this moon is at all habitable, I think we should take a day or two off and stretch our legs outside in some sunshine."

There was no objection to that.

* * * * *

Dawn on the moon of the Dragboran world almost corresponded with the end of their sleeping period. Analysis was made of conditions outside. The atmosphere proved suitable, though thin. The outside temperature appeared high, as was expected from their proximity to the sun.

Then, as Underwood ordered the force shell lifted and opened the port, he received a shock of surprise that made him exclaim aloud. Illia, not far behind, came running.

"What is it, Del?"

His finger was pointing down toward a group of figures at the base of the ship. They were quite human in appearance--in the same way that Demarzule had been. Taller than the Earthmen, and copper-skinned, they watched the opening of the port and bowed low before Underwood and Illia.

There were four of them standing, and they were grouped about a fifth figure lying on a litter.

"Maybe we ought to forget about leaving the ship," said Underwood doubtfully. "There's no use getting tangled up with superstitious natives. We haven't time for that."

"No, wait, Del. That one on the litter is hurt," said Illia. "I believe they've brought him here to see us. Maybe we can do something for him."

Underwood knew it was no use trying to oppose her desire to help. He said, "Let's get Dreyer. He may be able to talk with them."

Dreyer and Phyfe and Nichols were already coming toward the port together. They were excited by Underwood's report.

"This may be an offshoot of either the Dragboran or Sirenian civilization," said Phyfe. "In either case we may find something useful to us."

"They think we're gods. They want us to cure one of their injured," said Underwood. "We can't hope for anything useful in a society as primitive as that."

The semanticists looked out at the small group. Suddenly, Dreyer uttered sounds that resembled a series of grunts with changing inflections. One of the natives, a woman, rose and presented a long speech wholly meaningless to Underwood. But Dreyer stood with strained attention, as if comprehending with difficulty every meaning in that alien tongue.

* * * * *

Then Underwood recalled hearing of Dreyer's statement that a true semanticist should be able to understand and converse in any alien language the first time he heard it. In all languages there are sounds and intonations that have fundamental and identical semantic content. These, Dreyer asserted, could be identified and used in reconstructing the language in a ready flow of conversation if one were skillful enough. Underwood had always believed it was nothing but a boast, but now he was seeing it in action.

The two women of the group and one of the men seemed utterly lost in their attitude of worship, but the other figure, standing a little apart, seemed almost rebellious in appearance. He spoke abruptly and at little length.

"That fellow is a healthy skeptic," said Dreyer. "He's willing to accept us as gods, but he wants proof that we are. He's liable to play tricks to find out."

"We can't bother with them," said Underwood. "There's nothing here for us."

"There may be," said Dreyer. "We should let Illia see what she can do."

Underwood did not press his protests. He allowed Dreyer to direct the natives to bring their companion into the ship. There, in the surgery, Illia examined the injuries. The injured one appeared aged, but there was a quality of joyousness and exuberance in his countenance that Underwood found himself almost envying.

But Illia was shaking her head. "It's hopeless," she said. "There's nothing we can do for him."

She turned on the fluoroscope for Underwood to see. He moved it about, then exclaimed, "Illia! Those strange organs below the diaphragm--"

She caught her breath sharply. "The same as in Demarzule. These must be of the same race!"

Dreyer was speaking to the companions of the injured one, explaining that it was impossible to save the life of the aged man.

The response of the rebellious one was an almost savage growl in his throat. He spoke then more softly to the injured one, as if explaining. The serene countenance did not change, but the eyes closed quietly, and the Earthmen knew that he was dead.

Swiftly, the rebellious one drew a knife of glass from a sheath and slashed with careless skill at the corpse. He extracted one of the alien organs and placed it in a container which he carried. With no other word, he left, and the two women followed sorrowfully and more slowly. They refused to speak further.

Underwood watched them go. "We seem to have gained a corpse," he said. "Get a couple of the men to take it out and bury it, will you, Terry? I wonder what the whole thing means, anyway. Are these remnants of Sirenian culture?"

His speculations were suddenly interrupted by the blaring of the interphone. "Doctor Underwood, lookout reports entire Terrestrian fleet departing from the Dragboran planet!"

The group in surgery looked at each other in sudden silence.

* * * * *

"It doesn't make sense," Terry said finally.

"It does," said Underwood slowly. "If they have found and destroyed what we hoped to find."

"Also if they wanted to draw us out of hiding," added Dreyer.

"We'd better wait a couple of days and see what they do. If they seem to be intent on continuing their flight, we can move to the planet with the sun behind us and they won't detect it. But I think that we should wait the two days at least, so if one wants to do any looking around on this moon, there's his chance."

Terry was enthusiastic about exploring the moon. It seemed that here might be a living fragment of a civilization thousands of years old, which should have been long dead in the normal course of events, but which had somehow survived the catastrophes that wiped out the parent civilizations.

Illia too, was anxious to get away from the ship. Together, they persuaded Underwood to join them in a scooter exploration of the surrounding territory. Phyfe and Dreyer were going, but it was necessary for Mason to remain in technical command at the ship.

Beyond the grassy plain lay a thickly forested section. The scooter party rose high into the air to clear the wooded area and were lost to the view of those aboard the _Lavoisier_.

For a long time they rode at treetop level, looking beyond toward the barren sand wastes that touched the far horizon.

Suddenly Terry pointed downward. "A road!"

A shimmering belt ran through the forest almost at right angles to their line of flight. They dropped into the sylvan canyon to examine it. Underwood halted just above the surface. Then he leaned over and touched it.

* * * * *

Dreyer looked at his puzzled face without halting the column of cigar smoke. "Glass, eh?"

"Looks and feels like it, but a glass highway--!"

"Limitation of materials," said Dreyer. "The moon obviously is lacking in mineral resources, being composed chiefly of nonmetallic silicates. The glass knife our friend used on the corpse indicates metal starvation; this highway clinches it because it shows they have a highly developed technology of glass-working. Therefore, we are very definitely not in the presence of a primitive civilization as we supposed. We'd better watch our step because our friend seemed disillusioned about our failure to save his injured companion."

They chose a direction along the highway and pursued it a few feet above the surface. They traveled for twenty minutes or so with no break in the forest about them or the shining highway below.

Then abruptly a figure came into view in the distance. It was moving rapidly. Terry squinted and suddenly exclaimed, "We come how many light years to find a super-civilization, and we find bike riders!"

Phyfe said, "I don't see anything strange in it. Certainly the bicycle is an obvious mode of locomotion in a moderately mechanical culture. It may or may not imply a lack of self-propelled mechanisms."

"Recognize that fellow?" asked Underwood.

They drifted forward as the rider approached rapidly. Finally they could see his features plainly and recognized him as the rebellious one of their morning encounter.

"I wonder if he is on his way back to see us again," said Terry.

"Our meeting is fortunate," said Dreyer. "I want to know what he did with that organ he removed from the corpse. I've never come across anything quite like that in all my ethnological studies. I suspect it may be some rite associated with the belief in that organ as the seat of life, just as the heart was once regarded among us."

They slowed as they came to the man--for so they had come to think of him in their own minds. He halted also and regarded them balefully. Then furious speech came to his lips. "_Shazer na jourli!_"

Dreyer frowned and muttered a few syllables slowly. The stranger repeated the furious assertion.

* * * * *

"He says that we are not gods," said Dreyer.

"We could have told him that much," said Underwood drily.

The conversation in the unknown tongue continued until Dreyer turned again to his companions. "The fellow calls himself Jandro, and the fact that we have metals still doesn't convince him that we are gods, an opinion which contradicts those of his fellows. Does that make sense to you?"

Phyfe exclaimed, "It makes wonderful sense! A planet devoid of metals, yet inhabited by a highly intelligent race. They make the best possible technological use of materials at their command, but they know somehow of the existence and properties of metals. What is more natural than for them to build a religion about the more fortunate metal-using gods?"

Dreyer said to Jandro, "We are not gods. We did not come to you as gods, but as visitors. We are from a place called Earth."

The admission seemed a great shock to Jandro, for his expression changed markedly. "I am sorry," he said, "if I have accused you of a claim you have not made. But I do not understand what you say. If you come from the Heaven World, take me there and help me return with the secrets to lift my people."

"Heaven World?" Dreyer frowned.

Jandro pointed toward the horizon where the planet of the Dragbora hung like a silver disk.

"Why do you call it Heaven World?"

Jandro looked up with both longing and bitterness before he spoke. "You did not come from there?"

"No."

"But you can go there in your metal?"

"Yes."

"Will you take me?"

"That is not for me to say, but perhaps I can influence the others. Tell me why you want to go and why you call it Heaven World."

"Long ago," said Jandro, "before men lived on Trear, they lived with the gods on Heaven World, but for rebellion and disobedience they were thrown down and exiled. Trear was a barren moon without life or materials. After many _dekara_ man succeeded in expanding the tiny seeds of life he had brought and grew the great forests. That gave us wood, and the deserts gave us glass. So we have built a world on the barren Trear, and have looked to the time when the gods shall lift us again to Heaven World.

"That is the story the fathers have told, but I do not believe it," Jandro finished. "I do not know what to believe, except that I want the heritage of our home world to be restored to us."

Dreyer related the story to his companions. "It sounds very much as if Jandro's ancestors were some refugee group that fled the planet before the destruction that consumed the atmosphere."

"So he wants to go with us," Underwood said. "I wonder if he could be of any use to us in unraveling the secrets of the planet."

"I'd like to use the request to bargain with him," said Dreyer. "I very much want to know why he cut out that organ and what he did with it. That surgical skill he exhibited didn't come instinctively."

"It's all right with me," assented Underwood.

* * * * *

Dreyer addressed Jandro again. "It is that you may go to the planet with us. There's only one thing we'd like in return--information as to why you opened the corpse and removed the organ."

"For the _discara_, of course. Oh! You mean you wish to present the apologetics?" Sudden expressions of understanding and of extreme puzzlement conflicted on his face.

Dreyer fumbled an instant. "The apologetics? Yes, of course! We wish to present the apologetics."

"Very well. You are guests of my house. My father will be pleased."

Jandro wheeled his bicycle about and sped down the road. Dreyer told the others what had happened and set his scooter in motion in the direction taken by the stranger.

Terry was explosive in comment. "What the devil are the apologetics?" he demanded. "We don't know how to offer them or who to offer them to. You're going to get us in a jam if we poke into the religious rites of these amateur surgeons!"

_CHAPTER TWELVE_

Underwood speculated about Dreyer. Behind the passive exterior of the man was a brain whose incessant activity often flowed in the most devious channels. What motivated this interest in the peculiarities of the alien culture? Underwood was sure there was more than appeared on the surface.

There was the fact that every organ presents a vulnerable point to the proper weapon. Was it Dreyer's idea to determine the properties of the unknown organs in the hope of finding weapons to which they would be vulnerable?

The forest gave way to green and they were in a clearing that shone in the sunlight like a pool of soap bubbles.

The houses, like the streets, were of multicolored glass that sparkled as if with light of their own. The Earthmen knew then for certain that they were not in the presence of any primitive people, for the city was arranged with the artistry of a giant crown of jewels.

There were many of the tall, copper people in the streets and in the parkways. Seeing them together in their own setting, Underwood was impressed with their grace and simple beauty. Serenity and contentment were in their features and in the grace of their carriage.

* * * * *

The Earthmen, astride the scooters, riding mysteriously above the surface of the road, soon attracted attention. Cries rose into the air, and scores of the people prostrated themselves in the road.

Jandro stopped and motioned the men to halt. Then he addressed his people in speech that was too rapid even for Dreyer's understanding. Dreyer managed to glean only that Jandro was saying the men had come to offer the apologetics to his father and that Jandro had been chosen to go to Heaven World for his people.

There were some who seemed to regard Jandro with astonished disbelief, and others who bowed before him as before the Earthmen. But when the group began moving forward again, the people rose and stood in silence and awe.

They stopped before a large, one-story cube of orange hue. Jandro dismounted and stood aside for them to enter.

"You do my house honor," he said.

Underwood strained to pick up some of the language, but he could only guess at it. Phyfe and Terry Bernard were getting much of it, but not with Dreyer's facility. The semanticist walked toward the building confidently, then stopped at the entrance and regarded his cigar doubtfully. It was impossible to toss it aside upon the immaculate gardens or walkways. He finally put it out against his shoe and stuffed the shredded remains in his pocket.

The interior of the house was fitted with simple luxury. Abundant light streamed from colored prisms which brought in flooding beams of natural light from outside the decoratively translucent panels that formed the walls.

Almost at once, two others, women, entered from the opposite doorway into the room. One was elderly, but the other was younger than Jandro in appearance.

Then the Earthmen recognized them--the same who had been at the ship with Jandro that morning.

They gave involuntary cries at the sight of the Earthmen. Quickly, Jandro explained their presence and their denial of being gods. Gradually, the excitement of the two women abated and Jandro introduced them to Dreyer, who relayed the introductions.

"They will prepare our meal before we go," said Jandro, "but now you wish you view my father's _discara_ and offer the apologetics. Come this way."

He led the way through the house to another room with a closed door. Even Dreyer's calm was deserting him as he wondered what would happen if he could not grasp instantly what was expected of him.

Jandro suddenly flung the door wide and ushered them in. "You will wish to be alone," he said. "I will await you."

He closed the door.

* * * * *

None of them had any preconceived idea of what they might see, nor could they have imagined the sight that met their eyes. The room was large and the walls were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, like a fantastic library.

It was the objects on those shelves that held their attention. Square glass jars, completely identical, filled the spaces, and in each jar was a reddish-brown organ exactly like that taken from the corpse aboard their ship by Jandro. A clear, transparent preservative liquid surrounded the specimens, and the containers were sealed.

But in a small space before them a table stood, and on it rested a single jar with a fresh-looking specimen. Instinctively, they knew it was the one they had seen excised that morning.

Terry expelled a lungful of air. "Well, this _is_ something. A morgue for extinct livers, kept by an amateur surgeon who rides a bike to work. What the devil do you make of it?"

Illia was examining the specimens closely. "All of them weren't as good surgeons as Jandro. Most of these look as if they'd been out with a meat axe. Some of them look as if they've been here since the beginning of time."

"Some sort of ancestor worship," said Underwood. "The apologetics must be some form of social rite offered to the ancestors of a friend, all of it interesting but quite useless for our purposes at the moment."

"It's not that simple," said the semanticist. "Consider the fact that even though Jandro understands we are from another world, he believes us familiar with all of this. He therefore believes these things familiar to all humanoid beings. There could be a scientifically valid reason behind it."

"What?" said Underwood.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

Jandro was waiting for them when they emerged. He showed them to the table where a meal was prepared and waiting.

For Underwood and Illia it was a strange meal, for they could not communicate with their hosts in the slightest degree. Phyfe and Terry were entering gradually into the interchange.