The rangers spent the day overhauling their equipment and making minor repairs. Clothing was a problem—unless they followed the example of the natives and took animal skins to cover them. Kartr speculated about the coming cold season. Should they tramp south to escape its rigor? For the sake of the Zacathans perhaps they should. He knew that exposure to extremes of cold rendered the reptile people torpid until they lapsed into complete hibernation.
They spied upon the natives, going out in pairs to do so, turning in all information to Zicti who compiled it as if he fully intended to give a documented lecture on the subject.
“There are several different physical types among them,” he commented one evening when Fylh and Smitt, who had drawn that day’s watch, had given their report. “Your yellow-haired, white-skinned people, Kartr, are only one. Now Fylh has seen this clan of very dark-skinned, black-haired men—”
“By their light clothing and strange equipment they are from a warmer country,” added the Trystian.
“Odd. Such dissimilar races on the same world. But that is a humanoid characteristic, I believe,” continued the hist-techneer. “I should have had more grounding in humanoid physiology.”
“But they are all very primitive. That is what I can’t understand.” Smitt wore a puzzled frown as he spooned up the last of his stew. “That city was built—and left all ready to run again—by men who were at a high state of technological advancement. Yet all the natives we have discovered so far live in tents made of animal hide, wear skins on their backs, and are afraid of the city. And I’ll swear that that pottery I saw them trading today was made out of rough clay by hand!”
“We don’t understand that any better than you do, my boy,” answered Zicti. “We never shall unless we can penetrate the fog of their history. Some powerful memory—or threat—has kept them out of the city. If they ever possessed any technical skill they forgot it long ago—maybe by deliberately suppressing such knowledge because it was sacred to the ‘gods,’ perhaps because of a general drop in a certain type of intelligence—there could be many explanations.”
“Could they be the remains of a slave population, left behind when their masters emigrated?” ventured Rolth.
“That, too, would be an answer. But slavery does not usually accompany a highly mechanized civilization. The slaves would be machine tenders—and the city people had robots which would serve them better in that capacity.”
“It seems to me,” began Fylh, “that on this world there was once a decision to be made. And some men made it one way, and some another. Some went out”—his claws indicated the sky—“while others chose to remain—to live close to the earth and allow little to come between them and the wilds—”
Kartr straightened. That—that seemed right! Men choosing between the stars and the earth! Yes, it could have happened just like that. Maybe because he, himself, was a barbarian born on a frontier world where man had not long taken to space, he could see the truth in that. And perhaps because Fylh’s people had made just such a choice long ago and sometimes regretted it, the Trystian had been the first to sense the answer to the riddle here.
“Decadence—degeneracy—” broke in Smitt.
But Zacita shook her head. “If one lives by machines, by the quest for power, for movement, yes. But perhaps to these it was only a moving on to what they thought a better way of life.”
A moving on! Kartr’s mind fastened on that eagerly. Maybe the time had come for his own people to make a choice which would either guide them utterly away from old paths—or would set them falling back—
Time continued to drag for the watchers until the last of the natives departed. They even waited another five hours after the last small clan left, making sure that there would be no chance of being sighted by lingerers. And then, in the middle of an afternoon, they came down the slope at last, picking their way through the debris of the campsite and around still smoldering fires.
At the foot of the stairs which led to the portico of the building they left their packs and bundles. There were twelve broad steps, scored and pitted by winds of time, with the tracks of hide sandals outlined in dried mud where the natives had wandered in and out. Up these steps they climbed and passed through lines of towering pillars into the interior.
It would have been dark inside but the builders had roofed the center section with a transparent material so that they could almost believe they still stood in the open.
Slowly, still in a compact group, they came down an aisle into the very middle of the huge hall. Around them on three sides were sections of seats, divided by narrow aisles, each ending at the floor level in one massive chair on the back of which was carved, in such high relief that time had not worn it away, a symbol. On the fourth side of the chamber was a dais supporting three more of the high-backed chairs of state, the center one raised another step above the other two.
“Some type of legislative building, do you think?” asked Zicti. “The presiding officer would sit there.” He pointed to the dais.
But Kartr’s torch beam fastened on the sign carved on the nearest of the side chairs. As he read it he stood incredulous. Then he flashed the light to illuminate the marking on the next seat and the next. He began to run, reading the symbols he knew—knew so well!”
“Deneb, Sirius, Rigel, Capella, Procyon.” He did not realize it, but his voice was rising to a shout as if he were calling a roll—calling such a roll as had not sounded in that chamber for four thousand years or more. “Betelgeuse, Aldebaran, Pollux—”
“Regulus.” Smitt was answering him from the other side of the hall, the same wild excitement in his voice. “Spica, Vega, Arcturus, Altair, Antares—”
Now Rolth and Dalgre began to understand in turn.
“Fomalhaut, Alphard, Castor, Algol—”
They added star to star, system to system, in that roll call. In the end they met before the dais. And they fell silent while Kartr, with a reverence and awe he had never known before, raised his torch to give more light to the last of those symbols. That bright one which should gleam in this place was there!
“Terra of Sol.” He read it aloud and the three words seemed to echo more loudly down the hall than any of the shouted names of the kindred stars. “Terra of Sol—man’s beginning!”
16 — TERRA CALLING
“I don’t believe it.” Smitt’s voice sounded thin; his attention was fixed on that high seat and the incredible sign it bore. “This can’t be the Hall of Leave-Taking. That was just a legend—”
“Was it?” asked Kartr. “But legends are not always fables.”
“And out there”—Dalgre pointed toward the doorway without turning his head from the dais—“is the Field of Flight!”
“How long—?” Rolth’s question dwindled off into silence, but his words continued to echo down the hall.
Kartr wheeled to face those rows of chairs and the section of seats each one headed. There—why, right there had sat the commanders, and behind them crews and colonists! And so they must have gathered, shipful after shipful for years—maybe centuries. Gathered, spoke together for the last time, received their last orders and instructions—then went out to the field and the waiting ships and blasted off into the unknown—never to return. Some—a few—had won through to their goals. They, Smitt, Dalgre, Rolth and he, were living proof of that. Others—others had reached an end in the cold of outer space or on planets which could not support human life. How long had it gone on, that gathering, that leave-taking? With no return. Long enough to drain Terra’s veins of life—until only those were left who were temperamentally unfitted to try for the stars? Was that the answer to the riddle of this half-and-half world?
“No return—” Rolth had picked that out of his thoughts somehow. “No return. So the cities died and even the memory of why this exists is gone. Terra!”
“But we remember,” Kartr answered softly. “For we have made the full circle. The green—that is the green of Terra’s hills. It has been a legend, an ancient song, a dim folk memory, but it has always been ours, going with us from world to world across the galaxy. For we are the sons of Terra—inner system, outer system, barbarian and civilized—we are all the sons of Terra!”
“And now,” Smitt observed with wistful simplicity, “we have come home.”
It was a home which bore no resemblance to the dark mountains and chill valleys of Rolth’s half-frozen Falthar, to his own tall forests and stone cities now forever dust, to the highly civilized planets which had been the birthplaces of Smitt and Dalgre. It was a planet of wilderness and dead cities, of primitive natives and forgotten powers. But it was Terra and, as different as their races might be today, they were all originally of the stock which had walked this earth.