Highway of Eternity (29 page)

He took a careful, tentative step toward the flier and its monstrosity of a pilot. Curiosity consumed him. Here was intelligence again, but of a higher order, more than likely, than that represented by the ruined town. Spike moved around him to one side, then quickly reversed his course and spun to the other side.

“You can quit driving me,” said Timothy. Spike did not quit; he kept up his double spinning. Timothy took another forward step and yet another. He was not being driven, he told himself; he was moving on his own. He wanted a close look at the alien craft. Spike kept pressing him forward.

“Oh, all right,” said Timothy. He walked up to the rear part of the flier and laid his hands upon it. The metal was warm and smooth. He rubbed his hands along it. Inside was what appeared to be a passenger compartment. There were no seats, but the floor and sides were padded, and along the inside of the compartment ran a set of rails that might be hand holds for passengers.

But this was far enough; he was not about to get into this contraption. He turned about to face the spinning Spike and as he did, Spike rushed swiftly at him. The backs of his knees struck the edge of the flier and he went over backward, tumbling into the passenger compartment. Like a flash, Spike leaped in, the compartment cover came down with a bang, and the flier was taking off.

Suckered, Timothy told himself. Abducted by Spike and the hideous pilot and headed for a place not of his own choosing. He felt a little fear, but not much. What he felt was outrage.

He scrambled to his knees and, holding the rail, looked out through the canopy. Below him was the receding eastern rim of the canyon wall, the rose-red rock shining in the sun.

The family had been scattered and now it was further scattered. He wondered vaguely whether it would ever come back together. The chances were, he told himself, that it would not. They were being moved about like pieces on a game board. Someone or something was using them as pawns.

He recalled Hopkins Acre and how he had loved the place—the ancient baronial home, his study with the walls of books and the desk overflowing with his work, the broad sweeping lawn, the groves of trees, and the brook. It had been a good life, and there he had done his work; but thinking back on it, he wondered what his work had amounted to. At the time it had seemed important, but had it really been? Added all together, what had it amounted to?

The canyon had disappeared well beyond the eastern horizon and now they were flying at a low altitude over the endless desert of the high plateau. As Timothy watched, however, some of the dry brownness went away, and again he saw the billowing yellow of the prairie grass, interspersed at intervals by streams and groves of trees. The aridity of the desert land was being left behind.

Ahead the mountains loomed, much higher than they had seemed before, peaks stabbing at the sky, bare rock faces staring out across the land. For a moment it appeared the flier would crash straight into the mountain wall, then there was space ahead, with looming walls of rock to either side hemming them in. For breathless moments the flier hung between the walls of rock; suddenly there was openness ahead and the machine nosed down over a wide green valley that lay in the bosom of the mountains. For a short distance, a high ridge ran along the valley floor, and halfway up its slope was a wall of soft and pearly white that humped continuously along the ridge. On top of the ridge was a cluster of white buildings rising many storeys high, and among the trees all around the clumped skyline were what he took to be residences. Some of them seemed to be low-slung barracks, others were compounds enclosing huts, still others looked no better than slums, and there were some that he could not figure out.

The flier skimmed along the ridge, following its slope until it reached the top. Then it began to drop toward a wide green lawn, at one side of which stood a house. It settled on the lawn and the canopy came up. The pilot chittered at them and Spike rolled out on the lawn. Somewhat confused, Timothy followed him and stood beside the flier. Looking up the slope of lawn, he stared at the house, drawing in his breath in astonishment. With a few differences, it was the house on Hopkins Acre.

A gangling creature that had a slender body, bowed legs, and dangling arms was coming down the slope toward them. It headed straight for Timothy and stopped in front of him. It said in English, “I am your interpreter and companion and, I trust, your friend. You may call me Hugo, which is not my name, of course, but I understand it is a name that comes easily to your tongue.”

Timothy gulped. When he could speak, he asked, “Can you tell me what is going on?”

“Everything,” said Hugo, “in its own good time. But first, accompany me to your domicile. There a meal awaits.”

He started up the lawn, with Timothy trailing after and Spike gamboling to one side of them. Behind them the flier was rising from the ground.

There were certain variations, but for all intents and purposes, the place appeared to be another Hopkins Acre. The lawn was well groomed, the trees well placed, the contour of the land very similar. There was one incongruity—everywhere one looked mountains rose against the skyline, while at Hopkins Acre the nearest mountain had been hundreds of miles away.

They reached the house and climbed the wide stone stairs to the massive door. Spike had deserted them and was skittering happily down the lawn.

Hugo pulled open one of the doors and they stepped in. Inside there might be differences, but it took some time to see them. Ahead of them lay the dark drawing room, with shadowy furniture crouched within, and beyond was the dining room with the table set and ready.

“There is a saddle of mutton,” Hugo said. “We understand it is a favorite dish of yours. A small one, but there are only the two of us to eat it.”

“But mutton—here!”

“When we do things here,” said Hugo, “we do them properly, or as closely as we can. We have immense respect for the varying cultures that reside within this community.”

Timothy stumbled across the drawing room to come to the dining room. The table was set for two and there was a clatter in the kitchen.

“Of course,” said Hugo, “you will not find the guns of Horace in the gun room, although there is a gun room. There is your study, also, but quite empty, I'm afraid. We could not duplicate your books and notes, for which we are regretful, but there are certain limitations that could not be surmounted. I am certain there is material we can furnish that will replace the books.”

“But wait a minute,” protested Timothy. “How did you know about Horace and his guns, about my study and my books, and about the mutton? How did you know all this?”

“Think a moment, if you will,” Hugo told him, “then make an educated guess.”

“Spike! We harbored, all these years, a viper in our midst?”

“Not a viper. A very diligent observer. If it had not been for him, you would not be here.”

“And the others? Horace and Emma? You pounced on me. How about the others? Can you go back and get them?”

“We could, I suppose. But we won't. You are the one we want.”

“Why me? Why should you want me?”

“You'll learn of that in time. I promise you it will be nothing bad.”

“The other two are human, too. If you want humans …”

“Not just humans. A certain kind of human. Think on it and tell me true. Do you like Horace? Do you admire the way he thinks?”

“Well, no. But Emma …”

“She'd be unhappy without Horace. She has grown to be very much like Horace.”

It was true, Timothy admitted to himself. Emma did love Horace, and had come to think as he did. Even so, it wasn't right that the two of them be left in that arid desert while, he supposed, he'd be living here.

“Please take your place at the table,” Hugo told him. “Your place is at the table's head, for you are the lord of the manor and so should conduct yourself. I shall sit at your right hand, for I am your right hand person. You have perceived, perhaps, that I am a humanoid. My bodily system works much the same as yours does and I ingest my food as you do, although I must admit that I had some trouble in adjusting my palate to the sort of food you eat. But now I have come to enjoy the greater part of your fare. Mutton is my favorite dish.”

Timothy said, stiffly, “We ate many other things.”

“Oh, I know very well you did. Spike, I must tell you, missed very few details. But now let us sit and I shall ring the kitchen that we are here and hungry.”

Timothy pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down in it. He noted that the tablecloth was clean and white as snow, the napkins correctly folded. Somehow that made him feel more comfortable. Hugo rang the kitchen bell and sat down at Timothy's right hand. “Here,” he said, reaching for a bottle, “we have an excellent port. Would you care for it?”

Timothy nodded. Three other humanoids, almost exact copies of Hugo, came out of the kitchen. One of them carried a platter bearing the mutton. He saw that some of the meat had been sliced and that was one thing, he thought with indelicate glee, that Spike had bollixed up. No one sliced a roast or a bird in the kitchen; the carving of good meat was reserved as an important table rite. Another brought in a tureen of soup and served it, ladling it into the soup bowls set at the two places. The third put down a large dish of vegetables beside the roast.

The soup was excellent, a rich broth with vegetables, strips of ham, and noodles. With the first spoonful of the soup, hunger came upon him and, forgetting good manners, he ladled it into his mouth with unseemly speed.

“Good, isn't it?” asked Hugo. “That Becky is turning into a cook of no mean skill, but it took a lot of training.”

He chattered on. “Your ménage does not have the command of the language that I have. They can understand the simpler words and can speak after a fashion, but are beyond any real conversation. It is a pity that you are not telepathic, but then I would not have the pleasure of being in your service.”

“Are most people in this community telepathic?” Timothy asked.

“No, but a good percentage of them are, and we have the Basic. But you don't know the Basic, and it would take some time to learn.”

“The Basic?”

“A common language. A contrived language combining easily spoken words from many languages. Lacking in grammar, of course, and not elegant, but one speaking Basic can be understood. There are many species here who do not communicate by sound, nor, in fact, by telepathy. However, ways have been worked out by which all can be understood.”

They finished their meal and pushed back from the table. “Now,” said Timothy, “would you mind telling me exactly where we are? What sort of place is this?”

“That might take some extensive explanation,” said Hugo. “For now, let me say that we are a galactic center composed of many cultures from widely scattered planets. We are thinkers and investigators. We try to make some sense of the universe. Here in this center, we meet and converse, in whatever way, as equals. We pool our thinking and our theories and discoveries. Questions are posed and defined, and ways are sought to answer.”

“Then you missed with me; you came up a blank. I'm no great thinker and I am slow. I chew on thoughts before I write them down or spit them out. Mathematics is a complete mystery to me and I know no science. What little I have figured out, I did on my own. I had no training. I hold no academic degrees. My fascination is with history and philosophy. I tried, during many years, to come to an understanding of how my race took the course it did, and I came up with very little. I can't imagine how Spike …”

“He saw more in you than you see in yourself.”

“I find that hard to believe. Spike always seemed a silly thing. He played silly games. He had one game where he jumped from square to square, except that there weren't any squares. They were imaginary.”

“Much of what we see in the universe,” said Hugo, “starts out as imaginary. Often you must imagine something before you can come to terms with it.”

“We are mumbling in circles,” said Timothy. “We are getting nowhere. I accept this place as what you say it is and I realize that I'm a misfit in it. So tell me why I'm here.”

“You are to provide us evidence.”

“What kind of evidence? What is expected of me?”

“I can tell no more,” said Hugo. “I have been instructed to tell you no more of it. Tomorrow I shall take you where you are supposed to go. But it grows late, and I believe we should retire.”

For hours Timothy lay in bed before he went to sleep, his thoughts spinning in his skull as he went over, time after time, what little he had been told by Hugo.

It was rational, of course, that there should be a galactic center where the intelligences of the galaxy could pool their knowledge and work together toward their mutual good. But what would the problems be, what the questions asked? Thinking on what they might be, he could marshal many in his mind, but on examination of them, some seemed lacking in necessary depth and others sounded plain ridiculous. His human view was too narrow; human culture had been shaped by tunnel vision. Although, he thought, that must necessarily have been true, originally, of all the cultures that were represented here.

Finally he went to sleep. Then someone was shaking him awake. “I am sorry, sir,” said Hugo, leaning over him. “You were so sound asleep it seemed a shame to wake you. Yet breakfast is ready and we must be on our way. I have a surface vehicle and it is a very pleasant drive.”

Grunting with displeasure, Timothy roused himself and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the clothes that he had hung on the chair.

“I'll be right down,” he said.

Breakfast was bacon and eggs, both done as he liked them. The coffee was acceptable.

“Do you grow coffee here?” he asked.

“No, we don't,” said Hugo. “We had to scurry around to find it on one of the planets colonized by your people millennia ago.”