But Prxl survived. Tiny world no longer reflecting the sun’s rays, lost to the cosmic killers when its orbit was shifted.
Prxl. Still civilized, with a civilization millions of years old. Its coat of blackness preserved and renewed regularly, more through tradition than fear of enemies in these later degenerate days. Mighty but stagnant civilization, standing still on a world that whizzes like a bullet.
And Mitkey Mouse.
Klarloth, head scientist of a race of scientists, tapped his assistant Bemj on what would have been Bemj’s shoulder if he had had one. «Look,» he said, «what approaches Prxl. Obviously artificial propulsion.»
Bemj looked into the wall-plate and then directed a thought-wave at the mechanism that jumped the magnification a thousand-fold through an alteration of the electronic fields.
The image leaped, blurred, then steadied. «Fabricated,» said Bemj. «Extremely crude, I must say. Primitive explosive-powered rocket. Wait, I’ll check where it came from.»
He took the readings from the dials about the view-plate and hurled them as thoughts against the psychocoil of the computer, then waited while that most complicated of machines digested all the factors and prepared the answer. Then eagerly, he slid his mind into rapport with its projector. Klarloth likewise listened in to the silent broadcast.
Exact point on Earth and exact time of departure. Untranslatable expression of curve of trajectory, and point on that curve where deflected by gravitational pull of Prxl. The destination — or rather the original intended destination — of the rocket was obvious, Earth’s moon. Time and place of arrival on Prxl if present course of rocket was unchanged.
«Earth,» said Klarloth meditatively. «They were a long way from rocket travel the last time we checked them. Some sort of a crusade, or battle of beliefs, going on, wasn’t there?»
Bemj nodded. «Catapults. Bows and arrows. They’ve taken a long stride since, even if this is only an early experimental thing of a rocket. Shall we destroy it before it gets here?»
Klarloth shook his head thoughtfully. «Let’s look it over. May save us a trip to Earth: we can judge their present state of development pretty well from the rocket itself.»
«But then we’ll have to —»
«Of course. Call the Station. Tell them to train their attracto-repulsors on it and to swing it into a temporary orbit until they prepare a landing-cradle. And not to forget to damp out the explosive before they bring it down.»
«Temporary force-field around point of landing — in case?»
«Naturally.»
So despite the almost complete absence of atmosphere in which the vanes could have functioned, the rocket came down safely and so softly that Mitkey, in the dark compartment, knew only that the awful noise had stopped.
Mitkey felt better. He ate some more of the cheese with which the compartment was liberally provided. Then he resumed trying to gnaw a hole in the inch-thick wood with which the compartment was lined. That wooden lining was a kind thought of the Herr Professor for Mitkey’s mental well-being. He knew that trying to gnaw his way out would give Mitkey something to do en route which would keep him from getting the screaming meamies. The idea had worked; being busy, Mitkey hadn’t suffered mentally from his dark confinement. And now that things were quiet, he chewed away more industriously and more happily than ever, sublimely unaware that when he got through the wood, he’d find only metal which he couldn’t chew. But better people than Mitkey have found things they couldn’t chew.
Meanwhile, Klarloth and Bemj and several thousand other Prxlians stood gazing up at the huge rocket which, even lying on its side, towered high over their heads. Some of the younger ones, forgetting the invisible field of force, walked too close and came back, ruefully rubbing bumped heads.
Klarloth himself was at the psychograph.
«There is life inside the rocket,» he told Bemj. «But the impressions are confused. One creature, but I cannot follow its thought processes. At the moment it seems to be doing something with its teeth.»
«It could not be an Earthling, one of the dominant race. One of them is much larger than this huge rocket. Gigantic creatures. Perhaps, unable to construct a rocket large enough to hold one of themselves, they sent an experimental creature, such as our wooraths.»
«I believe you’ve guessed right, Bemj. Well, when we have explored its mind thoroughly, we may still learn enough to save us a check-up trip to Earth. I am going to open the door.»
«But air — creatures of Earth would need a heavy, almost a dense atmosphere. It could not live.»
«We retain the force-field, of course. It will keep the air in. Obviously there is a source of supply of air within the rocket or the creature would not have survived the trip.»
Klarloth operated controls, and the force-field itself put forth invisible pseudopods, and turned the outer screw-door, then reached within and unlatched the inner door to the compartment itself.
All Prxl watched breathlessly as a monstrous gray head pushed out of the huge aperture yawning overhead. Thick whiskers, each as long as the body of a Prxlian —
Mitkey jumped down, and took a forward step that bumped his black nose hard — into something that wasn’t there. He squeaked, and jumped backwards against the rocket.
There was disgust in Bemj’s face as he looked up at the monster. «Obviously much less intelligent than a woorath. Might just as well turn on the ray.»
«Not at all,» interrupted Klarloth. «You forget certain very obvious facts. The creature is unintelligent, of course, but the subconscious of every animal holds in itself every memory, every impression, every sense-image, to which it has ever been subjected. If this creature has ever heard the speech of the Earthings, or seen any of their works — besides this rocket — every word and every picture is indelibly graven. You see now what I mean?»
«Naturally. How stupid of me, Klarloth. Well, one thing is obvious from the rocket itself: we have nothing to fear from the science of Earth for at least a few millennia. So there is no hurry, which is fortunate. For to send back the creature’s memory to the time of its birth, and to follow each sensory impression in the psychograph will require — well, a time at least equivalent to the age of the creature, whatever that is, plus the time necessary for us to interpret and assimilate each.»
«But that will not be necessary, Bemj.»
«No? Oh, you mean the X-19 waves?»
«Exactly. Focused upon this creature’s brain-center, they can, without disturbing his memories, be so delicately adjusted as to increase his intelligence — now probably about .0001 in the scale — to the point where he is a reasoning creature. Almost automatically, during the process, he will assimilate his own memories, and understand them just as he would if he had been intelligent at the time he received those impressions.
«See, Bemj? He will automatically sort out irrelevant data and will be able to answer our questions.»
«But would you make him as intelligent as — ?»
«As we? No, the X-19 waves would not work so far. I would say to about .2 on the scale. That, judging from the rocket coupled with what we remember of Earthlings from our last trip there, is about their present place on the intelligence scale.»