Harl drew in his breath sharply.
“A year,” he explained, “is a measurement of time.”
“Time cannot be measured,” replied the old man dogmatically.
“Back in the twentieth century we measured it,” said Harl.
“Any man who thinks he can measure time is a fool,” the future-man was uncompromising.
Harl held out his hand, palm down, and pointed to his wrist watch.
“That measures time,” he asserted.
The old man scarcely glanced at it.
“That,” he said, “is a foolish mechanism and has nothing to do with time.”
Bill laid a warning hand on his friend’s arm.
“A year,” he explained slowly, “is our term for one revolution of the earth about the sun.”
“So that is what it means,” said the old man. “Why didn’t you say so at first? The movement of the earth, however, has no association with time. Time is purely relative.”
“We came from a time when the world was much different,” said Bill. “Can you give us any idea of the number of revolutions the earth has made since then?”
“How can I?” asked the old man, “when we speak in terms that neither understands? I can only tell you that since Golan-Kirt came out of the Cosmos the earth has circled the sun over five million times.”
Five million times! Five million years! Five million years since some event had happened, an event which may not have occurred for many other millions of years after the twentieth century. At least five million years in the future; there was no telling how much more!
Their instrument had been wrong. How wrong they could not remotely have guessed until this moment!
The twentieth century. It had a remote sound, an unreal significance. In this age, with the sun a brick red ball and the city of Denver a mass of ruins, the twentieth century was a forgotten second in the great march of time, it was as remote as the age when man emerged from the beast.
“Has the sun always been as it is?” asked Harl.
The old man shook his head.
“Our wise ones tell us that one time the sun was so hot it hurt one’s eyes. They also tell us it is cooling, that in the future it will give no light or heat at all.”
The oldster shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course, before that happens, all men will be dead.”
The old man pulled the little panel shut and locked it. He turned to go.
“Wait,” cried Harl.
The old one faced them.
“What do you want?” he asked, mumbling half-angrily in his beard.
“Sit down, friend,” said Harl. “We would like to talk further.”
The other hesitated, half wheeling to go, then turned back.
“We came from a time when the sun hurt one’s eyes. We have seen Denver as a great and proud city. We have seen this land when the grass grew upon it and rain fell and there were broad plains where the sea now lies,” said Harl.
The oldster sank to the sand in front of their cage. His eyes were lighted with a wild enthusiasm and his two skinny hands clutched the iron bars.
“You have looked upon the world when it was young,” he cried. “You have seen green grass and felt rain. It seldom rains here.”
“We have seen all you mention,” Harl assured him. “But we would ask why we have been treated as foes. We came as friends, hoping to meet friends, but ready for war.”
“Aye, ready for war,” said the old man in trembling tones, his eyes on the guns. “Those are noble weapons. They tell me you strewed the sands with the dead ere you were taken.”
“But why were we not treated as friends?” insisted Harl.
“There are no friends here,” cackled the old man. “Not since Golan-Kirt came. All are at one another’s throats.”
“Who is this Golan-Kirt?”
“Golan-Kirt came out of the Cosmos to rule over the world,” said the old man, as if intoning a chant. “He is neither Man nor Beast. There is no good in him. He hates and hates. He is pure Evil. For after all, there is no friendliness or goodness in the universe. We have no proof that the Cosmos is benevolent. Long ago our ancestors believed in love. This was a fallacy. Evil is greater than good.”
“Tell me,” asked Bill, moving closer to the bars, “have you ever seen Golan-Kirt?”
“Aye, I have.”
“Tell us of him,” urged Bill.
“I cannot,” there was stark terror in the old man’s eyes. “I cannot!”
He huddled closer to the cage and his voice dropped to an uncanny whisper.
“Men out of time, I will tell you something. He is hated, because he teaches hate. We obey him because we must. He holds our minds in the hollow of his hand. He rules by suggestion only. He is not immortal. He fears death—he is afraid—there is a way, if only one with the courage might be found—”
The old man’s face blanched and a look of horror crept into his eyes. His muscles tensed and his clawlike hands clutched madly at the bars. He slumped against the gate and gasped for breath.
Faintly his whisper came, low and halting.
“Golan-Kirt—your weapons—believe nothing—close your mind to all suggestion—”
He stopped, gasping for breath.
“I have fought—” he continued, haltingly, with an effort. “I have won—. I have told you—. He has—killed me—he will not kill you—now that you—know—.”
The old man was on the verge of death. Wide-eyed, the two saw him ward it off, gain a precious second.
“Your weapons—will kill him—he’s easy to kill—by one who does not—believe in him—he is a—.”
The whisper pinched out and the old man slid slowly to the sands in front of the cage.
The two stared at the crumpled form of humanity.
“Killed by suggestion,” gasped Harl.
Bill nodded.
“He was a brave man,” he said.
Harl regarded the corpse intently. His eyes lighted on the key ring and kneeling, he reached out and drew the body of the future-man close. His fingers closed on the ring and ripped it from the loin cloth.
“We’re going home,” he said.
“And on the way out we’ll bump off the big shot,” added Bill.
He lifted the guns from the floor and clicked fresh cartridges into the chambers. Harl rattled the keys. He tried several before he found the correct one. The lock screeched and the gate swung open protestingly.
With quick steps they passed out of the cell. For a moment they halted in silent tribute before the body of the old man. With helmets doffed the twentieth century men stood beside the shriveled form of a man who was a hero, a man who had flung his hatred in the face of some terrible entity that taught hate to the people of the world. Scanty as was the information which he had given, it set the two on their guard, gave them an inkling of what to expect.
As they turned about they involuntarily started. Filing into the amphitheater, rapidly filling the seats, were crowds of future-men. A subdued roar, the voice of the assembling people, came to their ears.
The populace was assembling for the games.
“This may complicate matters,” said Bill.
“I don’t think so,” replied Harl. “It’s Golan-Kirt we must deal with. We would have had to in any case. These men do not count. As I understand it he exercises an absolute control over them. The removal of that control may change the habits and psychology of the future-men.”
“The only thing we can do is fight Golan-Kirt and then act accordingly,” said Bill.
“The man who captured us spoke of his minions,” Harl said thoughtfully.