The jolt of a rough landing finally roused me from my sleep or coma. With an excruciating effort, I raised my still body to look through the small port-hole. Outside was a stretch of white sand and beyond it a line of frothing breakers, glistening in the sunlight. Somehow, the Moon-men had brought the Scintilla back to Earth.
I was a sick man, and it took me a long time to move. When at length I managed to stagger down the passage, it was to find the entrance wide open and the ship deserted. Somewhere in the green forest which fringed the beach, the Moon-folk were prowling and hunting.
I made my difficult way to the fuel-store, and close to the tanks I lit a slow fuse; at least there would be no Scintilla as a safe base for the Moon-devils' operations. Then, as fast as I could, I made my way along the shore.
A few days later, I found a long-neglected canoe. I repaired it the best I could and paddled it out to sea.
The President of the Lunar Archaeological Society frowned. He pulled his ear reflectively, and shook his head slowly. He turned the bunch of papers over and, still frowning, began to read them again.
Preposterous, of course, but—well, there had been a Stephen Dawcott, and he had sailed on the Scintilla....
THE PUFF-BALL MENACE
The Prince Khordah of Ghangistan was in a bitter mood. His council, seated cross-legged upon a semi-circle of cushions before him, had come to know too well that look of dissatisfaction. Of late it had seemed to dwell perpetually upon his dark features. The members of the council were aware of his words before he spoke, so often had they heard them.
'To all great nations,' he observed, 'might is right. Today we hear much talk of the rights of small nations—and to what does it amount? Nothing but so much dust in the wind to fill the eyes of those who would see.'
He glowered upon his councillors. Each appeared occupied in an interested study of the mosaic floor; the beauty of its patterns was more soothing than the expression on the Prince's face. More than one grimy forefinger scratched in its owner's beard in order to give a misleading suggestion of thought.
The council was formed entirely of old men. Not that old men are always wise, but they do have the advantage of less fiery ambition, and, whether one is a Prince in Ghangistan, or a Big Shot in Chicago, too much ambition at court will prove embarrassing. The ambitions of most of the council rose little higher than a bountiful supply of food and drink and an occasional change of wives. The Prince continued to address unresponsive figures:
'What can we do? These English, and other foreigners, trifle with us. They do not so much as stir to consider our demands. We are treated like children—we, of Ghangistan, whose temples and palaces were weathered when these English hid in caves, whose ancestors reach back unbroken to the creation. We offer them war, and they laugh as one laughs at the ferocity of a cornered mouse. Here we must sit, impotent, while they pour over our country the froth and ferment of their way of life, in mockery of the wisdom of our sacred ancestors.'
Again the Prince paused and looked questioningly about him. At the lack of response he shrugged his shoulders; some of the spirit seemed to go out of him, and he threw out his hands in token of helplessness.
'And we can do nothing. We have no big guns, no aeroplanes. We must sit by and watch our ancient race seduced from its gods, and hear the voice of wisdom drowned by the sounding emptiness of materialism.'
He finished dejectedly. His anger had subsided beneath fatalism, and he brooded amid the respectful, if slightly bored silence of the council. One ancient looked up and studied the Prince. He allowed a decent interval to elapse before he inquired :
'Is it permitted to speak?'
The Prince regarded him with but little lifting of his despondency. 'It is permitted to you, Haramin,' he agreed.
The old man stroked his beard for some moments in placid reflection.
'It has seemed to me,' he began with slow deliberateness, 'that already we are more affected by the Westerners than we acknowledge. Even our methods of thought have become curiously coloured by their mental processes. We begin now to distort our pure wisdom to fit their strange conventions.'
A murmur of protest ran round the council, but none dare give full voice to his indignation, for the old man was privileged.
'Explain the full meaning,' commanded the Prince.
'It is well shown by an example, My Prince. See how these Westerners wage war. First they send a declaration to warn their enemies—is this not absurd? Then they use against that enemy a series of weapons similar to his own—which is plainly ridiculous. They have, in fact, rules for war—a conceit worthy only of children or imbeciles.
'We, in our wisdom, know better. We know that wars should be won or lost; not childishly prolonged until both sides give up for very weakness and weariness. And yet'—he paused and looked around him—'and yet we sit here lamenting our lack of weapons, lamenting that we cannot meet our oppressors on their own ground. It is a foolishness to consider the standards of the West in war.'
The Prince Khordah frowned. The tone of the other's speech displeased him, but he was aware that some deeper thought had prompted it. He asked coldly:
'Is it necessary here, Haramin, to lurk like an old fox in a thicket of words?'
'I have a nephew, Prince, a man of great learning in the ways of the West, yet retaining the wisdom of his ancestors. He has a plan which should interest Your Highness.'
The Prince leaned forward. At last they seemed to be getting somewhere.
'Where is this nephew, Haramin?'
'I have brought him to await Your Highness' summons.'
The Prince struck a silver gong beside him. To the entering servant he said:
'The nephew of Haramin waits. Let him be brought before us.'
Chapter One
THE MYSTERIOUS GROWTHS
Ralph Waite's father beamed genially across the dinner-table.
'It's good to have you home again, my boy,' he said. 'How long do you think you can manage?'
Ralph, a lusty, fair-haired young man, turned towards him. 'Only the week-end, I'm afraid, Dad.'
Mrs. Waite looked up with a little wrinkle of concern and disappointment.
'Is that all, dear? Don't you think if you wrote nicely to them they might let you stay a little longer?'
Ralph checked a rising smile. 'I don't think it would be much good writing nicely to Amalgamated Chemicals, Mother,' he said gravely.
'I suppose you know best, dear, but―'
Mr. Waite broke in with some little excitement:
'I've got something to show you after dinner, Ralph. Quite the most remarkable thing in all my gardening experience.'
His eyes were on his plate, so that he missed the look with which his wife favoured him.
'But, dear,' she began, 'Ralph will want to―'
Ralph checked her with a glance. Of course he wanted to go and see Dorothy. His real desire was to rush off at this very moment, but he knew his father's enthusiasm for his hobby. The old man would be sadly disappointed if he could not impress his son with his latest horticultural triumph. After all, Ralph reflected, the old boy got little enough pleasure, pushed away in this little Cornish town for the rest of his life.
'What is it?' he asked.