The Man From Beyond

ONE of the greatest sights in Takon^* these days was the exhi­bition of disco­veries made in the Valley of Dur. In the building erected especially to house them Takonians and visitors from other cities crowded through the corri­dors, peering into the barred or glass-fronted cages, observing the contents with awe, interest or amuse­ment according to their natures.

^{[* All Venusian terms are rendered in their closest English equivalents.]}

The crowd was formed for the most part of those persons who flock to any unusual sight, provid­ing it is free or cheap. Their eyes dwelt upon the exhi­bits. Their minds were ready to marvel and be super­fi­cially impressed. But they had come to be amused and they faintly resented the efforts of the guides to stir their intelli­gent interest. One or two, perhaps, studied the cases with real appre­ciation.

But if the adults were super­ficial the same could not be said of the children. Every day saw teachers bringing their classes for a prac­tical demon­stration of the planet's pre­historic condi­tion. Even now Magon, a biology teacher in one of Takon's leading schools, was having difficulty restrain­ing his twenty pupils for the arrival of a guide. He had marshalled them beside the entrance and, to keep them from straying, was talking of the Valley of Dur.

“The condition of the Valley was purely fortuitous and it is unique here upon Venus,” he said. “Nothing remotely resembling it has been found, and it is the opinion of the experts that nothing like it exists anywhere else. This exhibition you are going to see is neither a museum nor a zoo, yet it is both.”

His pupils only half attended. They were fidget­ing, casting expec­tant glances down the row of cage fronts, craning to see over one another's backs, the more exci­table among them occa­sion­ally rising on their hind legs for a better view. The passing Takonian citizens regarded their youth­ful enthu­siasm with a mild amuse­ment. Magon smoothed back the silver fur on his head with one hand and conti­nued to talk.

“The crea­tures you will see belong to all ages of our world. Some are so old that they roamed Venus long before our race appeared. Others are more recent, contem­poraries of those ances­tors of ours who, in a terri­ble world, were for ever scuttling to cover as fast as their six legs would carry them.”

“Six legs, sir?” asked a sur­prised voice.

Some of the youths in the group sniggered but Magon explained consi­derately.

“Yes, Sadul, six legs. Did you not know that our remote ancestors used all six of their limbs to get them along? It took them many thou­sands of years to turn them­selves into quadru­peds but until they did that no progress was possible. The fore­limbs could not develop such sensi­tive hands as ours until they were carried clear of the ground.”

“Our ancestors were animals, sir?”

“Well – er – some­thing very much like that.” Magon lowered his voice in order that the ears of passing citizens might not be offen­ded. “But once they got their fore­legs off the ground, released from the necessity of carry­ing their weight, the great change began. We were on the upward climb – and since then we've never stopped climbing.”

He looked around the circle of eager-eyed, silver-furred faces about him. His eyes dwelt a moment on the slender tentacles which had devel­oped from stubby toes on the fore­feet. There was some­thing magi­cal in evolution, some­thing glorious in the fact that he and his race were the crown of pro­gress.

It was a very wonder­ful thing to have done, to have changed from shaggy six-footed beasts to crea­tures who stood proudly upon four, the whole front part of the body raised to the perpen­di­cular to support heads which looked out proudly and unashamed at the world.

Admittedly several of his class appeared to have neglected their coats in a way which was scarcely a credit to the race – their silver fur was muddied and rumpled – but then boys will be boys. No doubt they would trim and brush better as they grew older.

“The Valley of Dur—” he began again but at that moment the guide arrived.

“The party from the school, sir?”

“Yes.”

“This way, please. Do they under­stand about the Valley, sir?” he added.

“Most of them,” Magon admitted. “But it might be as well—”

“Certainly.”

The guide broke into a high-speed reci­tation which he had evidently made many times before.

“The Valley of Dur may be called a unique pheno­menon. At some remote date in the planet's history certain internal gases combined in a way yet imper­fectly under­stood and issued forth through cracks in the crust at this place, and this place only.”

“The mixture had two properties. It not only anaes­the­tized but it also preserved indefi­nitely. The result, was to produce a form of sus­pended ani­ma­tion. Every­thing that was in the Valley of Dur has remained as it was when the gas first broke out. Every­thing which has entered the Valley since has remained there impe­rish­ably. There is no apparent limit to the length of time that this preser­vation may continue.”

“Among the ancients this place was regarded with super­stitious fear and though in more recent times many attempts have been made to explore it none were success­ful until a year ago when a mask which could with­stand the gas was at last devised.

“It was then discovered that the ani­mals and plants in the Valley were not petri­fied as had hitherto been believed but could, by means of certain treat­ment, be revived. Such are the speci­mens you are about to see – the flora and fauna of a million years ago – yet alive today.”

He paused opposite the first cage.

“Here we have a glimpse of the carboni­ferous era – the tree ferns and giant mosses thriving in a specially prepared atmo­sphere, conti­nuing the lives which were suspended when Venus was young. We hope to be able to grow more speci­mens from the spores of these. And here,” he passed to the next case, “we see the beginning of one of Nature's most grace­ful experi­ments – the earliest form of flower.”

His audience stared in dutiful atten­tion at the large white blossoms which con­fronted them. They were not very interes­ting. Fauna has a far greater appeal to the adoles­cent than flora. A mighty roar caused the build­ing to tremble. Eyes were switched from the magnolia-like blossoms to glance up the passage in antici­patory excite­ment.

Attention to the guide became even more perfunc­tory. Only Magon, to the exas­pera­tion of the pupils, thought it fit to ask a few ques­tions. At last, however, the preli­mi­nary bota­nical cases were left behind and they came to the first of the cages.

Behind the bars a repti­lian crea­ture, which might have been described as a biped, had its tail not played so great a part in support­ing it, was hurrying tire­lessly and with­out pur­pose to and fro, glaring at as much of the world as it could from intense small eyes. Every now and then it would throw back its head and utter a kind of strangled shriek.

It was an unattrac­tive creature covered with a grey-green hide, very smooth. Its contours were almost stream­lined but managed to appear clumsy. In it, as in so many of the earlier forms, one seemed to feel that Nature was getting her hand in for the real job.

She had already learned to model after a crude fashion when she made this running dino­saur but her sense of propor­tion was not good and she lacked the deft­ness neces­sary to produce the finer bits of model­ling which she later achieved. She could not, one felt, even had she wanted, have then produced fur or feathers to clothe the creature's naked­ness.

“This,” said the guide, waving a proprietary hand, “is what we call Struthiomimus, one of the running dino­saurs capable of travel­ling at high speed, which it does for purposes of defence, not attack, being a vege­tarian.”

There was a slight pause while his listeners sorted out the involved sentence. “You mean that it runs away?” asked a voice.

“Yes.”

They all looked a little disap­pointed, a trifle con­temp­tuous of the unfor­tunate Struthio­mimus. They wanted stronger meat. They longed to see – (behind bars) – those ancient monsters which had been lords of the world, whose rumbling bellows had sent Struthio­mimus and the rest scuttling for cover. The guide conti­nued in his own good time.

“The next is a fine specimen of Hesper­ornis, the toothed bird. This creature, filling a place between the Archeop­teryx and the modern bird, is parti­cularly interes­ting.”

But the class did not agree. As they filed slowly on past cage after cage it was notice­able that their own opi­nions and that of the guide seldom coin­cided. The more majestic and terri­fying reptiles he dis­missed with a curt, “These are of little inte­rest, being sterile branches of the main stem of evolution – Nature's failures.”

They came at length to a small cage, occupied by a solitary curious crea­ture which stood erect upon two legs though it appeared to be designed to use four.

“This,” said the guide, “is one of our most puzzling finds. We have not yet been able to classify it into any known cate­gory. There has been such a rush that the special­ists have not as yet had time to accord it the atten­tion it deserves. Obviously, it comes from an advanced date, for it bears some fur, though this is loca­lized in patches, notably on the head and face.”

“It is particularly adept upon two feet, which points to a long line of develop­ment. And yet, for all we know of it, the creature might have occurred fully devel­oped and without any evo­lu­tion – though of course you will realize that such a thing could not possibly happen.”

“Among the other odd facts which our pre­limi­nary obser­vation has revealed is that, although its teeth are indis­pu­tably those of a herbi­vore, it has carni­vo­rous tastes – alto­gether a most puzzling creature. We hope to find others before the exa­mina­tion of the Valley is ended.”

The creature raised its head and looked at them from sullen eyes. Its mouth opened but instead of the expected bellow there came from it a stream of clatter­ing gibberish which it accom­panied with curious motions of its fore-limbs.

The interest of some of the class was at last aroused. Here was a real mys­tery about which the experts could as yet claim to know little more than them­selves. The young Sadul, for in­stance, was far more intrigued by it than he had been by those monsters with the poly-syllabic names. He drew closer to the bars, observing it intently.

The creature's eyes met his own and held them. More queer jabber issued from its mouth. It advanced to the front of the cage, coming quite near to him. Sadul held his ground – it did not look dangerous. With one foot it smoothed the soil of the floor, then squatted down to scrabble in the dirt.

“What's it doing?” asked some­one.

“Probably scratching for something to eat,” suggested another.

Sadul conti­nued to watch with interest. When the guide moved the party on he contrived to remain behind unnoticed. He was untroubled by the presence of other spec­tators, since most of them had gravi­tated to watch the larger reptiles feed.

After a while the crea­ture rose to its feet again and extended one paw towards the ground. It had scrawled a series of queer lines in the dust. They made neither pattern nor picture. They did not seem to mean any­thing. Yet there was some­thing regular about them.

Sadul looked blankly at them and then back to the fact of the creature. It made a quick move­ment towards the scrawls. Sadul conti­nued to stare blankly. It ad­vanced, smoothed out the ground once more with its foot and began to scrabble again. Sadul wondered whether or not he should move on. He ought, he knew, to have kept to­gether with the rest. Magon might be nasty about it. Well, he'd stay just long enough to see what the creature was doing this time.

It stood back and pointed again. Sadal was amazed. In the dirt was a drawing of a Takonian such as him­self. The crea­ture was point­ing first to him­self and then back to the drawing.

Sadul grew excited. He had made a discovery? What was this creature which could draw? He had never heard of such a thing. His first impulse was to run after the fest and tell them. But he hesi­tated and curiosity got the better of him.

Rather doubtfully, he opened the bag at his side and drew out his writing tablet and stylus. The creature ex­citedly thrust both paws through the bars for them and sat down, scratch­ing experi­ment­ally with the wrong end of the stylus. Sadul corrected it, then leaned close to the bars, watching over its shoulder.

First the creature made a round mark in the middle of the tablet, then it pointed up. Sadul looked up at the ceiling, but quite failed to see any­thing remark­able there. The creature shook its head impa­tiently. About the mark it drew a circle with a small spot on the circum­ference – outside that another circle with a similar spot, then a third. Still Sadul could see no meaning.

Beside the spot on the second circle the creature drew a small sketch of a Takonian. Beside the spot on the third, a creature, itself. Sadul followed intently. It was trying very hard to convey some­thing but for the life of him he could not see what it was. Again a paw pointed up at the light globe, then the fore­limbs were held wide apart.

The light – an enor­mous light!

Suddenly Sadul got it – the sun – the sun and the planets! He nearly choked with excite­ment. Reaching between the bars, he grabbed his tablet and ran off up the corri­dor in search of his party. The man in the cage watched him go and as Sadul's shouts dimin­ished in the distance he smiled his first smile for a very long time.

Goin, the lecturer in phonetics, wandered into the study of his friend Dagul, the anthro­polo­gist in the Uni­versity of Takon. Dagul, who was getting on in years as the grizzling of his silver fur testi­fied, looked up with a frown of irrita­tion at the inter­rup­tion. It faded at the sight of Goin.

“Sorry,” he apolo­gized. “I think I'm a bit over­worked. This Dur busi­ness gives such masses of material that I can't leave it alone.”

“If you're too busy—?”

“No, no. Come along in. Glad to throw it off for a time.'

They crossed to a low divan where they squatted, folding their four legs beneath them.

Dagul offered refresh­ment.

“Well, did you get this Earth creature's story?” he asked.

Goin produced a packet of thin tablets from a satchel.

“Yes, we got it – in the end. I've had all my assis­tants and bright­est students working on it but it's not been easy even so. They seem to have been further advanced in physical science than we are. That made parts of it only roughly trans­latable but I think you'll be able to follow it. A pretty sort of villain this Gratz makes himself out to be – and he's not much ashamed of it.”

“You can't be a good villain if you are ashamed.”

“I suppose not but it's made me think. Earth seems to have been a rotten planet.”

“Worse than Venus?” asked Dagul bitterly.

Goin hesitated. “Yes, I think so, according to his account – but probably that's only because it was further developed. We're going the same way – graft, vested interests, private tra­ders without morals, politi­cians without conscience. I thought they only existed here, but they had them on Earth – the whole stink­ing circus. Maybe they had them on Mars too if we only knew.”

“I wonder?” Dagul sat for some moments in contem­plation. “You mean that Earth was just an exagge­rated form of the mess we're in?”

“Exactly. Makes you wonder if life isn't a disease after all – a kind of corrup­tion which attacks dying planets, grow­ing more and more vicious in the higher forms. And as for intelli­gence —”

“Intelligence,” said Dagul, “is a complete snare and delusion. I came to that conclu­sion long ago. With­out it you are wiped out –with it you wipe out one another, even­tually your­self.”

Goin grinned. Dagul's hobby-horses were much-ridden steeds.

“The instinct of self-protection—” he began.

“—is another delu­sion as far as the race is concerned,” Dagul finished for him. “Indivi­duals may protect them­selves but it is charac­teristic of an intelli­gent race to try conti­nually by bigger and better methods to wipe itself out. Speaking dispassion­ately I should say that it's a very good thing, too. Of all the waste­ful, destruc­tive, point­less...”

Goin let him have his say. Expe­rience told him that it was use­less to attempt to stem the flood. At length came a pause and he thrust for­ward his packet of tablets.

“Here's the story. I'm afraid it will encourage your pessi­mism. The man, Grate, is a self-confessed murderer for one thing.”

“Why should he confess?”

“It's all there. Says he wants to warn us against Earth.”

Dagul smiled slightly. “Then you've not told him?”

“No, not yet.”

Dagul reached for the topmost tablet and began to read.