“It’s not important,” said Martin. “Give me a cigarette, please, Captain.” His fingers groped blindly at the rising pack, for he was looking at the golden city and blinking. He lighted one and smoked quietly for a long time.
“Say something!” cried the captain. “Aren’t they interested in our rocket?”
Martin said, “What? Oh. The rocket?” He inspected his cigarette. “No, they’re not interested. Seems we came at an inopportune time.”
“Inopportune time!”
Martin was patient. “Captain, listen. Something big happened yesterday in that city. It’s so big, so important that we’re second-rate—second fiddle. I’ve got to sit down.” He lost his balance and sat heavily, gasping for air.
The captain chewed his cigar angrily. 'What happened?” Martin lifted his head, smoke from the burning cigarette in his fingers, blowing in the wind. “Sir, yesterday, in that city, a remarkable man appeared—good, intelligent, compassionate, and infinitely wise!”
The captain glared at his lieutenant. “What’s that to do with us?”
“It’s hard to explain. But he was a man for whom they’d waited a long time—a million years maybe. And yesterday he walked into their city. That’s why today, sir, our rocket landing means nothing.”
The captain sat down violently. “Who was it? Not Ashley? He didn’t arrive in his rocket before us and steal my glory, did he?” He seized Martin’s arm. His face was pale and dismayed.
“Not Ashley, sir.”
“Then it was Burton! I knew it. Burton stole in ahead of us and ruined my landing! You can’t trust anyone any more.”
“Not Burton, either, sir,” said Martin quietly.
The captain was incredulous. “There were only three rockets. We were in the lead. This man who got here ahead of us? What was his name!”
“He didn’t have a name. He doesn’t need one. It would be different on every planet, sir.”
The captain stared at his lieutenant with hard, cynical eyes. “Well, what did he do that was so wonderful that nobody even looks at our ship?”
“For one thing,” said Martin steadily, “he healed the sick and comforted the poor. He fought hypocrisy and dirty politics and sat among the people, talking, through the day.”
“Is that so wonderful?”
“
“I don’t get this.” The captain confronted Martin, peered into his face and eyes. “You been drinking, eh?” He was suspicious. He backed away. “I don’t understand.”
Martin looked at the city. “Captain, if you don’t understand, there’s no way of telling you.”
The captain followed his gaze. The city was quiet and beautiful and a great peace lay over it. The captain stepped forward, taking his cigar from his lips. He squinted first at Martin, then at the golden spires of the buildings.
“You don’t mean—you
Martin nodded. “That’s what I mean, sir.
The captain stood silently, not moving. He drew himself up.
“I don’t believe it,” he said at last.
At high noon Captain Hart walked briskly into the city, accompanied by Lieutenant Martin and an assistant who was carrying some electrical equipment. Every once in a while the captain laughed loudly, put his hands on his hips and shook his head.
The mayor of the town confronted him. Martin set up a tripod, screwed a box onto it, and switched on the batteries.
“Are you the mayor?” The captain jabbed a finger out.
“I am,” said the mayor.
The delicate apparatus stood between them, controlled and adjusted by Martin and the assistant. Instantaneous translations from any language were made by the box. The words sounded crisply on the mild air of the city.
“About this occurrence yesterday,” said the captain. “It occurred?”
“It did.”
“You have witnesses?”
“We have.”
“May we talk to them?”
“Talk to any of us,” said the mayor. “We are all witnesses.”
In an aside to Martin the captain said, “Mass hallucination.” To the mayor, “What did this man—this stranger— look like?”
“That would be hard to say,” said the mayor, smiling a little.
“Why would it?”
“Opinions might differ slightly.”
“I’d like your opinion, sir, anyway,” said the captain. “Record this,” he snapped to Martin over his shoulder. The lieutenant pressed the button of a hand recorder.
“Well,” said the mayor of the city, “he was a very gentle and kind man. He was of a great and knowing intelligence.”
“Yes—yes, I know, I know.” The captain waved his fingers. “Generalizations. I want something specific. What did he look like?”
“I don’t believe that is important,” replied the mayor.
“It’s very important,” said the captain sternly. “I want a description of this fellow. If I can’t get it from you, I’ll get it from others.” To Martin, “I’m sure it must have been Burton, pulling one of his practical jokes.”
Martin would not look him in the face. Martin was coldly silent.
The captain snapped his fingers. “There was something or other—a healing?”
“Many healings,” said the mayor.
“May I see one?”
“You may,” said the mayor. “My son.” He nodded at a small boy who stepped forward. “He was afflicted with a withered arm. Now, look upon it.”
At this the captain laughed tolerantly. “Yes, yes. This isn’t even circumstantial evidence, you know. I didn’t see the boy’s withered arm. I see only his arm whole and well. That’s no proof. What proof have you that the boy’s arm was withered yesterday and today is well?”
“My word is my proof,” said the mayor simply.
“My dear man!” cried the captain. “You don’t expect me to go on hearsay, do you? Oh no!”
“I’m sorry,” said the mayor, looking upon the captain with what appeared to be curiosity and pity.
“Do you have any pictures of the boy before today?” asked the captain.
After a moment a large oil portrait was carried forth, showing the son with a withered arm.
“My dear fellow!” The captain waved it away. “Anybody can paint a picture. Paintings lie. I want a photograph of the boy.”
There was no photograph. Photography was not a known art in their society.
“Well,” sighed the captain, face twitching, “let me talk to a few other citizens. We’re getting nowhere.” He pointed at a woman. “You.” She hesitated. “Yes, you; come here,” ordered the captain. “Tell me about this
The woman looked steadily at the captain. “He walked among us and was very fine and good.”
“What color were his eyes?”
“The color of the sun, the color of the sea, the color of a flower, the color of the mountains, the color of the night.”
“That’ll do.” The captain threw up his hands. “See, Martin? Absolutely nothing. Some charlatan wanders through whispering sweet nothings in their ears and——”
“Please, stop it,” said Martin.
The captain stepped back. “What?”
