“I am not capable of answering. That is unknown.”
Serena had not listened.
“Will we succeed if I use myself as material in the work?” she said tranquilly.
“Serena, you can’t do that,” Weston said.
She didn’t hear. She turned and went out, the men after her. One of the men looked back briefly at Weston, and the cool deadliness was gone from his eyes. For Weston didn’t matter any more. Not to them.
He could tell that the personal danger to him had passed. And now that he could have made his way to the time-door without hindrance, he did not. He had to see what was happening to Serena. So he followed the three.
This time he had a better look at the figure being moulded in the flames. It was a man, a giant, more than eight feet high, beautiful as a god and quivering with half-sentient life. But its eyes were blank.
The three humans were busy around a new fire they had kindled. Weston stood watching. They completed their preparations. Serena steadied herself on one of the men’s arms and prepared to step into the fire. Weston found himself lunging forward—in time.
He got her by the shoulders and pulled her back. The men glanced at him calmly, incuriously. The fires seethed up.
“Serena, you can’t!” Weston said. “I won’t let you!”
She didn’t answer. His words meant nothing. He could feel the continuous steady pressure of her body as she leaned toward the fire, ready to enter it the moment he let her go.
One of the men seized his wrist and tried to free her. Weston was glad for an excuse for explosion; he was on surer ground there. He swung around and struck once at the man, very hard, hitting him on the corner of the jaw. The man was lightly built. He went down in a heap and lay there looking at Weston without surprise or anger, but with a clear intent in his eyes.
Weston swung Serena off her feet and started away at a heavy run, carrying her. When he reached the corner of the buildings he paused to look back. The men had returned to the other fire where the giant figure stood, and they were working on that, deftly and fast, wasting no motions. Twice they pointed after Weston.
He put Serena down, keeping hold of her wrist. She didn’t resist, though once when his grip slipped she turned instantly and began walking back toward the fires. Weston caught her again and hurried her away toward the time-door that led to Versailles and the Twentieth Century.
He couldn’t find it. And, quite soon, around one of the domed buildings the giant came walking, unsteadily, tentatively, his eyes fixed on Serena. He was tremendous. He was unsteady, because he had just been created, Weston knew, but he came on relentlessly.
The enormous hands gripped Serena gently, pulled her free and started to carry her back to the waiting men.
Weston jumped on the giant’s back and got a judo hold. Serena fell free, but Weston found he couldn’t hurt his opponent. The giant didn’t try to fight; he merely strove to escape, and he was tremendously strong. It was even possible to feel, under that satiny, pallid skin, that the muscles weren’t normal human tissue; they were tougher, like heart-muscle. The only reason Weston could cope with him at all was that the monster was so new. He hadn’t learned to coordinate yet. He had only that single drive, Weston thought—to get Serena. Nothing in the world could turn him from that.
And Serena was walking back toward the fires. It was a nightmare. Weston let go of the giant and ran after her, lifting her in his arms. She lay there lax. There was no use trying to find the time-door now; he simply ran. And the giant came slowly after them.
Weston knew that he had to increase his lead fast, so that he could circle back and hunt for the time-door before the giant learned to coordinate. It was burning noon. Time seemed to be playing queer tricks. He let Serena down after a while, but he kept tight hold of her wrist. She had a sort of homing instinct, though the fires were out of sight by now.
After a few hours Weston lost his bearings completely. The world of that time was a park. Nothing changed. The whole world, indeed, seemed to be a highly developed machine for the support of the human race. …
When he was hungry, the moss fed Weston. When he was thirsty, pools opened. And in all that desperate flight, with the giant looming sometimes on the horizon and sometimes out of sight beyond it, there was nothing except the undulating mossy hills, and one other thing.
The Golden Light. Weston hadn’t understood when he saw it. That happened later, when he was exhausted. Serena was untiring. He tried to talk to her. She answered when he touched the right chord and she had a response to give, but it didn’t mean anything. But Weston couldn’t put away the thought that if he could only make her understand, force her to comprehend the fantastic motivations behind her life, she might awaken.
The giant was gaining. He wasn’t half a mile behind them now. The sun was dropping. It would be dark soon.
There’s no twilight here, Weston thought. Only burning daylight, and then the darkness. As it will be for man!
He talked to her.
“Serena. Listen to me. The Knowledge told me—listen! I know you’re not—not intelligent; you have a different instinct. But if I could make you realize that—”
They plodded on. He kept glancing at her placid, lovely face.
“Call it tropism, Serena. Tropism that makes plants turn toward light. Or taxis, that guides insects. Insects have a perfect life, in a way. Instinct tells them exactly what to do and they can no more resist doing it than they can help being alive. A stimulus registers, on them, and they act as their taxis commands. Listen!
“That’s what’s happened to the
