“Thus we travel in this city,” she chatted as we rolled along. “Not swiftly, of course, in this nor in our other city, near the South Pole. The real speed is in the way-tunnels between.”
“Way-tunnels the width of a world?” I asked, wondering. “How can only seven hundred persons do such work?”
“You saw the ray-digger on the televiso. There are larger and more complex diggers of that type, by which we can journey almost anywhere underground—clear through the core of Dondromogon and up into Newcomer lands, were it not for the inner fires. Perhaps we shall dig them out by the roots in time, despite their defenses.”
Once again I thought of so much science and wealth, and of people dying because their rulers thought seven hundred were none too few to enjoy the benefits of a world.
We stopped down a fork of the vehicle-corridor, and Elonie dismounted before another of the metal curtain-doors. At her touch of a button and a word into a speaking tube, it opened to us. We passed into a smaller passageway, and then out into a place of aching beauty.
My first impression was of pastel lights, changing and mingling constantly—blue, violet, pink, green, orchid, pale. They struck from starlike points in a great domed ceiling, over a floor like a mirror. And the pastel-tinted air was filled with music, soft but penetrating and heady. There was a breeze from somewhere, scented and warm. In and out of other doorways across the floor wandered figures, male and female, murmuring together and helping themselves to cups from great trestles and tables.
“The refreshments are provided,” Elonie told me softly. “We need not wait for the others. Come, Yandro. They have poured wine—Yandro knows what wine is? And we have music, perfume, light, laughter, and for companions all of Dondromogon.”
“All?” I repeated.
“All save those on guard or garrison duty. Come, mighty one. Know happiness that is worth fighting and conquering to keep.”
She tugged at my arm, urging me toward the wine-tables.
And now there was a louder murmur, excitement and even apprehension, at my entrance. I suppose I was an extraordinary figure—taller than any person there, indeed none were anywhere near my height save the nobly proportioned Elonie herself. And I was more sinewy, and darker, as if of another race entirely. Timid memories struggled somewhere within me, as if knocking at the closed doors of my consciousness. Somewhere, somehow in the past, things had happened that might explain so much, make my present position clearer to me.
Gederr was following close behind, muttering something to Doriza. Then he pressed on beyond me, and mounted a sort of dais or platform.
“You of Dondromogon!” he called, and such was his voice, or perhaps the acoustic properties of that hemispheric room, that all could hear him easily. “Have you not heard rumors of a great happening? The ancient legend of a mighty leader to come among us—”
“Yandro!” cried a deep-voiced fellow in the front belt of listeners. His eyes were on me, studying, questioning.
“Yes, Yandro, champion of our cause, sent by the First Comers themselves!” That was Elonie, and with a hand on my elbow she urged me up on the platform beside Gederr.
Applause burst out, some of it a little drunken, but quite hearty and honest. “Yandro!” cried the deep-voiced man again, and others took it up: “Yandro! Yandro!” Whatever my own doubts, they had none.
Gederr held up an authoritative hand for silence. “He came from far in space and time, and one look will assure you of his leadership. The time for deliverance is at hand, men and women of Dondromogon! We trust in mighty Yandro!”
There was louder applause, in the midst of which Gederr sidled close. “Speak to them,” he mumbled in my ear.
Like him, I lifted a hand for silence. It came, and I eyed my audience, as I sought for words to speak.
The first thought that came was that, if Elonie were right and these people were the selected best of the race, then Dondromogon was decadently peopled. Not only were they smallish and mostly frail, but few had a distinguished or aggressive cast of countenance. The Council members had been wise-seeming, perhaps, but even they had not struck me as healthy types. To one side stood Doriza, militarily at attention, blue eyes fast upon me—she was a notable exception, compact and strong and healthy of body and mind, and at the same time quite as feminine as the more flashy and languorous Elonie just beside my platform. Through the rear ranks of listeners moved old white-bearded Sporr, who had much to say to certain members of the throng, perhaps explaining me and my legend.
“Friends,” I began at last, “I am new here. A little child might have more experience of your ways and wishes. Yet it becomes apparent that great service is expected of me, and such a service I would greatly love to do.”
“Hear! Hear! Wise are the words of Yandro!” Thus went up a new chorus. I felt reassured, and spoke more confidently.
“Your Council has explained much. Now I come to the people represented by that Council. If I am to help, you are to explain how. For the voice of a people is seldom wrong or foolish.”
“Wise are the words!” They chorused again, and the man with the deep voice suddenly put up his hand and moved forward. I saw that he had the armor and weapons of a soldier, and in one hand he held a cup, from which he had been drinking. He was fairly well knit for a Dondromogonian, and, though his face was simple, it was manly enough. He cleared his throat diffidently.
“We have been told of Yandro’s coming, throughout our halls and dwellings,” he began. “That he should ask for our word is an honor. But since he asks, I make bold to reply—” He
