he knew perfectly well what the outcome of his generosity would be….
The instrument he handed over on permanent loan to the World History Foundation was nothing more than a television receiver with an elaborate set of controls for determining coordinates in time and space. It must have been linked somehow to a far more complex machine, operating on principles that no one could imagine, aboard Karellen's ship. One had merely to adjust the controls, and a window into the past was opened up. Almost the whole of human history for the past five thousand years became accessible in an instant. Earlier than that the machine would not go, and there were baffling blanks all down the ages. They might have had some natural cause, or they might be due to deliberate censorship by the Overlords.
Though it had always been obvious to any rational mind that all the world's religious writings could not be true, the shock was nevertheless profound. Here was a revelation which no one could doubt or deny: here, seen by some unknown magic of Overlord science, were the true beginnings of all the world's great faiths. Most of them were noble and inspiring—but that was not enough. Within a few days, all mankind's multitudinous messiahs had lost their divinity. Beneath the fierce and passionless light of truth, faiths that had sustained millions for twice a thousand years vanished like morning dew. All the good and all the evil they had wrought were swept suddenly into the past, and could touch the minds of men no more.
Humanity had lost its ancient gods; now it was old enough to have no need for new ones.
Though few realized it as yet, the fall of religion had been paralleled by a decline in science. There were plenty of technologists, but few original workers extending the frontiers of human knowledge. Curiosity remained, and the leisure to indulge in it, but the heart had been taken out of fundamental scientific research. It seemed futile to spend a lifetime searching for secrets that the Overlords had probably uncovered ages before.
This decline had been partly disguised by an enormous efflorescence of the descriptive sciences such as zoology, botany and observational astronomy. There had never been so many amateur scientists gathering facts for their own amusement—but there were few theoreticians correlating these facts.
The end of strife and conflicts of all kinds had also meant the virtual end of creative art. There were myriads of performers, amateur and professional, yet there had, been no really outstanding new works of literature, music, painting or sculpture for a generation. The world was still living on the glories of a past that could never return.
No one worried except a few philosophers. The race was too intent upon savouring its new-found freedom to look beyond the pleasures of the present. Utopia was here at last; its novelty had not yet been assailed by the supreme enemy of all Utopias—boredom.
Perhaps the Overlords had the answer to that, as they had to all other problems. No one knew—any more than they knew, a lifetime after their arrival—what their ultimate purpose might be. Mankind had grown to trust them, and to accept without question the superhuman altruism that had kept Karellen and his companions so long exiled from their homes.
If, indeed, it was altruism. For there were still some who wondered if the policies of the Overlords would always coincide with the true welfare of humanity.
7
When Rupert Boyce sent out the invitations for his party, the total mileage involved was impressive. To list only the first dozen guests, there were the Fosters from Adelaide, the Shoenbergers from Haiti, the Farrans from Stalingrad, the Moravias from Cincinnati, the Ivankos from Paris, and the Sullivans from the general vicinity of Easter Island, but approximately four kilometres down on the ocean bed. It was a considerable compliment to Rupert that although thirty guests had been invited, over forty turned up—which was about the percentage he had expected. Only the Krauses let him down, and that was simply because they forgot about the International Date Line and arrived twenty-four hours late.
By noon an imposing collection of flyers had accumulated in the park, and the later arrivals would have quite a distance to walk once they had found somewhere to land. At least, it would seem quite a distance to them, under this cloudless sky and with the mercury at a hundred and ten. The assembled vehicles ranged from one- man Flitterbugs to family Cadillacs which were more like air-borne palaces than sensible flying machines. In this age, however, nothing could be deduced concerning the social status of the guests from their modes of transport.
“It's a very ugly house,” said Jean Morrel as the Meteor spiraled down. “It looks rather like a box that somebody's stepped on.”
George Greggson, who had an old-fashioned dislike of automatic landings, readjusted the rate-of-descent control before answering.
“It's hardly fair to judge the place from this angle,” he replied, sensibly enough. “From ground level it may look quite different. Oh dear!”
“What's the matter?”
“The Fosters are here. I'd recognize that colour-scheme anywhere.”
“Well, there's no need to talk to them if you don't want to. That's one advantage of Rupert's parties—you can always hide in the crowd.”
George had selected a landing place and was now diving purposefully towards it. They floated to rest between another Meteor and something that neither of them could identify. It looked very fast and, Jean thought, very uncomfortable. One of Rupert's technical friends, she decided, had probably built it himself. She had an idea that there was a law against that sort of thing.
The heat hit them like a blast from a blow-torch as they stepped out of the flyer. It seemed to suck the moisture from their bodies, and George almost imagined that he could feel his skin cracking. It was partly their own fault, of course.
They had left Alaska three hours before, and should have remembered to adjust the cabin temperature accordingly.
“What a place to live!” gasped Jean. “I thought this climate was supposed to be controlled.”
“So it is,” replied George. “This was all desert once—and look at it now. Come on—it'll be all right indoors!”
Rupert's voice, slightly larger than life, boomed cheerfully in their ears. Their host was standing beside the flyer, a glass in each hand, looking down at them with a roguish expression.
He looked down at them for the simple reason that he was about twelve feet tall; he was also semi- transparent. One could see right through him without much difficulty.
“This is a fine trick to play on your guests!” protested George. He grabbed at the drinks, which he could just reach. His hand, of course, went right through them. “I hope you've got something more substantial for us when we reach the house!”
“Don't worry!” laughed Rupert. “Just give your order now, and it'll be ready by the time you arrive.”
“Two large beers, cooled in liquid air,” said George promptly. “We'll be right there.”
Rupert nodded, put down one of his glasses on an invisible table, adjusted an equally invisible control, and promptly vanished from sight.
“Well!” said Jean. “That's the first time I've seen one of those gadgets in action. How did Rupert get hold of it? I thought only the Overlords had them.”
“Have you ever known Rupert not to get anything he wanted?” replied George.
“That's just the toy for him. He can sit comfortably in his studio and go wandering round half of Africa. No heat, no bugs, no exertion—and the icebox always in reach. I wonder what Stanley and Livingstone would have thought?” The sun put an end to further conversation until they had reached the house. As they approached the front door (which was not very easy to distinguish from the rest of the glass wall facing them) it swung automatically open with a fanfare of trumpets. Jean guessed, correctly, that she would be heartily sick of that
