those fluted, basalt curves could be called cheeks—emitted the faintest of whistles as Karellen's hypothetical lungs laboured in the thin air of Earth. Golde could just see the curtain of tiny white hairs fluttering to and fro, keeping accurately out of phase, as they responded to Karellen's rapid, double-action breathing cycle. Dust filters, they were generally believed to be, and elaborate theories concerning the atmosphere of the Overlords' home had been constructed on this slender foundation.
“Yes, I have some news for you. As you are doubtless aware, one of my supply ships recently left Earth to return to its base. We have just discovered that there was a stowaway on board.”
A hundred pencils braked to a halt: a hundred pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon Karellen.
“A stowaway, did you say, Mr. Supervisor?” asked Golde. “May we ask who he was—and how he got aboard?”
“His name is Jan Rodricks: he is an engineering student from the University of Cape Town. Further details you can no doubt discover for yourselves through your own very efficient channels.”
Karellen smiled. The Supervisor's smile was a curious affair. Most of the effect really resided in the eyes: the inflexible, lipless mouth scarcely moved at all. Was this, Golde wondered, another of the many human customs that Karellen had copied with such skill? For the total effect was, undoubtedly, that of a smile, and the mind readily accepted it as such.
“As for how he left,” continued the Supervisor, “that is of secondary importance. I can assure you, or any other potential astronauts, that there is no possibility of repeating the exploit.”
“What will happen to this young man?” persisted Golde.
“Will he be sent back to Earth?”
“That is outside my jurisdiction, but I expect he will come back on the next ship. He would find conditions too—alien—for comfort where he has gone. And this leads me to the main purpose of our meeting today.” Karellen paused, and the silence grew even deeper.
“There has been some complaint, among the younger and more romantic elements of your population, because outer space has been closed to you. We had a purpose in doing this: we do not impose bans for the pleasure of it. But have you ever stopped to consider—if you will excuse a slightly unflattering analogy—what a man from your Stone Age would have felt, if he suddenly found himself in a modern city?”
“Surely,” protested the Herald Tribune, “there is a fundamental difference. We are accustomed to Science. On your world there are doubtless many things which we might not understand—but they wouldn't seem magic to us.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” said Karellen, so softly that it was hard to hear his words. “Only a hundred years lies between the age of electricity and the age of steam, but what would a Victorian engineer have made of a television set or an electronic computer. And how long would he have lived if he started to investigate their workings? The gulf between two technologies can easily become so great that it is—lethal.”
('Hello,” whispered Reuters to the B.B.C. “We're in luck. He's going to make a major policy statement. I know the symptoms.)
“And there are other reasons why we have restricted the human race to Earth. Watch.”
The lights dimmed and vanished. As they faded, a milky opalescence formed in the centre of the room. It congealed into a whirlpool of stars—a spiral nebula seen from a point far beyond its outermost sun.
“No human eyes have ever seen this sight before,” said Karellen's voice from the darkness. “You are looking at your own Universe, the island galaxy of which your sun is a member, from a distance of half a million light- years.”
There was a long silence. Then Karellen continued, and now his voice held something that was not quite pity and not precisely scorn.
“Your race has shown a notable incapacity for dealing with the problems of its own rather small planet. When we arrived, you were on the point of destroying yourselves with the powers that science had rashly given you. Without our intervention, the Earth today would be a radioactive wilderness.
“Now you have a world at peace, and a united race. Soon you will be sufficiently civilized to run your planet without our assistance. Perhaps you could eventually handle the problems of an entire solar system—say fifty moons and planets. But do you really imagine that you could ever cope with this?”
The nebula expanded. Now the individual stars were rushing past, appearing and vanishing as swiftly as sparks from a forge. And each of those transient sparks was a sun, with who knew how many circling worlds….
“In this single galaxy of ours,” murmured Karellen, “there are eighty-seven thousand million suns. Even that figure gives only a faint idea of the immensity of space. In challenging it, you would be like ants attempting to label and classify all the grains of sand in all the deserts of the world.
“Your race, in its present stage of evolution, cannot face that stupendous challenge. One of my duties has been to protect you from the powers and forces that lie among the stars—forces beyond anything that you can ever imagine.”
The image of the galaxy's swirling fire-mists faded: light returned to the sudden silence of the great chamber.
Karellen turned to go: the audience was over. At the door he paused and looked back upon the hushed crowd.
“It is a bitter thought, but you must face it. The planets you may one day possess. But the stars are not for Man.”
“The stars are not for Man.” Yes, it would annoy them to have the celestial portals slammed in their faces. But they must learn to face the truth—or as much of the truth as could mercifully be given to them.
From the lonely heights of the stratosphere, Karellen looked down upon the world and the people that had been given into his reluctant keeping. He thought of all that lay ahead, and what this world would be only a dozen years from now. They would never know how lucky they had been. For a lifetime Mankind had achieved as much happiness as any race can ever know. It had been the Golden Age. But gold was also the colour of sunset, of autumn: and only Karellen's ears could catch the first wailings of the winter storms.
And only Karellen knew with what inexorable swiftness the Golden Age was rushing to its close.
III. THE LAST GENERATION
15
“Look at this!” exploded George Greggson, hurling the paper across at Jean. It came to rest, despite her efforts to intercept it, spread listlessly across the breakfast table. Jean patiently scraped away the jam and read the offending passage, doing her best to register disapproval. She was not very good at this, because all too often she agreed with the critics. Usually she kept these heretical opinions to herself; and not merely for the sake of peace and quiet. George was perfectly prepared to accept praise from her (or anyone else), but if she ventured any criticism of his work she would receive a crushing lecture on her artistic ignorance.
She read the review twice, then gave up. It appeared quite favourable, and she said so.
“He seemed to like the performance. What are you grumbling about?”
“This,” snarled George, stubbing his finger at the middle of the column.
