“We're getting nowhere,” he said resignedly. “We want more facts, and that means action, not argument.” The sightless eyes seemed to stare thoughtfully at Stormgren. For a moment he tapped nervously on the table—it was the first sign of uncertainty that Stormgren had noticed. Then he continued:
“I'm a little surprised, Mr. Secretary, that you've never made any effort to learn more about the Overlords.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Stormgren coldly, trying to disguise his interest. “I've told you that there's only one way out of the room in which I have my talks with Karellen—and that leads straight back to Earth.”
“It might be possible,” mused the other, “to devise instruments which could teach us something. I'm no scientist, but we can look into the matter. If we give you your freedom, would you be willing to assist with such a plan?”
“Once and for all,” said Stormgren angrily, “let me make my position perfectly clear. Karellen is working for a united world, and I'll do nothing to help his enemies. What his ultimate plans may be, I don't know, but I believe that they are good.”
'What real proof have we of that?”
“All his actions, ever since his ships appeared in our skies. I defy you to mention one act that, in the ultimate analysis, hasn't been beneficial.”
Stormgren paused for a moment, letting his mind run back through the past years. Then he smiled.
“If you want a single proof of the essential—how shall I put it? — benevolence of the Overlords, think of that cruelty-to-animals order which they made within a month of their arrival. If I had any doubts about Karellen before, that banished them—even though that order has caused me more trouble than anything else he's ever done!”
That was scarcely an exaggeration, Stormgren thought. The whole incident had been an extraordinary one, the first revelation of the Overlords' hatred of cruelty. That, and their passion for justice and order, seemed to be the dominant emotions in their lives—as far as one could judge them by their actions.
And it was the only time Karellen had shown anger, or at least the appearance of anger. “You may kill one another if you wish,” the message had gone, “and that is a matter between you and your own laws. But if you slay, except for food or in self-defence, the beasts that share your world with you—then you may be answerable to me.”
No one knew exactly how comprehensive this ban was supposed to be, or what Karellen would do to enforce it. They had not long to wait.
The Plaza de Toros was full when the matadors and their attendants began their professional entry. Everything seemed normal: the brilliant sunlight blazed harshly on the traditional costumes, the great crowd greeted its favourites as it had a hundred times before. Yet here and there faces were turned anxiously towards the sky, to the aloof silver shape fifty kilometres above Madrid. Then the picadors had taken up their places and the bull had come snorting out into the arena. The skinny horses, nostrils wide with terror, had wheeled in the sunlight as their riders forced them to meet their enemy. The first lance flashed—made contact—and at that moment came a sound that had never been heard on Earth before.
It was the sound often thousand people screaming with the pain of the same wound—ten thousand people who, when they had recovered from the shock, found themselves completely unharmed. But that was the end of that bull-fight, and indeed of all bull-fighting, for the news spread rapidly. It is worth recording that the aficionados were so shaken that only one in ten asked for their money back, and also that the London Daily Mirror made matters much worse by suggesting that the Spaniards adopt cricket as a new national sport.
“You may be correct,” the old Welshman replied. 'Possibly the motives of the Overlords are good— according to their standards, which may sometimes be the same as ours. But they are interlopers—we never asked them to come here and turn our world upside-down, destroying ideals—yes, and nations—that generations of men have fought to protect.”
“I come from a small nation that had to fight for its liberties,” retorted Stormgren. “Yet I am for Karellen. You may annoy him, you may even delay the achievement of his aims, but it will make no difference m the end. Doubtless you are sincere in believing as you do. I can understand your fear that the traditions and cultures of little countries will be overwhelmed when the World State arrives. But you are wrong: it is useless to cling to the past. Even before the Overlords came to Earth, the sovereign state was dying. They have merely hastened its end; no one can save it now—and no one should try.”
There was no answer; the man opposite neither moved nor spoke. He sat with his lips half open, his eyes now lifeless as well as blind. Around hint the others were equally motionless, frozen in strained, unnatural attitudes. With a gasp of pure horror, Stormgren rose to his feet and backed away towards the door. As he did so the silence was suddenly broken.
“That was a nice speech, Rikki; thank you. Now I think we can go.”
Stormgren spun on his heels and stared into the shadowed corridor. Floating there at eye-level was a small, featureless sphere—the source, no doubt, of whatever mysterious force the Overlords had brought into action. It was hard to be sure, but Stormgren imagined that be could hear a faint humming, as of a hive of bees on a drowsy summer day.
“Karellen! Thank God! But what have you done?”
“Don't worry they're quite all right. You can call it a paralysis, but it's much subtler than that. They're simply living a few thousand years more slowly than normal. When we've gone they'll never know what happened.”
“You'll leave them here until the police come?”
“No. I've a much better plan. I'm letting them go.”
Stormgren felt a surprising sense of relief. He gave a last valedictory glance at the little room and its frozen occupants. Joe was standing on one foot, staring very stupidly at nothing. Suddenly Stormgren laughed and fumbled in his pockets.
“Thanks for the hospitality, Joe,” he said. “I think I'll leave a souvenir.”
He ruffled through the scraps of paper until he had found the figures he wanted. Then, on a reasonably clean sheet, he wrote carefully:
“BANK OF MANHATTAN
Pay Joe the sum of One Hundred Thrity-Five Dollars and Fifty Cents (135.50) R. Stormgren. “
As he laid the strip of paper beside the Pole, Karellen's voice enquired:
“Exactly what are you doing?”
“We Stormgrens always pay our debts. The other two cheated, but Joe played fair. At least I never caught him out.”
He felt very gay and lightheaded, and quite forty years younger, as he walked to the door. The metal sphere moved aside to let him pass. He assumed that it was some kind of robot, and it explained how Karellen had been able to reach him through the unknown layers of rock overhead.
“Carry straight on for a hundred metres,” said the sphere, speaking in Karellen's voice. “Then turn to the left until I give you further instructions.”
He strode forward eagerly, though he realized that there was no need for hurry. The sphere remained hanging in the corridor, presumably covering his retreat. A minute later he came across a second sphere, waiting for him at a branch in the corridor.
“You've half a kilometre to go,” it said. “Keep to the left until we meet again.”
Six times he encountered the spheres on his way to the open. At first he wondered if, somehow, the robot was managing to keep ahead of him; then he guessed that there must be a chain of the machines maintaining a complete circuit down into the depths of the mine. At the entrance a group of guards formed a piece of improbable statuary, watched over by yet another of the ubiquitous spheres. On the hillside a few metres away lay the little flying machine in which Stormgren had made all his journeys to Karellen.
He stood for a moment blinking in the sunlight. Then he saw the ruined mining machinery around hint, and beyond that a derelict railway stretching down the mountainside. Several kilometres away a dense forest lapped at the base of the mountain, and very far off Stormgren could see the gleam of water from a great lake. He guessed that he was somewhere in South America, though it was not easy to say exactly what gave him that impression.
As he climbed into the little flying machine, Stormgren had a last glimpse of the mine entrance and the men frozen around it. Then the door sealed behind him and with a sigh of relief he sank back upon the familiar
