Henry Kuttner - The Time Axis

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THE TIME AXIS

An Ace Book, by arrangement with The Estate of Henry Kuttner

Cover by Alex Schomburg.

ENCOUNTER IN RIO

Printed in U.S.A.

THE whole thing never happened and I can prove it—now. But Ira De Kalb made me wait a billion

years to write the story.

So we start with a paradox. But the strangest thing of all is that there are no real paradoxes

involved, not one. This is a record of logic. Not human logic, of course, not the logic of this

time or this space.

I don't know if men will ever journey again, as we journeyed, to that intersection of latitude and

longitude where a shell hangs forever—forever and yet not forever, in space and out of space—on

the axis stretching through time from beginning to end.

From the dawn of the nebulae to the twilight of absolute entropy, when the framework of the cosmos

has broken

down into chaos, still that axis will stretch from dawn to dusk, from beginning to end. For as

this world spins on an axis through space, so the sphere of time spins on its own axis.

I never understood the ultimate answer. That was beyond me. It took the combined skills of three

great civilizations far apart in time to frame that godlike concept in which the tangible universe

itself was only a single factor.

And even then it was not enough. It took the Face of Ea —which I shall never be able to describe

fully.

I saw it, though. I saw it, luminous in the reddish dusk, speaking to me silently above the winds

that scour perpetually across the dead, empty lands of a day yet to come. I think it will stand

there forever in an empty land on a dead planet, watching the endless night draw slowly on through

days as long as years. The stars will stand and the Earth-nekropoh's will stand and the Face will

stand there forever. I was there. I saw it.

Was there? Will be? Maybe? I can't tell now. But of all stories in the world, this more than any

needs a pattern.

Since the beginning is in the past, before men as such existed at all, the only starting place I

know is a temporal and personal one, when I was drawn into the experiment. Now that I know a

little more about the nature of time it seems clearer to me that past, present and future were all

stepping stones, arranged out of sequence. The first step took place two months ago.

That was here in this time and space. Or in the time and space that existed two months ago.

There's been a change

Now this is the way it used to be.

For me, the Big Ride. You start when you're born. You climb on the toboggan and then you're off.

But you can only have the one ride. No use telling the ticket-taker you want to go again. They

shovel you under at the end of the slope and there's a new lot of passengers waiting. You've had

your three-score and ten. And it's over.

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I'd ridden the toboggan for thirty-five years. Jeremy Cort-land, Jerry Cortland of the Denver

Post, the Frisco Call-

Bulletin, PM, AP, Time, CoHzers-sometimes staff, sometimes roving assignments. I leaned out of the

toboggan and plucked fruit from the orchards as I sped by. Strange fruit, sometimes. Generic term

is News. And that covers a lot of territory.

There was a splinter in the toboggan's seat. I had on red flannel underwear. I had a nervous tic.

I couldn't sit still. I kept reaching out, grabbing. Years of it, of by-lines that said "cabled by

Jeremy Cortland."

Russia, China, war coverage, Piccard's bathyscaphe, the supersonic and altostratosphere planes,

the Russian earth-borer gadget, the Big Eye at Palomar—the coal strikes and the cracker lynchings

and that dirt farmer in North Dakota who suddenly began to work miracles. (His patients didn't

stay cured, you remember, and he disappeared.)

The Big Ride. In between I grabbed at other things. One marriage, one divorce, and more and more

bulges. Long bouts, between assignments. I didn't give a—well, you can't use that word in some

papers. But it was all right. What did I expect, heaven?

The eyes aren't quite as clear as they used to be. The skin under them is a little puffy. One chin

begins to be not quite enough. But it's still the Big Ride. With a splinter in the seat.

Dodging alimony payments, I skipped to Brazil, got in on a submarine exploration of the Amazon,

wrote it up, sold it to AP as a feature. The first installment appeared on the same day as another

little item—buried in the back—that said 85 and 87 had been made artificially.

Astatine and francium—the missing link in the periodic table—two billion years ago you could have

picked up all the astatine and francium you wanted, just by reaching down and grabbing. If you'd

been around at the time. Since then 85 and 87 have decayed into other elements. But Sea-borg and

Ghiorso at UC made them synthetically, with the big cyclotron and atomic oven transmutation, and

the column on one side of that trivial item said SECOND BURN-DEATH VICTIM FOUND, and on the other

there was a crossword puzzle.

I didn't care, either.

Those deaths, by an indefinable sort of burning, were just starting to confound the United States

authorities at the time. They hadn't yet spread to South America.

There was another item in that same ParAr that concerned me though I didn't know it at the time

seemed that Ira De Kalb was working with Military Intelligence on some sort of highly secret

project—so secret you could read all about it as far south as Rio if you had the price of the

paper.

I had my own current problem. And it was a very odd one.

The thing started six weeks before it began. You'll have to get used to paradox—which isn't

paradox once you grasp the idea.

It started in an alley in Rio, a little cobbled tunnel opening off the Rua d'Ouvidor, and what I

was doing there at three o'clock of a summer morning in January I'll never be able to tell you.

I'd been drinking. Also I'd been playing chemin de fer and there was a thick pad of banknotes in

the inside pocket of my white jacket, another stuffed into the dark wine-colored cummerbund I was

wearing.

Looking down, I could see the toes of my shoes twinkling in the moonlight as I walked. The sky

twinkled too, and the lights up in the hills and out on the bay. The world was a shiny place,

revolving gently around me.

I was rich. But this time it was going to last. This time I'd cut out the binges and take a little

house up in Petropolis, where it's cool, and I'd really get down to work on the analysis of news-

coverage I'd been planning for so long. I'd made up my mind. I was drunk but I'd be sober again

and the resolution would stay behind when the liquor died.

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I don't often get these fits of decision but when they come they're valid enough and I knew this

one was serious. That was a turning point in the career of Jerry Cortland, there in the moonlight

on the checkered pavement.

What happened at the mouth of that alley I'll never really know. Fortunately for me I couldn't see

or realize it clearly, being drunk.

It sprang from the deep shadow and put out two arms at me. That much I'm sure of. Two arms that

never touched me. They never meant to. They shot past my ears, and I heard a thin hissing noise

and something seemed to turn over in my mind, leisurely, like a deep-buried thought stirring to

life. I could all but feel it move.

I touched it.

I wish I hadn't. But I was thinking of my money. My hand closed on the thing—on a part of it—no

one will ever know on just what. I Van only tell you it was smooth with a smoothness that burned

my hand. Friction burned it, I think now. The sheer velocity of the thing, though it was not then

moving perceptibly, took a neat thin layer of cuticle off my palm wherever it touched. I think it

slid out of my grip on a thin lubrication of my own skin.

You know how it is when you touch something white-hot? For an instant it may feel cold. I didn't

know I was burned. I closed my hand hard on the—on whatever it was I had hold of. And the very

pressure of the grip seemed to push it away, out of my hand, very smooth and fast. All I know is

that a moment later I stood there, shaking my band because it stung and watching something dark in

the moonlight vanish down the street with a motion that frightened me.

I was too dazed to shout. By the time my wits came back it had disappeared and the feeling of

unreality it left behind made me doubt whether I had ever seen or felt it at all.

About ten minutes later I found my money was gone. So it wasn't a turning point in my life, after

all. If things had worked out any differently I never would have met Ira De Kalb. I never would

have got myself mixed up in that series of deaths which so far as I was concerned were only

signposts pointing the way to De Kalb. Maybe it was a turning point, at that.

The mind as well as the senses can be awfully slow sometimes. The hand doesn't know it has been

burned, the mind can't recognize the impossible when it confronts it. There are many little

refuges for a mind that must not admit to itself the impossible has happened.

I went back to my hotel that night and got into bed. I had met a thief, I told myself drowsily, as

I'd deserved-walking a city street that late at night, loaded down with cash. I had it coming.

He'd got my money and that was that. (He—it—hadn't touched the money, or me, except in that one

brief unbalanced instant. The thing was impossible.

But since it had happened, then it was possible and the mind could dismiss it.) I went to sleep.

And woke at dawn to the most extraordinary experience I'd ever had in my life, up to then. Even

that encounter on the Rua d'Ouvidor hadn't been like this.

The experience was pure sensation. And the sensation was somewhere inside me, vaguely in the solar

plexus region—a soundless explosion of pure energy like a dazzling sun coming into sudden, radiant

being. There aren't any accurate words to tell about it.

But I was aware of ring after ring of glowing vitality bursting outward from that nova in the

deepest nerve-center of my body. For a timeless instant I lay there, bathed in it, feeling it pour

like a new kind of blood through my veins. In that instant I knew what it was.

Then somebody turned off the power at its source.

I sat up abruptly, empty of the radiance, empty as if it had never happened, but filled terribly

with the knowledge of what had caused it.

My head ached from the sudden motion. Dawn made the sky light outside and brimmed the room with a

clear gray luminous pallor. I sat there holding my head in both hands and knowing—knowing—that

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somewhere in the city an instant ago a man had been killed.

There was no shadow of doubt in my mind. I was as sure as if I had had that strange sensation a

hundred times before and each time seen a man die as it burst into a nova-glow inside me.

I wanted to go back to sleep and pretend it had been a dream. But I knew I couldn't. I dragged

myself out of bed and into my clothes. I took my aching head and jangled nerves down into the

street and found a yawning taxi-driver.

You see, I even knew where the dead man would be found. It was unthinkable that I should go there

looking for him—but I went. And I found him. He was lying huddled against the rim of a fountain in

a little square not far from the place where I'd last seen my—my thief—of the night before

vanishing with that disquieting, smooth swiftness in the moonlight.

The dead man was an Indian, probably a beggar. I stood

there in the deserted square, looking down at him, hearing the early morning traffic moving

noisily past, knowing someone would find us here together at any moment. I had never seen a victim

of the* burn-death before but I knew I looked at one now. It wasn't a real burn, properly

speaking. Friction, I though, had done it. The eroded skin made^me think of something, and I

looked at my own palm.

I was standing there, staring from my burned hand to the dead man and then back again, when—it

happened again.

The bursting nova of pure radiance flared into, violence somewhere near the pit of my stomach.

Vitality poured through my veins. ...

I sold the series to AP as usual. There had been five of the murders in Rio before I got my idea

about putting an end to them and by then the stories had begun to hit the States papers, some of

them running my picture along with the sensational stuff about the deaths, and my uncanny ability

at locating the bodies.

Looking back now, I suppose the only reason they didn't arrest me for murder was that they

couldn't figure out how Fd done it. Lucidly my hand had healed before the police and the papers

began to connect me so tightly with the deaths.

After the fifth murder I got a reservation for NQSV Jfttrk. I had come to the conclusion that if I

left Rio the murders would stop—in Rio. I thought they might begin again ifli New York. I had to

find out, you see. By then I was in pretty bad shape, for the best of reasons—or the worst.

Any.hdw, I went back.

THE STAIN AND THE STONE

THERE was a. message waiting for me at the airport. Robert J. Allister wanted to see me. I felt

impressed. Allister runs a chain of news and picture magazines second only to Life and Time.

I phoned for an appointment, and they told me to come right up. I walked through a waiting-room

full of people with prior appointments and they passed me right into the sanctum, with no

preliminaries. I began to wonder if I'd been underestimating my own importance all these years.

Allister himself rose behind his desk and offered me his hand. I waded forward, ankle-deep through

Persian carpets, and took it. He told me to sit down. His voice was tired and he looked thinner

and more haggard than his pictures.

"So you're Jerry Cortland," he said. "Been following your Rio stuff. Nice work. Care to drop it

for awhile?" I gaped. He gave me a tired grin.

"I'd like you to work for me on contract," he said. "Let me explain. You know Ira De Kalb?" "The

poor man's Einstein?"

"In a way, maybe. He's a dilettante. He's a genius, really, I suppose. A mind like a grasshopper.

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He'll work out a whole new concept of mathematics and never bother to apply it. He—well, you'll

understand better after you've met him. He's onto something very new, just now. Something very

important. I want some pieces written on it and De Kalb made a point of asking for you." "But

why?"

"He has his reasons. He'll explain to you—maybe. I can't." He pushed the contract toward me. "How

about it?" "Well—" I hesitated. My ex-wife had just slapped another summons on me, alimony again,

and I could certainly use some money. "I'll try it," I said. "But I'm irresponsible. Maybe I won't

stick to it."

"You'll stick," Allister said grimly, "once you've talked to De Kalb. That I can guarantee. Sign

here."

De Kalb's house blended into the hillside as if Frank Lloyd Wright had built it with his own

hands. I was out of breath by the time I got to the top of the gray stone terraces linked together

by gray stone steps. A maid let me in and showed me to a room where I could wait.

"Mr. De Kalb is expecting you," she said. "Hell be back in about ten minutes."

Half the room was glass, looking out upon miles and miles of Appalachians, tumbled brown and

green, with a

dazzling sky above. There was somebody already there, apparently waiting too. I saw the outlines

of a woman's spare, straight figure rising almost apologetically from a desk as I entered. I knew

her by that air of faint apology no less than by her outline against the light.

"Dr. Essenl" I said. And I was aware then of my first feeling of respect for this job, whatever it

was. You don't get two people like Letta Essen and Ira De Kalb under the same roof for anything

trivial.

I knew Dr. Essen. I'd interviewed her twice, right after Hiroshima, about the work she'd done with

Meitner and Frisch in establishing the nuclear liquid-drop concept of atomic fission. I wanted

very much to ask her what she was doing here but I didn't. I knew I'd get more out of her if I let

it come her way.

"Mr. De Kalb asked me to meet you, Mr. Cortland," she said in her pleasant soft voice. "Hello,

it's nice to see you again. You've been having quite a time in Rio, haven't you?"

"Old stuff now," I said. "This looks promising, if you're in on it. What's up, anyhow?"

She gave me that shy smile again. She had a tired gentle face, gray curls cut very short, gray

eyes like two flashes of light off a steel beam when she let you meet her direct gaze. Mostly she

was too shy. But when you caught that rare quick glance of her it was almost frightening. You

realized then the hard dazzling mind behind the eyes.

"Ill let Mr. De Kalb tell you all about that," she said. "It isn't my secret. But you're involved

more than you know. In fact—" She paused, not looking at me, but giving the corner of the carpet a

gentle scowl. "In fact, I'd like to show you something. We've got a little time to spare, and I

want your reaction to—to something. Come with me and we'll see."

I followed her out into the hall, down a flight of steps and then into a big room, comfortably

furnished. A study, I thought. But the bookshelves were empty now and everything was lightly

filmed with dust.

"The fireplace, Mr. Cortland," Dr. Essen said, pointing.

It was an ordinary fireplace, gray stone in the pine-panelled wall, with a gray stone hearth. But

there seemed to be

a stain at one spot on the hearth, close to the wall. I stepped closer. Then I knelt to look.

The speed of a chain of thoughts conies as close as anything I know to annihilating time itself.

The images that flashed through my mind seemed to come all at once.

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I saw the stain. I thought—transmutation. There was no overt reason but I thought it. And then

before I could take it in clearly with my conscious mind, in the chambers of the unconscious I was

standing again at the alley mouth in Rio at , three in the morning, seeing a dark thing leap

forward at me with its two hands outstretched.

I heard the thin humming in my ears, felt the burning of its touch. I remembered the sunburst of

violent energy deep inside me that had heralded murder whenever it came. And I knew that all these

were one—all these and the stain upon the hearth. The knowledge came unbidden, without reason.

But it was sure.

I didn't question it. But I looked very closely at the stone. That stain was an irregular area

where the stone seemed changed into another substance. I didn't know what the substance was. It

looked wholly unfamiliar. The gray of the hearth stopped abruptly, along an irregular pattern, and

gave place to a substance that seemed translucent, shot through with veins and striae that were

lighter, like the

veins in marble.

The pine panels beside the fireplace were partly stained like the stone and a little area of the

carpet that came up to the edge of the hearth. Wood, stone and cloth alike had turned into

this—this marble stain. The veins in it were like tangled hair, curling together, embedded like

some strange neural structure in half transparent flesh.

I looked up.

"Don't touch it," Dr. Essen said quickly.

I didn't mean to. I didn't need to. I knew what it would feel like. I knew that though it was

perfectly motionless it would burn my hand with friction if I touched it. Dr. Essen knew too. I

saw that in her face.

I stood up. "What is it?" I asked, my voice sounding

oddly thin.

"The nekron," she told me, almost absently. She was searching my face and the keenness of her gaze

was al-

most painful to meet. "That's Mr. De Kalb's word for it. As good a word as any. It's—a new type of

matter. Mr. Cort-land—you have seen something like this before?" Her rare, direct look was like

the* sharpness of a knife going through me, cold and deep.

"Maybe," I said. "No, never, really. But—"

"All right, I understand," she nodded. "I wanted to vert fy something. I've verified it. Thank

you." She turned away toward the door. "We'd better get back. No, please—no questions yet. I can't

possibly explain until after you've seen the Record.

"The Record? What-"

"It's something that was dug up in Crete. It's—peculiar. But thoroughly convincing. Youll see it

soon. Shall we go back?"

She locked the door behind us.

Certainly De Kalb didn't look his forty-seven years any more than a Greek statue does. He looked

like a young man, big and well proportioned. His sleek hair lay flat and short upon his head, and

his face was handsome in the vacant way the Belvedere's is.

There was no latent expression upon it and you felt that no emotions had ever drawn lines about

the mouth or between the brows. Either he had never felt any or his control was such that he could

suppress all feeling. There was the same placidity you see in the face of Buddha.

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There was something odd about his eyes—I couldn't make out their color. They seemed to be filmed

as though with a cat's third eyelid. Light blue, I thought, or gray, and curiously dull.

He gave me a strong handshake and collapsed into an overstaffed chair, hoisted his feet to a

hassock. Grunting, he blinked at me with his dull stare. There was a curious clumsiness to his

motions, and when he spoke, a curious ponderous quality in his diction. He seemed to feel

something like indulgent contempt for the rest of the world. It was all right, I suppose. Nobody

had better reason. The man was a genius.

"Glad you're here, Mr. Cortland," he said hoarsely. "I need you. Not for your intelligence which

is slight. Not for your physical abilities, obviously sapped by years of waste-

ful and juvenile dissipation. But I have an excellent reason to think we may work well together."

"I was sent to get an interview for Spread," I told him.

"You were not." De Kalb raised a forefinger. "You err through ignorance, sir. Robert Allister, the

publisher of Spread is a friend of mine. He has money. He has agreed to do the world and me a

service. You are under contract to him, so you do as he says. He says you will work with me. Is

that clear?"

"Lucid," I told him. "Except I don't work that way. The contract says I'm to handle news

assignments. I read the fine print too. There was no mention of peonage."

"This is a news assignment. I shall give you an interview. But first, the Record. I see no point

in futile discussion. Dr. Essen, will you be kind enough—" He nodded toward a cupboard.

She got out a parcel wrapped in cloth, handed it to De Kalb. He held it on his knee, unopened,

tapped his fingers on its top. It was about the size and shape of a portable typewriter case.

"I have showed the contents of this," he said, "only to Dr. Essen. And—"

"I am convinced," Dr. Essen said dryly. "Oh yes, Ira. I am

convinced I"

"Now I show it to you," De Kalb said and held out the package. "Put it on the table—so. Now draw

up a chair. Remove the wrappings. Excellent. And now—"

They were both leaning forward, watching me expectantly. I glanced from them to the battered box,

then back again. It was a tarnished blue-white rectangle, battered, smudged with dirt, perfecly

plain.

"It is of no known metal," De Kalb said. "Some alloy, I think. It was found fifteen years ago in

an excavation in Crete and sent to me unopened. Not intentionally. Nobody has ever been able to

open it until recently. It is, as you may have guessed, a puzzle box. It took me fourteen years to

learn the trick that would unlock it. It is also apparently indestructible. I shall now perform

the trick for you."

His hands moved upon the battered surface. I saw his nails whiten now and then as he put pressure

on it.

"Now," he said. "It opens. But I shall not watch. Letta,

will you? No, I think it will be better for us both if we look away while Mr. Cortland—"

I stopped listening ^along about then. For the box was slowly opening.

It opened like a jewel. Or like an unfolding flower that had as many facets as a jewel. I had

expected a lid to lift but nothing of the sort happened. There was movement. There were facets and

planes sliding and shifting and turning as though hinged, but what had seemed to be a box changed

and reassembled and unfolded before me until it was—what? As much a jewel as anything. Angles,

planes, a shape and a shining.

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Simultaneously there was motion in my own mind. As a tuning fork responds to a struck note, so

something like a vibration bridged the gap between the box and my brain. As a book opens, as

leaves turn, a book opened and leaves turned in my mind.

All time compressed itself into that blinding second. There was a shifting reorientation, motions

infinitely fast that fitted and meshed with such precision the book and my mind were one.

The Record opened itself inside my brain. Complete, whole, a history and a vision, it hung for

that one instant lucid and detailed in my mind. And for that moment outside time I did comprehend.

But the mind could not retain it all. It flashed out and burned along my nerves and then it faded

and was only a pulse, a glimpse, hanging on like an after-image in my memory. I had seen—and

forgotten.

But I had not forgotten everything.

Across a gulf of inconceivable eons a Face looked at me from red sky and empty earth. The Face of

Ea. . ..

The room spun around me.

"Here," Dr. Essen's voice murmured at my shoulder. I looked up dizzily, took the glass of brandy

she offered. I'm not sure now whether or not I had a moment of uncon-sciouness. I know my eyes

blurred and the room tilted before me. I drank the brandy gratefully.

Ill

THE VISION OF TIME

DE KALB SAID, Tell us what you saw."

"You—you've seen it too?" The brandy helped but I wasn't yet steady. I didn't want to talk about

what had flashed through my mind in that unending, dissolving glimpse which was slipping fragment

by fragment out of my memory as I sat there. And yet I did want to talk.

"I've seen it," De Kalb's ponderous nod was grim. "Letta Essen has seen it. Now you. Three of us.

We all get the same thing and yet—details differ. Three witnesses to the same scene tell three

different stories. Each sees with a different brain. Tell us how it seemed to you."

I swirled the brand around in my glass. My thoughts swirled with it, hot and potent as the liquor

and as volatile. Give me ten minutes more, I thought, and they'll evaporate.

"Red sky," I said slowly. "Empty landscape. And—" The word stuck in my throat. I couldn't name it.

"The Face," De Kalb supplied impatiently. "Yes, I know.

Go on."

"The Face of Ea," I said. "How do I know its name? Ea and time—time—" Suddenly the brandy splashed

across my hand. I was shaking with reaction so violent I could not control it and I was shaking

because of time. I got the glass to my lips, using both hands, and drained what was

left.

The second reaction passed and I thought I had myself

under control.

"Time," I said deliberately, letting the thought of it pour through my mind in a long, cold, dark-

colored tide that had no motion. Time hasn't, of course. But when you see it as I did, at first

the concept makes the brain rock in your skull.

"Time—ahead of our time. Uncountable thousands of years in our future. It was all there, wasn't

it? The civilizations rising and falling one after another until—the last city of all. The City of

the Face."

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"You saw it was a city?" De Kalb leaned forward quickly. "That's good. That's very good. It took

me three times to find that out."

"It didn't see it. I—I just knew."

I closed my eyes. Before me the empty landscape floated, dark, almost night, under the dim red

sky.

I knew the Face was enormous. The side of some mountain had been carved away to reveal it and, I

supposed, carved with tools by human hands. But you had the feeling that the Face must always have

been there, that one day it had wakened in the rock and given one great grirnace of impatience and

the mountainside had sloughed away from its features, leaving Ea to look out into eternity over

the red night of the world.

"There are people inside," I said. "I could feel them, being there. Feel their thoughts, I

suppose. People in an enormous city, a metropolis behind the Face."

"Not a metropolis," De Kalb said. "A nekropolis. There's a difference. But—yes, it's a city."

"Streets," I said dreamily, sniffing the empty glass. "Levels of homes and public buildings.

People moving, living, thinking. What do you mean, nekropolis?"

"Tell you later. Go on."

"I wish I could. It's fading." I closed my eyes again, thinking of the Face. I had to force my

mind to turn around in its tracks and look, for it didn't want to confront that infinite

complexity again. The Face was painful to see. It was too intricate, too involved with emotions

complex beyond our grasp. It was painful for the mind to think of it, straining to understand the

inscrutable things that experience had etched upon those mountain-high features.

"Is it a portrait?" I asked suddenly. "Or a composite? What is the Face?"

"A city," De Kalb said. "A nation. The ultimate in human destiny—and a call for help. And much

more that we'll never understand."

"But—the future!" I said. "That box—didn't you say it was found in Crete? Dug up in old ruins? How

could something from the past be a record of our own future? It doesn't make sense."

"Very little makes sense, sir, when you come to examine

the nature of time." De Kalb's voice was ponderous again.-He heaved himself up a little and folded

his thick fingers, looking at me above them with veiled gray eyes.

"Have you read Spengler, Mr. Cortland?" he asked.

I grimaced and nodded.

"I know, I know. He has a high irritant value. But the man had genius, just the same. His concept

of the community, moving through its course from 'culture' to dead and petrifying 'civilization'

is what happened to the city of the Face.

"I said happened' because I have to use the past tense for that nekropolis of the future. It

exists. It has accomplished itself in time as fully as Babylon or Rome. And the men in it are not

men at all in the sense we know. They are gods."

He looked at me as if he expected me to object. I said nothing.

"They are gods," He went on. "Spengler was wrong, of course, in thinking of any human progress in

one simple, romantic curve. You have only to compare fourteenth century Rome with sixteenth

century Rome to see that a nekropolis, as Mumford calls it, can pull itself together and become a

metropolis again, a living, vitaLunit in human culture.

"I have no quarrel with Spengler in his interpretations of a culture within itself. But both he

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and Toynbee went astray in their ideas of the symbolic value of a city. When you go further into

the Record you'll see what I mean."

He paused, put out a large hand and fumbled in a dish of fruit on the table at his elbow. He found

an orange and peered at it dubiously, hefted it once or twice, then closed his fingers over it and

went on with his discourse.

"In a moment," he said, "I want to show you something with this orange as an illustration. First,

however, I must do Spengler the1 justice of allowing the validity of his theories, in the

ultimate. The City of the Face has run its course. It is a nekropolis, in the .sense that Mumford

uses the term.

"In our times, a nekropolis such as Rome once was, and such as New York must be someday, needn't

mean the end of our civilization, because a city isn't a whole nation. There were outlying

villages that flourished all the better when

Rome ceased to dominate their world. When the dark ages closed over Europe it wasn't by

any means the end of the civilized world-^elsewhere on the planet new cultures were rising and old

ones flourishing. "But the City of the Face is a very different matter. "That City is really

Nekropolis and there are no outlying villages to carry on, no outlying cultures rising toward

fruition. In all that world there is only the one great City where mankind survives. And

they aren't men—they are gods. Gods, sir!"

"Then it can't really be a nekropolis," I objected. ' "It need not be. That's up to us." "How?"

"You saw my hearth. Dr. Essen showed you the stain of plague that is creeping across it. Oh yes,

my friend, that stain is spreading! Slowly, but with a rate of growth that increases as it goes.

The negative matter—no, not even negative. Not even that. But it happened to the world of the

Face. That whole planet is nekronic matter except for the City itself.

"You didn't sense that from your first experience with the Record? No? You will. The people in the

City can't save themselves by direct action on the world around them. They appeal to us. We can

save them. I don't yet know how. But they know or they wouldn't have appealed in just the way they

did."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Let me get this straight. You're asking me to accept a lot, you know.

The only premise I've got to believe in is the—the Record. But what do you want from me,

personally? How do I come into it? Why me?"

De Kalb shifted in his chair, sighed heavily, opened his fingers and peered at the orange he held

as if he had never seen it before. He grimaced.

"Sir, you're right. I accept the rebuke. Let me give you facts. Item, the Record. It is, in

effect, a book. But not a book made by human minds. And it must, as you know, be experienced, not

read. Each time you open the box you will get the same flash of complete vision, and each time you

will forget a little less as your mind is conditioned. But there will always be facets of that

tremendous story which

will elude us, I think. Our minds can never wholly grasp what lies inside that box....

"It was found in Crete. It had lain there perhaps three thousand years, perhaps five thousand—I

think, myself, a million. It came into my hands half by accident. I could not open it. Off and on

I tried. That is my habit. I used X-rays to look through the substance of the box. Of course I saw

nothing.

"I detected radioactivity, and I tested it with certain of the radio-elements. I exposed it to

supersonics. I—well, I tried many things. Something worked. Something clicked the safety, so that

one day it opened. You see—" He looked at me gravely. "You see, it was time."

"Time?"

"That box was made with a purpose, obviously. It was sent to us, with a message. I say to us but

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Henry Kuttner - The Time Axis

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