Clifford Simak - The Thing in the Stone - And Other Stories

The building was circular in shape, and about a half-mile in diameter. It was built of a pure white stone, like the rest of the ruined city.

The two twentieth century men gasped at its size.

They had little time, however, to gaze upon the building, for their captors urged them on. They walked slowly down the slope and, directed by the future-men, made their way through one of the great arching gateways and into the arena proper.

On all sides rose tier upon tier of seats, designed to hold thousands of spectators. On the opposite side of the arena was a series of steel cages, set under the seats.

The future-men urged them forward.

“They’re going to lock us up, evidently,” said Bill.

He of the protruding tooth laughed, as if enjoying a huge joke.

“It will not be for long,” he said.

As they approached the cages, they saw that a number of them were occupied. Men clung to the bars, peering out at the group crossing the sandy arena. Others sat listlessly, regarding their approach with little or no interest. Many of them, the twentieth century men noticed, bore the marks of prolonged incarceration.

They halted before one of the cells. One of the future-men stepped to the door of the cage and unlocked it with a large key. As the door grated back on rusty hinges, the others seized the two, unbound their hands and roughly hurled them inside the prison. The door clanged to with a hollow, ringing sound and the key grated in the lock.

They struggled up out of the dirt and refuse which covered the floor of the cell and squatted on their heels to watch the future-men make their way across the arena and through the archway by which they had come.

“I guess we’re in for it,” said Bill.

Harl produced a pack of cigarettes.

“Light up,” he said gruffly.

They lit up. Smoke from tobacco grown in 1935 floated out of their cell over the ruins of the city of Denver, upon which shone a dying sun.

They smoked their cigarettes, crushed them in the sand. Harl rose and began a minute examination of their prison. Bill joined him. They went over it inch by inch, but it was impregnable. Except for the iron gate, it was constructed of heavy masonry. An examination of the iron gate gave no hope. Again they squatted on their heels.

Harl glanced at his wrist watch.

“Six hours since we landed,” he said, “and from the appearance of the shadows, it’s still morning. The sun was well up in the sky, too, when we arrived.”

“The days are longer than those back in 1935,” explained Bill, “The earth turns slower. The days here may be twenty-four hours or longer.”

“Listen,” hissed Harl.

To their ears came the sound of voices. They listened intently. Mingled with the voices was the harsh grating of steel. The voices seemed to come from their right. They grew in volume.

“If we only had our guns,” moaned Harl.

The clamor of voices was close and seemed to be almost beside them.

“It’s the other prisoners,” gasped Bill. “They must be feeding them or something.”

His surmise was correct.

Before their cell appeared an old man. He was stooped and a long white beard hung over his skinny chest. His long hair curled majestically over his shoulders. In one hand he carried a jug of about a gallon capacity and a huge loaf of bread.

But it was neither the bread nor the jug which caught the attention of Harl and Bill. In his loin cloth, beside a massive ring of keys, were thrust their two .45’s.

He set down the jug and the loaf and fumbled with the keys. Selecting one he unlocked and slid back a panel near the bottom of the great door. Carefully he set the jug and the loaf inside the cell.

The two men inside exchanged a glance. The same thought had occurred to each. When the old man came near the door, it would be a simple matter to grasp him. With the guns there was a chance of blazing a way to the ship.

The oldster, however, was pulling the weapons from his loin cloth.

Their breath held in wonder, the time-travelers saw him lay them beside the jug and the loaf.

“The command of Golan-Kirt,” he muttered in explanation. “He has arrived to witness the games. He commanded that the weapons be returned. They will make the games more interesting.”

“More interesting,” chuckled Harl, rocking slowly on the balls of his feet.

These future men, who seemed to possess absolutely no weapons, apparently did not appreciate the deadliness of the .45’s.

“Golan-Kirt?” questioned Bill, speaking softly.

The old man seemed to see them for the first time.

“Yes,” he said. “Know you not of Golan-Kirt? He-Who-Came-Out-of-the-Cosmos?”

“No,” said Bill.

“Then truly can I believe what has come to my ears of you?” said the old man.

“What have you heard?”

“That you came out of time,” replied the oldster, “in a great machine.”

“That is true,” said Harl. “We came out of the twentieth century.”

The old man slowly shook his head.

“I know naught of the twentieth century.”

“How could you?” asked Harl. “It must have ended close to a million years ago.”

The other shook his head again.

“Years?” he asked. “What are years?”

Harl drew in his breath sharply.

“A year,” he explained, “is a measurement of time.”

“Time cannot be measured,” replied the old man dogmatically.

“Back in the twentieth century we measured it,” said Harl.

“Any man who thinks he can measure time is a fool,” the future-man was uncompromising.

Harl held out his hand, palm down, and pointed to his wrist watch.

“That measures time,” he asserted.

The old man scarcely glanced at it.

“That,” he said, “is a foolish mechanism and has nothing to do with time.”

Bill laid a warning hand on his friend’s arm.

“A year,” he explained slowly, “is our term for one revolution of the earth about the sun.”

“So that is what it means,” said the old man. “Why didn’t you say so at first? The movement of the earth, however, has no association with time. Time is purely relative.”

“We came from a time when the world was much different,” said Bill. “Can you give us any idea of the number of revolutions the earth has made since then?”

“How can I?” asked the old man, “when we speak in terms that neither understands? I can only tell you that since Golan-Kirt came out of the Cosmos the earth has circled the sun over five million times.”

Five million times! Five million years! Five million years since some event had happened, an event which may not have occurred for many other millions of years after the twentieth century. At least five million years in the future; there was no telling how much more!

Their instrument had been wrong. How wrong they could not remotely have guessed until this moment!

The twentieth century. It had a remote sound, an unreal significance. In this age, with the sun a brick red ball and the city of Denver a mass of ruins, the twentieth century was a forgotten second in the great march of time, it was as remote as the age when man emerged from the beast.

“Has the sun always been as it is?” asked Harl.

The old man shook his head.

“Our wise ones tell us that one time the sun was so hot it hurt one’s eyes. They also tell us it is cooling, that in the future it will give no light or heat at all.”

The oldster shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course, before that happens, all men will be dead.”

The old man pulled the little panel shut and locked it. He turned to go.

“Wait,” cried Harl.

The old one faced them.

“What do you want?” he asked, mumbling half-angrily in his beard.