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

“Sit down, friend,” said Harl. “We would like to talk further.”

The other hesitated, half wheeling to go, then turned back.

“We came from a time when the sun hurt one’s eyes. We have seen Denver as a great and proud city. We have seen this land when the grass grew upon it and rain fell and there were broad plains where the sea now lies,” said Harl.

The oldster sank to the sand in front of their cage. His eyes were lighted with a wild enthusiasm and his two skinny hands clutched the iron bars.

“You have looked upon the world when it was young,” he cried. “You have seen green grass and felt rain. It seldom rains here.”

“We have seen all you mention,” Harl assured him. “But we would ask why we have been treated as foes. We came as friends, hoping to meet friends, but ready for war.”

“Aye, ready for war,” said the old man in trembling tones, his eyes on the guns. “Those are noble weapons. They tell me you strewed the sands with the dead ere you were taken.”

“But why were we not treated as friends?” insisted Harl.

“There are no friends here,” cackled the old man. “Not since Golan-Kirt came. All are at one another’s throats.”

“Who is this Golan-Kirt?”

“Golan-Kirt came out of the Cosmos to rule over the world,” said the old man, as if intoning a chant. “He is neither Man nor Beast. There is no good in him. He hates and hates. He is pure Evil. For after all, there is no friendliness or goodness in the universe. We have no proof that the Cosmos is benevolent. Long ago our ancestors believed in love. This was a fallacy. Evil is greater than good.”

“Tell me,” asked Bill, moving closer to the bars, “have you ever seen Golan-Kirt?”

“Aye, I have.”

“Tell us of him,” urged Bill.

“I cannot,” there was stark terror in the old man’s eyes. “I cannot!”

He huddled closer to the cage and his voice dropped to an uncanny whisper.

“Men out of time, I will tell you something. He is hated, because he teaches hate. We obey him because we must. He holds our minds in the hollow of his hand. He rules by suggestion only. He is not immortal. He fears death—he is afraid—there is a way, if only one with the courage might be found—”

The old man’s face blanched and a look of horror crept into his eyes. His muscles tensed and his clawlike hands clutched madly at the bars. He slumped against the gate and gasped for breath.

Faintly his whisper came, low and halting.

“Golan-Kirt—your weapons—believe nothing—close your mind to all suggestion—”

He stopped, gasping for breath.

“I have fought—” he continued, haltingly, with an effort. “I have won—. I have told you—. He has—killed me—he will not kill you—now that you—know—.”

The old man was on the verge of death. Wide-eyed, the two saw him ward it off, gain a precious second.

“Your weapons—will kill him—he’s easy to kill—by one who does not—believe in him—he is a—.”

The whisper pinched out and the old man slid slowly to the sands in front of the cage.

The two stared at the crumpled form of humanity.

“Killed by suggestion,” gasped Harl.

Bill nodded.

“He was a brave man,” he said.

Harl regarded the corpse intently. His eyes lighted on the key ring and kneeling, he reached out and drew the body of the future-man close. His fingers closed on the ring and ripped it from the loin cloth.

“We’re going home,” he said.

“And on the way out we’ll bump off the big shot,” added Bill.

He lifted the guns from the floor and clicked fresh cartridges into the chambers. Harl rattled the keys. He tried several before he found the correct one. The lock screeched and the gate swung open protestingly.

With quick steps they passed out of the cell. For a moment they halted in silent tribute before the body of the old man. With helmets doffed the twentieth century men stood beside the shriveled form of a man who was a hero, a man who had flung his hatred in the face of some terrible entity that taught hate to the people of the world. Scanty as was the information which he had given, it set the two on their guard, gave them an inkling of what to expect.

As they turned about they involuntarily started. Filing into the amphitheater, rapidly filling the seats, were crowds of future-men. A subdued roar, the voice of the assembling people, came to their ears.

The populace was assembling for the games.

“This may complicate matters,” said Bill.

“I don’t think so,” replied Harl. “It’s Golan-Kirt we must deal with. We would have had to in any case. These men do not count. As I understand it he exercises an absolute control over them. The removal of that control may change the habits and psychology of the future-men.”

“The only thing we can do is fight Golan-Kirt and then act accordingly,” said Bill.

“The man who captured us spoke of his minions,” Harl said thoughtfully.

“He may be able to produce hallucinations,” Bill hazarded. “He may be able to make one believe something exists when it really doesn’t. In that case, the people would naturally believe them to be creatures which came at his beck and call.”

“But the old man knew,” objected Harl. “He knew that it was all mere suggestion. If all the people knew this the rule of Golan-Kirt would end abruptly. They would no longer believe in his omnipotence. Without this belief, suggestion, by which he rules, would be impossible.”

“The old man,” asserted Bill, “gained his knowledge in some mysterious manner and paid for its divulgence with his life. Still the old fellow didn’t know all of it. He believed this entity came out of the Cosmos.”

Harl shook his head, thoughtfully.

“It may have come out of the Cosmos. Remember, we are at least five million years in the future. I expect to find some great intelligence. It is physical, for the old man claimed to have seen it, and that should make our job easier.”

“The old man said he was not immortal,” commented Bill. “Therefore, he is vulnerable and our guns may do the work. Another thing—we are not to believe a single thing we feel, hear, or see. He seems to rule wholly by suggestion. He will try to kill us by suggestion, just as he killed the old fellow.”

Harl nodded.

“It’s a matter of will power,” he said. “A matter of brain and bluff. Apparently the will power of these people has degenerated and Golan-Kirt finds it easy to control their minds. They are born, live, and die under his influence. It has almost become hereditary to accept his power. We have the advantage of coming out of an age when men were obliged to use their brains. Perhaps the human mind degenerated because, as science increased the ease of life, there was little need to use it. Some fine minds may still remain, but apparently they are few. We are doubters, schemers, bluffers. Golan-Kirt will find us tougher than these future-men.”

Bill produced cigarettes and the two lighted up. Slowly they walked across the vast arena, guns hanging in their right hands. People were filing into the place and the tiers were filling.

A roar came out of the tiers of seats before them. They recognized it. It was the cry of the gathering crowd, the cry for blood, the expression of a desire to see battle.

Harl grinned.

“Regular football crowd,” he commented.

More and more poured into the arena, but it was apparent that the inhabitants of the ruined city could fill only a very small section of the thousands upon thousands of seats.

The two seemed lost in the mighty space. Above them, almost at the zenith, hung the vast red sun. They seemed to move in a twilight-filled desert rimmed in by enormous white cliffs.