Richard Jefferies - Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 6

“You bet that medical examination meant something serious,” he said.

“Pooh!” and the Englishman slapped his friend playfully on the shoulder.

“Since I have seen that vast crowd of well-developed people, and remember what that medicine man said, I have made up my mind that we are going to be separated.” Poor Johnston's lip was quivering.

“Rubbish! but there comes the captain; put on a bold front; talk up New York; tell 'em about Chicago and the Fair, and ask to be allowed to ride in their Ferris Wheel—if they ain't got no wheel, ask 'em when the first train leaves town.”

“This is no time for jokes,” growled Johnston, as Tradmos returned. Tradmos motioned to something that in the distance looked like a carriage, but which turned out to be a flying machine. It rose gracefully and glided over the ground and settled at their feet. It was large enough to seat a dozen people, and there was a little glass-windowed compartment at the end in which they could see “the driver,” as he was termed by Tradmos. The mysterious machinery was hidden in the woodwork overhead and beneath.

“Get in,” said the captain, and the door flew open as if of its own accord. Thorndyke went in first and was followed by the moody American. “Let up on the ague,” jested Thorndyke, nudging his friend with his elbow; “if you keep on quivering like that you may shake the thing loose from its moorings and we'd never know what became of us.”

Johnston scowled, and the officer, who had overheard the remark, smiled as he leaned toward the window and gave some directions to the man in the other compartment.

“You both take it rather coolly,” he remarked to Thorndyke. “I took a man and a woman over this route several years ago and both of them were in a dead faint; but, in fact, you have nothing to fear. We never have accidents.”

“It is as safe as a balloon, I suppose, and we are at home in them,” said the Englishman, with just the hint of a swagger in his tone.

“But your balloons are poor, primitive things at best,” returned Tradmos in his soft voice. “They can't be compared to this mode of travel, though, of course, our machines would not operate in your atmosphere.”

“Why not?” impulsively asked the Englishman. “I thought——”

But he did not conclude his remark, for they were rising, and both he and Johnston leaned apprehensively forward and looked out of one of the windows. Down below the long lines of people were silently waving their hats, scarfs and handkerchiefs as the machine swept along over their heads. As they rose higher the scene below widened like a great circular fan, and in the delicate roselight, the whole so appealed to Thorndyke's artistic sense that he ejaculated:

“Glorious! Superb! Transcendent!” and he directed Johnston's attention to the wonderful pinkish haze which lay over the view toward the west like a vast diaphanous web of rosy sunbeams.

“You ask why our air-ships would not operate in your atmosphere,” said the captain, showing pleasure at Thorndyke's enthusiasm. “It is simple enough when you have studied the climatic differences between the two countries. You have much to contend with—the winds, for instance, the heat and cold, etc.; this is the only known country where the winds are subjugated. I have never been in your world, but from what I have heard of it I am not anxious to see it. Your atmosphere and climate are so changeable and so diverse in different localities that I have heard your people spend much of their time in seeking congenial climes. I think it was a man who came from London that claimed he once had a cold—'a bad cold,' I think he called it. It was a standing joke in the royal family for a long time, and he heard so much about it that he tried to deny what he had said!”

Johnston glanced at the speaker non-plussed, but the captain was looking at Thorndyke.

“Your climate is delightful here now,” said the Englishman; “is it so long at a time?”

“Perpetually; it is regulated every moment, and every year we perfect it in some way.”

“Perfect it?”

“Yes, of course, why not? If it ever fails to be up to the usual high standard, it is owing to neglect of those in charge, and neglect is punished severely.”

Thorndyke's eyes sought those of the American incredulously. Seeing which Tradmos looked amused.

“You doubt it,” he smiled. “Well, wait till you have been here longer. The fact is, any one born in our climate could not live in yours. The king experimented on a man who claimed to have only one lung, but who had two sound ones when he was cut open. Well, the king sent him to China, or America, or some such place, and he wheezed himself to death in a week by your clocks. The weather was too fickle for him. Our system has been perfected to such an extent that we live four lives to your one, and our fruits and vegetables are a hundred per cent. better than those in other countries.”

“What is the name of your country?” asked Thorndyke, feeling that he was not losing anything by his boldness.

“Alpha.”

“Where is it located?”

“I don't know.” Tradmos looked out at the window for a moment as if to ascertain that they were going in the right direction, then he fixed his dark eyes on Thorndyke and asked hesitatingly:—

“I never thought—I—but do you know where your country is located?”

“Why, certainly.”

“Well, I don't know where this one is. We are taught everything, I think, except geography.” Nothing more was said for several minutes, then an exclamation of admiration broke from the Englishman. The color of the sunlight was changing. From east to west within the entire arc of their observation rolled an endless billow of lavender light leaving a placid sea of the same color behind it. On it swept, slowly driving back the pink glow that had been over everything.

“I see you like our sunlight?” said Tradmos, half interrogatively.

“Never saw anything like it before.”

“Yours is, I think, the same color all day long.”

“Except on rainy days.”

“Must be a great bore, monotonous—too much sameness. It is white, is it not?”

“Yes, rather—between white and yellow, I call it.”

“Something like our sixth hour, I suppose; this is the fourth hour of morning. Then come blue, yellow, green, and at noon red. The afternoon is divided up in the same way. The first hour is green, then follow yellow, blue, lavender, rose, gray and purple. Yes, I should think you would find yours somewhat tiresome.”

“We can rely on it,” said Johnston speaking for the first time and in a wavering voice, “it is always there.”

“Doing business at the old stand,” laughed Thorndyke, attempting an Americanism.

“Well, that is a comfort, anyway,” said the captain seriously. “In my time they have had no solar trouble, but some of the old people tell horrible tales of a period when our sun for several days did not shine at all.”

“Can it be possible?” said the Englishman dubiously.

“Oh, yes; and the early settlers had a great deal of trouble in different ways; but I am not at liberty to give you information on that head. It is the king's special pleasure to have new-comers form their own impressions, and he is particularly fond of noting their surprise, and, above all, their approval. People usually come here of their own accord through the influence of our secret force of agents all over the earth, but you were brought because you happened to drop on our island and would have found out too much for our good, and that red light you kept burning night and day might have given us trouble. There is no telling how long you could have kept alive on those clams.”

“We meant no offence,” apologized Thorndyke; “we——”