to have no end. The dreadful loneliness of it made Mason shudder a little.
“Is this the end?” he wondered softly, aloud. “The end of all Earth?”
Sensing his mood, though not comprehending the reason for it, Alasa came close, gripped his arm with slim fingers. “We’ll find food,” she said. “Somewhere.”
“We don’t need to worry about water, anyway,” he grunted. “It’s easy to distill that. And there’s—”
“ Hai! ”
Erech shouted, pointing, his pale eyes ablaze.
“Men—see? There—”
Below them, a little to the left of the drifting ship, a great, jagged crack loomed in the plain. There was movement around it, life—vague figures that were busy in the unchanging silvery twilight of a dying Earth.
“Men?” Murdach whispered. “No…”
Nor were they men. As the ship slanted down Mason was able to make out the forms of the strange creatures. Vaguely anthropoid in outline, there was something curiously alien about these people of a dying world.
“Shall we land?” Murdach asked.
Mason nodded. “Might as well. If they show signs of fight, we can get away in a hurry.”
The craft grounded with scarcely a jar near the great crack in the ground. Confusion was evident among the creatures. They retreated, in hurried confusion, and then a group of four advanced slowly. Through the transparent walls Mason scrutinized them with interest.
They were perhaps eight feet tall, with a tangle of tentacles that propelled them swiftly forward. Other tentacles swung from the thick, bulging trunk. The head was small, round, and without features—a smooth knob, covered with glistening scales. The bodies were covered with pale, pinkish skin that did not resemble human flesh.
Murdach said, “They are—plants!”
Plant-men! Amazing people of this lost time-sector! Yet evolution seeks to perfect all forms of life, to adapt it perfectly to its environment. In earlier days trees had no need to move from their places, Mason knew, for their food was constantly supplied from the ground itself. With the passing of slow eons perhaps that food had been depleted; limbs and branches had stretched out slowly, gropingly, hungrily. Painfully a tree had uprooted itself. The mutant had given life to others. And now, free of age-old shackles, Mason saw the plant-men, and fought down his unreasoning horror at the sight.
Murdach said, “Listen! I think they’re speaking to us—”
“Speaking?”
“With their minds. They’ve developed telepathy. Don’t you feel some sort of message?”
“I do,” Alasa broke in. “They’re curious. They want to know who we are.”
Mason nodded. “I don’t think they’re dangerous.” He opened the port, stepped out into the thin, icy air. A cold wind chilled him. Among the plant-men a little wave of panic came. They shrank back. Mason lifted his hand, palm outward, in the immemorial gesture of peace.
Within his mind a wordless message stirred. “Who are you? You are not of the Deathless Ones?”
At a loss, Mason answered aloud. “We are friends. We seek food—”
Again the strange fear shook the creatures. They drew back further. One stood his ground, blind glistening head turned toward the man, tentacles dangling limply.
“Food? What sort of food?”
They understood Mason’s thoughts, apparently. Conscious that he was on dangerous ground, he said, “Anything you can spare. What you eat—”
“Who are you?”
“We come from the past,” Mason answered at a venture. Would they understand that?
“You are not Deathless Ones?”
“No.” Mason sensed that the Deathless Ones, whoever they were, were enemies of the plant-men. And his reply seemed to reassure the creatures.
They conferred, and again their spokesman stood forward. “We will give you food, what we can spare. We are the Gorichen.” So Mason translated the plant-man’s thought message. There was more confidence in the creature’s mind now, he sensed.
“You must hurry, however. Soon
“Is this the end?” he wondered softly, aloud. “The end of all Earth?”
Sensing his mood, though not comprehending the reason for it, Alasa came close, gripped his arm with slim fingers. “We’ll find food,” she said. “Somewhere.”
“We don’t need to worry about water, anyway,” he grunted. “It’s easy to distill that. And there’s—”
“ Hai! ”
Erech shouted, pointing, his pale eyes ablaze.
“Men—see? There—”
Below them, a little to the left of the drifting ship, a great, jagged crack loomed in the plain. There was movement around it, life—vague figures that were busy in the unchanging silvery twilight of a dying Earth.
“Men?” Murdach whispered. “No…”
Nor were they men. As the ship slanted down Mason was able to make out the forms of the strange creatures. Vaguely anthropoid in outline, there was something curiously alien about these people of a dying world.
“Shall we land?” Murdach asked.
Mason nodded. “Might as well. If they show signs of fight, we can get away in a hurry.”
The craft grounded with scarcely a jar near the great crack in the ground. Confusion was evident among the creatures. They retreated, in hurried confusion, and then a group of four advanced slowly. Through the transparent walls Mason scrutinized them with interest.
They were perhaps eight feet tall, with a tangle of tentacles that propelled them swiftly forward. Other tentacles swung from the thick, bulging trunk. The head was small, round, and without features—a smooth knob, covered with glistening scales. The bodies were covered with pale, pinkish skin that did not resemble human flesh.
Murdach said, “They are—plants!”
Plant-men! Amazing people of this lost time-sector! Yet evolution seeks to perfect all forms of life, to adapt it perfectly to its environment. In earlier days trees had no need to move from their places, Mason knew, for their food was constantly supplied from the ground itself. With the passing of slow eons perhaps that food had been depleted; limbs and branches had stretched out slowly, gropingly, hungrily. Painfully a tree had uprooted itself. The mutant had given life to others. And now, free of age-old shackles, Mason saw the plant-men, and fought down his unreasoning horror at the sight.
Murdach said, “Listen! I think they’re speaking to us—”
“Speaking?”
“With their minds. They’ve developed telepathy. Don’t you feel some sort of message?”
“I do,” Alasa broke in. “They’re curious. They want to know who we are.”
Mason nodded. “I don’t think they’re dangerous.” He opened the port, stepped out into the thin, icy air. A cold wind chilled him. Among the plant-men a little wave of panic came. They shrank back. Mason lifted his hand, palm outward, in the immemorial gesture of peace.
Within his mind a wordless message stirred. “Who are you? You are not of the Deathless Ones?”
At a loss, Mason answered aloud. “We are friends. We seek food—”
Again the strange fear shook the creatures. They drew back further. One stood his ground, blind glistening head turned toward the man, tentacles dangling limply.
“Food? What sort of food?”
They understood Mason’s thoughts, apparently. Conscious that he was on dangerous ground, he said, “Anything you can spare. What you eat—”
“Who are you?”
“We come from the past,” Mason answered at a venture. Would they understand that?
“You are not Deathless Ones?”
“No.” Mason sensed that the Deathless Ones, whoever they were, were enemies of the plant-men. And his reply seemed to reassure the creatures.
They conferred, and again their spokesman stood forward. “We will give you food, what we can spare. We are the Gorichen.” So Mason translated the plant-man’s thought message. There was more confidence in the creature’s mind now, he sensed.
“You must hurry, however. Soon
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