Chapter 25: The Escape Of Targo

“I am very much afraid it was a wrong move,” said the Chemist gravely.

They were sitting in a corner of the roof, talking over the situation. Lylda had left the city; the last they had seen of her, she was striding rapidly away, over the country towards Orlog. The street and field before the house now was nearly deserted.

“She had to do it, of course,” the Chemist continued, “but to kill Targo’s brother----”

“I wonder,” began the Big Business Man thoughtfully. “It seems to me this disturbance is becoming far more serious than we think. It isn’t so much a political issue now between your government and the followers of Targo, as it is a struggle against those of us who have this magic, as they call it.”

“That’s just the point,” put in the Doctor quickly. “They are making the people believe that our power of changing size is a menace that----”

“If I had only realized,” said the Chemist. “I thought your coming would help. Apparently it was the very worst thing that could have happened.”

“Not for you personally,” interjected the Very Young Man. “We’re perfectly safe--and Lylda, and Loto.” He put his arm affectionately around the boy who sat close beside him. “You are not afraid, are you, Loto?”

“Now I am not,” answered the boy seriously. “But this morning, when I left my grandfather, coming home----”

“You were afraid for your mother. That was it, wasn’t it?” finished the Very Young Man. “Does your grandfather teach you?”

“Yes--he, and father, and mother.”

“I want you to see Lylda’s father,” said the Chemist. “There is nothing we can do now until Lylda returns. Shall we walk up there?” They all agreed readily.

“I may go, too?” Loto asked, looking at his father.

“You have your lessons,” said the Chemist.

“But, my father, it is so very lonely without mother,” protested the boy.

The Chemist smiled gently. “Afraid, little son, to stay with Oteo?”

“He’s not afraid,” said the Very Young Man stoutly.

The little boy looked from one to the other of them a moment silently. Then, calling Oteo’s name, he ran across the roof and down into the house.

“Five years ago,” said the Chemist, as the child disappeared, “there was hardly such an emotion in this world as fear or hate or anger. Now the pendulum is swinging to the other extreme. I suppose that’s natural, but----” He ended with a sigh, and, breaking his train of thought, rose to his feet. “Shall we start?”

Lylda’s father greeted them gravely, with a dignity, and yet obvious cordiality that was quite in accord with his appearance. He was a man over sixty. His still luxuriant white hair fell to his shoulders. His face was hairless, for in this land all men’s faces were as devoid of hair as those of the women. He was dressed in a long, flowing robe similar to those his visitors were wearing.

“Because--you come--I am glad,” he said with a smile, as he shook hands in their own manner. He spoke slowly, with frequent pauses, as though carefully picking his words. “But--an old man--I know not the language of you.”

He led them into a room that evidently was his study, for in it they saw many strange instruments, and on a table a number of loosely bound sheets of parchment that were his books. They took the seats he offered and looked around them curiously.

“There is the clock we spoke of,” said the Chemist, indicating one of the larger instruments that stood on a pedestal in a corner of the room. “Reoh will explain it to you.”

Their host addressed the Chemist. “From Oteo I hear--the news to-day is bad?” he asked with evident concern.

“I am afraid it is,” the Chemist answered seriously.

“And Lylda?”

The Chemist recounted briefly the events of the day. “We can only wait until Lylda returns,” he finished. “To-morrow we will talk with the king.”

“Bad it is,” said the old man slowly; “very bad. But--we shall see----”

The Very Young Man had risen to his feet and was standing beside the clock.

“How does it work?” he asked. “What time is it now?”

Reoh appealed to his son-in-law. “To tell of it--the words I know not.”

The Chemist smiled. “You are too modest, my father. But I will help you out, if you insist.” He turned to the others, who were gathered around him, looking at the clock.

“Our measurement of our time here,” he began, “like yours, is based on----”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the Very Young Man. “I just want to know first what time it is now?”

“It is in the fourth eclipse,” said the Chemist with a twinkle.

The Very Young Man was too surprised by this unexpected answer to question further, and the Chemist went on.

“We measure time by the astronomical movements, just as you do in your world. One of the larger stars has a satellite which revolves around it with extreme rapidity. Here at Arite, this satellite passes nearly always directly behind its controlling star. In other words, it is eclipsed. Ten of these eclipses measure the passage of our day. We rise generally at the first eclipse or about that time. It is now the fourth eclipse; you would call it late afternoon. Do you see?”

“How is the time gauged here?” asked the Big Business Man, indicating the clock.

The instrument stood upon a low stone pedestal. It consisted of a transparent cylinder about twelve inches in diameter and some four feet high, surmounted by a large circular bowl. The cylinder was separated from the bowl by a broad disc of porous stone; a similar stone section divided the cylinder horizontally into halves. From the bowl a fluid was dropping in a tiny stream through the top stone segment into the upper compartment, which was now about half full. This in turn filtered through the second stone into the lower compartment. This lower section was marked in front with a large number of fine horizontal lines, an equal distance apart, but of unequal length. In it the fluid stood now just above one of the longer lines-the fourth from the bottom. On the top of this fluid floated a circular disc almost the size of the inside diameter of the cylinder.

The Chemist explained. “It really is very much like the old hour-glass we used to have in your world. This filters liquid instead of sand. You will notice the water filters twice.” He indicated the two compartments. “That is because it is necessary to have a liquid that is absolutely pure in order that the rate at which it filters through this other stone may remain constant. The clock is carefully tested, so that for each eclipse the water will rise in this lower part of the cylinder, just the distance from here to here.”

The Chemist put his fingers on two of the longer marks.

“Very ingenious,” remarked the Doctor. “Is it accurate?”

“Not so accurate as your watches, of course,” the Chemist answered. “But still, it serves the purpose. These ten longer lines, you see, mark the ten eclipses that constitute one of our days. The shorter lines between indicate halves and quarter intervals.”

“Then it is only good for one day?” asked the Very Young Man. “How do you set it?”

“It resets automatically each day, at the beginning of the first eclipse. This disc,” the Chemist pointed to the disc floating on the water in the lower compartment. “This disc rises with the water on which it is floating. When it reaches the top of it, it comes in contact with a simple mechanism--you’ll see it up there--which opens a gate below and drains out the water in a moment. So that every morning it is emptied and starts filling up again. All that is needed is to keep this bowl full of water.”

“It certainly seems very practical,” observed the Big Business Man. “Are there many in use?”

“Quite a number, yes. This clock was invented by Reoh, some thirty years ago. He is the greatest scientist and scholar we have.” The old man smiled deprecatingly at this compliment.