This room was certainly the quietest place in all the world, Machine thought. He could hear not only his heartbeat but the little swish of air passing through his bronchial tubes and the faint creaking of his joints as he moved his hand. These were sounds which the most elaborate stethoscope could bring out but faintly. Perhaps it was the quiet of the room, he thought, and perhaps it was the faint and mysterious aura which the figure, revealed by the sliding wall, diffused.
It was the shape of a man—had
been once, that is. For it was
so terribly old that the ordinary attributes
of humanity were gone from
its decrepit frame. It could not
move, for it was seated with legs
crossed and arms folded over the
shrivelled breast, these members held
in place by padded clamps. The
dully-glowing tangle of machinery
about it bespoke artificial feeding
and digestion; a myriad of tiny silvery
pipes entering into its skin must
have been man-made perspiration
ducts. The eyes were lost behind
ponderous lenses and scanning devices,
and there was a sort of extended
microphone that entered the
very mouth of the creature. Soundgrids
surrounded it in lieu of ears
that bad long since shrivelled into
uselessness.
The lips unmoving, the creature spoke again: "You know me?" it whispered penetratingly.
Maclure dredged his memory for a moment, following the clue of the high, crusted brow of the creature. "You must be Mr. Sapphire, it seems," said Angel slowly.
"Excellent." whispered the creature. "I am Mr. Sapphire—of Planets Production Corporation, Extra-terrestrial Mines. Amusements Syndicate, Publishers A ssociated—can you complete the list?"
"I think so," said Angel. "In spite of the very clever management it's almost obvious—after a rather penetrating study—that there is one fountainhead of finance from which springs almost all the industry and commerce and exchange in the system today. I had not suspected that you were at the head and still alive. One hundred and eighty years, isn't it?"
"Yes," whispered the creature. "One hundred and eighty years of life—if this is it. Now, Maclure, you do not know why I called you. It is because I am a proud man, and will not be humiliated by death. I shall live, Maclure. I shah live!" The voiceless whisper was still for a moment.
"And," suggested Angel, "you want me to help you?"
"Yes. I followed your childhood in the hands of your father. I saw you at twelve the equal of men four times your age, physically and mentally their actual equal. And I know that after the death of your father you chose to disappear. I knew you would do this, Maclure, for a while. It was your intention to slip into the way of the world and forget that you were the infinite superior of your fellows. Well—you succeeded, in your own mind at least. You are well on the way to forgetting that to those around you you are as a man among apes. That is so of all men except you—and me."
Angel grinned bitterly. "You struck it," he said. "I think you and I stand alone in the world. I was the victim of my father's ambition. What are you?"
"Life eternal," sounded the voiceless whisper. "To watch the world and its aspects—to mould it as I will,
