Clifford D. Simak

“No, Ghost. Not in so many words. But I got the impression-no, you’d better call that a hunch. Not strong enough to be an impression. And not at the time, but afterward. A funny feeling and no basis for the belief-if it is a belief. But I think that the Artifact is something from that other universe, the one before this one, from the earlier universe in which the crystal planet was formed. A precious thing, perhaps, preserved through all the aeons since that other universe. And something else as well-that the Banshee and the other Old Ones that Oop remembers are natives of that other universe as well, related somehow to the creatures on the crystal planet. Life forms that rose and developed and evolved in that past universe and came here, and to other planets as well, as colonists, in an attempt to establish a new civilization which could follow in the crystal planet’s tracks. But something happened. All of those colonization attempts failed. Here on earth because man developed. For other reasons, perhaps, on the other planets. And I think that I know why some of those other attempts failed. Maybe races do die out. Quite naturally and for no other reason than that they must die out to make room for something else. A natural law of some sort that we don’t understand. Maybe a race can only live so long. Maybe ancient creatures carry their death warrants with them. Some principle that we have never thought about because we are so young, a natural process that clears the way for evolution, so that no race can live forever and stand in the way of evolution.”

“It sounds reasonable,” said Ghost. “That all the colonies died out, I mean. If there had been a successful colony anywhere in the universe, it would seem likely the crystal planet would pass on its heritage to it instead of offering it to us or the Wheelers, to some race that had no connection with the crystal planet.”

“What bothers me,” said Maxwell, “is why the people of the crystal planet, so close to death that they are no more than shadows, should want the Artifact. What good will it do them? What use can they make of it?”

“Maybe if we knew what it was,” said Ghost. “You’re sure that you have no idea? Nothing that you heard or saw or…”

“No,” said Maxwell. “Not the least idea.”

Harlow Sharp had a harried look about him.

“Sorry you had to wait so long,” he told Maxwell. “This is a hectic day.”

“I was glad to get in any way at all,” said Maxwell. “That watchdog of yours out at the desk was not about to let me.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” said Sharp. “Figured you’d turn up soon or late. Been hearing some strange stories.”

“And most of them are true,” said Maxwell. “But that’s not what I’m here for. This is a business matter, not a social visit. I won’t take much time.”

“OK, then,” said Sharp, “what can I do for you?”

“You’re selling the Artifact,” said Maxwell.

Sharp nodded. “I’m sorry about that, Pete. I know you and a few others had an interest in it. But it’s been out there in the museum for years and, except as a curiosity to be stared at by visitors and tourists, it’s done no one any good. And Time needs money. Surely you know that. The university holds the purse strings fast and the other colleges feed us tiny driblets for specific programs and-”

“ Harlow, I know all that. I suppose it’s yours to sell. I recall the university, at the time you brought it forward, would have no part of it. The cost of moving it was yours and-”

“We’ve had to scrape and beg and borrow,” said Sharp. “We’ve worked up project after project-good sound, solid projects that would pay off in knowledge and new data-and submitted them and no one’s buying them. Can you imagine it! With all the past to dig around in and no one interested. Afraid, perhaps, that we’ll upset some of their pet theories they have worked out so nicely. But we have to get money somehow to carry on our work. Do you think I’ve liked some of the things we’ve done to get some extra money? Like this Shakespeare circus we are putting on-and a lot of other stunts as well. It’s done us no good, I tell you. It’s degraded our image, and the trouble-Pete, you can’t imagine the trouble that we have. Take this Shakespeare, for example. He’s out there somewhere, like a tourist, casing the joint, and me sitting back here with my nails chewed down to the elbow, imagining all the things that could happen to him. Can you envision the ruckus there would be if a man like Shakespeare should not be returned to his proper age-a man who-”

Maxwell broke in to head him off. “I’m not arguing with you, Harlow. I didn’t come to-”