Gladiator - Philip Wylie (readnow .TXT) 📗

filled with chicle blocks marked off the realm of the twentieth century. The ship anchored. During the next year it would make two voyages back to the homeland for supplies. But the explorers would not emerge from the jungle in that time.

An antiquated, wood-burning locomotive, which rocked along over treacherous rails, carried them inland. The scientists became silent and pensive. In another car the Maya Indians who were to do the manual labor chattered incessantly in their explosive tongue. At the last sunbaked stop they disembarked, slept through an insect-droning night, and entered the jungle. For three weeks they hacked and hewed their way forward; the vegetation closed behind them, cutting off the universe as completely as the submerging waves of the sea. It was hot, difficult work, to which Hugo lent himself with an energy that astounded even Hardin, who had judged him valuable.

One day, when the high mountains loomed into view, Hugo caught his first glimpse of Uctotol, the Sacred City. A creeper on the hillside fell before his machete, then another⁠—a hole in the green wall⁠—and there it stood, shining white, huge, desolate, still as the grave. His arm hung in midair. Over him passed the mystic feeling of familiarity, that fugitive sense of recognition which springs so readily into a belief in immortality. It seemed to him during that staggering instant that he knew every contour of those great structures, that he had run in the streets, lived, loved, died there⁠—that he could almost remember the names and faces of its inhabitants, dead for thousands of years⁠—that he could nearly recall the language and the music⁠—that destiny itself had arranged a homecoming. The vision died. He gave a great shout. The others rushed to his side and found him trembling and pointing.

Tons of verdure were cut down and pushed aside. A hacienda was constructed and a camp for the laborers. Then the shovels and picks were broken from their boxes; the scientists arranged their paraphernalia, and the work began, interrupted frequently by the exultant shouts that marked a new finding. No one regretted Hugo. He made his men work magically; his example was a challenge. He could do more than any of them, and his hair and eyes, black as their own, his granite face, stern and indefatigable, gave him a natural dominion over them.

All this⁠—the dark, starlit, plushy nights with their hypnotic silences, the vivid days of toil, the patient and single-minded men⁠—was respite to Hugo. It salved his tribulations. It brought him to a gradual assurance that any work with such men would be sufficient for him. He was going backward into the world instead of forward; that did not matter. He stood on the frontier of human knowledge. He was a factor in its preparation, and if what they carried back with them was no more than history, if it cast no new light on existing wants and perplexities, it still served a splendid purpose. Months rolled by unheeded; Hugo gathered friends among these men⁠—and the greatest of those friends was Daniel Hardin.

In their isolation and occasional loneliness each of them little by little stripped his past for the others. Only Hugo remained silent about himself until his reticence was conspicuous. He might never have spoken, except for the accident.

It was, in itself, a little thing, which happened apart from the main field of activity. Hugo and two Indians were at work on a small temple at the city’s fringe. Hardin came down to see. The great stone in the roof, crumbled by ages, slipped and teetered. Underneath the professor stood, unheeding. But Hugo saw. He caught the mass of rock in his arms and lifted it to one side. And Dan Hardin turned in time to perceive the full miracle.

When Hugo lifted his head, he knew. Yet, to his astonishment, there was no look of fear in Hardin’s blue eyes. Instead, they were moderately surprised, vastly interested. He did not speak for some time. Then he said: “Thanks, Danner. I believe you saved my life. Should you mind picking up that rock again?”

Hugo dismissed the Indians with a few words. He glanced again at Hardin to make sure of his composure. Then he lifted the square stone back to its position.

Hardin was thinking aloud. “That stone must weigh four tons. No man alive can handle four tons like that. How do you do it, Hugo?”

Hot, streaming sun. Tumbled debris. This profound question asked again, asked mildly for the first time. “My father⁠—was a biologist. A great biologist. I was⁠—an experiment.”

“Good Lord! And⁠—and that’s why you’ve kept your past dark, Hugo?”

“Of course. Not many people⁠—”

“Survive the shock? You forget that we⁠—here⁠—are all scientists. I won’t press you.”

“Perhaps,” Hugo heard himself saying, “I’d like to tell you.”

“In that case⁠—in my room⁠—tonight. I should like to hear.”

That night, after a day of indecision, Hugo sat in a dim light and poured out the story of his life. Hardin never interrupted, never commented, until the end. Then he said softly: “You poor devil. Oh, you poor bastard.” And Hugo saw that he was weeping. He tried to laugh.

“It isn’t as bad as that⁠—Dan.”

“Son”⁠—his voice choked with emotion⁠—“this thing⁠—this is my lifework. This is why you came to my office last winter. This is⁠—the most important thing on earth. What a story! What a man you are!”

“On the contrary⁠—”

“Don’t be modest. I know. I feel. I understand.”

Hugo’s head shook sadly. “Perhaps not. You can see⁠—I have tried everything. In itself, it is great. I can see that. It is, objectively, the most important thing on earth. But the other way⁠—What can I do? Tell me that. You cannot tell me. I can destroy. As nothing that ever came before or will come again, I can destroy. But destruction⁠—as I believe, as you believe⁠—is at best only a step toward recreation. And what can I make afterwards? Think. Think, man! Rack your brains! What?” His hands clenched and unclenched. “I can build great halls and palaces. Futile! I