THE ISSAHAR ARTIFACTS By J. F. BONE _Lincoln said it eons ago. .. . It took a speck of one-celled plant life on a world parsecs away to prove it for all the galaxy. _ The following manuscript was discovered during the excavation of alateral connecting link between the North-South streamways in NarhilProvince near Issahar on Kwashior. The excavator, while passing througha small valley about 20 yursts south of the city, was jammed by a massof oxidized and partially oxidized metallic fragments. On most worldsthis would not be unusual, but Kwashior has no recorded history ofmetallic artifacts. The terrestrial operator, with unusual presence ofmind, reported the stoppage immediately. Assasul, the DistrictEngineering monitor, realized instantly that no metallic debris shouldexist in that area, and in consequence ordered a most careful excavationin the event that the artifacts might have cultural significance. The debris proved to be the remnants of an ancient spaceship similar tothose described in Sector Chronicles IV through VII, but of much smallersize and cruder design--obviously a relic of pre-expansion days. Withinthe remnants of the ship was found a small box of metal covered withseveral thicknesses of tar and wax impregnated fabric which had beenmostly destroyed. The metal itself was badly oxidized, but served toprotect an inner wooden box that contained a number of thin sheets of afragile substance composed mainly of cellulose which were brown andcrumbling with age. The sheets were covered with runes of _linguaantiqua_ arranged in regular rows, inscribed by hand with a carbon-basedink which has persisted remarkably well despite the degenerativeprocesses of time. Although much of the manuscript is illegible, sufficient remains to settle for all time the Dannar-MarraketControversy and lend important corroborating evidence to the CassahebThesis of Terrestrial migrations. The genuineness of this fragment has been established beyond doubt. Radiocarbon dating places its age at ten thousand plus or minus onehundred cycles, which would place it at the very beginning of theIntellectual Emergence. Its importance is beyond question. Itsimplications are shocking despite the fact that they conform to many ofthe early legends and form a solid foundation for Dannar's Thesis whichhas heretofore been regarded as implausible. In the light of thismaterial, the whole question of racial origins may well have to bereevaluated. Without further comment, the translated text is presentedherewith. You may draw your own conclusions. Go with enlightenment. -BARRAGOND- Monitor of Cultural Origins and Relics Kwashior Central Repository * * * * * I have decided after some thought, to write this journal. It is, Isuppose, a form of egotism--for I do not expect that it shall ever beread in the event that I am unable to leave this place. Yet it affordsme a certain satisfaction to think that a part of me will remain longafter I have returned to dust. In any event, I feel that one is nottruly dead if a part of his personality remains. Many of the ancientssuch as Homer, Phidias, Confucius, Christ, da Vinci, Lincoln, Einstein, Churchill--and many others--live on through their works when otherwisethey would long since have been forgotten and thus be truly dead. Earth's history is full of such examples. And while I have noexpectation of an immortality such as theirs, it flatters my ego tothink that there will be some part of me which also will survive . .. _(Note: There are several lines following this which are obliterated, defaced or unreadable. There are more to follow. In the future such gapsin the content will be indicated thus: . .. )_ . .. I expect that it is a basic trait of character, for spacemen must begregarious, and although I am not truly a spaceman I have been in spaceand, in consequence, my character is no different from myex-crewmates--at least in that respect. I think as time passes I shallmiss the comfort of companionship, the sense of belonging to a group, the card games, the bull sessions, the endless speculation on what comesnext, or what we will do when the voyage is over and we are again onEarth . .. . .. I particularly recall Gregory. Odd, but I never knew his surname, ormaybe it was his given name, for Gregory could function as well in onerespect as the other. He would boast continually of what he would do towine, women, and song once we returned to Earth. Poor Gregory. Themeteor that hulled our ship struck squarely through the engine roomwhere he was on duty. Probably he never knew that he had died. At leasthis fate had the mercy of being brief. Certainly it is not like mine. Itwas . .. Given . .. There was plenty of time for the survivors to reach the lifeboats, andin our decimated condition there were plenty of boats--which increasedour chances of living by a factor of four . .. I suppose that it wasfoolish to give way to the feeling of every man for himself but I am nota spaceman trained to react automatically to emergencies. Neither am I anavigator or a pilot, although I can fly in an emergency. I am abiologist, a specialist member of the scientific staff--essentially anindividualist. I knew enough to seal myself in, push the eject buttonand energize the drive. However, I did not know that a lifeboat had noacceleration compensators, and by the time the drive lever returned toneutral, I was far out in space and thoroughly lost. I could detect nolifeboats in the vicinity nor could I raise any on the radio. I laterfound that a transistor malfunctioned, but by then I was well out ofrange, stranded between the stars in the black emptiness of space. Afterreading the manual on lifeboat operation there was but one course open. I selected the nearest G-type star, set the controls on automatic, andwent into cold sleep. There was nothing else to do. If I remained awakeI would be dead of oxygen starvation long before I reached a habitableworld. The only alternative was the half-death of frozen sleep and thelong wait until the boat came within range of the sun I had selected. * * * * * I awoke in orbit around this world, and after I recovered full use of myfaculties and checked the analyzer, I decided to land. I'm afraid I dida rather bad job of it, since I used the chemical rockets too late, andthe plasma jets scorched a considerable amount of acreage in the meadowwhere I finally came to rest. However, the residual radioactivity islow, and it is safe enough to walk outside. .. . The life boat is lyingbeside a small stream which empties into a circular pool of blue waterin the center of a small meadow. The fiery trail of the jets and rocketshas burned a hundred-foot-wide path across the meadow, and the upperedge of the pool, and ends in a broad, blackened circle surrounding theboat. I came down too fast the last few feet, and the drive tubes are acrumpled mess inextricably fused with the bent landing pads. This boatwill never fly again without extensive repairs which I cannot perform. But the hull is otherwise sound, and I am comfortable enough except fora few rapidly healing bruises and contusions. In a few days I should bewell enough to explore. .. . I am surprised that this world is so capable of supporting human life. The consensus of scientific opinion has been that less than one out of50, 000 planets would be habitable. Yet I have struck paydirt on thefirst try. Perhaps I am lucky. At any rate I am alive, and my lifeboat, while somewhat damaged by an inept landing, is still sufficiently intactto serve as a shelter, and the survival kits are undamaged, which shouldmake my stay here endurable if not pleasant . .. And we are learning agreat deal about our galaxy with the development of the interstellardrive--not the least of which is that authoritative opinion is mereopinion and far from authoritative. This world on which I find myself is in every respect but one similar toEarth. There is no animate life--only plants. No birds fly, no insectsbuzz, no animals rustle the silent underbrush. The only noise is thewind in the trees and grasses. I am utterly alone. It is a strangefeeling, this loneliness. There is a feeling of freedom in it, a releasefrom the too-close proximity of my fellow men. There is the pleasure ofabsolute privacy. But this will undoubtedly pall. Already I find that Iam anxious for someone to talk to, someone with whom I can share ideasand plans. There . .. . .. Which I cannot explain. But one thing is certain. My firstimpression of this place was wrong. The life here, if not animate, is atleast intelligent--and it is not friendly. Yet neither does it hate. Itobserves me with a slow, methodical curiosity that I can sense at thevery threshold of consciousness. It is a peculiar sensation that isquite indescribable--unpleasant--but hardly terrifying. I suppose I canfeel it more than a normal person because I am a biologist and it ispart of my training and specialized skill to achieve a certain rapportwith my surroundings. I first noticed it yesterday. It came suddenly, without warning, a vague uneasiness, like the feeling when one awakensfrom a partially remembered but unpleasant dream. And it has beenincreasing ever since. * * * * * The principal impressions I received from this initial contact were anawareness of self and a recognizance of identity--the concept of _cogitoergo sum_ came through quite clearly. I wonder what Descartes wouldthink of an alien intelligence quoting his dogma. .. . I think it isanimal, despite the absence of animal life in this area. The thoughtpatterns are quick and flexible. And they have been increasing in powerand precision at an appreciable rate. I am sure that it is aware of me. I shall call the feeling "it" until I can identify the source moreaccurately. Certainly "it" appears to be as good a description as any, since there is no consciousness of sex in the thought patterns. I wonderwhat sort of . .. And to my surprise I _swore_! I do not ordinarilycurse or use obscenities--not because they are obscene but because theyare a poor and inexact means of conveying ideas or impressions. But inthis case they were particularly appropriate. No other words could soprecisely describe my feelings. Me, a rational intelligence, succumbingto such low-level emotional stimuli! If this keeps on, the next thing Iknow I will be seeing little green men flitting through the trees. .. . Ofcourse, this world is unnatural, which makes its effect on the nervoussystem more powerful, yet that does not explain the feeling of tensionwhich I have been experiencing, the silent straining tension of anoverloaded cable, the tension of a toy balloon overfull with air. I havea constant feeling of dreadful expectancy, of imminent disaster, mixedwith a sense of pain and a lively--almost childlike--curiosity. To saythat this is disquieting would be a complete understatement, this stateof chronic disease, mixed with occasional rushes of terror. I am certainthat my nervous system and emotional responses are being examined, andcatalogued like a visceral preparation in an anatomy laboratory. Thereis something infinitely chilling about this mental dissection. . .. And after a careful search of the area I found precisely nothing. You who may read this will probably laugh, but I cannot. To me this isno laughing matter. I find myself jumping at the slightest noise, anincrease in the wind, the snap of an expanding hull plate, the crackleof static over my radio. I whirl around to see who, or _what_, iswatching me. My skin crawls and prickles as though I were covered withants. My mind is filled with black, inchoate dread. In three words, _I'mscared stiff_! Yet there is nothing tangible--nothing I should befrightened about, and this terrifies me even more. For I know where thiscontinual fear and worry can lead--to what ends this incessantstimulation can reach. * * * * * Under pressure my body reacts, preparing me to fight or flee. Myadrenals pump hormones into my bloodstream, stimulating my heart and mysympathetic nervous system, making glucose more available to my muscles. My peripheral capillaries dilate. Intestinal activity stops as blood ischanneled into the areas which my fear and my glands decide will need itmost. I sweat. My vision blurs. All the manifold changes of the fight orflight syndrome are mobilized for instant action. But my body cannot beheld in this state of readiness. The constant stimulation willultimately turn my overworked adrenal glands into a jelly-like mess ofcystic quivering goo. My general adaptation syndrome will no longeradapt. And I will die. But I am not dead yet. And I have certain advantages. I am intelligent. I know what faces me. And I can adjust. That is one of the outstandingcharacteristics of the human race--the ability to adjust to ourenvironment, or, failing that, to adjust our environment to us. Inaddition, I have my hands, tools, and materials to work with here in thelifeboat. And finally I am desperate! I should be able to accomplishsomething. There must be . .. * * * * * . .. But it is not going well. There are too many parts which I do notknow by sight. If I were a more competent electronicist I would have hadthe parts assembled now and would be sending a beacon signal clearacross this sector. The pressure hasn't been any help. It doesn't getgreater, but it has become more insisting--more demanding. I seem tofeel that it _wants_ something, that its direction has become morechannelized. The conviction is growing within me that I am destined tobe _absorbed_. The fear with which I live is a constant thing. And I still keep lookingfor my enemy. In a strange, impersonal way it has become my enemy forthough it does not hate, it threatens my life. My waking hours are helland my sleep is nightmare. Strange how a man clings to life and sanity. It would be so easy to lose either. Of one thing I am certain--thiscannot go on much longer. I cannot work under pressure. I must act. Ishall try again to find my enemy and kill it before it kills me. It isno longer a question of . .. . .. Never again shall I wish to be alone. If I get out of this alive Iam going to haunt crowds. I will surround myself with people. Right nowI would give my soul to have one--just one--person near me. Anyone. Ifeel certain that two of us could face this thing and lick it. Ifnecessary we could face it back to back, each covering the other. I amnow getting impressions. Sensory hallucinations. I am floating. I swim. I bathe luxuriantly in huge bathtubs and the water runs through my bodyas though I were a sponge. Have you ever felt _porous_?. .. . .. And that last attack was a doozer! I wrecked a week's work lookingfor the little man who wasn't there. The urge to kill is becoming moreintense. I want to destroy the author of my misery. Even though I amstill a balanced personality--polite language for being sane--I can'ttake much more of this. I will not go mad, but I will go into theadrenal syndrome unless I can end this soon. Nothing I have done seems to help. For a while I was sure that the musictapes held the pressure back, but the enemy is used to them now. I amstill working on the subspace beacon. The radio and most of the controllinkages have gone into it. It looks like an electronicist's nightmare, but if the survival manual is right, it will work. It has to work! Idread the time when I shall have to cannibalize the recorder. Can'thelp thinking that Shakespeare was right when he wrote that bit aboutmusic soothing the savage breast. It may not soothe the enemy, for itisn't savage, but it certainly soothes me, even though there's somethingrepetitive about it after a half a hundred playings. My breast's savageall right. Fact is, it's downright primitive when an attack starts. Ican feel them coming now. I keep wondering how much longer I can last. Guess I'm getting morbid. .. . More nightmares last night. I drowned three times and a purple octopusgave me an enema. Woke up screaming, but got an idea from it. Funny thatI never thought of it before. Water's the fountainhead of life, andthere is no real reason for assuming my enemy is terrestrial. He couldjust as well be aquatic. I'll find out today--maybe. Just to be doingsomething positive--even thinking--makes me feel better. .. . * * * * * _Got it!_ I know where it is! And I know how to kill it. Fact is, I'vealready done it! Now there's no more pressure. God--what a relief! Thismorning I burned the meadow and cut down the nearest trees surroundingthis clearing and nothing happened. I expected that. Then I checked thewater. Nothing in the stream, but the pond was _green_!--filled almostto the edge with a mass of algae! A hundred-foot platter of sticky greenslime, cohesive as glue and ugly as sin. It _had_ to be it--and it was. I never saw algae that cohered quite like that. So I gave it about fiftygallons of rocket juice--red fuming nitric acid--right in the belly. Then I sat down and let the tension flow out of me, revelling in itspain, laughing like crazy as it turned brown--and the pressuredisappeared. No tension at all now. The place is as quiet and peacefulas the grave. I want to laugh and laugh--and run through the burnedmeadow and roll in the ashes so grateful am I for my deliverance. Got the idea of killing the monster from a splash of rocket fuel on thebank of the stream and my memory of the pain in the early feelings. Butit was nothing compared to the feeling when the acid hit that damnedmass of green slime! Even though my brain was screaming at me, I feltgood. I should put a couple of hundred gallons into the stream just tomake sure--but I can't afford it. I need the fuel to run the generatorsto propagate the wave that'll bring me home if someone hears it. Andthey'll hear it all right. My luck is in. Now I'm going to sleep--_sweetsleep that knits the ravelled sleeve of care_--Shakespeare, old man, youhad a phrase for everything! I love you. I love everything. I even feelsorry for that poor plant . .. Of guilt. It couldn't help the fact thatmy jets set up a mutation. And being intelligent it _had_ to becurious. Of course, no one would believe me if I started talking aboutintelligent algae. But what's so odd about that? Even the most complexlife forms are just aggregations of individual cells working together. So if a few individual cells with rudimentary data-storage capacity gotthe idea of uniting why couldn't they act like a complex organism? * * * * * It is useless to speculate on what might have happened had that thinglived. But it's dead now--burned to death in acid. And althoughdestruction of intelligent life is repugnant to me, I cannot helpfeeling that it is perhaps better that it is gone. Considering howrapidly it developed during its few weeks of life, and the power itpossessed, my mind is appalled at its potential. I've had my experienceand that's enough. Lord! but I'm tired. I feel like a wrung-out sponge. Guess I'll rest for a little while . .. . .. And received a reply to my signal! They heterodyned it right backalong my own beam. They'll be landing in a week. I don't think I'll takethis manuscript with me. I couldn't use it--and somehow I don't feellike burning it. Maybe I'll make a time capsule out of it. It will beamusing to speculate about what sort of a reaction it'll provoke, providing it is ever read. I can see them now, huge-headed humans, wrinkling their noses and saying "Intelligent algae--fantastic--the manmust have been mad!" _The manuscript ends here--and of course we know that the "man" was notmad. He left behind a rich heritage indeed, for those few cells thatescaped his wrath and floated down to the sea. Did we but know hisorigin we would erect a suitable memorial if we had to travel to thefarthest reach of our galaxy. But the names he quotes are not in ourrepositories and as for the word "Earth" which he used for hishomeworld, I need not remind my readers that the intelligent terrestrialinhabitants of the 22, 748 planets of this sector use the term "Earth" orits synonyms "soil" and "world" to describe their planets. Of course, the term "Homewater" is gradually replacing this archaic concept as weextend our hegemony ever more widely across the disunited worlds of thegalaxy. _ _At that it seems strange that the unknown author's race should havepassed. As individuals they had so many advantages, while we are so weakand individually so helpless. They could do almost everything exceptcommunicate and cooperate. We can do but little else, yet our largeraggregations can control entire worlds, some peopled perhaps withdescendants of this very individual. It merely proves that Dannar'sstatement in the preface of his Thesis is correct. _ "United, cohesive cooperation is the source of irresistible strength. " THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Science Fiction Stories_ April 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.