The Greatest SF Classics of Stanley G. Weinbaum. Stanley G. Weinbaum

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      The Destiny of Man

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      "You devil!" Connor choked, and then whirled at a soft click behind him. A white envelope lay in a wire basket by the elevator.

      "Hand it to me," said the Flame coolly.

      He snatched it and thrust it at her, in a turmoil of emotion as he watched her read it.

      "Indeed!" she murmured. "My esteemed brother orders me to keep well away from you—which I shall not do—and commands you to his quarters at once." She yawned. "Take the elevator to any floor below the Tower and ask a guard. That's all."

      Yet, as the cage dropped, Connor could not forget that there had been something wistful about the Princess, at his last glimpse of her. Somehow, try as he would, he couldn't hate her quite whole–heartedly, and he frowned as he found his way to the West Chambers. A guard admitted him to an inner room, and then retired quietly, leaving him facing the Master, who sat behind a paper–littered desk.

      "Well, what do you think of me?" the Master greeted him abruptly.

      Connor was taken aback, unprepared for the question.

      "Why," he stammered, "what would I naturally think of you? You dragged me back here by torture. You nearly killed Evanie. Do you think I can easily forget or forgive such things?"

      "After all, Thomas Connor, you participated in a revolt against me," the Master said suavely. "You wounded eleven of my men. Did the governments of your day deal so leniently with treason?"

      "I've wondered why you are so easy on the rebels," he admitted. "Frankly, in my time, there'd have been a good many of us lined up against a wall and shot."

      The Master shook his head. "Why should I do that? The Weeds are the finest of my people. I made the only mistake—that of giving leisure to a race not ready for it. Leisure is what has bred all these minor revolutions. But does a father kill his favorite children?"

      "Does a son kill his mother?" retorted Connor. The Master smiled bleakly.

      "I see my sister has been talking to you. Yes, I refused immortality to my mother. She was an old woman —ill, infirm. Should I have condemned her to added centuries of misery? Immortality does not restore youth."

      The point was incontrovertible.

      "Yet you withhold it from those who have youth," Connor protested. "You keep it selfishly as a reward, to bind to yourself all men of ability. You've emasculated the rest of humanity."

      "You feel that immortality is a highly desirable reward, don't you?"

      "I do! In spite of what your sister says."

      "You don't understand," said the Master patiently. "We'll pass the question of its desirability; it doesn't matter. But suppose I were to open it to the race, to instruct all the doctors in its secrets. Wouldn't it immediately halt all development? How can evolution function if no one dies and no children are born?"

      That was a puzzler.

      "You could permit it after the birth of children," Connor said.

      "I could. But at the present birthrate, the land areas would provide bare standing room in just a century and a half. I could then kill off nine–tenths of the population, presumably, but what of the famines and food shortages intervening?"

      Connor was silent for a long moment.

      "The fault's with immortality itself!" he burst out vehemently. "Men should never have learned that secret!"

      "But they have learned it. Would you have me destroy the knowledge because fools envy it—and envy it mistakenly?"

      "Did you summon me here merely to justify your acts?" Tom Connor snapped in reply.

      "Exactly. You possess knowledge invaluable to me. I'd like to convince you of my sincerity."

      "You never will."

      "See here," said the Master, still in tones of calm gravity. "Don't ever doubt that I could steal your knowledge. I know ways to encompass it, and if I failed, others would not fail."

      "The Princess tried that," said Connor grimly. "She will not try it again." He fingered a small bronze bust on the desk before him. "And incidentally, what's to prevent me from flinging this bronze through your skull right now—killing you, instead of waiting for you to kill me?"

      "Your word to make no move against me in the Palace," reminded the Master gently.

      Connor's lips tightened. In that moment he realized suddenly what it was that had perturbed him so violently. He was beginning to believe the Master and he didn't want to! The memory of the Messenger's torture was too recent; the picture of Evanie's helplessness was too burning. He was being won over against his will, but

      "You win," he growled, releasing the bust. "Go ahead. Tell me what all this is leading up to. You must have some objective other than the indefinite perpetuation of your own power."

      The Master smiled. "I have. I plan the ultimate destiny of Mankind." He held up a hand to still Connor's quick, unbelieving protest. "Listen to me. I have bred out criminals by sterilizing, for many centuries, those with criminal tendencies. I have raised the general level of intelligence by sterilizing the feeble–minded, the incompetent. If we have fewer supreme geniuses than your people, we have at least no stupid nor insane—and genius will come.

      "I try, to the best of my knowledge, to improve the race. I think I'm succeeding. At least we're far advanced over the barbarians of the Dark СКАЧАТЬ