The literary man gave a shrug of disgust. I had passed from his vision long ago. He was conversing with himself, a habit most literary people effect, and he walked away as unconcernedly as though I’d never existed. I wondered if he had really repeated history or simply reviewed a scene from his new romance.
We were crossing this historical neck of land now and all were on deck, gazing curiously at the dim outlines of the Vespa Belt.
Alpha Centauri joined us, pale, listless, heavy-eyed, and gave orders for low sailing that we could more distinctly view the possessions of King Benlial. She confidentially told me she would remain in seclusion during the journey over the Vespa Belt, and mournfully shook her head when I begged permission to visit her.
“The Vespa Belt has no charms for me,” she murmured. “Ah, Virgillius, do not be downhearted, you have taught me the value of unhappiness, life is incomplete without it. I am not despondent, but tortured with doubts; he whom I seek waits at Centur, but I have suffered disappointment so often I dread another. Do not think of me, join the others. I shall not see you again till we are crossing the Great Ocean.”
She sighed heavily and entered her cabin before I could prevent. The door closed between us and bitterly I regretted teaching her the knowledge of misery. Love had robbed her of individuality, damning her with a craving for the unattainable worse than death, whose soothing balm of peace, rest and vacant identity was far more cheerful than eternal yearning. From my heart I wished I could make her the radiant, soulless, happy creature she was before we met. I would give all I possess if I had never crossed the Pole, and suddenly a longing came over me to see once again dear old Middleton.
Traitorous thoughts galloped upon me. I had become enamoured with a bright, glorious vision. Reproaches, sad eyes, mournfulness were killing my passion. Bah! the vision still exists; I created it; but Centauri, who enslaved me, was fading.
I joined the others, who were leaning over the ship’s side, gazing curiously at a village we were sailing over. We could see the people crowding into the narrow streets and from our ship came a faint report, followed by a cloud of deep violet smoke which curled upward, twisted and looped till finally the word “Centauri” floated in space beside us. At the sight the crowds below shouted and cheered; we bellowed response. Toward evening we passed over a lovely bay, the air was soft, balmy and we remained upon deck till near midnight. The time passed swiftly between the Literary Man and Humorist, while the ladies sang in clear, sweet voices. We turned in when a sudden icy squall struck us, and the last view we had of the new country was of dark, gloomy mountains.
Next morning before sunrise I was on deck, but my traveling companions were earlier and joshed me unmercifully. The Literary Man was persistently witty about oversleeping—he’d been up all night and regaled us about the wondrous sights we’d missed. We had sailed over three great cities brilliant with light, humming with revelry, some celebration going on. “And,” he continued, “these Vespa savages have built wonderful cities of superb architecture. I think we’re approaching the royal city of Benlial. See the height of those monstrous domes, the steeple of one temple has tried to pierce the sun. The ancient city of Benlial has for ages been the theme of poets.”
We were sailing over vast grain fields and meadow-land where thousands of cattle grazed, and far in the distance, gleaming white, phantom-like through the mist, we saw a great city. As we neared this spectral, poem city, the mist cleared before the strong, hot rays of the rising sun, and beneath us stretched a scene of fabulous beauty. Thoroughfares of marble lined with gigantic palms, whose huge branches arched from side to side, high domed buildings of pure white marble surrounded with vast gardens gorgeous with bloom. Poverty could not exist in this luxurious city. The ship sailed lower that we might view closer this paradise of earth. Nestling in the center of extensive gardens, miniature lakes and streams, forced cataracts and high spraying fountains was the jewel-like palace of Benlial—a long, flat, shining building.
“Here in the heart of civilization is a barbaric relic of what the Vespa people were,” remarked the Literary Man. “They have been working centuries upon that palace and are still adding to it; it will never be completed. The architecture is valuable only for antiquity and hideousness,” he continued, “and tasks the ingenuity of modern architects to follow the original plan. The building is entirely of mosaic.”