“Taken as a whole it is of remarkable beauty,” I blurted out. “There’s not another building to compare with it in the wide world.”
Everybody became greatly interested in the strange palace with its numerous domes, steeples and beautiful lacey archways—an abode for gnomes and fairies, the crown jewel of the Vespa Belt, its diadem of artistic glory. Centauri with all her wonders could not boast of any work to compare with this marvelous palace.
Slowly, reluctantly, we sailed from the superb marble city with its gleaming white edifices, mosaic palaces and vast boulevards haunting the memory, so that in dreams the beautiful scene is revisited again and again. This crescent-shaped country was cultivated from point to point, and boasted a population of over forty millions. The Vespas worshipped the Sun, but enjoyed the dusk. In Centauri twilight is unknown, and the state of progression between the two countries was not worth warring over—they were tanto per tanto.
The morning of the third day we reached the extreme north point of the Belt and sighted the Great Ocean. The air was misty, ice cold, and a piercing salt breeze suddenly turned to a terrific gale and tore and whistled around the ship forcing her ahead at a dizzy speed.
“We’ll be out of it in a second,” the literary gent assured us. “I feared we were venturing rather near the danger point. There four wind currents meet; anything caught in it is lost. The gale we’re flying before is merely one of the four. Imagine the extreme north point of the crescent. It is said that at one time this land extended half across the ocean; but these four gales blowing constantly for ages have gradually blown the Belt to its present small dimensions. Possibly in a few centuries more the Belt will vanish and the crescent country become one of the great legends of Centauri.”
The ladies laughed incredulously, but the men pretended to take the speaker seriously.
“You speak with prophetic wisdom,” said the tragedian. “An interpreter of tragedies can be blunt, and his words always taken in jest. The Vespa Belt will never be swallowed by the Four Winds, but in less than ten years she will be submerged by Centauri. For perfect civilization, progression, harmony, there must be unity. I do not jest, but a tragedian is always a jester.”
He was vigorously applauded and encouraged to continue, but, bowing, modestly refrained commenting further upon the subject and suggested we go above, as the wind had calmed. We trooped up on deck and were greeted by a hot, blazing sun, a deep blue sky, and a fierce ocean with mountainous waves boiling white beneath us. Far in the distance were the snow mountains and white cliffs of the Vespa Belt, which in the clear sunlight showed up a perfect crescent.
“We have entered another zone,” the writing gent informed us. “We have emerged from the wind regions, and—er—ahem!——.”
He ended abruptly; no one was listening to him. All looked in one direction, and, as I looked the blood rushed to my head. Alpha Centauri stepped from her cabin, radiantly beautiful, garbed in white.