“Burials!” he cried: “you mean the body in the natural state, planted in the ground?”
I nodded.
“Preposterous!” he gasped; “is there such a custom? Not even the savages commit such sacrilege. Cremation,” he continued, “is a form of our religion, though for a century burials were resorted to. Eight hundred years ago a noted herbalist of that period extracted from minerals an acid which, when applied to the lifeless body, produced instant petrification, but unfortunately the demise of this wise man closed forever the petrified age. We returned to cremation.”
He drew from their cells exquisite, odd-shaped urns. Some were of bronze, many of iron, a few of gold. The silver ones were tarnished and ugly, and plain stone jars seemed to be the most in use. He drew out boxes of rare scented wood, beautifully inlaid with metals, and from one of the lower shelves brought out a narrow, oblong, silvery block, explaining the style had been in use many centuries and proved the most durable.
Eagerly I examined the curio. It was a crystal block quaintly etched with queer characters, the ashes within giving the silver sheen. I quickly returned it to its cell, then stooping, twisted the great knob near the floor, which caused all the little doors to spring together with a snap. The guide smiled knowingly and, taking my arm, escorted me down the long, sombre hall, advising me to inspect the tomb of the Great Family. We halted in front of a small door, which flew open at the touch, revealing a small, square platform that shot up like a rocket as we stepped upon it. The speed slackened gradually to a standstill before wonderful gates of smooth, dull gold, which slowly opened. I entered a lofty, arched room, flooded with sunlight blazing upon gold-paneled walls, and sank ankle deep in golden floss which deadened sound. I gazed upon fabulous magnificence. There were wonderful embroideries studded with gems flashing golden suns. Silver gauze hung high, shimmering with sparkling sprays, soft as moonlight; strange urns, jars and bowls embedded with gems; delicate jeweled caskets of ivory and jade, tall crystal cylinders, divided into compartments, all containing a silvery dust. Massive bronze columns carved and engraved with strange forms and inscriptions relative to the history of those whose ashes powdered its heart. Gold and silver globes and queer diamond-shaped receptacles were lined in order upon bronze trestles; all contained the sanctified ashes of rulers long departed, and high above all this splendor hung the golden banner and imperial arms of Centauri.
My eyes suddenly fastened upon a hideous stone figure, the trunk of a woman resting upon a gem-incrusted pedestal.
“That is the form of the beauteous Alpha Centauri, who reigned during the petrified age,” the guide informed me. “It is very pathetic, and marks petrification a failure. The lower portion of the body has crumpled away; the pedestal contains the powder. Before long what remains will be dust, then the pedestal will be sealed.”
“Why so much splendor for the Great Family if all Centaurians are equal?” I asked.
“All Centaurians are equal,” he answered; “but the Great Family is divine, immortal.”
“Truly is the Great Family wise,” I muttered; then suddenly sickened, repelled at the bestial richness. I turned toward the golden gates, but hesitated, not caring to descend by the treacherous elevator.