The message of the pictures did not by any means unfold fully to Rog, but from the chain of scenes he began to grasp something. Life steadily became more and more complex, as though it were working toward something—with a purpose. Men grew taller, their dwellings bigger, their weapons stranger and apparently more efficient. He saw small tribal conflicts broaden into great wars between numbers of tribes.
He gaped at inventions which he could not begin to comprehend. Before his startled gaze caves gave way to great dwelling-places so large that men looked like ants beside them. He had to smile at the fanciful picturization of a man flying through the air in a fantastic machine. But as Rog neared the end of the exhibit, he realized that the story, if story it was, did not satisfy him.
In his crude, barbaric way, he had great visions of improving life so that death was not such a stern, everpresent reality, and men would have time for things other than eating and sleeping and mating. He was a philosopher, if such a thing were conceivable of a man who lived on raw meat. And this story did not appeal to him, for as far as he could tell men grew more and more dissatisfied, instead of contented....
Terrible wars were shown to him. Violent death stalked the streets of the beautiful cities. War after war piled on top of struggling civilization until at last a conflict that seemed to embrace every shred of man's life took place. After that there were scenes of cities utterly deserted, crumbling into ruins. The final picture made Rog gasp with shock.
They showed ten men laboring on a great steel ball, filling it with tiny miniatures and statues and boxes. The last picture was of one man lying under a transparent glass dome at the bottom of the ball.
Rog was suddenly frightened. He turned and fled back down the stairs and out the door, and plunged into the forest—
He said nothing to the rest of the tribe that day. Somehow he knew he must guard his secret with his life. If the others found what he had discovered, they would crowd into it and tear to shreds these things that he treasured, simply through love of destruction. When he thought of that, his fists clenched and hatred blazed in his eyes. The ball must be kept safe, so that he could learn what it meant. It meant more than life itself, more than Lo, even, that he should solve the message in the shining globe.
But the next day he found time to sit by the river with Lo. "You were gone yesterday," she said. "Where?"
Rog's heart leaped into his mouth. He looked down in sudden confusion. "Only down the river," he lied. "I went to hunt roots."