Phyfe turned the page. Abruptly he stopped. He turned to Underwood. "The rest of it is yours," he said.
"What—?"
Underwood glanced at the page of inscription. With difficulty he took up the reading silently. The substance of the writings had changed and here was a sudden wilderness of an alien science.
Slowly he plodded through the first concepts, then skimmed as it became evident that here was material for days of study. But out of his hasty scanning there came a vision of a great dream, a dream of conquest of the eons, the preservation of life while worlds waned and died and flared anew.
It told of an unknown radiation turned upon living cells, reducing them to primeval protoplasm, arresting all but the symbol of metabolism.
And it spoke of other radiation and complex chemical treatment, a fantastic process that could restore again the life that had been only symbolized by the dormant protoplasm.
Underwood looked up. His eyes went from the featureless cube to the faces of his companions.
"It's alive!" he breathed. "Five hundred million years—and it's alive! These are instructions by which it may be restored!"
None of the others spoke, but Underwood's eyes were as if a sudden, great commission had been placed upon him. Out of the turmoil of his thoughts a single purpose emerged, clear and irrevocable.