I hastened to the City Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting for me to bring them to order. Xeon and Melia stopped as I mounted the steps, but I smiled and motioned them in. They accompanied me past the marble pillars into the cool recesses of the Hall, then seated themselves on the floor as I took my place by the great table. Well, you know how these things are. At such a time, many men feel impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. Prayers and supplications were offered to the gods, priests were sent to sacrifice, and finally, as the light of the sun was falling between the pillars, the High Priest of the Maternite Machine was heard.
He rambled through the customary opening remarks and then, continually smoothing his white beard—of which he is excessively proud—approached the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent.
"I would not bore you," he said, "with details of which only the gods are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more; thus assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be born by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial."
A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered around the Hall.
"But now," he continued, however, with less assurance and indeed with even a stutter here and there, "an unprecedented situation has arisen. Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has actually failed."
Cries of "Treason" sprang up, and I fear it might have gone hard for the priest had I not been able to insure order.
"That is not the worst," he cried, as if in defiance. "All the Prelife has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there will be no more children!"
At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave. They shouted and began to beat their fists, but for how long can a man of seventy years roar like a youngster? They quieted, breathing heavily, and I asked,
"Is there no way, then, to produce more Prelife in order that the machines may produce more children for us?
"As I have said," he replied, "give the machines but a bit of Prelife and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are helpless."
Such heresy could have brought a sad end to the priest had not the Conclave been so exhausted by the events of the day. We leaned back to think.
Rocsates leaned forward and asked, "Must there not—must there not have been a beginning to Prelife? For the Machine, it seems, cannot make it; and yet it came from somewhere."
"Riddles are not called f............