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“But the Neens were only awaiting the time when His voice would no longer sound in the Place. Each year their brown and savage representatives came, upon the anniversary, to listen, and each time they cowered and went back to their own kind with the word that He Who Speaks, still spoke to His people.

“But the last anniversary, no sound came forth. His voice was silenced at last; and the Neens went back rejoicing, to tell their people that at last the god of the Libars had truly died, and that His voice sounded no more in the Place.”

* * * * *

A tense excitement gripped me; my hands trembled, and my voice, as I spoke to Artur, shook with emotion.

“And this voice–it came from where, Artur?” I whispered.

“From here.” Sorrowfully, reverently, he lifted, from a niche in the wall, a small box of smooth, shining metal, and lifted the lid.

Curiously, I stared at the instruments revealed. In one end of the horizontal panel was a small metal membrane, which I guessed was a diaphragm. In the center of the remaining space was thrust up a heavy pole of rusty metal. Supported by tiny brackets in such fashion that it did not quite touch the pole of rusty metal, was a bright wire, which disappeared through tiny holes in the panel, on either side. Each of the brackets which supported the wire was tipped with a tiny roller, which led me to believe that the wire was of greater length than was revealed, and designed to be drawn over the upright piece of metal.

“Until the last anniversary,” said Artur sadly, “when one touched this small bit of metal, here,”–he indicated a lever beside the diaphragm, which I had not noted–“this wire moved swiftly, and His voice came forth. But this anniversary, the wire did not move, and there was no voice.”

“Let me see that thing a moment.” There were hinges at one end of the panel, and I lifted it carefully. An intricate maze of delicate mechanism came up with it.

* * * * *

One thing I saw at a glance: the box contained a tiny, crude, but workable atomic generator. And I had been right about the wire: there was a great orderly coil of it on one spool, and the other end was attached to an empty spool. The upright of rusty metal was the pole of an electro-magnet, energized by the atomic generator.

“I think I see the trouble, Artur!” I exclaimed. One of the connections to the atomic generator was badly corroded; a portion of the metal had been entirely eaten away, probably by the electrolytic action of the two dissimilar metals. With trembling fingers I made a fresh connection, and swung down the hinged panel. “This is the lever?” I asked.

“Yes; you touch it so.” Artur moved the bit of metal, and instantly the shining wire started to move, coming up through the one small hole, passing, on its rollered guides, directly over the magnet, and disappearing through the other hole, to be wound up on the take-up spool. For an instant there was no sound, save the slight grinding of the wire on its rollers, and then a bass, powerful voice spoke from the vibrating metal diaphragm:

“I am Thomas Anderson,” said the voice. “I am a native of a world called Earth, and I have come through space to this other sphere. I leave this record, which I trust is imperishable, so that when others come to follow me, they may know that to Earth belongs the honor, if honor it be, of sending to this world its first visitor from the stars.

“There is no record on Earth of me nor of my ship of space, the Adventurer. The history of science is a history of men working under the stinging lash of criticism and scoffing; I would have none of that.