The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth by H. G. Wells (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

“To Caterham?”

“Is No!”

“And then?”

There was a silence for the space of some seconds.

Then a voice said: “These people are right. After their lights, that is. They have been right in killing all that grew larger than its kind—beast and plant and all manner of great things that arose. They were right in trying to massacre us. They are right now in saying we must not marry our kind. According to their lights they are right. They know—it is time that we also knew—that you cannot have pigmies and giants in one world together. Caterham has said that again and again—clearly—their world or ours.”

“We are not half a hundred now,” said another, “and they are endless millions.”

“So it may be. But the thing is as I have said.”

Then another long silence.

“And are we to die then?”

“God forbid!”

“Are they?”

“No.”

“But that is what Caterham says! He would have us live out our lives, die one by one, till only one remains, and that one at last would die also, and they would cut down all the giant plants and weeds, kill all the giant under-life, burn out the traces of the Food—make an end to us and to the Food for ever. Then the little pigmy world would be safe. They would go on—safe for ever, living their little pigmy lives, doing pigmy kindnesses and pigmy cruelties each to the other; they might even perhaps attain a sort of pigmy millennium, make an end to war, make an end to over-population, sit down in a world-wide city to practise pigmy arts, worshipping one another till the world begins to freeze....”

In the corner a sheet of iron fell in thunder to the ground.

“Brothers, we know what we mean to do.”

In a spluttering of light from the searchlights Redwood saw earnest youthful faces turning to his son.

“It is easy now to make the Food. It would be easy for us to make Food for all the world.”

“You mean, Brother Redwood,” said a voice out of the darkness, “that it is for the little people to eat the Food.”

“What else is there to do?”

“We are not half a hundred and they are many millions.”

“But we held our own.”

“So far.”

“If it is God’s will, we may still hold our own.”

“Yes. But think of the dead!”

Another voice took up the strain. “The dead,” it said. “Think of the unborn....”

“Brothers,” came the voice of young Redwood, “what can we do but fight them, and if we beat them, make them take the Food? They cannot help but take the Food now. Suppose we were to resign our heritage and do this folly that Caterham suggests! Suppose we could! Suppose we give up this great thing that stirs within us, repudiate this thing our fathers did for us—that you, Father, did for us—and pass, when our time has come, into decay and nothingness! What then? Will this little world of theirs be as it was before? They may fight against greatness in us who are the children of men, but can they conquer? Even if they should destroy us every one, what then? Would it save them? No! For greatness is abroad, not only in us, not only in the Food, but in the purpose of all things! It is in the nature of all things; it is part of space and time. To grow and still to grow: from first to last that is Being—that is the law of life. What other law can there be?”

“To help others?”

“To grow. It is still, to grow. Unless we help them to fail....”

“They will fight hard to overcome us,” said a voice.

And another, “What of that?”

“They will fight,” said young Redwood. “If we refuse these terms, I doubt not they will fight. Indeed I hope they will be open and fight. If after all they offer peace, it will be only the better to catch us unawares. Make no mistake, Brothers; in some way or other they will fight. The war has begun, and we must fight, to the end. Unless we are wise, we may find presently we have lived only to make them better weapons against our children and our kind. This, so far, has been only the dawn of battle. All our lives will be a battle. Some of us will be killed in battle, some of us will be waylaid. There is no easy victory—no victory whatever that is not more than half defeat for us. Be sure of that. What of that? If only we keep a foothold, if only we leave behind us a growing host to fight when we are gone!”

“And to-morrow?”

“We will scatter the Food; we will saturate the world with the Food.”

“Suppose they come to terms?”

“Our terms are the Food. It is not as though little and great could live together in any perfection of compromise. It is one thing or the other. What right have parents to say, My child shall have no light but the light I have had, shall grow no greater than the greatness to which I have grown? Do I speak for you, Brothers?”

Assenting murmurs answered him.

“And to the children who will be women as well as to the children who will be men,” said a voice from the darkness.

“Even more so—to be mothers of a new race ...”

“But for the next generation there must be great and little,” said Redwood, with his eyes on his son’s face.

“For many generations. And the little will hamper the great and the great press upon the little. So it must needs be, father.”

“There will be conflict.”

“Endless conflict. Endless misunderstanding. All life is that. Great and little cannot understand one another. But in every child born of man, Father Redwood, lurks some seed of greatness—waiting for the Food.”

“Then I am to go to Caterham again and tell him—”

“You will stay with us, Father Redwood. Our answer goes to Caterham at dawn.”

“He says that he will fight....”

“So be it,” said young Redwood, and his brethren murmured assent.

“The iron waits,” cried a voice, and the two giants who were working in the corner began a rhythmic hammering that made a mighty music to the scene. The metal glowed out far more brightly than it had done before, and gave Redwood a clearer view of the encampment than had yet