by Roger Elwood
Thought returned to him. He studied their outlandish ness in some detail. They were shaped not altogether unlike himself, though two-armed, hunchbacked, and featureless. Totally unlike the monster, but unquestionably associated with it. No doubt it had sent them forth as spy eyes, like those employed by a boxroller. Certain persons had been trying for the last century or so to develop, from domesticated motiles, similar assistants for hunting persons. Yes, a thing as big and awkward as the monster might well need auxiliaries.
Was the monster then indeed a predator? Or even—the idea went like a lightning flash through Zero’s entire circuitry— a thinker? Like a person? He struggled to make sense of the modulated signals between the three bipeds. No, he could not. But—
Wait!
Zero’s lattice swung frantically back and forth. He could not shake off the truth. That last signal had come from the monster, hidden by a mile of forest. From the monster to the bipeds. And were they answering?
The bipeds were headed south. At the rate they were going, they might easily come upon traces of habitation, and follow those traces to the cave where One was, long before Hundred s males had gathered at Broken Glade.
The monster would know about One.
§
Decision came. Zero opened his transmitter to full output, but broadcast rather than beamed in any degree. He would give no clue where those were whom he called. “Attention, attention! Tune in on me: direct sensory linkage. I am about to attempt capture of these motiles.”
Hundred looked through his optics, listened with his receptors, and exclaimed, “No, wait, you must not betray our existence before we are ready to act.”
‘The monster will soon learn of our existence in any event,” Zero answered. “The forest is full of old campsites, broken tools, traps, chipped stones, slagheaps. At present I should have the advantage of surprise. If I fail and am destroyed, that ought still to provide you with considerable data. Stand alert!” He plunged from behind the girders.
The three had gone past. They sensed him and spun about. He heard a jagged modulation of their signal output. A reply barked back, lower in frequency, the voice of the monster? There was no time to wonder about that. Slow and clumsy though they were, the bipeds had gotten into motion. The central one snatched a tube slung across its back. Pounding toward them, through shattering crystals and clangorous branches, Zero thought, I have not yet made any overtly hostile move, hut— The tube flashed and roared.
An impact sent Zero staggering aside. He went to one knee. Ripped circuits overwhelmed him with destruction signals. As the pain throbbed toward extinction, his head cleared enough to see that half his upper left arm was blown off.
The tube was held steady on him. He rose. The knowledge of his danger flared in him. A second biped had its arms around the third, which was tugging a smaller object from a sheath.
Zero discharged full power through his effectors. Blurred to view by speed, he flung himself to one side while his remaining left hand threw the pry bar. It went meteorlike across a shaft of sunlight and struck the tube. The tube was pulled from the bipeds grasp, slammed to the ground and buckled.
Instantly Zero was upon the three of them. He had already identified their communication system, a transmitter and antenna actually outside the skin! His one right hand smashed across a bipeds back, tearing the radio set loose. His torch spat with precision. Fused, the communicator of a second biped went dead.
The third one tried to escape. Zero caught it in four strides, plucked off its antenna, and carried it wildly kicking under one arm while he chased the other two. When he had caught the second, the first stood its ground and battered forlornly at him with its hands. He lashed them all together with his wire rope. As a precaution, he emptied the carrier rack of the one which had shot him. Those thin objects might be dangerous even with the tube that had launched them broken. He stuffed the bipeds into his own carrier.
For a moment, then, he lingered. The forest held little sonic noise except the wind in the accumulators. But the radio spectrum clamored. The monster howled; Zero’s own broadcast rolled between sky and mountainside, from person to person and so relayed across the land.
“No more talk now,” he finished his report. “I do not want the monster to track me. I have prevented these auxiliaries from communicating with it. Now I shall take them to my cave for study. I hope to present some useful data at the rendezvous.”
‘This may frighten the monster off,” Seventy-two said.
“So much the better,” Hundred answered.
“In that case,” Zero said, “I will at least have brought back something from my hunt.”
He snapped off his transmission and faded into the forest shadows.
II
The boat had departed from the spaceship on a mere whisper of jets. Machinery inboard hummed, clicked, murmured, sucked in exhausted air and blew out renewed, busied itself with matters of warmth and light, computation and propulsion. But it made no more than a foundation for silence.
Hugh Darkington stared out the forward port. As the boat curved away from the mother ship’s orbit, the great hull gleamed across his sky—fell astern and rapidly dwindled until lost to view. The stars which it had hidden sprang forth, icy-sharp points of glitter against an overwhelming blackness.
They didn’t seem different to him. They were, of course. * From Earth’s surface the constellations would be wholly alien. But in space so many stars were visible that they made one chaos, at least to Darkington’s eyes. Captain Thurshaw had pointed out to him, from the ships bridge, that the Milky Way had a new shape, this bend was missing and that bay had not been there three billion years ago. To Darkington it remained words. He was a biologist and had never paid much attention to astronomy. In the first numbness of loss and isolation, he could think of nothing which mattered less than the exact form of the Milky Way.
Still the boat spiraled inward. Now the moon drifted across his view. In those eons since the Traveler left home, Luna had retreated from Earth: not as far as might have been predicted, because—they said—Bering Straits had vanished with every other remembered place; but nonetheless, now it was only a tarnished farthing. Through the ship’s telescopes it had looked like itself. Some new mountains, craters, and maria, some thermal erosion of old features, but Thurshaw could identify much of what he once knew. It was grotesque that the moon should endure when everything else had changed.
Even the sun. Observed through a dimmer screen, the solar
disk was bloated and glaring. Not so much in absolute terms, perhaps. Earth had moved a little closer, as the friction of interplanetary dust and gas took a millennial toll. The sun itself had grown a little bigger and hotter, as nuclear reactions intensified. In three billion years, such things became noticeable even on the cosmic scale. To a living organism they totaled doomsday.
Darkington cursed under his breath and clenched a fist till the skin stretched taut. He was a thin man, long-faced, sharp-featured, his brown hair prematurely sprinkled with gray. His memories included beautiful spires above an Oxford squad, wonder seen through a microscope, a sailboat beating into the wind off Nantucket, which blew spray and a sound of gulls and church bells at him, comradeship bent over a chessboard or hoisting beer steins, forests hazy and ablaze with Indian summer: and all these things were dead. The shock had worn off, the hundred men and women aboard the Traveler could function again, but home had been amputated from their lives and the stump hurt.
Frederika Ruys laid her own hand on his and squeezed a little. Muscle by muscle he untensed himself, until he could twitch a smile in response to hers. “After all,” she said, “we knew we’d be gone a long time. That we might well never come back.”
“But we’d have been on a living planet,” he mumbled.
“So we can still find us one,” declared Sam Kuroki from his seat at the pilot console. “There’s no less than six G-type stars within fifty light-years.”
“It won’t be the same,” D
arkington protested.
“No,” said Frederika. “In a way, though, won’t it be more? We, the last humans in the universe, starting the race over again?”
There was no coyness in her manner. She wasn’t much to look at, plump, plain, with straight yellow hair and too wide a mouth. But such details had ceased to matter since the ship ended time acceleration. Frederika Ruys was a brave soul and a skilled engineer. Darkington felt incredibly lucky that she had picked him.
“Maybe we aren’t the last, anyhow,” Kuroki said. His flat features broke in one of his frequent grins; he faced immensity with a sparrow’s cockiness. “Ought to’ve been other colonies than ours planted, oughtn’t there? Of course, by now their descendants ’ud be bald-headed dwarfs who sit around thinking in calculus.”
“I doubt that,” Darkington sighed. “If humans had survived, anywhere else in the galaxy, don’t you think they would at least have come back and … and reseeded this with life? The mother planet?” He drew a shaken breath. They had threshed this out a hundred times or more while the Traveler orbited about unrecognizable Earth, but they could not keep from saying the obvious again and again, as a man must keep touching a wound on his body. “No, I think the war really did begin soon after we left. The world situation was all set to explode.”
§
That was why the Traveler had been built, and even more why it had departed in such haste, his mind went on. Fifty couples scrambling off to settle on Tau Ceti II before the missiles were unleashed. Oh, yes, officially they were a scientific team, and one of the big foundations had paid for the enterprise. But in fact, as everyone knew, the hope was to insure that a fragment of civilization would be saved, and some day return to help rebuild. (Even Panasia admitted that a total war would throw history back a hundred years; western governments were less optimistic.) Tension had mounted so horribly fast in the final months that no time was taken for a really careful check of the field drive. So new and little understood an engine ought to have had scores of test flights before starting out under full power. But … well … next year might be too late. And exploratory ships had visited the nearer stars, moving just under the speed of light, their crews experiencing only a few weeks of transit time. Why not the Traveler?
‘The absolute war?” Frederika said, as she had done so often already. “Fought until the whole world was sterile? No. I won’t believe it.”
“Not in that simple and clean-cut a way,” Darkington conceded. “Probably the war did end with a nominal victor; but he was more decimated and devastated than anyone had dared expect. Too impoverished to reconstruct, or even to maintain what little physical plant survived. A downward spiral into the Dark Ages.”
“H-m-m, I dunno,” Kuroki argued. ‘There were a lot of machines around. Automation, especially. Like those self-reproducing, sun-powered, mineral-collecting sea rafts. And a lot of other self-maintaining gadgets. I don’t see why industry couldn’t be revived on such a base.”
“Radioactivity would have been everywhere,” Darkington pointed out. “It’s long-range effect on ecology— Oh, yes, the process may have taken centuries, as first one species changed or died, and then another dependent on it, and then more. But how could the human survivors recreate technology when biology was disintegrating around them?” He shook himself and stiffened his back, ashamed of his self-pity a minute ago, looking horror flatly in the face. ‘That’s my guess. I could be wrong, but it seems to fit the facts. We’ll never know for certain, I suppose.”
Earth rolled into sight. The planetary disk was still edged with blueness darkening toward black. Clouds still trailed fleecy above shining oceans; they gleamed upon the darkness near the terminator as they caught the first light before sunrise. Earth was forever fair.
But the continental shapes were new, speckled with hard points of reflection upon black and ocher where once they had been sofdy green and brown. There were no polar caps; sea level temperatures ranged from eighty to two hundred degrees Fahrenheit. No free oxygen remained: the atmosphere was nitrogen, its oxides, ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, sulfur dioxide, carbon dioxide and steam. Spectroscopes had found no trace of chlorophyll or any other complex organic compound. The ground cover, dimly glimpsed through clouds, was metallic.
This was no longer Earth. There was no good reason why the Traveler should send a boat and three highly unexpendable humans down to look at its lifelessness. But no one had suggested leaving the Solar System without such a final visit. Darkington remembered being taken to see his grandmother when she was dead. He was twelve years old and had loved her. It was not her in the box, that strange unmeaningful mask, but where then was she?
‘Well, whatever happened seems to be three billion years in the past,” Kuroki said, a little too loudly. “Forget it. We got troubles of our own”
Frederika’s eyes had not left the planet. “We can’t ever forget, Sam/’ she said. ‘We’ll always wonder and hope—they, the children at least—that it didn’t happen to them too cruelly.” Darkington started in surprise as she went on murmuring, very low, oblivious of the men:
to tell you of the ending of the day.
And you will see her tallness with surprise,
and looking into gentle, shadowed eyes
protest: it’s not that late; you have to stay
awake a minute moref just one, to play
with yonder hall. But nonetheless you rise
so they won’t hear her say, ‘A baby cries,
but you are big. Put all your toys away!
She lets you have a shabby bear in bed,
though frankly doubting that you two can go
through dream-shared living rooms or wingless flight.
She tucks the blankets close beneath your head
and smooths your hair and kisses you, and so
goes out, turns off the light. ‘Good night, Sleep tight!
Kuroki glanced around at her. The plaid shirt wrinkled across his wide shoulders. “Poems yet,” he said. ‘Who wrote that?”
“Hugh,” said Frederika. ‘Didn’t you know he published poetry? Quite a bit. I admired his work long before I met him.”
Darkington flushed. Her interest was flattering, but he regarded “Then Death Will Come” as a juvenile effort
However, his embarrassment pulled him out of sadness. (On the surface. Down beneath, it would always be there, in every one of them. He hoped they would not pass too much of it on to their children. Let us not weep eternally for Zion.) Leaning forward, he looked at the planet with an interest that mounted as the approach curve took them around the globe. He hoped for a few answers to a hell of a lot of questions.
For one thing, why, in three billion years, had life not re-evolved? Radioactivity must have disappeared in a few centuries at most. The conditions of primordial Earth would have returned. Or would they? What had been lacking, this time around?
§
He woke from his brown study with a jerk as Kuroki said, “Well, I reckon we can steepen our trajectory a bit.” A surprising interval had passed. The pilot touched controls and the mild acceleration increased. The terrestrial disk, already enormous, swelled with terrifying velocity, as if tumbling down upon them.
Then, subtly, it was no longer to one side or above, but was beneath; and it was no longer a thing among the stars but the convex floor of bowl-shaped creation. The jets blasted more strongly. Kuroki’s jaws clenched till knots of muscle stood forth. His hands danced like a pianists.
He was less the master of the boat, Darkington knew, than its helper. So many tons, coming down through atmospheric turbulence at such a velocity, groping with radar for a safe landing spot, could not be handled by organic brain and nerves. The boats central director—essentially a computer whose input came from the instruments and whose efferent impulses went directly to the controls—performed the basic operations. Its task was fantastically complex: very nearly as difficult as the job of guiding the muscles when a man walks. Kuroki’s fingers told the boat, “Go
that way,” but the director could overrule him.
“I think we’ll settle among those hills.” The pilot had to shout now, as the jets blasted stronger. ‘Want to come down just east of the sunrise line, so we’ll have a full day ahead of us, and yonder’s the most promising spot in this region. The lowlands look too boggy.”
Darkington nodded and glanced at Frederika. She smiled and made a thumbs-up sign. He leaned over, straining against his safety harness, and brushed his lips across hers. She colored with a pleasure that he found oddly moving.
Some day, on another planet—that possibly hadn’t been born when they left Earth—
He had voiced his fears to her, that the engine would go awry again when they started into deep space, and once more propel them through time, uncontrollably, until fuel was exhausted. A full charge in the tanks was equivalent to three billion years, plus or minus several million; or so the physicists aboard had estimated. In six billion a.d. might not the sun be so swollen as to engulf them when they emerged?
She had rapped him across the knuckles with her slide rule and said no, but you’ll have to take my word for it because you haven’t got the math. I’ve studied it as far as differential equations, he said. She grinned and answered that then he’d never had a math course. It seemed, she said, that time acceleration was readily explained by the same theory which underlay the field drive. In fact, the effect had been demonstrated in laboratory experiments. Oh, yes, I know about that, he said; reactive thrust is rotated through a fourth dimension and gets applied along the temporal rather than a spatial axis. You do not know a thing about it, she said, as your own words have just proved. But never mind. What happened to us was that a faulty manifold generated the t-acceleration effect in our engine.
