by Jerry eBooks
He found him in the cemetery, wielding a shovel, his hands red with broken blisters.
“It won’t be deep,” said Mr. Barnes, “but it will cover them. It’s the best that I can do.”
“Bat Ears has it,” Warren told him.
The chaplain leaned on his shovel, breathing a little hard from digging.
“Queer,” he said. “Queer, to think of him. Of big, brawling Bat Ears. He was a tower of strength.”
Warren reached for the shovel.
“I’ll finish this,” he said, “if you’ll go down and get them ready. I can’t . . . I haven’t the heart to handle them.”
The chaplain handed over the shovel. “It’s funny,” he said, “about young Falkner.”
“You said yesterday he was a little better. You imagined it?”
Barnes shook his head. “I was in to see him. He’s awake and lucid and his temperature is down.”
They stared at one another for a long time, each trying to hide the hope that might be upon his face.
“Do you think . . .”
“No, I don’t,” said Barnes.
But Falkner continued to improve. Three days later he was sitting up. Six days later he stood with the other two beside the grave when they buried Bat Ears.
And there were three of them. Three out of twenty-six.
The chaplain closed his book and put it in his pocket. Warren took up the shovel and shoveled in the dirt. The other two watched him silently as he filled the grave, slowly, deliberately, taking his time, for there was no other task to hurry him—filled it and mounded it and shaped it neat and smooth with gentle shovel pats.
Then the three of them went down the slope together, not arm in arm, but close enough to have been arm in arm—back to the white tents of the camp.
Still they did not talk.
It was as if they understood for the moment the dedicatory value of the silence that lay upon the land and upon the camp and the three that were left out of twenty-six.
Falkner said: “There is nothing strange about me. Nothing different than any other man.”
“There must be,” insisted Warren. “You survived the virus. It hit you and you came out alive. There must be a reason for it.”
“You two,” said Falkner, “never even got it. There must be some reason for that, too.”
“We can’t be sure,” said Chaplain Barnes, speaking softly.
Warren rustled his notes angrily.
“We’ve covered it,” he said. “Covered everything that you can remember—unless you are holding back something that we should know.”
“Why should I hold back anything?” demanded Falkner.
“Childhood history,” said Warren. “The usual things. Measles, a slight attack of whooping cough, colds—afraid of the dark. Ordinary eating habits, normal acceptance of schools and social obligations. Everything as if it might be someone else. But there has to be an answer. Something that you did . . .”
“Or,” said Barnes, “even something that he thought.”
“Huh?” asked Warren.
“The ones who could tell us are out there on the slope,” said Barnes. “You and I, Warren, are stumbling along a path we are not equipped to travel. A medical man, a psychologist, even an alien psychologist, a statistician—any one of them would have had something to contribute. But they are dead. You and I are trying to do something we have no training for. We might have the answer right beneath our noses and we would not recognize it.”
“I know,” said Warren. “I know. We only do the best we can.”
“I have told you everything I can,” said Falkner, tensely. “Everything I know. I’ve told you things I would not tell under any other circumstances.”
“We know, lad,” said Barnes gently. “We know you have.”
“Somewhere,” persisted Warren, “somewhere in the life of Benjamin Falkner there is an answer—an answer to the thing that Man must know. Something that he has forgotten. Something that he has not told us, unintentionally. Or, more than likely, something that he has told us and we do not recognize.”
“Or,” said Barnes, “something that no one but a specialist could know. Some strange quirk in his body or his mind. Some tiny mutation that no one would suspect. Or even . . . Warren, you remember, you talked to me about a miracle.”
“I’m tired of it,” Falkner told them. “For three days now you have gone over me, pawed me, questioned me, dissected every thought . . .”
“Let’s go over that last part again,” said Warren wearily. “When you were lost.”
“We’ve gone over it,” said Falkner, “a hundred times already.”
“Once again,” said Warren. “Just once again. You were standing there, on the path, you say, when you heard the footsteps coming up the path.”
“Not footsteps,” said Falkner. “At first I didn’t know they were footsteps. It was just a sound.”
“And it terrified you?”
“It terrified me.”
“Why?”
“Well, the dark and being lost and . . .”
“You’d been thinking about the natives?”
“Well, yes, off and on.”
“More than off and on?”
“More than off and on,” Falkner admitted. “All the time, maybe. Ever since I realized I was lost, perhaps. In the back of my mind.”
“Finally you realized they were footsteps?”
“No. I didn’t know what they were until I saw the native.”
“Just one native?”
“Just one. An old one. His coat was all gray and he had a scar across his face. You could see the jagged white line.”
“You’re sure about that scar?”
“Yes.”
“Sure about his being old?”
“He looked old. He was all gray. He walked slowly and he had a limp.”
“And you weren’t afraid?”
“Yes, afraid, of course. But not as afraid as I would have expected.”
“You would have killed him if you could?”
“No, I wouldn’t have killed him.”
“Not even to save your life?”
“Oh, sure. But I didn’t think of that. I just . . . well, I just didn’t want to tangle with him, that is all.”
“You got a good look at him?”
“Yes, a good look. He passed me no farther away than you are now.”
“You would recognize him again if you saw him?”
“I did recognize . . .”
Falkner stopped, befuddled.
“Just a minute,” he said. “Just a minute now.”
He put up his hand and rubbed hard against his forehead. His eyes suddenly had a stricken look.
“I did see him again,” he said. “I recognized him. I know it was the same one.”
Warren burst out angrily: “Why didn’t you tell . . .”
But Barnes rushed in and headed him off:
“You saw him again. When?”
“In my tent. When I was sick. I opened my eyes and he was there in front of me.”
“Just standing there?”
“Standing there and looking at me. Like he was going to swallow me with those big yellow eyes of his. Then he . . . then he . . .”
They waited for him to remember.
“I was sick,” said Falkner. “Out of my head, maybe. Not all there. I can’t be sure. But it seemed that he stretched out his hands, his paws rather—that he stretched them out and touched me, one paw on each side of my head.”
“Touched you? Actually, physically touched you?”
“Gently,” said Falkner. “Ever so gently. Just for an instant. Then I went to sleep.”
“We’re ahead of our story,” Warren said impatiently. “Let’s go back to the trail. You saw the native—”
“We’ve been over that before,” said Falkner bitterly.
“We’ll try it once again,” Warren told him. “You say the native passed quite close to you when he went by. You mean that
he stepped out of the path and circled past you . . .”
“No,” said Falkner, “I don’t mean that at all. I was the one who stepped out of the path.”
You must maintain human dignity, the manual said. Above all else, human dignity and human prestige must be upheld. Kindness, yes. And helpfulness. And even brotherhood. But dignity was ahead of all.
And too often human dignity was human arrogance.
Human dignity did not allow you to step out of the path. It made the other thing step out and go around you. By inference, human dignity automatically assigned all other life to an inferior position.
“Mr. Barnes,” said Warren, “it was the laying on of hands.”
The man on the cot rolled his head on the pillow and looked at Warren, almost as if he were surprised to find him there. The thin lips worked in the pallid face and the words were weak and very slow in coming.
“Yes, Warren, it was the laying on of hands. A power these creatures have. Some Christ-like power that no human has.”
“But that was a divine power.”
“No, Warren,” said the chaplain, “not necessarily. It wouldn’t have to be. It might be a very real, a very human power, that goes with mental or spiritual perfection.”
Warren hunched forward on his stool. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “I simply can’t. Not those owl-eyed things.”
He looked up and glanced at the chaplain. Barnes’ face had flushed with sudden fever and his breath was fluttery and shallow. His eyes were closed and he looked like a man already dead.
There had been that report by the third expedition’s psychologist. It had said dignity and an exact code of honor and a rather primitive protocol. And that, of course, would fit.
But Man, intent upon his own dignity and his own prestige, had never accorded anyone else any dignity. He had been willing to be kind if his kindness were appropriately appreciated. He stood ready to help if his help were allowed to stand as a testament to his superiority. And here on Landro he had scarcely bothered to be either kind or helpful, never dreaming for a moment that the little owl-eyed native was anything other than a stone age creature that was a pest and nuisance and not to be taken too seriously even when he turned out, at times, to be something of a menace.
Until one day a frightened kid had stepped out of a path and let a native by.
“Courtesy,” said Warren. “That’s the answer: courtesy and the laying on of hands.”
He got up from the stool and walked out of the tent and met Falkner coming in.
“How is he?” Falkner asked.
Warren shook his head. “Just like the others. It was late in coming, but it’s just as bad.”
“Two of us,” said Falkner. “Two of us left out of twenty-six.”
“Not two,” Warren told him. “Just one. Just you.”
“But, sir, you’re all . . .”
Warren shook his head.
“I have a headache,” he said. “I’m beginning to sweat a little. My legs are wobbly.”
“Maybe . . .”
“I’ve seen it too many times,” said Warren, “to kid myself about it.”
He reached out a hand, grasped the canvas and steadied himself.
“I didn’t have a chance,” he said. “I stepped out of no paths.”
THE END
Vital Factor
Nelson Bond
Money can accomplish many things, but it cannot always control the forces it unleashes. A flying saucer takes off.
Wayne Crowder called himself a forceful man. Those who knew him best (none knew him really well) substituted adjectives somewhat less flattering. He was, they said, a cold and ruthless man; a man of iron will and icy determination; a man with a heart to match his granite jaw. Not cunning, dishonest or unfair. Just hard. A man who wanted his own way—and got it.
In an era that sees more fortunes lost than gained, Crowder proved his ability and acumen by getting rich. Even in these days of exaggerated material and labor costs this can be done by a bold, determined man who admits no obstacles. Wayne Crowder did it. He patented a simple household product needed by everyone, sold it at a penny profit that crushed all would-be competition, and made himself a multi-millionaire despite the staggering levies of the Department of Internal Revenue. He built himself a towering structure and placed his private office at its peak. He dwelt in the clouds, both figuratively and literally. In sense and essence, those whom he employed were his underlings.
A man of ice and stone and ink and steel, they called him. And in the main, their judgment was correct.
But he surprised them.
One afternoon he said to his secretary, “Get me my engineers.”
The engineers sat deferentially before his massive desk. Wayne Crowder told them crisply, “Gentlemen—I want you to build me a spaceship.”
The engineers eyed him, and then each other, a bit apprehensively. Their spokesman cleared his throat.
“A spaceship, sir?”
“I have decided,” said Crowder, “to be the man who gives spaceflight to mankind.”
One of the experts said, “We can design you such a ship, sir. That part is not too hard. The fundamental blue print has been in existence for many years; the submarine is its basis. But—”
“Yes?”
“But the motor that will power such a ship,” said the engineer frankly, “we cannot provide. Men have searched it for decades, but the answer is not yet found. In other words, we can build you a ship, but we can’t lift that ship from Earth’s surface.”
“Design the ship,” said Crowder, “and I will find the motor you need.”
The chief engineer asked, “Where?”
Crowder answered, “A fair question. And my answer is: I do not know. But somewhere in this world is a man who does know the secret—and will reveal it if I provide the money to convert his theory to fact. I’ll be that man.”
“You’ll be besieged by crackpots.”
“I know it. You men must help me separate the wheat from the chaff. But anyone who shows up with a promising idea, however fantastic it may sound, shall have a chance to show what he can do.”
“You mean you’ll subsidize their experiments? It will cost a fortune!”
“I have a fortune,” said Crowder succinctly. “Now get to work. Build me the ship, and I will make it fly.”
Wayne Crowder summoned the newsmen. Their stories were spectacular, amusing. Press syndicates took jeering delight in offering the world the magnate’s offer of one hundred thousand dollars in cold cash to the man who would make it possible for a vessel to rise from this planet. But the stories circulated to the distant corners of the globe; the offer was transmitted in a dozen tongues.
The prediction of the engineers was verified. The Crowder office building became a mecca and a haven for the lunatic fringe of humanity; their blueprints and scale models clogged its corridors, their letters were an inky deluge that threatened to engulf the expanded staff of clerks employed to sort, examine, scrutinize each scheme. Crowder himself saw only those few who passed the winnowing screen of the corps. Most of these he eventually turned away, but some he placed on a retaining wage and set to work. He poured a prince’s ransom into the construction of new laboratories. His wide proving-grounds became the bedlam workshop for upward of a score of would-be conquistadors of space.
The weeks rolled by; the spaceship designed by the engineers left the blueprint stage and went into construction. But still no subsidized inventor had made good his boast that his pet engine—of steam or explosive, gas or atomic, or whatever fuel—would lift the metal monster from Earth’s surface. Many tests were made. Some were comic, some tragic. But all were failures.
Still Crowder did not swerve.
“He will come,” he said. “Money and determination will buy anything. One day he will appear.”
And he was right. One day there came to his office a stranger. He was a small man. He looked even smaller in that tremendous room. He was an unus
ual visitor in that he carried no briefcase fat with blueprints, schematics, or formulae. He was unusual in that he neither blustered, cowered, nor deferred to his host. He was a pleasant little stranger, birdlike of eye and movement.
He said, “My name is Wilkins. I can power the ship you want.”
“So?” said Crowder.
“But it will be unlike that meaningless huge bullet your engineers are building. Rockets are a foolish waste of time. My motor requires a different sort of vessel.”
“Where are your plans?” asked Crowder.
“Here,” and he tapped his head.
Crowder said impassively, “I am supporting a score of others who claim the same. None has been successful. What makes you think your idea will work?”
“The flying disks,” replied the little man.
“Eh?”
“I’ve solved their secret. My idea is based on the principle that lets them fly. Electromagnetism. Utilization of the force of gravity. Or its opposite: counter-gravity.”
“Thank you very much,” said Crowder. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Wait!” bade the little man. “There is one thing more. There is this.”
He drew from his pocket a metal object the size and shape of an ashtray. He suspended it over Crowder’s desk—and took his hand away. It hung there in midair. Crowder touched it. A gentle tingling stirred his fingertips, but the object did not fall. Crowder sat down again slowly.
“Enough,” he said. “What do you want?”
“For my services,” said Wilkins, “you have already set a fair price. Three other things. A workshop in which to build a pilot model. Expert assistance. And an answer.”
Crowder’s brows lifted. “An answer?”
“An answer to one question. Why do you want so much to build this ship?”
“Because,” said Crowder frankly, “I love power. Because I am ambitious. I would be the first to conquer space because to do so will make me greater, richer, stronger than any other man. I would be the master, not merely of one world, but of worlds.”
“An honest answer,” said Wilkins, “if a strange one.”
“What other could there be?”
