The Last Dream

by Gordon R. Dickson

  “I just said it was nice, this place.”

  “Nice! Shut up!”

  “Yes, Max.”

  Max was prowling around restlessly, every so often referring to a pencil-drawn map he held in his hand.

  “This way,” he said. “Now we turn here…”

  “Max, I’m hungry.”

  “We’ll eat later. Let’s see… down to the right here…”

  “Max,” said Peter, dreamily, wandering among the walls. It was no trouble to keep up with Max now, with all the pausing and checking he was doing. “Max, you know the old man you used to work for? The one who helped you build the first Platform—the one who was so dumb even if he was a Nobel Prize winner and died just before you got the Platform finished?”

  “Shut up!” said Max.

  “Well, I was just only thinking how much he’d probably like all these things here,” said Peter, hurt. “You said he had all those paintings and carvings he paid so much for.”

  “I said shut up,” said Max. He had come to a full halt. “Something’s wrong here.”

  “Wrong?”

  “There’s something wrong with this street. It isn’t the right way.”

  Peter was looking up at one of the walls.

  “There’s a sort of a sign here,” he said. “But it doesn’t—I mean it’s not English.”

  “Sign?” said Max, whirling around. He looked up on the deep, glowing royal-purple face of the wall Peter was pointing at and saw what appeared to be a short column of something like cuneiform writing inscribed in gold. Max glanced suspiciously from the upright column of markings to Peter, and then back to the column. He muttered under his breath, examining the column.

  “We go right,” he said at last. And led off. Following, and looking back over his shoulder,. Peter could see nothing but the blank purple wall.

  “Max—” he started to say. Then shut his mouth. Max was mad enough at him, already.

  They continued on deeper into the city, and came up short at last before four towering walls of scar-. let enclosing a square. They loomed over the surrounding walls and it was impossible to see if they possessed a roof. There was more cuneiform writing on the wall they faced.

  “What does that say, Max?” asked Peter.

  “It’s the library.”

  “No kidding?” Peter goggled at the wall. “You’re pretty good to read that right off, Max.”

  “Did you think I’m as dumb as you?” said Max. “My first trip up here when I saw that, I knew there must be an equivalent of the Rosetta Stone around. So I went looking for it.”

  “I’m not dumb!”

  “Come on!”

  Max led the way around the building. Three-quarters of the way around, when they came to the third wall, Peter saw that this one contained a small door set flush with the ground. The door was about five feet in height and about four in width; and it fitted tightly with hardly a seam to mark its outline.

  “All right,” said Max, as they halted before it. “Stand still.”

  Peter obediently came to a halt and stood while Max relieved him of all the equipment he had packed on him before they left the Platform. Most of it was camera equipment, but there were a number of other small items, including a thick looseleaf notebook and what looked, when Max took it out of its packaging, like putty.

  “What’s that?” Peter asked, reaching out for it.

  “Don’t touch it!” snapped Max. “That’s a plastic explosive.”

  “You going to blow the whole building up?”

  “No, you idiot. Only the door.”

  “Oh.” Peter turned and wandered over to the door, leaving Max sorting things and muttering in his beard. The door was, indeed, pretty tightly shut, he saw. There was a keyhole but no key. Maybe, thought Peter, it had dropped on the ground. He searched around the base of the wall and, sure enough, found it about three feet off.

  He took it over to Max.

  “Here,” he said.

  “Get away!” growled Max, without looking up.

  “But I just wanted to give you—”

  “Get away!” roared Max. “And shut up! Don’t bother me. I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

  Sadly, Peter wandered back to the door. Idly, he tried the key in the lock. It turned, and the door swung open. He went inside. Within, he found himself enclosed by a surprisingly vast single room, whose walls were the outside walls they had walked around, and which towered up to look rooflessly at the sky. But this was not the really surprising thing about the interior; for the inner sides of the walls were as black as shiny basalt, and they were covered, from the point at which they touched the scarlet floor to as far up as the eye could reach, with fine, endless rows of the cuneiform figures embossed in ivory-white. Peter stood back, craning his neck to see how far, far up they actually went.

  “You!”

  It was Max’s voice, bellowing. Peter turned to see Max coming across the scarlet floor toward him, his beard bristling and a wild red light in his eyes.

  “What’d you do? How’d you open that door?”

  “I only used the key—” Peter shrunk away from him. “I was going to give it to you—”

  “Key? What key?”

  “The key in the keyhole—”

  “Key!” screamed Max. “There is no key! There’s no keyhole! Do you think I didn’t go over that door with a magnifying glass the first time I was here? Did you think I couldn’t see just now?” He drew back a fist and drove it suddenly into Peter’s face. Peter felt a terrible, crunching pain and fell back, covering his nose with his hands. “I’ve had enough of your lies. What’d you do?” He hit Peter again, following him up as Peter stumbled blindly backward to get away. “What did you do? Answer me! Answer me!”

  He drove Peter finally into a corner between two of the walls and pounded away at him until Peter collapsed in a moaning heap. Finally, Max stood still, hands clenched at his side, breathing hoarsely.

  “You won’t tell me,” he said. “Or you don’t know. Oh,” his voice sank to a venomous, tearing whisper, “if you only weren’t so damn stupid!”

  Peter said nothing, sobbing against the scarlet floor. He heard Max’s footsteps move away from him. After a while, they came back and he heard something dropped with a soft plop beside the hands that shielded his eyes.

  “There!” grated the voice of Max. “Fill your belly and stay away from me. I’ve got everything a race ever learned, here at my fingertips. And a greater race than the human one ever was. Can you understand that? Answer me!”

  “Yuh…” choked Peter.

  “This was destined! Can you understand that? It was destined for me to be the first one here, to learn all this. From the first moment I saw the Platform within my grasp—it was destiny driving me. All this was waiting for me, here, left by a race of people that weren’t human, that were something even I haven’t found out yet. The records I found—the records I found”—Max’s voice beat on Peter’s ears thickly, like the voice of a man sputtering on soapsuds—“they show them different, different, always different. But now I’m at the heart of it. Here. All the records are here. And you’re not to disturb me until I find what I want. Do you hear? Do you hear?”

  “Uh-huh,” mumbled Peter.

  “You better hear. If you bother me—if you cross me—I’ll crush you, like some fat slug in my garden. I’ll break you. I’ll abolish you. I’ll destroy you. Take that—”

  Peter cried out, huddling away from the hard toe of Max’s boot.

  “That’s better,” said the voice of Max. And the sound of his footsteps walked away.

  For a while longer, Peter stayed curled up, not daring to move. Finally, he peeked with one tear-wet eye through the spread fingers of his hand. Max was far off, clear across the large single room of the building, down on his hands and knees by the bottommost rows of cuneiform writing. He was copying them on pieces of paper and referring to the looseleaf notebook.

  Sniffling, Peter cautiousl
y uncurled and rubbed a blubbery hand across his eyes. He sat up in the corner, with his back against the two walls. His face hurt and his stomach hurt. Something white caught his eye; it was a package of sandwiches done up in a plastic wrapper, lying on the floor by his foot. Sniffing dolefully, he reached out, picked them up, and slowly began to unwrap them. They turned out to be thick slabs of ham carelessly thrust between perfectly dry slices of bread. A sob caught in Peter’s throat. Max knew Peter liked a little butter and mustard on his sandwiches; but just because Max didn’t care one way or another, he never put anything on them. It was a dirty, dirty trick.

  Drearily, he began to comfort himself with small nibbles on the topmost sandwich. It wasn’t fair. He took a large bite and chewed on it morosely.

  It was all Max’s fault. He thought he was the only scientific genius there was. While Peter could remember any telephone number you told him, forever. Or he could look at the numbers on the side of a boxcar once and then, months afterwards, tell you just what they were. Max couldn’t do that. And whenever Max couldn’t do anything and Peter could, he got mad. Peter never forgot a face or a name, but Max did. Actually, Peter was a bigger genius than Max was—

  Peter found his hand was empty, and reached dreamily for another sandwich.

  Take right now, for instance. Max couldn’t have made it this time without having Peter along to carry the equipment. How’d he be right now, if he didn’t have that book and stuff Peter had carried? Suppose Peter had really got stuck in that hole back there. He swallowed and reached for another sandwich.

  The ham and bread felt good in his stomach. No wonder he hadn’t been able to keep up so well— he’d been weak for food. Yes, Max wouldn’t have got very far without him along. No, sir! It took somebody with muscle to carry all that stuff. And that’s what Peter had. Why, if he’d wanted to, when Max was pushing him around, a while ago…

  It took intelligence, too. Peter groped for and found another sandwich. Actually, he was probably more intelligent than Max. He’d found the way in here—that key, and the sign farther back. That was because he was busy figuring things out in the back of his head. Subconsciously, he was quite a genius. Remembering the numbers proved that. He could find a sign or a key or—or something— when Max couldn’t. Actually, there was a pattern to all this. Take all those things he’d found. They were facts; and you built a theory from facts. Whenever Peter wanted a fact, he could find one. And it’d be whatever fact he needed. Peter fumbled without looking for another sandwich, but the paper was empty.

  That was just like Max. He never made enough sandwiches, either.

  But there, see now, this theory—where’d all these Martians go? Well, they all died off. Sure. Except one, maybe, and that one was waiting around to see what they were like…

  Peter glanced up apprehensively around him, suddenly, but there was nothing to be seen, except Max, busily at work across the empty floor.

  … But this Martian would like Peter. He wouldn’t like Max, because Max wouldn’t listen. He’d give Max facts, but Max couldn’t see them—like the sign, or the key. You know. That Martian was waiting around for someone like Peter, who was nice. And then he’d make himself into things… Peter started to reach automatically for another sandwich and then checked his hand. All gone. And then he’d make himself into things to show Peter he’d be nice if Peter was nice back. Like that ladder. And the sign. And the key. Maybe the rosebush.

  Sure, that was probably the Martian right there.

  Just one more sandwich would make all the difference.

  Peter sighed and looked down at the plastic wrapper on the floor. It was, as he had suspected, empty. But—he leaned forward suddenly—just outside it was another sandwich lying on the bare floor. It must have fallen out when he opened the package.

  Grinning, Peter reached out and scooped it up. It was a real thick sandwich. He held it up in front of him and his mouth watered. He opened his mouth—

  Sudden doubt struck him.

  What if it was the Martian? Again? Being a sandwich this time because that’s what Peter wanted now?

  Cautiously, he lowered the sandwich and considered it.

  It looked like a sandwich.

  But what if it was really the Martian? And what if the Martian wasn’t really nice at all? Or what if the Martian meant to be nice, but didn’t really understand people too well, and didn’t really understand what Peter wanted to do to that sandwich when he lifted it up to his mouth? Suppose the Martian didn’t have any eyes or ears or anything like that. Just sort of feelings. So he could feel what Max was like and didn’t bother with him. And he could feel what Peter was like, and tried him, and felt Peter’s feelings and tried to check on Peter through things like this, like turning himself into a ladder or a key, or a—

  Then if Peter bit into the sandwich the Martian would find himself being eaten. Then he would be madder than Max ever was. And then… Max said Martians were greater than humans ever had been. If one got real mad, it would be terrible, Peter guessed. Maybe the Martian’d—

  Sweating, Peter lowered the sandwich. He wouldn’t bite into that sandwich now. No, sir!

  He sat back and looked at the sandwich, sighing. His face hurt and his stomach hurt, and now he couldn’t have a sandwich that was right before his eyes. A nice thick sandwich, too. Peter peeked inside it. Just as he thought; this one had butter and mustard on it, too. And he couldn’t eat it. It was a dirty, dirty trick.

  If the Martian didn’t want to take a chance on being eaten, he shouldn’t turn himself into a sandwich. It wasn’t fair.

  Actually, they were all alike, that Martian and Max. They never thought about you. Just about themselves. They thought they were the most intelligent. They’d find out some day.

  “You!” said Peter to the sandwich. “You don’t scare me!”

  The Martian didn’t, either. If Peter didn’t eat the sandwich, it was because he just didn’t want an-other sandwich. If—why, if he wanted to—that sandwich would be gone in two bites.

  Sitting there like that in front of him!

  “You!” said Peter. “You better hear!”

  Sitting there like that in front of him to disturb him.

  “I’ll get what I want,” said Peter. “You’re not to disturb me until I find what I want. Do you hear? Do you hear?”

  He scowled threateningly above the sandwich. He pinched it a little between his fingers and the bread gave.

  “Oh, why are you so damn stupid?” he growled.

  He lifted up the sandwich, slowly before his eyes. He gnashed his teeth at it.

  “Can you understand that!”

  He shook the sandwich.

  “You better hear! I’ll teach you!” He pulled the sandwich up in front of his bared teeth. “I’m not scared of you. If you bother me—if you cross me— I’ll crush you like some fat slug in the garden.”

  He looked triumphantly at the sandwich; and it, the Martian, seemed to tremble a little in his grasp.

  “I’ll crunch you!” he hissed. “I’ll abolish you! I’ll show you who’s boss! I’ll destroy you! Take that!”

  He bit viciously into the sandwich. He ate it all down (and it was delicious) and sat there for a long moment after it was gone, holding himself in like a bomb that expects to explode at any minute. But nothing happened, except he felt full at last and strong with good nourishment—better, in fact, than he had ever felt before.

  Finally he relaxed. That Martian sandwich had learned its lesson all right. He’d showed it. It just proved what he was like when he decided to… He looked over at Max and frowned. It was time Max woke up to the fact that Peter wasn’t just a pushover, too. Look at Max there, reading that wall. Maybe the wall didn’t want to be read. Had Max ever thought of that? It was time somebody straightened him out on a few things.

  Filled with a fine new sense of power and fury, Peter got to his feet and marched over to Max. His shadow, falling across the wail, made Max jerk his head up in exasperation.r />
  “Now what?” he snarled. Then, suddenly staring at Peter, he checked and the color began to drain out of his abruptly rigid face. Peter, however, did not notice. He was too full of the fine new powerful words bubbling up inside him. He pointed a godlike finger of command at Max, and opened his mouth.

  “Human,” he said, “go home!”

  Although talismans and charms may ward off outer evils, “what rite can exorcise the fiends that dwell behind the eyes?”

  The Amulet

  He had hit the kid too hard, there, back behind the tool shed—that was the thing. He should have let up a little earlier, but it had been fun working the little punk over. Too much fun; the kid had been all softness, all niceness—it had been like catnip to a cat and he had got all worked up over it, and then it had been too late. It had just been some drippy-nosed fifteen-year-old playing at running away from home, but the railroad bulls would be stumbling over what was left, back of the toolshed, before dawn.

  That was why Clint had grabbed the first moving freight he could find in the yards instead of waiting for the northbound he was looking for. Now that the freight had lost itself in the Ozark back-country, he slipped out of the boxcar on a slow curve and let the tangled wild grass of the hot Missouri summer take the bounce of his body as it rolled down the slope of the grading.

  He came to a stop and sat up. The freight rattled by above him and was gone. He was a little jolted, that was all. He grinned into the insect-buzzing hush of the late afternoon. It took a young guy in shape to leave a moving freight. Any bum could hook on one. He considered his own blocky forearms, smooth with deep suntan and muscle, effortlessly propping him off the soft, crumbling earth; and he laughed out loud on the warm grass.

  He felt cat-good, suddenly. Cat-good. It was the phrase he had for himself when things turned out well. Himself, the cat, landed on his feet again and ready to make out in the next back yard. What would the suckers be like this time? He rose, stretching and grinning, and looked over the little valley before him.

  Below the ridge, it was more a small hollow than a true valley. The slope of the ridge came down sharp, covered with scrub pine, and leveled out suddenly into a little patch of plowed earth, just beginning to be nubbly with short new wands of grain. A small, brown shack sat at one end of the field, low-down from where he stood now, and in its yard an old granny in an ankle-length black skirt and brown sweater was chopping wood. He could see the flash of her axe through the far, clear air, and the chop sound came just behind. And for a moment, suddenly, for no reason at all, a strange feeling of unquiet touched him, like a dark moth-wing of fear fluttering for a second in the deep back of his mind. Then he grinned again, and picked up his wrinkled suitcoat.