Space Race

by Sylvia Waugh

  “All right, Edna,” he said. “I'll see to him.”

  He came from behind the counter and looked closely at Patrick.

  “You have been in the wars,” he said. “How did all this happen?”

  “I had a bad fall,” said Patrick. “Just before I got on the train. I couldn't stop to see to anything or I'd have missed it.”

  “Well,” said the chemist dubiously, “a bad fall? You can call it that—none of my business, really. But I think you should be seeing a doctor. Falls can cause concussion, you know, and you might need a jab for the tetanus.”

  “I'll see a doctor later,” said Patrick. “But for now, I'd be grateful if you could let me have something for the pain.”

  Patrick's face was full of misery. Involuntarily he squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. The chemist shook his head like the wise old man he was and felt sorry for this lad who was young enough to be his son.

  “A cup of tea,” he said, “a rest in the back room, and a bit of a wash and brush-up. Oh, and the painkillers. We'll not forget them. Go and put the kettle on, Edna.”

  The elderly assistant sniffed and went to do as she was bid. George Gibson was a soft touch, and no mistake! It would surely have been enough to give the young fellow advice, sell him something, and send him on his way. She was as charitable as the next person, but she was much more aware than her employer of the dictum that says you have to draw the line somewhere!

  The tea was made and poured. The shop bell jangled again and Edna went to serve another customer.

  “So how did it really happen?” said George as he cleaned up the wounds on Patrick's face, neck, and hands. “Been in a fight?”

  Patrick looked him straight in the eye and said, “I know that's what it must look like, but I haven't. I appreciate what you're doing for me and I'm only sorry I can't tell you the truth. But the truth would be much too hard for you to believe.”

  “Try me,” said the chemist with a smile.

  “Would you mind very much if I didn't?” said Patrick. “All I can really say is that I have had a genuine accident. I'm not a criminal and I haven't been in a fight.”

  “All right,” said George. “Now, if you can just take your coat off, I'll get Edna to give it a bit of a brush for you.”

  Edna had just returned from the front shop, determined to keep an eye on things. When she heard George's words, she was not what one might call pleased. She took the coat from her employer and went into the front shop, where she yanked a stiff clothes brush from the stand where it was one of three up for sale. Returning to the back room, she spread a copy of The Scotsman over the floor. Then she thumped away at the caked mud with a vigor that owed much to indignation. The newspaper was soon covered with grains of brown earth.

  Patrick sat in his shirtsleeves by the electric fire, shivering slightly and feeling increasingly embarrassed. He had taken two painkillers and drunk a mug of strong, sweet tea. His head was easing and he was becoming less helpless.

  “I'm sorry to put you both to all this trouble,” he said. “You are truly good Samaritans. I can't say how much I appreciate your help.”

  “I'm sure you do,” said Edna sharply. “It'd be surprising if you didn't.”

  But there was worse to come.

  “Do you need a room for the night? My sister can put you up. I can give her a ring if you like,” said the chemist as Patrick took his coat from Edna and began carefully to pull it on, wincing at the pain in his hands.

  Edna glared at both of them.

  Patrick said quickly, “No, no. I'm very grateful for the offer, but I am expected elsewhere. I think you've set me up well enough now to be on my way.”

  “Well,” said the chemist, smiling, “I suppose if you're expected at that place called ‘elsewhere,' elsewhere is where you must be going!”

  “What do I owe you?” said Patrick, getting out his wallet.

  “Let me see,” said the chemist, wary of Edna's accusing gaze, “there's two pounds twenty for the painkillers and a pound sixty-five for the balm—make it myself, you know. As good as any of the proprietary brands and a sight cheaper. That'll be three eighty-five altogether. You can pay Edna in the front shop.”

  “But …,” began Patrick, wondering what to say next. In his time on Earth, he had found repeatedly how wonderfully kind ordinary people could be.

  “Nothing for the tea and sympathy,” said George. “We Samaritans don't charge for them!”

  Patrick smiled at the older man and said a heartfelt thanks.

  When the door clanged behind their strange customer, George looked at Edna and said sternly, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”

  Patrick looked a little more respectable when he left Gibson's shop. The coat was still badly stained, but at least it was free of caked mud. The hemline was jagged but comparatively unremarkable. His face was still bruised and sore, his knuckles still scraped. He walked stiffly, still in some pain, but he felt that the worst was over.

  As he crossed the railway bridge, he had his first direct view of Princes Street.

  Then he saw it!

  Where Sir Walter Scott's great monument should have been, there was something with an outline like a small-scale skyscraper. From top to bottom it was squared off with boards and scaffolding.

  Patrick gasped, terrifyingly aware of the possible implications. Five years ago it had looked so different. The way back to the spaceship, not especially easy, had nevertheless seemed quite clear. Now what?

  He walked quickly on, across the road outside the station, into the nearest gate and past the Livingstone statue. The spaceship, he knew, was in a spot almost exactly halfway between a large old beech tree and the spiked railings and gate that edged the park on Princes Street. The tree was there, unchanged, outside the structure guarding the monument. A quick check filled Patrick with relief. The patch of earth where the spaceship was buried was also left outside the barrier! On a panel above the very spot, a portrait of the statue's designer, George Meikle Kemp, looked down.

  Patrick sat on a park bench near the scaffolding and paused to consider what to do next.

  This was the Saturday before Christmas. Edinburgh was full of people and buses and cars. The shops were festive and Princes Street glittered. Yes, Patrick, this is where you inadvertently landed the spaceship. And there it still is, beside the shrouded monument, sunk two or maybe three feet under the ground. Small it might be, but that orb is very dense.

  As he sat there, Patrick became increasingly aware of how tired he was. What he needed now was what George Gibson had offered—a bed for the night.

  If he had been able to enter the spaceship, all of the power of Ormingat would have been there at his fingertips. He could have summoned energy and healing, created any illusion his present problems might call for, and, most important of all, searched the scanner for a message from his son. Instead, he was stuck just yards away from it and unable to do anything but sit and yawn.

  He had money, though, a wallet full of notes.

  After he had sat for half an hour, struggling not to fall asleep, the answer became obvious. He must book into a hotel, have a nice warm bath, and go to bed.

  Booking into a hotel in his present state might not be easy. No real luggage—he could hardly count his document case as such—a dirty sheepskin coat, and a face that looked as if it had been in a fight. There would be no room at the inn for anyone looking like that!

  Then he thought of his credit card, still tucked in the wallet. He had not intended to use it again, but these were special circumstances. In all his time on Earth, he had never paid a credit card bill, had never received one. The account was dealt with elsewhere in the system. Patrick had known his limit, a generous one, and had never overspent.

  Despite his tiredness, he summoned up enough energy to walk along the main street and into the side streets and squares, looking for a suitable place to stay. It was not long before he found the ideal hotel, a very respectable-looking building on a square
overlooking pleasant gardens. Maitland Manor was written in smallish electric lettering across the front door. And, more important than the name, underneath was a telephone number.

  Patrick went to the telephone box in the next street and rang the number.

  “Maitland's,” said a terse male voice on the other end of the line. “Can I help you?”

  “I'd like a room for the night,” said Patrick, “a single room for tonight.” Then as an afterthought he added, “And tomorrow night. I'll pay in advance by credit card, if that would suit.”

  Patrick's voice on the telephone sounded right, no hint in it of anything untoward. And two nights, as Patrick suspected, were less open to suspicion than one might have been. To pay in advance by credit card was certainly acceptable.

  “We have, as it happens, just the one room,” said the voice. “You're lucky there. It's a busy time of year, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Patrick, “I realize that. I had to come to Edinburgh at very short notice. There is still business I must attend to. I may be quite late arriving. That will, I hope, be no problem?”

  “None at all,” said the voice.

  When everything was settled, Patrick set out to take care of what he felt he needed before he could present himself at the hotel. Sometime after eleven seemed a good time—quiet, with night staff on duty and, he hoped, lights turned low. His aching limbs would have preferred an earlier hour, but prudence made the later time more sensible.

  He walked back into Princes Street, going once more in the direction of Waverley Station. He got as far as the little bookshop just opposite the monument before stopping. Outside was an array of Scottish postcards on a revolving stand. Inside were maps and guidebooks.

  Patrick chose two postcards and took them to the counter.

  “I don't remember the Scott monument being in that state the last time I was here,” he said.

  “Been like that since last year,” said the assistant. “At first they just cordoned it off because it seemed to be crumbling. Then, so they say, the face fell off and nearly hit somebody. Whatever it was, they've found it's in much worse condition than they thought. Everyone's mystified, but they're determined to put it to rights.”

  Patrick shivered. He wondered if his spaceship had led to this rapid deterioration. No one from Ormingat would intentionally harm anything on Earth, but the universe is full of imponderables. The doubt, the mystery, would be something to report back. And if there was the least possibility that the cause was any vibration or emanation from the alien ship, then Ormingat would surely find a quiet way to compensate.

  Next he went into the department store to buy a weekend bag. To fill it he bought some pajamas, a bathrobe for bulk, a shirt, and a change of underwear.

  As he left the shop, Patrick was suddenly aware that his Earth body needed sustenance. He walked along till he came to a cozy-looking restaurant near the corner of a side street. He went to the counter, bought a bowl of stew and a pot of tea, then took his tray to a table near the fireplace, where he felt hidden by the projecting wooden mantelpiece. The food was good, but thoughts troubled every bite.

  What is Thomas doing now? Where is he? Alone somewhere? Frightened?

  A waiter in a black beret and striped waistcoat came by and cleared the table next to him. Patrick kept his head down and concentrated upon pouring his tea.

  Not harmed by the crash, so much I do know, but shocked, surely shocked. And lost. What would he do? Where would he go?

  Patrick sat slowly drinking his tea and trying to guess what had happened to Thomas.

  Would he be with Stella?

  With Stella in Belthorp?

  The wallpaper around the fireplace had a pattern of Japanese ladies looking graceful. Patrick looked up at them as he wiped the bread around the empty bowl and savored the last taste of the stew.

  What a muddle, he thought with a sigh, what a terrible, terrible muddle….

  Finally he felt he could spin out his meal no further. He went into the street and wandered around, wondering what to do. It was still too early to risk going to the hotel.

  Then he saw a cinema advertising a film about invaders from outer space. He went in, took a seat in the dark auditorium, and settled back to rest. On the screen, an alien with one huge eye in the middle of its scaly head was trying and failing to instill terror into a group of handsome, muscular scientists. Patrick nodded, then slept.

  * * *

  Checking into the Maitland was much easier than he could have hoped for. The man on the desk was reading a motoring magazine.

  Patrick said, “My name's Derwent, Patrick Derwent. I made a reservation this afternoon.”

  “Just fill the form in,” said the man, handing Patrick a card and a pen without ever looking up into his face. “I'll need to check your credit card.”

  Patrick wrote quickly, using the details he always used when the transaction involved the credit card. The man went on reading. The finished form was handed back. The man ran the credit card through his machine, then returned it to Patrick.

  “Room seventeen,” he said reaching blindly for the key from the wall behind him. “First floor. Lift's just to your left there, or there's the stairs if you'd rather. Morning call?”

  “No, thank you,” said Patrick, and he hurried away while the man got on with reading the article about the merits of the latest Volvo.

  As he went into his room Patrick observed a card on the door handle, a means of ordering a breakfast tray. Patrick filled it in neatly, requesting that the tray be left at seven A.M. Then he hung it over the handle again and went in to retire for the night. Things were definitely getting better! After a good night's rest he would be able to tackle the problem of reaching the spaceship with a much clearer mind. He did not expect to sleep—there was too much to worry about—but at least he would be resting.

  The hot bath was heavenly. The body Patrick inhabited expressed gratitude from its head to its aching feet. Afterward he made himself a pot of tea and lay on the bed in his new pajamas. His expectation of lying awake proved false. He yawned into the pillow and it was not long before he slept a deep and dreamless sleep. There is only so much worrying the mind can do.

  In Casselton General Hospital, Thomas too was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. He had called on his father and his father had not come. He had woven Ormingat names into a spell and the spell had failed.

  It was after eight o'clock when Patrick woke up. Hastily he rescued his tray from the corridor and went back into his room to eat breakfast. Outside, church bells were summoning people to morning services, though the day was barely dawning.

  Patrick, feeling much stronger this morning, puzzled over what to do next. Approaching the spaceship's resting place in daylight he had already decided would be too risky. He thought fleetingly of taking a train back to Casselton, but what would be the good of that? To find Thomas would be just as impossible as it had been the night before, and, in the circumstances, downright dangerous.

  The only logical way of being sure of finding his son was to return to the spaceship. All his eggs were in that one basket; all his faith was in the power of that ship's intellect—limited, mechanical, often irritatingly simple, but ultimately stronger than anything on Earth.

  He did think of ringing Stella, but that too was impossible. It would have risked such a betrayal as had never happened in 250 years of Ormingat explorations. And Vateelin did not know how he would be able to manage the outcome.

  Patrick Vateelin, two sides merging, sat on his bed with his head in his hands. Life was surely too difficult; its problems were insoluble. Too many things could go wrong. He thought of Thomas, alone in Casselton. Thomas, not Tonitheen. Eleven-year-old Earth child, lost and bewildered. There could surely be no greater failure than this. Patrick wept.

  It was then that the spirit of Keldu hovered over him. He felt as if her hand were resting lovingly on his shoulder. Then a voice seemed to whisper, “Ethalda, Vateelin kern. Innessoond midayla.”<
br />
  “Argule,” murmured Vateelin. His hand reached up to hers. There was nothing there. But she had left hope behind her, and Vateelin's heart seized on the hope and began planning for what should, what must be done.

  He was glad he had booked the room for two nights. His attempt to reach the spaceship would have to be made in the early hours of the morning, after even the latest of revelers had gone home to bed.

  Once within the ship, it would be easy.

  Well, it would, wouldn't it?

  Find the voice on the scan, Tonitheen's voice, home in on it, locate it to the nth. Then the ship must search and find and rescue. It must be capable of that, or why had he always been taught that the words were keys? Why scan and find, if find did not mean rescue?

  Patrick left the hotel just after nine-thirty. Apart from the sheepskin coat, which still looked somewhat raffish, his appearance was improving. The chemist's salve had taken the anger out of his scrapes and bruises. The hotel's shampoo had returned his hair to normal.

  He walked out of the square onto Princes Street. There, about two hundred yards away, was Scott's hidden monument. And buried beneath the monument, in a mound of soil, lay an alien artifact, a beautiful, potent piece of buried treasure.

  The day had turned bright, but the air was icy cold. Patrick turned up the collar of his coat and wished again that he had not parted with his woolen sweater.

  He walked along Princes Street, beside the gardens, where people were already walking despite the coldness of the weather. When he came to the Scott Monument, he walked more slowly and scrutinized the boards around the base, all decorated with graffitidefying pictures from Scottish history. A few yards further on and just round the corner was the exact spot where he would have to dig. It was no more than a foot from the wooden panels. Just one more foot and his task would have been impossible!

  Patrick hoped the ship would not have sunk deep; the longer the work took, the more danger there would be of detection.