Shards of Space

by Robert Sheckley

  Thunder roared directly overhead. A long flash of lightning suddenly flooded the room, spoiling his aim. Drake fired and missed, and waited for the snakes to strike.

  They didn’t strike. They were moving away from him, retreating to the rat hole from which they had emerged. One of the adders slid quickly through. The other began to follow, then stopped, half in the hole.

  Sorensen took careful aim with a rifle. Drake pushed the muzzle aside. “Wait just a moment.”

  The adder hesitated. It came out of the hole and began to move toward them again...

  And there was another crash of thunder and a vivid splash of lightning. The snake turned away and squirmed through the hole.

  “What’s going on?” Sorensen asked. “Is the thunder frightening them?”

  “No, it’s the lighting!” Drake said. “That’s why the Quedak was in such a rush. He saw that a storm was coming, and he hadn’t consolidated his position yet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The lightning,” Drake said. “The electrical storm! It’s jamming that radio control of his! And when he’s jammed, the beasts revert to normal behavior. It takes him time to re-establish control.”

  “The storm won’t last forever,” Cable said.

  “But maybe it’ll last long enough,” Drake said. He picked up the direction finders and handed one to Sorensen. “Come on, Bill. We’ll hunt out that bug right now.”

  “Hey,” Recetich said, “isn’t there something I can do?”

  “You can start swimming if we don’t come back in an hour,” Drake said.

  In slanting lines the rain drove down, pushed by the wild southwest wind. Thunder rolled continually and each flash of lightning seemed aimed at him. Drake and Sorensen reached the edge of the jungle and stopped.

  “We’ll separate here,” Drake said. “Gives us a better chance of converging on him.”

  “Right,” Sorensen said. “Take care of yourself, Dan.”

  Sorensen plunged into the jungle. Drake trotted fifty yards down the fringe and then entered the bush.

  He pushed forward, the revolver in his belt, the radio direction finder in one hand, a flashlight in the other. The jungle seemed to be animated by a vicious life of its own, almost as if the Quedak controlled it. Vines curled cunningly toward him. Every branch took a special delight in slapping his face.

  Each time the lightning flashed, Drake’s direction finder tried to home on it. He was having a difficult time staying on course. But, he reminded himself, the Quedak was undoubtedly having an even more difficult time. Between flashes, he was able to set a course. The further he penetrated the jungle, the stronger the signal became.

  After a while he noticed that the flashes of lightning were spaced more widely apart. The storm was moving on toward the north, leaving the island behind. How much longer would he have the protection of the lightning? Another ten or fifteen minutes?

  He heard something whimper. He swung his flashlight around and saw his dog, Oro, coming toward him.

  His dog—or the Quedak’s dog?

  “Hey, there, boy,” Drake said. He wondered if he should drop the direction finder and get the revolver out of his belt. He wondered if the revolver would still work after such a thorough soaking.

  Oro came up and licked his hand. He was Drake’s dog, at least for the duration of the storm.

  They moved on together, and the thunder rumbled distantly in the north. The signal on his RDF was very strong now. Somewhere around here...

  He saw light from another flashlight. Sorensen, badly out of breath, had joined him. The jungle had ripped and clawed at him, but he still had his rifle, flashlight, and direction finder.

  Oro was scratching furiously at a bush. There was a long flash of lightning, and in it they saw the Quedak.

  Drake realized, in those final moments, that the rain had stopped. The lightning had stopped, too. He dropped the direction finder. With the flashlight in one hand and his revolver in the other, he tried to take aim at the Quedak, who was moving, who had jumped—

  To Sorensen’s neck, just above the right collarbone.

  Sorensen raised his hands, then lowered them again. He turned toward Drake, raising his rifle. His face was perfectly calm. He looked as though his only purpose in life was to kill Drake.

  Drake fired from less than two feet away. Sorensen spun with the impact, dropped his rifle, and fell.

  Drake bent over him, his revolver ready. He saw that he had fired accurately. The bullet had gone in just above the right collarbone. It was a bad wound. But it had been much worse for the Quedak, who had been in the direct path of the bullet. All that was left of the Quedak was a splatter of black across Sorensen’s chest.

  Drake applied hasty first aid and hoisted Sorensen to his shoulders. He wondered what he would have done if the Quedak had been standing above Sorensen’s heart, or on his throat, or on his head.

  He decided it was better not to think about that.

  He started back to camp, with his dog trotting along beside him.

  POTENTIAL

  He returned to consciousness slowly, aware of aches and bruises, and an agonizing knot in his stomach. Experimentally, he stretched his legs.

  They didn’t touch anything, and he realized that his body was unsupported. He was dead, he thought. Floating free in space—

  Floating? He opened his eyes. Yes, he was floating. Above him was a ceiling—or was it a floor? He resisted a strong urge to scream, blinked, and his surroundings swam into focus.

  He realized that he was in a spaceship. The cabin was a shambles. Boxes and equipment drifted around him, evidently ripped loose from their moorings by some sudden strain. Burnt-out wires ran across the floor. A row of lockers along one wall had been fused into slag.

  He stared, but no recognition came. As far as he knew, he was seeing this for the first time. He raised a hand and pushed against the ceiling, drifted down, pushed again, and managed to grasp a wall rail. Holding this tightly, he tried to think.

  “There is a logical explanation for all this,” he said aloud, just to hear his own voice. “All I have to do is remember.” Remember—

  What was his name?

  He didn’t know.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Is there anyone here?” His words echoed between the ship’s narrow walls. There was no answer.

  He propelled himself across the cabin, ducking to miss the floating boxes. In half an hour he knew he was the only person aboard the ship.

  He pushed himself back to the front of the ship. There was a padded chair there, with a long panel in front of it. He strapped himself into the chair and studied the panel.

  It consisted of two blank screens, one much larger than the other. Under the large screen were two buttons, marked vision-front, and vision-back. A dial beneath the buttons was calibrated for focus. The small screen was unmarked.

  Not finding any other controls, he pushed the vision-front button. The screen cleared, showing black space with the brilliant points of the stars before him. He stared at it for a long time, open-mouthed, then turned away.

  The first thing to do, he told himself, was to assemble all the knowledge at his disposal and see what he could deduce from it.

  “I am a man,” he said. “I am in a spaceship, in space. I know what stars are, and what planets are. Let me see—”He had a rudimentary knowledge of astronomy, less of physics and chemistry. He remembered some English literature, although he couldn’t think of any writers except Traudzel, a popular novelist. He remembered the authors of several history books, but couldn’t place their contents.

  He knew the name for what he had: amnesia.

  Suddenly, he had a great desire to see himself, to look at his own face. Surely, recognition and memory would follow. He shoved himself across the room again, and started searching for a mirror.

  There were lockers built into the walls, and he opened them hastily, spilling the contents into the weightless air. In the third locke
r he found a shaving kit and a small steel mirror. He studied the reflection anxiously.

  A long irregular face, drained of color. Dark stubble growing on the chin. Bloodless lips.

  The face of a stranger.

  He fought down fresh panic and searched the cabin, looking for some clue to his identity. Quickly he pawed through the floating boxes, shoving them aside when they proved to contain nothing but food or water. He looked on.

  Floating in one corner of the cabin was a sheet of scorched paper. He seized it.

  “Dear Ran,” it began. “The biochem boys have been doing some hurry-hurry last-minute checking on the pento. Seems there’s a strong chance it might induce amnesia. Something about the strength of the drug, plus the near-traumatic experience you’re undergoing, whether you’re aware of it or not. Now they tell us! Anyhow, I’m dashing off this note at zero minus fourteen minutes, just as a refresher for you in case they’re right.

  “First, don’t look for any controls. Everything’s automatic, or it should be if this pile of cardboard and glue holds together. (Don’t blame the technicians; they had practically no time to get it finished and away before flash moment).

  “Your course is set for automatic planetary selection, so just sit tight. I don’t suppose you could forget Marselli’s theorem, but in case you have, don’t worry about landing among some eighteen-headed intelligent centipedes. You’ll reach humanoid life because it has to be humanoid life.

  “You may be a bit battered after blastoff, but the pento will pull you through. If the cabin is messy, it’s because we just didn’t have time to check everything for stress-strain tolerances.

  “Now for the mission. Go at once to Projector One in Locker Fifteen. The projector is set for self-destruction after one viewing, so make sure you understand it. The mission is of ultimate importance, Doc, and every man and woman on Earth is with you. Don’t let us down.”

  Someone named Fred Anderson had signed it.

  Ran—automatically using the name given in the letter—started looking for Locker Fifteen. He found at once where it had been. Lockers Eleven through Twenty-five were fused and melted. Their contents were destroyed.

  That was that. Only the scorched paper linked him now with his past, his friends, all Earth. Even though his memory was gone, it was a relief to know that the amnesia had an explanation.

  But what did it mean? Why had they thrown the ship together in such a rush? Why had they placed him in it—alone—and sent him out? And this all-important mission—if it was so vital, why hadn’t they safeguarded it better?

  The note raised more questions than it answered. Frowning, Ran pushed himself back to the panel. He looked out the screen again, at the spectacle of the stars, trying to reason it out.

  Perhaps there was a disease. He was the only person not infected. They had built the ship and shot him out to space. The mission? To contact another planet, find an antidote, and bring it back—

  Ridiculous.

  He looked over the panel again, and pushed the button for vision-rear.

  And almost fainted.

  A glaring, blinding light filled the entire screen, scorching his eyes. Hastily he cut down the field of focus, until he was able to make out what it was.

  A nova. And the letter had mentioned the flash-moment.

  Ran knew that Sol was the nova. And that Earth was consumed.

  There was no clock on the ship, so Dr. Ran had no idea how long he had been traveling. For a long time he just drifted around dazed, coming back to the screen constantly.

  The nova dwindled as the ship speeded on.

  Ran ate and slept. He wandered around the ship, examining, searching. The floating boxes were in the way, so he started to pull them down and secure them.

  Days might have passed, or weeks.

  After a while, Ran started to put the facts he knew into a coherent structure. There were gaps and questions in it, probably untruths as well, but it was a beginning.

  He had been chosen to go in the spaceship. Not as a pilot, since the ship was automatic, but for some other reason. The letter had called him “Doc.” It might have something to do with his being a doctor.

  Doctor of what? He didn’t know.

  The makers of the ship had known Sol was going nova. They couldn’t, evidently, rescue any sizable portion of Earth’s population. Instead, they had sacrificed themselves and everyone else to make sure of rescuing him.

  Why him?

  He was expected to do a job of the greatest importance. So important that everyone had been subordinated to it. So important that the destruction of Earth itself seemed secondary, as long as the mission was accomplished.

  What could that mission be?

  Dr. Ran couldn’t conceive of anything so important. But he had no other theory that came even close to fitting the facts as he knew them.

  He tried to attack the problem from another viewpoint. What would he do, he asked himself, if he knew that Sol was going nova in a short time, and he could rescue only a limited number of people with a certainty of success?

  He would have sent out couples, at least one couple, in an attempt to perpetuate human stock.

  But evidently the leaders of Earth hadn’t seen it that way.

  After a time, the small screen flashed into life. It read: Planet. Contact 100 hours.

  He sat in front of the panel and watched. After a long time the digits changed. Contact 99 hours.

  He had plenty of time. He ate, and went back to work getting the ship into what order he could.

  While he was storing boxes in the remaining lockers, he found a carefully packaged and fastened machine. He recognized it as a projector at once. On its side was engraved a large “2.”

  A spare, he thought, his heart pounding violently. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He looked into the viewer and pushed the button.

  The film took over an hour. It started with a poetic survey of Earth; flashes of her cities, fields, forests, rivers, oceans. Her people, her animals, all in brief vignettes. There was no sound track.

  The camera moved to an observatory, explaining its purpose visually. It showed the discovery of the Sun’s instability, the faces of the astrophysicists who had discovered it.

  Then the race against time began, and the rapid growth of the ship. He saw himself, running up to it, grinning at the camera, shaking someone’s hand, and disappearing inside. The film stopped there. They must have stored the camera, given him the injection, and sent him off.

  Another reel started.

  “Hello, Ran,” a voice said. The picture showed a large calm man in a business suit. He looked directly at Ran out of the screen.

  “I couldn’t resist this opportunity to speak to you again, Dr. Ellis. You’re deep in space now, and you’ve undoubtedly seen the nova that has consumed Earth. You’re lonely, I dare say.

  “Don’t be, Ran. As representative of Earth’s peoples, I’m taking this final chance to wish you luck in your great mission. I don’t have to tell you that we’re all with you. Don’t feel alone.

  “You have, of course, seen the film in Projector One, and have a thorough understanding of your mission. This portion of film—with my face and voice on it—will be automatically destroyed, in the same way. Naturally, we can’t let extraterrestrials in on our little secret yet.

  “They’ll find out soon enough. You can feel free to explain anything on the remainder of this film to them. It should win you plenty of sympathy. Make no reference, of course, to the great discovery or the techniques that stemmed from it. If they want the faster-than-light drive, tell them the truth—that you don’t know how it’s propagated, since it was developed only a year or so before Sol went nova. Tell them that any tampering with the ship will cause the engines to dissolve.

  “Good luck, doctor. And good hunting.” The face faded and the machine hummed louder, destroying the last reel.

  He put the projector carefully back in its case, tied it into the locker, and went back to the
control panel.

  The screen read: Contact 97hours.

  He sat down and tried to place the new facts into his structure. As background, he remembered vaguely the great, peaceful civilization of Earth. They had been almost ready to go for the stars when the Sun’s instability was found. The faster-than-light drive had been developed too late.

  Against that background he had been selected to man the escape ship. Only him, for some unfathomable reason. The job given him was thought more important, evidently, than any attempts at race-survival.

  He was to make contact with intelligent life, and tell them about Earth. But he was to withhold any mention of the greatest discovery and its resulting techniques.

  Whatever they were.

  And then he was to perform his mission—

  He felt as though he could burst. He couldn’t remember. Why hadn’t the fools engraved his instructions on bronze?

  What could it be?

  The screen read, Contact 96 hours.

  Dr. Ran Ellis strapped himself into the pilot chair and cried from sheer frustration.

  The great ship looked, probed, and reported. The small screen flashed into life. Atmosphere-chlorine. Life-nonexistent. The data was fed to the ship’s selectors. Circuits closed, other circuits opened. A new course was set up, and the ship speeded on.

  Dr. Ellis ate and slept and thought.

  Another planet was reported, examined, and rejected.

  Dr. Ellis continued thinking, and made one unimportant discovery.

  He had a photographic memory. He discovered this by thinking back over the film. He could remember every detail of the hour-long spectacle, every face, every movement.

  He tested himself as the ship went on, and found that the ability was a constant. It worried him for a while, until he realized that it was probably a factor in his selection. A photographic memory would be quite an asset in learning a new language.

  Quite an irony, he thought. Perfect retention—but no memory.

  A third planet was rejected.

  Ellis outlined the possibilities he could think of, in an effort to discover the nature of his mission.

  To erect a shrine to Earth? Possibly. But why the urgency, then, the stressed importance?