by Chad Oliver
Sam knew that he had killed the man he had slammed against the corridor wall. He knew it without looking, and he felt no remorse. It was simply another item to be added to the list, and it made his position more serious than ever. It made his position completely hopeless.
He laughed, shortly.
The hell with it, gentlemen! I’ll cheat you yet!
There was no point in trying to reach the storeroom. It might gain him an hour or two, nothing more. And they would be after him very soon now, many of them, far more than he could ever handle.
There was just one thing left to do.
Sam turned, picked his way over the prone bodies, and went back the way he had come. It was easier with the lights on, easier with decent air in his lungs, easier now that he wasn’t burning up with thirst. But as he walked the reaction caught up with him, the adrenalin of battle faded, and his legs wobbled precariously.
He almost made it before he fell down, and then he just crawled the rest of the way.
The faded sign was the same: danger. LOCK FOUR. DANGER
The massive metal door still gleamed in the very side of the Ship. Beyond that airlock—
Well, no matter. He was through, either way.
He pulled himself to his feet, grasped the wheel in the middle of the great door, twisted it.
The siren exploded into fury again, but this time he was ready for it. He ignored the bedlam, kept on turning the wheel. It came more easily now, loosening up, it was spinning—
There was a rasping creak he could hear above the siren’s scream.
Sam’s hand dropped from the cold metal wheel. In spite of himself, he backed away, holding his breath.
The airlock door opened with a hiss.
At that precise moment, he heard a chorus of cries that cut through the racket of the siren. A glance down the tunnel showed a troop of Crewmen advancing through the smoke-like dust.
Sam waved his hand at them tauntingly.
Without hesitation, he stepped through the airlock door. He found himself in a small metal chamber. Remembering the films he had seen, he jabbed a green button on a wall panel. The great door through which he had come hissed shut again, just before the others reached it.
That door could not be opened again from the Ship as long as he was inside the airlock.
He looked around him. There was little to see. The lock was a small one, perhaps ten feet square. It had been painted a dull gray, but the paint had peeled and cracked, showing the dark metal beneath.
The chamber was quite empty.
There was no providential space suit.
Sam stepped across to the circular portal at the far end of the airlock. He touched it with his finger. It felt cold. Just to the right of the portal there was another panel. The panel had a red button set into it.
Sam reached out to press the button.
His finger trembled so violently that he missed it altogether.
It was all very well to make up your mind to do something that went against your very soul. It was all very well to be convinced that you were going to do it. It was all very well to try to do it.
But beyond this last door was Outside.
Outside the Ship.
Outside the world.
Outside, past the sandy beaches of a warm and tiny island, out into the vastnesses of a desolate sea, cold and empty beyond belief. Out into space itself, out into a nightmare death that had haunted you from childhood….
A hollow clanging filled the chamber.
The Crewmen were trying to batter the inner door down.
Sam took a deep breath, and held it. He pressed the red button. He felt a cool current against his body as air began to cycle.
The circular portal creaked and hissed.
It began to open.
Sam closed his eyes, held his breath with maniac ferocity.
He counted to ten.
He squared his shoulders and walked forward. He walked through the port. He was Outside—
He began to fall.
God, can I have guessed right, why don’t I explode, why can’t I feel anything….
He hit something with a numbing crash. The something gave under the impact; it was flexible. It ripped at his arms and legs as he fell—
Then it stopped.
It was over.
Sam couldn’t hold his breath any longer. His lungs were bursting, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He opened his mouth, gasped, swallowed.
Air!
The face-mask could only filter air; there had to be air there in the first place. And that meant—
Sam opened his eyes.
Green.
Yellow.
Red.
Black.
Colors! A riot of colors! He had never seen such colors; they stunned his eyes. He looked up, past a tangle of green. Light! Bright, golden light.
A sun.
Sam reached up, ripped off his face-mask.
An avalanche of smells almost smothered him. It was like his hydroponics room, but magnified a million times. He smelled green growing things, flowers, trees—
Life.
He had been living in a dead world, a counterfeit world, and here was the real thing, dazzling, incredible, wonderful, overpowering. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves over his head, a sweet living breeze he could taste in his mouth.
Sam tried his body gingerly. No bones were broken, as far as he could tell. He reached out and pulled the sticky green vines apart, making a hole. He began to inch along painfully, like a worm, sucking in the earth-moist air as he went. He forced his way through a tangled miracle of underbrush for some twenty long minutes, and then he found himself in a small clearing.
There was water in the clearing, a little spring bubbling up from an outcropping of glistening black rocks. Sam stared at it; it seemed to him that he had never seen anything so beautiful. Tiny brown rootlets trailed down into the pale water. There were clean white pebbles on the bottom, all worn and smooth. He could see the pebbles in exact detail, almost as though the water magnified them, but when he thrust his arm into the spring he could not reach bottom.
Sam cupped the cold water in his dirty hands and drank it. He had never tasted water so sweet, so charged with vitality.
He stood up on shaking legs. He looked back the way he had come.
He saw a sight he would never forget.
There was the Ship, the mighty Ship, rearing its bulk toward an electric blue sky. There was the Ship, the world he had known, and it was a dead thing, a defeated thing.
Its once-bright sides were dull with rust and corrosion. Its once-powerful jets were buried in dirt and brambles. Its once-proud outline was blurred by the tangled green ropes of creepers and vines.
There was the Ship, there was his world: buried beneath the decay and the growth of centuries.
The Ship had landed; that was obvious enough. It had touched down long ago, generations ago. It had found the world it had sought, the world that might give his people another chance.
The great journey had ended hundreds of years ago.
And the passengers?
They had stayed in the Ship.
They had been afraid to come out.
They had built their little safe sterile society in their metal tube of a world, and they had been afraid to start again. They remembered what had happened on Earth; they were never allowed to forget. A lifetime of warnings buzzed through Sam’s brain:
“You must be careful, you must be wise….”
“Take no chances….”
“Better to be safe than sorry….”
Sam had known, somehow. A part of him had always known. This was the secret the Crewmen hid from their people. This was why the useless control room was guarded, even in the midnight hours. This was why the Crewmen had to be selected so carefully. This was why they had feared him, hated him, stifled him—
Sam felt the warm sun on his neck, tasted the living air in his mouth, smelled the breeze that had kisse
d the flowers and the trees and the blue vault of the skies.
And he threw back his head and laughed, laughed with the sheer blind exultation of being alive.
He flopped down on the ground by the bubbling spring, pillowed his head in his arms, and was asleep in seconds.
When Sam woke up, the world was dark around him—dark and yet shot with a luminous gray that told him that dawn was near. He had no idea how long he had slept, since he did not know the planet’s period of rotation, but he felt rested and ready to go.
He was cold, and his body was stiff and sore. The ground that had seemed so warm in the sunlight was chill and damp now, and there were tiny beads of moisture on the grass stems. The stars were fading as light seeped over the horizon, but they still dusted the heavens with their glory.
He drank some more water, but it failed to fill the emptiness that gnawed inside him. He searched his pockets, but he had no food left. He stood there and shivered, half smiling at his own plight.
He didn’t know how to build a fire.
He didn’t know what berries or nuts were safe to eat.
He had no weapons.
He listened, almost holding his breath. He heard the world around him, the world he could not see. He heard sounds he had never heard on the Ship; the very air was filled with rustlings and sighings and a vague thump as something heavy moved in the brush.
Sam stood quietly, watching the sunrise. He felt as though he were just being born, coming forth as a man after an eternity of not-life inside a great metal egg….
The sun came up slowly, taking its own sweet time, doing the job right. It bathed the world in soft pastels, in rose and soft yellow and rich brown. It warmed the ground, the leaves, the grasses. It rolled into the sky, almost timidly, and looked down on itself, smiling into the chuckles of the spring.
Sam looked again at the Ship. It was a sad thing in the sunlight, a tragic thing. It looked like the tombstone placed over the grave of a giant. It was hard to believe that people lived and loved and died within those metal walls; it was as if the ancient Egyptians of Earth had sealed their society inside a vast pyramid, trying to preserve it for the ages….
Sam felt no anger now, not even triumph. The green world around him was too big for that. Instead, watching that rusting hulk being strangled in the patient coils of the vines, he felt the beginnings of compassion, of understanding.
I’ll be back, he thought. One day I’ll be back.
And then the irony of it welled up within him. O my people! The door was always open to you, the door into sunlight and warmth and life. The door was always open, if you only had the courage to walk through it!
He turned and set out toward a low range of bluish hills, still half hidden by mist. He was desperately hungry, with no way of getting food, but happiness was in him like a song. He knew he was on the threshold of a new life, he knew that more miracles waited for him beneath that alien, golden sun. He had only to keep going, to walk far enough and long enough—
He smelled the smoke first.
He was walking through a clump of tall, cool trees, relishing the spongy softness of the leaves on the forest floor. He caught a whiff of woodsmoke, heavy and pungent with the tang of broiling meat. He walked faster, almost running, trailing the smoke.
He came to the edge of a sea of grass, a rolling meadow of green. He saw the orange fire at the very edge of the timber, blazing up with sap-rich hissings and cracklings. He smelled the dripping meat hanging over the flames….
He saw the men, three of them, standing around the fire. Big men, men his own size, their muscles as golden as the sun in the sky. They saw him, smiled at him, waved to him.
Sam waved back. He knew there was nothing to fear here, and hurried toward the fire with a steady, eager step. He walked proudly, his head erect, his heart full.
And Sam Kingsley heard at last that far, free wind that stirs the world. He felt within him the deep beat of a living sea, and knew that he had found peace at the end of his journey, a peace as bright with promise as the morning sun.
OF COURSE
In Bern, Switzerland, quite early in the morning, the President woke up with a splitting headache. He hadn’t been sleeping well for the past three weeks, and last night had been worse than usual. He stayed in bed for a few minutes, frowning at the ceiling. It was an unpleasant situation to be in; there was no denying that. The President, however, had confidence. Surely, with its record since the Congress of Vienna in 1815, the outlook was good for his country. The President managed a smile. Switzerland would be the one, of course.
In Moscow, Russia, seated at the end of a long table, the Premier listened intently to his chief military advisors. He didn’t like what he heard, but he kept his face expressionless. He didn’t like the position in which he found himself, but he wasn’t really worried. There could be no doubt whatever that the Supreme Soviet would be the one chosen. Of course!
In London, England, the Prime Minister stepped out of 10 Downing Street, his pipe smoking determinedly. He climbed into his car for the drive to the Palace, and folded his strong hands. Things might be a bit touch-and-go for a short time, but the Prime Minister was undismayed. England, with its glorious history, was the only possible choice. Of course, it would be England!
To the east of Lake Victoria in Africa, the tall, slender priest-chief of the Masai, the Laibon, looked out upon the humped cattle grazing on the grassland and smiled. There was but one true God, Em-Gai, and the pastoral Masai were proud. At long last, ancient wrongs would he corrected! The Masai would rise again. They were the only logical choice. Of course …
And so it went, around the world.
The somewhat dumpy gentleman in the rimless spectacles and the double-breasted suit had a name: Morton Hillford. He had a title to go with the name: presidential advisor
Right now, he was pacing the floor.
“You say you’ve investigated all the possibilities, General?” he demanded. “All the … um-m-m … angles?”
The general, whose name was Larsen, had an erect bearing and iron-gray hair, both of which were very useful when senators had to be impressed. He was a general who knew his business. Naturally, he was upset.
He said: “Every possible line of action has been explored, Mr. Hillford. Every angle has been studied thoroughly.”
Morton Hillford stopped pacing. He aimed a forefinger at the general as though it were a .45. His expression indicated strongly that if there had been a trigger he might have pulled it. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that the United States Army is impotent?”
The general frowned. He coughed briefly. “Well,” he said, “let’s say that the United States Army is helpless in this matter.”
“I don’t care what words you use! Can you do anything?”
“No,” said the general, “we can’t. And neither, may I point out, can the Navy, the Air Force, or the Marines.”
“Or the Coast Guard,” mimicked Morton Hillford. He resumed his pacing. “Why can’t you do anything? That’s your job, isn’t it?”
General Larsen flushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hillford. Our job, as you point out, is to defend this country. We are prepared to do that to the best of our ability, no matter what the odds—”
“Oh, forget it, Larsen. I didn’t mean to get under your hide. I guess my breakfast just didn’t agree with me this morning. I understand your position in this matter. It’s … embarrassing, that’s all.”
“To say the least,” agreed General Larsen. “But I venture to say that we’ve thought of everything from hydrogen bombs to psychological warfare. We have absolutely nothing that stands the ghost of a chance of working. A hostile move on our part would be suicide for all of us, Mr. Hillford. I deplore melodrama, but facts are facts. It wouldn’t do to let the people know just how much in their power we are, but nevertheless we are on the hook and there isn’t any way that I know of to get off again. We’ll keep trying, naturally, but the President must have the correct facts at his dispos
al. There isn’t a thing we can do at the present time.”
“Well, General, I appreciate your candor, even if you have little else to offer. It looks as though we will have to keep our fingers crossed and a great big smile on our collective face. The President isn’t going to like it though, Larsen.”
“I don’t like it either,” Larsen said.
Morton Hillford paused long enough to look out the window at the streets of Washington. It was summer, and the sun had driven most people indoors, although there were a few helicopters and cars visible. The old familiar buildings and monuments were there, however, and they imparted to him a certain sense of stability, if not of security.
It’s not the heat, his mind punned silently, it’s the humility.
“We’ll just have to trust to their good judgment, I suppose,” Morton Hillford said aloud. “It could be worse.”
“Much worse,” the general agreed. “The position of the United States in the world today—”
Hillford brushed the words aside impatiently. “There isn’t the slightest doubt of it! That isn’t our problem. Of course the United States will be chosen.”
“Of course,” echoed the general.
“And then everything will be all right, won’t it, Larsen?”
“Of course!”
“Just the same,” said Morton Hillford pointedly, “you find us a weapon that will work, and do it in a hurry.”
“We’ll try, Mr. Hillford.”
“You do it, General. That’s all for today.”
The general left, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Morton Hillford, presidential advisor, resumed his pacing. Fourteen steps to the window, fourteen steps back. Pause. Light a cigarette. Fourteen steps to the window—
“Of course,” he said aloud, “it will be the United States.”
And his mind added a postscript: It had BETTER be the United States.
Three weeks ago, the ship had come out of space.
It was a big ship, at least as far as Earth was concerned. It was a good half-mile long, fat and sleek and polished, like a well-fed silver fish in the shallows of a deep and lonely sea. It didn’t do much of anything. It just hung high in the air directly above the United Nations building in New York.
