Page 2 of Galaxy

  It was a hell of a thing to hap­pen on a man's last trip, he thought. He would like to have taken her down just this once. He sat looking at his hands. Gradually, calmly, carefully, with a cold will and a welling sad­ness, he broke his hands away from the panel.

  "Coop," he said, "take over." Coop glanced over and saw. Wyatt's face was white and glistening; his hands in front of him were wooden and strange.

  "Sure," Coop said, after a very long moment. "Sure."

  Wyatt backed off, and Coop slid into the seat.

  "They got me just in time," Wyatt said, looking at his stiff, still fingers. He looked up and ran into Beauclaire's wide eyes, and turned away from the open pity. Coop was bending over the panel, swallowing heavily.

  "Well," Wyatt said. He was beginning to cry. He walked slowly from the room, his hands held before him like old gray things that had died.

  THE ship circled automatically throughout the night, while its crew slept or tried to. In the morning they were all forcefully cheerful and began to work up an interest.

  There were people on the planet. Because the people lived in villages, and had no cities and no apparent science, Coop let the ship land.

  It was unreal. For a long while, none of them could get over the feeling of unreality, Wyatt least of all. He stayed in the ship and got briefly drunk, and then came out as carefully efficient as ever. Coop was gay and brittle. Only Beauclaire saw the planet with any degree of clarity. And all the while the people looked back.

  From the very beginning it was peculiar.

  The people saw the ship pass­ing overhead, yet curiously they did not run. They gathered in groups and watched. When the ship landed, a small band of them came out of the circling woods and hills and ringed the ship, and a few came up and touched it calmly, ran fingers over smooth steel sides.

  The people were human.

  There was not, so far as Beau­claire could tell, a single significant difference. It was not really extraordinary—similar conditions will generally breed similar races —but there was something about these men and women which was hard and powerful, and in a way almost grand.

  They were magnificently built, rounded and bronzed. Their women especially were remarkably beautiful. They were wearing woven clothes of various colors, in simple savage fashions; but there was nothing at all savage about them. They did not shout or seem nervous or move around very much, and nowhere among them was there any sign of a weapon. Furthermore, they did not seem to be particularly curi­ous. The ring about the ship did not increase. Although sev­eral new people wandered in from time to time, others were leaving, unconcerned. The only ones, among them who seemed at all excited were the children.

  Beauclaire stood by the view-screen, watching. Eventually Coop joined him, looking without interest until he saw the women. There was one particular girl with shaded brown eyes and a body of gentle hills. Coop grinned widely and turned up the mag­nification until the screen showed nothing but the girl. He was gaz­ing with appreciation and mak­ing side comments to Beauclaire when Wyatt came in.

  "Looka that, Billy," Coop roared with delight, pointing. "Man, we have come home!"

  WYATT smiled very tightly, changed the magnification quickly to cover the whole throng around them.

  "No trouble?"

  "Nope," Coop said. "Air's good, too. Thin, but practically pure oxygen. Who's first to go out?"

  "Me," Wyatt said, for obvious reasons. He would not be missed.

  No one argued with him. Coop was smiling as Wyatt armed himself. Then he warned Wyatt to leave that cute little brown-eyed doll alone.

  Wyatt went out.

  The air was clear and cool. There was a faint breeze stirring the leaves around him, and Wyatt listened momentarily to the far bell-calls of birds. This would be the last time he would ever go out like this, to walk upon an unknown world. He waited for some time by the airlock before he went forward.

  The ring of people did not move as he approached, his hand upraised in what the Mapping Command had come to rely on as the universal gesture of peace. He paused before a tall, monolithic old man in a single sheath of green cloth.

  "Hello," he said aloud, and bowed his head slowly.

  From the ship, through the wide-angle sights of a gun, Beauclaire watched breathlessly as Wyatt went through the pantomime of greeting.

  None of the tall people moved, except the old man, who folded his arms and looked openly amused. When the pantomime was done, Wyatt bowed again. The old man broke into a broad grin, looked amiably around at the circle of people, and then quite suddenly bowed to Wyatt. One by one the people, grinning, bowed.

  Wyatt turned and waved at the ship, and Beauclaire stood away from his gun, smiling.

  It was a very fine way to begin.

  IN the morning Wyatt went out alone, to walk in the sun among the trees, and he found the girl he had seen from the ship. She was sitting alone by a stream, her feet cooling and splashing in the clear water.

  Wyatt sat down beside her. She looked up, unsurprised, out of eyes that were rich and grained like small pieces of beautiful wood. Then she bowed, from the waist. Wyatt grinned and bowed back.

  Unceremoniously he took off his boots and let his feet plunk down into the water. It was shockingly cold, and he whistled. The girl smiled at him. To his surprise, she began to hum softly. It was a pretty tune that he was able to follow, and after a moment he picked up the harmony and hummed along with her. She laughed, and he laughed with her, feeling very young.

  Me Billy, he thought of saying, and laughed again. He was content just to sit without saying anything. Even her body, which was magnificent, did not move him to anything but a quiet ad­miration, and he regarded him­self with wonder.

  The girl picked up one of his boots and examined it critically, clucking with interest. Her lovely eyes widened as she played with the buckle. Wyatt showed her how the snaps worked and she was delighted and clapped her hands.

  Wyatt brought other things out of his pockets arid she examined them all, one after the other. The picture of him on his ID card was the only one which seemed to puzzle her. She handled it and looked at it, and then at him, and shook her head. Eventually she frowned and gave it definitely back to him. He got the impres­sion that she thought it was very bad art. He chuckled.

  The afternoon passed quickly, and the sun began to go down. They hummed some more and sang songs to each other which neither understood and both en­joyed, and it did not occur to Wyatt until much later how little curiosity they had felt. They did not speak at all. She had no in­terest in his language or his name, and, strangely, he felt all through the afternoon that talking was unnecessary. It was a very rare day spent between two people who were not curious and did not want anything from each other. The only words they said to each other were goodbye.

  Wyatt, lost inside himself, plodding, went back to the ship.

  IN the first week, Beauclaire spent his every waking hour learning the language of the planet. From the very beginning he had felt an unsettling, peculiar manner about these people. Their behavior was decidedly unusual. Although they did not differ in any appreciable way from hu­man beings, they did not act very much like human beings in that they were almost wholly lacking a sense of awe, a sense of wonder. Only the children seemed surprised that the ship had land­ed, and only the children hung around and inspected it. Almost all the others went off about their regular business—which seemed to be farming—and when Beauclaire tried learning the language, he found very few of the people willing to spend time enough to teach him.

  But they were always more or less polite, and by making a pest of himself he began to succeed. On another day when Wyatt came back from the brown-eyed girl, Beauclaire reported some progress.

  "It's a beautiful language," he said as Wyatt came in. "Amazingly well-developed. It's some­thing like our Latin—same type of construction, but much softer and more flexible. I've been trying to read their book."

  Wyatt sat down thoughtfully a
nd lit a cigarette.

  "Book?" he said.

  "Yes. They have a lot of books, but everybody has this one particular book—they keep it in a place of honor in their houses.

  I've tried to ask them what it is—I think it's a bible of some kind—but they just won't bother to tell me."

  Wyatt shrugged, his mind drift­ing away.

  "I just don't understand them," Beauclaire said plaintively, glad to have someone to talk to. "I don't get them at all. They're quick, they're bright, but they haven't the damnedest bit of curi­osity about anything, not even each other. My God, they don't even gossip!"

  Wyatt, contented, puffed quiet­ly. "Do you think not seeing the stars has something to do with it? Ought to have slowed down the development of physics and math."

  Beauclaire shook his head. "No. It's very strange. There's something else. Have you noticed the way the ground seems to be sharp and jagged almost everywhere you look, sort of chewed up as if there was a war? Yet these peo­ple swear that they've never had a war within living memory, and they don't keep any history so a man could really find out."

  When Wyatt didn't say any­thing, he went on:

  "And I can't see the connection about no stars. Not with these people. I don't care if you can't see the roof of the house you live in, you still have to have a cer­tain amount of curiosity in order to stay alive. But these people just don't give a damn. The ship landed. You remember that? Out of the sky come Gods like thun­der—"

  WYATT smiled. At another time, at any time in the past, he would have been very much interested in this sort of thing. But now he was not. He felt himself — remote, sort of —and he, like these people, did not particularly give a damn.

  But the problem bothered Beauclaire, who was new and fresh and looking for reasons, and it also bothered Cooper.

  "Damn!" Coop grumbled as he came stalking into the room. "Here you are, Billy. I'm bored stiff. Been all over this whole crummy place lookin for you. Where you been?" He folded him­self into a chair, scratched his black hair broodingly with long, sharp fingers. "Game o' cards?"

  "Not just now, Coop," Wyatt said, lying back and resting.

  Coop grunted. "Nothin to do, nothin to do." he swiveled his eyes to Beauclaire. "How you comin, son? How soon we leave this place? Like Sunday after­noon all the time."

  Beauclaire was always ready to talk about the problem. He outlined it now to Cooper again, and Wyatt, listening, grew very tired. There is just this one continent, Beauclaire said, and just one na­tion, and everyone spoke the same tongue. There was no government, no police, no law that he could find. There was not even, as far as he could tell, a system of marriage. You couldn't even call it a society, really, but dammit, it existed—and Beau­claire could not find a single trace of rape or murder or violence of any kind. The people here, he said, just didn't give a damn.

  "You said it," Coop boomed. "I think they're all whacky."

  "But happy," Wyatt said sud­denly. "You can see that they're happy."

  "Sure, they're happy," Coop chortled. "They're nuts. They got funny looks in their eyes. Happiest guys I know are screwy as—"

  The sound which cut him off, which grew and blossomed and eventually explained everything, had begun a few seconds ago, too softly to be heard. Now sud­denly, from a slight rushing noise, it burst into an enormous, thundering scream.

  They leaped up together, hor­rified, and an overwhelming, gigantic blast threw them to the floor.

  THE ground rocked, the ship fluttered and settled crazily. In that one long second, the monstrous noise of a world col­lapsing grew in the air and filled the room, filled the men and everything with one incredible, crushing, grinding shock.

  When it was over there was an­other rushing sound, farther away, and another, and two more tremendous explosions; and though all in all the noise lasted for perhaps five seconds, it was the greatest any of them had ever heard, and the world beneath them continued to flutter, wound­ed and trembling, for several minutes.

  Wyatt was first out of the ship, shaking his head as he ran to get back his hearing. To the west, over a long slight rise of green and yellow trees, a vast black cloud of smoke, several miles long and very high, was rising and boiling. As he stared and tried to steady his feet upon the shaking ground, he was able to gather himself enough to realize what this was.

  Meteors.

  He had heard meteors before, long before, on a world of Aldebaran. Now he could smell the same sharp burning disaster, and feel the wind rushing wildly back to the west, where the meteors had struck and hurled the air away.

  In that moment Wyatt thought of the girl, and although she meant nothing to him at all—none of these people meant any­thing in the least to him—he be­gan running as fast as he could toward the west.

  Behind him, white-faced and bewildered, came Beauclaire and Cooper.

  When Wyatt reached the top of the rise, the great cloud covered the whole valley before him. Fires were burning in the crushed forest to his right, and from the lay of the cloud he could tell that the village of the people was not there any more.

  He ran down into the smoke, circling toward the woods and the stream where he had passed an afternoon with the girl. For a while he lost himself in the smoke, stumbling over rocks and fallen trees.

  Gradually the smoke lifted, and he began running into some of the people. Now he wished that he could speak the language.

  They were all wandering quiet­ly away from the site of their village, none of them looking back. Wyatt could see a great many dead as he moved, but he had no time to stop, no time to wonder. It was twilight now, and the sun was gone. He thanked God that he had a flashlight with him; long after night came, he was searching in the raw gash where the first meteor had fallen.

  He found the girl, dazed and bleeding, in a cleft between two rocks. He knelt and took her in his arms. Gently, gratefully, through the night and the fires and past the broken and the dead, he carried her back to the ship.

  IT had all become frighteningly clear to Beauclaire. He talked with the people and began to understand.

  The meteors had been falling since the beginning of time, so the people said. Perhaps it was the fault of the great dust-cloud through which this planet was moving; perhaps it was that this had not always been a one-planet system—a number of other plan­ets, broken and shredded by un­known gravitational forces, would provide enough meteors for a very long time. And the air of this planet being thin, there was no real protection as there was on Earth. So year after year the meteors fell. In unpredictable places, at unknowable times, the meteors fell, like stones from the sling of God. They had been fall­ing since the beginning of time. So the people, the unconcerned people, said.

  And here was Beauclaire's clue. Terrified and shaken as he was, Beauclaire was the kind of man who saw reason in everything. He followed this one to the end.

  In the meantime, Wyatt nursed the girl. She had not been badly hurt, and recovered quickly. But her family and friends were mostly dead now, and so she had no reason to leave the ship.

  Gradually Wyatt learned the language. The girl's name was ridiculous when spoken in Eng­lish, so he called her Donna, which was something like her real name. She was, like all her peo­ple, unconcerned about the mete­ors and her dead. She was extraordinarily cheerful. Her fea­tures were classic, her cheeks slim and smiling, her teeth per­fect. In the joy and whiteness of her, Wyatt saw each day what he had seen and known in his mind on the day the meteors fell. Love to him was something new. He was not sure whether or not he was in love, and he did not care. He realized that he needed this girl and was at home with her, could rest with her and talk with her, and watch her walk and understand what beauty was; and in the ship in those days a great peace began to settle over him.

  When the girl was well again, Beauclaire was in the middle of translating the book—the bible-like book which all the people seemed to treasure so much. As his work progressed, a striking change began to come over him. He spent
much time alone under the sky, watching the soft haze through which, very soon, the stars would begin to shine.

  He tried to explain what he felt to Wyatt, but Wyatt had no time.

  "But, Billy," Beauclaire said fervently, "do you see what these people go through? Do you see how they live?"

  Wyatt nodded, but his eyes were on the girl as she sat listen­ing dreamily to a recording of ancient music.

  "They live every day waiting,"

  Beauclaire said. "They have no idea what the meteors are. They don't know that there is anything else in the Universe but their planet and their sun. They think that's all there is. They don't know why they're here—but when the meteors keep falling like that, they have only one con­clusion."

  WYATT turned from the girl smiling absently. None of this could touch him. He had seen the order and beauty of space, the incredible perfection of the Universe, so often and so deeply that, like Beauclaire, he could not help but believe in a Purpose, a grand final meaning. When his father had died of an insect bite at Oberon he had be­lieved in a purpose for that, and had looked for it. When his first crewmate fell into the acid ocean of Alcestis and the second died of a horrible rot, Wyatt had seen purpose, purpose; and each time another man died, for no appar­ent reason, on windless, evil use­less worlds, the meaning of things had become clearer and clearer, and now in the end Wyatt was approaching the truth, which was perhaps that none of it mattered at all.

  It especially did not matter now. So many things had hap­pened that he had lost the capaci­ty to pay attention. He was not young any more; he wanted to rest, and upon the bosom of this girl he had all the reason for any­thing and everything he needed.

  But Beauclaire was incoherent. It seemed to him that here on this planet a great wrong was being done, and the more he thought of it the more angry and confused he became. He went off by himself and looked at the terrible wound on the face of the planet, at all the sweet, lovely, fragrant things which would never be again, and he ended by cursing the nature of things, as Wyatt had done so many years before. And then he went on with the translation of the book. He came upon the final passage, still curs­ing inwardly, and reread it again and again. When the sun was rising on a brilliant new morn­ing, he went back to the ship.