“Yes,” Hahn said. “I’ve mentioned such cases in my report.”
“It’ll be necessary for the sick ones to be prepared in gradual stages to be returned. It might take several years to condition them to the idea of going back,” Barrett said. “It might even take longer than that.”
“I’m no therapist,” said Hahn. “Whatever the doctors think is right for them is what will be done. Maybe it’ll be necessary to keep them here indefinitely, some of them. I can see where it would be a pretty potent upheaval to send them back, after they’ve spent all these years believing there’s no return.”
“More than that,” said Barrett. “There’s a lot of work that can be done here. I mean, scientific work. Exploration. Going across this world, and even up and down the time-lines using this place as a base of operations. I don’t think Hawksbill Station ought to be closed down.”
“No one said it would be. We have every intention of keeping it going, more or less as you suggest. There’s going to be a tremendous program of time exploration getting under way, and a base like this in the past will be invaluable. But the Station won’t be a prison any more. The prison concept is out. Completely out.”
“Good,” Barrett said. He fumbled for his crutch, found it, and got heavily to his feet, swaying a little. Quesada moved toward him as though to steady him, but Barrett brusquely shook him off.
“Let’s go outside,” he said.
They left the building. A gray mist had come in over the Station, and a fine drizzle was beginning to fall. Barrett looked around at the scattering of huts. He looked at the ocean, dimly visible to the east in the faint moonlight. He looked toward the west and the distant sea. He thought of Charley Norton and the party that had gone on the annual expedition to the Inland Sea. That bunch is going to be in for a real surprise, he thought. When they come back here in a few weeks and discover that everybody is free to go home.
Very strangely, Barrett felt a sudden pressure forming around his eyelids, as of tears trying to force their way out into the open.
He turned to Hahn and Quesada. In a low voice he said, “Have you followed what I’ve been trying to tell you? Someone’s got to stay here and ease the transition for the sick men who won’t be able to stand the shock of return. Someone’s got to keep the base running. Someone’s got to explain things to the new men who’ll be coming back here, the scientists.”
“Naturally,” Hahn said.
“The one who does that—the one who stays behind after the others go—I think it ought to be someone who knows the Station well. Someone who’s fit to return Up Front right away, but who’s willing to make the sacrifice and stay behind. Do you follow me? A volunteer.” They were smiling at him now. Barrett wondered if there might not be something patronizing about those smiles. He wondered if he might not be a little too transparent. To hell with both of them, he thought. He sucked the Cambrian air into his lungs until his chest swelled grandly.
“I’m offering to stay,” Barrett said in a loud tone. He glared at them to keep them from objecting. But they wouldn’t dare object, he knew. In Hawksbill Station, he was the king. And he meant to keep it that way. “I’ll be the volunteer,” he said. “I’ll be the one who stays.” They went on smiling at him. Barrett could not stand those smiles. He turned away from them.
He looked out over his kingdom from the top of the hill.
Robert Silverberg began writing professionally after his graduation from Columbia University in 1956, and immediately won the coveted Hugo Award at the 14th Annual World Science Fiction Convention. With hundreds of science fiction short stories and over twenty sf novels to his credit, Mr. Silverberg is now specializing in popular non-fiction. He is a past President of the Science Fiction Writers of America.
Robert Silverberg, Hawksbill Station
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