Unearthly Neighbors (16 page)

He waited until they had a good lead on him. He waited until he was sure that the long grass would conceal his movements. Then he got to his feet and silently followed their trail.

He walked through the green world under the white sun.

Hope was reborn in him.

He followed the trail of the old man and the killer. Each step he took brought him closer to the foothills of the mountains where Charlie waited in the cave.

And each step he took filled him with wonder.

The old man walked steadily beneath his burden, the long muscles of his body seeming to flow as he moved. He did not stop to rest. The wolf-thing padded along at his side, occasionally even frisking in front of its master.

A man and his dog, Monte thought. A man and his dog packing out a deer. How easy it was to transpose this scene into an earthly parallel! Psychologically, it was a dangerous line of reasoning—and yet it had a certain validity to it. Offhand, to someone who had never been there, it might seem that the life-forms of Sirius Nine should be totally different in appearance from those of Earth. But wasn’t that notion violently contradicted by all the facts of evolution? It was one of those insidiously logical ideas that suffered from one minor flaw: it wasn’t true. Even a nodding acquaintance with terrestrial evolution should have been enough to puncture that particular bubble. One of the most arresting facts of evolution was the principle of parallelism or convergence. Life-forms that had been separate for millions of years often showed striking similarities. He thought of the classic example of the marsupials and the placentals. There were marsupial bears, cats, dogs, squirrels—everything. There were creatures that looked like elephants but weren’t. And even the history of man illustrated the same idea. Man had almost certainly developed not once, but several times. There were types like
Pithecanthropus
in Java and China and Africa. There were classic Neanderthals living at the same time as
Homo sapiens,
and even interbreeding with them in Palestine and Czecho-Slovakia. There were many different groups of Miocene primates, such as the
Dryopithecines,
who were evolving in man-like directions. Perhaps there were only a limited number of solutions to the problems of survival. Perhaps a given type of life, such as a mammal, would of necessity develop along parallel lines, no matter where the evolution took place. Perhaps the twin mechanisms of mutation and natural selection would always ensure the survival of basically efficient types: fish and birds, turtles and rabbits, butterflies and men. Perhaps on all the Earth-like planets in the universe, given the proper conditions of air and sunlight and water, man would find only variations on a single master plan…

Alien? Sure, the life on a planet could be alien—Monte had found that out in the nightmare with the Merdosi. But wasn’t it alien in its nuances, in its shadings, in its almost-but-not-quite quality? Wasn’t it alien because it was subtly different? And wasn’t that more truly alien, say, than something that looked like an octopus but had thought patterns just like a modern American?

Take that old man there, walking along under a white sun with a carcass on his back. His bodily proportions were different from Monte’s, but so what? The puzzle lay elsewhere. Why was he doing what he was doing? What was he thinking about? What had motivated him to kill that animal and carry it toward the cave? What had it cost him in pain and worry and courage?

What
was
he doing?

Wait and see, boy. Wait and see.

Without hesitation, the old man started up the trail that led to the cave. There could be no doubt that he was familiar with the place; their sanctuary had not been as safe as they had imagined. Monte hung back, not wishing to expose himself. He wanted to see what would happen. He listened carefully, but he could not hear Charlie. Asleep? Watching?

Moving quickly from rock to rock, Monte moved up the cliff. He angled off to the left so that he would come out just above and to one side of the cave.

Holding his breath, he wriggled forward and looked down. The old man was standing on the ledge just in front of the cave. The wolf-thing was whining and sniffing at the discarded spacesuit. The man put the dead animal down at the mouth of the cave. For the first time, he hesitated. He backed off a few steps. He folded his long arms across his vermilion-striped chest. He took a deep breath.

The old man spoke. There was a tremor in his voice. He was afraid, but he was determined to do what he had come here to do. He spoke slowly and distinctly, choosing his words with care. Monte had no trouble in understanding him.

“Strangers!” (Literally: “People-Who-Are-Not-Merdosi.”) “I speak to you as once you spoke to me. I bring you a gift of food as once you brought me a gift of food. I speak my name: Volmay. There has been much trouble since you first spoke to me. Much of it has been due to my own cowardice. It is time for a beginning-again. I tell you my name: Volmay. Will you speak with me?”

He was answered by silence. Charlie said nothing at all.

Monte cursed to himself. This was the chance they had been waiting for. Couldn’t Charlie see that? He wanted to show himself, call down to Volmay. But if he startled him now…

“Strangers! Are you there? I speak my name again: Volmay. I have brought food to you. I am alone. Do you no longer wish to speak?”

Words! First it was the men of Earth calling out to the Merdosi. Then it was Volmay calling out to the men of Earth. And there were never any replies. The gap was never bridged.

Come on, Charlie! Give him a chance!

The old man stood alone on the ledge of rock, surrounded by the ancient mountains and the sweep of the sky. The warm wind whispered in the silence.

“Strangers! It is not easy for a man to think against his people. I am only a man. My courage is weak. Soon I will go. Will you not speak with me?”

Silence.

Then—sound.

Movement.

Charlie hurtled out of the mouth of the cave as though shot from a cannon. He was screaming like a madman. His swollen suit was encrusted with filth, his face was contorted into a grimace of fury. He had a sharp rock in his hand.

Before Monte could move, Charlie had thrown himself on the old man. He knocked him down, leaped on top of him. He struck with the rock. The old man jerked his head away and the rock grazed his shoulder, cutting a red gash.

The wolf-thing snarled and circled, its belly low. The old man cried out to him, waved him away. Charlie lifted the rock to strike again.

There was no time to think. Monte jumped down from where he was hidden, fell, and scrambled forward. He grabbed Charlie’s arm, twisted it.

“You damn fool! Let him alone!”

“Come to kill us! Get him, get him, don’t let him get away!”

Charlie twisted free. He kicked the old man in the head with his boot, stunning him. The wolf-thing growled, fangs bared.

Monte leaped to his feet, threw a punch with his right hand. He connected with the chest plate of Charlie’s suit, almost breaking his fist. Charlie swayed off-balance.

“Stop it! He came to help us!”

Charlie shook his head, his eyes wild. He lifted the rock. “Stay away! Keep out of it!” He turned toward the helpless man.

Monte felt as though he were back in the nightmare again, fighting his own kind, fighting himself. But he knew what he had to do.

“Let him alone, Charlie,” he said quietly. “Let him alone or I’ll kill you.”

Charlie hesitated. He took a step toward Monte, then stopped. A look of utter bewilderment passed over his sweating face. The rock fell out of his hand. “No,” he said. “I can’t—I don’t—I don’t know…”

Then a strangled sob broke loose from him. He turned and ran down the trail, not even looking where he was going. It was a miracle that he didn’t fall.

“Charlie! Come back!”

The awkward figure thrashed its way down the cliff, never pausing for a second. It ran full tilt into the grasslands and vanished.

Monte was caught in the middle. He didn’t know what to do. He ignored the whining wolf-thing and knelt by Volmay’s side. The old man’s eyes were open. His naked body was trembling with shock.

“Are you well?” Monte asked, fumbling with the native language. “I am so—regretful. My friend—he is sick…”

“I know. I will live.”

“I must go after him, bring him back. Will you wait?”

The old man spoke slowly. “It always comes to this, to sadness. I tried very hard.”

“Yes, yes. I understand you. It is not too late—”

“Who knows? My dreams have been uneasy. We have both done wrong. We cannot trust one another. My dreams told me that we might have a beginning-again, but the dreams are so strange since you have come…”

“Volmay, will you wait?
Will you wait?”

“It was not easy for me to come here. I do not know. I will try, I will try…”

Monte touched the old man’s shoulder. “We are grateful for what you have done. I will be back soon. Wait for me.”

“We will do what we must, all of us.”

Monte couldn’t wait any longer. Charlie was sick; there was no telling what he might do.

He left the old man where he was and ran back down the trail, toward the green world that had swallowed the man who had been his friend, toward the river.

Monte plunged into the tall grasses. It was easy to follow the trail left by Charlie’s heavy boots—but it was not necessary. He knew where Charlie was going, knew it as certainly as he had ever known anything in his life.

He did not waste his breath in calling. It was too late for words and he needed to conserve what strength he had left. He was weak with hunger. The nervous energy that had sustained him was beginning to falter.

He was covered with sweat when he reached the river. He saw Charlie at once: a squat, bulbous figure on a rock in the middle of the stream. A pathetic, broken man smothering in the shell of his mechanical suit, looking down at the cool, clean water.

Why did he wait for me? Was it too hard to die alone?

“Charlie! Don’t do it!” His voice was very small, lost in the immensity of the sky, drowned by the rush of the river.

Charlie Jenike looked back at him and said nothing.

Monte started across the rocks toward him.

Charlie smiled a little, a strangely peaceful smile, and jumped. He hit the water feet first and dropped like a stone. He came up again once, caught in the current
.

His clumsy body thrashed in the water. He seemed to be trying to swim.

Monte dove into the water, knowing that it was no use. The river was swift and cold. He struck out for the struggling figure but he never had a chance.

Charlie went down again and stayed down.

Monte fished down from the surface, peering through the cool green depths. He stayed down until his lungs were bursting, surfaced, and went down again. He couldn’t find him. There were deep pools in the river and the current was swift, swift…

He kept at it until there was no longer any hope and then fought his way to shore. He dragged himself out on the yellow bank and caught his breath. The river looked calm and untroubled under the arch of the sky. There was no sign of Charlie.

He felt empty, completely drained of all emotion. He was exhausted by everything he had been through. He tried to remember Charlie as Charlie had been: a brusque, unkempt man, a man devoted to his subject, a man of integrity, a funny little guy who looked like a penguin…

But that Charlie was far away, far away. He had died—when? Days ago, a lifetime ago. The sick, frightened, bewildered man that had thrown himself into the river had not been Charlie. He had been someone else, a broken man, a man who could not face the dark depths of his own being.

I brought him here. I brought all of them here. Charlie, Louise, Helen, Ralph.

And now I am alone.

And I too have changed…

He looked up into the cloudless blue sky. Somewhere up there a ship still sailed. A mighty ship that had crossed the gulfs between the worlds. A ship that held his people, wondering, waiting… It always came down to human beings. Small, afraid, uncertain, powerless—but it was up to them. It was always up to them.

Monte turned his back on the river and began to retrace his steps. He was desperately tired. The white sun was dropping down toward the edge of the mountains and the day was hot and still and empty.

He climbed the trail that wound up the cliff. He reached the cave. He thought of it as his home; it was the only home he had.

The old man was gone. The wolf-thing was gone.

The dead animal was still there.

Monte sighed. He made himself go back down and gather wood. He built a small fire by the mouth of the cave and broiled a chunk of meat on a stick. The fat sizzled when it dropped into the fire. The smell of the cooking meat was a good smell. That, at least, had not changed.

He ate until the pain left his belly. He stood on the rocky ledge and watched the great night paint its shadows across the world of Walonka. He took a final swallow of water from his canteen and crawled into his cave.

The sunrise was a glory.

Light flooded the cave and Monte woke up instantly. There was no transition, no fuzziness. He was fresh and alert the moment he opened his eyes, as though just being alive was a great gift and there was no time to waste.

And I was the guy who always needed three cups of coffee to get going!

He stepped out of the cave, drinking in the beauty of the dawn.

The white ball of the sun was draped in clouds. It burned through the mist, shining like a rainbow. It reached down with fiery fingers and painted colors on the land: vivid green, flame red, jet black. It bounced its light off the mountains, making them gleam like glass. Its warmth sent a pleasant tingle through his body.

Monte hauled up more wood and built himself a fire. He took a long drink from his canteen and hacked out another chunk of meat from the dead animal. He used a sharp rock to clean the hide away and cooked an ample breakfast. The meat tasted like venison. It was tough and wild and juicy.