But things like that are never long ago, Scotty. They stay with you as
long as you live. Sure, the Army said you were a hero, they gave you a
Silver Star--but what would Matty say--if he could ever say anything
again? Would _he_ say you were a hero?
Suddenly Matty's torn and twisted face seemed to be peering out at him
from the control panel. His mind went whirling back through the years,
completely out of control. In an instant he had slipped back fifteen
long years, back to the hot, stinking sweaty deadliness of that little
jungle island. They had been deep in the jungle that night, holed
in, scared to move, afraid even to breath. For a week they had been
waiting, waiting for the snipers to move in and spot them. He could
remember the cold, desperate fear that had gnawed at him that night
as he and Bill Matthews had clutched their rifles, waiting, creeping
forward along the jungle trail through the blackness and the night
sounds. His clothes had stuck to his body with sweat as they crept,
the sweat of mortal fear. The mosquitoes whined in clouds around his
head; his body stung with a thousand insect bites. Up ahead, somewhere
in the sticky blackness, was a machine-gun, blocking them from their
supplies, blocking them from the plasma and penicillin powder the
patrol needed more than any food or water. They had been waiting for
many days, and they were weak with hunger and thirst--but there was a
gun, and sharp, cruel eyes watching--
* * * * *
They had been moving in pairs, and Scotty had felt the fear clutching
his chest, fear beyond any words. He and Matty were working their way
down a swampy river bottom, sliding on their bellies in the muck, when
they had spotted the nest. And then the fear and panic building up
inside him had broken through. He had jumped up, screaming, and burst
forward, gun chattering in his hand.
Blind rage and fear drove him forward as the startled gunners swivelled
their gun, piercing the night with their sharp cries. Matty had shouted
at him to get down, but he ran forward in the darkness, wildly. A burst
of fire screamed out at him through the jungle; he slid into the mud,
panting, still firing into the face of the blazing machine-gun, until
he saw the last man twist, and fall, and the gun fell silent.
A hero, they said. But later he had found Matty, lying twisted with his
head split open, a line of open holes cutting down through his neck and
across his shoulders--
Another few seconds, another instant of control would have given them
time to get the machine-gun in crossfire. But something had exploded in
Scotty's brain that night--a fear greater than any fear of being shot,
a fear of being exposed for what he was, what he knew he was. He had
dragged Matty back, through the long miles of sniper-ridden jungle, and
they called him a hero, and he had never told them who had broken first
and drawn the deadly fire--
His forehead stood out with sweat now, and he tried to hide his eyes.
He had spent many years forgetting that horrible night, trying to
cleanse himself of the depths of guilt that had eaten away at him--and
now it was back, harsh and undeniable, intensified by years of
self-deceit and self-justification and rationalization. But the chips
were down now. In a few moments a great fire would explode deep in
the bowels of this ship, and he would be driven forward, far out into
space, along trails never blazed by man.
"_Zero minus five minutes. Give her a final check, Scotty--_"
He jerked in his seat as though he had been struck. _Five minutes!_
His mind whirled with memories, and the cold fear cut through him like
a knife. In a moment of panic his mind was screaming, get out, now,
before it's too late! The General said you could pull out, right down
to the last minute--well, _pull out, now, before the engines start_--
But a peal of derisive laughter roared through his mind. There had been
reporters, news stories. He had said things that had been splashed
across a million newspapers. Back out now? Tell the world what a coward
he was? Then everybody would know--the boys down below, Matty, Dad--Dad
had never actually _said_ it, but it had always been there, as long as
Scotty could remember. He had tried and tried to make up for his small
size, for his skinny legs and bony chest.
It hadn't been his fault that Dad was such a big man, such a rugged,
powerful man. Those long hunting trips up through Canada--a man had to
share the load, there was no place for weakness and weariness there.
And Dad had taken him along, once, until he had tired, and turned his
ankle on a short portage. They had carried him out--and he knew that
he had lost his Dad that day. Dad hadn't admitted it, but it was true.
There was always the half-hidden disgust and sadness and disappointment
in his cool, grey eyes--
"_Minus two, Scotty. Final check--_"
His hand flicked out automatically, as fear and dismay welled up in his
mind. Everything he had ever done he had flubbed, somehow--he searched
frantically through his mind for one small, pure act of absolute
bravery, unadorned by words, unaltered by empty rationalizations and
built-up courage, and his mind yielded nothing but hoarse, heavy
laughter. Somewhere there was a key. It had started somewhere, if only
he could remember. Somewhere beneath the years of futile failure, there
was a core--
"_Sixty seconds, Scotty--Good luck, boy!_"
He froze, his hands clutching the safety belt in a grip of iron as the
words pounded in his ear: "--forty--thirty five--thirty--twenty five--"