[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or
going--but I know that if I stuck to the old
man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!
Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.
"Tonight," Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled and
important as parchment, "tonight Man will reach the Moon. The golden
Moon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night when
this is to happen."
"Sure," the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc's
arthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. "No argument. Sure,
up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in the
teeth!"
I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,
one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned that
during all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,
but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winos
in Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have been
wanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.
It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,
layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.
One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of the
greasy collar of the human.
"I hope you'll forgive him, sir," I said, not meeting the man's eyes.
"He's my father and very old, as you can see." I laughed inside at the
absurd, easy lie. "Old events seem recent to him."
The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.
"'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. But
Great-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.
Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?"
I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse three
doors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happen
if we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, for
all I knew.
* * * * *
Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. They
were just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated tourists
and especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hated
Martians. They were _aliens_. They weren't _men_ like Doc and me.
Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful and
true. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was having
his. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I first
found him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt we
kept getting closer each of the times.
I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-specked
flophouse doors.
The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one of
those little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.
"Fifteen cents a bed," he said mechanically.
"We'll use one bed," I told him. "I'll give you twenty cents." I felt
the round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.
"Fifteen cents a bed," he played it back for me.
Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.
"We can always make it over to the mission," I lied.
The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. "Awright,
since we ain't full up. In _ad_vance."