The tavern was of the standard low-class Venusian pattern--a single
huge room under bare thatch, the wall half open with the reed shutters
rolled up, the floor of split logs propped up on piling out of the
mud. A long low bar, little tables, mangy skins and heaps of dubious
cushions on the floor around them, and at one end the entertainers--two
old men with a drum and a reed pipe, and a couple of sulky,
tired-looking girls.
The lame man led Stark to a table in the corner and sank down, calling
for wine. His eyes, which were dark and haunted by long pain, burned
with excitement. His hands shook. Before Stark had sat down he had
begun to talk, his words stumbling over themselves as though he could
not get them out fast enough.
"How is it there now? Has it changed any? Tell me how it is--the
cities, the lights, the paved streets, the women, the Sun. Oh Lord,
what I wouldn't give to see the Sun again, and women with dark hair and
their clothes on!" He leaned forward, staring hungrily into Stark's
face, as though he could see those things mirrored there. "For God's
sake, talk to me--talk to me in English, and tell me about Earth!"
"How long have you been here?" asked Stark.
"I don't know. How do you reckon time on a world without a Sun, without
one damned little star to look at? Ten years, a hundred years, how
should I know? Forever. Tell me about Earth."
Stark smiled wryly. "I haven't been there for a long time. The police
were too ready with a welcoming committee. But the last time I saw it,
it was just the same."
The lame man shivered. He was not looking at Stark now, but at some
place far beyond him.
"Autumn woods," he said. "Red and gold on the brown hills. Snow. I can
remember how it felt to be cold. The air bit you when you breathed it.
And the women wore high-heeled slippers. No big bare feet tromping in
the mud, but little sharp heels tapping on clean pavement."
Suddenly he glared at Stark, his eyes furious and bright with tears.
"Why the hell did you have to come here and start me remembering? I'm
Larrabee. I live in Shuruun. I've been here forever, and I'll be here
till I die. There isn't any Earth. It's gone. Just look up into the
sky, and you'll know it's gone. There's nothing anywhere but clouds,
and Venus, and mud."
He sat still, shaking, turning his head from side to side. A man came
with wine, put it down, and went away again. The tavern was very quiet.
There was a wide space empty around the two Earthmen. Beyond that
people lay on the cushions, sipping the poppy wine and watching with a
sort of furtive expectancy.
Abruptly, Larrabee laughed, a harsh sound that held a certain honest
mirth.
"I don't know why I should get sentimental about Earth at this late
date. Never thought much about it when I was there."
Nevertheless, he kept his gaze averted, and when he picked up his cup
his hand trembled so that he spilled some of the wine.
Stark was staring at him in unbelief. "Larrabee," he said. "You're Mike
Larrabee. You're the man who got half a million credits out of the
strong room of the _Royal Venus_."
Larrabee nodded. "And got away with it, right over the Mountains of
White Cloud, that they said couldn't be flown. And do you know where
that half a million is now? At the bottom of the Red Sea, along with my
ship and my crew, out there in the gulf. Lord knows why I lived." He
shrugged. "Well, anyway, I was heading for Shuruun when I crashed, and
I got here. So why complain?"
He drank again, deeply, and Stark shook his head.
"You've been here nine years, then, by Earth time," he said. He had
never met Larrabee, but he remembered the pictures of him that had
flashed across space on police bands. Larrabee had been a young man
then, dark and proud and handsome.