I wonder if you can imagine how it feels to be on a planet so far away
from the Solar System that the term "trillions of miles" is totally
inadequate? If you can grasp even a bit of it, then add the complication
of a small but insistent voice inside your head that keeps telling you
that no matter where or how far you go, you're not--
Let's just say it gives your sweat an odor and your mouth a taste and
makes you want to look over your shoulder all the time.
I walked the hundred yards to the white plastidome, avoiding the few
bulbous plants and tussocks of short yellow grass that dotted the dry
plain.
Through the aud cells of the suit's hood, I could hear the light buzzing
of insects that served only to heighten the overbearing quiet of the
area.
The port was closed. Inside, everything was correct, except for the
little dirt brought in on boot soles during erection and subsequent
goings and comings.
There was a packet of nutratabs, lying open on an empty crate that had
been pressed into service as a table. Some one had fortified himself
before trekking off into the nearby bush. There was much equipment still
sealed in cartons. Bunks were made up. Tucked under the blanket of one
was a little book with stylus attached. All pages were blank except the
first. The entry read: "TC in a sweat to get going. Rain potential. No
rest for the weary. This seems to be a nice spot though. Am kind of
eager myself to take a look at some of the vegetation hereabouts. Have
several ideas along the lines of Thompson's prelim research concerning
extraction of--"
I replaced it under the blanket. I was ready to give odds that each of
the previous finders had done the same: the kid that had arrived in
shuttler II, and probably 231's skipper; and each from the same
motive--_He'll be back; after all, a diary is a personal thing._
I went back outside, shut the port, and made a complete circuit of the
camp. I looked into each of the three shuttlers. I found nothing that
could offer the least positive clue to the fate of the twelve men from
231.
I returned to shuttler IV, beamed Moya, and filled him in, forcing
myself to be cheery.
"How's everything upstairs?"
"Right now we're having a little zero-gee drill; keeps the boys alert."
"Good idea. Now here's my plan: I've got ten hours of daylight left, so
I'm heading out into the bush. Figure departure in five minutes. Weather
has obscured signs, but I don't think I can go wrong by following my
nose and taking the shortest route. I'm traveling light, just the bug
rig, the W&R, belt kit, and a minicomm. I'm going to set up this
transceiver to record and transmit on command-response. I suggest you
interrogate every hour on the hour from now on. Catchum?"
I broke off, made the necessary adjustments, strapped the minicomm on my
wrist, and exited the shuttler.
The antiseptic air that I drew into my lungs was beginning to seem
inadequate, I felt slippery all over, and there was a cottony taste in
my mouth.
* * * * *
I made it to the start of the bush in fifteen minutes. Don't be misled
into picturing jungle. There was a variety of vegetation, including
trees, but none of it was what you'd call heavy going. Beyond somewhere
was a stream, significant enough to be noted on the chart as "First
Water." And several miles from the camp was the start of a series of
rolling hills. Blue in the distance was a chain of mountains--"The
Guardians." The over-all impression was of peaceful, virgin wilderness.
The original survey team had made its camp in the relative frankness of
the plain, then, after preliminary tests, had moved to higher ground,
specifically, the lee side of one of the nearer hills.
They had cleared an area, using heat sweepers to destroy encroaching
vegetation, and R-F beams to disenchant the local insect population.
Insects there were: a regular cacophony of buzzings, chirpings and
monotonous mutterings. By the time I'd reached the bank of the stream,
I'd lost track of individual varieties.
The stream was a bare trickle; the bed was spongy and dotted with tall,
spare plants that resembled horse tails; I negotiated the fifty feet to
the opposite bank without difficulty.
I threaded through a thicket and came out into a brief expanse of
savannah.
There I found the first evidence of the fate of 231's people.
It was a small object, oval, flattened, the color of old ivory.
Although I hadn't been walking along with my head under my arm, it took
me a moment to tumble to what I'd discovered.
Then my hair tried to stand on end. I rid myself of it and used the
minicomm for the first time.
Speaking to a recorder was altogether too impersonal for what I had to
report.
"I've just found a patella; a human knee-cap. I'm about a hundred feet
beyond the far bank of the stream in almost a straight line from the
camp. I'm in grass about two feet tall. I'm casting about now,
looking--Hold it. Yes, it's scraps of a gray uniform. More remains.
Here's a femur; here's a radius-ulna. The bones are clean, scattered.
Evidence of scavengers. No chance for a P-M on this one."
I got out the chart from its case on the suit's belt, x'd the location,
and went on, feeling more lonely all the time.
It wasn't that I was unconversant with the physical evidence of death.
I've marked corpses on planets you've probably never heard of--corpses
resulting from disaster, unavoidable accident, stupid error, and even
murder. What I've learned is that you never get used to coming face to
face with human death, even when its manifestation is the inscrutable
vacancy of bare bones.
You can put this down, too, and think what you want about incongruity: I
was angry; angry with the spacer that had got himself catapulted into
eternity so far from home; angry with myself for having assumed before
leaving the Interstel office in Mega Angeles that this is what I would
find; angry because the assumption had done nothing to prepare me for
the reality. No space padre would have admired what I said inside the
bug suit's hood--nor the refinements that grew more bitter with each new
discovery.
Within three hours, I'd accounted for all twelve of 231's missing crew.
The search had led to and beyond the hillside where the original team
had made its second and permanent camp. In one place, I found enough to
separate four skeletons of men who had fallen within a few feet of each
other. The rest were randomly located. There was a small plant growing
up through the hole in the left half of a pelvis. Somehow it looked
obscene, and I had to fight the impulse to tear it out. But it was
simply one of many, struggling for survival, that I'd seen growing here
and there throughout the area: a species that seemed to bear a familial
kinship to those that sprinkled the plain.
There was equipment: field kits, a minilab, a couple of blasters, each
showing full charge.
Cause of death: that was the enigma.
"So far I'm stumped," I said into the minicomm. "I've retrieved a few
scraps of uniform bearing stains. Maybe analysis can discover something.
The tapes say that E-T's birds and mammals are comparatively rare, but
_comparative_ doesn't mean much in the light of what I've seen. So far,
though, everything I can come up with seems totally inadequate.
Bacterial invasion, animal attack, insect incursion--none were problems
with the first survey gang, so why should they be now? Rule out gas
poisoning or allied concomitants; the suit tab shows white. Speaking of
that--I'm peeling now. Keep your fingers crossed."
* * * * *
The air was warm and still, heavy with the ubiquitous smells and sounds
of wilderness.
I was in the approximate area of the first team's camp. As per custom,
they had struck the plastidome, dismantled the scanners, power panels,
and other reusable equipment, and destroyed the debris of occupancy. The
clearing had repaired itself. But for the slight concavities on the
hilltop that marked shuttler settlings, there was little to indicate
their previous presence.