[Illustration]
=He came to me from the stars, spewed out from his own world by his
hates. I found him, I gave him all he could ask for, and I made him
mine. But in the end, there was still his hate, and the killer drive
within him....=
He was a killer. He came to me from a distance so great that it
was meaningless. He descended to me riding on a tail of flame. We
loved--how could we help it? But I knew him too well, and he did not
know me well enough. And that is the stuff of tragedy.
_Green_, was his first thought, pleased and incredulous. _Beautiful,
beautiful green!_
It was implausibility and wonder. It was the impossible happy ending
to the long chase and the longer hopelessness. It was the haven after
the fleeing into space with metal bloodhounds hot on a trail of fading
ions in the empty vaults, after the hurried Jump and the fantastic
mechanical failure which turned an alien universe into a hungry mouth,
snapped shut, after the expectoration into sane space like a rejected
seed. It began with death and ended with life.
For green is the color of life. Green is the color of growing things,
of energy becoming useful, of plants doing the countless things that
make life possible for animals. Green is the color of Earth.
_Another chance_, he thought. _Unless this is dream or delusion or a
cosmic jest--another chance. I’m black-and-blue from pinching myself--I
don’t feel crazy--though after a week of Nowhere who can be sure?
Unless some vital little thing is out of balance down there--A jewel
like that? Twin sister to Earth. Surely fate would not go this far and
then leave out some little essential_....
The green world turned lazily in the yellow light of the Go-type sun.
“What are you waiting for, Sam,” he said aloud, “an invitation? Kick
her down and find out!”
There was only enough fuel for one landing. The Jumper had eaten up a
lot when it went crazy, and the yacht had only a quarter fuel load when
he took it. It was here or nothing.
_I’d rather die with my feet on the ground. If I’m lucky--maybe
something alive I can communicate with in time. I thought I’d die in
there with no one to talk to. Just to be with something else alive_--
And that was rather strange, because it was murder that brought him
here.
Sam Newman had been a commercial pilot. It was a good job, but contrary
to public opinion, pilots are not fabulously overpaid. What with
automatics and navigational tapes and such, the skill of the early
pilots is no longer essential. The computers do the work, and pilots
are mostly supernumeraries. But the glamor has not yet vanished, and
competition is keen.
Yet, that Sam had got as far as he had was something of a triumph. His
appointment to the Academy had been due to a political concession which
established a quota for poor children. Sam had worked for it, and his
eventual position as pilot of a passenger liner was proof of how hard
he worked.
Then had come Fran and love--the two together, inseparable. Sam had had
a long time to think about it. But still he couldn’t decide whether
they had really been in love or only in love with the feeling of being
in love. What had attracted him to Fran was obvious: her dark-haired
beauty, her slim, curved figure, and her casual acceptance of things he
had always coveted, like position, security, luxury. For Fran had been
wealthy.
What had attracted her to him was, in a sense, the same things. He had
been called handsome; he was tall and well-built and blond. He was
everything that Fran was not--ambitious, imaginative, intense like the
keen, shining edge of a knife.
Differences had attracted them, and differences split them apart when
marriage threw them into constant companionship. His pride rebelled at
the use of her money, and she could not understand. He was ill-at-ease
in her world, and she seemed condescending in his. What had seemed
entrancingly different under the silver light of romance became ugly
and irritating under the merciless, glaring sun of living together. And
finally came the quarrels and the arguments and the jealousy--on his
part, anyway. Fran was casual in other things--why not in morals? God
knows, she had opportunity enough when he was away.
And whispers reached his ears and nasty rumors and Fran only shrugged
her slim shoulders and looked down at him from an unassailable pinnacle
of sophistication. Innocence of inherited position or excuse for
license? She was spoiled, he knew, spoiled with liberty that did not
understand “I shouldn’t.”
* * * * *
Then the blind, red day when the crewmen had snickered as he passed
on his way down the ramp, when he had learned what everyone seemed
to know--that she was divorcing him, when he had faced her with his
suspicions and accusations and she had laughed, laughed as his face
grew hot and red and heavy and his hands reached for her throat and
squeezed, squeezed until the laughter was all gone, and the beauty and
the life....
He took the yacht down by hand. He did not trust the automatics,
and besides, it was the last time, the last trip, and he wanted to
do it himself. The way the ship responded to the light pressure of
his fingers on the keys gave him an acute feeling of pleasure. He
brought it down only a mile or so from the ocean, where a broad river
emptied into it; rivers and seas are natural places of habitation. He
brought it down lightly, gently, on its tail absorbers so that the
ship hesitated for a moment and then sagged as the power cut off, and
everything was quiet. He sat there with his hands on the keys for a
moment, and he would have liked to have taken her up again and landed
it once more, but the needle of the fuel gauge flickered at empty.
There was only enough to provide light and heat for a few months.
Fran’s yacht had come to her last port.
Sam sighed and lifted his hands from the keys and dropped them into his
lap. The hands clutched each other for a moment, and then relaxed. They
were good hands for piloting a ship and bad hands for loving. They were
killers, but now there was to be no use for either function any more.
Sam got up and walked to the port. He hesitated and then punched the
button. There was no use testing the air. If it was poisonous he might
as well find it out now; the air regenerators in the ship would not
last long.
The heavy disc swung outward, slowly, with a slight squeal. The air
came in. It was warm, fresh with the odor of green, growing things. Sam
breathed deeply once and again. It was good air, life-giving air. He
let down the ladder and climbed down its tubular metal rungs. He stood
on the soil of this alien planet and filled his lungs once more as he
looked around.
The grass beneath his feet was short and springy, more like
well-cared-for lawn than wild meadow. Here and there flowers sprang up.
They seemed familiar, but he was no botanist. The trees nearby--weren’t
they elms? Overhead the sky was blue, the soft, mild blue of summer,
with small, drifting white clouds.
Sam felt strangely uneasy, as if he had walked into a room expecting
it to be unfamiliar and found he knew it almost by heart. Parallel
evolution? Nowhere had the explorations found anything so much like
Earth--or, rather, like Earth should look like. If so, then perhaps
there were--men. Sam longed for someone to talk to. Anyone. He
shrugged. He had been lucky so far; he should not press it.
He took out a pocket compass. The needle trembled and then swung into a
fixed position. There was his north, and the ocean lay to the east of
him, the river to the northeast and farther away. Sam struck out toward
the ocean.
There was something wrong. Sam sensed it and then knew it without
being able to pin it down. A moment later it came to him. It was so
quiet; there was no life, no sound except the lazy rustle of leaves
in the light breeze. _There should be birds_, he thought, _and bees_.
A few steps farther on he caught sight of both. _They must have been
frightened by the landing of the ship._
He had been walking among the trees for several minutes. It was easy
to keep moving steadily in the direction he had set for himself; the
trees were well spaced, and there was no brush or debris of dead leaves
and branches--only the crisp green turf beneath his feet. Fragmentary
thoughts skipped through his mind.
_No signs of inhabitants ... nothing artificial ... unless this
impossibly perfect turf ... or the trees_ ... Sam had the uneasy
feeling that something was watching him--perhaps with an emotion
stronger than curiosity. He walked on a few steps and spun around.
There was nothing but the trees and the turf and the birds and the
bees. Slowly his hand let the gun slide back into the holster at his
hip. _Nerves? But surely there should be some animal life._
Sam started. He had turned back toward the ocean, and scarcely
twenty-five feet away a half-grown fawn, spotted white and brown,
lifted its head from the turf it had been cropping daintily. He walked
toward it, and the fawn held its ground, looking at him without fear.
He put his hand on the fawn’s neck, and the fawn nestled toward him and
its coat was silky.
Wonderingly, Sam rubbed its neck and shoulders gently, and the fawn
looked at him with brown eyes, big and trustful. Sam gave it a final
pat and walked on. Behind him the fawn hesitated for a moment and then
started to trot along behind.
After a few minutes Sam reached the coast. It was as peaceful and
beautiful as a South Sea island. The trees stopped and a little farther
on the grass stopped and white sand stretched down to a gently foaming
surf and blue water. Sam stood looking at it for a long time, his hand
resting on the fawn’s head.
He sat down and took off his shoes. He walked through the warm sand to
the edge of the water. He knelt and put his hand into the surf. It was
just cool enough to be invigorating. Sam stood up abruptly and sprinted
through the surf down the gently shelving beach until the water was
deep enough to swim in. It was foolhardy. Even around South Sea islands
there are sharks. But somehow Sam couldn’t distrust this world. He swam
and floated in the water for half an hour. Finally he waded toward the
shore again. The fawn was curled up on the sand, sleeping peacefully in
the sun beside his pile of discarded clothing.
* * * * *
When Sam came out of the surf, dripping, the fawn awakened and slowly
got to its feet. The sun and breeze dried Sam’s body quickly, and he
began to put his clothing back on.
“Well, boy,” Sam said softly, “this is something, eh? All we need now
is another castaway. Maybe a beautiful blonde, huh?”
The fawn lifted its head and snuffled through velvet nostrils. Then it
turned its head toward the line of trees. Sam looked too. Out from the
trees came the beautiful blonde. And she was perfect. The light breeze
lifted her long ashen hair and pulled it back from the clean-cut lines
of her face. Her blue eyes were clear and friendly, and the corners of
her generous mouth were quirked up a little. The thin summer dress she
wore clung to the planes and curves of her body.
Sam stared and swallowed.
“Hello,” I said, as if we had met on an Earth beach which was countless
millions of parsecs away.
* * * * *
“He--hello,” Sam said, and swallowed again. “You speak English!”