* * * * *
The spaceship was a steely pillar against a low gray sky. Now and then a
fine rain would drizzle down, blurring it from sight; then that would
end, and the ship's flanks would glisten as if they were polished.
Clouds scudded overhead like flying smoke, and the wind was loud in the
trees.
The line of Terrans moving slowly into the vessel seemed to go on
forever. A couple of the ship's crew flew above them, throwing out a
shield against the rain. They shuffled without much talk or expression,
pushing carts filled with their little possessions. Jorun stood to one
side, watching them go by, one face after another--scored and darkened
by the sun of Earth, the winds of Earth, hands still grimy with the soil
of Earth.
_Well_, he thought, _there they go. They aren't being as emotional about
it as I thought they would. I wonder if they really do care._
Julith went past with her parents. She saw him and darted from the line
and curtsied before him.
"Goodbye, good sir," she said. Looking up, she showed him a small and
serious face. "Will I ever see you again?"
"Well," he lied, "I might look in on you sometime."
"Please do! In a few years, maybe, when you can."
_It takes many generations to raise a people like this to our standard.
In a few years--to me--she'll be in her grave._
"I'm sure you'll be very happy," he said.
She gulped. "Yes," she said, so low he could barely hear her. "Yes, I
know I will." She turned and ran back to her mother. The raindrops
glistened in her hair.
Zarek came up behind Jorun. "I made a last-minute sweep of the whole
area," he said. "Detected no sign of human life. So it's all taken care
of, except your old man."
"Good," said Jorun tonelessly.
"I wish you could do something about him."
"So do I."
Zarek strolled off again.
A young man and woman, walking hand in hand, turned out of the line not
far away and stood for a little while. A spaceman zoomed over to them.
"Better get back," he warned. "You'll get rained on."
"That's what we wanted," said the young man.
The spaceman shrugged and resumed his hovering. Presently the couple
re-entered the line.
The tail of the procession went by Jorun and the ship swallowed it fast.
The rain fell harder, bouncing off his force-shield like silver spears.
Lightning winked in the west, and he heard the distant exuberance of
thunder.
Kormt came walking slowly toward him. Rain streamed off his clothes and
matted his long gray hair and beard. His wooden shoes made a wet sound
in the mud. Jorun extended the force-shield to cover him. "I hope you've
changed your mind," said the Fulkhisian.
"No, I haven't," said Kormt. "I just stayed away till everybody was
aboard. Don't like goodbyes."
"You don't know what you're doing," said Jorun for
the--thousandth?--time. "It's plain madness to stay here alone."
"I told you I don't like goodbyes," said Kormt harshly.
"I have to go advise the captain of the ship," said Jorun. "You have
maybe half an hour before she lifts. Nobody will laugh at you for
changing your mind."
"I won't." Kormt smiled without warmth. "You people are the future, I
guess. Why can't you leave the past alone? I'm the past." He looked
toward the far hills, hidden by the noisy rain. "I like it here,
Galactic. That should be enough for you."
"Well, then--" Jorun held out his hand in the archaic gesture of Earth.
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye." Kormt took the hand with a brief, indifferent clasp. Then he
turned and walked off toward the village. Jorun watched him till he was
out of sight.
The technician paused in the air-lock door, looking over the gray
landscape and the village from whose chimneys no smoke rose. _Farewell,
my mother_, he thought. And then, surprising himself: _Maybe Kormt is
doing the right thing after all._
He entered the ship and the door closed behind him.
* * * * *
Toward evening, the clouds lifted and the sky showed a clear pale
blue--as if it had been washed clean--and the grass and leaves
glistened. Kormt came out of the house to watch the sunset. It was a
good one, all flame and gold. A pity little Julith wasn't here to see
it; she'd always liked sunsets. But Julith was so far away now that if
she sent a call to him, calling with the speed of light, it would not
come before he was dead.
Nothing would come to him. Not ever again.
He tamped his pipe with a horny thumb and lit it and drew a deep cloud
into his lungs. Hands in pockets, he strolled down the wet streets. The
sound of his clogs was unexpectedly loud.
_Well, son_, he thought, _now you've got a whole world all to yourself,
to do with just as you like. You're the richest man who ever lived._
There was no problem in keeping alive. Enough food of all kinds was
stored in the town's freeze-vault to support a hundred men for the ten
or twenty years remaining to him. But he'd want to stay busy. He could
maybe keep three farms from going to seed--watch over fields and
orchards and livestock, repair the buildings, dust and wash and light up
in the evening. A man ought to keep busy.
He came to the end of the street, where it turned into a graveled road
winding up toward a high hill, and followed that. Dusk was creeping over
the fields, the sea was a metal streak very far away and a few early
stars blinked forth. A wind was springing up, a soft murmurous wind that
talked in the trees. But how quiet things were!
On top of the hill stood the chapel, a small steepled building
of ancient stone. He let himself in the gate and walked around
to the graveyard behind. There were many of the demure white
tombstones--thousands of years of Solis Township men and women who had
lived and worked and begotten, laughed and wept and died. Someone had
put a wreath on one grave only this morning; it brushed against his leg
as he went by. Tomorrow it would be withered, and weeds would start to
grow. He'd have to tend the chapel yard, too. Only fitting.
He found his family plot and stood with feet spread apart, fists on
hips, smoking and looking down at the markers Gerlaug Kormt's son, Tarna
Huwan's daughter, these hundred years had they lain in the earth. Hello,
Dad, hello, Mother. His fingers reached out and stroked the headstone of
his wife. And so many of his children were here, too; sometimes he found
it hard to believe that tall Gerlaug and laughing Stamm and shy, gentle
Huwan were gone. He'd outlived too many people.
_I had to stay_, he thought. _This is my land, I am of it and I couldn't
go. Someone had to stay and keep the land, if only for a little while. I
can give it ten more years before the forest comes and takes it._
Darkness grew around him. The woods beyond the hill loomed like a wall.
Once he started violently, he thought he heard a child crying. No, only
a bird. He cursed himself for the senseless pounding of his heart.
_Gloomy place here_, he thought. _Better get back to the house._
He groped slowly out of the yard, toward the road. The stars were out
now. Kormt looked up and thought he had never seen them so bright. Too
bright; he didn't like it.
_Go away, stars_, he thought. _You took my people, but I'm staying here.
This is my land._ He reached down to touch it, but the grass was cold
and wet under his palm.
The gravel scrunched loudly as he walked, and the wind mumbled in the
hedges, but there was no other sound. Not a voice called; not an engine
turned; not a dog barked. No, he hadn't thought it would be so quiet.
And dark. No lights. Have to tend the street lamps himself--it was no
fun, not being able to see the town from here, not being able to see
anything except the stars. Should have remembered to bring a flashlight,
but he was old and absentminded, and there was no one to remind him.
When he died, there would be no one to hold his hands; no one to close
his eyes and lay him in the earth--and the forests would grow in over
the land and wild beasts would nuzzle his bones.
_But I knew that. What of it? I'm tough enough to take it._
The stars flashed and flashed above him. Looking up, against his own
will, Kormt saw how bright they were, how bright and quiet. And how very
far away! He was seeing light that had left its home before he was born.
He stopped, sucking in his breath between his teeth. "No," he whispered.
This was his land. This was Earth, the home of man; it was his and he
was its. This was the _land_, and not a single dust-mote, crazily
reeling and spinning through an endlessness of dark and silence, cold
and immensity. Earth could not be so alone!
_The last man alive. The last man in all the world!_
He screamed, then, and began to run. His feet clattered loud on the
road; the small sound was quickly swallowed by silence, and he covered
his face against the relentless blaze of the stars. But there was no
place to run to, no place at all.