Behind the bomb was a bulkhead shutting off the ship's forward portion
in the middle of which was a great round door. Set securely in the door
was a complicated instrument. The symbols on the dials and controls
were utterly alien.
Among the dials was what was apparently a timing device with
twenty-eight subdivisions, a slowly sweeping hand. It was silent but
Winthrop heard whispering in his mind the pounding time of the spinning
planet of some other sun, and the urgency and great import of time
returned to torment him. He had fought it while working on the bomb,
and now he fought it again.
"Bert," he said, "this part of the ship wasn't designed for entrance
during space flight. In a pressure suit, maybe, yes. Otherwise we can
only assume that the crew doesn't require an atmosphere. Life may have
evolved quite differently _elsewhere_."
"I don't believe it. I doubt that there's a thinking being of our equal
anywhere that isn't human or humanoid. Take your own comments about the
machinery. And what about the books?"
"_Books?_" Winthrop followed the general's gaze.
Protruding from beneath the bomb's afterbody was a thick, finely-bound
volume lying upon a thinner, very tattered one. Picking both books up
with trepidation, he examined the larger volume first. Its hard covers
were marked with alien characters similar to those on the bulkhead
instrument. He skimmed the pages, finding sections of either printed
language or mathematics, still others of detailed schematics and
precise drawings.
"The electronics engineers and linguists can work on this," he said.
"Association of the schematics with the equipment, and the equipment's
physical measurements and functionings with the printing may allow us
to crack both math and language!"
The other volume was more puzzling. "No cover," the general said.
"Pages missing. Bert, it looks like a _comic book_!"
They thumbed through that second book, sickened by the abysmal thought
that somewhere some alien artist had perverted an obviously great
talent to please and amuse the immature. Their hasty perusal revealed
an obviously imaginative tale of a pastoral world's invasion by the
rapacious, plundering vanguard of a humanoid race with many-digited,
strangely-jointed hands.
"The psych boys can have this," Winthrop said, apprehensively searching
the shadows about them.
They looked at the bulkhead door, then simultaneously at each other.
"Do you think there may be something alive in there?" the general asked.
"Perhaps. It's pointless to try to open the door now, though. The
occupants may be in suspended animation. It might be tricky to bring
them out of it without harming them. We've thought of suspended
animation as one solution to survival in the big jump once we've found
a means of propulsion plus suspended animation."
"The propulsion's arrived, George. Maybe we'll find the other. We'll
let the electronics men in here now. They should be able to shed some
light on this equipment."
As General Hill assembled the electronics men, Winthrop walked
away. Associates addressed him curiously, but he merely nodded in
absent-minded fashion. He was several yards from the ship when he
suddenly became aware that someone was challenging him--the lieutenant
he had met the night before.
"Just walking," Winthrop explained.
He saw a gnarled, forlorn apple tree just beyond the perimeter of the
guard posts. Almost pleadingly he said, "I'd like to go over there if
you don't mind."
"Hell, I don't mind," the lieutenant said, "but don't go any farther!"
Winthrop still clutched the picture book. _A warning?_ A chill swept
him. Was the ship indeed a coffin for the corpses of the survivors of a
pastoral race who had sought to escape, but whose knowledge of time and
space had not been adequate?
The lieutenant was surveying him quizzically.
"Thanks," Winthrop said, and walked to the tree.
He sat down, and opened the book again. He thumbed through it
repeatedly, the pictures creating a sickness in him.
"Hello," a little girl's voice said.
* * * * *
Winthrop looked up. Six? Seven? He could only be sure that she was
blond and blue-eyed, and had apparently come from the direction of the
botanical gardens. She clutched roller skates in her arms.
"Hello," Winthrop said. "Where are _you_ going?"
"To the skating rinks."
"Oh, you can't. They're closed."
Her face grew solemn. "But Mommy and Daddy said I could." She was
about to cry.
He felt a bachelor's inadequacy. "Where are they?" he asked.
"Over in the bot--bot--" She struggled valiantly and then said, "the
flower gardens!" She eyed the book eagerly. "May I see the comics?"
Comics? Oh, the book!
He handed it to her wordlessly, saw her eyes show immediate, outright
horror. He stared aghast as she threw it down and ran wildly away, her
skates forgotten on the grass, her broken sobs and screams echoing back.
He called after her uselessly. Stunned, he watched the little scurrying
figure vanish along the broken road toward the botanical gardens,
wishing that he could follow her and solace her, cursing himself for
ever having thought of showing her the book.