Michael threw the words. "To go beyond the force fields of the city.
To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then to
die a natural death."
The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered and
whispered again. "In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminate
us.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... _Let_ them be
finished.... Best for us all.... And them...."
There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting him
forward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standing
there close together, as though attached.
Haltingly he said, "Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth--to die. You
_will_ die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city or
your people again."
"We want a ground car," said Michael. "And supplies."
"A ground car," repeated the President. "And--supplies.... Yes."
"You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first range
of mountains."
"There will be no escort," said the President firmly. "No one has been
allowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundreds
of years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear the
sight of it." He took a step back. "And we can't bear the sight of you
any longer. Go now. Quickly!"
Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched the
half circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses that
should sink to the floor.
* * * * *
It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earth
that rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. The
ground car sat still on a crumbling road.
Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunk
into the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Way
along which they had rushed, while they had been searching frantically
for the place of salvation.
"If any one of the other couples had made it back," said Mary, "do you
think they'd be with us?"
"I think they'd either be with us," he said, "or out in space
again--or in prison."
She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into the
night over the decaying road.
"How sorry are you," she said quietly, "coming with me?"
"All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd kill
myself."
"Are we going to die out here, Michael?" she said, gesturing toward
the wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, "with the
land?"
He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,
watching the headlights push back the darkness.
They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept across
the bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon the
desolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They sat
for a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched and
inflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a great
pile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionless
waves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls of
dust.
"I'm getting out," she said.
"I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why," said
Michael shrugging. "It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountains
and sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out in
space. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enough
concentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?
When?"
They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun and
strolled toward the top of the hill.
"The air smells clean," he said.
"The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes." She did.
"Take off your boots, Michael. Try it."
Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. "It takes me
back."
"Yes," she said and began walking toward the hilltop.
He followed, his boots slung around his neck. "There was a road
somewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?"
"I guess when the past is old enough," she said, "it becomes a dream."