"And so," chuckled Riley, "he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hot
oven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was."
Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.
Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older man
nodded commiseratingly.
"It is funny, yes," he agreed, "but at the same time it is not
altogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, our
poor Isobar."
"Yeah, I know," said Riley, "but, hell, we all get a little bit
homesick now and then. He ought to learn to--"
"Excuse me, my boy," interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,
"it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is something
deeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:
_weltschmertz_. There is no accurate translation in English. It means
'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'--something like that but
intensified a thousandfold.
"It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame
of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on which
they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad acts
of valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery...."
"You mean," demanded Sparks anxiously, "Isobar ain't got all his
buttons?"
"Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass
of despair. He may try _anything_ to retrieve his lost happiness, rid
his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying
hunger--By the way, where is he now?"
"Below, I guess. In his quarters."
"Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he will
find peace and forgetfulness."
But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the
"giftie gi'en" him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.
Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he
was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive
culprit.
Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome
Commander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein was
encased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from their
pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.
"So I can't play you, huh?" he muttered darkly. "It disturbs the peace
o' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll _see_
about that!"
And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the
room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge
_impervite_ gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway
to Outside.
On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle
adjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But
today they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might venture
out. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might have
to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian of
the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.
Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding
an aura of propriety.
"Very well, Wilkins," he said. "I'll take over now. You may go to the
meeting."
Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.
"Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?"
Isobar's eyebrows arched.
"You mean you haven't been notified?"
"Notified of _what_?"
"Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that I
would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?"
"I ain't," puzzled Wilkins, "heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to
call the office, maybe?"
And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. "That--er--won't
be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run
along. I'll watch this entrance for you."
"We-e-ell," said Wilkins, "if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep a
sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back
sudden-like."
"I will," promised Isobar, "don't worry."
* * * * *
Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completely
out of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slipped
through, and closed it behind him.
A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulated
temperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, but
fragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir with
joyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, at
last! After six long and dreary months!
Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezes
that ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into the
lunar valley....
How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could not
afterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. He
only knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were a
lacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, the
chirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezes
formed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as one
charmed.
It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome's
entrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, he
was startled to hear--off to his right--the sharp, explosive bark of a
Haemholtz ray pistol.
He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though his
meandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followed
its hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from the
Gateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able to
judge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of the
structure which housed Sparks' radio turret.