Avoid Planetoid 787. Lush and sunny, with fine
air and no dangerous beasts, it'll tempt you to
curve in for some nice solid-ground sleep. DON'T!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
You don't want death and you don't expect death. Something goes wrong,
your rocket tilts in space, a planetoid jumps up, blackness, movement,
hands over the eyes, a violent pulling back of available power in the
fore-jets, the crash....
The darkness. In the darkness, the senseless pain. In the pain, the
nightmare.
He was not unconscious.
_Your name?_ asked hidden voices. _Sale_, he replied in whirling
nausea. _Leonard Sale._ _Occupation_, cried the voices. _Spaceman!_
he cried, alone in the night. _Welcome_, said the voices. _Welcome,
welcome._ They faded.
He stood up in the wreckage of his ship. It lay like a folded, tattered
garment around him.
The sun rose and it was morning.
Sale pried himself out the small air-lock and stood breathing the
atmosphere. Luck. Sheer luck. The air was breathable. An instant's
checking showed him that he had two month's supply of food with him.
Fine, fine! And this--he fingered at the wreckage. Miracle of miracles!
The radio was intact.
He stuttered out the message on the sending key. CRASHED ON PLANETOID
787. SALE. SEND HELP. SALE. SEND HELP.
The reply came instantly: HELLO, SALE. THIS IS ADDAMS IN MARSPORT.
SENDING RESCUE SHIP LOGARITHM. WILL ARRIVE PLANETOID 787 IN SIX DAYS.
HANG ON.
Sale did a little dance.
It was simple as that. One crashed. One had food. One radioed for help.
Help came. _La!_ He clapped his hands.
The sun rose and was warm. He felt no sense of mortality. Six days
would be no time at all. He would eat, he would read, he would sleep.
He glanced at his surroundings. No dangerous animals; a tolerable
oxygen supply. What more could one ask. Beans and bacon, was the
answer. The happy smell of breakfast filled the air.
After breakfast he smoked a cigarette slowly, deeply, blowing out. He
nodded contentedly. What a life! Not a scratch on him. Luck. Sheer luck.
His head nodded. Sleep, he thought.
Good idea. Forty winks. Plenty of time to sleep, take it easy. Six
whole long, luxurious days of idling and philosophizing. Sleep.
He stretched himself out, tucked his arm under his head, and shut his
eyes.
* * * * *
Insanity came in to take him. The voices whispered.
_Sleep, yes, sleep_, said the voices. _Ah, sleep, sleep._
He opened his eyes. The voices stopped. Everything was normal. He
shrugged. He shut his eyes casually, fitfully. He settled his long body.
_Eeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the voices, far away.
_Ahhhhhhhh_, sang the voices.
_Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep_, sang the voices.
_Die, die, die, die, die_, sang the voices.
_Ooooooooooooooo_, cried the voices.
_Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm_, a bee ran through his brain.
He sat up. He shook his head. He put his hands to his ears. He blinked
at the crashed ship. Hard metal. He felt the solid rock under his
fingers. He saw the real sun warming the blue sky.
Let's try sleeping on our back, he thought. He adjusted himself, lying
back down. His watch ticked on his wrist. The blood burned in his veins.
_Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep_, sang the voices.
_Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the voices.
_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the voices.
_Die, die, die, die, die. Sleep, sleep, die, sleep, die, sleep, die!
Oohhh. Ahhhhh. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_
Blood tapped in his ears. The sound of the wind rising.
_Mine, mine_, said a voice. _Mine, mine, he's mine!_
_No, mine, mine_, said another voice. _No, mine, mine; he's_ mine!
_No, ours, ours_, sang ten voices. _Ours, ours, he's_ ours!
His fingers twitched. His jaws spasmed. His eyelids jerked.
_At last, at last_, sang a high voice. _Now, now. The long time, the
waiting. Over, over_, sang the high voice. _Over, over at last!_
It was like being undersea. Green songs, green visions, green time.
Bubbled voices drowning in deep liquors of sea tide. Far away choruses
chanting senseless rhymes. Leonard Sale stirred in agony.
_Mine, mine_, cried a loud voice. _Mine, mine!_ shrieked another.
_Ours, ours!_ shrieked the chorus.
The din of metal, the crash of sword, the conflict, the battle, the
fight, the war. All of it exploding, his mind fiercely torn apart!
_Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!_
He leaped up, screaming. The landscape melted and flowed.
[Illustration: _He leaped up, raving. What was going on?_]
A voice said, "I am Tylle of Rathalar. Proud Tylle, Tylle of the Blood
Mound and the Death Drum. Tylle of Rathalar, Killer of Men!"
Another spoke, "I am Iorr of Wendillo, Wise Iorr, Destroyer of
Infidels!"
The chorus chanted. "And we the warriors, we the steel, we the
warriors, we the red blood rushing, the red blood falling, the red
blood steaming in the sun--"
Leonard Sale staggered under the burden. "Go away!" he cried. "Leave
me, in God's name, leave me!"
_Eeeeeeeeeee_, shrieked the high sound of steel hot on steel.
Silence.
* * * * *
He stood with the sweat boiling out of him. He was trembling so
violently he could not stand. Insane, he thought. Absolutely insane.
Raving insane. Insane.
He jerked the food kit open, did something to a chemical packet. Hot
coffee was ready in an instant. He mouthed it, spilled gushes of it
down his shirt. He shivered. He sucked in raw gulps of breath.
Let's be logical, he thought, sitting down heavily. The coffee seared
his tongue. No record of insanity in the family for two hundred years.
All healthy, well-balanced. No reason for insanity now. Shock? Silly.
No shock. I'm to be rescued in six days. No shock to that. No danger.
Just an ordinary planetoid. Ordinary, ordinary place. No reason for
insanity. I'm sane.
_Oh?_ cried a small metal voice within. An echo. Fading.
"Yes!" he cried, beating his fists together. "Sane!"
_Hahahahahahahahahah._ Somewhere a vanishing laughter.
He whirled about. "Shut up, you!" he cried.
We didn't say anything, said the mountains. We didn't say anything,
said the sky. We didn't say anything, said the wreckage.
"All right then," he said, swaying. "See that you don't."
Everything was normal.
* * * * *
The pebbles were getting hot. The sky was big and blue. He looked at
his fingers and saw the way the sun burned on every black hair. He
looked at his boots and the dust on them. Suddenly he felt very happy
because he made a decision. I won't go to sleep, he thought. I'm having
nightmares, so why sleep. There's your solution.
He made a routine. From nine o'clock in the morning, which was this
minute, until twelve, he would walk around and see the planetoid. He
would write on a pad with a yellow pencil everything he saw. Then he
would sit down and open a can of oily sardines and some canned fresh
bread with good butter on it. From twelve thirty until four he would
read nine chapters of _War and Peace_. He took the book from the
wreckage, and laid it where he might find it later. There was a book of
T. S. Eliot's poetry, too. That might be nice.
Supper would come at five-thirty and then from six until ten he
would listen to the radio from Earth. There would be a couple of bad
comedians telling jokes and a bad singer singing some song, and the
latest news flashes, signing off at midnight with the UN anthem.
After that?
He felt sick.
I'll play solitaire until dawn, he thought. I'll sit up and drink hot
black coffee and play solitaire, no cheating, until sunrise.
Ho ho, he thought.
"What did you say?" he asked himself.
"I said 'Ha ha'," he replied. "_Some_ time, you'll have to sleep."
"I'm wide awake," he said.
"Liar," he retorted, enjoying the conversation.
"I feel fine," he said.
"Hypocrite," he replied.
"I'm not afraid of the night, or sleep, or anything," he said.
"_Very_ funny," he said.
He felt bad. He wanted to sleep. And the fact that he was afraid of
sleep made him want to lie down all the more and shut his eyes and curl
up. "Comfy-cozy?" asked his ironic censor.
"I'll just walk and look at the rocks and the geological formations and
think how good it is to be alive," he said.
"Ye gods," cried his censor. "William Saroyan!"
You'll go on, he thought, maybe one day, maybe one night, but what
about the next night and the next, and the _next_? Can you stay awake
_all_ that time, for six nights? Until the rescue ship comes? Are you
_that_ good, _that_ strong?
The answer was no.
What are you afraid of? I don't know. Those voices. Those sounds. But
they can't hurt you, can they?
They _might_. You've got to face them some time. Must I? Brace up to
it, old man. Chin up, and all that rot.
He sat down on the hard ground. He felt very much like crying. He felt
as if life was over and he was entering new and unknown territory. It
was such a deceiving day, with the sun warm; physically, he felt able
and well, one might fish on such a day as this, or pick flowers or kiss
a woman or anything. But in the midst of a lovely day, what did one get?
Death.
Well, hardly _that_.
Death, he insisted.
He lay down and closed his eyes. He was tired of messing around.
All right, he thought, if you _are_ death, come get me. I want to know
what all this damned nonsense is about.
Death came.
* * * * *
_Eeeeeeeeeeeeee_, said a voice.
Yes, I know, said Leonard Sale, lying there. But what else?
_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, said a voice.
I know that, also, said Leonard Sale, irritably. He turned cold. His
mouth hung open wildly.
"I am Tylle of Rathalar, Killer of Men!"
"I am Iorr of Wendillo, Destroyer of Infidels!"
What is this place? asked Leonard Sale, struggling against horror.
"Once a mighty planet!" said Tylle of Rathalar.
"Once a place of battles!" said Iorr of Wendillo.
"Now dead," said Tylle.
"Now silent," said Iorr.
"Until _you_ came," said Tylle.
"To give us life again," said Iorr.
You're dead, insisted Leonard Sale, flesh writhing. You're nothing but
empty wind.
"We live, through you."
"And fight, through _you_!"
So that's it, thought Leonard Sale. I'm to be a battleground, am I? Are
you friends?
"Enemies!" cried Iorr.
"Foul enemies!" cried Tylle.
* * * * *
Leonard smiled a rictal smile. He felt ghastly. How long have you
waited? he demanded.
"How long is _time_?" Ten thousand years? "Perhaps." Ten million years?
"Perhaps."
What are you? Thoughts, spirits, ghosts? "All of those, and more."
Intelligences? "Precisely." How did you survive?
_Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the chorus, far away.
_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang another army, waiting to fight.
"Once upon a time, this was fertile land, a rich planet. And there were
two nations, strong nations, led by two strong men. I, Iorr. And he,
that one who calls himself Tylle. And the planet declined and gave way
to nothingness. The peoples and the armies languished in the midst of
a great war which had lasted five thousand years. We lived long lives
and loved long loves, drank much, slept much, fought much. And when
the planet died, our bodies withered, and, only in time, and with much
science, did we survive."
Survive, wondered Leonard Sale. But there is nothing of you!
"Our _minds_, fool, our _minds_! What is a body without a mind?"
What is a mind without a _body_, laughed Leonard Sale. I've got you
there. Admit it, I've _got_ you!
"True," said the cruel voice. "One is useless lacking the other. But
survival is survival even when unconscious. The minds of our nations,
through science, through wonder, survived."
But without senses, lacking eyes, ears, lacking touch, smell, and the
rest? "Lacking all those, yes. We were vapors, merely. For a long time.
Until today."
And now I am here, thought Leonard Sale. "You are here," said the
voice. "To give substance to our mentalities. To give us our needed
body."