The sun settled behind the forest horizon, its pale pink rays filtering
through the branches of trees and angling onto the cool meadow. The
glare was reflected by the silver rocket and by the cross above Van
Gundy's grave and by the small harmonica and the jetman's medallion.
Captain Torkel stood alone before the grave. Laughter drifted faintly
from within the rocket. It was a lonely sound to Captain Torkel.
_You're really alone now_, he thought. _Apart from Earth, and now apart
from the men. You and Van Gundy._
To hell with it, he thought bitterly. Why not join the men? Why not
bathe and shave and smell of lotion and put on a clean white dress
uniform? Why not forget about an insignificant planet fifty trillion
miles away?
He pivoted toward the rocket, toward the laughter and the happy,
getting-ready sounds. Then a small gust of wind sent Van Gundy's
medallion tinkling against the grave-cross.
He paused. Through his mind passed a swirling vision of the people of
Earth: the silent children too frightened to play in the sunlight, the
white-faced women scanning the callous sky, the grim-lipped priests
chanting ceaseless prayers. Two billion souls wrapped in a shroud of
fear, counting off the swift seconds that carried them closer and
closer to oblivion.
You can't force the men to go with you, he told himself. You can't make
them believe that the Sirians are dangerous. You've got to make them
_want_ to return to Earth. And once they get to the village, they're
lost. There's so little time....
He rubbed his chin. He was sure the Sirians had killed Van Gundy. If
only Garcia could remember--
Suddenly he straightened.
Perhaps it was a blessing that Garcia did _not_ remember!
Out of desperation that was like a prayer, a plan arose in his brain.
It expanded and crystallized, then faded as memory slipped away like
a rock under rising water. For a few moments he was a boy on a Dakota
wheat farm, staring down at a strange grave.
Then the water receded; the rock remained. He was again Captain Torkel
and the plan lay like an opened flower in his thoughts.
_Please, God, don't let me forget now. Let me keep my memory for a
while longer, just a little while longer._
His hand tight about his pistol, he strode across the meadow and
plunged into the singing forest.
Rays from the sinking sun penetrated the foliage at intervals, creating
islands of rainbow brilliance in the semi-darkness. Leaves fluttered
above him. An orange-colored bird darted upward, releasing a cackle
that was like shrill, old-woman laughter.
He moved slowly, hesitating, listening.
Soon he heard the low voices of Sirians. He stepped off the forest
path, concealing himself in foliage. He tried to clear his mind so that
the natives would not receive a telepathic warning.
The Sirians came nearer.
Captain Torkel counted: one, two, three, four, five. The first, he saw,
was Taaleeb.