“Missssilesss fired,” a new and different vodor voice sounded, this one from the central control panel itself. “Doooo euuuu want a vizzzual scan of their activity?”
“Yesss, he doesss,” FLIGHT INFO ordered.
On the screen a different scene appeared; it was being transmitted, via a split screen, from both missiles.
The missile on the left side of the screen missed its target and passed on by, to descend, gradually, into a collision course with the ground. The second one, however, flew directly at its target. The pursuing ship wheeled, screamed directly upward… the missile altered target and then the viewscreen was suffused with silent, white light. The missile had detonated. One of the two pursuing ships had died.
The other one continued on, directly at him. Picking up velocity as it came. The pilot knew that he had fired all his armaments. Combatwise he was now helpless—and the remaining ship knew it.
“Do we have a cannon?” Morley asked.
FLIGHT INFO said, “The small size of thisss ship doesss not permit—”
“A simple yes or no.”
“No.”
“Anything, then?”
“No.”
Morley said, “I want to give up. I’m injured and I’m bleeding to death as I sit here. Land this ship as soon as possible.”
“Yesss sirrr.” Now the squib dipped down; again it flew parallel to the ground, but this time braking, slowing its speed. He heard its wheel-lowering mechanism go into operation and then, with a shuddering bump, the squib touched down.
He moaned with pain as the squib bounced, quaked, then turned on an angle, its tires squealing.
It came to a stop. Silence. He lay against the central control panel, listening for the other ship. He waited; he waited. No sound. Still only the empty silence.
“FLIGHT INFO,” he said aloud, raising his head in a palsied, trembling motion. “Has it landed?”
“It continued on byyy.”
“Why?”
“I do not knowww. It continuesss to move away from usss; my scanner can barely pick it up.” A pause. “Now it’s beyond scanner-probe range.”
Maybe it had failed to perceive his landing. Maybe it—the pilot—had assumed his low-level, horizontal flight to be a further attempt to defeat the computerized radar.
Morley said, “Take off again. Fly in widening circles. I’m looking for a settlement that’s in this area.” He chose a course at random. “Fly slightly northeast.”
“Yesss sirrr.” The squib pulsed with new activity and then, in a professional, competent way, rose up into the sky.
Again he rested, but this time lying so that he could perpetually scan the viewscreen. He did not really think that they would be successful; the settlement was small and the funky landscape was enormous. But—what was the alternative?
To go back to the Building. And now he had a firm, physical revulsion toward it; his earlier desire to enter it had evaporated.
It is not a winery, he said to himself. But what the hell is it, then?
He did not know. And he hoped he never would.
Something glinted to the right. Something metallic. He roused himself groggily. Looking at the control board clock he saw that the squib had been flying in widening circles for almost an hour. Did I drift off? he wondered. Squinting, he peeped to see what had glinted. Small buildings.
He said, “That’s it.”
“Shall I land there?”
“Yes.” He hunched forward, straining to see. Straining to be sure.
It was the settlement.
14
A small—heartbreakingly small—group of men and women trudged wanly up to the parked squib as Seth Morley activated the electrical dehatching mechanism. They stared at him bleakly as he stumbled out, stood swaying, trying to get control of his waning vitality.
There they were. Russell, looking stern. His wife Mary, her face taut with alarm—then relief at seeing him. Wade Frazer, who looked tired. Dr. Milton Babble, chewing on his pipe in a reflexive, pointless way. Ignatz Thugg was not among them.
Neither was Glen Belsnor.
Leadenly, Seth Morley said, “Belsnor is dead, isn’t he?”
They nodded.
Russell said. “You’re the first of all of them to come back. We noticed late last night that Belsnor wasn’t guarding us. We got to him at the infirmary door; he was already dead.”
“Electrocuted,” Dr. Babble said.
“And you were gone,” Mary said. Her eyes remained glazed and hopeless, despite his return.
“You better get back into bed in the infirmary,” Babble said to him. “I don’t know how you could still be alive. Look at you; you’re drenched with blood.”
Together, they assisted him back to the infirmary. Mary fussily made up the bed; Seth Morley, swaying, stood waiting and then let them stretch his body out, propped up by pillows.
“I’m going to work on your shoulder some more,” Babble said to him. “I think the artery is allowing seepage out into the—”
Seth Morley said, “We’re on Earth.”
They stared at him. Babble froze; he turned toward Seth, then mechanically returned to his task of fumbling with a tray of surgical instruments. Time passed, but no one spoke.
“What is the Building?” Wade Frazer said, at last.
“I don’t know. But they say I was there, once.” So on some level I do know, he realized. Maybe we all do. Perhaps at some time in the past all of us were there. Together.
“Why are they killing us?” Babble said.
“I don’t know that either,” Seth Morley answered.
Mary said, “How do you know we’re on Earth?”
“I was at London a little while ago. I saw it, the ancient, abandoned city. Mile after mile of it. Thousands of decaying, deserted houses, factories and streets. Bigger than any nonterran city anywhere in the galaxy. Where at one time six million people lived.”
Wade Frazer said, “But there’s nothing on Terra except the aviary! And nobody except ostriches!”
“Plus Interplan West military barracks and research installations,” Seth Morley said, but his voice ebbed; it lacked conviction and enthusiasm. “We’re an experiment,” he said, anyhow. “As we guessed last night. A military experiment being carried out by General Treaton.” But he did not believe it either. “What kind of military personnel wear black leather uniforms?” he said. “And jackboots… I think they’re called.”
Russell, in a modulated, disinterested voice, said, “Aviary guards. A sop to keep up their morale. It’s very discouraging to work around ostriches; introduction of the new uniforms, three or four years back, has done a great deal of morale-boosting for the personnel.”
Turning toward him, Mary said searchingly, “How do you happen to know that?”
“Because,” Russell said, still calm. “I am one of them.” Reaching into his jacket he brought out a small, shiny erggun. “We carry this type of weapon.” He held the gun pointed toward them, meanwhile motioning them to stand closer together. “It was one chance out of a million that Morley got away.” Russell pointed to his right ear. “They’ve been periodically keeping me informed. I knew he was on his way back here, but I—and my various superiors—never thought he’d arrive.” He smiled at them. Graciously.
A sharp thump sounded. Loudly.
Russell half-turned, lowered his erggun and slumped down, letting the weapon fall. What is it? Seth Morley asked himself; he sat up, trying to see. He made out a shape, the shape of a man, walking into the room. The Walker? he thought. The Walker-on-Earth come to save us? The man held a gun—an old-fashioned lead slug pistol. Belsnor’s gun, he realized. But Ignatz Thugg has it. He did not understand. Neither did the others; they milled about incoherently as the man, holding the pistol, walked up to them.
It was Ignatz Thugg.
On the floor, Russell lay dying. Thugg bent, picked up the erggun, and put it away in his belt.
“I came back,” Thugg said grimly.