It was a painful business, this being gently wafted to Rosgolla. It struck at the center of a man’s soul to take hold of him this way, to render him completely helpless, to keep him in this sort of smiling bondage.
Bernard clenched and unclenched his fists angrily. He thought back across only a short span of time to the easy-living dilettante whose self-centered life had been punctured by the Technarch’s call. Then I sat in my vibrochair and lived my own quiet life. And now I am a representative of Earth in who knows what macrocosmic judging?
“Hey!” Dominici exclaimed. “Food!”
Bernard turned. He caught a glimpse of a dying light, and, spread out on the grass in front of the house, he saw trays of food. Hunger assailed him, and he realized they were far from the ship, far from their own Earthman foods, with no immediate likelihood of returning.
“We might as well dig in,” he said. “The worst it can do is kill us.”
He picked up a small golden cake and nibbled it experimentally. It literally melted in his mouth, flowing down his gullet like honey. He ate another, then turned his attention to blue gourd-like vegetables, to a crystal pitcher of clear yellow wine, to round translucent white fruits the size of cherries. It was all delicious, and it was impossible to suggest that such delicate foods might be poisonous to a Terran metabolism. He ate his fill and wandered away, stretching out on the grass.
The sun was dropping in the heavens now. Near the horizon a small moon could be seen, low in the late-afternoon sky, visible as a tiny flat pearl against the darkening blue. It was a scene of simple beauty, as the meal had been simple, as the few Rosgollan buildings he had seen were simple. That simplicity alone argued for the great antiquity of these people. They had gone past the cultural stage of finding virtue in size and complexity, into the serene mature era of clean lines and uncluttered horizones. Bernard wondered how numerous they were. If they lived scattered as sparsely as the view indicated, there could not be many of them on this world—but perhaps there were thousands of Rosgollan worlds strung like beads through space, each with its few thousand inhabitants.
He could find pleasure in such a life, he who had enjoyed solitude and quiet, the peace of a fishing preserve on a young colony, the privacy of his own flat in London, the silence of his study-retreat in the Syrtis Major.
“What do they want with us?” Hernandez was asking.
“We amuse them,” Laurance said. “Maybe they’ll grow tired of us sooner or later, and let us go.”
“Let us go where?” Nakamura said quizzically. “We are more than one hundred thousand light-years from home. Or will the Rosgollans show us how to find our way back, when they let us go?”
“If they let us go,” Dominici corrected.
“They won’t keep us here long,” Bernard said, breaking his long silence.
“Oh? How do you know?”
“Because we don’t fit into the scheme of things here,” the sociologist replied. “We’re blotches on the landscape. The Rosgollans have their own tranquil lives to lead. Why should they install a bunch of barbarians on their quiet planet to stir things up? No, they’ll let us go when they’re through with us. I hardly think that these people are the zookeeper type.”
The night was falling rapidly now. It was an old world, Bernard thought; an old race, an old sun, short days and long nights.
Unfamiliar stars began to poke through the twilight’s gray haze. Later, when the sharp darkness had replaced the vague twilight, it would be possible to see the island universe in which Earth’s sun was merely an indistinguishable dot of light.
Darkness came on with a rush. The Earthmen once again entered the little building provided for them; a warm glow of light made it more cheery, and it seemed proof against the chill growing outside.
“What do we do?” Dominici asked, of nobody in particular. “Sack out and wait for morning?”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Havig demanded. “We have no very great choice of diversions. We can sleep, and we can pray, and we can think.”
“Pray for us, Havig,” said Laurance quietly. “Talk to that God of yours, get Him to arrange for our return trip home.”
Bernard said, “I don’t think he can do that, Commander. Don’t Neopuritans believe that it’s irreverent to ask for special favors?”
Havig flashed one of his rare smiles. “You are both right and you are wrong, friend Bernard. We feel it an impertinence to approach Him for worldly goods, for luxuries, for power. This is not prayer; prayer is communication, understanding, love. Not begging. But, on the other hand, to pray for our welfare, our salvation—this is hardly irreverent. He wants us to ask for whatever we think we need, but then to leave it up to Him and trust that when His will is done, all will be well.”
“But that’s begging, isn’t it?” Bernard objected.
Havig shrugged. “In His eyes, we are all supplicants in great need. I will gladly pray for all of us, as I have been doing from the first.”
“Right, pray for us,” Laurance said gruffly. “We need all the help we can get.”
Some of the men settled themselves on the cushions as if settling down for the night. Bernard walked to the edge of the single room, leaned against the wall, and watched it turn transparent for three feet on either side of him to provide him with a window.
He peered outward, upward. The strange stars blazed down. He sought for Earth’s galaxy, but it did not seem to be visible from this part of the planet. Feeling suddenly stifled by the magnitude of his distance from home, Bernard reeled away from the window and threw himself down on the nearest cushion. He jammed his eyes tightly together. His lips moved as if of their own accord.
He recovered his self-control after an instant and thought in quiet wonder, I prayed! By the Hammer, I actually prayed to go home!
The prayer had been like a release. The knot of tension that had been forming for hours within him let go its hold. He cradled his head on his folded arms, kicked off his shoes, and was asleep within seconds.
FOURTEEN
Morning came swiftly. Bernard woke feeling cramped and musty from having slept fully dressed, and rose to a sitting position. The others were strewn around the floor, still asleep, and the room was still dark. But he was awake. He tiptoed to the wall, touched it to make it transparent, and saw that the sun had risen. He glanced at his watch. It was only little more than nine hours since the night had fallen, and here the sun had risen again. Which meant that the day, here on this world Rosgolla, was only about eighteen or nineteen hours long.
Stepping through the conveniently opening door, Bernard sucked in his breath sharply and felt a quick stab of awe and delight. The air was marvelously fresh and sweet, like young wine. The distant hills, smooth rounded humps, looked new-minted in the transparent morning sky. A silvery sheen of dew glistened over the meadow.
For an instant Bernard almost forgot where he was and how he had come to be here.
He had dreamed of Katha. Now, in wakefulness, the lingering memory of the dream surprised him, and made his mood a sadly introspective one. He rarely thought, never dreamed, of the slim, bright-eyed, copper-haired girl who had been his second wife. Yet last night he had dreamed of Katha.
He thought he knew the reason why, too. The Rosgollan interrogation had stirred up the old memories, and the long-hidden patterns would return to trouble him in dreams until once again they settled, like particles suspended in water, to their depth. He would suffer meanwhile. He had thought he had come to an accomodation with himself on the subject of Katha, but the dream had disturbed him in a way he had thought was far behind.