Norris laughed. "We didn't know where either."
"You must be taking all this stuff some place. This ship. It's old, isn't it? Fixed up."
"Originally it was some kind of bomb. We located it and repaired it -- worked on it from time to time. We weren't sure what we wanted to do. We're not sure yet. But we know we have to leave."
"Leave? Leave Earth?"
The men were almost finished. The last cars were half empty, bringing up the final remains from underground. Books, records, pictures, artifacts -- the remains of a culture. A multitude of representative objects, shot into the hold of the ship to be carried off, away from Earth. "Where?" Trent asked.
"To Mars for the time being. But we're not staying there. We'll probably go on out, towards the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. Ganymede may turn out to be something. If not Ganymede, one of the others. If worse comes to worst we can stay on Mars. It's pretty dry and barren but it's not radioactive."
"There's no chance here -- no possibility of reclaiming the radioactive areas? If we could cool off Earth, neutralize the hot clouds and --"
"If we did that," Norris said, "they'd all die."
"They?"
"Rollers, runners, worms, toads, bugs, all the rest. The endless varieties of life. Countless forms adapted to this Earth -- this hot Earth. These plants and animals use the radioactive metals. Essentially the new basis of life here is an assimilation of hot metallic salts. Salts which are utterly lethal to us."
"But even so --"
"Even so, it's not really our world."
"We're the true humans," Trent said.
"Not any more. Earth is alive, teeming with life. Growing wildly -- in all directions. We're one form, an old form. To live here, we'd have to restore the old conditions, the old factors, the balance as it was three hundred and fifty years ago. A colossal job. And if we succeeded, if we managed to cool Earth, none of this would remain."
Norris pointed at the great brown forest. And beyond it, towards the south, at the beginning of the steaming jungle that continued all the way to the Straits of Magellan.
"In a way it's what we deserve. We brought the War. We changed Earth. Not destroyed -changed. Made it so different we can't live here any longer."
Norris indicated the lines of helmeted men. Men sheathed in lead, in heavy protection suits, covered with layers of metal and wiring, counters, oxygen tanks, shields, food pellets, filtered water. The men worked, sweated in their heavy suits. "See them? What do they resemble?"
A worker came up, gasping and panting. For a brief second he lifted his viewplate and took a hasty breath of air. He slammed his plate and nervously locked it in place. "Ready to go, sir. All loaded."
"Change of plan," Norris said. "We're going to wait until this man's companions get here. Their camp is breaking up. Another day won't make any difference."
"All right, sir." The worker pushed off, climbing back down to the surface, a weird figure in his heavy lead-lined suit and bulging helmet and intricate gear.
"We're visitors," Norris told him.
Trent flinched violently. "What?"
"Visitors on a strange planet. Look at us. Shielded suits and helmets, spacesuits -- for exploring. We're a rocket-ship stopping at an alien world on which we can't survive. Stopping for a brief period to load up -- and then take off again."
"Closed helmets," Trent said, in a strange voice.
"Closed helmets. Lead shields. Counters and special food and water. Look over there."
A small group of runners were standing together, gazing up in awe at the great gleaming ship. Off to the right, visible among the trees, was a runner village. Checker-board crops and animal pens and board houses.
"The natives," Norris said. "The inhabitants of the planet. They can breathe the air, drink the water, eat the plant-life. We can't. This is their planet -- not ours. They can live here, build up a society."
"I hope we can come back."
"Back?"
"To visit -- some time."
Norris smiled ruefully. "I hope so too. But we'll have to get permission from the inhabitants -permission to land." His eyes were bright with amusement -- and, abruptly, pain. A sudden agony that gleamed out over everything else. "We'll have to ask them if it's all right. And they may say no. They may not want us."
Small Town
Verne Haskel crept miserably up the front steps of his house, his overcoat dragging behind him. He was tired. Tired and discouraged. And his feet ached.
"My God," Madge exclaimed, as he closed the door and peeled off his coat and hat. "You home already?"
Haskel dumped his briefcase and began untying his shoes. His body sagged. His face was drawn and gray.
"Say something!"
"Dinner ready?"
"No, dinner isn't ready. What's wrong this time? Another fight with Larson?"
Haskel stumped into the kitchen and filled a glass with warm water and soda. "Let's move," he said.
"Move?"
"Away from Woodland. To San Francisco. Anywhere." Haskel drank his soda, his middle-aged flabby body supported by the gleaming sink. "I feel lousy. Maybe I ought to see Doc Barnes again. I wish this was Friday and tomorrow was Saturday."
"What do you want for dinner?"
"Nothing. I don't know." Haskel shook his head wearily. "Anything." He sank down at the kitchen table. "All I want is rest. Open a can of stew. Pork and beans. Anything."
"I suggest we go out to Don's Steakhouse. On Monday they have good sirloins."
"No. I've seen enough human faces today."
"I suppose you're too tired to drive me over to Helen Grant's."
"The car's in the garage. Busted again."
"If you took better care of it --"
"What the hell do you want me to do? Carry it around in a cellophane bag?"
"Don't shout at me, Verne Haskel!" Madge flushed with anger. "Maybe you want to fix your own dinner."
Haskel got wearily to his feet. He shuffled toward the cellar door. "I'll see you."
"Where are you going?"
"Downstairs in the basement."
"Oh, Lord!" Madge cried wildly. "Those trains! Those toys! How can a grown man, a middle-aged man --"
Haskel said nothing. He was already half way down the stairs, feeling around for the basement light.
The basement was cool and moist. Haskel took his engineer's cap from the hook and fitted it on his head. Excitement and a faint surge of renewed energy filled his tired body. He approached the great plywood table with eager steps.
Trains ran everywhere. Along the floor, under the coal bin, among the steam pipes of the furnace. The tracks converged at the table, rising up on carefully graded ramps. The table itself was littered with transformers and signals and switches and heaps of equipment and wiring. And -- And the town.
The detailed, painfully accurate model of Woodland. Every tree and house, every store and building and street and fireplug. A minute town, each facet in perfect order. Constructed with elaborate care throughout the years. As long as he could remember. Since he was a kid, building and glueing and working after school.
building and street and fireplug. A minute town, each facet in perfect order. Constructed with elaborate care throughout the years. As long as he could remember. Since he was a kid, building and glueing and working after school.
His trains. And his town. Haskel bent over the miniature houses and streets, his heart glowing with pride. He had built it -- himself. Every inch. Every perfect inch. The whole town. He touched the corner of Fred's Grocery Store. Not a detail lacking. Even the windows. The displays of food. The signs. The counters.
The Uptown Hotel. He ran his hand over its flat roof. The sofas and chairs in the lobby. He could see them through the window.
Green's Drugstore. Bunion pad displays. Magazines. Frazier's Auto Parts. Mexico City Dining. Sharpstein's Apparel. Bob's Liquor Store. Ace Billiard Parlor.