“We can’t tell them,” said Bat Ears. “We can’t let them know. They’ll find out, after a while, of course, but not right away.”
“Morgan is the only one who knows,” said Warren, “and he blabs. We can’t keep him quiet. It’ll be all over camp by morning.”
Bat Ears rose ponderously. He towered over Warren as he reached out a hand for the bottle on the desk.
“I’ll drop in on Morgan on my way back,” he said. “I’ll fix it so he won’t talk.”
He took a long pull at the bottle and set it back.
“I’ll draw a picture of what’ll happen to him if he does,” said Bat Ears.
Warren sat easily in his chair, watching the retreating back of Bat Ears Brady. Always there in a pinch, he thought. Always a man that you can depend on.
Bat Ears was back in three minutes flat. He stood in the entrance of the tent, no sign of drunkenness upon him, his face solemn, eyes large with the thing he’d seen.
“He croaked himself,” he said.
That was the solemn truth.
Dr. James H. Morgan lay dead inside his tent, his throat sliced open with a professional nicety that no one but a surgeon could have managed.
About midnight the searching party brought in Falkner.
Warren stared wearily at him. The kid was scared. He was all scratched up from floundering around in the darkness and he was pale around the gills.
“He saw our light, sir,” said Peabody, “and let out a yell. That’s the way we found him.”
“Thank you, Peabody,” said Warren. “I’ll see you in the morning. I want to talk to Falkner.”
“Yes, sir,” said Peabody. “I am glad we found him, sir.”
Wish I had more like him, thought Warren. Bat Ears, the ancient planet-checker; Peabody, an old army man, and Gilmer, the grizzled supply officer. Those are the ones to count on. The rest of them are punks.
Falkner tried to stand stiff and straight.
“You see, sir,” he told Warren, “it was like this: I thought I saw an outcropping…”
Warren interrupted him. “You know, of course, Mr. Falkner, that it is an expedition rule you are never to go out by yourself; that under no circumstances is one to go off by himself.”
“Yes, sir,” said Falkner, “I know that…”
“You are aware,” said Warren, “that you are alive only by some incredible quirk of fate. You would have frozen before morning if the natives hadn’t got you first.”
“I saw a native, sir. He didn’t bother me.”
“You are more than lucky, then,” said Warren. “It isn’t often that a native hasn’t got the time to spare to slit a human’s throat. In the five expeditions that have been here before us, they have killed a full eighteen. Those stone knives they have, I can assure you, make very ragged slitting.”
Warren drew a record book in front of him, opened it and made a very careful notation.
“Mr. Falkner,” he said, “you will be confined to camp for a two-week period for infraction of the rules. Also, during that time, you shall be attached to Mr. Brady.”
“Mr. Brady, sir? The cook?”
“Precisely,” said Warren. “He probably shall want you to hustle fuel and help with the meals and dispose of garbage and other such light tasks.”
“But I was sent on this expedition to make geologic observations, not to help the cook.”
“All very true,” admitted Warren. “But, likewise, you were sent out under certain regulations. You have seen fit to disregard those regulations and I see fit, as a result, to discipline you. That is all, Mr. Falkner.”
Falkner turned stiffly and moved toward the tent flap.
“By the way,” said Warren, “I forgot to tell you. I’m glad that you got back.”
Falkner did not answer.
Warren stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. After all, he thought, what did it matter? Within another few weeks nothing would matter for him and Falkner, nor for any of the rest.
The chaplain showed up the first thing in the morning. Warren was sitting on the edge of his cot, pulling on his trousers, when the man came in. It was cold and Warren was shivering despite the sputtering of the little stove that stood beside the desk.
The chaplain was very precise and businesslike about his visit.
“I thought I should talk with you,” he said, “about arranging services for our dear departed friend.”
“What dear departed friend?” asked Warren, shivering and pulling on a shoe.
“Why, Dr. Morgan, of course.”
“I see,” said Warren. “Yes, I suppose we shall have to bury him.”
The chaplain stiffened just a little.
“I was wondering if the doctor had any religious convictions, any sort of preference.”
“I doubt it very much,” said Warren. “If I were you, I’d hold it down to minimum simplicity.”
“That’s what I thought,” said the chaplain. “A few words, perhaps, and a simple prayer.”
“Yes,” said Warren. “A prayer by all means. We’ll need a lot of prayer.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Oh,” Warren told him, “don’t mind me. Just wool-gathering, that’s all.”
“I see,” said the chaplain. “I was wondering, sir, if you have any idea what might have made him do it.”
“Who do what?”
“What made the doctor commit suicide.”
“Oh, that,” said Warren. “Just an unstable character, I guess.”
He laced his shoes and stood up.
“Mr. Barnes,” he said, “you are a man of God, and a very good one from what I’ve seen of you. You may have the answer to a question that is bothering me.”
“Why,” said Mr. Barnes, “why I …”
“What would you do,” asked Warren, “if you suddenly were to find out you had no more than two months to live?”
“Why,” said Mr. Barnes, “I suppose that I would go on living pretty much the way I always have. With a little closer attention to the condition of my soul, perhaps.”
“That,” said Warren, “is a practical answer. And, I suppose, the most reasonable that anyone can give.”
The chaplain looked at him curiously. “You don’t mean, sir …”
“Sit down, Barnes,” said Warren. “I’ll turn up the stove. I need you now. To tell you the solemn truth, I’ve never held too much with this business of having you fellows with the expedition. But I guess there always will be times when one needs a man like you.”
The chaplain sat down.
“Mr. Barnes,” said Warren, “that was no hypothetical question I asked. Unless God performs some miracle we’ll all be dead in another two months’ time.”
“You are joking, sir.”
“Not at all,” said Warren. “The serum is no good. Morgan waited to check it until it was too late to get word to the ship. That’s why he killed himself.”
He watched the chaplain closely and the chaplain did not flinch.
“I was of a mind,” said Warren, “not to tell you. I’m not telling any of the others—not for a while, at least.”
“It takes a little while,” said Mr. Barnes, “to let a thing like that soak in. I find it so, myself. Maybe you should tell the others, let them have a chance…”
“No,” said Warren.
The chaplain stared at him. “What are you hoping for, Warren? What do you expect to happen?”
“A miracle,” said Warren.
“A miracle?”
“Certainly,” said Warren. “You believe in miracles. You must.”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Barnes. “There are certain miracles, of course—one might call them allegorical miracles, and sometimes men read into them more than was ever meant.”