Kennedy remained there a moment in tribute. He had not known Engel at all; in the words of the Ganny poem, he was only a shadow of a man to Kennedy. The linguist had been a man without a past to him, just a face and a name and an ability to collect words and understand their meaning. Kennedy had not known how old Engel was, where he had been born or educated, whether or not he was married, where he lived when he was on Earth, what his hopes or aspirations were, his philosophy of life. And now no one of those things mattered. Engel had neither present nor future, and his past was irrelevant.
Kennedy remounted the sled and continued on. The time was 0412; he would reach the village at about 0445, and according to his schedule that was the time at which the Gannys would begin to stir into wakefulness after their last period of sleep. He rode silently on, not thinking, not making any plans.
He was still a mile from the village when he saw the Terran truck from the outpost, drawn up perhaps fifty or a hundred yards from the first houses of the village. He looked down on the scene from the row of razor-backed ridges that bordered the village on the south. When he was close enough, he could see clearly what was taking place.
The villagers were lined up outside their houses, and four dark spacesuited figures moved among them. An interrogation was under way. They were questioning the villagers about Engel and himself, hoping to find out where they were hiding.
As Kennedy watched, one of the spacesuited figures knocked a villager to the ground. The Ganny rose and stood patiently where he had stood before. Brutally the Earthman knocked him down again.
Kennedy’s jaws tightened. Gunther was prepared to stop at nothing in the attempt to find him. Maybe he would move on to wholesale destruction of the village, when no information was forthcoming.
With his chin he nudged the control of his suit-microphone and said, “Gunther?”
“Who’s that?”
“Kennedy. Hold your fire.”
“Where are you, Kennedy?”
“On the hill overlooking you. Don’t fire. I don’t intend to make trouble.”
He had no choice. He could not hide out on this frozen methane world for long, and the aliens, though they meant well, could not give him shelter, could not feed him. He would only be bringing pain and suffering to them if he tried to remain at large.
“What are you doing up there?” Gunther asked.
“I’m coming down. I’m surrendering. I don’t want to cause any more suffering. Got that? I’m surrendering. I’ll come down out of the hills with my hands up. Don’t hurt the villagers any more. They aren’t to blame.”
He rose from the shed and slowly made his way down the side of the hill, a dark figure against the whiteness. He was no more than halfway down when Gunther’s voice said sharply, “Wait a minute! You’re alone. Where’s Engel? If this is some sort of trick—”
“Engel’s dead. You killed him back at the airlock when we escaped, and I gave him burial in a lake back beyond the hills. I’m coming down alone. Hold your fire, Gunther.”
14
The corporation spaceship had not been intended as a prison ship, and so they had no facilities for confining him. Not that Kennedy was anxious to mingle with the men of the crew; reserved, aloof, a little shocked despite himself at the magnitude of what he had done, he rarely left the hammock during the long, tense trip back to Earth. He spent much of his time reading and as much as possible sleeping, or thinking about the Ganymedean culture of which he had had such a brief, tantalizing glimpse.
He ate alone, and spoke to the other men aboard the ship only when necessary. They spoke to him not at all.
The last few days before the departure of the supply ship had been unpleasant ones. Gunther had ordered Kennedy confined to the bare little dungeon-storeroom, with a guard constantly posted outside the door and meals brought in.
Gunther had questioned him.
“You’re accused on two counts. You gave weapons to the aliens and you murdered Engel. Right?”
“I decline to answer that.”
“The hell with that. Confess.”
“I’m not confessing to hogwash like that. And don’t threaten to have me shot, Gunther. The agency knows I’m here.”
“It could be an accident—a man cleaning his rifle. But I won’t do it. Let the Corporation take care of you. You’re not my responsibility. You go back to Earth when the ship leaves.”
“As you please,” Kennedy said.
“But I want a confession. Tell me why you gave guns to the Gannys!”
“I didn’t. The Gannys wouldn’t know how to use them. And you killed Engel yourself, when we tried to get away.”
“Who’ll believe that? Come on, Kennedy—confess.”
Kennedy shrugged and refused. After a while, Gunther gave up.
He had to admit to himself they were taking special care of him. Another man might have killed him on the spot, as a safety measure; Gunther was too smart for that. After all, Kennedy was an agency executive. This was too big a thing for Gunther to handle, and he knew it. He was tossing it back to the Corporation, letting them judge Kennedy and decide what to do with him.
Sizer let him have a gravanol pill on the way out, which surprised him a little; it was reasonable to expect that they’d leave a traitor to cope with the agonies of blast-off acceleration as best he could, without proffering the assistance of the pain-killing drug. They gave it to him, though, silently and ungraciously, but readily enough.
He had never been a particularly thoughtful man. Intelligent, yes; quick-witted, yes; resourceful, yes. But thinking —evaluation of himself in relation to the world about him, understanding of the sea of events through which he moved—thinking had never been his strong point, as Marge had so frequently let him know. But now he had plenty of time to think, as the Corporation ship left the icy ball that was Ganymede far behind and coasted on toward Earth.
They had taught him many things at Northwestern; he had responded to tutorial prodding magnificently, coming through with straight A averages for the entire four years. But no one had ever taught him where his loyalties belonged. And he had never bothered to find out.
It was a world he had never made—but one that had given him thirty thousand a year at the biggest public relations firm there was, and he’d been content. He could have left well enough alone, he thought.
The day of Earthfall came. Word passed rapidly through the ship, and Sizer, grim-faced now, with none of the cheerful affability of the earlier journey, came aft to offer Kennedy a gravanol pill. He accepted the pellet and the flask and nodded his thanks to Sizer. The Spaceman left.
Kennedy looked carefully around, making sure no one was watching him. A wild plan was forming in his mind. He palmed the little pill and drained the flask of water; then he slumped back in the hammock as if drugged. He slipped the pill into his pocket.
Deceleration began.
He rode down into the atmospheric blanket fully conscious, the only man on the ship who was awake. The ship’s jets thundered, stabilizing her, decelerating her. Kennedy felt as if two broad hands were squeezing him together, jamming his neck against his spine, flattening his face, distorting his mouth. He could hear the currents of blood in his body. He gasped for breath like a hooked fish. It seemed that there was a mighty knuckle pressing against his chest, expelling the air from his lungs, keeping him from drawing breath.