His final mental comment to the remote alter ego was: “I think I can live with the mystery of what that building ahead might be. And I suppose I can live with my regret that I never got a chance to interact with one of the alien prisoners aboard the Dzan battleship; the first non-human we’ve ever heard of in all the Gosseyn travels. Though Breemeg did call the aliens semi-human, didn’t he? But even that is a unique event. Nevertheless, I’ll have to live with both mysteries because, right now, it’s getting colder here every minute; and it’ll soon be dark. So—”
CHAPTER 13
Earth!
They stood in the backyard of a small house. The little place was located on a slope, so that there, partly visible below them, was a city. In all the near miles, Gosseyn could see, principally, roof tops of residences, and the greenery that surrounded almost every visible home.
Standing there, he was conscious of both an outer—the air felt summery—and inner warmth. The inner good feeling seemed to be there so naturally that many moments went by before he identified it:
… It’s as if I’ve come home—
It took other moments, then, to argue mildly with himself that, really, a body that had been found floating in space in a capsule could not, except by a considerable extension of logic, establish a legal status of belonging to a specific planet.
Presumably, that inward argument could have continued except, at that precise moment, Enin stirred beside him, and said, “What kind of crumby place is this? Where are we?”
It was a distinctly variant point of view. And, as he glanced down at the boy, Gosseyn saw that the emperor of the Dzan was not looking at the vista of city below, but at the backyard and the rear of the house that was in the yard.
And, for the first time since their arrival, that reminded Gosseyn of his earlier—light-years-away—anxiety about where they would end up: at the aimed-for destination, or somewhere else?
… I made it! The method of concentrating, and shutting out side thoughts, works—“Hey, Gosseyn Two, got that? I can control that defect—”
There was no reply from his faraway alter ego, and, in fact, no particular awareness of the other’s thoughts. So—later!
So he looked down at the boy, and said in a chiding tone: “We’re where it’s warm. Or, would you rather be back on the ice?”
Enin dismissed that with, apparently, no gratitude for the change. “How did we get to a place like this?” he asked in a disgusted tone.
Gosseyn smiled. “Well, it’s like this, Enin. What I can do in making those shifts in space—which is my special thing, as you should know—”
The twelve-year-old face that was tilted up to him held in it no criticism of how what he “could do” had on one occasion affected the emperor of the Dzan in front of his courtiers. The lips merely parted, and said, “Yeah! So—”
Gosseyn explained: “It’s best to have places to come to where no one sees you arrive. Now, this little house is the home of a friend, and it’s located very nicely for what I just said. No one in the neighborhood can easily see how we got here. Right?”
Presumably, the boy had already, in his initial disapproving survey, noticed those very drab details. But he seemed to be motivated to take another look. And, evidently, the analysis made sense.
“Hey, yeah,” he nodded, “you’re right.”
“And,” Gosseyn continued, “if you’ll look up, you’ll see that it’s still morning. And so we’ve got almost a whole day ahead of us.”
He had already had the realization of the time of day from where the sun was in the sky. But saying that meaning aloud brought an awareness of an automatic… thalamic?… feeling inside him. The feeling was a sense of belonging, not necessarily here in this backyard, but here, everywhere, on this planet.
He saw that the bright eyes had narrowed. “What are we going to do here?”
That was not really a problem. The time of day it was, had evoked a thought: at last report, Dan Lyttle, the owner of the little place, had been a night clerk in a hotel. Which could mean that, at this early hour of the day, he had not yet departed for his job.
Abruptly hopeful, Gosseyn walked forward, and knocked on the back door. He was aware of Enin coming up beside him.
The boy’s voice came, puzzled: “You want inside? Why don’t we just go in?”
In a way, in this instance, it was not an impossibility. If Dan Lyttle were still the owner, he would probably not be disturbed, if he was out, and returned to find who it was that had entered.
But that wasn’t the meaning of his Imperial Majesty’s words. Shaking his head, Gosseyn turned towards the boy. “Listen,” he said in a firm tone, “we’re not on one of your planets. Here, we have to live by the local rules.” He was gazing into those youthful, unabashed eyes as he completed his admonition in the same firm voice: “You do not intrude on other people’s property without permission. Understood?”
Fortunately, there was no time for Enin to reply. Because at that exact instant, there was a sound. And the door opened.
The familiar, lean figure that stood there, said, “Oh, my God, it’s you!”
It was a sentence that Gosseyn, himself, could probably have spoken. But his tone would have been one of relief. Because the individual who had uttered the exclamation was identified by the Gosseyn memory as the owner of the cottage: Dan Lyttle, in person.
The hotel clerk, who had come into Gosseyn Two’s hotel room—and saved his life.
His face was still as lean as it had been before. He seemed more mature than the Gosseyn memory recalled. But that was a subtle difference. Most important, he was delighted to have them as guests in his little home.
“You came at the right time. It’s my day off. Or—” with a smile—“my night off; so I can be of some use to you, maybe. Anyway, right now I can see you two need a bath and sleep. Why don’t you and the kid take my bedroom, and any sleeping I do I’ll do on the couch out here.”
Gosseyn Three didn’t argue. The “kid” seemed to hesitate; but then he went silently through the indicated door with Gosseyn. However, once inside, with the door closed, Enin said, “Are we really going to stay here?”
Gosseyn pointed to the far side of the Queen-size bed. “You get your bath first, and stretch out there. And when I’ve showered, I’ll take this side.” He added, “We can decide later what we’re going to do here.” At that point Dan Lyttle brought in a long shirt for Enin and a pair of pajamas for Gosseyn. And so, presently, they slept.
… Gosseyn came to, drowsily, and lay for a minute with his eyes still closed; and he was having a strange thought: That was the first normal sleep of this Gosseyn body.
The realization held his attention briefly. For some reason, when he had lain down on this bed, earlier, it had seemed so natural, so—ordinary—that the uniqueness of it in his own existence had not occurred to him.
Moments after that awareness, he was conscious of himself smiling. Because it was obviously a minor reality in a universe of sleeping humans.
With that, he opened his eyes, turned over, glanced toward the other side of the bed—and sat up, frowning.
The boy wasn’t there.
As he swung his legs off the bed, and started to put on the slip-ons that had served him as shoes all these hours, he was mildly bemused. But there was—he noticed—a small thalamic reaction.
He saw that the shoes were clean. And that his suit, which was neatly draped over a chair, had also been washed while he slept.
It required a few minutes, then. First, he went over to the toilet, and experienced his very first urination. Then he stepped to the sink, picked up the brush that lay there, enticingly, and combed his hair. Next, he washed his face and hands, and used a guest towel that hung on a rack. (The previous night there had only been Lyttle’s bath towel for both of them.)