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diff --git a/59575-0.txt b/59575-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..587fdd8 --- /dev/null +++ b/59575-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,833 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59575 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + Dearest Enemy + + BY FOX HOLDEN + + _Well trained actors are taught + the old tradition that the + show must go on. But what's + the point of it all when your + audience is very, very dead?_ + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from + Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1956. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +From somewhere there was a buzzing sound. It kept repeating. The gentle +throb of it vibrated his eardrums; the vibrations registered somewhere +at the bottom edges of his brain. Buzzzz. Insistently, like a wasp. +Like a trapped wasp.... But there were no wasps in the streamlined +metal shell of Vanguard-I. + +_Better answer_, another part of his brain whispered. _Better +answer ... they want to tell you what to do...._ + +_God!_ + +Some sweat oozed from the dark bunches of his eyebrows, fogged the +binocular eye-piece of the orbit-synchronized refractor, but he kept +watching, he could not stop watching. _Buzzz! Buzzzz!_ + +Red gouts of flame, as big as a pin-head, as big as a shirt-button, +as big as--damn the fogging--up! No, no it was the mushrooms, not +the fogging; you could count them, like puffs of gunsmoke along a +firing-line stippling the Atlantic seaboard, now branching, riddling +westward--others drifting eastward from the Pacific as though groping +toward a pre-planned rendezvous. + +_Buzzzz! Buzzzz!_ + +He would answer. There would be the sound of another man's voice and +that would make it all real. If he silenced the buzzer and listened +to the voice it would be real and not a final training-film; the +films would be over, the lectures over, the flight-tests over, the +eliminations over and he and Streeter chosen and Streeter dead and +buried at Space and now he was alone up in Vanguard-I.... + +Vanguard-I was "up" and Earth was "down" and both were real. Beyond +the buzzing, both would be real. + +The strong young voice was an old voice as it answered the buzzing, as +it gave sound to words for the UHF's panel-mike. + +"Home Plate, Home Plate, this is Mrs. Grundy, over..." + +"Mrs. Grundy this is Home Plate. Are you reading? Are you ready for a +circus or is all your money gone? Over..." + +"Ready for a circus. Regret delay in acknowledging. I--was in +Observation, over." + +"Mrs. Grundy, your Daddy-o wants to talk to you so bye bye baby...." + +General Knight himself. Knight himself to talk to him ... so it was +that bad. + +_Of course it was that bad!_ + +"Mrs. Grundy can you read, over...." Knight's voice. It sounded calm. +It sounded unruffled. You had to know Knight, you had to have heard him +often to know that it was not calm, that it was not at all unruffled.... + +"Even the small print Daddy-o, over...." + +"No words twice so baby make marks--" Thorn's hand flashed to +the card-punch and magnetic-tape unit switches, flicked them to +ON-RECORD. "--been surprised, but not taken completely off balance; +retaliation now in progress as you have probably already observed or +will observe in course of orbital passage. Plan Able Zebra effective +immediately...." The words were coming so fast they were slurred, and +Knight was exaggerating his own Alabama accent. "Expect report once +each turn...." + +He would not have needed the recording or even words twice. Each of +Knight's directions was graven into him as it was spoken. + +To cease all scientific observation and recording at once; to begin +military observation of the Enemy and his puppet-states, and all +possibly-discernible activities, immediately. To remember that as +the coast of California appeared on his horizon he was to begin +transmitting in code, and that he would finish transmitting before the +Atlantic coast disappeared over the horizon behind him. To remember +that his stores of fuel were for orbit-correction only, to be used for +effecting an Earthside landing only upon explicit and properly-coded +order, or upon threat of otherwise unavoidable destruction. To +calculate present stores of food concentrate and air to the hour if +possible, not forgetting that with Streeter gone the time-lapse between +rendezvous with the supply rocket should be at least doubled. To +remember a thousand things; things he already knew by rote ... but the +tape and card-punch units clicked softly away, recording, recording.... + +"... and Mrs. Grundy here's a morsel for you--you may have a new +neighbor in your block but not like you at all--there's probably a +world between you--don't take any wooden nickels baby. Say good-bye to +Daddy-o baby, over...." + +"Home Plate this is Mrs. Grundy sees all and heard everything, out." + +The whole transmission had taken less than two minutes. Now the UHF +was off and there was one break, anyway. If, somehow, the Enemy +had succeeded in getting up a satellite of his own, he had at +least--according to Knight--sacrificed the ability to directly monitor +Thorn's radio for invisibility. Vanguard-I was aloft for geophysical +purposes only, according to the propaganda-pitch back home. But as far +as Big Red knew, it was loaded to the locks with as much armament as a +thing of its comparatively tiny size could carry. + +And as far as Thorn himself knew, nobody making geophysical +observations had ever needed to do it through the tubes of +missile-launchers like the ones that were cuddled snugly in +Vanguard-I's blunt forehull.... + +Such little thoughts whipped quickly through his mind as he tried to +make it regain balance for the immediate tasks besetting him, because +they were little and simple and easy to grasp and discard. They could +keep him from going crazy. It was the bigger thoughts--the bigger ones +that might come later--they were the kind he had to keep out of his +head. + +Major Joshua Thorn began his work with the equipment, to modify it for +use as Daddy-o had told him. + +He could do it automatically, do it in his sleep, do it blind. Couldn't +watch and do it, though. Watch later. Think of the little things now +that were easy while the equipment got automatically modified. Little +things to keep the big ones like what was happening down there from +tipping him over into the whirlpool of madness that was trying so hard +to pull at him. + +Little things.... + + * * * * * + +"Please be seated, Major Thorn." + +"Yes sir." + +"This will be your Final Security interrogation. To be followed, upon +its favorable completion, by Final Briefing. Before we begin, do you +have any questions, Major?" + +The thick lenses of the glasses reflected the interrogation cubicle's +harsh lighting and would not let him see accurately into the pale eyes +that blinked behind them. But it was almost as though he and Brigadier +Robert McQuine, USAF, Intelligence, were old friends. And the sweating +faces of the three G-2 psychiatrists that gleamed at McQuine's left +on the opposite end of the big oval-shaped conference-table--they +were more than familiar. They had never thought he, Thorn, was really +sane. What really sane man who had flown twice too many missions in +one war would volunteer to fly in the next that followed? What sane +man would go begging for military flight-test assignments in weird +ships that had never been flown anywhere but in a wind-tunnel and on +computer-tapes. And what sane man--God help him--what man in his senses +would ask to be fired a thousand miles off the Earth with only the +knowledge that a thing the size of a basketball had circled the planet +successfully for almost a year before it fell back and burned up? + +Had the Major ever had thoughts of--well, of doing away with himself? +Had the Major hated his father when he was young? Been afraid of girls? +(Oh, is that a fact, Major? Well! Well, now....) + +Only the faces of the three Senate Committee members were different. +But they usually were. + +"Yes sir, one question. It was my understanding--and Captain +Streeter's, I'm sure--that Final Security and Briefing had been +scheduled for about nine weeks from now. There has been no acceleration +in the final phases of our program, so--" + +"I, ah--" McQuine interrupted smoothly, "think that question might best +be answered by your Final Briefing officers, Major. Now, any other +questions?" + +"No sir." So that was it, all right. The rumors, as usual, had a germ +of truth in them. All rumors did. And these had been more persistent +than most. _Cold war not so cold anymore. General Adams transferring. +That last note from Big Red--didn't all get to the papers! Cold war not +so cold anymore...._ + +"Now, Major, when you were a sophomore in high-school--the book +entitled _A World United_ not on your required English or Political +Science reading lists, was it?" + +"No sir, not as I recall, but--" + +"Then why did you read it? You have admitted before that you _did_ read +it--" + +Pause. All up to him. Every single word, every single inflection, up to +him.... + +"I took quite an interest in my studies, both in high-school and in +college, sir, as I believe my records will show you. They'll show that +I also read books relating to other courses that weren't a regular part +of the curriculum...." + +Nodding. But looking him squarely in the face, hesitating just the +right length of time. Then suddenly "Major Thorn do you swear here and +now in the presence of witnesses that your allegiance to your country +comes first above all with the sole possible exception of Almighty God?" + +"I do so swear...." + +And on and on.... + +"... why did you major in the Fine Arts in high-school, switch to +Engineering in college, then switch again to take your degrees in +World History and Political Science ... were you ever heard to say, or +reported to have said, or did you in fact say.... Major, I have here +the records of...." + +The Senators had their questions. The psychiatrists had theirs. + +"... hesitation, Major, in firing upon an Enemy aircraft, even though +disabled ... guilt-feeling at destroying a city containing almost one +million people.... Major you told us that ... training for five years, +now, and you realize...." + +More and more and more, but it was not so difficult to keep his nerves +straightened out as it had been the first time or the next time after +that. He had told the absolute truth as far as he could possibly know +it. So it was just a matter of giving the same answers he had always +given. Let 'em make what they could of the truth.... + +"Yes, Senator, I readily admit having written my senior essay on the +basis of the book _A World United_. Yes sir, I studied philosophy and +some foreign languages in college.... No sir--no sir, nothing like +that. No. Never...." + +And then hardly an hour after it was all over, less than an hour +to relax for Streeter and himself, cooped up in a single room with +cigarettes and magazines and nothing else and nobody else to talk to, +hardly an hour, and then Final Briefing was underway. + +General Groton: Typical Orders of Procedure. + +General Simms: Technical Details. + +General Orton: Estimate of the Present Situation. _Rumors, hell...._ + +And then the Secretary of Defense himself. + +"Major Thorn, Captain Streeter.... There is probably little I can add +to all that has been so thoroughly ingrained in you in your five years +of training for this experiment, or learned by both of you, the hard +way, in war. But there are certain points I feel I ought to emphasize +personally ... even though I know you've heard them many, many times +before. + +"First, this is your country. In the adventure--in the duty, that you +are about to undertake, there must be no mistake that your nation comes +above _all_ other considerations! Now, I don't question your devotion, +I merely re-impress...." + +Pause. The man was good, all right. + +"Second, despite what you may have heard from--from any of various +sources in recent months, our cold-war Enemy is hard-pressed; he is +desperate, and he is likewise determined. Determined as even you may +not guess. Our Intelligence has learned that he has trained women to +bear arms as well as children for his armies. He has trained them to +march, to bivouac, to fly intercontinental bombers, to fly rocket +interceptors, to go to the attack with men--and on an equal basis, and +in almost equal numbers. A point to remember, even from where you shall +soon sit! Don't forget it. + +"Last, if--and we all pray that it won't happen in this or any other +generation--but, _if_ war should come--if some unsuspecting midnight it +should suddenly erupt (and such eruption would be on both our shores, +smashing all of our greatest cities even as we retaliated) if this +happens, gentlemen, you must not forget one thing. You must not forget +for an instant that in such a war, _all_ the Enemy must die. + +"If I sound melodramatic forgive me, and bear with me. You both +realize, I'm certain, that any Next War would be a war to the death. +After which--" the skillfully-modulated voice lowered, softened, +paused, softened again.... "After which, there will be only one of us +left. _Because there will be no time for armistice, for truce...._ It +will be Our Side, or Theirs. Gentlemen, it _must be Ours! So if there +is war, I repeat_, all _the Enemy must die!_ + +"That's all I have, except to say good luck and God-speed." + +Very firm hand-shake for each of them, and Final Briefing was over. + + * * * * * + +Even yet Joshua Thorn could remember that first emotion shared by +himself and Streeter after the effects of the four-G blast-off had worn +away, after the tension of establishing orbit was eased, the first +report made to Home Plate, and they were at last granted a moment's +rest, a moment's respite to look back, to realize.... + +Done it. Done it.... They had _done_ it! + +They could almost see themselves, the National Emblem emblazoned +brilliantly on their chalk-white metal skin, riding in dignified, +silent triumph over all of the Earth. Now let anybody--anybody, anybody +anywhere (for weren't they above all of anywhere?) shake a fist, rattle +a sabre! + +First Men in Space. Like God, somehow.... + +They thudded each other on the back, they yelled things they could +not remember, they let the tears flood down their cheeks without +noticing, and they laughed; they laughed long and loudly with words +and wordlessly, and then they watched again, watched mighty Earth below +them turning by some power that was not theirs to see on an invisible +spit over Infinity. + +It was at the end of the fourth month that Streeter died. + +"Josh? Josh what's our trouble?" Young, earnest. Wiry and pink-cheeked +and an eternal glint of excitement in his light blue eyes. + +Thorn kept studying the instruments as he answered, slowly, and without +alarm in his voice. It wasn't much, but the bunching of his thick +eyebrows had given him away. It always did. + +"Port reflector's all, I guess, Johnny. Been watching it; a hair off, +so we're down just enough BTU's to make a dent in power supply. Must +have come out a little cockeyed when we popped it. Want to watch the +panel a few minutes while I--" + +"Second-guessed you, Skipper--" Johnny Streeter was already halfway +into a pressure-suit. "Just zip me up the back and check my +petticoat...." + +Josh Thorn grinned, closed Johnny's suit, secured his soap-bubble +helmet. They'd both been Out before so it wasn't as if this was the +first time. It was just that this was the first time it _had_ to be +done. + +"Suit-check, Johnny...." + +"I read you--" crackled the bulkhead audio. + +"Air?" + +"Fourteen point seven psi, oxygen 26 per cent, nitrogen...." + +They finished the check; all the complex machinery of Baggy-Drawers was +functioning perfectly. Then Instrument Check--Methodically, Johnny's +gauntleted mitts touched each magnetic hook on the wide girdle, named +each implement suspended from it, replaced it. + +"Can I go out and play now?" + +"Be a good boy, Johnny." + +The lock hissed, cycled down, and then Thorn was hearing the metallic +noises of Johnny's feet striding ponderously like some story-book +Colossus along the "upper" hull, sternward, and then to port. + +"Be a cinch, Josh," the audio crackled. "If they're all this easy I'll +feel like a draft-dodger! Maybe if I swab the deck while I'm ou--" A +sound that wasn't Johnny but it was. + +"Johnny? Johnny, do you read me?" Josh Thorn could feel sweat dripping +on his stomach. "Johnny--" + +He left the mike, made his way aft in clumsy haste, the simulated +gravity confusing long-conditioned reflexes. And he listened beneath +the hull section over which Johnny would be. Listened for a thump, a +scrape of metal on metal, a vibration of life.... + +Nothing. + +His own Baggy-Drawers seemed built for a midget with one leg as he +struggled into it. Cursory check--enough, she worked, she'd have to.... + +Out. Aft. Port. Johnny.... + +Johnny Streeter was still standing, but it was an odd kind of stance; +the stance of a marionette on slack strings. Motionless. Standing by +the reflector mast, some of his magnetized instruments clinging to it. + +And then he saw Johnny Streeter's helmet, and saw that it was no longer +transparent. Josh tasted vomit on his lips. + +A chance in how many million, how many billion? What was it the +statisticians had said? About the same chance as a fatal auto accident, +having a meteor hit you.... + + * * * * * + +Equipment converted, recalibrated for Earthside observation. Equipment +checked. Emergency reflectors out (power drain still damned heavy) and +radar full out; close-down scanners on, recording equipment humming, +ready.... Coast coming up in--oh-nine minutes, three-seven seconds. +Tapes ready at play-back, UHF set. + +Now wait. + +You can watch while you wait.... + +His eyes hurt, their sockets hurt as he pressed them too hard into the +binocular eye-piece. + +Damn the fogging! Damn the blue fogging--_blue_? + +_No!_ + +It filled the object-lens; it swirled, it calmed, it coalesced, it +thinned, and there was a second's sight through it, and then Josh Thorn +was swinging the refractor in near-abandon on its panhead ... there! +Clear! Clear, you could see--at the edges! Coming in again, drifting, +drifting slowly, drifting ... blind. + +His fingertips slipped, grabbed again, swung the telescope too +violently, steadied. + +Blue fog, moving slowly, deliberately, and yet so fast, so +unbelievably fast, why, they said if it ever happened it would take +weeks, months, maybe years, but they could've been wrong, so many +things they couldn't have known.... + +Blue. + +Cobalt blue. + +With some force of sheer power of reason, Joshua Thorn forced himself +from the refractor; forced himself past the blue-faced scanners +(maybe it was only an Enemy trick; an Enemy screen, the biggest blue +smoke-screen ever made!) to the UHF. Maybe. Sure. He was overdue. +Minutes overdue; they were waiting for him down there, waiting for his +call, wondering if perhaps the screen had really fooled him, or if it +were really effective in blocking his sight, or if.... + +They were right down there, right underneath him, waiting under the +blue smoke-screen. + +"Home Plate Home Plate this is Mrs. Grundy over...." + +Crackling. + +"Home Plate Home Plate this is Mrs. Grundy. Home Plate Home Plate +what's the matter can't you read? Home Plate Home Plate this is Mrs. +Grundy, over.... _Over!_" + +Crackling. + +The meters.... All right--on the nose, right. What were they, asleep +down there? Maybe the smoke-screen reflected even UHF. He could try a +bounce and see. Narrow beam. Tight. Watch the screen.... + +Pip. Pip. Pip. + +Getting through. Lousy smoke, just couldn't see through it.... + +"Home Plate Home Plate Home Plate--" + +He had been around fifty times; he had counted. It had taken one +hundred hours; he had counted. He had transmitted steadily since the +twentieth time, in the few languages he knew beside his own, for sixty +hours; he had counted. + +He had only a whisper for a voice now, and only aching places where his +ears were. + +But it didn't matter. It didn't matter. + +"Home Plate, this Mrs. Grundy-- + +"Can anyone read me? Does anyone read me down there? + +"_Kann jedermann mich hören? Antworten-Sie, bitte...._ + +"_Repondez, repondez si vous m'entendrez...._ + +"_Damn you can't you hear me_ CAN'T YOU HEAR ME?" + + * * * * * + +He'd tried to keep track of the time. + +He thought it had been a month; maybe more, but a month anyway. + +And now the blue was solid over Earth, over all of it. There were +still little swirls, little eddies of it here and there, but most +of it--already, most of it had settled like a fixed shell, like the +quiescent surface of a stagnant pool. + +And somehow he'd accepted it. + +They were all dead down there. + +Cobalt blue had killed them all, killed them all.... + +Funny. It had a rhythm to it. Cobalt blue had killed them all, killed +them all, Cobalt bombs had killed them all-- + +_STOP IT!_ + +But if they were all dead.... + +And if he were not dead.... + +Then he was the last human being left alive. + +That was crazy. + +Nobody could be--nobody could be the last-- + +But there was nobody. + +Except him. So, it followed: therefore--ergo: logically, if there was +nobody, and if.... + +God, it was dark. + +God, it was quiet. + +And if.... + +If you laugh you'll go crazy. + +If you don't laugh, if you don't laugh, if you--hell, only one dose +of barbiturate left in the First Aid stores ... big thing, hard to +swallow ... and if there's nobody left, then.... + +Sleep. + + * * * * * + +He hadn't touched the UHF in three months, but he'd left it on +regardless of the power drain just in case. + +He had divided the hours off into sleeping and eating periods, and he +had just slept, and just eaten, and he'd shaved, and put on a fresh +uniform. He had knotted the tie perfectly; his collar insignia were +shined and pinned in place without a single wrinkle. + +He had it figured out. + +He could die of oxygen, if not food, starvation in five more months, +three and one-half more days. And that would be the end of it. + +The hell it would! Who the hell did they think they were to do this to +him.... + +But he had his computers. He had his reference-tapes. He had his +refractor and his scanners, and his star-charts, and his store of fuel +for orbital correction (ninety percent of which remained, because it +had been an almost perfect shot) and he had his brains. + +If you threw a stone off the rear of a moving train at a speed _less_ +than the train's speed forward, the stone would of course leave the +train, but in relation to the ground would still be travelling in the +train's direction. + +If you threw a satellite away from its path around Earth and directly +into Earth's wake, but at a speed less than Earth's forward speed +in its orbit, the satellite would break free, but would continue in +Earth's orbital direction. And then with a brief side-blast, you could +warp into an orbit around the Sun all your own, or--into that of the +planet Venus, if you chose.... + +And beneath that eternal shell of cloud--who knew? + +He had his computers. He had his reference-tapes. He had his refractor +and his scanners, and his star-charts and his precious store of fuel. +(Three-score years and ten, the Good Book said. Better than five +months. Better than sitting and waiting. So he would fail--no worse +than what was Below.) And he had his brains. + + * * * * * + +He worked methodically. He drew schedules: four hours of work, one for +eating and relaxation; five hours more of work, and another for food +and rest; six hours more of work, then seven for sleep, and then the +cycle began again. By making a rhythm of it, he thought, rather than a +program of perfectly equal work-periods, he would avoid monotony. With +monotony would come despair, and with despair.... Despair of course +would kill him. + +And there was the thing in him that would not be killed; a thing that +had been rooted as deep within his kind as Life itself, since the first +Man had shambled erect on the face of the still-steaming Earth. He +would survive. + +As Joshua Thorn, and as Man. He would not let Man die yet. Not out +here. Not in the cold dark, alone. Somehow, Thorn thought, Man had +earned a better way, a better place to die.... + +But of course it was silly to think that Man should ever die, that he +_could_ ever die.... + +Ridiculous. + +Baloney. Oh, you could kill a lot of people, certainly. Sure. But the +whole race of Man--nuts to the philosophers! The only thing they knew +how to do was think! + +He worked methodically, ascertaining first that at the present point in +her orbital swing, Venus, approaching as she was from aphelion, would +be in close enough proximity as she passed by to be met within the time +limit set by his remaining store of food and oxygen. And he ascertained +secondly that he had sufficient "emergency" fuel (and this, he assumed, +might be classified as an emergency of sorts?) to blast him out of +orbit and into Earth's wake with barely sufficient speed to assure +him of not falling back. If the computers weren't lying, there'd even +be enough after that to warp him into the gradual, drifting arc that +would intercept Venus in her path around the Sun, and then--perhaps +enough to effect landing. Barely, if at all. His taut mouth twitched in +a humorless little smile. What an irony to actually succeed--to make +it all the way, across the millions of miles of Space, first human in +history to accomplish it--and then, maybe one or two hundred feet above +surface, to have the final drop of fuel run out.... + +So ... what was there to lose but the race of Man.... And that anyway, +eventually. Thirty-five more years (if he were lucky; he smiled again) +appended to--how many? Half a million? + +But half a million years was only a nervous twitch on the skin of Time. +A spark in an eternal, all-consuming fire; a spark that died even as it +flared its little second and then crumbled into ashes. + + * * * * * + +He smiled a grim little smile, and made a note of the date; it was 1800 +hours, October 21. He did not even glance at the pale-blue thing that +rolled and shimmered grotesquely a scant thousand miles on his left. Be +damned to you! But you are damned already. So good-bye. + +His fingers finished the business of tightening the heavy buckle of his +seat-belt, and then they punched the red firing-studs, and Vanguard-I +broke her bondage. + +The ferroelectric brains of the computers considered silently; acted. + +The organic brain of the man hazed red, hazed darkly, and trusted, +for it was powerless to do more save fight a primal struggle for +consciousness. It could not regard the situation. It could not think: I +am the first human being to fly Space. It could not think, of all the +things that all the humans in all of history have ever done, I alone +have done this. + +Roll the drums for Agamemnon, Roll the drums for Hercules! + +Roll the drums for Caesar, Alexander, for Amenhotep, Rameses ... drum +the drums for Khan, for Suleiman, for Plato, Aristides--drum your +drums for York and Tudor, Bacon, Michelangelo.... For Austerlitz. For +Yorktown. Chickamauga, Ypres, and Anzio.... + +Roll the drums. Roll the drums for me.... + + * * * * * + +Motors off. + +Click-hum, computers.... + +Silently. + +Wheel your eternal wheeling, stars. + +Darkly. + +Cold. + + * * * * * + +The screens showed white, thick white, and the fuel-pumps disgorged +the remainder of Vanguard I's life-blood into the roaring combustion +chambers. The muted complaining of heavy atmosphere keened up the scale +to a banshee's lament and sweat poured from Josh Thorn's half-nude body +as his tiny metal cell grew stifling. + +Power--how much power to keep from becoming a vagrant meteorite in +Venus' milky skies? From flaring, white-hot, and falling ... a cinder +from nowhere, with nowhere to go, the last of Earth's ashes.... + +One hundred miles. + +Fifty. Thirty. Twelve.... + +Cooler, now. He shivered in 105 degrees Fahrenheit, shivered in 99, in +87.... His sweat was cold. + +Ten thousand feet! Slowing, slowing, a century of time to drop to nine +thousand, ease off the power, eight thousand, steady; fuel, barely, six +thousand, steady.... Steady. + +Watch your screens! Green. Brown, yellow, blue-veined green; +low-rolling magenta mountains westward, cloud-shadows rippling, +mingling with tenuous wisps of steam ... steam from the jungles of tall +forest.... + +One thousand feet. No sign of mobile life on this planet, in this +valley into which Vanguard-I lowered. But all sign--all sign, indeed, +of the rich lushness that would support it, embrace it, hold it close +like a long-denied lover.... + +Thorn sweated again--hot sweat, now--at his scanners, his control +panel. Temperature again hovering past 100, but there was no time to +notice or to feel. One hundred feet ... gently.... + +And then Vanguard-I was down, and at rest. + +Josh Thorn hesitated. Baggy-Drawers? Or not? Beneath the white, tenuous +outer atmospheric shell of methane and ammonia, what? Air he could +breathe? Or poison that would strangle him-- + +He swung the inner air-lock open. + +If poison, then death would be but a matter of days; the bubble of +Made-in-U.S.A. atmosphere that he'd brought thirty million miles +across Space had supplied him for the nearly four months the Journey +had taken. It had done its job, he could demand no more than that. Two +weeks more, at best, and it would be spent forever. + +Two weeks, thirty-five years, five thousand centuries-- + +He swung the outer air-lock open. + +And breathed. And breathed. And breathed deeply again. + +Joshua Thorn wanted to cry. There was a hurt in his throat, and he +wanted to yell, and he wanted to laugh great peals of laughter even as +the unchecked salt tears streamed across the deep valleys of his cheeks. + +He walked, he ran. He stopped, he turned his face to the sky, he spread +his arms wide and let the great bellows of laughter roll from his lips +in the lusty prayer of thanks that only the living who are full with +life and amid the teeming fullness of life can know. + +Thank you, God. Thank you God. Thank you.... + +(For this little while more, for this little while more for the race of +Man; I am the last of Man, You know--) + +He prayed thank you, but he did not pray for more, because this +was already more than he deserved; the Almighty had been merciful, +compassionate and merciful, and he could not ask for more, in no way +dared ask-- + +The thunder seemed straight above him. + +The sound of his own laughter had drowned it out at first, and then +the two had mingled, and then as he stood gasping for new breath, as +his hoarse voice rested, he heard it--welling as if from a great heavy +throat, and now rising to a baleful cry, then falling--falling gently, +and now a new thunder to drown it, a mightier thunder than the first. + +Joshua Thorn stood transfixed as he watched the gleaming bullet-shape +descend its pillar of fire. It could have been twin to Vanguard-I. It +was descending--it was--_maneuvering_ to be near him! + +From somewhere far back in his brain the words formed again, _and Mrs. +Grundy here's dirt for you--you may have a new neighbor in your block +but not like you at all--probably a world between you--don't take any +wooden nickels...._ + +But Daddy-o could never know, would never comprehend-- + +He was running, stumbling, falling, running again toward the spot where +the red-starred satellite of the Enemy (Enemy, what a madman's word +now!) would land. + +Running like a child, running like an idiot, arms waving, mouth +laughing, throat shouting-- + +Thank you, oh _Thank_ you God.... + +He was within twenty yards of the craft when its outer lock opened. +Fifteen when the uniformed figure who stepped out caught sight and +sound of him, ten when the rifle was aimed at him, five before he could +comprehend the mindless meaning of it-- + +_But we are the only two human beings left!_ his brain whimpered.... + +_All of the Enemy must die!_ a remembering part of his mind intoned.... +But someone had trained the Enemy, too. + +The scarlet insigne emblazoned on the streamlined metal shell seemed on +fire in the filtered Venusian sunlight. + +Thorn's plunging hands grabbed the muzzle of the weapon even as it +fired, wrenched it aside without feeling the hurt where his left +earlobe had been. + +"Great God, you _imbecile_--" + +Twisting the weapon, struggling, trigger-finger constricting to fire +again, a final, sudden twist, the finger wrenched against the trigger +even as the butt was swinging upward, the muzzle swinging down.... + +The muffled explosion. + +The gaping, oozing hole in the Enemy's breast. + +Joshua Thorn looked down at the crumpled figure, watched as the +slow-moving shadow of a cloud eddied across it. + +He tried to sob, for he could not pray again. + +He turned. Back toward Vanguard-I. If only he could cry. + +Behind him, the Enemy lay dead. All, now, all of the Enemy ... was dead. + +Her body would soon be turning cold. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dearest Enemy, by Fox Holden + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59575 *** |