The hub planet of the Betelgeuse System was called Plantagenet III. It was a thriving junction for passenger carriers transporting settlers to undeveloped colony planets. As soon as Tirol's ship landed he hurried across the field to the taxi stand.
"Take me to Tirol Enterprises," he instructed, praying there was an outlet here. There had to be, but it might be operating under a front name. Years ago he lost track of the particulars of his sprawling empire.
"Tirol Enterprises," the cab driver repeated thoughtfully. "Nope, no such outfit, mister."
Stunned, Tirol said: "Who does the slaving around here?"
The driver eyed him. He was a wizened, dried-up little man with glasses; he peered turtle-wise, without compassion. "Well," he said, "I've been told you can get carried out-system without papers. There's a shipping contractor... called--" He reflected. Tirol, trembling, handed him a last bill.
"The Reliable Export-Import," the driver said.
That was one of Lantano's fronts. In horror Tirol said: "And that's it?"
The driver nodded.
Dazed, Tirol moved away from the cab. The buildings of the field danced around him; he settled down on a bench to catch his breath. Under his coat his heart pounded unevenly. He tried to breathe, but his breath caught painfully in his throat. The bruise on his head where Ellen Ackers had hit him began to throb. It was true, and he was gradually beginning to understand and believe it. He was not going to get to Earth; he was going to spend the rest of his life here on this rural world, cut off from his organization and everything he had built up over the years.
And, he realized, as he sat struggling to breathe, the rest of his life was not going to be very long.
He thought about Heimie Rosenburg.
"Betrayed," he said, and coughed wrackingly. "You betrayed me. You hear that? Because of you I'm here. It's your fault; I never should have hired you."
He thought about Ellen Ackers. "You too," he gasped, coughing. Sitting on the bench he alternately coughed and gasped and thought about the people who had betrayed him. There were hundreds of them.
The living room of David Lantano's house was furnished in exquisite taste. Priceless late nineteenth century Blue Willow dishes lined the walls in a rack of wrought iron. At his antique yellow plastic and chrome table, David Lantano was eating dinner, and the spread of food amazed Beam even more than the house.
Lantano was in good humor and he ate with enthusiasm. His linen napkin was tucked under his chin and once, as he sipped coffee, he dribbled and belched. His brief period of confinement was over; he ate to make up for the ordeal.
He had been informed, first by his own apparatus and now by Beam, that banishment had successfully carried Tirol past the point of return. Tirol would not be coming back and for that Lantano was thankful. He felt expansive toward Beam; he wished Beam would have something to eat.
Moodily, Beam said: "It's nice here."
"You could have something like this," Lantano said.
On the wall hung a framed folio of ancient paper protected by helium-filled glass. It was the first printing of a poem of Ogden Nash, a collector's item that should have been in a museum. It aroused in Beam a mixed feeling of longing and aversion.
"Yes," Beam said. "I could have this." This, he thought, or Ellen Ackers or the job at Interior or perhaps all three at once. Edward Ackers had been retired on pension and he had given his wife a divorce. Lantano was out of jeopardy. Tirol had been banished. He wondered what he did want.
"You could go a long way," Lantano said sleepily.
"As far as Paul Tirol?"
Lantano chuckled and yawned.
"I wonder if he left any family," Beam said. "Any children." He was thinking about Heimie.
Lantano reached across the table toward the bowl of fruit. He selected a peach and carefully brushed it against the sleeve of his robe. "Try a peach," he said.
"No thanks," Beam said irritably.
Lantano examined the peach but he did not eat it. The peach was made of wax; the fruit in the bowl was imitation. He was not really as rich as he pretended, and many of the artifacts about the living room were fakes. Each time he offered fruit to a visitor he took a calculated risk. Returning the peach to the bowl he leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee.
If Beam did not have plans, at least he had, and with Tirol gone the plans had a better than even chance of working out. He felt peaceful. Someday, he thought, and not too far off, the fruit in the bowl would be real.
Explorers We
"Golly," Parkhurst gasped, his red face tingling with excitement. "Come here, you guys. Look!"
They crowded around the viewscreen.
"There she is," Barton said. His heart beat strangely. "She sure looks good."
"Damn right she looks good," Leon agreed. He trembled. "Say--I can make out New York."
"The hell you can."
"I can! The gray. By the water."
"That's not even the United States. We're looking at it upside down. That's Siam."
The ship hurtled through space, meteoroid shields shrieking. Below it, the blue-green globe swelled. Clouds drifted around it, hiding the continents and oceans.
"I never expected to see her again," Merriweather said. "I thought sure as hell we were stuck up there." His face twisted. "Mars. That damned red waste. Sun and flies and ruins."
"Barton knows how to repair jets," Captain Stone said. "You can thank him."
"You know what I'm going to do, first thing I'm back?" Parkhurst yelled.
"What?"
"Go to Coney Island."
"Why?"
"People. I want to see people again. Lots of them. Dumb, sweaty, noisy. Ice cream and water. The ocean. Beer bottles, milk cartons, paper napkins--"
"And gals," Vecchi said, eyes shining. "Long time, six months. I'll go with you. We'll sit on the beach and watch the gals."
"I wonder what kind of bathing suits they got now," Barton said.
"Maybe they don't wear any!" Parkhurst cried.
"Hey!" Merriweather shouted. "I'm going to see my wife again." He was suddenly dazed. His voice sank to a whisper. "My wife."
"I got a wife, too," Stone said. He grinned. "But I been married a long time." Then he thought of Pat and Jean. A stabbing ache choked his windpipe. "I bet they have grown."
"Grown?"
"My kids," Stone said huskily.
They looked at each other, six men, ragged, bearded, eyes bright and feverish.
"How long?" Vecchi whispered.
"An hour," Stone said. "We'll be down in an hour."
The ship struck with a crash that threw them on their faces. It leaped and bucked, brake jets screaming, tearing through rocks and soil. It came to rest, nose buried in a hillside.
Silence.
Parkhurst got unsteadily to his feet. He caught hold of the safety rail. Blood dripped down his face from a cut over his eye.
"We're down," he said.
Barton stirred. He groaned, forced himself up on his knees. Parkhurst helped him. "Thanks. Are we ..."
"We're down. We're back."
The jets were off. The roaring had ceased... there was only the faint trickle of wall fluids leaking out on the ground.
The ship was a mess. The hull was cracked in three places. It billowed in, bent and twisted. Papers and ruined instruments were strewn everywhere.
Vecchi and Stone got slowly up. "Everything all right?" Stone muttered, feeling his arm.
"Give me a hand," Leon said. "My damn ankle's twisted or something."
They got him up. Merriweather was unconscious. They revived him and got him to his feet.
"We're down," Parkhurst repeated, as if he couldn't believe it. "This is Earth. We're back--alive!"
"I hope the specimens are all right," Leon said.
"The hell with the specimens!" Vecchi shouted excitedly. He worked the port bolts frantically, unscrewing the heavy hatch lock. "Let's get out and walk around."
"Where are we?" Bart
on asked Captain Stone.
"South of San Francisco. On the peninsula."
"San Francisco! Hey--we can ride the cable cars!" Parkhurst helped Vecchi unscrew the hatch. "San Francisco. I was through Frisco once. They got a big park. Golden Gate Park. We can go to the funhouse."
The hatch opened, swinging wide. Talk ceased abruptly. The men peered out, blinking in the white-hot sunlight.
A green field stretched down and away from them. Hills rose in the distance, sharp in the crystal air. Along a highway below, a few cars moved, tiny dots, the sun glinting on them. Telephone poles.
"What's that sound?" Stone said, listening intently.
"A train."
It was coming along the distant track, black smoke pouring from its stack. A faint wind moved across the field, stirring the grass. Over to the right lay a town. Houses and trees. A theater marquee. A Standard gas station. Roadside stands. A motel.
"Think anybody saw us?" Leon asked. "Must have."
"Sure heard us," Parkhurst said. "We made a noise like God's indigestion when we hit."
Vecchi stepped out onto the field. He swayed wildly, arms outstretched. "I'm falling!"
Stone laughed. "You'll get used to it. We've been in space too long. Come on." He leaped down. "Let's start walking."
"Toward the town." Parkhurst fell in beside him. "Maybe they'll give us free eats ... Hell--champagne!" His chest swelled under his tattered uniform. "Returning heroes. Keys to the town. A parade. Military band. Floats with dames."
"Dames," Leon grunted. "You're obsessed."
"Sure." Parkhurst strode across the field, the others trailing after him. "Hurry up!"
"Look," Stone said to Leon. "Somebody over there. Watching us." "Kids," Barton said. "A bunch of kids." He laughed excitedly. "Let's go say hello."
They headed toward the kids, wading through the moist grass on the rich earth.
"Must be spring," Leon said. "The air smells like spring." He took a deep breath. "And the grass."
Stone computed. "It's April ninth."
They hurried. The kids stood watching them, silent and unmoving.
"Hey!" Parkhurst shouted. "We're back!"
"What town is this?" Barton shouted.
The kids stared at them, eyes wide.
"What's wrong?" Leon muttered.
"Our beards. We look pretty bad." Stone cupped his hands. "Don't be scared! We're back from Mars. The rocket flight. Two years ago--remember? A year ago last October."
The kids stared, white-faced. Suddenly they turned and fled. They ran frantically toward the town.
The six men watched them go.
"What the hell," Parkhurst muttered, dazed. "What's the matter?"
"Our beards," Stone repeated uneasily.
"Something's wrong," Barton said, shakily. He began to tremble. "There's something terribly wrong."
"Can it!" Leon snapped. "It's our beards." He ripped a piece of his shirt savagely away. "We're dirty. Filthy tramps. Come on." He started after the children, toward the town. "Let's go. They probably got a special car on the way here. We'll meet them."
Stone and Barton glanced at each other. They followed Leon slowly. The others fell in behind.
Silent, uneasy, the six bearded men made their way across the field toward the town.
A youth on a bicycle fled at their approach. Some railroad workers, repairing the train track, threw down their shovels and ran, yelling.
Numbly, the six men watched them go.
"What is it?" Parkhurst muttered.
They crossed the track. The town lay on the other side. They entered a huge grove of eucalyptus trees.
"Burlingame," Leon said, reading a sign. They looked down a street. Hotels and cafes. Parked cars. Gas stations. Dime stores. A small suburban town, shoppers on the sidewalks. Cars moving slowly.
They emerged from the trees. Across the street a filling station attendant looked up--
And froze.
After a moment, he dropped the hose he held and ran down the main street, shouting shrill warnings.
Cars stopped. Drivers leaped out and ran. Men and women poured out of stores, scattering wildly. They surged away, retreating in frantic haste.
In a moment the street was deserted.
"Good God." Stone advanced, bewildered. "What--" He crossed onto the street. No one was in sight.
The six men walked down the main street, dazed and silent. Nothing stirred. Everyone had fled. A siren wailed, rising and falling. Down a side street a car backed quickly away.
In an upstairs window Barton saw a pale, frightened face. Then the shade was jerked down.
"I don't understand," Vecchi muttered.
"Have they gone nuts?" Merriweather asked.
Stone said nothing. His mind was blank. Numb. He felt tired. He sat down on the curb and rested, getting his breath. The others stood around him.
"My ankle," Leon said. He leaned against a stop sign, lips twisting with pain. "Hurts like hell."
"Captain," Barton said. "What's the matter with them?"
"I don't know," Stone said. He felt in his ragged pocket for a cigarette. Across the street was a deserted cafe. The people had run out of it. Food was still on the counter. A hamburger was scorching on the skillet, coffee was boiling in a glass pot on the burner.
On the sidewalk lay groceries spilling out from bags dropped by terrorized shoppers. The motor of a deserted parked car purred to itself.
"Well?" Leon said. "What'll we do?"
"I don't know."
"We can't just--"
"I don't know!" Stone got to his feet. He walked over and entered the cafe. They watched him sit down at the counter.
"What's he doing?" Vecchi asked.
"I don't know." Parkhurst followed Stone into the cafe. "What are you doing?"
"I'm waiting to be served."
Parkhurst plucked awkwardly at Stone's shoulder. "Come on, Captain. There's nobody here. They all left."
Stone said nothing. He sat at the counter, his face vacant. Waiting passively to be served.
Parkhurst went back out. "What the hell has happened?" he asked Barton. "What's wrong with them all?"
A spotted dog came nosing around. It passed them, stiff and alert, sniffing suspiciously. It trotted off down a side street. "Faces," Barton said. "Faces?"
"They're watching us. Up there." Barton gestured toward a building. "Hiding. Why? Why are they hiding from us?"
Suddenly Merriweather stiffened. "Something's coming." They turned eagerly.
Down the street two black sedans turned the corner, headed toward them. "Thank God," Leon muttered. He leaned against the wall of a building. "Here they are."
The two sedans pulled to a stop at the curb. The doors opened. Men spilled out, surrounded them silently. Well-dressed. Ties and hats and long gray coats.
"I'm Scanlan," one said. "FBI." An older man with iron-gray hair. His voice was clipped and frigid. He studied the five of them intently. "Where's the other?"
"Captain Stone? In there." Barton pointed to the cafe.
"Get him out here."
Barton went into the cafe. "Captain, they're outside. Come on."
Stone came along with him, back to the curb. "Who are they, Barton?" he asked haltingly.
"Six," Scanlan said, nodding. He waved to his men. "Okay. This is all." The FBI men moved in, crowding them back toward the brick front of the cafe.
"Wait!" Barton cried thickly. His head spun. "What--what's happening?
"What is it?" Parkhurst demanded deprecatorily. Tears rolled down his face, streaking his cheeks. "Will you tell us, for God's sake--"
The FBI men had weapons. They got them out. Vecchi backed away, his hands up. "Please!" he wailed. "What have we done? What's happening?"
Sudden hope flickered in Leon's breast. "They don't know who we are. They think we're Commies." He addressed Scanlan. "We're the Earth-Mars Expedition. My name is Leon. Remember? A year ago last October. We're back. We're back from Mars." H
is voice trailed off. The weapons were coming up. Nozzles--hoses and tanks.
"We're back!" Merriweather croaked. "We're the Earth-Mars Expedition, comeback!"
Scanlan's face was expressionless. "That sounds fine," he said coldly. "Only, the ship crashed and blew up when it reached Mars. None of the crew survived. We know because we sent up a robot scavenger team and brought back the corpses--six of them."
The FBI men fired. Blazing napalm sprayed toward the six bearded figures. They retreated, and then the flames touched them. The FBI men saw the figures ignite, and then the sight was cut off. They could no longer see the six figures thrashing about, but they could hear them. It was not something they enjoyed hearing, but they remained, waiting and watching.
Scanlan kicked at the charred fragments with his foot. "Not easy to be sure," he said. "Possibly only five here ... but I didn't see any of them get away. They didn't have time." At the pressure of his foot, a section of ash broke away; it fell into particles that still steamed and bubbled.
His companion Wilks stared down. New at this, he could not quite believe what he had seen the napalm do. "I--" he said. "Maybe I'll go back to the car," he muttered, starting off away from Scanlan.
"It's not over positively," Scanlan said, and then he saw the younger man's face. "Yes," he said, "you go sit down."
People were beginning to filter out onto the sidewalks. Peeping anxiously from doorways and windows. "They got 'em!" a boy shouted excitedly. "They got the outer space spies!"
Cameramen snapped pictures. Curious people appeared on all sides, faces pale, eyes popping. Gaping down in wonder at the indiscriminate mass of charred ash.
His hands shaking, Wilks crept back into the car and shut the door after him. The radio buzzed, and he turned it off, not wanting to hear anything from it or say anything to it. At the doorway of the cafe, the gray-coated Bureau men remained, conferring with Scanlan. Presently a number of them started off at a trot, around the side of the cafe and up the alley. Wilks watched them go. What a nightmare, he thought.
Coming over, Scanlan leaned down and put his head into the car. "Feel better?"
The Minority Report: 18 Classic Stories Page 21