Possible Tomorrows

by Groff Conklin (Ed. )

  Another tour of the place revealed nothing and left him nervous enough to start biting his nails. He moved about the room, looking over things he’d already investigated. A music cabinet—he’d thought it was a radio at first, but it was only an elaborate hi-fi record player; two enclosed racks of records went with it—mainly classical stuff apparently. And a narrow built-in closet with three polished fishing rods and related gear, which would have allowed for speculation on the nature of the cabin’s surroundings, except that McAllen might feel compelled to have a sampling of his toys around him wherever he was. Barney closed the closet door morosely, stood regarding the two crowded bookcases next to it. Plenty of books—reflecting the McAllen taste again. Technical tomes. Great Literature. Dickens, Melville, the life of Gandhi.

  Barney grunted, and was turning away when another title caught his eye. He glanced back at it, hauled out the book:

  “Fresh Water Game Fish; Tested Methods of Their Pursuit.” The author: O. B. McAllen.

  Barney was opening the book when the cabin’s door also opened.

  Bright light—daylight—filled the room with so sudden a gush that Barney’s breath caught in his throat The book seemed to leap out of his hands. With the same glance he saw then the low, wide picture window which abruptly had appeared in the opposite wall, occupying almost half its space—and, in the other wall on the far left, a big door which was still swinging slowly open into the room. Daylight poured in through window and door. And beyond them—

  For seconds he stared at the scene outside, barely aware of what he was looking at while his mind raced on. He had searched every inch of the walls. And those thick wooden panels hadn’t simply slid aside; the surfaces of doorframe and window were flush with the adjoining wall sections. So the McAllen Tube was involved in these changes in the room—and he might have guessed, Barney thought that McAllen would have found more than one manner of putting the space-twisting properties of his device to use. And then finally he realized what he was seeing through the window and beyond the door. He walked slowly up to the window, still breathing unevenly.

  The scene was unfamiliar but not at all extraordinary. The cabin appeared to be part way up one side of a heavily forested, rather narrow valley. It couldn’t be more than half a mile to the valley’s far slope which rose very steeply, almost like a great cresting green wave, filling the entire window. Coming closer Barney saw the skyline above it hazy, summery, brilliantly luminous. This cabin of McAllen’s might be in one of the wilder sections of the Canadian Rockies.

  Or—and this was a considerably less happy thought—it probably could have been set up just as well in some area like the Himalayas.

  But a more immediate question was whether the cabin actually was in the valley or only appearing to be there. The use of the Tube made it possible that this room and its seeming surroundings were very far apart in fact. And just what would happen to him then if he decided to step outside?

  There were scattered sounds beyond the open door: bird chirpings and whistles, and the continuous burring calls of what Barney decided would be a wild pigeon. Then a swirl of wind stirred the nearer branches. He could fed the wash of the breeze in the room.

  It looked and sounded—and felt—all right.

  Barney scowled undecidedly, clearing his throat, then discovered that a third item had appeared in the room along with the door and the window. In the wall just this side of the door at shoulder-height was a small ivory plate with two black switches on it. Presumably the controls for door and window . . .

  Barney went over, gingerly touched the one on the right, watching the window; then flicked up the switch. Instantly, the window had vanished, the wood paneling again covered the wall. Barney turned the switch down. The window was back.

  The door refused to disappear until he pushed it shut Then it obeyed its switch with the same promptness.

  He went back across the room, returned with one of McAllen’s fishing poles, and edged its tip tentatively out through the door. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the tip had disintegrated in that instant But nothing at all occurred. He dug about with the pole in the loose earth beyond the doors ill, then drew it back. The breeze was flowing freely past him; a few grains of soil blew over the sill and into the room. The door seemed to be concealing no grisly tricks and looked to be safe enough.

  Barney stepped out on the sill, moved on a few hesitant steps, stood looking about He had a better view of the valley here—and the better view told him immediately that he was not in the Canadian Rockies. At least, Canada, to his knowledge, had no desert And, on the left, this valley came to an end perhaps a little more than a mile away from the cabin, its wooded slopes flowing steeply down to a landscape which was dull rust-red—flat sand stretches alternating with worn rock escarpments, until the desert’s rim rose toward and touched the hazy white sky. Not so very different from—

  Barney’s eyes widened suddenly. Could he be in the Sierras—perhaps not more than three or four hours’ drive from Los Angeles?

  Three or four hours’ drive if he had a car, of course. But even so—

  He stared around, puzzled. There were no signs of a human being, of human habitation. But somebody else must be here. Somebody to keep guard on him. Otherwise there was nothing to stop him from walking away from this place—though it might very well be a long, uncomfortable hike to any civilized spot.

  Even if this did turn out to be the Himalayas, or some equally remote area, there must be hill tribes about if one went far enough—there should even be an occasional airplane passing overhead.

  Barney stood just outside the door, frowning, pondering the situation again, searching for the catch in it. McAllen and his friends, whatever else they might be, weren’t stupid. There was something involved here that he hadn’t become aware of yet.

  Almost without thought then, he turned up his head, squinting at the bright hazy sky above him—

  And saw IT.

  His breath sucked in and burst from his lungs in a half-strangled, terrified squawk as he staggered backward into the cabin, slammed the door shut then spun around and began slapping frantically at the switches on the wall-plate until door and window were gone, and only the cabin’s soft illumination was around him again. Then he crouched on the floor, his back against the wall, shaking with a terror he could hardly have imagined before.

  He knew what the catch was now. He had understood it completely in the instant of glancing up and seeing that tiny brilliant blue-white point of light glare down at him through the incandescent cloud layers above. Like a blazing, incredibly horrible insect eye . . .

  This world’s sun.

  THE END OF YEAR ONE

  Barney Chard came up out of an uneasy sleep to the sudden sharp awareness that something was wrong. For some seconds he lay staring about the unlit cabin, mouth dry, heart hammering with apprehension. Then he discovered it was only that he had left the exit door open and the window switched on. . . Only? This was the first time since they had left him here that he had gone to sleep without sealing the cabin first—even when blind drunk, really embalmed.

  He thought of climbing out of bed and taking care of it now, but decided to let the thing ride. After all he knew there was nothing in the valley—nothing, in fact, on this world—of which he had a realistic reason to be afraid. And he felt dead tired. Weak and sick. Feeling like that no longer alarmed him as it had done at first; it was a simple physical fact. The sheet under him was wet with sweat, though it was no more than comfortably warm in the room. The cabin never became more than comfortably warm. Barney lay back again, trying to figure out how it had happened he had forgotten about the window and the door.

  It had been night for quite a while when he went to sleep, but regardless of how long he’d slept, it was going to go on being night a good deal longer. The last time he had bothered to check—which, Barney decided on reflection, might be several months ago now—the sunless period had continued for better than fifty-six hours. No
t long before dropping on the bed, he was standing in front of the big clock while the minute hand on the hour dial slid up to the point which marked the end of the first year in Earth time he had spent in the cabin. Watching it happen, he was suddenly overwhelmed again by the enormity of his solitude, and it looked as if it were going to turn into another of those periods when he sat with the gun in his hand, sobbing and swearing in a violent muddle of self-pity and helpless fury. He decided to knock off the lamenting and get good and drunk instead. And he would make it a drunk to top all drunks on this happy anniversary night.

  But he hadn’t done that either. He had everything set up, downright festively—glasses, crushed ice, a formidable little squad of fresh bottles. But when he looked at the array, he suddenly felt sick in advance. Then there was a wave of leaden heaviness, of complete fatigue. He hadn’t had time to think of sealing the cabin. He had simply fallen into the bed then and there, and for all practical purposes passed out on the spot.

  Barney Chard lay wondering about that It had been, one might say, a rough year. Through the long days in particular, he had been doing his level best to obliterate his surroundings behind sustained fogs of alcoholism. The thought of the hellishly brilliant far-off star around which this world circled, the awareness that only the roof and walls of the cabin were between himself and that blazing alien watcher, seemed entirely unbearable. The nights, after a while, were easier to take. They had their strangeness too, but the difference wasn’t so great. He grew accustomed to the big green moon, and developed almost an affection for a smaller one, which was butter-yellow and on an orbit that made it a comparatively infrequent visitor in the sky over the valley. By night he began to leave the view window in operation and finally even the door open for hours at a time. But he had never done it before when he wanted to go to sleep.

  Alcoholism, Barney decided, stirring uneasily on the sweat-soiled, wrinkled sheet hadn’t been much of a success. His body, or perhaps some resistant factor in his mind, let him go so far and no farther. When he exceeded the limit he became suddenly and violently ill. And remembering the drunk periods wasn’t pleasant Barney Chard, that steel-tough lad, breaking up, going to pieces, did not make a pretty picture. It was when he couldn’t keep that picture from his mind that he most frequently had sat there with the gun, turning it slowly around in his hand. It had been a rather close thing at times.

  Perhaps he simply hated McAllen and the association too much to use the gun. Drunk or sober, he brooded endlessly over methods of destroying them. He had to be alive when they came back. Some while ago there had been a space of several days when he was hallucinating the event, when McAllen and the association seemed to be present, and he was arguing with them, threatening them, even pleading with them. He came out of that period deeply frightened by what he was doing. Since then he hadn’t been drinking as heavily.

  But this was the first time he’d gone to sleep without drinking at all.

  He sat upon the edge of the bed, found himself shaking a little again after that minor effort, but climbed to his feet anyway, and walked unsteadily over to the door. He stood there looking out The cloud layers always faded away during the night, gathered again at dawn. By now the sky was almost clear. A green glow over the desert to the left meant the larger moon was just below the horizon. The little yellow moon rode high in the sky above it If they came up together, this would be the very bright part of the night during which the birds and other animal life in the valley went about their pursuits as if it were daytime. He could hear bird chirpings now against the restless mutter of the little stream which came down the cento’ of the valley, starting at the lake at the right end and running out into stagnant and drying pools a short distance after it entered the desert.

  He discovered suddenly he had brought the gun along from the bed with him and was holding it without having been in the least aware of the fact. Grinning twistedly at the old and pointless precaution, he shoved the gun into his trousers pocket brought out matches, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and began to smoke. Very considerate of them to see to it he wouldn’t run out of minor conveniences . . . like leaving him liquor enough to drink himself to death on any time he felt like it during these five years.

  Like leaving him the gun—

  From the association’s standpoint those things were up to him, of course, Barney thought bitterly. In either unfortunate event he wouldn’t be on their consciences.

  He felt a momentary spasm of the old hate, but a feeble one, hardly more than a brief wash of the early torrents of rage. Something had burned out of him these months; an increasing dullness was moving into its place—

  And just what he thought startled, was he doing outside the cabin door now? He hadn’t consciously decided to go that far; it must have been months, actually, since he had walked beyond the doorway at all. During the first few weeks he had made half a dozen attempts to explore his surroundings at night and learned quickly that he was confined to as much of the valley as he could see from the cabin. Beyond the ridges lay naked desert and naked mountain ranges, silent and terrifying in the moonlight.

  Barney glanced up and down the valley, undecided but not knowing quite what he was undecided about He didn’t feel like going back into the cabin, and to just stand here was boring.

  “Well,” he said aloud, sardonically, “it’s a nice night for a walk, Brother Chard.”

  Well, why not? It was bright enough to see by now if he kept away from the thickest growths of trees, and getting steadily brighter as the big moon moved up behind the distant desert rim. He’d walk till he got tired, then rest By the time he got back to the cabin he’d be ready to lie down and sleep off the curious mood that had taken hold of him.

  Barney started off up the valley, stepping carefully and uncertainly along the sloping, uneven ground.

  During the early weeks he had found a thick loose-leaf binder in the back of one of the desk drawers. He thought it might have been left there intentionally. Its heading was

  NOTES ON THE TERRESTRIAL ECOLOGICAL BASE OF

  THE EIGHTEENTH SYSTEM, VOLUME HI.

  After leafing through them once, it had been a while before Barney could bring himself to study the notes in more detail. He didn’t at that time, want to know too much about the situation he was in. He was still numbed by it.

  But eventually he went over the binder carefully. The various reports were unsigned, but appeared to have been compiled by at least four or five persons—McAllen among them; his writing style was not difficult to recognize. Leaving out much that was incomprehensible or nearly so, Barney could still construe a fairly specific picture of the association project of which he was now an unscheduled and unwilling part. Selected plants and animals had been moved from Earth through the McAllen Tube to a world consisting of sand, rock and water, without detected traces of indigenous life in any form. At present the Ecological Base was only in its ninth year, which meant that the larger trees in the valley had been nearly full-grown when brought here with the soil that was to nourish them. From any viewpoint the planting of an oasis of life on the barren world had been a gigantic undertaking, but there were numerous indications that the McAllen Tube was only one of the array of improbable devices the association had at its disposal for such tasks. A few cryptic paragraphs expressed the writer’s satisfaction with the undetailed methods by which the Base’s localized climatic conditions were maintained.

  So far even the equipment which kept the cabin in uninterrupted operation had eluded Barney’s search. It and the other required machinery might be buried somewhere in the valley. Or it might he thought have been set up just as easily some distance away, in the desert or among the remotely towering mountain ranges. One thing he had learned from the binder was that McAllen had told the truth in saying no one could contact him from Earth before the full period of his exile was over. The reason had seemed appalling enough in itself. This world had moved to a point in its orbit where the radiance of its distant sun was thickeni
ng between it and Earth, growing too intense to be penetrated by the forces of the McAllen Tube. Another four years would pass before the planet and the valley emerged gradually from behind that barrier again.

  He walked, rested, walked again. Now and then he was troubled by a burst of violent sweating, followed by shivering fits until his clothes began to dry again. The big moon edged presently over the ridge above him, and in the first flood of its light the opposite slope of the valley took on the appearance of a fanciful sub-oceanic reef. The activity of the animal life about Barney increased promptly. It was no darker now than an evening hour on Earth, and his fellow occupants of the Ecological Base seemed well-adjusted to the strange shifts of day and night to which they had been consigned.

  He pushed through a final thicket of shrubbery, and found himself at the edge of the lake. Beyond the almost circular body of water, a towering wall of cliffs sealed the upper end of the valley. He had come almost a mile, and while a mile—a city mile, at least—wouldn’t have meant much to Barney Chard at one time, he felt quite exhausted now. He sat down at the edge of the water, and, after a minute or two, bent forward and drank from it. It had the same cold, dear flavor as the water in the cabin.

  The surface of the Wats’ was unquiet Soft-flying large insects of some kind were swarming about, stippling the nearby stretch of the lake with their touch, and there were frequent swift swirls as fish rose from beneath to take down the flyers. Presently one of them broke clear into the air—a big fish, thickbodied and shining, looking as long as Barney’s arm in the moonlight—and dropped back with a splash. Barney grinned twistedly. The NOTES indicated Dr. McAllen had taken some part in stocking the valley, and one could trust McAllen to see to it that the presence of his beloved game fish wasn’t overlooked even in so outlandish a project.