by Jerry
Anthon laughed at the sight of the tiny blade. “Think you can stop me with that?”
If you only knew! Dalt thought. He didn’t want to use the blaster, however. He understood Anthon’s feelings. If there were only some way he could stun him and make his escape.
Anthon attacked ferociously now and Dalt was forced to backpeddle. His foot caught on a stone and as he fell he instinctively threw his free hand out for balance. The ensuing events seemed to occur in slow motion. He felt a jarring, crushing, cutting, agonizing pain in his left wrist and saw Anthon’s blade bite through it. The hand flew off as if with a life of its own and a pulsing stream of red shot into the air. Dalt’s right hand, too, seemed to take on a life of its own as it reversed the dagger, pointed the butt of the hilt at Anthon and pressed the hidden stud. An energy bolt, blinding in the darkness, struck him in the chest and he went down without a sound.
Dalt grabbed his forearm. “My hand!” he screamed in agony and horror.
(Give me control!) Pard said urgently.
“My hand!” was all Dalt could say.
(GIVE ME CONTROL!)
Dalt was jolted by this, relaxed for a second and suddenly found himself an observer in his own body. His right hand dropped the dagger and cupped itself firmly over the bleeding stump, the thumb and fingers dug into the flesh of his forearm, searching for pressure points on the arteries.
His legs straightened as he rose to his feet and calmly walked toward the concealed shuttlecraft His elbows parted the bushes and jabbed the plate that operates the door to the outer lock.”
(I’m glad you didn’t lock this up yesterday,) Pard said as the port swung open. There was a first-aid emergency kit inside for situations such as this. The pinky of his right hand was spared from its pressure duty to flip open the lid of the kit and then a container of stat-gel. The right hand suddenly released its grasp and, amidst a spatter of blood, the stump of his left arm was forcefully shoved into the gel and held there.
(That should stop the bleeding.) The gel had an immediate clotting effect on any blood that came into contact with it. The thrombus formed was firm and tough, thereby greatly reducing the threat of embolism.
Rising, Dalt discovered that his body was his own again. He stumbled outside, weak and disoriented.
“You saved my life, Pard,” he mumbled finally. “When I looked at that stump with the blood shooting out, I couldn’t move.”
(I saved our life, Steve.)
He walked over to where Anthon lay with a smoking hole where his chest had been. “I wished to avoid that. It wasn’t really fair, you know. He only had a sword . . .” Dalt was not quite himself yet. The events of the last minute had not yet been fully absorbed.
(Fair, hell! What does ‘fair’ mean when someone’s trying to kill you?)
But Dalt didn’t seem to hear. He began searching the ground. “My hand! Where’s my hand? If we bring it back maybe they can replace it!”
(Not a chance, Steve. Necrosis will be in full swing by the time we get to the mother ship.)
Dalt sat down. The situation was finally sinking in. “Oh, well,” he said resignedly. “They’re doing wonderful things with prosthetics these days.”
(Prosthetics! We’ll grow a new one!)
Dalt paused before answering. “A new hand?”
(Of course! You’ve still got deposits of omnipotential mesenchymal cells here and there in your body. I’ll just have them transported to the area and with me guiding the process there’ll be no problem to rebuilding the hand. It’s really too bad you humans have no conscious control over the physiology of your bodies. With the proper direction, the human body is capable of almost anything.)
“You mean I’ll have my hand back? Good as new?”
(Good as new. But at the moment I suggest we get into the ship and depart. The brain has called the Duke and it might be a good thing if we weren’t here when he arrived.)
“You know,” Dalt said as he entered the shuttlecraft and let the port swing to a close behind him, “with you watching over my body, I could live to a ripe old age.”
(All I have to do is keep up with the degenerative changes and you’ll live forever.)
Dalt stopped in midstride. “Forever?”
(Of course. The old natives of this planet knew it when they made that warning for their children: “Of every thousand struck down, nine hundred and ninety-nine will die.” The obvious conclusion is that the thousandth victim will not die.)
“Ever?”
(Well, there’s not much I can do if you catch an energy bolt in the chest like Anthon back there. But otherwise, you won’t die of old age—I’ll see to that. You won’t even get old, for that matter.)
The immensity of what Pard was saying suddenly struck Dalt with full force.
“In other words,” he breathed, “I’m immortal.”
(I’d prefer a different pronoun: We are immortal.)
“I don’t believe it.”
(I don’t care what you believe. I’m going to keep you alive for a long, long time, Steve, because while you live, I live, and I’ve grown very fond of living.)
Dalt did not move, did not make a reply.
(Well, what are you waiting for? There’s a whole galaxy of worlds out there just waiting to be seen and experienced and I’m getting damn sick of this one!)
Dalt smiled. “What’s the hurry?”
There was a pause, then: (You’ve got a point there, Steve. There’s really no hurry at all. We’ve got all the time in the world. Literally!).
1973
ALONE IN SPACE
Arthur Tofte
Arnie looked around at the bare interior of the empty ship . . . empty except for himself. Never had he felt so alone . . .
It had been a week since his father had died. He tried not to think of it. At first he had refused to believe it. For a ten-year-old boy, it was a terrible thing to be alone on a ship rushing through space.
It had happened so suddenly. The ship had been hit by a meteorite. His father had gone out to check the damage. He had become entangled in the lifeline, which held him to the ship. In his struggle to free himself, he had opened a hole in his space suit. Almost instantly he was dead. Amie had pulled him back into the ship, but it was too late.
Then it had taken Arnie a whole day to decide what to do. He knew he couldn’t keep his father’s body in the ship. Sadly, he had put the body into the air lock and had ejected it into space.
Up to the time of his father’s death, everything had gone so well. Even being allowed to go on the trip had been a wonderful thing, coming as it did so soon after his mother’s death.
His father had been furnished a ship especially designed to withstand the impact of meteorites and even small asteroids. Extra-strong pods had been built into the ship for their protection. Only in the open cabin did they have to wear space suits.
They had gone into the heart of the highly dangerous asteroid belt out toward Jupiter. Although their ship had been struck many times, no serious damage had been done to it. Any other ship would have been wrecked.
Best of all, they had actually landed on one of the largest of the asteroids. They had found a new mineral. Tested in the ship’s nuclear-fusion power plant, it had proved to be extremely heat resistant. It was just what his father, Gregory Gambrill, one of Earth’s leading mineralogists, was looking for.
With this material, it would be possible to develop better heat shields for ships entering the Earth’s atmosphere. It could be used for heat bottles in nuclear-fusion plants. Heat-resisting metals had a thousand uses.
Arnie sighed in despair at how close his father had come to success. He looked over at the small canvas bag of samples of the new rock.
He had not forgotten what his father had said as they started on the return trip.
“These rock samples,” he had said, “must be delivered to my company. If anything should happen to me, it will be your duty to see that they get there.”
Then his fa
ther had warned him that the greatest danger on the return voyage would come as the ship passed the moon. There were space pirates on the moon who knew of the mission. They would try to get aboard if they could and get the samples.
Arnie had heard all about the so-called moon pirates—vicious men who preyed on unarmed spaceships.
Now, a week later, he knew from his father’s timetable that he was already approaching the moon zone. His father had said the danger would probably last only an hour or so. He had also said he hoped they could zip through the danger zone without being noticed.
Then suddenly it happened!
The receiver in his headset crackled into action. There was a curt order: “Stand by for boarding!”
For a moment, Arnie was held motionless in terror. It could be just a regular Earth space patrol checking ships approaching the mother planet.
. . . or it could be the dreaded moon pirates!
Looking over at the bag of asteroid rocks, he knew he couldn’t take a chance on having them stolen now. He had to try to hide them.
But where?
He knew there was no place to hide anything in the cabin. And there was no time to break into the pods.
As quickly as he could, he picked out one small sample. It would have to be enough for the tests they would want to make of it. Then he ejected the rest of the samples through the ship’s waste-disposal vent.
He held the sample he had saved and studied it. For this his father had risked and then lost his life. Where to hide it? The very compactness of the cabin’s interior made it all but impossible to find a good place.
He looked about frantically.
Then, as though his father’s voice had directed him, he pushed himself through the airless space to where he kept his personal things. There he had the books and games he had brought with him. They were meant to keep him entertained on the long voyage.
Yes, there it was—his collection of one hundred Earth rocks and minerals. His father had given him the set to help him learn how to identify them. Each rock piece was held firmly in its own rubber pocket in the box. Each item was carefully labeled. Over the top of the box was a transparent plastic cover.
He felt a slight bump as the other ship began its coupling operation. He would have to hurry.
Carefully he slid back the cover. After a quick glance at the rocks, he selected a colorful piece of microcline. It would do as well as any. He put it in the right-front pocket of his space suit.
Then he slipped the asteroid rock into the hollow where the microcline had been. He slid the cover back on. Then he put the box back with his games and books.
It was the only thing he could think of. He hoped that among the Earth rocks, the one asteroid rock would not be noticed. At least he was trying his best to follow his father’s wish.
Hardly had he put the box back into its place when the entry air-lock valve opened. Two space-suited men pushed their way in.
From the way they glanced around, it was apparent they were surprised to see only a ten-year old.
The headset intercom buzzed. “Where is your father?” one of the men asked gruffly.
“He’s dead.”
The men looked at each other. Then one of them turned to Arnie.
“Where are the rock samples your father was taking to Earth? Don’t try to fool us. We know all about this mission of your father’s. We need those samples.”
“Are you the moon pirates?” Arnie asked fearfully.
From their expressions through their transparent helmets, the boy could see they were amused by his question.
The man who had spoken first grumbled, “We haven’t any time to waste. Where are the rocks?”
Arnie gave his body a push and landed next to where he had put his personal things. He pulled out his rock collection.
“Here are my rocks,” he said. “Is this what you want?
My father gave me this set before we left Earth. I know all their names now.”
The leader of the two men came over next to Arnie. The man glared down at the collection.
Arnie was still talking as he pointed at one rock after another. “That’s a wulfenite,” he said. “And this is a chalcanthite. This is feldspar. This is a piece of coal. It really isn’t mineral at all. And this is a piece of kimberlite. They find diamonds in this kind of rock.”
The man grabbed up the box and ripped off the cover. His gloved hand raced along the rows of labeled items.
“These are just a lot of ordinary Earth rocks, just junk,” he stated in disgust. With a sweep of his hand, he threw the box into the corner. In the gravity-free cabin, the hundred pieces went flying in all directions.
“Now you’ve done it,” the second man exclaimed angrily. “How are we going to find the asteroid samples with all those Earth rocks flying around loose?”
“Search the boy,” the first man ordered.
Arnie floated backward.
The man approached him. In his hand was a long, sharp-pointed knife.
“You had better tell us,” he said. “If I cut your suit, you’ll be dead in seconds. And we’ll get the asteroid rocks anyway.”
The man grabbed at Arnie. Without gravity, the two tumbled awkwardly around the cabin. Then both men combined to catch the struggling boy in one corner.
A moment later the piece of microcline was pulled out of Arnie’s pocket.
“I’ve got it,” the man cried. He held up the piece of worthless microcline for the other to see.
“That must be it, all right. Let’s go, before the space patrol gets here. We’ve only got about twenty minutes.”
He jerked a thumb at Arnie. “What will we do with the kid?”
The other laughed. “He called us the moon pirates.
What was it that the old-time pirates used to do—make their prisoners ‘walk the plank’ ? Why don’t we make him walk the plank?”
“Stop kidding around. We haven’t time to waste. Let’s just take him outside and give him a little push into space. That will take care of him.”
The man reached out to grab Arnie. The boy squirmed away. The second man lunged to head him off.
Arnie found himself in a corner. Floating in front of his helmet were two or three of the rock samples from his collection. Almost without thinking, he seized one of them and hurled it with all his might at the pirate.
The rock hit the man’s metal-and-plastic. space helmet and bounced off harmlessly. But at once Arnie saw his advantage.
The rocks were sharp edged. If one of them tore even a small hole in the man’s space suit, it would mean instant death.
The two men apparently realized it, too. One of them edged toward the exit valve.
“I’m getting out of here,” he cried.
“Don’t be stupid. Those rocks aren’t sharp enough to cut into our suits.”
THE EMPTY FIELD
Morio Kita
Translated by Kinya Tsuruta and Judith Merril[*]
Ground underfootrutcarved with trucktiretrails: where heavy sculptured treads crisscrossed tired grass gives up: piles of gravel, hillocks of sand: at the far end of the field some children slowly moving silhouettes against great concrete pipelengths glowing white in encroaching darkness at the far end of day—mudsmears on cheeks nearly invisible halfopen mouths seen almost more by ear than by eye—words more seen than heard—
—murmurous sense as of the underwater conversation of
small fish—
—can’t you stand still?
—but! eaten up by gnats!
—what gnats? no gnats here!
—no?—listen—
—listening: faint many-voiced buzzing—
—sshhh—listen—
Brittle silence: dimming light: truckserried surface like some castoff paperthin dry scaled skin: buzzing?
—hear anything?—
—silence, stop-action: vacant field like a deserted stage after the village play—descent of thick night’s curtain not so much concluding-o
r-concealing as revealing new perceptions: whiteness comes to eye—
—at the foot of the hill a cluster of men’s shirts flutter like wash forgotten on the line at night: and it begins again——what if it really happens?
—maybe it’s not true?
—don t care if it’s true or not—if it was just a story we wouldn’t be standing here and whispering—
—we could run over there—and yell—and make faces—and—
Youngman also stands still as captive audience awash in airless-whispertide of senseless fish-communication pouring in through his perhaps-also-halfopen mouth—
—but if it is true?
—then we really run: that way—like locusts!
—either way we run?—we run one way or the other, sure!—well sure we’ve been standing, still too long already—
Youngman moves a foot forward again: a step: conscious of movement of legs and of time gone by since he last walked toward no other purpose than the act itself—
—what would it look like?
—like a snake?—or sea-squirt?—could be no shape at all—
—nothing like us anyhow!—how do you know?—dumb! if it was just like us they wouldn’t be waiting there—we wouldn’t be waiting here—have to keep still!—why would we worry about which way to run?
—we could be sleeping like beansprouts in our beds—
Youngman starts past them:
—he too as a boy played in this vacant lot—but then it was not barren like this: no trace of tiretracks: all green—tall grasses growing-covering everywhere—
—all body-weight absorbed by thicknesses of grass underfoot at every step—
—greenshoots moistcool and sensualclinging to foot touch chest high in grass—grass invaded boy breathing through grass—
Now—not a single treeleaf on the hill only marching rows of raw new which-is-whose? company houses—and the still yawning trench mouth of a bomb-shelter dug during the war: cave-in-a-cave because the whole hillside then under bush canopy one green shadowdeep cavern: magic expanse whose map was traced by busy beetles—hoe-shaped, armored, others—along the ridged rough bark of an old oak—