Time Exposures

by Wilson Tucker

  “A pinwheel?”

  “A pinwheel. Without our driving force as a balance, the forward tube—if fired—would start us spinning in a circle. We’d go around in a circle for the rest of our lives.”

  Lady Cynthia folded her arms, struggling to retain her young dignity in the face of rising hysteria. “You are certainly the most incompetent pilot I have ever known. My father shall hear of this!”

  “No doubt,” Alger replied dryly. “Following the instructions in the manual, I’ve already broadcast an SOS and explained our position. And I might add that this ship is equipped with the latest thing in communications—your father should receive my message in a week or ten days, if conditions are favorable.”

  “And he will launch a search—instantly!” she snapped.

  “Instantly,” he agreed. “In all directions,”

  The Lady Cynthia stepped back into her tiny private cabin and slammed the door. She opened it again to peep out at him. “What about the food supplies?”

  “Edible,” he retorted.

  Captain Alger lounged on his crash-bed and studied the circle of light that represented a planet on the radar screen. The light had been an insignificant thing when he first discovered it nearly three weeks ago, but since that time he had watched it with growing fascination, watched it hold steady and slowly enlarge upon the screen. His quick calculations showed him the ship was heading for it, or very near it, and he felt confident he could employ the steering tube should they be in danger of passing it by. The circle of light was something to live for, something to dwell on.

  The previous month of nothingness before the planet appeared had been a difficult time indeed; the Lady Cynthia had seen to that. For a month life aboard the ship had been an unpredictable, bitter-sweet thing. Depending upon her mood, the girl by turns had been the lovely person he first knew and then the hellion she later became. There had been some enchanting hours when they sat side by side on his crash-bed, timidly holding hands and talking of their homelands. She would tell him of the wonderfully green world from whence she came, its lovely lakes and rolling seas, its tall mountains that seemed to reach the sky. She told him of the many pleasurable things to do there—dancing, riding, playing, living, and of her happy companions. And he in turn recounted his many experiences on a dozen planets of the space service, pointing up the strange faces those planets presented to the wanderer. They exchanged beautiful words, tender thoughts, delightful hours. Once she had cried a bit and rested her head on his shoulder. Hesitantly he put his arms around her for support and she had not objected.

  And the next time she emerged from her room she had painfully kicked his shins and attempted to scratch his face when he called her, “My darling.”

  The chronometer spun on and he once marked off sixty-nine consecutive hours when she refused to speak a word; he prepared a pot of hot tea when she complained of feeling ill, and had it flung in his face. Extremely weary of eating one canned meal after another, he stayed away from the galley for two meal periods, only to be lured back to the table by the aroma of a tasty dish she cooked for him. Quite unpredictable, the Lady Cynthia Psmith.

  The coming of the planet was a salvation.

  For three weeks they had watched the circle of light, never once mentioning aloud the previous month howevermuch their thoughts may have dwelled on that period. And in those three weeks the atmosphere slowly reverted to what it once had been, back there in the beginning. He was Captain Alger and she was the Lady Cynthia. Alger grimaced at the thought. Perhaps she expected Papa to be awaiting her on that very planet, standing there with arms outstretched, an ambulance nearby, and a brass band in readiness.

  He gave much thought to the matter of landing and finally realized there was little he could do about it. The landing would be in a strict sense of the term only: they would smack down. The steering rocket would be of some small use in an atmosphere and perhaps he could cushion the shock to some extent; other than that there would be nothing to do but radio the base to send a salvage ship. If there was a radio. If he stayed alive to operate it. If there remained anything to salvage.

  He found a way to activate the steering rocket by remote control, by jamming the longer of the two screwdrivers into a a space behind the activating key. Lying on his crash-bed, he was just able to reach out and grasp the handle of the screwdriver, to pull it toward him and depress the control. He made sure the Lady Cynthia was properly fastened into her bed, and when the time came and the planet’s atmosphere began whistling about the outer hull, he lay down and grasped the screwdriver handle.

  “All comfy in there, my Lady?”

  “Go to hell!” was the un-ladylike answer.

  “We may do just that,” Alger murmured, and pulled on the handle.

  He opened his eyes and saw his legs hanging above him. Instantly frightened by the implication he jerked the legs and was rewarded by having them tumble down on him, along with the remains of the crash-bed and miscellaneous debris that had been loose in the cabin. He had been resting on his back and shoulders with his feet in the air, and now his body ached desperately from the strained position. Crawling out from under the debris and the remains of the bed, he climbed awkwardly to his feet and winced at the shooting pains in his back and shoulders. The cabin was a wreck and he did not need an exterior inspection to know the ship would never fly again. He stood there, holding onto a projecting brace for support until his head should clear.

  The control panel was smashed beyond recognition and a few of the piano-like keys lay scattered at his feet. The shiny brass chronometer was nowhere to be seen and the ship’s log he had dutifully kept was split down its spine. The communications equipment—scattered and apparently stomped on by an enraged giant. He kicked at the screwdriver lying innocently on the floor. Moving toward the rear, he saw that the door to the tool locker was hanging wide and that the precious ship’s manual had catapulted itself through the air and was now lying inside it. Alger seized the manual as the most valuable possession remaining to him, and attempted to open the inner airlock. It would not move beneath his questing fingers. Throwing his weight against it, he at last forced a narrow crack and then slowly worked the heavy panel back out of the way.

  Daylight rushed in, daylight and the warm scented air of a pine forest.

  Weakly, his stomach carrying just a hint of queasiness, he crossed the chamber on wobbly legs and sat down on the outer rim, marveling at the force of impact which had burst open that stout outer lock. There seemed to be birds hidden somewhere in the forest.

  Alger sat there for a long moment gathering his wits about him and then he opened the manual, after first consulting the index.

  Land on the nearest planet.

  He had already done that.

  Ascertain if the atmosphere is breathable.

  Captain Alger looked up at the towering trees and the blue-tinted sky beyond, to reflect that he was breathing.

  Ascertain if the natives (if any) are friendly.

  Well, he could stroll down into the village later on and observe them. And there would be none of this sky-god business either; he wouldn’t tolerate it.

  Do not drink water until it has been tested.

  Test or no test, the new world’s water had better be fit to drink; their own supplies would not last much longer. The canned food of course was in greater supply but then the mere thought of canned food was nauseating.

  Ascertain extent of damage and assign crew to reconstruction.

  With two screwdrivers and a pair of pliers, Alger thought bitterly. A pity the manual didn’t contain—

  A hoarse, angry male voice cut across his thoughts. “By thunder! Do you always make sloppy landings like that? You’ve certainly raised the devil around here!”

  Startled out of his wits, Alger leaped from the rim of the lock and landed on the grassy earth, tightly clutching the manual in his hand. Natives! He peered shakily around—and saw the old man standing among the trees. A tall, naked old man who s
eemed to blend with his surroundings, an old fellow with tangled hair and long matted beard. The stranger was shaking a clenched fist. Alger hastily noted that the fist did not contain a spear or other weapon.

  “Hello ...” he called out. “Me come from sky.”

  “I’m not blind, you idiot.’’ The native seemed a trifle angry.” Alger stepped away from the ship and held out his hands in the universal gesture. “Are you friendly?”

  “Friendly!” the oldster roared at him. “After what you’ve done to my trees? Just look yonder—” He turned and pointed away from the ship, toward the direction it had come. The crashing hulk had left a swath almost a mile long through the forest; it had pancaked down onto a growth of trees, sank through to the ground and then careened along for many thousands of feet. A toothpick manufacturer would have easy pickings following that swath. “Best stand of timber I’ve seen in years,” the native declared. “Ruined!”

  “I’m sorry,” Captain Alger apologized. “I was flying blind.”

  “You were flying drunk!”

  “Sir, I do not drink on duty. My ship was out of control and the landing was a necessity. Are you a native?”

  "What do I look like?” the old fellow snarled.

  “A native.”

  “Well then, I am. I live here, if that’s what you mean.” The stranger moved nearer the ship and paused to inspect the wreckage. Alger saw that the fellow seemed healthy enough despite his native state; he was old but not senile, naked but not savage, and the man’s skin was much like his own—but deeply tanned of course from the mode of living.

  “I notice you speak my language,” he said politely.

  “Do you own it?” The old man finished with his inspection of the hulk and turned to the pilot, taking in the remains of the once-trim uniform. “I speak many languages. What are you made up for—a masquerade?”

  “Sir,” Alger informed him stiffly, “this is the uniform of the space service. May I inquire your name? What do the tribesmen call you?”

  The oldster peered at him. “What tribesmen?”

  “Well—the other natives here. Your fellows.”

  “I’m the only native here.” He moved closer to Alger and, suspicious, sniffed his breath.

  “You mean—you’re all alone on this world?”

  “Except for you, dammit all, yes. Anything wrong with that?”

  “No sir, of course not. I’m only trying to ascertain my surroundings. I must determine if the air is fit to breathe, if the natives are friendly, and if the water is drinkable. Is it?”

  “What the devil do you think I’ve been drinking all these years, huckleberry juice?”

  The Captain wisely held his silence.

  The native flicked a contemptuous finger at the ship. “That’ll never fly again.”

  “No sir, I’m afraid not.”

  “Well then,” the old man continued, pointing now to his tattered uniform, “you might as well throw those rags away. Won’t do you much good here.’’

  “Remove my clothing?” Alger was astounded and not a little shocked at the barbarous suggestion. “Ridiculous! I have a lady aboard.”

  He wasn’t quite prepared for what followed.

  “Women?” the old man leaped high into the air and screamed with all the power of his lungs. The woodland birds fell silent at the scream, frightened. At the very pinnacle of his leap, the fellow seemed to clack his heels together.

  “Women—whee!” He came to earth again and scrambled for the airlock.

  “Stop!” Alger commanded, drawing himself up before the lock. “The Lady Cyn—” He was rudely knocked aside, and the native vanished inside the lock.

  Alger picked himself up off the ground, surprised at the old man’s unexpected strength. The native water must be indeed drinkable. He shook his head to clear it, and hastily followed the old one into the ship. The Lady Cynthia would never forgive him if he allowed harm to come to her; her father would not only strip him of rank, he’d— Alger stopped, just outside the Lady Cynthia’s cabin door. The door was open and the surprising sound that had stopped him in his tracks was a delightful feminine squeal.

  “By thunder!” the native declared.

  “Why—grandpappy!” The Lady Cynthia exclaimed.

  The two children of civilization lived in the ship for the most part, for Captain Alger wats totally unable to follow the manual in the construction of shelters for the crew in event of a demolished vessel. He consoled himself with the thought that shelters couldn’t be built anyway—not with the three minor tools at their disposal. Some one at the base would answer for that oversight! So they slept in the ship and alternately ate there, or outside, depending on the weather and the old native.

  Sometimes the man would supply them with small game freshly caught, and he attempted to teach them the art of skinning and cooking the animals—without much appreciation. The girl would run into the ship until the operation was over while Alger, stout heart, watched for all of two or three seconds before seeking the night sky. The old one would build a small fire in a clearing near the wreck and cook the meal. Alger and the Lady Cynthia had no compunctions about eating the animals.

  Meanwhile, Alger was building some high suspicions of the old devil.

  “My Lady,” he whispered in a conspiratorial manner, “ssssst, my Lady.”

  “What do you want?”

  Alger sidled near her, watching the native on the other side of the fire. “My Lady, doesn’t he somehow seem familiar?”

  “Who? Grandpappy?”

  “Yes, my Lady. Don’t you have the impression you’ve seen him somewhere before?”

  “Nonsense. I never saw him before in my life.” She beamed across the fire. “But I think he’s a sweet old duffer.”

  “I’m positive I’ve seen that face before! Perhaps in an old picture ...” Alger continued eating and watching. Somewhere, sometime, he was almost positive he had seen a likeliness of that man. If only he could plant a firm finger on the elusive similarity and then positively identify the two images. “He might at least wear clothing in your presence,” Alger said lamely.

  “Nonsense,” the Lady Cynthia said again. “If our rescue ship doesn’t arrive soon, I’m thinking of discarding mine.”

  “My Lady!” Alger said, aghast. “What will people think?”

  “What people?” she asked him. “Grandpappy seems to get along very well.”

  The rescue ship, if there was to be one, did not come soon and very slowly the young couple cast off a few of the simpler trappings of civilization, to adopt some of the manners and ways of the old native. That venerable one, for some mysterious reason of his own, always seemed to be laughing at them. Or at least, he seemed to be laughing at Alger. The expression in his eyes when he studied Cynthia was not laughter. Cynthia would occasionally catch him at it, and shake a wagging finger. “Now, Grandpappy!”

  There came a day when the Lady Cynthia would no longer allow Captain Alger near her, either at the fireside meals or in the ship or the woods during the day. Alger noted this after some time and wondered about it. Was she actually preferring the old man to him? Could she seriously be thinking of going native?

  The native relieved his mind and his doubts.

  “Tomorrow morning,” the old one said, addressing himself to the girl, “we’re taking a little trip. Pack a supply of grub and set off yonder.” He pointed away through the forest, and then commenced the business of smothering the fire with dirt.

  “Really,” Alger said instantly, aware of his responsibilities, “I must stay near my ship,”

  “You stink,” the oldster said. Cynthia tittered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you stink. You and your rags.” He tramped down the dirt above the remaining ashes of the fire. “The ship won’t fly away. Tomorrow we pack some grub and go over to the lake.”

  “The ... lake?” Alger said hesitantly. Instantly into his mind sprang the image he was trying to identify.

/>   “It’s about two days—yonder. Do you a world of good.” The girl laughed again and the old man turned on her. “You too, sis.”

  “All right, grandpappy.”

  Against his will and his better judgement, Captain Alger shouldered his share of the load the next morning and set off after Lady Cynthia and the native. A turmoil boiled up within him and he was unable to control the nervousness reflected in his hands; he was glad the other two were ahead of him and could not see his agitation. This was it! The period of waiting was over, the weighing had been done and now they were being led off to the lake like sheep. Belatedly, he realized that his dear sweet old mother had been right all along; he should have listened to her warnings. Again and again she had cautioned him to always follow the right path and to avoid the sinful ways of his father, lest a similar fate overtake him.

  And now look—here he was. This one old man all alone on the strange world, an old man whose face was oddly familiar. And now he was being led to the lake.

  He had paid his mother little heed at the time, giving her only the perfunctory assurances that he would take care of himself, that he would not consort with evil companions, that his thoughts and intentions would forever remain pure and honest. All for naught. He was trapped, the Lady Cynthia (dear, sweet innocent girl) was trapped, and there was no escape. The old one had them. Since the early suspicions had grown in his mind, since those few abortive attempts to persuade the girl to recognize the native, he had said nothing more. Poor girl, she did not recognize the true state of affairs. She still believed their ship had crashed on some mortal planet, still believed that some day soon, a rescue vessel would come plunging down from space.

  On the afternoon of the second day they reached the lake. He knew they were there because he heard the girl shout, ahead of him, and the old one shouted a reply. Alger trudged on and as he came to the edge of the trees, dropped the pack to the ground and shut his eyes. Slowly, feeling his way, he sensed the ground sloping away beneath his feet and presently the grassy soil gave way to sand. He stopped.