The Best of Lester del Rey

by Lester Del Rey

  He started off twice, to return each time for another inspection. He whimpered and tried tugging at the sleeve of the arm. The rags parted, but Doc gave no sign. The death smell was stronger. King paced about, fighting the hunger and misery until they were too much. There was the food smell, the rat—and he would come back to Doc….

  A faint mist was being driven along by the wind as he reached the tower again, braving it this time without stopping. Until the rain washed it away, the spoor would be all the stronger for the moisture in the air, and he followed it easily, until it ended on the blasted area of the rocket field.

  King stopped at the sight of the bent and worn takeoff cradles. From the distance, the first faint roll of thunder came, and he bolted stiff-legged, snarling with fear, as if one of the monster ships he had seen the men building so frantically were blasting up again.

  The excitement of the frenzied construction had drawn him to it, even when it meant sneaking away from Doc—so that he had been present after the infants were all aboard, and the rocket took off. The thunder-booming roar, the gout of eye-searing flame and the smell that paralyzed his nose for hours had sent him cringing back to shiver at Doc’s feet for hours, and each new takeoff had brought a fresh attack. He still wanted nothing to do with the rockets.

  The cradles were empty now, however—except for something that looked like one that had broken and was lying on its sides, the big tubes ripped away, and the ground scorched around it. And as he looked, the distant form of the rat appeared from below it and leaped upward through a door there.

  King edged toward it, following the trail that led there, uncertain. It looked dead, but the other that had roared away on its lightning and thunder had also seemed dead. Then real lightning and thunder boomed behind him, and he forced himself to a faster trot.

  The hulk seemed harmless. There were none of the chemical smells now, and the fumes of the ancient blast that had fizzled were gone. He moved gingerly toward the door, his nose twitching at the odors that came from it, just as the rat appeared.

  It saw him and squeaked sharply, dashing back inside. King abandoned his caution. With a low growl, he leaped through the doorway above the ground. The edge of the metaf tore at him, thin projections sticking out where it had been crudely hacked away. He snapped at it, then turned to find the rat.

  There was enough light inside to see dimly. The rat had retreated into a narrow pipe that ran back. King tried to poke his nose into it, then fished with his paw. The rat drew back and snapped at him. Its teeth missed, but it was enough to teach him caution.

  He drew back, crunching across a litter of dried papers, foil, and junk he did not recognize. A thicker bundle twisted under his feet, and the thick, heavy smell of meat—red meat, not the weak flesh of fish—filled his nostrils. Without thinking, he snapped down.

  The stuff was dry and hard, disappointing at first. But as he chewed, over the salt and the odd flavorings, the almost forgotten flavor came through, sending saliva dripping from his mouth. From the odors here, he knew the rat had been eating it before he came, but it didn’t matter. He finished the package, spitting out the wax, metal, and plastics that surrounded it as best he could. Then his nose led him along the trail of the rat’s gnawing, back to the few tons of concentrate that were left.

  The wrappings let through no smell to guide him, but he had learned to find food where it could be discovered. He tore into a package, gasping as a thick, fruity stuff seared at his tongue. He tried again, farther away. He ripped away the covering first, and settled down with the brick between his paws, working on it until it was gone.

  Outside, the rain had increased to a torrent. He studied the rat and the view outside, and finally curled up against the door, blocking the rat’s egress. Some rain came through, making a small puddle on the floor and wetting his coat, but he disregarded it at first, until the thirst began to grow in him. He lapped at the puddle, finding some relief.

  His stomach began to feel wrong then. It was heavy, full and miserable. He fought against it, lapping more

  water. The rat came out of its hole and found another brick of food. He heard it gnawing, but the effort of moving was too great.

  When the sickness finally won, he felt better. But it was an hour later, while the storm raged and the lightning split the sky with waves of solid fear, before he could pull himself back to another brick. This time he ate more carefully, stopping to drink between parts of his meal. It worked better. The food stayed with him, and his hunger was finally satisfied.

  He lay near the doorway of the old rocket, staring out through the darkness that was still split by lightning. The rat scurried about behind him, but he let it go. Now that it was harmless and his stomach was filled, some of the old patterns began to stir in his mind. The rat was one he had known so long ago, its smell grown old, but still clearly identifiable.

  He had tried twice to leave the ship and force his way back to where Doc was lying, but the lightning drove him back. Now he lifted his voice in a long, mournful bark. There was no answering call from Doc. He began working himself up for another try.

  Lightning crashed down in the direction of the laboratory. The building itself stood out in the glare, with every wire of its outer covering glowing white hot. There was a roll of sharp thunder close by, and then another explosion that seemed to open the laboratory up in a blossom of flame through the abating rain.

  King muttered unhappily, licking his lips uneasily, while his tail curved tighter against him. But now, while the flame still smoldered around the distant building and the lightning might come back, now was no time to risk it.

  He turned around several times, scraping away the litter, buried his nose in the tuft of his tail, and tried to relax. He was almost asleep when he felt the rat creep up to him. It must have recognized his smell, too, since it settled down against him as it had done when they were both together in the laboratory with Doc. He snarled faintly, then let it alone, and went to sleep. Surprisingly, there were no dreams to. bother him.

  The rat was goner in the morning when King awoke, and the sun was §hMng, though the quieter wind held a coldness that was too close to freezing to suit him. He hesitated, turning back toward the food stores. Then the sight of the rat, racing across the space near the tower, decided him. With an unhappy growl, he dropped from the hulk of the rocket and took out after it.

  If the rat got there before he did, and Doc needed him…

  In open running, the rat was no match for him. It drew aside, its high voice chattering, as he thundered up. He did not turn, but drove on, heading at a full run for the laboratory.

  There was no laboratory! The steps were there, blackened and cracked. Some of the walls still stood. But the building he had known was gone. Beside it, the trunk of one of the big trees had been blasted apart, and now had its tattered remnants strewn over the dirt, mingling with the coals from the fire that had gutted the building. A few were still smoking, though the rain had put out the blaze before it had completely burned out by itself. The heavy, acrid scent of damp, burned wood loaded the air, concealing everything else from his scent.

  He uttered a short, anguished yelp and went dashing through the doorway. The ashes were hot, and the stones left from the floor were hotter, but he could bear them. He hardly felt them as he swung toward what had once been the room where Doc lay.

  The box from which the voice had come was gone, but the twisted wreck of the tape machine was there. And beside it, charred scraps showed what had once been a bed.

  King cried out as his nose touched the heat, but he was pawing frantically, disregarding the pain. He could stand it—and he had to. He shoveled the refuse aside, digging for something that was his. And finally, under the charred raggedness, there were traces. There was even enough to know that it had once been Doc.

  And Doc was still dead—as dead as the meat that once came from cans had been dead.

  King whimpered over the remains, while the rat climbed onto a section o
f the wall and chattered uneasily. But the dog was already backing away. He stopped beyond the hot ruins of the building to lift his head. For a second, he held the pose while the rat watched him, before his head came down and he turned slowly away.

  The food in the rocket lay to his right, and the old gate through which he had first come was on his left. He licked his lips as his eyes turned to the rocket, but his legs moved unwaveringly left. The steady walk turned into a trot, and his stride lengthened, carrying him back to the rooming-house section, and on into the former business section. There had been other fires, and one had spread across several blocks. He swung around it and back to the street he had first taken.

  Ahead of him, the bridge came into view, and nearer was the bank of the river on this side.

  King did not waver from his course. His legs paced out onto the rotten pavement that would carry him across the stream. He moved on, slowing as he had to walk the girders again. When he was past that section, and at the midpoint of the bridge, something seemed to turn him.

  The town lay behind him from here, most of it visible at the crest of the bridge. The rain and the storm had made changes, but they were too small to notice. And the university lay at the edge of King’s vision, though some of the tower could be seen. He faced toward it, and then unerringly toward the place where the laboratory should have been.

  Now his muzzle lifted into the air as he sank to his haunches. He seemed to brace himself, and his lungs expanded slowly. He could feel it, and the need of it. The instinct behind it was too old for remembrance, but the ritual came finally by itself, with no conscious control.

  His mouth opened, and the dirge keened on the air, lifting and driving upward toward the empty sky above.

  There was only, the single requiem. Then King swung back toward the distant shore, picking his way along the worn bridge.

  He slipped down the crumbled bank to the thin edge of sand near the steam and turned southward, trotting on steadily with the cold wind at his back.

  Somewhere, there would be a place to fish for his breakfast.

  Little Jimmy

  I’ve always thought that meeting a ghost would be a pretty comforting thing. By the time a man is past fifty and old enough to realize death, anything that will prove he doesn’t come to a final, meaningless end should be a help. Even being doomed to haunt some place hi solitude through all eternity doesn’t have the creeping horror of just not being!

  Of course, religion offers hope to some—but most of us don’t have the faith of our forefathers. A ghost should be proof against the unimaginable finality of death.

  That’s the way I used to feel. Now, I don’t know. If I could only explain little Jimmy…

  We heard him, all right. At Mother’s death, the whole family heard him, right down to my sister Agnes, who’s the most complete atheist I know. Even her youngest daughter, downstairs at the time, came running up to see who the other child was. It wasn’t a case of collective hallucination, any more than it was something that can be -explained by any natural laws we know.

  The doctor heard it, too, and from the way he looked, I suppose he’d heard little Jimmy more than once before. He won’t talk about it, though, and the others had never been around for a previous chance. I’m the only one who will admit to hearing little Jimmy more than that single time. I wish I didn’t have to admit it, even to myself.

  We were a big family, though the tradition for such families was already dying at the turn of the century. Despite the four girls who died before they had a chance to live, Mother and Dad wanted lots of children. Six of us boys and three girls lived, and that justified it all to Mother. There would have been more, I guess, if Dad hadn’t been killed by an angry bull while I was away saving the world for Democracy. Mother could have had other husbands, maybe—the big Iowa farm with its huge old house would have guaranteed that—but she was dead set against it. And we older kids drifted into city jobs, helping the others through college until they had jobs of their own. Eventually, Mother was left alone in the old house, while the town outgrew itself until the farm was sold for lots around it.

  That left her with a small fortune, particularly after the second war. She didn’t seem to need us, and she was getting “sot” in her ways and hard to get along with. So little by little, we began visiting her less and less. I was the nearest, working in Des Moines, but I had my own life, and she seemed happy and capable, even at well past seventy. We’re a long-lived, tough clan.

  I sent, her birthday and holiday notes—or at least Liza sent them for me—and kept meaning to see her. But my oldest boy seemed to go to pieces after the second war. My daughter married a truck driver and had a set of twins before they found a decent apartment. My youngest boy was taken prisoner in Korea. I was promoted to president of the roofing company. And a new pro at the club was coaching me into breaking ninety most of the time.

  Then Mother began writing letters—the first real ones in years. They were cheerful enough, filled with chitchat about some neighbors, the new drapes on the windows, a recipe for lemon cream pie, and such. At first, I thought they were a fine sign. Then something in them began to bother me. It wasn’t until the fifth one, though, that I could put my finger on anything definite.

  In that, she wrote a few words about the new teacher at the old schoolhouse. I went over it twice before realizing that the school building had been torn down fifteen years before. When that registered, other things began connecting. The drapes were ones she had put up years before, and the recipe was her first one—the one that always tasted too’ sweet, before she changed it! There were other strange details.

  They kept bothering me, and I finally put through a call. Mother sounded fine, though a little worried for fear something had gone wrong with me. She talked for a couple of minutes, muttered something about lunch on the stove, and hung up quickly. It couldn’t have been more normal. I got out my clubs and was halfway down the front steps before something drove me back to her letters.

  Then I called Doctor Matthews. After half a minute identifying myself, I asked about Mother.

  His voice assumed a professional tone at once. She was fine—remarkably good physical condition for a woman of her age. No, no reason I should come down at once. There wasn’t a thing wrong with her.

  He overdid it, and he couldn’t quite conceal the worry in his voice. I suppose I’d been thinking of taking a few days off later to see her. But when he hung up, I put the clubs back in the closet and changed my clothes. Liza was out at some civic betterment club, and I left a note for her. She’d taken the convertible though, so I was in luck. The new Cadillac was just back from a tune-up and perfect for a stiff drive. There’d also be less chance of picking up a ticket if I beat the speed limit a little; most cops are less inclined to be tough on a man who’s driving one of those cars. I made good time all the way.

  Matthews was still at the same address, but his white hair gave me a shock. He frowned at me, lifting his eyes from my waistline to what hah-1 had left, then back to my face. Then he stuck out his hand slowly, stealing a quick glance at the Cadillac.

  “I suppose they all call you A. J. now,” he said. “Come on in, since you’re here!”

  He took me back through the reception room and into his office, his >eyes going to the car outside again. From somewhere, fye drew out a bottle of good Scotch. At my nod, he^mixed it with water from a cooler. He settled back, studying me as he took his own seat. “A. J., heh?” he commented again, sounding a sour note here, somehow. “That sounds like success. Thought your mother mentioned something about your having some trouble a few years back?”

  “Not financial,” I told him. I’d thought only Liza remembered it. She must have written to Mother at the time, since I’d kept it out of the papers. And after I’d agreed to buy the trucking line for our son-in-law, she’d finally completely forgiven me. It was none of Matthews’ business—but out here, I remembered, doctors considered everything their business. “Why, Doc?”
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  He studied me, let his eyes sweep over the car again, and then tipped up the glass to finish the whisky. “Just curiosity. No, damn it, I might as well be honest. You’ll see her anyhow, now. She’s an old woman, Andrew, and she has what might be called a tidy fortune. When children who haven’t worried about her for years turn up, it might not be affection. And I’m not going to have anything happen to Martha now!”

  The hints in his remarks too closely matched my own suspicions. I could feel myself tightening up, tensing with annoyance and a touch of fear. I didn’t want to ask the question. I wanted to get mad at him for being an interfering old meddler. But I had to know. “You mean—senile dementia?”

  “No,” he answered quickly, with a slightly lifted eyebrow. “No, Andrew, she isn’t crazy! She’s in fine physical shape, and sane enough to take care of herself for the next fifteen years she’ll probably live. And she doesn’t need any fancy doctors and psychiatrists. Just remember that, and remember she’s an old woman. Thirteen children in less than twenty years! A widow before she was forty. Lonely all these years, even if she is too independent to bother you kids. An old woman’s entitled to whatever kind of happiness she can get! And don’t forget that!”

  He stopped, seeming surprised at himself. Then he stood up and reached for his hat. “Come on, I’ll ride out with you.”

  He kept up a patter of local history as we drove down the streets where corn had grown when I last saw this section. There was a hospital where the woods had been, and the old spring was covered by an apartment building. The big house where we had been born stood out, sprawling in ugly warmth among the facsimile piano-boxes they were calling houses nowadays.

  I wanted to turn back, but Matthews motioned me after him up the walk. The front door was still unlocked, and he went in, tilting his head toward the stairs. “Martha! Hey, Martha!”