A Scatter of Stardust

by E. C. Tubb

  He chuckled at the assortment. None of the previous attendants had had his experience. Two years in a small cell without company, books or recreation of any kind had made him indifferent to toys. To Ward five years in this place promised to be a snap.

  At first time passed easily enough. He examined the station, read everything there was to read, played with the three-dimensional jigsaw and other toys and sampled various combinations of food from the storeroom. He even tried to regain his lost fitness with a series of self-invented exercises. He didn’t succeed. The confined quarters and lack of equipment reduced his activities to a program of bends, push-ups and muscular tension, valuable back home but here, because of the low gravity, almost useless.

  The first shock came when he tried to make a closer examination of the installations.

  There were no tools in the entire station. There was nothing with which he could open the paneling, dismantle the machines and get at the wiring. No means by which he could effect repairs if ever they became necessary. He searched three times, moving everything movable and opening every cabinet and locker he could find; but the results were the same. No tools. He sat down to think about it.

  Fromach had lied. Perhaps not all the way but certainly partly towards it. A watch station attendant was supposed to be able to maintain the station in case of need, and no one could do that without the aid of tools, so Fromach had lied.

  Or?

  Ward relaxed as he guessed an alternative reason for the lack of tools. The previous attendant must have gone off the beam. He, himself, had been dumped in a hurry without any apparent check being made of the station. Perhaps the previous attendant had disposed of the tools in some way, thrown them outside or something. He could have done it as a last gesture of sanity to prevent himself from wrecking the installation.

  It was a logical explanation, but it wasn’t correct.

  There was no way to leave the station.

  That was the second shock, and Ward thought about it during the next few months. The air lock was sealed and could not be opened from the inside. There was no space suit, so even had the lock been workable, he still couldn’t have left the dome. There was no window, and the sanitation arrangements were incapable of passing anything hard, large or inflexible. It was a problem among other problems, and every now and again he worried about it. What concerned him most was the passage of time.

  Fromach had said that the relief ship called about once a year, maybe once every two years. There was a calendar clock mounted on the main panel, and Ward took to staring at it, wishing that the hands would move faster. Finally, recognizing the danger, he covered the dial with a wrapping from a food container and tried to forget that the clock existed. His training helped there. Time is a variable; it passes quickly or slowly depending on the circumstances and the individual. Anticipate and it passes slowly; forget and it speeds up. Two years in a modern oubliette without clocks, calendars or sunlight had taught him to forget time.

  But forgetting time, unanswerable problems, questions of motive and the previous attendants of the station left a void. It became filled with loneliness.

  It was a loneliness unknown anywhere on Earth. For no matter where a man might be on his home planet, he is never really alone. Always around him there is life of one kind or another. A lighthouse keeper on solitary duty is not alone, with when he can signal for help, listen to living voices, see living pictures, keep familiar pets. A prisoner, even in an oubliette, is not alone when his every word is caught and heard by monitoring guards.

  A man alone in a room is not truly alone when he is surrounded by people in the same house. But a man on a sterile world, millions of miles away from his own world, utterly divorced from his own kind, is really alone.

  And Ward, a product of civilization, had never been truly alone before.

  It began to worry him. He began to imagine every result of every circumstance. He could trip and break a bone, fall ill, need medical attention. The food could go bad, the water, the very air. The power could fail, and he was helpless to do anything about it The dome could spring a leak, the ice on which it was built begin to melt. The satellite could even fall from its orbit and spiral down toward Jupiter.

  And no one could help him.

  No one would know.

  It was an uncomfortable sensation and he fought against it. He busied himself about the station, dusting, polishing, looking at the rows of signal lamps on the main panel. He tried the radio, receiving, as before, nothing but a surging wash of static. He listened to it then switched off, his skin goose-pimpling to the utter emptiness of the sound. There was nothing remotely human about it, just the sea sound of empty space, of radiating atoms, distant stars, planetary fields and cold, cold emptiness.

  Time passed. He ate when he was hungry, washed when he felt dirty, slept when he was able. All the time the terrible sense of loneliness gnawed into his composure so that he wanted to run, to scream, to escape in any way he could. The previous attendants must have felt like that. They had wanted to escape, too, and they had done so in the only way possible. He could follow their example.

  But if he did, the result would be automatic lobotomy and the loss of his individuality. A living death.

  Ward gritted his teeth and fought even harder. He filled every minute with endless repetitions of needless activity, stacking and restacking the food cartons, dusting and redusting, polishing and repolishing until his arms ached. But nothing could fill the emptiness of the universe. Nothing could give him dreamless sleep.

  And then he began to get the impression of watching eyes.

  *

  The storeroom was ten feet long, eight feet high and six wide. It normally contained enough concentrates to last a man a long time. Now the cartons were stacked in a tidy heap outside the closed door. Fromach stared at them, then at the doctor standing at his side.

  “Ready?”

  The doctor nodded, lifting his hypogun and touching the release. A thin spray darkened the air, drugs expelled so fast that they would penetrate clothing and skin without pain.

  “Then let’s get it over.” Fromach opened the door and stepped into the room, the doctor at his heels. Both men jerked to a halt as Ward sat up and smiled at them.

  “You took your time,” he said. “I expected you days ago.”

  “We had to come a long way,” said Fromach absently. He stared at Ward as if unable to believe his eyes. “We didn’t expect to find you like this.”

  “You thought that I’d gone insane.” Ward moved along the cot so as to make room for the others. He had transferred it from the sleeping quarters into the cleared storeroom. “You had a right to think that. It was a near thing.”

  “I can’t understand it.” The doctor looked a little foolish with the unwanted hypogun in his hand. He slipped it into a pocket. “We expected to find you in catatonia “

  “Like the others?” Ward shrugged. “You almost did, but my training,” he gestured at the replica of his cell, “and the threat of lobotomy saved me. Even so the temptation to escape in the only way possible, back into childhood and then back even further until there is nowhere to go, was almost irresistible.”

  “You fought it,” said the doctor. “You recognized the danger and fought it. Incredible!”

  “You knew,” said Fromach suddenly. “Or you guessed.”

  “No.”

  “But?”

  “But I know now,” said Ward. He stretched, relishing the company, the nearness of others. “You lied,” he said to Fromach. “All that talk of the others, the purpose of the station even, you lied.”

  Fromach didn’t answer.

  “Living in a cell can do peculiar things to a man,” said Ward. “You get so that you can sense things. I could always tell, for instance, when the monitoring guard was concentrating on my cell. I don’t know how or why, I just did. Maybe when you’ve nothing else to do, your senses become more acute. Maybe you develop senses you didn’t know you had.”


  “Tell me about it,” said the doctor. He was impatient for the answer. “What is it that drives men insane out here?”

  “Loneliness.”

  “Just that?”

  “Don’t underestimate it.” Ward stared into distance. “And don’t think you know what I’m talking about. You don’t. No one who hasn’t experienced it could know. I can’t describe it — we just haven’t the words — but it’s like being the last man left alive in the universe. The very last living thing left. It’s the ultimate in dejection. It’s — ” Ward shook his head.

  “Loneliness,” breathed the doctor. “A thing as simple as that.”

  “Not simple,” said Ward. “The only way you could understand it is to try it for yourself. Few men can live with themselves, fewer have to; and when that loneliness hits them they can’t take it. They want to run, to escape, to hide themselves away. You know what happens then.”

  “Catatonia,” said the doctor. “I know.”

  “Yes,” said Fromach heavily. “We know only too well.” He looked at Ward. “How did you find out that I’d lied?”

  “The lack of tools gave me the first clue. It was obvious then that I was here for some other reason than maintaining the station. And there were other things. You were too vague about the ship schedule for one, and there was an apparent lack of logic behind it all. Things like that. I had a lot of time to think them over.” Ward paused. “I was certain when I knew that I was being watched.”

  “The spy eyes? But they are soundless.”

  “I sensed them. I told you that after a period of isolation a man gets to sense things. I was lucky, I’d learned to live with myself. But what about the others? They hadn’t had the advantage of two years in prison. They were alone, they knew it, and yet they sensed something watching them. I know the state of mind they must have been in. Faced with a situation like that what else could they do but fall apart?”

  “And then?”

  “I guessed the setup. This is a watch station, sure, but not in the way you said. It’s designed to watch the man inside, not events outside. It’s a training cell for — what?”

  “For what it should be but isn’t,” said Fromach bitterly. “For men to crew the ships we hope one day to send beyond where we are. To other stars across interstellar space. Long journeys requiring special ships and special men. And more than that. Men must learn to live with themselves if they are to live at all. We’re out of the nest now, out of the cradle. It’s time we discovered how to grow up.”

  “You can’t change people,” said Ward slowly. “I survived only because I had the sense to retreat to a familiar environment. One in which I’d learned to live alone. Others retreat back into the womb.’’ He looked at his hands. “What happens now?”

  “You’re free. Special reduction of sentence for unusual duties.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve earned it” said Fromach.

  “And the problem?”

  “We’ll solve it. We’ll — ” Fromach broke off, staring at Ward, suddenly remembering that what a man knew he could usually teach. Ward had survived where the others had failed. “Ward?”

  “We’ll solve it,” promised Ward

  Enchanter’s Encounter

  Mark arrived late at the party. Two last minute patients and an urgent call from a would-be suicide had thrown his schedule to hell, so that when he arrived only a handful of people still sat in the big living room surrounded by the wreck of what had obviously been something to remember. Gloria would remember it later, that was certain. She and Bill were generous, but generosity alone wasn’t sufficient to dear up the mess. She squeezed his arm as he entered the flat.

  “Mark! It’s good to see you. I was beginning to think that you weren’t coming.”

  “I’m sorry.” He made his apologies. “Is Sandra still here?”

  “She’s talking to Doctor Lefarge.” Gloria squeezed his arm again. “When’s it to be, Mark?”

  “Whenever I can persuade her that marrying me will compensate for all the tinsel she thinks that she’ll be missing if she does.” His tone was too bitter; he softened it as Bill thrust a glass into his hand. “Thanks.”

  Bill had a good memory. The vermouth and gin were just as he liked them and j#ust what he needed. The hum of conversation from the group in the comer washed over him, a blur of words without meaning, the conversation subdued as if they talked of mysterious and secret things. It broke as Mark walked toward them.

  “Mark!” Sandra rose, came toward him, proffered her cheek for his kiss. She was very young, very lovely, her pale skin and thick, black hair giving her the appearance of an Italian Madonna. “So glad that you could make it, darling. Have you met the company?”

  Mark stood, feeling a little foolish, as she made the introductions. As usual she gave him a title to which he had no right; he doubted if she would ever learn that a psychiatrist and a psychologist were not the same, that the former requires a medical degree which he did not possess.

  “Jim Taylor, he’s an engineer,” she rattled. “Sam Klien, advertising. Loma Lamber, a medium. Ram Putah sells things from India, and this,” she added triumphantly, “is Doctor Lefarge.”

  Mark disliked the man on sight.

  He looked too much like Mephistopheles. Thin black hair hugged a narrow skull, sweeping down over a high forehead in an exaggerated widow’s peak. Thick eyebrows had an upward slant. The moustache and beard were trimmed and pointed, the face itself cadaverous. He was, thought Mark sourly, a poseur, his appearance owing more to artifice than to nature.

  “Doctor Conway?” His hand was slender, surprisingly strong as it gripped Mark’s own.

  “I’m not a doctor.” As usual when Sandra effected the introductions, Mark had to explain himself. “I have no medical degree. Sandra is always making the same mistake.”

  “I understand.” The eyes were black, deep-set beneath jutting brows, pouched with dark circles. “It is a common error. I am, myself, a doctor of philosophy.” The eyes sharpened. “We have met before, Mr. Conway.”

  “I doubt it.” Mark searched his memory. “No. I cannot say that we have.”

  “I assure you otherwise,” insisted Lefarge. “Perhaps before long you will remember.”

  *

  The group reformed, the others sitting like disciples at the feet of Lefarge, their drinks forgotten as they talked, their talk hinging on one subject. It was a subject Mark found distasteful.

  “I have yet to discover one single individual who has gained any benefit from the pursuit of esoteric knowledge,” he said deliberately. “I omit those who have grown rich pandering to the whims of the credulous. With all due respect to the genuine mystics I feel that they have paid too high a price from their peace of mind.”

  “Such as?” Lefarge was interested.

  “A withdrawal from reality. You must accept the world for what it is. To try and escape from it has only one ending”

  “To you, then, the mystics are insane?”

  “They are not normal. Abnormality is usually suspect”

  “Isn’t it necessary to first define “normality?” Ram Putah said gently. Lefarge spoke before Mark could answer.

  “There are many doors through which one may seek knowledge. It is not easy to determine which of those doors can yield the truth.”

  “And you, naturally, have discovered that door?”

  If Lefarge caught the irony he didn’t reveal it. He smiled, thin lips rising from too white, too sharp teeth. “I think that I have, Mr. Conway”

  “Diabolism, perhaps?”

  Again the smile, but there was no humor in it. Beside him Mark felt Sandra grip his arm as if in warning. The impression annoyed him, why was she so taken in by this posturing fool?

  “Diabolism, Mr. Conway? May I ask what has given you that impression?”

  For a moment Mark was tempted to tell him. Lefarge wouldn’t have been the first man to try and gain power by imitation. The legend of Faust had a lo
t to answer for. Too many weaklings, striving after some outward show of strength, tried to emulate the so-called Prince of Darkness.

  “I have met those who have made similar claims,” he said carefully. “Many of them have been my patients.”

  “I see.” Reflections from the subdued lighting made Lefarge’s eyes glow as with an inner fire. “Tell me, Mr. Conway,” he said. “If you were a medical man and a patient came to you badly injured from conducting amateur chemical experiments, would you deride chemistry?”

  “Of course not.” Mark recognized the trap. “The analogy isn’t germane.”

  “Isn’t it?” Lefarge shrugged. “There are many who would not agree with you. But, for your information, true knowledge has the same relationship to diabolism as medical science has to phlebotomy. Would you claim that it is never necessary to bleed a patient?”

  Again Mark avoided the trap. “Truth is a thing of many facets,” he said. “Each seemingly different and yet each belonging to the whole. To claim that there is only one path to knowledge is to make a false statement. In other words — to tell a barefaced lie!”

  “What is truth?” Ram Putah lifted his hands. “The things we see, the things we feel, are they truth or illusion? I can dismiss them by closing my eyes. Can they then be real?”

  “If I were to take a knife and stab you with it, you would have few doubts.”

  “Only because I have yet to reach the pure state of knowledge in which I could deny the reality of your knife.”

  Mark shrugged. He had argued like this before and always it was the same. The feeling that he was chasing the moving rim of a circle, that the faster he ran the less progress he made. Long ago he had determined that to argue against faith was to argue against nature.

  *

  The drink in his hand had grown warm. He swallowed it, rose, crossed the where Gloria stood beside the cocktail cabinet. Behind him the hum of conversation sounded as before, low, muted, secretive.