The Second Science Fiction Megapack

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  As he locked the workshop door, Crane heard Hallmyer shouting from the cottage across the fields. Through the evening gloom he could see him waving frantically. He trotted through the crisp stubble, breathing the sharp air deeply, grateful to be alive.

  “It’s Evelyn on the phone,” Hallmyer said.

  Crane stared at him. Hallmyer was acting peculiarly. He refused to meet his eyes.

  “What’s the idea?” Crane asked. “I thought we agreed that she wasn’t to call—wasn’t to get in touch with me until I was ready to start? You been putting ideas into her head? Is this the way you’re going to stop me?”

  Hallmyer said, “No—” and studiously examined the indigo horizon.

  Crane went into his study and picked up the phone.

  “Now, listen, darling,” he said without preamble, “there’s no sense getting alarmed now. I explained everything very carefully. Just before the ship crashes, I take to a parachute and float down as happy and gentle as Wynken, Blynken and Nod. I love you very much, and I’ll see you Wednesday when I start. So long—”

  “Good-bye, sweetheart,” Evelyn’s clear voice said, “and is that what you called me for?”

  “Called you!”

  A brown hulk disengaged itself from the hearth rug and lifted itself to strong legs. Umber, Crane’s Great Dane, sniffed and cocked an ear. Then he whined.

  “Did you say I called you?” Crane shouted.

  Umber’s throat suddenly poured forth a bellow. He reached Crane in a single bound, looked up into his face and whined and roared all at once.

  “Shut up, you monster!” Crane said. He pushed Umber away with his foot.

  “Give Umber a kick for me,” Evelyn laughed. “Yes, dear. Someone called and said you wanted to speak to me.”

  “They did, eh? Look, honey, I’ll call you back—”

  Crane hung up. He arose doubtfully and watched Umber’s uneasy actions. Through the windows, the late evening glow sent flickering shadows of orange light. Umber gazed at the light, sniffed, and bellowed again. Suddenly struck, Crane leaped to the window.

  Across the fields, a solid mass of flame thrust high into the air, and within it was the fast-crumbling walls of the workshop. Silhouetted against the blaze, the figures of half a dozen men darted and ran.

  “Good heavens!” Crane cried.

  He shot out of the cottage and, with Umber hard at his heels, sprinted toward the shed. As he ran, he could see the graceful nose of the spaceship within the core of heat, still looking cool and untouched. If only he could reach it before the flames softened its metal and started the rivets.

  The workmen trotted up to him, grimy and panting. Crane gaped at them in a mixture of fury and bewilderment.

  “Hallmyer!” he shouted. “Hallmyer!”

  Hallmyer pushed through the crowd. His eyes were wild and gleamed with triumph.

  “Too bad,” he said. “I’m sorry, Stephen—”

  “You swine!” Crane shouted. “You frightened old man!” He grasped Hallmyer by the lapels and shook him just once. Then he dropped him and started into the shed.

  Hallmyer cried something and an instant later a body hurtled against Crane’s calves and spilled him to the ground. He lurched to his feet, fists swinging. Umber was alongside, growling over the roar of the flames. Crane smashed a man in the face and saw him stagger back against a second. He lifted a knee in a vicious drive that sent the last man crumpling to the ground. Then he ducked his head and plunged into the shop.

  The scorch felt cool at first, but when he reached the ladder and began mounting to the port, he screamed with the agony of his burns. Umber was howling at the foot of the ladder, and Crane realized that the dog could never escape from the rocket blasts. He reached down and hauled Umber into the ship.

  Crane was reeling as he closed and locked the port. He retained consciousness barely long enough to settle himself in the spring hammock. Then instinct alone prompted his hands to reach out toward the control board. Instinct and the frenzied refusal to let his beautiful ship waste itself in the flames. He would fail—yes. But he would fail trying.

  His fingers tripped the switches. The ship shuddered and roared. And blackness descended over him.

  * * * *

  How long was he unconscious? There was no telling. Crane awoke with cold pressing against his face and body, and the sound of frightened yelps in his ears. Crane looked up and saw Umber tangled in the springs and straps of the hammock. His first impulse was to laugh; then suddenly he realized. He had looked up! He had looked up at the hammock.

  He was lying curled in the cup of the quartz nose. The ship had risen high—perhaps almost to Roche’s zone, to the limit of the Earth’s gravitational attraction, but then without guiding hands at the controls to continue its flight, had turned and was dropping back toward Earth. Crane peered through the crystal and gasped.

  Below him was the ball of the Earth. It looked three times the size of the moon. And it was no longer his Earth. It was a globe of fire mottled with black clouds. At the northernmost pole there was a tiny patch of white, and even as Crane watched, it was suddenly blotted over with hazy tones of red, scarlet, and crimson. Hallmyer had been right.

  He lay frozen in the cup of the nose for hours as the ship descended, watching the flames gradually fade away to leave nothing but the dense blanket of black around the Earth. He lay numb with horror, unable to understand—unable to reckon up the billions of people snuffed out, a green fair planet reduced to ashes and cinders. His family, home, friends, everything that was once dear and close to him—gone. He could not think of Evelyn.

  Air, whistling outside, awoke some instinct in him. The few shreds of reason left told him to go down with his ship and forget everything in the thunder and destruction, but the instinct of life forced him to his feet. He climbed up to the store chest and prepared for the landing. Parachute, a small oxygen tank—a knapsack of supplies. Only half aware of what he was doing, he dressed for the descent, buckled on the ’chute and opened the port. Umber whined pathetically, and he took the heavy dog in his arms and stepped out into space.

  But space hadn’t been so clogged, the way it was now. Then it had been difficult to breathe. But that was because the air had been rare—not filled with dry clogging grit like now.

  Every breath was a lungful of ground glass—or ashes—or cinders—

  * * * *

  The pieces of memory sagged apart. Abruptly he was in the present again—a dense, black present that hugged him with soft weight and made him fight for breath. Crane struggled in mad panic and then relaxed.

  It had happened before. A long time past he’d been buried deep under ashes when he’d stopped to remember. Weeks ago—or days—or months. Crane clawed with his hands, inching forward through the mound of cinders that the wind had thrown over him. Presently he emerged into the light again.

  The wind had died away. It was time to begin his crawl to the sea once more.

  The vivid pictures of his memory scattered again before the grim vista that stretched out ahead. Crane scowled. He remembered too much, and too often. He had the vague hope that if he remembered hard enough, he might change one of the things he had done—just a very little thing—and then all this would become untrue. He thought: It might help if everyone remembered and wished at the same time—but there isn’t any more everyone. I’m the only one. I’m the last memory on Earth. I’m the last life.

  He crawled. Elbows, knee, elbows, knee—And then Hallmyer was crawling alongside and making a great game of it. He chortled and plunged in the cinders like a happy sea lion.

  Crane said; “But why do we have to get to the sea?”

  Hallmyer blew a spume of ashes.

  “Ask her,” he said, pointing to Crane’s other side.

  Evelyn was there, crawling seriously, intently; mimicking Crane’s smallest action.

  “It’s because of our house,” she said. “You remember our house, darling? High on the cliff. We were going to live t
here forever and ever, breathing the ozone and taking morning dips. I was there when you left. Now you’re coming back to the house at the edge of the sea. Your beautiful flight is over, dear, and you’re coming back to me. We’ll live together, just we two, like Adam and Eve—”

  Crane said: “That’s nice.”

  Then Evelyn turned her head and screamed: “Oh, Stephen! Watch out!” and Crane felt the menace closing in on him again. Still crawling, he stared back at the vast gray plains of ash and saw nothing. When he looked at Evelyn again, he saw only his shadow, sharp and black. Presently it, too, faded away as the marching shaft of sunlight passed.

  But the dread remained. Evelyn had warned him twice, and she was always right. Crane stopped and turned and settled himself to watch. If he was really being followed, he would see whatever it was coming along his tracks.

  * * * *

  There was a painful moment of lucidity. It cleaved through his fever and bewilderment, bringing with it the sharpness and strength of a knife.

  I’m going mad, he thought. The corruption in my leg has spread to my brain. There is no Evelyn, no Hallmyer, no menace. In all this land there is no life but mine—and even ghosts and spirits of the underworld must have perished in the inferno that girdled the planet. No—there is nothing but me and my sickness. I’m dying—and when I perish, everything will perish. Only a mass of lifeless cinders will go on.

  But there was a movement.

  Instinct again. Crane dropped his head and played dead. Through slitted eyes he watched the ashen plains, wondering if death was playing tricks with his eyes. Another facade of rain was beating down toward him, and he hoped he could make sure before all vision was obliterated.

  Yes. There.

  A quarter mile back, a gray-brown shape was flitting along the gray surface. Despite the drone of the distant rain, Crane could hear the whisper of trodden cinders and see the little clouds kicking up. Stealthily he groped for the revolver in the knapsack as his mind reached feebly for explanations and recoiled from fear.

  The thing approached, and suddenly Crane squinted and understood. He recalled Umber kicking with fear and springing away from him when the ’chute landed them on the ashen face of the Earth.

  “Why, it’s Umber,” he murmured. He raised himself. The dog halted. “Here boy!” Crane croaked gayly. “Here, boy!”

  He was overcome with joy. He realized that a miserable loneliness had hung over him, almost a horrible sensation of oneness in emptiness. Now his was not the only life. There was another. A friendly life that could offer love and companionship. Hope kindled again.

  “Here, boy!” he repeated. “Come on, boy—”

  After a while he stopped trying to snap his fingers. The Great Dane hung back, showing fangs and a lolling tongue. The dog was emaciated to a skeleton and its eyes gleamed red and ugly in the dusk. As Crane called once more, mechanically, the dog snarled. Puffs of ash leaped beneath its nostrils.

  He’s hungry, Crane thought, that’s all. He reached into the knapsack and at the gesture the dog snarled again. Crane withdrew the chocolate bar and laboriously peeled off the paper and silver foil. Weakly he tossed it toward Umber. It fell far short. After a minute of savage uncertainty, the dog advanced slowly and gabbled up the food. Ashes powdered its muzzle. It licked its chops ceaselessly and continued to advance on Crane.

  Panic jerked within him. A voice persisted: This is no friend. He has no love or companionship for you. Love and companionship have vanished from the land along with life. Now there is nothing left but hunger.

  “No—” Crane whispered. “That isn’t right. We’re the last of life on Earth. It isn’t right that we should tear at each other and seek to devour—”

  But Umber was advancing with a slinking sidle, and his teeth showed sharp and white. And even as Crane stared at him, the dog snarled and lunged.

  Crane thrust up an arm under the dog’s muzzle, but the weight of the charge carried him backward. He cried out in agony as his broken, swollen leg was struck by the weight of the dog. With his free right hand he struck weakly, again and again, scarcely feeling the grind of teeth gnawing his left arm. Then something metallic was pressed under him and he realized he was lying on the revolver he had let fall.

  He groped for it and prayed the cinders had not clogged its mechanism. As Umber let go his arm and tore at his throat, Crane brought the gun up and jabbed the muzzle blindly against the dog’s body. He pulled and pulled the trigger until the roars died away and only empty clicks sounded. Umber shuddered in the ashes before him, his body nearly shot in two. Thick scarlet stained the gray.

  Evelyn and Hallmyer looked down sadly at the broken animal. Evelyn was crying, and Hallmyer reached nervous fingers through his hair in the same old gesture.

  “This is the finish, Stephen,” he said. “You’ve killed part of yourself. Oh—you’ll go on living, but not all of you. You’d best bury that corpse, Stephen. It’s the corpse of your soul.”

  “I can’t,” Crane said. “The wind will blow the ashes away.”

  “Then burn it—”

  It seemed that they helped him thrust the dead dog into his knapsack. They helped him take off his clothes and pack them underneath. They cupped their hands around the matches until the cloth caught fire, and blew on the weak flame until it sputtered and burned limply. Crane crouched by the fire and nursed it until nothing was left but more gray ash. Then he turned and once again began crawling down the ocean bed. He was naked now. There was nothing left of what-had-been but his flickering little life.

  He was too heavy with sorrow to notice the furious rain that slammed and buffeted him, or the searing pains that were shooting through his blackened leg and up his hip. He crawled. Elbows, knee, elbows, knee—woodenly, mechanically, apathetic to everything. To the latticed skies, the dreary ashen plains, and even the dull glint of water that lay far ahead.

  He knew it was the sea—what was left of the old, or a new one in the making. But it would be an empty, lifeless sea that some day would lap against a dry lifeless shore. This would be a planet of rock and stone, of metal and snow and ice and water, but that would be all. No more life. He, alone, was useless. He was Adam, but there was no Eve.

  Evelyn waved gayly to him from the shore. She was standing alongside the white cottage with the wind snapping her dress to show the clean, slender lines of her figure. And when he came a little closer, she ran out to him and helped him. She said nothing—only placed her hands under his shoulders and helped him lift the weight of his heavy pain-ridden body. And so at last he reached the sea.

  It was real. He understood that. For even after Evelyn and the cottage had vanished, he felt the cool waters bathe his face. Quietly—Calmly—

  Here’s the sea, Crane thought, and here am I. Adam and no Eve. It’s hopeless.

  He rolled a little farther into the waters. They laved his torn body. Quietly—Calmly—

  He lay with face to the sky, peering at the high menacing heavens, and the bitterness within him welled up.

  “It’s not right!” he cried. “It’s not right that all this should pass away. Life is too beautiful to perish at the mad act of one mad creature—”

  Quietly the waters laved him. Quietly—calmly—

  The sea rocked him gently, and even the agony that was reaching up toward his heart was no more than a gloved hand. Suddenly the skies split apart—for the first time in all those months—and Crane stared up at the stars.

  Then he knew. This was not the end of life. There could never be an end to life. Within his body, within the rotting tissues that were rocking gently in the sea was the source of ten million-million lives. Cells—tissues—bacteria—endamcoeba—countless infinities of life that would take new root in the waters and live long after he was gone.

  They would live on his rotting remains. They would feed on each other. They would adapt themselves to the new environment and feed on the minerals and sediments washed into this new sea. They would grow, burgeon, evol
ve. Life would reach out to the lands once more. It would begin again the same old re-repeated cycle that had begun perhaps with the rotting corpse of some last survivor of interstellar travel. It would happen over and over in the future ages.

  And then he knew what had brought him back to the sea. There need be no Adam—no Eve. Only the sea, the great mother of life was needed. The sea had called him back to her depths that presently life might emerge once more, and he was content.

  Quietly the waters rocked him. Quietly—calmly—the mother of life rocked the last-born of the old cycle who would become the first-born of the new. And with glazing eyes, Stephen Crane smiled up at the stars, stars that were sprinkled evenly across the sky. Stars that had not yet formed into the familiar constellations, nor would they for another hundred million centuries.

  FOXY LADY, by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Al stared at the board, trying to concentrate, trying not to sweat.

  “This one’s for the grand prize, folks!” the MC announced, in those infuriatingly jovial tones he did so well. He gestured in the general direction of the display. “Are you ready, Al?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Al replied, trying to sound as if he were having fun, rather than struggling to hold down his lunch.

  Watching at home, he thought, you never saw how nervous the contestants were, or how small the studio was, or how that stupid board was knocked together out of plywood and cheap laminate.

  “Then you have thirty seconds—go!”

  The central two screens lit up.

  People. They were faces, two men.

  “Presidents,” he said, recognizing Ronald Reagan and John Kennedy. Kennedy disappeared, replaced by Marilyn Monroe. “Movie stars.” Reagan vanished, replaced by Madonna. “Blondes.”

  “Try again,” the MC called.