by Various
I am standing here on one foot like a dancer in a jammed movie, waiting for Time to start again or the world to end--
Like the little figure in the dance-instruction kit Dad got when I was seven, when you switched her off in the middle.
* * * * *
Like a dancer--
My weight shifts on to the forward foot. My arms swing up, forwards, back. I take one step, another.
Swing. Turn. Kick. Sideways.
Like the silly little dancer who could not get out of the plastic block; but I am moving forward little by little, even if I have to take three steps roundabout for every one in advance.
Arms, up. Turn, round. Leg, up. Straighten, out. Step.
Called the Dance of the Little Robot, for about three months Dad thought it was no end cute, till he caught on I was thinking so, too.
It is just about the only kind of dance you could do on shingle, I guess.
When this started I thought I might be going crazy, but I just had not had time to work it out. In terms of Psychology it goes like this; to shoot off a weapon a man needs a certain type of Stimulus like the sight of an enemy over the end of it. So if I do my best not to look like an enemy he will not get that Stimulus. Or put it another way most men think twice before shooting a girl in the middle of a dance. If I should happen to get away with this, nobody will believe his story, he won't believe it himself.
As for the chance of getting away with it, i.e., getting close enough to grab the gun or hit him with a rock or something, I know I would become a Stimulus to shooting before I did that but there are always the clouds, if one will only come back over the moon again.
I have covered half the distance.
Twenty feet from him, and he takes a quick step back.
Turn, kick, out, step. I am swinging round away from him, let's hope he finds it reassuring. I dare not look up but I think the light is dimming. Turn, kick, out, step. Boxing the compass. Coming round again.
And the cloud is coming over the moon, out of the corner of my eye I see darkness sweeping towards us--and I see his face of sheer horror as he sees it, too; he jumps back, swings up the weapon, and fires straight in my face.
And it is dark. So much for Psychology.
There is a clatter and other sounds--
Well, quite a lot for Psychology maybe, because at twenty feet he seems to have missed me.
* * * * *
I pick myself up and touch something which apparently is his weapon, gun or whatever. I leave it and hare back to the stretcher, next-to fall over it but stop just in time, and switch on the antigrav. Up; level it; now where to? The cliffs enclosing the bay are about thirty yards off to my left and they offer the only cover.
The shingle is relatively level; I make good time till I stumble against a rock and nearly lose the stretcher. I step up on to the rock and see the cliff as a blacker mass in the general darkness, only a yard away. I edge the stretcher round it.
It is almost snatched out of my hand by a gust of wind. I pull it back and realize that in the bay I have been sheltered; there is pretty near half a gale blowing across the face of the cliff.
Voices and footsteps, away back among the rocks where the man came from.
If the clouds part again they will see me, sure as shooting.
I take a hard grip on the stretcher and scramble round the edge of the cliff.
After the first gust the wind is not so bad; for the most part it is trying to press me back into the cliff. The trouble is that I can't see. I have to shuffle my foot forward, rubbing one shoulder against the cliff to feel where it is because I have no hand free.
After a few yards I come to an impasse; something more than knee high; boulder, ridge, I can't tell.
I weigh on the edge of the stretcher and tilt it up to get it over the obstacle. With the antigrav full on it keeps its momentum and goes on moving up. I try to check it, but the wind gets underneath.
It is tugging to get away; I step blindly upwards in the effort to keep up with it. One foot goes on a narrow ledge, barely a toe hold. I am being hauled upwards. I bring the other foot up and find the top of a boulder, just within reach. Now the first foot--
And now I am on top of the boulder, but I have lost touch with the cliff and the full force of the wind is pulling the stretcher upwards. I get one arm over it and fumble underneath for the control of the antigrav; I must give it weight and put it down on this boulder and wait for the wind to drop.
Suddenly I realize that my weight is going; bending over the stretcher puts me in the field of the antigrav. A moment later another gust comes, and I realize I am rising into the air.
Gripping the edge of the stretcher with one hand I reach out the other, trying to grasp some projection on the face of the cliff. Not being able to see I simply push farther away till it is out of reach.
We are still rising.
I pull myself up on the stretcher; there is just room for my toes on either side of M'Clare's legs. The wind roaring in my ears makes it difficult to think.
Rods of light slash down at me from the edge of the cliff. For a moment all I can do is duck; then I realize we are still well below them, but rising every moment. The cliff-face is about six feet away; the wind reflecting from it keeps us from being blown closer.
I must get the antigrav off. I let myself over the side of the stretcher, hanging by one hand, and fumble for the controls. I can just reach. Then I realize this is no use. Antigrav controls are not meant to go off with a click of the finger; they might get switched off accidentally. To work the switch and the safety you must have two hands, or one hand in the optimum position. My position is about as bad as it could be. I can stroke the switch with one finger; no more.
I haul myself back on to the stretcher and realize we are only about six feet under the beam of light. Only one thing left. I feel in my pocket for the Andite. Stupidly, I am still also bending over the outlet valve of the helmet, trying to see whether M'Clare is still breathing or not.
The little white cigar is not fused. I have to hold on with one hand. In the end I manage to stick the Andite between thumb and finger-roots of that hand while I use the other to find the fuse and stick it over the Andite. The shortest; three minutes.
I think the valve is still moving--
Then something drops round me; I am hauled tight against the stretcher; we are pulled strongly downwards with the wind buffeting and snatching, banged against the edge of something, and pulled through into silence and the dark.
For a moment I do not understand; then I recognize the feel of Fragile Cargo, still clamping me to the stretcher, and I open my mouth and scream and scream.
Clatter of feet. Hatch opens. Fragile Cargo goes limp.
I stagger to my feet. Faint light through the hatch; B's head. I hold out the Andite stick and she turns and shouts; and a panel slides open in the wall so that the wind comes roaring in.
I push the stick through and the wind snatches it away and it is gone.
After that--
* * * * *
After that, for a while, nothing, I suppose, though I have no recollection of losing consciousness; only without any sense of break I find I am flat on my back on one of the seats in the cabin of the hopper.
I sit up and say "How--"
B who is sitting on the floor beside me says that when the broadcaster was activated of course they came at once, only while they were waiting for the boat to reach land whole squads of land cars arrived and started combing the area, and some came up on top of the cliff and shone their headlights out over the sea so Mr. Yardo had to lurk against the cliff face and wait till I got into a position where he could pick me up and it was frightfully clever of me to think of floating up on antigrav--
I forgot about the broadcaster.
I forgot about the hopper come to that, there seemed to be nothing in the world except me and the stretcher and the enemy.
Stretcher.
I say, "Is M'Clare--"
&nb
sp; At which moment Mr. Yardo turns from the controls with a wide smile of triumph and says "Eighteen twenty-seven, girls!" and the world goes weightless and swings upside down.
Then still with no sense of any time-lapse I am lying in the big lighted hold, with the sound of trampling all round: it is somehow filtered and far off and despite the lights there seems to be a globe of darkness around my head. I hear my own voice repeating, "M'Clare? How's M'Clare?"
A voice says distantly, without emphasis, "M'Clare? He's dead."
The next time I come round it is dark. I am vaguely aware of having been unconscious for quite a while.
There is a single thread of knowledge connecting this moment with the last: M'Clare's dead.
This is the central factor: I seem to have been debating it with myself for a very long time.
I suppose the truth is simply that the Universe never guarantees anything; life, or permanence, or that your best will be good enough.
The rule is that you have to pick yourself up and go on; and lying here in the dark is not doing it.
I turn on my side and see a cluster of self-luminous objects including a light switch. I reach for it.
How did I get into a hospital?
On second thoughts it is a cabin in the ship, or rather two of them with the partition torn out, I can see the ragged edge of it. There is a lot of paraphernalia around; I climb out to have a look.
Holy horrors what's happened? Someone borrowed my legs and put them back wrong; my eyes also are not functioning well, the light is set at Minimum and I am still dazzled. I see a door and make for it to get Explanations from somebody.
Arrived, I miss my footing and stumble against the door and on the other side someone says "Hello, Lizzie. Awake at last?"
I think my heart stops for a moment. I can't find the latch. I am vaguely aware of beating something with my fists, and then the door gives, sticks, gives again and I stumble through and land on all fours the other side of it.
Someone is calling: "Lizzie! Are you hurt? Where the devil have they all got to? Liz!"
I sit up and say, "They said you were dead!"
"Who did?"
"I ... I ... someone in the hold. I said How's M'Clare? and they said you were dead."
M'Clare frowns and says gently, "Come over here and sit down quietly for a bit. You've been dreaming."
Have I? Maybe the whole thing was a dream--but if so how far does it go? Going down in the heli? The missile? The boat? Crawling through the black tunnel of a broken ship?
No, because he is sitting in a sort of improvised chaise longue and his legs are evidently strapped in place under the blanket; he is fumbling with the fastening or something.
* * * * *
I say "Hey! Cut that out!"
He straightens up irritably.
"Don't you start that, Lysistrata. I've been suffering the attentions of the damnedest collection of amateur nurses who ever handled a thermocouple, for over a week. I don't deny they've been very efficient, but when it comes to--"
Over a week?
He nods. "My dear Lizzie, we left Incognita ten days ago. Amateur nursing again! They have some unholy book of rules which says that for Exposure, Exhaustion and Shock the best therapy is sleep. I don't doubt it, but it goes on to say that in extreme cases the patient has been known to benefit by as much as two weeks of it. I didn't find out that they were trying it on you until about thirty-six hours ago when I began inquiring why you weren't around. They kept me under for three days--in fact until their infernal Handbook said it was time for my leg muscles to have some exercise. Miss Lammergaw was the ring-leader."
No wonder my legs feel as though someone exchanged the muscles for cotton wool, just wait till I get hold of Kirsty.
If it hadn't been for her, I shouldn't have spent ten days remembering, even in my sleep, that--
I say, "Hell's feathers, it was you!"
M'Clare makes motions as though to start getting out of his chair, looking seriously alarmed. I say, "It was your voice! When I asked--"
M'Clare, quite definitely, starts to blush. Not much, but some.
"Lizzie, I believe you're right. I have a sort of vague memory of someone asking how I was--and I gave what I took to be a truthful answer. I remember it seemed quite inconceivable that I could be alive. In fact I still don't understand it. Neither Yardo nor Miss Laydon could tell me. How did you get me out of that ship?"
Well, I do my best to explain, glossing over one or two points; at the finish he closes his eyes and says nothing for a while.
Then he says, "So except for this one man who saw you, you left no traces at all?"
Not that I know of, but--
"Do you know, five minutes later there were at least twenty men in that bay, most of them scientists? They don't seem to have found anything suspicious. Visibility was bad, of course, and you can't leave foot-prints in shingle--"
Hold on, what is all this?
M'Clare says, "We've had two couriers while you were asleep. Yes, I know it's not ordinarily possible for a ship on Mass-Time to get news. One of these days someone will have an interesting problem in Cultural Engineering, working out how to integrate some of these Space Force secrets into our economic and social structure without upsetting the whole of the known volume. Though courier boats make their crews so infernally sick I doubt whether the present type will ever come into common use. Anyway, we've had transcripts of a good many broadcasts from Incognita, the last dated four days ago; and as far as we can tell they're interpreting Gilgamesh just as we meant them to.
"The missile, by the way, was experimental, waiting to be test-fired the next day. The man in charge saw Gilgamesh on the alarm screens and got trigger-happy. The newscasters were divided as to whether he should be blamed or praised; they all seem to feel he averted a menace, at least temporarily, but some of them think the invaders could have been captured alive.
"The first people on the scene came from a scientific camp; you and Miss Laydon saw their lights on the way down. You remember that area is geophysically interesting? Well, by extraordinary good luck an international group was there studying it. They rushed straight off to the site of the landing--they actually saw Gilgamesh, and she registered on some of their astronomical instruments, too. They must be a reckless lot. What's more, they started trying to locate her on the sea bottom the next day. Found both pieces; they're still trying to locate the nose. They were all set to try raising the smaller piece when their governments both announced in some haste that they were sending a properly equipped expedition. Jointly.
"There's been no mention in any newscast of anyone seeing fairies or sea maidens--I expect the poor devil thinks you were a hallucination."
So we brought it off.
* * * * *
I am very thankful in a distant sort of way, but right now the Incognitans have no more reality for me than the Lost Kafoozalum.
M'Clare came through alive.
I could spend a good deal of time just getting used to that fact, but there is something I ought to say and I don't know how.
I inquire after his injuries and learn they are healing nicely.
I look at him and he is frowning.
He says, "Lizzie. Just before my well-meant but ineffective attempt at suicide--"
Here it comes.
I say quick If he is worrying about all that nonsense he talked in order to distract my attention, forget it; I have.
Silence, then he says wearily, "I talked nonsense, did I?"
I say there is no need to worry, under the circumstances anyone would have a perfect right to be raving off his Nut.
I then find I cannot bear this conversation any longer so I get up saying I expect he is tired and I will call someone.
I get nearly to the door when
"No, Lizzie! you can't let that crew loose on me just in order to change the conversation. Come back here. I appreciate your wish to spare my feelings, but it's wasted. We'll have this out here and now.
/>
"I remember quite well what I said, and so do you: I said that I loved you. I also said that I had intended to ask you to marry me as soon as you ceased to be one of my pupils. Well, the results of Finals were officially announced three days ago.
"Oh, I suppose I always knew what the answer would be, but I didn't want to spend the rest of my life wondering, because I never had the guts to ask you.
"You don't dislike me as you used to--you've forgiven me for making you come to Russett--but you still think I'm a cold-blooded manipulator of other people's minds and emotions. So I am; it's part of the job.
"You're quite right to distrust me for that, though. It is the danger of this profession, that we end up by looking on everybody and everything as a subject for manipulation. Even in our personal lives. I always knew that: I didn't begin to be afraid of it until I realized I was in love with you.
"I could have made you love me, Lizzie. I could! I didn't try. Not that I didn't want love on those terms, or any terms. But to use professional ... tricks ... in private life, ends by destroying all reality. I always treated you exactly as I treated my other students--I think. But I could have made you think you loved me ... even if I am twice your age--"
This I cannot let pass, I say "Hi! According to College rumor you cannot be more than thirty-six; I'm twenty-three."
M'Clare says in a bemused sort of way He will be thirty-seven in a couple of months.
I say, "I will be twenty-four next week and your arithmetic is still screwy; and here is another datum you got wrong. I do love you. Very much."
He says, "Golden Liz."
Then other things which I remember all right, I shall keep them to remember any time I am tired, sick, cold, hungry Hundred-and-ninety--; but they are not for writing down.
Then I suppose at some point we agreed it is time for me to go, because I find myself outside the cabin and there is Colonel Delano-Smith.
He makes me a small speech about various matters ending that he hears he has to congratulate me.
Huh?
Oh, Space and Time did one of those unimitigated so-and-sos, my dear classmates, leave M'Clare's communicator on?
The colonel says he heard I did very well in my Examinations.