Basically, she was Madge, but she embodied a dozen odd little improvements that he had long wished Madge had had.
Her hair was blonde, as was Madge’s, yet it was as he had always wanted it to be—a warm gold, instead of Madge’s pale ash. Everything else about her was the same. Her brows were dark in striking contrast to her hair, and her eyes were a dear, limpid grey. Her nose was shorter, her lips full and rich. Her body, garbed in a brief, white kirtle which was caught about the waist by a silver cord, was sturdier, lithe, and firm. She was, in his eyes at least, the perfect woman.
Abruptly, he realized that he had never really loved Madge. He had thought he had, but that was only because she had come so near to being his ideal. He knew now that no man who is dissatisfied with a woman in a number of little ways can ever really love her. There can be understanding and companionship, yes, but none of the thrilling pleasure and satisfaction that comes with the knowledge that she is his picture of perfection come to life.
The mist of thought faded from Rand’s vision. The girl before him leaped once more into clarity. He saw that she was smiling in a shy, half-puzzled way. And then she spoke.
“Hello, Rand,” she said, and her voice was sweet and soft. “Welcome to Aviara.”
The confusion of Rand’s mind had settled somewhat. But now, like a wind stirring leaves which had almost come to rest, her words started his thoughts whirling again.
Then it was true! He was in Aviara! But—but it was somehow wrong. He hadn’t died. He knew he wasn’t dead now.
And his name. She had been expecting him!
Rand’s winged ideal extended a perfect, rounded arm.
“Come,” she invited. “Let me show you that which has been prepared against your arrival.”
Mechanically, Rand stepped forward to take the small hand held out to him. He saw it come to rest within his, but disappointment swept through him as he felt no sensation of contact or weight. It was strangely impalpable—unreal, as though she were a vision which he could see and hear but could not touch.
He saw her gray eyes darken, as if with the same disappointment which he felt himself. But her red lips parted in a smile.
“You have no wings,” she said, “and so we shall have to walk. But it is not far.”
“Am I supposed to have—wings?” Rand inquired hesitantly.
The girl looked up at him, her eyes solemn and still dark. “It is usual,” she answered. Abruptly the limpid grey of her gaze returned. “But perhaps there has been a change. Yes—it must be so.”
“A change? Do you mean that conditions here are not quite constant?”
“Yes. You see, Aviara is still very new, and with continuous additions of those who believe come many changes. Everyone has his own idea of how things should be, and these must be satisfied. But stability will come eventually.”
Rand clutched eagerly at the bit of hope which the girl presented. A change—there must have been. He wanted so desperately to believe. But he glanced again at the small hand lying so unsubstantially within his, and, bitterly, he knew this wasn’t the answer.
He had an unyielding sense of strangeness, unreality, as though he lived in a dream. He felt that he might wake at any moment and find himself on his cot in barracks. But there was a glaring inconsistency. He had taken off in his P-38. He had accompanied the bombers deep into Germany. They had been attacked by an intercepting squadron of Messerschmitts. That part of it could not be a dream.
Perhaps, he thought speculatively, he had been struck by a chance fragment of metal and all this was taking place in his unconscious mind in much the same manner that the events of a past life rush by in the mind of a drowning man. But the vibration, the brief pain, the flare of light—he could remember no other sensations than these. And the grass, firm and crisp beneath his feet, the breeze that blew warm and fragrant against his face and hands—these were very real. It was the intangibility of his lovely companion that disturbed him, he realized.
Rand glanced at the girl. She glided silently at his side, her exquisite legs moving with easy grace. Her gleaming wings were folded compactly against the back of her brief kirtle, and her small face was pensive.
“What is your name?” he asked abruptly.
The girl turned to look at him, her grey eyes widened with surprise. “Why, Madge, of course,” she replied.
“But you aren’t Madge!” Rand burst out involuntarily. The next instant he wished that he had slapped himself instead of having said the words.
The girl stopped abruptly, her features stricken and hurt. “But—but that is what I have been told. If you wish it otherwise, that can be arranged.”
“No!” Rand said quickly. “Please don’t misunderstand. You see, I know a girl by the name of Madge, but you’re so much different that I had expected you to have an entirely different name also. I don’t want you to feel that I was denying that you are the person you claim to be.”
“I see. But when I was told that I was Madge, it was thought that this was as you would have wanted it.”
“Told? Who told you?”
Her golden head shook vaguely. “I was just—told.” Rand decided not to pursue the matter further. He knew that she had been hurt deeply by his thoughtlessness, and he had an aching sense of contrition. He wanted desperately to make amends.
“Look,” he began. “I’m terribly sorry for having made you feel bad about this. I’ll be very glad to call you Madge, if you’ve been told that was your name.”
The girl smiled wanly. “But won’t that be in conflict with your memories of—of this other Madge?”
“Why, no—”
He was a little surprised to find that the admission was true. Memory of the Madge to whom he was engaged had paled in almost two years of war, and this new, different Madge had eclipsed it in shadow.
“Do you not love her, then?” the girl asked, half eagerly, half shy.
Rand shook his head. “No—not in the way you probably mean. I grew up with her, you see, and she was a friend and a sister all in one. It’s hard to part from friends you’ve known most of your life, and so I sort of mistook this reluctance for love. We became engaged, but since then I’ve found out that I don’t love her the way a man should love the girl he is going to marry. I had a different girl in mind. Someone—someone like you.”
This last left him in a sudden rush. He had a momentary sense of confusion. He passed a swift glance at the girl, and was amazed to see her face covered with a rosy glow.
They walked on in silence. For the first time Rand became conscious of his surroundings. From the air the place had seemed a wilderness, but now he saw there was a certain order and arrangement to it, like a vast and wonderful park. And except for its size and its lack of the various eyesores of civilization, it was not much different from the many other parks he had known. Trees, flowers, and shrubs were kinds which he had long been familiar, as were the birds, bees, and butterflies. There were squirrels, too, bold, saucy little creatures who regarded him with bright, black eyes.
A great peace and calm seemed to emanate from the place. Rand felt it like a comforting blanket of warmth. But there was no responding mood within him. He was unable to shake himself free of the feeling that he didn’t belong.
They rounded a group of trees, and Rand suddenly found himself gazing at the cottage a short distance away. Once again sight of it brought a catch to his throat. It was the very kind of cottage which he had long dreamed of sharing with the girl he would marry. And it was just as he had mentally planned it would be. Every line and detail was there, from the green shutters on the windows, to the flagstone path leading to the door.
Looking at the cottage made something ache within Rand. It was as though it spoke to him, telling him, in a silent, little voice, that it needed just his touch to make it perfect. It was so new and somehow so unfinished. He could see a dozen odd l
ittle things that needed to be done.
The girl beside him suddenly spoke.
“Do you like it?” she asked, watching his face.
“Like it? Why, it’s ideal! It’s just the sort of house I’d always dreamed of having some day. And it needs just the sort of things I’ve always wanted to do on a house of my own.” Rand pointed eagerly. “Look—I could plant hedges around the front, shrubs there, and flowers over there. And I could start ivy vines growing around the windows and the door, and—” He broke off abruptly, and his hand fell listlessly to his side. He felt foolish and futile. The inescapable feeling that he didn’t belong here rose to mock him.
He looked hopelessly at the girl, and her eyes fell sadly before his. Something vital between them, too, was lacking.
“Come,” she said. “Let us go in.”
A protest rose to his lips. What good would it do? This was not for him. Yet he followed the graceful figure of the girl as she started up the flagstone path. Some fascination seemed to draw him on against his will.
Inside it was the same. His mental planning had not gone as far as interior decorations, but the furnishings were as he would have chosen them himself. And again he found signs of uncompletedness, as though things within the house also awaited his touch. The furniture was not arranged, and the pictures were not yet hung. He reached out to pull a chair into place, but his fingers passed through the arm as though it were nothing more substantial than shadow. He shrugged forlornly and went on.
One of the rooms had been set aside as a den, and here he found pipes, slippers, and his favorite brand of tobacco. The walls were lined with books, all on his favorite subjects. Another room was fitted out as a workshop. There were tools and materials here for all the things a man loves to do. Rand’s fingers ached to touch them, but he did not dare. They were not for him.
Rand had no wish to look further. Heavily he led the way outside. He had a feeling of dejection so deep that it amounted almost to grief.
Rand pulled off his helmet and stood looking dully at the stones of the path. He looked up as the girl came to stand beside him.
“What is wrong?” she asked gently. “You are not happy. Do you not like Aviara?”
“Of course I do,” he answered quickly. “I think it’s a wonderful place. But don’t you see? I don’t belong here.”
The girl’s dark brows drew together in bewilderment.
“But if you believe, you must belong.” Of a sudden her hand crept to her white throat. “Can it be that—that you don’t believe?”
“I do—I always have. You don’t understand. It’s just that I’m not supposed to be here yet. I’m not—that is, I haven’t died yet.”
“Oh!” The sound was like a moan. Her golden head bent until her face was hidden from him.
Rand felt the poignant desire to take her into his arms, or at least even to touch her. But he knew this could not be. He looked miserably at the helmet which he twisted about in his hands.
Finally he glanced up.
“Madge, what am I going to do? I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go back. This world isn’t real to me, and I’m needed in mine.”
Abruptly the girl held up a hand, her golden head turned to one side as though listening.
“You’ve been heard, Rand,” she explained. “Wait.”
He watched her wonderingly. And then he looked around him, startled by the sudden realization of a change in his surroundings. The music of the birds and bees was gone. The breeze no longer blew against his face and hands, filling his nostrils with fragrance. The sunlight was dimmed, its radiance as pale as though seen through fog. Even the outlines of the girl had become indistinct.
Rand felt that a veil had dropped between him and Aviara. His former sense of unreality swept back upon him in a rush. Awed and uncomprehending, he stood there. It was as if he were isolated in a void. Once he seemed to hear a burst of glorious music from far away, but it went too quickly for him to be sure.
The girl stood motionless, listening to something which Rand couldn’t hear. Her grey eyes were very wide, her small face intent. And then her hands crept to her cheeks, and her face bent slowly to her breast.
Sounds drifted back to Rand’s ears, but the strange vagueness of the world around him persisted. Then the girl looked at him, her eyes filled with tears.
“Madge—what is it?” he asked in bewildered concern. “What happened?”
“I have been spoken to,” she replied dully. “You are free to go back, Rand.”
“I see.” His gaze dropped once more to the helmet in his hands. The knowledge that he could return brought no answering surge of joy within him. He didn’t really want to go back, but there was nothing else that he could do. Aviara was not yet for him, and he still had a duty to perform. The mission hadn’t been finished, and his comrades doubtlessly needed him badly.
“A mistake has been made, as you must have realized,” the girl continued. “It was foreknown that you were to die on the bombing mission. The exact way of your death and the very moment were foreknown also—just at the instant that the two enemy aircraft converged upon you. But you were brought here seconds too soon.
“Now you must go back. These words ‘war, enemy, and death’ are not to be used in Aviara, and I have been told that your presence here, alive, has already created grave disturbances.”
Rand hesitated in the act of turning. There was something that he wanted to say very badly.
“Madge,”, he began falteringly, “I—I hope you won’t be hurt too much over this. We were made for each other—and I don’t want you to feel that there was a mistake in this, too. Please believe me, dear—I do love you.”
“And I love you,” she whispered. “This is as was meant to be, Rand.”
Instinctively, yearningly, he reached out for her. But he remembered and let his arms drop back limply to his sides. “I’ll be back, Madge,” he declared suddenly. “It’s sure death back there. I’ve no chance of pulling through safely.”
The girl shook her head mournfully. “It is not likely that you’ll be back.”
“Why—what do you mean? Won’t I be allowed to return here?”
“Aviara will always be here for those who believe, Rand.”
“But, Madge, then why—”
“I shall explain what I was told. You see, for most men, at any given time in the war, there is always more than one certainty of death. But for some, at certain times, there is one—and only one. If they escape this one, they will be in no further danger until the next time.
“Your mission, for you, was one of those times. Only one way of death was seen for you—that by the two enemy aircraft. When you return now, you will be forewarned and forearmed—and you will escape. Thus you will be in no further danger from your enemies, until the next time, of course. But, Rand, it is foreseen that your mission will mean the hastening of the end of the war. It will be successful, and so there will be no next time for you.”
Rand stared at her, stunned. He didn’t know whether to be dismayed or glad. For one thing, the mission would be successful. The war would be over sooner. But it meant also that return to Aviara was virtually closed to him. A sudden idea struck him.
“Madge—I know what I can do!”
The golden head nodded slowly, sadly. “I know what you are thinking, Rand. It will not work. Mere suicide will avail you nothing. Remember—Aviara is here only for those who believe. But more important, it is here—only for those who die in the line of duty.”
Rand felt frustrated, trapped. “But, Madge, what in the world can I do, then?”
The girl’s slender shoulders lifted in a hopeless shrug. She bit her lips, but slow tears welled from her eyes.
“Look,” Rand pursued doggedly. “You and Aviara will always be here—as long as I believe?”
“Yes, Rand.”
; “Then suppose I got a job as a passenger or freight pilot after the war. Suppose I died in the line of duty. Would I still be able to return here?”
“Yes, Rand,” she responded again.
“Then I’ll do that, dear. And you’ll wait, won’t you? A few years more or less in Aviara can’t make much difference.”
“I’ll wait.” Suddenly her gaze dropped. “But suppose you are unable to find that kind of a job, Rand. Suppose you become a businessman, instead. In your world the years bring forgetfulness, Rand. Memory of Aviara and myself will dim, even as memory of the other Madge has already dimmed within you. What, then, if you became gradually to believe in a businessman’s paradise?”
“That won’t happen!” he protested. “I won’t let it happen.” Abruptly, he broke off, staring about him. The world, already dim and grey, had begun to darken. Distant vistas were vanishing behind a rising tide of night. Nearer objects were becoming shadowy and vague. The trees writhed like smoke columns in a breeze, and the figure of Madge was only a pale blur before his eyes. Her voice reached him as though from far away.
“Rand—dearest—goodbye—”
And then Rand saw his P-38 before him. His ears were filled with a rushing and a rumble like thunder. Thick, ebon clouds boiled around him. Of Madge or the cottage there was nothing more to be seen.
He pulled on his helmet and vaulted into the cockpit. He turned on the ignition, then jerked the throttle. The engines thundered into life, and the propeller began turning over. Once again thunder rumbled. A swift wind sprang up and began keening past the plane. Rand felt his P-38 moving, rolling, then lifting.
There was another rumble of thunder over the rushing of the wind. Once again Rand felt the vibration shake the P-38. Again something that was like an electric current ran through his body. And then, abruptly, the last vestige of Aviara was gone. He was back in the battle, and the world was one of stabbing searchlights and exploding anti-aircraft shells, and the drone of airplane engines mingled wildly with the rattle of machine guns. Two Nazi Messerschmitts were hurtling at him, one from the front and one from the side, and tongues of flaming tracer were licking toward his cockpit.
The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK Page 12