Ayers nodded solemnly. “It was a strange sense of detachment, as if someone else instead of myself were guiding the ship.”
They stared tensely at each other. Tillman moved his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “Just another of the inexplicable things about this world. At any rate, it apparently isn’t dangerous.”
“Then we’ll continue with our search in the morning,” Ayers stated. “We covered the sector between the north and the east pretty thoroughly. In the morning we’ll try again in the opposite directions. If we don’t find the city—well, we’ll be the last members of Homo sapiens.”
Morehouse said hesitantly, “Commander Ayers, I’ve been wondering if perhaps we haven’t landed on the right planet but the wrong continent. Perhaps the city is located on some stretch of land on another part of the planet.”
“No chance of that,” Ayers answered. “Adulonn contains only one large continent. The rest is ocean, dotted with small islands. We’re where the city should be, all right.”
“What in the name of the galaxy could have happened to the city anyway?” Tillman growled puzzledly.
Naeda’s slender figure appeared in the door of the airlock. “Back at last? I’ve had food waiting for hours.”
The men crowded eagerly into the ship. Conley followed slowly, feeling neglected and alone.
After they had finished eating, Conley, Thurmer and Gage, joined by Ayers, rigged a floodlight and returned to work on the crushed-in bow of the Sol Star. Conley did not intend to waste any time in sleeping, and he knew the others felt the same way.
The floodlight attracted the natives, but as night deepened they returned again to the village. Conley sensed the pressure of the darkness, alien and subtly menacing. He worked doggedly, his arms aching from the continuous jolting of the pneumatic hammer. Once he noticed a movement at the door of the airlock, and he glanced up quickly in the hope it might be Naeda. But it was only Tillman, frowning, and obviously too restless to sleep. As Conley looked, he saw Tillman give a start and stare unbelievingly into the night.
“Look!” Tillman gasped. “A city!”
Conley whirled with the others. And he saw it again. From the startled sounds that broke the abrupt silence, Conley realized the others saw it, too.
The city glowed with a multitude of colors against the backdrop of darkness. They were lost in the midst of it, so many ants in a forest of great towers and spires that shone with all the gorgeous hues of a rainbow. But the city flickered and shimmered, unreal and unsubstantial. It was a ghost city materializing in the night. As they stared at it, held rigidly in the cold grip of awe the outlines of the city quivered like a candle flame in a breeze, faded, were suddenly gone. Only the darkness was left, a black monster held at bay by the white hands of the floodlight.
Tillman’s voice was a stone splashing into a pool of silence. “In the name of the galaxy, what…what was that?”
“An illusion—a mirage,” Conley said, hardly conscious that he spoke. “Ayers—Commander Ayers—and I saw it when we first arrived here. I saw it again this afternoon.”
“So that was why—” Thurmer looked at Conley as though seeing him for the first time. “I thought you had gone crazy. Now I’m not so sure of my own sanity.”
Conley and the others returned thoughtfully to work on the Sol Star. Occasionally he glanced up sharply, half expecting to see the spectral city again. But there was only the great roof of darkness, propped up by the single slender pillar of the floodlight.
Morning came with all the familiar splendor of a Terran dawn. Repair work on the ship had not slackened. Thurmer wisely had divided the work into shifts, so that each man could have frequent periods of rest. A generous use of energy-concentrates stayed any further onslaughts of exhaustion.
When the sun had risen sufficiently high, Ayers made preparations for another search party. He and Tillman manned one of the two auxiliary ships as on the preceding day. This time, however, Naeda begged to be included. Thurmer seconded her plea, claiming it would free Osgood to help in the repair work on the Sol Star. Ayers consented, and Naeda joined Morehouse in the second auxiliary vessel. A short time later, the two ships took off, dwindled into the blue-green sky.
Conley watched them vanish with a nagging ache inside him. He wondered if Naeda’s purpose in accompanying Morehouse had been of a purely cooperative nature. After all, he thought, Morehouse was young, and good-looking in a scholarly sort of way. During the trip to Adulonn, though, Conley could not recall Naeda having shown any other than a friendly interest in Morehouse. The girl, in fact, had spent most of her time with Conley. Her name had written itself on his heart from the very first moment of their meeting, and second only to the burning urgency of his mission had been the hope that he might add a “Mrs.” before it. And it had seemed that he had excellent chances of doing so—before the crash had spoiled everything.
Conley considered his situation bitterly. By having ordered Ayers to ignore the warning of the radar set he had destroyed the last hope of humanity, lost both Naeda and his position as commander. The fact that he was not entirely to blame was of little importance. All that mattered was that it had happened.
* * * *
Afternoon was waning when one of the two auxiliary ships returned. Its occupants were Ayers and Tillman.
Ayers’ face was grooved deeply with lines of weariness. He shook his head in response to queries from Osgood, Gage, and Thurmer. “No luck,” he reported. “I’m becoming convinced there never was a city here. The one we saw last night was the result of a mass delusion or something of the sort, brought on by our intense desire to find the city of the Adulei.”
Tillman grunted, “I’m certain that one thing was no delusion.” He looked significantly at Osgood. “Commander Ayres and I had that strange experience again. The sensation of being guided.”
Ayers nodded gravely. “Wish I knew what to make of it.”
Conley resumed his work, temporarily interrupted by the return of Ayers and Tillman. He glanced repeatedly at the sky. Darkness was approaching, and as yet there was no sign of Naeda and Morehouse.
Conley’s worry communicated itself to the other men. They, too, began watching the sky. But when the sun finally sank behind distant hills on the horizon the remaining auxiliary ship had not put in an appearance.
Ayers voiced his fear aloud. “Hope Morehouse and the girl didn’t get lost. If so, perhaps they’ll see the floodlight and thus be guided back.”
But though all waited anxiously through the night, Naeda and Morehouse did not return. Morning found them tense with anxiety.
“We’ll have to search for Morehouse and the girl,” Ayers decided. “I know the general direction in which they started out. Maybe the same thing happened to them that happened to the Sol Star.”
Conley felt chilled. The auxiliary ships were fragile. If Naeda and Morehouse had crashed, they might be badly hurt. Conley thought of Naeda lying somewhere, crushed and broken, needing help, and concern burst out of him in abrupt speech.
“Ayers—you’ve got to let me go along. I know how to handle an auxiliary ship, and—”
“Trying to shirk repairs on the Sol Star, eh?” Thurmer growled. “Well, listen, Conley, you’re responsible for wrecking the ship, and if Commander Ayers has a sense of justice he’ll see that you stay here and keep working.”
“I’m sure Mr. Thurmer is quite right,” Tillman affirmed.
Ayers shrugged. “Guess you’ll just have to stay here, Conley. Ambassador Tillman will go with me.”
All Conley could feel was a dull anger, too tired to take form in words. What fight he might have possessed was buried beneath an overwhelming weight of weariness.
Ayers and Tillman paused only long enough to load an emergency medical kit aboard the auxiliary. Then they took off.
Conley forced his leaden body back to work. The damaged bow of the Sol Star
was being forced back into a semblance of its former shape. Soon they would be able to use atomic torches and fuse the shattered edges together. But Conley thought of the impaired engines, and the utter hopelessness of the situation struck into him with abrupt force. The bow had been possible of repair—but the engines needed certain specialized parts. To replace these, complicated machinery and a variety of materials were needed—things which they did not have.
The Empire—the human race—was doomed. Conley knew it as an inescapable certainty. He realized that the other men were deliberately keeping themselves blind to that fact, and he wondered how long it would be before they awoke to it.
The only break in the monotony of labor was a sudden, startled gasp from Osgood. Conley, glancing up in response caught a glimpse of the mirage city. But this time its outlines vanished so quickly that a moment later he was not too sure that he had seen it.
The natives were present about the ship that day, sitting about in groups and watching the work on the Sol Star with a bright interest dancing in their protuberant eyes. Conley glanced at them, wondering if they had sighted the mirage. But apparently they hadn’t, for their heads were turned toward Osgood in various degrees of bewilderment.
Conley was turning back to his pneumatic hammer when a sudden thought struck him. He glanced at the natives sharply. His eyes sought and clung to a group of six at the very rear of the gathering. They were staring straight before them with a hypnotic fixity of expression, their protuberant eyes unblinking, their slender bodies immobile. Conley studied them a long moment, then shrugged, deciding that for some reason or other this particular group of natives found the work in progress on the Sol Star of unusual interest.
Ayers and Tillman returned just before the sun sank below the horizon. They had found no slightest trace of Naeda and Morehouse.
“We’ll try again in the morning,” Ayers said doggedly. “Morehouse and the girl can’t just have vanished into thin air. They’ve got to be somewhere.”
Conley was flooded with despair. Naeda, the only girl who had ever meant anything to him, lost—perhaps dead.
It was Conley’s rest period, along with Gage. The intervals of rest and energy-concentrates were all that kept them going. Conley was leaden, numbed with weariness. Gage was in a similar condition—even more so, Conley realized dully. Gage’s eyes were filmed, his face pale and drawn. His breath came jerkily. When time came to resume work Gage was able to pull himself to his feet only with the greatest effort of will.
Conley, walking toward his post at the bow, noticed that the natives were still gathered in an attentive group before the Sol Star. His eyes probed among them, then narrowed. The trance-like six had not moved from the positions in which he had noticed them earlier. As he watched, he was somewhat startled to see them slowly relax, and awareness and movement return to them.
The incident remained prominent in Conley’s mind. Later, back at work, he looked at the gathered natives again. He stiffened as he saw still another group frozen in almost identical positions of transfixed rigidity. And this group, like the first, consisted of six! Conley groped for some answer to this strange behavior, but there didn’t seem to be any logical explanation.
One other thing forced itself to Conley’s attention. This was the extreme exhaustion of Gage. The astronavigator was working as though in a daze, fumbling clumsily with his pneumatic hammer, and occasionally shaking his head as if trying to clear a mist from before his eyes. Conley knew Gage wouldn’t last much longer, and he wondered how long his own strength would hold out.
It was like a waking nightmare, Conley thought. The jolting of the pneumatic hammer against the tough, stubborn metal of the Sol Star. Muscles that ached and pulled with weariness. The harsh glare of the floodlights beating into your eyes. And three months… Three months more for the human race—then extinction. Where was Itarra, the city of the Adulei? What had happened to Naeda? Questions and wondering, and no answers, no light, anywhere. Just the jolting of the pneumatic hammer, just exhaustion that screamed a protest along every nerve.
After hours that seemed like centuries to Conley, he and Gage were relieved. Conley slumped down on a stretch of grassy turf beside the Sol Star and stretched his aching legs. With a sound that might have been a groan or a sob, Gage collapsed beside him.
Conley popped an energy-concentrate capsule into his mouth and glanced toward the spot where he had last seen the natives. His eyes were becoming adjusted to the darkness that lay beyond the glare of the floodlight, and now, almost lost in the gloom, he could make out six quiet shapes. He could not see their faces, but he knew they were sitting very motionless, staring straight before them with hypnotic intensity.
As Conley looked, he saw a group of figures materialize from the darkness behind the six entranced natives. His body jerked into sudden alertness. The number of newcomers was six! Now the original group arose from where they had been sitting and left. The arrivals took their places, seating themselves on the grass and becoming very still.
Conley made a sharp intake of breath. For during the short interval while the original group of natives arose and the arrivals seated themselves, he had caught a glimpse of the mirage! The phantom outlines of the city had glowed briefly before his eyes, then vanished.
Conley’s thoughts gyrated like leaves in a sudden wind of excitement. He sensed somehow that what he had seen was tremendously important. But just how eluded him.
He was still probing his mind for an answer when his and Gage’s rest period ended. Conley climbed stiffly to his feet. Gage did not move. Conley bent down and shook the astronavigator.
“Come on, Wal,” Conley prompted. “We have to get back to work.”
Gage merely groaned. Alarmed, Conley dropped to his knees, searched the other’s face. Gage was deathly pale and his eyes had the unnatural brightness of fever. His cheeks and forehead were hot and damp to the touch.
“What’s the matter?” It was Osgood, who had just approached. The figure of Thurmer loomed beside him.
“Something’s wrong with Gage.” Conley explained tensely. “He seems to be very sick.”
“Sick?” Osgood kneeled beside Gage, made a swift examination. He looked up slowly, his face suddenly old.
Thurmer grasped Osgood’s arm. “Great space, you look—Out with it! What’s wrong with Gage?”
“He…he has the Plague,” Osgood answered. His voice was dead.
The announcement hit Conley like a physical blow. He rocked back on his heels, horror flaming through him. The Plague! His last reserves of strength vanished beneath a sudden flooding of despair. This was the end. The end of the human race, of himself—of everything.
* * * *
News that the Plague had struck terminated further work on the Sol Star. The men slumped about in various attitudes of dejection, avoiding each other’s eyes. In every mind was the same question: “Who will be next?”
Conley was thinking furiously. How had the Plague appeared? He and the rest had been chosen for the mission because of their health. They were far from all possible sources of infection. Yet—the Plague had struck. How? How? Conley whipped his tired mind into greater activity—and suddenly he had the answer.
Conley gestured the others to him. He spoke swiftly and softly. Where there had been despair there was abrupt hope. Where there had been death, there now was life.
Conley and Thurmer disappeared into the Sol Star. A quarter of an hour later, they emerged, separated in the night, crept stealthily toward a certain spot where six shapes sat in rigid silence.
Conley held a compact cylindrical object. It was a fire extinguisher, part of the regulation equipment of all space vessels. Thurmer had one also. He and Conley had made a change in the chemical contents of the devices which now rendered them capable of releasing a gas that instead of smothering a fire produced swift unconsciousness.
Conley and Thurmer
reached the six motionless natives. But before they could get their crude gas guns into play, two of the natives suddenly stood erect! A moment later the other four also rose.
Conley sighed in defeat, let the gas cylinder slip from his hands. Then to his utter amazement the six natives confronting Thurmer and himself smiled.
“You have discovered our ruse. We are glad.”
No audible sound had been made. The words seemed to form themselves in Conley’s mind.
One of the natives stepped forward. His expression was unmistakably one of friendliness.
“My name is Garron,” he said telepathically. “Thulann and I were aware of your approach, as our minds had been attuned to yours in order to maintain the illusion. Realizing that you had discovered our trick, we decided to end it.”
Thulann also stepped forward. His thoughts reached out to Conley warmly.
“We are indeed happy that you finally learned we had been keeping you under an illusion. We are, of course, the Adulei, and our city, Itarra, had been here all the time. Behold!”
As one, Conley and Thurmer whirled. And the city of the Adulei flowered and flamed around them. Great towers and spires leaped and soared into the brightening sky. There were broad streets and avenues, and the ground beneath their feet was no longer the illusion of grassy turf but a smooth, glasslike pavement. Now Conley saw that the Sol Star was enclosed in a roped-off area many yards square. There was a litter of rubble and masonry at the base of one of the towers, and glancing up, Conley saw that the building had been damaged.
“So that was what the ship hit!” Conley exclaimed. “The radar set warned of it in the way, but I could see nothing in the viewscreen.”
“We hid the city from you by telepathic control of your minds.” Garron said. “We might have prevented the crash by guiding you, but at the time, we did not have the precise control of your minds necessary. It was only later when your companions set out in what you call the auxiliary ships that we were able to guide you so that you would not strike any of the buildings. I believe your companions were aware of it.”
The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK Page 24