Race Against Time (18 page)

Then there was Ala. He liked Ala, for no reason he could pin down, and this made him more conscious of the differences between their cultures. She wore gold earrings that no American girl could afford, yet lived in some mud-brick hovel. John was sure he would not tolerate life in Songhai for more than a few days and that Ala would not appreciate American life, either—apart from the fact that both of their existences were artificial. They would all have to come to terms with Standard—or with whatever planet earth had become.

The sleeping schedule degenerated, and John didn't try to correct it. One stateroom became the boys' bedroom, anytime; the other, the girls'. Anybody could be up or down at any given moment. The ship moved on.

Then pursuit developed. John had been making a routine check, questioning the ship's communicator about various matters, and learned of this almost by accident.

John alerted the others that they were being followed. "Another spacecraft," he explained, "is traveling a similar course to ours, and gaining. It could be coincidence."

"After we spacejacked this ship? Ha-ha!" Betsy said sourly.

"Change course and see," Humé said. "If it still follows...."

"That would delay our approach to earth," John pointed out. "And if it
is
after us, we would be tipping our hand. Right now it is gaining slowly. It could speed up."

"Do we have any weapons?" Pei asked.

"No," Humé said. "I have been looking. This is a pleasure craft. There is nothing that will strike through space."

"Why don't we just run?" Betsy said. "Maybe we can get to earth before it catches us."

"Not if it is armed," Humé said grimly. "The deer never escapes the lion, once marked for the kill."

They looked at John. He was the captain.

Canute passed through the room, heading for his water dish.

"That dog!" Betsy exclaimed. "They're zeroing in on him again!"

"Oh, don't start that," John said, disgusted.

"He's been the cause of trouble all along. A spy in our midst, one way or another. We should put him out the port."

"A fine animal like this?" Humé demanded, surprising John. "He is a member of our group. He is no spy."

"How do you know?" Betsy asked, displeased.

Humé put his hand out, snapping his fingers. "I know animals. Here, Canute!"

The dog came to him, tail wagging. Humé patted the white head.

Ala turned to John. "What is your decision about the ship?"

"Nothing. We'll ignore it and see what happens." John waited for argument, but there was none.

It turned out to be a false alarm. The other ship was not at all close by terrestrial definitions, and in time it deviated from the coincidental course and went its way without ever coming closer than a hundred thousand miles. John's policy had been vindicated, but he felt little relief.

Betsy and Meilan got along worse than ever, and neither associated with Ala apart from necessary routine. Pei kept to himself, except for frequent conversations with Betsy; obviously there was a rather close relationship forming there that also irritated Meilan. And Humé....

Humé played with Canute. He defended the dog against Betsy's complaints and took over both feeding and cleanup chores. He would strip to a kind of loincloth and romp with the dog for hours at a time. Canute would bound over the stress couches (strewing dog hairs, Betsy said) of the travel compartment while Humé dived after him. Just as Humé came close, the dog would dodge aside, and the friendly chase would begin again. Sometimes they reversed it, the dog chasing the man.

John hid his jealousy. Once he had played with Canute like that. Now the dog treated him with a certain indifference. Sometimes he felt like killing Humé.

The mood changed one day out from earth. As the planet appeared on the screen and the ship began the enormous spiral of the approach, the tension seemed to lift from each of them, and their differences became less important. They did not talk about earth directly but came at it obliquely.

"Are we really so different?" Ala asked. "Do we have to quarrel about our basic beliefs?"

No!
John wanted to cry.

In a moment John, Meilan, and Ala were all talking at once. Then just as suddenly they stopped, excited and embarrassed.

"We have slightly different physical characteristics," John said, realizing it himself as he spoke. "White, yellow, black—it's only color, a trifling distinction. We're all human beings."

"Can it be," Meilan murmured, "that the Standards are
not
human beings? Why have they separated us from themselves?"

"And from each other," John said. "They tried to stop us from getting together."

"Except for a small mistake...." Ala said.

"Was
it a mistake?" Meilan inquired. "Or was it merely an intrigue, meant to seem a mistake, to tantalize our curiosity?"

"And was our escape too easy?" John said, picking up the theme. "Did they
want
us to find each other, to make a break for it, fighting off just enough pursuit to convince us that
this
time it was real...?"

"And are they watching and listening now, to learn how well we dance on the string?" Ala continued, "Are we still in the enclave...?"

John looked at the two girls. "I think we'd better call in Pei and Humé and Betsy. We may have some harsh decisions to make."

"The answer is easy," Humé said. "Destroy the communicator. It is nothing but a spirit ear listening to everything we say. Use the manual controls to land on earth."

"We'd crash," John said immediately. "Without the communicator we'd be a derelict. It is not just an ear; it seems to govern the whole ship."

"We are not entirely helpless," Pei said. "We have tried to run, and perhaps we have only deluded ourselves. Perhaps it is time to negotiate."

"You mean we should offer to stop running if they stop chasing?" John asked. "Just agree to be nice, contented zoo specimens?"

"I doubt we were ever in that category. They could readily have drugged us or put us in real cages. We may be unique but not as exhibits."

"Ask,"
Humé said, irritated by this inaction.

"Communicator—what is our status?"

There was no hesitation. "Monumental," the machine replied.

They had heard it clearly, but what did it mean? That they were very important? That didn't help.

"Please explain," John said nervously.

"It will be better for you to complete your mission. Then you will understand."

"But our mission is to escape to earth!"

"Precisely."

"It balked!" Betsy said, amazed. "I thought it was just an answering service."

John spread his hands, baffled. "I guess they aren't going to stop us. For what that's worth."

"Or
tell
us, either," Betsy added.

"It could be reverse psychology," John said. "Letting us think they
want
us to go to earth so that we
won't
go."

"So let's
go!"
Betsy said.

No one disagreed.

Earth looked just like Standard: cloudy. The ship spiraled down, taking its predetermined time, and they waited with what patience and tension their separate natures provided. As they got down in the atmosphere, the viewscreen became foggy, from either the clouds or some type of interference, and they had to trust to the program entirely. John was perversely gratified: They certainly
would
have crashed on manual.

At last the ship touched down.

"Let's move out," Humé said. It irked John that the African had not waited for any offer or ceremony. He had simply assumed command.

But the port would not phase open. "Don suits," the communicator said.

"Suits? This is earth!" John said.

There was no answer.

"Survey visually," Humé said, and John obeyed, though the order rankled.

The screen now showed a smoky plain, barren of building or tree. "Looks as if there had just been a forest fire," John said, "or a volcanic eruption. All burned out."

"Where
are
we, on earth?" Betsy asked the communicator.

"Monument Washington America, landing zone."

"Monument
America? As in—well—gravestone? Is it dead?"

"Yes."

She looked at the bleak image again silently. John had some notion of her thoughts, for he shared them.
This
was their heritage?

Humé emerged from the supply room bearing an armful of paraphernalia. He handed a limp outfit to each of them. John donned his suit listlessly. The drive had gone out of him. He was sickly certain that all they would find outside was more devastation. No wonder the Standards weren't worried! Where could the captives go when all that was outside the enclaves, away from Standard, was this?

The suit inflated, sealing itself about him. It was not at all heavy, and it flexed jointlessly as he moved, offering no substantial resistance. The others seemed like mannequins—fat of limb and body, bulbous of head, yet obviously human. Their inflated helmet pieces were opaque on top and translucent around the sides, so as to protect the head from glare; but each face was fully visible.

Canute came up, tail wagging hopefully. He didn't want to be left behind! "Sorry, dogleg," John said. "No suit for you."

Tail down, the dog went to Humé. Humé hesitated, then returned to the storage room. John thought he was going for one of the pseudo-bones as consolation, but he emerged with another suit. It was an animal suit! It was quadrupedal and adjustable, with a bellowslike torso and straps to secure it about feet, tail, and head. It looked as though it could be adapted to fit almost any canine or feline in Canute's approximate weight range. Humé had taken the trouble to check out the ship's supplies carefully and so had been prepared.

Canute was not entirely pleased with the outfit. For one thing it prevented him from scratching himself or nipping at fancied fleas. But he tolerated it as just one more of the strange requirements of human association. He gave a muffled
woof!
inside his egg-shaped helmet and wagged his padded tail.

Only when all suits were tight would the port phase open. There didn't seem to be any mechanism for interpersonal communications, so they had to shout loudly in their separate enclosures in order to be heard, and then their words were badly muffled.

They filed out. John held his breath as the dust swirled around him, but his air remained pure. Heat ripples showed wherever he looked, but his body was comfortable. This suit, like other Standard equipment, was more sophisticated than it seemed from the outside.

Humé touched his helmet to each of the others in turn and shouted instructions. To John he said: "Rear guard. Watch behind us."

John nodded, still sullen. He would have preferred to argue but knew he was being immature. Humé
was
their leader now, by common agreement, and a rear guard
was
necessary, and somebody
did
have to do it. The others were watching the sides and the ground and the sky while Humé led the way.

Canute tried to sniff the ground, but his helmet frustrated that, so he contented himself with circling the group constantly. Had Humé given the dog instructions, too?

They trekked about half a mile, and the barrens were unchanged. It was getting boring. The communicator had spoken truly: Earth was dead. They could walk until they died and find nothing but desert.

John stared right at it for five or six seconds before it registered. The back side of one of the rubble-rocks they had passed was flat, and a metal plaque was set in it. Civilization! John started to run toward the marker but remembered his assignment. He had to warn the others in case the thing were booby-trapped!

"Humé!" he yelled, but no one heard. He ran to Meilan, who was watching the left, took her arm, and pointed. She nodded and went to the next in line, gesturing. Then Canute came around on another circuit, herding the people together as though they were sheep. "Fetch Humé!" John yelled, and the dog bounded off.

Soon they were all looking at it from a respectable distance. Humé gestured to the others to wait while he circled the stone. He scooped up a rock and hurled it with impressive force and accuracy so that it bounced off the plaque. When nothing happened, he approached it and studied the writing. Finally he waved the others in.

The plaque was in English—as it should be, for the American sector, John realized. Probably whatever monuments they had in China or Africa were in symbols or Arabic. Only John and Betsy could read this one. It said:
Comfort Station.
That was all.

Betsy's laughter resounded tinnily. She stepped up to the stone and felt along the top with her suited hand. There was a button just above the plaque, and she pressed it.

The ground quivered, then became fluid. John jumped away as his feet sank in, and the others did the same. "Deadfall!" Humé cried thinly, and Canute yelped.

They had been standing on a shaped, opaque ground panel. Now its pseudo-sand had phased out, and a pit gaped. But it was not a trap. A ramp led downward under the marker, and an archway showed. It was just another Standard device: an entrance to the comfort station.

Humé exchanged glances with the others, then shrugged and led the way down. The panel phased closed above them, and a gentle illumination developed from the floor. At the bottom there was a second curtain that phased open as they approached. Beyond that was a Standard octagonal residential and refreshment chamber.

They removed their helmets, letting their suits deflate. The suits had not been tiring, but the continual buffeting by the blowing dust and the roughness of the terrain had taken their natural toll.

"We never left Standard," Ala said at last.

The others nodded, knowing what she meant. What use was it to travel from one world to another when nothing was changed? They were still unable to operate without drawing on Standard arrangements.

"So do we give up now?" Betsy asked bitterly. "That's what the communicator meant, isn't it? That we'd discover our own futility...."