The Second Science Fiction MEGAPACK®. Robert Silverberg

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ