The Magic (October 1961–October 1967). Roger Zelazny

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      “I must see her again. We lift off in a matter of days.”

      “I am sorry, Gallinger.”

      “So am I,” I said, and slammed shut a book without saying “m’narra.”

      I stood up.

      “I will find her.”

      I left the Temple. M’Cwyie was a seated statue. My boots were still where I had left them.

      *

      All day I roared up and down the dunes, going nowhere. To the crew of the Aspic I must have looked like a sandstorm, all by myself. Finally, I had to return for more fuel.

      Emory came stalking out.

      “Okay, make it good. You look like the abominable dust man. Why the rodeo?”

      “Why, I, uh, lost something.”

      “In the middle of the desert? Was it one of your sonnets? They’re the only thing I can think of that you’d make such a fuss over.”

      “No, dammit! It was something personal.”

      George had finished filling the tank. I started to mount the jeepster again.

      “Hold on there!” he grabbed my arm.

      “You’re not going back until you tell me what this is all about.”

      I could have broken his grip, but then he could order me dragged back by the heels, and quite a few people would enjoy doing the dragging. So I forced myself to speak slowly, softly:

      “It’s simply that I lost my watch. My mother gave it to me and it’s a family heirloom. I want to find it before we leave.”

      “You sure it’s not in your cabin, or down in Tirellian?”

      “I’ve already checked.”

      “Maybe somebody hid it to irritate you. You know you’re not the most popular guy around.”

      I shook my head.

      “I thought of that. But I always carry it in my right pocket. I think it might have bounced out going over the dunes.”

      He narrowed his eyes.

      “I remember reading on a book jacket that your mother died when you were born.”

      “That’s right,” I said, biting my tongue. “The watch belonged to her father and she wanted me to have it. My father kept it for me.”

      “Hmph!” he snorted. “That’s a pretty strange way to look for a watch, riding up and down in a jeepster.”

      “I could see the light shining off it that way,” I offered, lamely.

      “Well, it’s starting to get dark,” he observed. “No sense looking any more today.

      “Throw a dust sheet over the jeepster,” he directed a mechanic.

      He patted my arm.

      “Come on in and get a shower, and something to eat. You look as if you could use both.”

       Little fatty flecks beneath pale eyes, thinning hair, and an Irish nose; a voice a decibel louder than anyone else’s . . .

      His only qualification for leadership!

      I stood there, hating him. Claudius! If only this were the fifth act!

      But suddenly the idea of a shower, and food, came through to me. I could use both badly. If I insisted on hurrying back immediately I might arouse more suspicion.

      So I brushed some sand from my sleeve.

      “You’re right. That sounds like a good idea.”

      “Come on, we’ll eat in my cabin.”

      The shower was a blessing, clean khakis were the grace of God, and the food smelled like Heaven.

      “Smells pretty good,” I said.

      We hacked up our steaks in silence. When we got to the dessert and coffee he suggested:

      “Why don’t you take the night off? Stay here and get some sleep.”

      I shook my head.

      “I’m pretty busy. Finishing up. There’s not much time left.”

      “A couple of days ago you said you were almost finished.”

      “Almost, but not quite.”

      “You also said they’re be holding a service in the Temple tonight.”

      “That’s right. I’m going to work in my room.”

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      Finally, he said, “Gallinger,” and I looked up because my name means trouble.

      “It shouldn’t be any of my business,” he said, “but it is. Betty says you have a girl down there.”

      There was no question mark. It was a statement hanging in the air. Waiting.

       Betty, you’re a bitch. You’re a cow and a bitch. And a jealous one, at that. Why didn’t you keep your nose where it belonged, shut your eyes? You mouth?

      “So?” I said, a statement with a question mark.

      “So,” he answered it, “it is my duty, as head of this expedition, to see that relations with the natives are carried on in a friendly, and diplomatic, manner.”

      “You speak of them,” I said, “as though they are aborigines. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

      I rose.

      “When my papers are published everyone on Earth will know that truth. I’ll tell them things Doctor Moore never even guessed at. I’ll tell the tragedy of a doomed race, waiting for death, resigned and disinterested. I’ll tell why, and it will break hard, scholarly hearts. I’ll write about it, and they will give me more prizes, and this time I won’t want them.

      “My God!” I exclaimed. “They had a culture when our ancestors were clubbing the saber-tooth and finding out how fire works!”

      “Do you have a girl down there?”

      “Yes!” I said. Yes, Claudius! Yes, Daddy! Yes, Emory! “I do. but I’m going to let you in on a scholarly scoop now. They’re already dead. They’re sterile. In one more generation there won’t be any Martians.”

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