Science Fiction - Daily Short Stories

Faithfully Yours - Lou Tabakow

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Duration:: 42m
Broadcast on:: 28 Jun 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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Whether you're a lifelong learner, a parent seeking bedtime stories for your children, or someone looking to unwind after a long day, we have something just for you. We invite you to try SolgardMedia Free for one month. Explore our extensive collection and find the perfect audio content that resonates with you. Join our community of passionate listeners and unlock a world of knowledge, relaxation, and inspiration. Visit SolgardMedia.com today and start your free trial. That's S-O-L-G-O-O-D-M-E-D-I-A.com Faithfully Yours by Lou Tabacao If it's too impossibly difficult to track down and recapture an escaped criminal, there's a worse thing one might do. July 18, 1949 A.D. The fugitive lay face down in the fetid undergrowth, drawing in spasmodic lungfuls of air through cracked and swollen lips. Long before, his blue worksherd had been ripped to ribbons, and his exposed chest showed a spider-work of scratches, where branches and brambles had sought to restrain him in his frenzied flight. Across his back from shoulder to shoulder ran a deeper cut, around which the caked blood attested to the needle-sharp viciousness of a thorn bush a mile to the north. With each tortured breath, he winced as drops of sweat ran down, following the spider-work network and burning like acid. Incessantly, he rubbed his bruised torso with mud-caked palms to dislodge the gnats and mosquitoes that clung to him, gorging shamelessly. To the east, he could see the lights of Fort Mudge, where the railroad cut through on its way to Jacksonville. He had planned to ride the freight into Jacksonville, but by now they were stopping every train and searching along every foot of the railroad right of way. In the distance, he heard the eerie keen of a train whistle, and visualized the scene as it was flagged down and searched from engine to caboose. Directly before him loomed the foreboding northern boundary of the okey-fanokey swamp. Unconsciously, he strained his ears, then shuddered at the night noises that issued from the noisome wilderness. A frenzied threshing, then a splash, then... silence. What drama of life and death was being played out in that strange other world of perpetual shadows. In sudden panic he jerked erect and cupped his palm round his ear. Far off, muted by distance, but still unmistakable, he heard the banging of blood-hounds. Then this was the end. A sob broke from his throat. What was he, an animal to be hunted down as a sport? Tears of self-pity welded to his eyes as he thought back to a party and a girl, and laughter and cleanliness in the scent of magnolias like a heady wine. But that was so long ago, so long ago, and now... He looked down at his sweating lacerated body, his blistered calloused palms, the black broken nails, the cheap work shoes with hemp laces, the shapeless gray cotton trousers, now wet to the knees. He pulled back his shoulders and resolutely faced west toward the river, but stopped short in horror as he heard the sudden cacophony of barks, yelps and howls of a pack of blood-hounds that senses the beginning of the end. He turned in panic. They couldn't be over half a mile away. In panic of indecision he turned first east, then west, then facing due south. He hesitated a moment to take one last look at the clear open skies, and with a muffled prayer plunged into the brooding depths of the okey-fanokey. June 13, 427th year, galactic era. The building still hummed and vibrated with the dying echoes of the alarm siren, as the biophysicist hurried down the corridor and without breaking stride pushed open the door to the director's office. The director shuffled the papers before him and sighed heavily. His chair creaked protestingly as he shift his bulk and looked up. "Well..." "He got clean away," said the biophysicist. "Any fix on the direction?" "None at all, sir, and he's got at least two hours' start. That takes in a pretty big area of space." "Hmm... well, there's just a bare chance. That experimental cruiser is the fastest thing in space, and it's equipped with the latest ethereal radar. If we get started right away, we just might..." "That's just it," interrupted the biophysicist. "That's the ship he got away in." The director jumped angrily to his feet. "How did that happen? How can I explain it to the board?" "I'm sorry, sir. He was just too..." "You're sorry," he slumped back in his chair and drummed the desktop with his fingernails, worrying his lowered lip with his teeth. He exhaled loudly and leaned forward. "Well, only one thing to do. You know the orders." The biophysicist squirmed uncomfortably. "Couldn't we send a squadron of ships out to search and..." "And what?" asked the director sarcastically. "You don't think I'd risk a billion credits worth of equipment on a wild goose chase like that, do you? We could use up a year's appropriation of fuel and manpower and still be unable to adequately search a sector one-tenth that size. If he'd just sat still, a thousand ships couldn't find him in a thousand years searching at finite speeds. Add to that the fact that the target is moving at ultra-light speed, and the odds against locating him is multiplied by a billion. I know, but he can't stay in space. He'll have to land somewhere sometime. True enough, but where and when? Couldn't we alert all the nearby planets? You know better than that, he could be halfway across the galaxy before an ethereal gram reached the nearest planet. Suppose we sent scout ships to the nearer planets and asked them to inform their neighbors in the same way. We'd soon have an expanding circle that he couldn't slip through. The director smiled riley. Maybe. But who's going to pay for all this? By the time the circle was a thousand light-years in diameter, there would be ten thousand ships and a million clerks working on recapturing one escaped prisoner. Another thing. I don't know offhand what he's been sentenced for, but I'll wager there are ten thousand planets on which his crime would not be a crime. Do you think we could ever extradite him from such a planet? And even if by some incredible stroke of fortune, one of our agents happened to land on the right planet, in which city would he begin his search? Or suppose our quarry lands only on uninhabited planets. We can't very well alert the whole galaxy in the search for just one man. I know, but what interrupted the director? Any other suggestions? No. All right, he asked for it. You have the pattern, I presume. Feed it to Fido. Yes, sir, but well, I just don't. Do you think I like it, ask the director fiercely? In the silence that followed, they looked at each other guiltily. "There's nothing else we can do," said the director. "The orders are explicit. No one escapes from Hades." "I know," replied the biophysicist, "I'm not blaming you. Only I wish someone else had my job." "Well," said the director heavily, "you might as well get started." He nodded his head in dismissal. As the biophysicist went out the door, the director looked down once more at the pile of papers before him. He pulled the top sheet closer and rubber stamped across its face, case closed. Yes, he mused the loud, "closed for us," but he hesitated a moment, and then sighing once more signed his name in the space provided. August 6th, 430th year, Galactic Era. T. Ormond set morosely at the space bar, and alternately wiped his forehead with a soggy handkerchief, and sipped at his frosted rainbow, careful not to disturb the very colored layers of liquid in the tall, narrow glass. Every now and then he nervously ran his fingers through his straight black hair, which lay damply plastered to his head. His jacket was faded and worn, and above the left pocket was emblazoned the meteor insignia of the spaceman. A dark patch on his back showed where the perspiration had seeped through. He blinked and rubbed the corner of his eye as a drop of perspiration ran down and settled there. A casual look would have classified him as a very average-looking pilot, such as could be found at the bar of any spaceport, i.e., if space pilots can ever be classified as average. Spacemen are the last true adventurers in an age where the debilitating culture of a highly mechanized civilization has pushed to the very borders of the galaxy. While most men are fearful and indecisive outside their narrow specialties, the spacemen must at all times be ready to deal with the unexpected and the unusual — the expression "steady as a spaceman's nerves" had a very real origin. A closer look at tea would have revealed the error of a quick classification. He gripped his drink too tightly, and his eyes darted restlessly from side to side, as though searching, searching, yet dreading to find the object of their search. His expressive face contorted in a nervous tit each time his eyes swept by the clock hanging behind the bar. He glanced dispiritedly out the window at the perpetually cloudy sky and idly watched a rivulet of water race down the dirty pain. He loosened his collar and futilely mopped at his neck with the soggy handkerchief, then irritably flung it to the floor. "Hey, Joe," he yelled to the bartender. "What's the matter with the air conditioning I'm burning up?" "Take it easy," soothed the bartender consulting a thermometer on the wall behind him. "It's 85 in here. That's as low as the law allows. Can't have too much difference in the temperature or all my customers pass out when they go outside. Why don't you go into town? They keep it comfortable under the dome." "Don't this planet ever cool off, ask tea?" The bartender chuckled. "I see you don't know much about thumas. Sometimes it drops to 90 at night, but not too often. You ought to be here sometime when the clouds part for a minute. If you're caught outside, it's third-degree burns, for sure. He glanced down at the nearly empty glass. How about another rainbow? If you get enough of the menu you won't notice the heat, you won't notice anything." He laughed up roriously at the "hurry joke." Tea looked at him disgustedly and without answering bent to his drink once more. He felt someone jostle his elbow and turned sideways to allow the newcomer access to the bar. After a moment he wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The bartender placed another rainbow before him. "Hey, I didn't order that," he cried. The bartender nodded toward the next stool. On him. Tea turned and saw a barrel-chested red-haired giant holding up a drink in the immemorial bar toast. He raised his own glass gingerly, but his trembling hand caused the layers to mix and he stared ruefully at the resultant, clay-y looking mess. The redhead laughed. "Mix another one, Joe." "But," tea's face got red. "I came in here to talk to you anyway," said the giant. "You own the star-duster, don't you?" "Yeah, what about it?" "Like to get her out of Hock?" "Who says she's in Hock?" "Look," said the redhead. "Let's not kid each other. Everybody around this port knows you blew in from Lemme Tea last month and can't raise the money to pay the port charges much less the refueling fee, and it's no secret that you're anxious to leave our fair planet." He winked conspiringly at tea. "So?" The redhead glanced at the bartender who was busy at the other end of the bar. He leaned closer and whispered, "I know where the Ellen of Troy is." "The Ellen of Troy?" "Oh, that's right. You wouldn't know about her. Eight months ago, she crashed on an uninhabited planet somewhere in this sector. So far they've been unable to find her." He leaned closer. She was carrying four million in Penrex crystals. "What's that to me?" The redhead looked around briefly to make sure no one was in hearing distance, then whispered softly without moving his lips. "I told you, they can't find her, but I know where she is." "You know, but how?" "Look," said the giant frowning, "I didn't ask why you're so anxious to leave." "Well, I'll clear your ship and we can pick up the crystals for the salvage fee, a million each, and all nice and legal, and we can leave by the end of the week and be back in probably six months." "Six months?" Tea stood up. "Sorry." The redhead grabbed his arm in a ham-like palm. "A million each in six months. What's wrong with that?" Tea jerked out of his grasp. "I just can't do it." "I don't know what you're running from," persisted the redhead. "But with a million credits you can fight extradition for the rest of your life. This is your big chance, can't you see that? Besides, this planet has some interesting customs. He winked at tea. I can introduce you." "I can't stay here," interrupted Tea. "You just don't understand." "Look," cried the redhead exasperatedly, "I'm offering you a full partnership on a two million credit salvage deal and you want to back out because it'll take six months?" "On top of that, you're broke and stranded and your hangar bill gets bigger every day. If you don't take me up on this deal, you'll still be sitting here six months from now wondering how to get your ship out of Hock if you don't get caught first. What do you say? What have you got to lose?" "What did he have to lose?" Tea gripped the edge of the bar until his knuckles showed white. "No, I just can't do it. Why don't you get someone else?" The slow tubs around this port would take years for the trip. "I can see the Starduster has class." Fastest thing in the galaxy said tea proudly, then earnestly, "I'm sorry, you'll just have to find some other ship." "Think it over," said the redhead. "I'll wait. When you change your mind, look me up. Name's Yule Larson." He slapped Tea heavily on the back and swaggered toward the door. He turned and looked back. "Better go along with me. After six months, they can auction off your ship and pay for the port charges, you know." The door swung shut behind him. Tea sat down again and bent his head, nursing his drink. His eyes darted nervously around the room and came to rest on the clock. A shudder ran through him and he lowered his eyes quickly. As he sipped his drink, his eyes returned to the clock continually as though drawn there against their will. As he watched, the minute hand jerked downward and an involuntary gasp escaped his lips. The bartender turned quickly. "Anything wrong?" "No, nothing." As he spoke, the minute hand moved again and Tea started nervously, upsetting his drink. He sat for a moment, watching the bartender mop up the spreading liquid, then abruptly got up and tossed a half credit piece on the bar. He hurried outside, stealing himself to keep from running. He paused just outside the door. "Stand still," he told himself. "Mustn't run. Mustn't run. No use anyway. If I only knew when. If I just could stop and rest. If I had the time. Time. Time. That's what I need. Light gears of time. But when. When. If only I could be sure." He looked up slowly at the murky canopy of clouds. "If I only knew when." He looked indecisively up and down the field, then squaring his shoulders resolutely, set out for the administration building. At this hour the office was deserted except for a wispy haired little man who sat at a desk fussing with some papers. He looked up questioningly as Tea came in. "Is my ship recharged and provisioned?" asked Tea. "What's the name, please?" Tea or Monde. "I own the Starduster." The clerk pulled a card from a file on the desk and studied it. "Ah, yes, the Starduster. I'd like to pay my bill and clear the Starduster for immediate departure." "Very good, Mr. Ormond," he consulted the card again. "That'll be fourteen hundred and eleven credits," he beamed. "We included a case of Rookheiser's concentrate, compliments of the management." He handed a circular to Tea. "This is a list of our ports and facilities on other planets. Our accommodations are the finest and we carry a complete line of parts," he smiled professionally. "What about my key?" asked Tea, pulling out his wallet. "Uh, let's see, number thirty-seven." The clerk started for a numbered board hanging on the wall. He never got there. Tea whipped a stun gun from inside his jacket and waved it at the clerk's back. It caught him in mid-stride and unbalanced. He crashed heavily to the floor. Tea glanced briefly down as he stepped over the paralyzed form, avoiding the accusing eyes and snatched the magnetic key off the hook. He forced himself to walk calmly across the field toward the hangar that housed the Starduster. A uniformed guard stopped him at the hangar door. "May I see your clearance, sir?" he asked politely. Tea hesitated for a moment. "Oh, I'm just going to get something out of my ship," he said smoothly. The clerk said it was Raj. The clerk said. "But he can't," the guard tensed. "Mind if I check, sir, orders, you know." He bent his head slightly as he pressed a knob on his wrist radio, as his eyes turned downward. Tea swung the stun gun in an arc that ended on the back of the guard's head. As he leaped into the Starduster, he was sorry for a moment that he hadn't had time to recharge the gun and hoped he hadn't struck too hard. October 11, 43rd year, Galactic Era. Tea stepped out of the hangar and surveyed the twin sons. The pale binary set stolidly on the horizon forty degrees apart. Their mingled light washed down dimly on the single continent of the planet Aurora. He started as a man walked around the corner of the hangar. The man looked at tea searchingly for a moment, then asked, "Anything troubling you, tea?" "Why, why no, Mr. Jenner, you just startled me, that's all." "Well, how's everything coming?" "Right on schedule will be ready for the final test by the end of the week." "By the way," asked Jenner speculatively, "how come you ordered the ship stocked and provisioned for the test?" "Why, why, I think she should be tested under exactly the same conditions as she'll encounter in actual use." "We could have done it a lot cheaper by just using ballast," said Jenner. "After this I want to personally see any voucher for over a hundred credits before it's cleared." "Yes, sir, but I just didn't want to bother you with the details." An expenditure of over two thousand credits isn't just detail, but let it pass, it's already done. "Anyway, on the drawing board she's the fastest thing in the galaxy," he smiled. "If she lives up to expectations she'll make your ship look like an old freighter. We've got four million sunk into her so far, so she'd better check out Raj." He put his hand on T's shoulder. "You're not worried about testing her, are you? You've been jumpy lately." "Oh, no, nothing like that, Mr. Jenner. I'm just, well, I've been up all night watching them install the gyroscopes. Think I'll get some sleep," he yawned. Jenner cupped his chin in his palm and stood staring after the retreating figure. As T turned and looked back nervously, Jenner entered the hanger office. He spoke softly in the visit phone and, in a moment, the screen lit up. "Is this the prison administrator?" asked Jenner. "What can I do for you?" "My name is Jenner, Consolidated Spacecraft." "Yes?" Supposing escaped prisoner from Hades landed on Aurora. "No one escapes from Hades' prison." "Well, just suppose one did. I never receive information about escapees." "But you're the administrator here." My job, as the title implies, is purely administrative. I merely arrange transportation for our annual shipment of prisoners to Hades and see that the records are kept straight. "But whom would they contact in the event of an escape?" The administrator pursed his lips and impatience. Hades has six billion prisoners at any given time. If one did manage to escape, they couldn't very well alert a million planets. "You mean you wouldn't do anything?" As I said before, my job is purely administrative. Out of my jurisdiction entirely, each planet has its own police force and handles its internal crime in its own way. What's legal on Aurora might very well be illegal on 10,000 other planets and vice-a-versa. "I see. Thank you." Jenner cut the connection slowly. He flicked the switch open again, hesitated, and then closed it. He walked out to where his gyro car was parked and in a few minutes set it down on the roof of T's hotel. T was just entering the lobby as Jenner came in and they went up to his room together. "I'll come right to the point, T," he said as soon as the door had closed. "I just talked to the local prison administrator for Hades. He looked closely at T." "What's that got to do with me?" asked T belligerently. "Wait until I finish," said Jenner curtly. "I hired you to test-hop our new ship because you were the best pilot available. I'm not interested in your past, but most of the company's resources are sunk in that ship. If something goes wrong because the test pilot is disturbed or nervous, the company will be bankrupt. I'm not saying you're an escaped prisoner, but if you were, you'd have nothing to worry about." "What do you mean?" The administrator told me he has no jurisdiction over escaped prisoners. "So you see, if you had escaped, you'd have nothing to fear here. You're out of their jurisdiction." T began to laugh wildly. "Out of their jurisdiction. Out of their jurisdiction." "So that's the way they put it?" "Out of their jurisdiction." "Stop it," said Jenner sharply. "Do you want to tell me now?" T drew in a gasping breath and sobered. "What would I have to tell you? So I'm the nervous type, so you hired me to test-hop your new ship, so I'll test-hop it. That's all we agreed on. What more do you want?" Jenner sighed. "Rage, T. If that's the way you want it. But I wish." The visit phone buzzed, and when T flipped the switch, the worried face of the chief mechanic sprang into focus. "Oh, there you are, Mr. Jenner. Glad I caught you before you left. We've run into trouble." "Well, Apple had barked Jenner. What is it?" The mechanic cleared his throat nervously. "We were testing the main gyroscope when it threw a blade." "How bad is it?" asked Jenner. "Pretty bad. I'm afraid it tore up the sub-eather scope unit so bad we'll have to replace it. We can't get any on Aurora either. We'll have to send to Lennox, and that'll take close to a month." "Rage, knock off until I get there, Bart Jenner." He slammed over the switch viciously. "Of all the rotten luck. Can't you get some plant here on Aurora to hand tool one for you?" asked T. "No, that's just it," replied Jenner. "It's a special alloy. The owners of the process wouldn't give us any details on the manufacturer. Anyway, even if we knew how, we couldn't duplicate it without their special machine tools. Does that mean I'm afraid so. The ship won't be ready for a month now. A month? I can't wait a month. You can't wait a month. We've got four million tied up in that ship and you tell me you can't wait a month?" "Look, Mr. Jenner, I'll test it without the unit. That's impossible. The ship would vibrate into a billion pieces as soon as it went into subspace. No, we'll just have to wait. I can't wait," cried T. "You'll have to get another pilot." "Just a minute. You can't walk out on your contract. If it's a matter of credits," T shook his head. "That's not it at all. I just can't stay that long." Jenner looked at him angrily. "Well, your contract isn't up till the end of the week anyway. We'll see what we can do about a replacement then." After Jenner had left, T set smoking in the darkness. He placed his elbow on the couch arm and cupped his chin in his palm. Then restlessly, he snuffed out his cigarette and rubbed his hands together. They felt moist and clammy. He jerked nervously as a click sounded out in the hall. Only a door opening across the way. He bit the fleshy part of his middle finger and then began to worry his ring with his teeth. He lit another cigarette and dropped it into the disposal almost immediately. He got up and began to pace the room. Six steps forward, turned, six steps back, turned, six steps forward. Or was it five this time? The walls seemed to be closing in, constricting. His head felt light and his tongue and palate grew dry. He tried to swallow and a feeling of nausea came over him. His throat grew tight and he felt as though he were choking. Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, it came away wet with perspiration. He rushed to the window and struggled futilely with it, forgetting it was sealed shut in the air-conditioned hotel. He flung himself at the door, wrenching it open and took the escalator three steps at a time falling to his knees at the ground floor. A surface cab was sitting outside just beyond the entrance. He flung himself in, breathing heavily and fumbled to drop a coin in the slot, pulled the control lever all the way over. 20 minutes later the starduster hovered for a moment over Aurora, then shimmered and vanished as it went into subspace. October 2nd, 435th year, Galactic Era. The starduster materialized just outside the atmosphere of the planet Alicia and fluttered erratically downward like a wounded bird. A hundred feet from the surface the ship hesitated, shuttered throughout her length, then dropped like a plummet crashing heavily into a grove of trees. For tea there was a long period of blessed darkness, of peace, of non-remembering, then his mind clawed upward towards consciousness. The fear and uncertainty were with him again, nagging, nibbling, gnawing at his reason. He fought to close his mind and drift back down into the darkness of peace and forgetting, but contrarily the past marched in review before his consciousness. The twin worlds of Tholle revolving about each other as he fled down the shallow ravine before the creeping wall of lava, while the ancient mountain grunted and belched and coughed up its insides. The terrible pull of the uncharted black star as it tugged at the feeble starduster, the intervening heat and humidity of perpetually cloudy thymus. Pyramids of gleaming penrex crystals piled high as mountains, and Yule Larson towering above the landscape, draining gargantuan rainbows at a single gulp, striding like Paul Bunyan across the land in mile-long strides and kicking over the pyramids of crystals, laughing up roriously at the sport. And Jenner, grinning idiotically, pointing a thick finger at him and repeating over and over, out of their jurisdiction, nothing to fear, nothing to fear, nothing to fear, nothing. Stop it, stop it, cried tea, and a brilliant burst of light like a thousand skyrockets seemed to go off in his head. He shrieked like an animal in agony, then fell back, sobbing, bathed in perspiration. Something cool touched his forehead, and he pulled away violently. Then, as his head cleared, he opened his eyes slowly. A blur of shadows and light shimmering indistinctly. Then, suddenly, like the picture on a visaphone, the blurs coalesced and formed a clear image, and everything was normal again. The fear still hovering close, but pushed back for the time being. A girl stood before him, smiling rather uncertainly. The sweetness and cleanliness of that smile after his recent ordeal washed over his tortured mind like a cooling astringent, and he smiled gratefully up at her. She put a cool palm on his forehead, and as she started to withdraw it, he clutched it in an emaciated fist and mumbled indistinctly through cracked, dry lips. She smiled down at him and smoothed back his damp hair. She pulled up a chair beside the bed and continued to stroke his hair until his eyes closed in sleep. He awoke ravenous and thirsty, but lay quietly for a time, luxuriating in the feel of the clean, soft sheets. He was in a simply but tastefully decorated room. Three of the walls were made of transparent glass, and the warm golden rays of a type G sun bathed the room. Outside he could see rolling meadowland, broken here in there by Sylvan groves. A brilliantly colored bird swooped down and preined itself for a moment, then raised its head and flooded the silence with melody. Faintly from a grove of trees came an answering treble. The songbird cocked its head to the side, listening, then swooped upwards on wings of flashing color. A small squirrel-like creature bounded nervously up to the transparent wall and sat on its haunches, surveying the room with bright, beady eyes. As teas ears attuned themselves, he was suddenly aware of chirping struggles, clear-pitched whistles, and from somewhere in the depths of the grove a deep-pitched garoomf, garoomf. A chubby little man with a round face and alert twinkling eyes entered the room. He seemed to radiate happiness and contentment. "Well, I see the patients finally come around," he said cheerfully. "What happened?" asked tea. "Your ship crashed just beyond that grove." Tea clutched at him. "The ship. How bad is it?" "I think you were in worse shape than your ship. You must have had it under control almost to the end, though how you stayed conscious with space fever is beyond me." "Space fever? So that's it. I remember getting sick and lightheaded, and just before I passed out I flipped out of subspace and the automatic finder, of course, took the ship to the nearest planet. I must have landed by reflex action. I sure don't remember anything about it." "Well," the man laughed, "I have seen better landings, but not when the pilot had a temperature of 105. Anyway, you're safe now. Welcome to Alicia." There it was again. Safe. Safe. Tea raised up and fell back weekly. "Is anything wrong?" asked a little man alarmed. "Nothing. I just... nothing." The man was looking at him questioningly. "Elicia" mused tea. "I seem to remember an old myth brought from the original Earth," he waved towards the Sylvan setting outside. The little man smiled. "Yes, the old settlers named our planet well." He caught himself. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Dr. Chensey. This is my home." Tea smiled. "Well, at least you'll have to admit I showed good judgment crashing next to a doctor's house." "Then more seriously. Thanks, Doc. Thanks for everything." "My degrees aren't in medicine," replied Dr. Chensey. "I'm afraid I had little to do with your recovery. My daughter's the one who nursed you. Oh, here she is now," he raised his voice. "Come in, Lara." Since Dr. Chensey was using the only chair she sat down on the edge of the bed. "Here," said the doctor teasingly, "what kind of nurse are you musting up your patient's bed?" She pouted prettily. "He's my patient. Then looking down at tea with a smile, you'll be up and around in no time now." "Time!" cried Tea, raising up. "What's the date? I've got to know." "You've been delirious for two weeks," answered the doctor. "Another two weeks of convalescence and you ought to be as good as new. But two weeks I can't." "Can't leave before then anyway," replied the doctor calmly. "I knew you'd want your ship repaired, so I had it hauled to the port. Won't be ready for two more weeks, so you might as well relax." Tea bit his lip and clenched his fists to keep from trembling. It was a moment before he could trust himself to speak without a quaver in his voice. "Nothing else I can do, I guess." "Thanks anyway, and by the way, there's enough credits in the ship safe to pay for the repairs, I'm sure." "I think we should start the patient walking tomorrow," said Lara in a mock professional voice. She punched the ends of Tea's pillow. "Now you'd better get some sleep. You're still very weak, you know." The days that followed were like an idol for Tea. With Lara, he wandered through the park-like wooded groves. They sat near shaded pools and ate wild berries while she told him stories of the founding of Alicia. They held hands and ran exuberantly across the grassy meadows and waited like children in the clear brooks. A thousand times a word, an endearing term sprang to his lips and each time the fear clamped his tongue in a vise of steel. A thousand times he wanted to touch her, feel the silkiness of her hair, the warmth of her lips, but each time the fear and uncertainty stood between them like twin spectres of doom pointing and saying, "Fool, why torture yourself?" In the daytime when Lara was with him it wasn't so bad, but at night the fear and uncertainty crowded to the fore and blanked out everything else. It was then he prayed for the courage to kill himself and despised the weakness that made him draw back from the thought. If only he could stop thinking, make his mind a blank, but that was death and death was what he feared. How long ago was it when he first realized that hope was an illusion, a false god that smiled and lied and held out vain promises only to prolong the torture? Then one day the word came that his ship was repaired. As though the word were a catalyst, the terrible fear overwhelmed him, drowning out every other thought, and he knew he had to leave. When he had no means of leaving the planet he could partially close off his dread and wait resigningly, but now that ship was ready every moment he remained was an agony. He led Lara to their favorite spot by a quiet pool. She looked radiant and smiled to herself as though at a secret. He steeled himself and finally blurted out, "Lara, I'm leaving tomorrow." He hesitated and bit his lip, and thanks for everything. "Thanks," she choked on the words. "I'm sorry," he trailed off lamely. "But I thought," she looked down. He reached out and gently touched her cheek. "Can't you see I want to stay?" he pleaded. "Then why?" "Why?" She was crying now. "I just can't. It's no good," he stood up. She reached out and caught his hand. "Then take me with you. I've heard you at night pacing in your room. I don't know what it is that drives you on and on, but if space is what you want, let me go with you. I can help you, darling. You'll see. And someday, when you grow tired of space, we can come back to Alicia." She was babbling now. He pulled roughly away. "No. It's no good. If only I could stay." He brushed her hair softly with his palm, and as she reached out toward him he turned and walked swiftly towards the house, pitting and hating himself by turn, while Laura set forlornly by the pool looking after him. He began to sweat before he reached the house, and his knees began to tremble, so he had to stop for a moment to keep his balance. Determinately he started forward again and continued on past the house to the highway that wound by half a kilometer away. There he held a passing groundcar and rode to the spaceport, where a few judiciously distributed credits facilitated his immediate clearance. Before the ship had even left the atmosphere, he rammed in the subspace control. May 4th, 437th year, Galactic Era. Tauntellously far out on a spiral arm well away from the mainstream of traffic that flowed through the galaxy. It was a fair planet, boasting an equitable climate, at least in the tropic zone. But as yet the population was small, consisting mostly of administrative officials who served their allotted time and thankfully returned to their home planets closer to the center of population. T entered the towering building, and after consulting a wall directory, stepped into the anti-grav chute and was whisked high up into the heart of the building. He stepped out before a plain door, and as he advanced the center panel flourished briefly with the printed legend, Galactic Prison Authority, Arie Mefford, administrator for Tauntellus. He hesitated for a moment, then squaring his shoulders stepped forward, and as he crossed the beam the door swung open before him. The gray-haired man sitting at the desk studying a paper looked up and smiled politely. He indicated a chair with a nod then bent his head again. After a moment he shoved the paper aside and looked questioningly at T. "I want to give myself up," blurted T. "I'm the administrator for Hades," said the man calmly, "I think you want the local authorities." "You don't understand. I escaped from Hades." "No one escapes from Hades," replied the administrator. "I escaped," insisted T. "10 years ago. You can check. I'm tired of running. I want to go back." "This is most unusual," said the administrator in a disturbed voice. He looked unbelievably at T. "10 years ago," you say. "Yes, yes, and I'm ready to go back before it's too late. Can't you understand?" The administrator shook his head pityingly. "It's already too late. I'm sorry." He bent his head guiltily and began to fumble with the papers on his desk. T started to say something, but the administrator raised his head and said slowly, "It was too late the day you left Hades. Nothing I can do." He looked down again. T. turned and slowly walked out the door. The administrator didn't look up. As T. walked aimlessly down the deserted corridor, his footsteps echoed hollowly like a dirge, aligned from an old poem sprang to his mind. "We are the dead. Row on row we lie." He was the dead, but still he chased the chimera of hope, yet knowing in his heart it was hopeless. June 11th, 437th year, Galactic Era The star-duster pocked and pitted from innumerable collisions with dust particles sped out and out. The close-packed sons of the central hub lay far behind. Here at the rim of the galaxy the stars lay scattered, separated by vast distances. 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