Retracing the path back to the village, he kept a sharp lookout, going slowly so that he'd not miss the turnoff if it should be there. It was not, however. It once had been, he told himself, bemused, and he'd come walking up it, out of that other world he'd fled.
The village street was dappled by the moonlight shining through the rustling leaves. The house across the street still was dark, and there was an empty loneliness about it. Rand remembered that he had not eaten since the sandwich he had made that noon. There'd be something in the milkbox — he'd not looked in it that morning, or had he? He could not remember.
He went around the house to the back porch where the milkbox stood. The Milkman was standing there. He was more shadowy than ever, less well defined, with the moonlight shining on him, and his face was deeply shaded by the wide-brimmed hat he wore.
Rand halted abruptly and stood looking at him, astounded that the Milkman should he there. For he was out of place in the autumn moonlight. He was a creature of the early morning hours and of no other times.
"I came," the Milkman said, "to determine if I could be of help."
Rand said nothing. His head buzzed large and misty, and there was nothing to be said.
"A gun," the Milkman suggested. "Perhaps you would like a gun."
"A gun? Why should I want one?"
"You have had a most disturbing evening. You might feel safer, more secure, with a gun in hand, a gun strapped about your waist."
Rand hesitated. Was there mockery in the Milkman's voice?
"Or a cross."
"A cross?"
"A crucifix. A symbol…"
"No," said Rand. "I do not need a cross."
"A volume of philosophy, perhaps."
"No!" Rand shouted at him. "I left all that behind. We tried to use them all, we relied on them and they weren't good enough and now…"
He stopped, for that had not been what he'd meant to say, if in fact he'd meant to say anything at all. It was something that he'd never even thought about; it was as if someone inside of him were speaking through his mouth.
"Or perhaps some currency?"
"You are making fun of me," Rand said bitterly, "and you have no right…"
"I merely mention certain things," the Milkman said, "upon which humans place reliance…"
"Tell me one thing," said Rand, "as simply as you can. Is there any way of going back?"
"Back to where you came from?"
"Yes," said Rand. "That is what I mean."
"There is nothing to go back to." the Milkman said. "Anyone who comes has nothing to go back to."
"But the old man left. He wore a black felt hat and carried a cane. He dropped them and I found them."
"He did not go back," the Milkman said. "He went ahead. And do not ask me where, for I do not know."
"But you're a part of this."
"I am a humble servant. I have a job to do and I try to do it well. I care for our guests the best that I am able. But there comes a time when each of our guests leaves us. I would suspect this is a halfway house on the road to someplace else."
"A place for getting ready," Rand said.
"What do you mean?" the Milkman asked.
"I am not sure," said Rand. "I had not meant to say it." And this was the second time, he thought, that he'd said something he had not meant to say.
"There's one comfort about this place." the Milkman said. "One good thing about it you should keep in mind. In this village nothing ever happens."
He came down off the porch and stood upon the walk. "You spoke of the old man," he said, "and it was not the old man only. The old lady also left us. The two of them stayed on much beyond their time."
"You mean I'm here all alone?"
The Milkman had started down the walk, but now he stopped and turned. "There'll be others coming," he said. "There are always others coming."
What was it Sterling had said about man outrunning his brain capacity? Rand tried to recall the words, but now, in the confusion of the moment, he had forgotten them. But if that should be the case, if Sterling had been right (no matter how he had phrased his thought), might not man need, for a while, a place like this, where nothing ever happened, where the moon was always full and the year was stuck on autumn?
Another thought intruded and Rand swung about, shouting in sudden panic at the Milkman. "But these others? Will they talk to me? Can I talk with them? Will I know their names?"
The Milkman had reached the gate by now and it appeared that he had not heard.
The moonlight was paler than it had been. The eastern sky was flushed. Another matchless autumn day was about to dawn.
Rand went around the house. He climbed the steps that led up to the porch. He sat down in the rocking chair and began waiting for the others.
Cosmic Engineers
Original copyright year: 1950
From the original short novel by the same author, Copyright 1939 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
"… apart from your assignments, you must always be receptive to, be prepared for, and act upon all news potential from strange sources though it may lead you to the end of the solar system — perhaps even to the very edge of the universe…" From the Interplanetary Newsman's Manual
CHAPTER One
HERB HARPER snapped on the radio and a voice snarled, billions of miles away: "Police ship 968. Keep watch for freighter Vulcan on the Earth-Venus run. Search ship for drugs. Believed to be…"
Herb spun the dial. A lazy voice floated through the ship: "Pleasure yacht Helen, three hours out of Sandebar. Have you any messages for us?"
He spun the dial again. The voice of Tim Donovan, radio's ace newscaster, rasped "Tommy Evans will have to wait a few more days before attempting his flight to Alpha Centauri. The Solar Commerce commission claims to have found some faults in the construction of his new generators, but Tommy still insists that those generators will shoot him along at a speed well over that of light. Nevertheless, he has been ordered to bring his ship back to Mars so that technicians may check it before he finally takes off. Tommy is out on Pluto now, all poised for launching off into space beyond the solar system. At last reports he had made no move to obey the order of the commission. Tommy's backers, angered by the order, call it high-handed, charge there are politics back of it…"
Herb shut off the radio and walked to the door separating the living quarters of the Space Pup from the control room.
"Hear that, Gary?" he asked. "Maybe we'll get to see this guy, Evans, after all."
Gary Nelson, puffing at his foul, black pipe, scowled savagely at Herb. "Who wants to see that glory grabber?" he asked.
"What's biting you now?" asked Herb.
"Nothing," said Gary, "except Tommy Evans. Ever since we left Saturn we haven't heard a thing out of Donovan except this Tommy Evans."
Herb stared at his lanky partner.
"You sure got a bad case of space fever," he said. "You been like a dog with a sore head the last few days."
"Who wouldn't get space fever?" snapped Gary. He gestured out through the vision plate. "Nothing but space," he said. "Blackness with little stars. Stars that have forgotten how to twinkle. Going hundreds of miles a second and you wonder if you're moving. No change in scenery. A few square feet of space to live in. Black space pressing all about you, taunting you, trying to get in…"
He stopped and sat down limply in the pilot's chair.
"How about a game of chess?" asked Herb.
Gary twisted about and snapped at him:
"Don't mention chess to me again, you sawed-off shrimp. I'll space-walk you if you do. So help me Hannah if I won't."