"We've come so far," she said at one point. "Why would they bring him so far?"
"I don't know."
But then a short while later I did know. Twenty minutes after we entered the forest,
I realized that we were heading in the general direction from which that brilliant purple light had flashed at me two days ago, just after I had come out of the woods from finding Blueberry's skeleton. The light must have been some manifestation of their space craft: it marked the spot of their landing, their invasion base. And now they were taking Toby to their space ship
For what?
Examination?
Tests?
Dissection?
Were they taking him as a specimen, taking him away into the stars?
We picked up our pace, walked as fast as we could manage, with less regard than before to the possibility of a surprise attack.
Time was running out-fast.
I sensed that we were closing on them, that they might be no more than a few hundred yards along the trail. Once, I thought that mental fingers pressed lightly, so very lightly, against my skull, but I could not be certain. Nothing tried to force its way into me; but I knew that it was there and waiting.
We followed the trail up a hillock, down into a shallow ravine, around an outcropping of limestone.
And the ship lay before us.
Connie stopped.
I moved beside her and put one hand on her shoulder.
The ship stood in a clearing. It was a sphere at least one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, absolutely enormous, stunning. It towered over us, as high as a fourteen- or fifteen-story office building. There were no windows or doors or hatches, no marks of any kind upon it. The perfectly seamless pearl gray material from which it was made gave off a cold, cold light.
There was no noise at all. We could not even hear the wind moaning above us. And although we were in the open once more, well beyond the shelter of the trees, the wind did not touch us, and the snow did not fall here. Apparently, the sphere was enveloped in a subtle but effective shield, one which did not exclude its crew members or us, but which protected the vessel from earth's weather.
I felt like a savage as I stared up at the vast sphere, like a savage peering up through the jungle and catching his first glimpse of a passing jet airliner.
"Toby's in there," Connie said.
I didn't want to think about that.
"What are we going to do, Don?"
"Get him out."
"How?"
Before I could answer, I was struck from behind: hard. I was quite literally bowled from my feet, and I rolled end over end. I lost the shotgun; it went spinning off into the brush.
Connie cried out.
I heard a rifle boom.
Dazed,
I got to my knees and looked up in time to see four aliens crowding in on her.
She fired again.
One of the beasts reached for the rifle with the claws at the end of its multi-jointed foreleg.
She backed up and fired.
In a rage one of the creatures rushed her, reared up on its four hindmost legs, and revealed a wicked yard-long stinger which had folded out of the forward part of its belly.
The chitinous saber was bright green and dripped what could only be venom.
"Connie-"
The thing was on her in an instant, clutching her with its forelegs, plunging the stinger into her stomach. The razored tip of it came out of her back, streaming blood and yellow ichor.
There was no doubt that she was dead. The effect of the venom was really academic. The stab wound, gouged through vital organs, would have finished her in the blink of an eye.
I lost control. Madness swept over me. I began to scream and could not stop.
(It was not merely grief that had driven me over the edge. Oh God, I loved that woman, yes, loved her more than I loved myself. And what more can I say? What greater love could there be? When I lost her I knew that I had lost my reason for getting up in the morning. And yet there were other components of my madness. At the same time I suddenly realized that, just as in Vietnam, here were two cultures, two alien societies, clashing senselessly. Instead of trying to communicate, they had killed. And instead of trying to think of some way to reach them and make them understand, I had killed. Murder is always easier than judicious, reasoned action. Violence is not the resource of last resort for mankind (and for superior races such as these aliens) but it is the primary resource, the first reaction. And that is why there is no hope for a peaceful future, regardless of our scientific and technological advancements. We are flawed because the universe is flawed. The universe is a madhouse-and we are all madmen, whether humans or intelligent insects. And it was seeing this so clearly, as well as the grief, that sent me gibbering.)
I got to my feet, screaming and babbling unintelligibly, overwhelmed with hatred, self-hatred, and grief. I raised my fists and swung at the air and ran toward the nearest alien.
I saw his stinger coming out of his belly, but I didn't care. In fact I wanted him to use it. I ran straight for him, screaming, screaming — and felt a pressure around my skull, then in my skull, then overwhelming me, pushing me down, taking full control, pushing me to the back of my own brain, pushing me into darkness
25
When I regained consciousness hours later I was in the farmhouse again.
I was sitting behind the desk in the den. Through the window on my right I could see the crown of our hill and the barn bright red in the snow. Saturday must be well along, I thought, for the sky was light. The snow was falling, although not so fast and thick as it had been coming for days now.
I was not alone. One of the aliens was standing just outside the door of the den, watching me. Its mandibles clacked together, opened, clacked shut, opened Another alien was in the room-and Toby stood at its side.
The boy's face was pale, his eyes blank.
"Do you know where you are?" he asked me.
My mouth was dry. I nodded.
"Do you feel all right?"
I understood that I was not talking to Toby at all but to the alien beside him who was using Toby's brain and tongue and lips to communicate with me. I said, "I feel rotten."
"Physically or emotionally."
"Emotionally."
"That's all right," Toby-alien said.
"Maybe to you it is."
"We have found that we cannot control an adult mind or learn much from it. That is why I am not inside your head, speaking to you from within. You wouldn't permit it. You would be overwhelmed with fear and disgust. Therefore we will use your son to converse with you. Is that satisfactory?"
I said nothing.
"You are a writer," Toby-alien said.
I was surprised by this approach.
I don't know what I had been expecting, but I certainly hadn't anticipated this.
"No."
"You've written a book."
"One book. That doesn't make me a writer."
"Nevertheless, you can write. You can put these curious little symbols down on paper, order your ideas, convey your impressions and emotions to others of your kind."
Reluctantly, I said, "Yes."
"And perhaps to us."
"You killed my wife."
"That is beside the point."
"It is the point."