Intergalactic Stories: 60+ SF Classics in One Edition (Illustrated). Leigh Brackett
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sang the ancient winds.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, sang the ancient seas.
"No sedative, no sleep, please, don't, don't, don't!" screamed Sale, trying to get up. "You don't—understand!"
"Take it easy, old man, you're safe among us now, nothing to worry about," said the rescuer above him.
Leonard Sale slept. The two men stood over him.
As they watched, Sale's features changed violently. He groaned and cried and snarled in his sleep. His face was riven with emotion. It was the face of a saint, a sinner, a fiend, a monster, a darkness, a light, one, many, an army, a vacuum, all, all!
He writhed in his sleep.
Eeeeeeeeee! the sound burst from his mouth. Ahhhhhhhhhhh! he screamed.
"What's wrong with him?" asked one of the two rescuers.
"I don't know. More sedative?"
"More sedative. Nerves. He needs more sleep."
They stuck the needle in his arm. Sale writhed and spat and moaned.
Then, suddenly, he was dead.
He lay there, the two men over him. "What a shame," said one of them. "Can you figure that?"
"Shock. Poor guy. What a pity." They covered his face. "Did you ever see a face like that?"
"Totally insane."
"Loneliness. Shock."
"Yes. Lord, what an expression. I hope never to see a face like that again."
"What a shame, waiting for us, and we arrive, and he dies anyway."
They glanced around. "What shall we do? Shall we spend the night?"
"Yes. It's good to be out of the ship."
"We'll bury him first, of course."
"Naturally."
"And spend the night in the open, with good air, right? Good to be in the open again. After two weeks in that damned ship."
"Right. I'll find a spot for him. You start supper, eh?"
"Done."
"Should be good sleeping tonight."
"Fine, fine."
They made a grave and said a word over it. They drank their evening coffee silently. They smelled the sweet air of the planet and looked at the lovely sky and the bright and beautiful stars.
"What a night," they said, lying down.
"Pleasant dreams," said one, rolling over.
And the other replied, "Pleasant dreams."
They slept.
Defense Mech
Oh, my god, do you realize how far from Earth we are? Do you really think about it? It's enough to scare the guts from a man. Hold me up. Do something. Give me sedatives or hold my hand or run call mama. A million cold miles up. See all the flickering stars? Look at my hands tremble. Feel my heart whirling like a hot pinwheel!
The captain comes toward me, a stunned expression on his small, tight face. He takes my arm, looking into my eyes. Hello, captain. I'm sick, if that's what you want to know. I've a right to be scared—just look at all that space! Standing here a moment ago, I stared down at Earth so round and cloud-covered and asleep on a mat of stars, and my brain tore loose and screamed, man, man, how'd you get in a mess like this, in a rocket a million miles past the moon, shooting for Mars with a crew of fourteen others! I can hardly stand up, my knees, my hands, my heart, are shaking apart. Hold me up, sir.
What are hysterics like? The captain unprongs the inter-deck audio and speaks swiftly, scowling, into it. I hope he's phoning the psychiatrist. I need something. Oh, dammit, dammit!
The psychiatrist descends the ladder in immaculate salt-white uniform and walks toward me in a dream. Hello, doctor. You're the one for me. Please, sir, turn this damned rocket around and fly back to New York. I'll go crazy with all this space and distance!
The psychiatrist and the captain's voices murmur and blend, with here and there an emphasis, a toss of head, a gesture:
"Young Halloway here's on a fear-jag, doctor. Can you help him?"
"I'll try. Good man, Halloway is. Imagine you'll need him and his muscles when we land."
"With the crew as small as it is, every man's worth his weight in uranium. He's got to be cured."
The psychiatrist shakes his head.
"Might have to squirt him full of drugs to keep him quiet the rest of the expedition."
The captain explodes, saying that is impossible. Blood drums in my head. The doctor moves closer, smelling clean, sharp and white.
"Please, understand, captain, this man is definitely psychotic about going home. His talk is almost a reversion to childhood. I can't refuse his demands, and his fear seems too deeply based for reasoning. However, I think I've an idea. Halloway?"
Yes, sir? Help me, doctor. I want to go home. I want to see popcorn exploding into a buttered avalanche inside a glass cube, I want to roller skate, I want to climb into the old cool wet ice-wagon and go chikk-chikk-chikk on the ice with a sharp pick, I want to take long sweating hikes in the country, see big brick buildings and bright-faced people, fight the old gang, anything but this—awful!
The psychiatrist rubs his chin.
"All right, son. You can go back to Earth, now, tonight."
Again the captain explodes.
"You can't tell him that. We're landing on Mars today!"
The psychiatrist pats down the captain patiently.
"Please, captain. Well, Halloway, back to New York for you. How does it sound?"
I'm not not so scared now. We're going down on the moving ladder and here is the psychiatrist's cubicle.
He's pouring lights into my eyes. They revolve like stars on a disc. Lots of strange machines around, attachments to my head, my ears. Sleepy. Oh, so sleepy. Like under warm water. Being pushed around. Laved. Washed. Quiet. Oh, gosh. Sleepy.
"—listen to me, Halloway—"
Sleepy. Doctor's talking. Very soft, like feathers. Soft, soft.
"—you're going to land on earth. No matter what they tell you, you're landing on Earth ... no matter what happens you'll be on Earth ... everything you see and do will be like on Earth ... remember that ... remember that ... you won't be afraid because you'll be on Earth ... remember that ... over and over ... you'll land on Earth in an hour ... home ... home again ... no matter what anyone says...."
Oh, yes, sir, home again. Sleepy. Home again. Drifting, sleeping, oh thank you, sir, thank you from the bottom of my drowsy, sleepy soul. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Sleepy. Drifting.
* * * * *
I'm awake!
Hey, everybody, come look! Here comes Earth! Right at us, like a green moss ball off a bat! Coming at us on a curve!
"Check stations! Mars landing!"
"Get into bulgers! Test atmosphere!"
Get into your what did he say?
"Your baseball uniform, Halloway. Your baseball uniform."
Yes, sir. My baseball uniform. Where'd I put it? Over here. Head into, legs into, feet into it. There. Ha, this is great! Pitch her in here, old boy, old boy! Smack! Yow!
Yes,