The Wanderer

“I won’t,” she assured him. “Why, I think it’s romantic being patched up that way, just like the old soldiers that run the space academies in the Heinlein and E. E. Smith stories.”

Don Guillermo Walker finally had to admit to himself that the black glisten ahead was water — and the little lake, rather than the big one, for there at last were the lights of Managua twinkling no more than ten miles away. A new worry struck him: that he had cut his timing too fine. What if the moon came out of eclipse right now, pinpointing him for el presidente’s jets and AA guns, like a premature spotlight catching a stagehand in overalls making a dark-stage scenery change? He wished he were back doing second-rate summer stock near Chicago, or haranguing a “guns-south” Birch splinter group; or ten years old and putting on a backyard circus in Milwaukee, defying death by sliding down a slanting rusty wire from a height of nineteen feet.

That second memory gave him courage. Dead for a backyard circus…dead for a greaser city bombed! He revved the motor to its top speed, and the prop behind him drummed the lukewarm air a shade less feebly. “Guil-ler-mo ge-ron-imo!” Don Guillermo yelled. “La Loma, here I come!”

Chapter Seven

Paul Hagbolt was paying only half attention to the speakers on the platform. The coincidence of the star photos and Doc’s notion about planets traveling through hyperspace had distracted him and set his imagination drifting. As if a big clock, that only he could hear, had just now begun to tick (once a second, not five times like wrist watches and many spring clocks), he found himself becoming acutely aware of time and of everything around him — the huddled group of people, the level sand, the faint rattle of the toppling wavelets just beyond the speakers, the old, boarded-up beach houses, the hooded and red-blinking installations of Vandenberg Two thrusting up behind him, the dirt cliffs beyond the sea-grass, above all the mild night pressing in from the ends of space and making tiny everything but the globe of Earth and the dark moon and the glittering stars.

Someone addressed a question to Rama Joan. She smiled with her teeth at Beardy and then looked down at her audience, her gaze moving to each member in turn. The bulging green turban hid her hair, though she had the same pale complexion as Ann, and it emphasized the tapering of her thin face. She looked like a half-starved child herself.

Still without speaking, she gazed across the heavens and above her shoulder at the dark moon, then back at her audience.

Then she said very quietly, yet harshly: “What do any of us really know about what is out there? Far less than a man imprisoned from birth in a cell under the city would know of the millions in Calcutta or Hong Kong or Moscow or New York. I know some of you think advanced races will love and cherish us, but I judge the attitude of more advanced races toward man on the basis of man’s attitude toward the ant. On that basis I can tell you this much: there are devils out there. Devils.”

There was a low, grinding sound like steel clockwork being wound. Miaow stiffened in Margo’s arms, and the short hairs rose along her spine. Ragnarok had growled.

Rama Joan continued: “Among the stars, out there, there may be Hindus who won’t kill a cow and even Jains who whisk off whatever they sit on for fear of crushing an ant and who wear gauze over their lips to keep from swallowing a gnat, but those will be at most the rare exceptions. The rest will not strain at gnats. To us, they will be devils.”

Weirdness engulfed Paul. Everything around him seemed much too real, yet on the verge of dissolution — frozen, phantasmal. He looked toward the stars and the moon for support, telling himself that the heavens were the one thing that hadn’t changed through all history, but then a demon voice deep in his mind said: “But what if the stars should move? They moved, in the photographs.”

Sally Harris led Jake Lesher across the worn wood platform to the fifth and last car of the Rocket train. The only other passengers this trip were a rather timid-looking Puerto Rican couple, sitting in the first car and already gripping the safety bar with all four hands.

“My God, Sal, the waits I put up with,” Jake said. “And the sidetracks I go down — I mean up! — to humor you. Hasseltine’s penthouse—”

“Shh, this ain’t no sidetrack, lover boy,” she whispered as the launcher hurried past, making the last quick check. “Now listen hard: as soon as we start to climb, slide forward about a foot and grab onto the back of the seat for all you’re worth with your left hand, because with your other arm you’re going to be holding me.”

“But that’s the arm away from you, Sal.”

“Now it is,” she told him and touched him intimately.

He goggled at her, then smirked incredulously.