Chindi

Chapter 33

“TOR.”

Hutch had spoken to him out of the void. Her voice sounded strange, but it was her: “Tor, I don’t know whether you can hear me. I wanted you to know we haven’t given up.”

Give up? Why would she give up? The chindi was drifting quietly, if indeed it was drifting at all. It seemed stationary, locked against the immovable background of stars. A child could navigate alongside and take him off. What was going on?

“Hutch,” he’d whispered into the link, as if someone might overhear, “where are you? Where’ve you been?”

It came again: “But the situation isn’t good.”

They were having a problem with the Memphis. What he’d feared all along was true. He called her name, begged her to answer, demanded to know what was wrong.

“The chindi never jumped.”

He knew that. So what?

“—Slower than light—.” Reception wasn’t good. She sounded far away.

“Hutch. Where the hell are you?”

“—Moving too fast—”

And then it was gone. Not so much as a whimper came back to him.

He’d spent most of his time out on the surface. He’d been there now almost a week and he had no idea why they’d left him because even if the Memphis had developed mechanical problems, the Longworth was in the area. Where was everybody?

Whatever had happened, he knew from the way Hutch had sounded, knew with a terrible certainty, that he was not going to survive. He had not much more than a day left. And if Hutch’s voice had conveyed anything, it was despair.

Then she was back: “—transmission won’t get to you for almost a half hour. You’ll pass us a bit later. About an hour and twenty minutes from the time you receive this. Tor—”

Thank God. They’d get him off in two hours. They were waiting out there for him. He raised a fist in triumph. Two hours was good. He could live with that. Yes indeed. He laughed at his little joke. “Thank you, Hutch.”

“Tor, we’re asking the crew to help. The aliens.”

The aliens? “Hutch, can you hear me?” Hell, there were no aliens. “Hutch, where are you? Please respond, damn it.”

“I’m sorry, Tor. I wish there were more we could do.”

It made no sense. “Hutch, there’s nothing alive out here except me.”

“You won’t be able to talk to me. You’ll only be in range for an instant. We estimate you’ll pass us at seventy-five thousand kilometers per second.”

No, that wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. The stars were motionless. The chindi was motionless. “There’s been a mistake,” he told her. “I’m adrift. Not moving at all.”

He waited, and then he called her name. He stood up and looked out at the stars. “That’s not what happened,” he said. “Hutch…”

SHE CONTINUED TO talk to him, telling him they were trying to figure out what they could do, that she was sorry, that she would do anything to get him off…The transmission was periodically overwhelmed by long periods of interference. Betelgeuse saying hello.

He’d been strolling about on the outside, wandering among the hills and rock barrens. He remembered Hutch, long ago, commenting how archeologists were forever unearthing antique structures and extracting what they could from them, and how they always ended by commenting What a story you could tell if you could only talk.

They liked to think they were able to make the old temples talk. That they listened to the tools and the pottery and, at Beta Pac, the long-dead alien orbiter. But they knew, Hutch had said, it was a very limited conversation. Even the king’s name tended to get lost.

But the eyes of the chindi were, it seemed, everywhere. And its voice spoke to anyone who could figure out how to get aboard. Had that been the intention? Was this thing a gift to anyone able to find it? Or had it gotten lost?

He was running low on air, so he went back to the exit hatch, looked down, and was pleased to see that his dome was still there. Every time he returned he held his breath, aware there had been a chance that, while he was gone, the robots would have hauled it off. Cleanup crew, you know. Can’t have trash lying about.

He’d experimented by leaving a few crumpled pieces of paper in various corridors. They’d invariably disappeared a day or so later. But they never took the dome away.

Somebody knew. Maybe they didn’t know how to help him.

He climbed back down the ladder. One of the robots was approaching. It had to move to one side to get around the dome.

He stepped in front of it and it stopped. The black discs that served, presumably, as eyes, locked on him.

“Hello,” he said. “Take me to your captain.”

The robot waited.

“Can you understand me? I’m stranded. I need help.”

It tried to move past, but he stayed in front of it. “You guys are interested in everything else. But we invade you, and you don’t notice. Why is that?”

They were caretakers. He’d climbed aboard one several days ago and ridden it until it turned into one of the chambers. The thing had begun running a program, a bloodcurdling spectacle in which a city built of marble, overlooking a sea, was attacked by a cloud. One of the omega clouds, he thought, the things that came out of galaxy central in waves every eight thousand years or so to attack pieces of geometry. One of the last great mysteries.

The images had been indistinct, and the robot put everything back into focus and left. It had never paid any attention whatever to Tor.

He spent a lot of time on his journal, recording his experiences among the displays and outside on the hull. (Since the Memphis had left he no longer had the capability of recording the displays themselves.) But when he read over his comments and found that they’d become maudlin, he went back and made deletions. Rerecorded everything. Eventually, he knew, someone would come. Any last words he left would become part of the chindi legend. So he tried to remain cool, aloof, archly amused. He pictured people at the Smithsonian looking at a mock-up of one or another of the display chambers. And eventually coming to the Thoughts of Tor Vinderwahl.

Yes, cool and aloof. The sort of person they’d all have wanted to know.

He watched the robot trundle away, disappearing finally around a corner, thinking how glorious it would be if it worked, if it went directly up to the bridge and summoned the captain. Tor’s waiting down near the exit hatch, sir. He needs a couple of canisters of oxygen. Just enough to get him through until the Memphis can come alongside and collect him. It’s been good to have you aboard, Mr. Vinderwahl. Do come again when you’re in the neighborhood.

HE WENT INSIDE the dome and refilled his tanks. The status lamp was getting dim. He stood in front of the pump feeling lost and alone and very sorry for himself. And then he shook it off as best he could and went back outside to wait for the Memphis to pass by.

Hutch was also outside, on the hull of her ship. She said so, twice. He checked the time. Only a few minutes away now. Of course, there was no way to know whether she was being exact. Usually when people use an expression like we’ll be there in an hour and a half, there’s a certain amount of loose change in either direction.

“Hutch,” he said into the commlink, “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.” He grinned. It looked as if that was going to happen.

The flat level buzz of the universe came back. If you listen closely, the old song lyric went, you can hear Betelgeuse.

“I’m still here, Tor.”

Hutch’s voice again, electrifying in its imminence, as though she sat behind him, or behind one of the ridges.

“Hutch, can you hear me yet? Tell me if you can hear me.”

“You’re only a few seconds away now. I wish you could talk to me.”

As do I.

The ridges out on either side of the exit hatch were low. Barely ripples in the rock. But he selected a spot that seemed the highest place, although he could almost have seen over it. He walked to it, shook his head, and climbed it. The Memphis should be straight ahead. Somewhere beyond the front of the chindi. Beyond where the ridges meet. Somewhere.

He waited patiently, shielding his eyes from a nonexistent glare. There was movement off to one side. But it was only a spray of dust. A micrometeor.

And then: “I love you, Tor.”

Well, that last was good news anyhow.

THERE WAS A subtle change in the transmission, in her voice, informing him he was on the downside of the Doppler. “Good-bye, Priscilla,” he said.

He stayed on his feet, wishing that a stray rock would take him, remove any need for decision on his part. Get it over.

She’d been right. Nothing in the chindi had been worth his life. It might have been worth dying for in some obscure philosophical sense. But only if someone else did the dying. When Pete and Herman and the others had lost their lives it had seemed brave and noble, making the ultimate sacrifice for the ultimate cause. Opening a window through which the species could at last get a sense of its neighbors.

But the presence of Priscilla Hutchins on the Memphis underscored why it was better to live.

HE WENT BELOW again, and wandered back to say good-bye to Wolfie.

The corridors that had once seemed so broad and spacious now crowded him. The werewolf waited in the dark. Another creature far from home.

Lost travelers.

He stood gazing at it by the light of his wristlamp. The implications of what Hutch had said about the chindi’s velocity had begun to make sense, and he was feeling even more isolated. While he stood facing the image he realized why the chindi had never jumped, why it traveled at high speed. And he began to sense how truly old the ship must be.

George had hoped, when they’d first discovered it, that they’d be able to engage its crew in a dialogue. Hello, we’re from Earth. Where are you folks from?

“How are you doing, Wolfie?” Hutch had thought he was someone’s idea, somewhere, of the ruler of the universe. Tor gazed at the image for several minutes. It did look rational. And serene. One might even say it possessed a touch of majesty.

If anything is made in His image, it should reflect reason. Anatomical design seems hardly relevant.

“I never believed in You,” he said. “Still don’t.” He switched off the light. “Good-bye, Wolfie. I won’t be along this way again.”

Its eyes seemed to have become visible.

He backed toward the door. “If you could see your way clear to help, though, I’d be grateful.”

HE TOPPED OFF his tanks, probably for the last time, and set them aside. The cell was near exhaustion. Best course now, if he wanted to drag things out, was to stay in the dome until the lights went off. Figuratively, of course, since everything that could be turned off was off. But he should wait it out here until life support shut down and the air started to go bad. Then switch to the tanks.

That was what he should do. It might be easier to end it. But he did not believe he could bring himself to deactivate the suit.

He was still relatively young, and he loved the sunlight. He had a sudden vision of the Memphis pulling up alongside and finding him dead. Of Hutch in tears, inconsolable, clasping him to her breast. Regretting the lost time they might have had together.

Odd. There was a degree of satisfaction in that.

Hutch continued to speak to him, her voice carried by the relay. He knew it was hard on her. But it would have been hard even if he’d been a stranger. It wasn’t easy standing around watching someone die.

Well, whatever happened from here on, he wasn’t going to turn out his own lights. You wouldn’t find Vinderwahl pulling the plug. No, ma’am.

“Tor.” Her voice again. She sounded far away now. “We have an idea that might work. Better than the other one. Hang on.”

Another idea. He hoped they weren’t trying to raise the chindi’s chief engineer.

Ten minutes later, life support failed. Fans stopped. The humming in the walls stopped. He turned on a lamp and was surprised to see that it still worked. It was dim, but it worked. No point in conserving. He left it on and sat quietly until the air in the dome started feeling heavy, until it reminded him of his washroom adventure. And then he tugged on the e-suit, connected his tanks, and activated the energy field.

He turned the lamp off and went back up through the exit hatch.