Time and Again

XIX

The asteroid was enveloped in the perpetual twilight of the far-from-sun and its frosty peaks speared up like sharp, silvery needles stabbing at the stars.

The air was sharp and cold and thinner than on Earth and the wonder was, Sutton told himself, that any air could be kept on the place at all. Although at the cost that it had taken to make this or any other asteroid habitable, it would seem that anything should be possible.

A billion-dollar job at least, Sutton estimated. The cost of the atomic plants alone would run to half that figure and without atomics there would be no power to run the atmosphere and gravity machines that supplied the air and held it in its place.

Once, he thought, Man had been content, had been forced to be content, to find his solitude at a lakeshore cottage or a hunting lodge or aboard a pleasure yacht, but now, with a galaxy to spend, Man fixed up an asteroid at a billion bucks a throw or bought out a planet at a bargain price.

"There's the lodge," said Herkimer, and Sutton looked in the direction of the pointing ringer. High up on the jigsaw horizon he saw the humped, black building with its one pinpoint of light.

"What's the light?" asked Eva. "Is there someone here?"

Herkimer shook his head. "Someone forgot to turn off a light the last time when they left."

Evergreens and birches, ghostlike in the starlight, stood in ragged clumps, like marching soldiers storming the height where the lodge was set.

"The path is over here," said Herkimer.

He led the way and they climbed, with Eva in the center and Sutton bringing up the rear. The path was steep and uneven and the light was none too good, for the thin atmosphere failed to break up the starlight and the stars themselves remained tiny, steely points of light that did not blaze or twinkle, but stood primly in the sky like dots upon a map.

The lodge, Sutton saw, apparently sat upon a small plateau, and he knew that the plateau would be the work of man, for nowhere else in all this jumbled landscape was it likely that one would find a level spot much bigger than a pocket handkerchief.

A movement of air so faint and tenuous that it could be scarcely called a breeze rustled down the slope and set the evergreens to moaning. Something scuttled from the path and skittered up the rocks. From somewhere far away came a screaming sound that set one's teeth on edge.

"That's an animal," Herkimer said quietly. He stopped and waved his hand at the tortured, twisted rock. "Great place to hunt," he said, and added, "if you don't break a leg."

Sutton looked behind him and saw for the first time the true, savage wildness of the place. A frozen whirlpool of star-speckled terrain stretched below them…great yawning gulfs of blackness above which stood brooding peaks and spirelike pinnacles.

Sutton shivered at the sight. "Let's get on," he said.

They climbed the last hundred yards and reached the man-made plateau, then stood and stared across the nightmare landscape, and as he looked, Sutton felt the cold hand of loneliness reach down with icy fingers to take him in its grip. For here was sheer, mad loneliness such as he had never dreamed. Here was the very negation of life and motion, here was the stark, bald beginning when there was no life, nor even thought of life. Here anything that knew or thought or moved was an alien thing, a disease, a cancer on the face of nothingness.

A footstep crunched behind them and they swung around.

A man moved out of the starry darkness. His voice was pleasant and heavy as he spoke to them.

"Good evening," he said and waited for a moment, then added by way of explanation, "We heard you land and I walked out to meet you."

Eva's voice was cold and just a little angry. "You take us by surprise," she said. "We had not expected anyone."

The man's tone stiffened. "I hope we are not trespassing. We are friends of Mr. Benton and he told us to use the place at our convenience."

"Mr. Benton is dead," said Eva, frostily. "This man is the new owner."

The man's head turned toward Sutton.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "We did not know. Of course, we'll leave, the first moment that we can."

"I see no reason," Sutton told him, "why you should not stay."

"Mr. Sutton," said Eva, primly, "came here for peace and quiet. He expects to write a book."

"A book," said the man. "An author, eh?"

Sutton had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was laughing, not at him alone, but at the three of them.

"Mr. Sutton?" said the man, acting as if he were thinking hard. "I can't seem to recall the name. But, then, I'm not a great reader."

"I've never written anything before," said Sutton.

"Oh, well, then," said the man, laughing as if he were relieved, "that probably explains it."

"It's cold out here," Herkimer said, abruptly. "Let us get indoors."

"Certainly," said the man. "Yes, it is cold, although I hadn't noticed it. By the way, my name is Pringle. My partner's name is Case."

No one answered him and after a few seconds he turned and trotted ahead of them, like a happy dog, leading the way.

The lodge, Sutton saw as they approached it, was larger than it had seemed from the valley where they had brought the ship in. It loomed huge and black against the starlit backdrop, and if one had not known that it was there it might have been mistaken for another rock formation.

The door opened as their feet sounded on the massive stone steps which led up to it and another man stood there, stiff and erect and tall, thin, but with whipcord strength about him as the light from inside the room threw his figure into black relief.

"The new owner, Case," said Pringle, and it seemed to Sutton that he pitched his voice just a key too low, that he emphasized the words just a bit too much. As if he meant the words to be a warning.

"Benton died, you know," said Pringle and Case answered, "Oh, did he? How peculiar."

Which, Sutton thought, was a funny thing to say.

Case stood to one side to let them enter, then pulled shut the door.

The room was huge, with only one lamp burning, and shadows pressed in upon them out of the dark corners and the cavernous arch of the raftered ceiling.

"I am afraid," said Pringle, "that you'll have to look out for yourselves. Case and I are roughing it and we brought along no robots. Although I can fix up something if you happen to be hungry. A hot drink, perhaps, and some sandwiches?"

"We ate just before we landed," Eva said, "and Herkimer will take care of what few things we have."

"Then take a chair," urged Pringle. "That one over there is comfortable. We will talk a bit."

"I'm afraid we can't. The trip was just a little rough."

"You're an ungracious young lady," Pringle said, and his words were halfway between jest and anger.

"I'm a tired young lady."

Pringle walked to a wall, flipped up toggles. Lights sprang into being.

"The bedrooms are up the stairs," he said. "Off the balcony. Case and I have the first and second to the left. You may have your pick from any of the rest."

He moved forward to lead them up the stairs. But Case spoke up and Pringle stopped and waited, one hand on tie lower curve of the stair rail.

"Mr. Sutton," said Case, "it seems to me I have heard your name somewhere."

"I don't think so," said Sutton. "I'm a most unimportant person."

"But you killed Benton."

"No one said I killed him."

Case did not laugh, but his voice said that if he had not been Case he would have laughed.

"Nevertheless, you must have killed him. For I happen to know that is the only way anyone could get this asteroid. Benton loved it and this side of life he'd never give it up."

"Since you insist, then, I did kill Benton."

Case shook his head, bewildered. "Remarkable," he said. "Remarkable."

"Good night, Mr. Case," said Eva, and then she spoke to Pringle. "No need to trouble you. We will find our way."

"No trouble," Pringle rumbled back. "No trouble at all." And, once again, he was laughing at them.

He jogged lightly up the stairs.