This earlier culture had built the now-empty red-stone building at the outskirts of the city and had carved the doll that sagged out of the pocket of my jacket. Could that culture, if it had survived, have been able to tell the secret of how a man might fade away?
Roscoe had spoken of a many-layered reality and was that what it was all about? And if this were the case, did such a segmented reality exist only on this planet or might it exist as well on other planets?
I had thought of it as gibberish and perhaps it still was gibberish, but Roscoe had been right about the mathematics (or whatever one might call them) which had freed the ship. Might he not be right about the reality as well?
But all of this, I told myself, had nothing to do with me. I had wondered what I’d wanted back there on the trail and it had not been what Sara or Tuck or George, or even Hoot, had wanted. All I’d wanted was to get off the planet and now I had the means of getting off. All of us, at last, had found the thing we wanted. All that remained for me was to seal the hatch and activate the motors.
It was a simple thing and yet I hesitated. I stayed sitting in the pilot’s chair staring at the panel. Why, I asked myself, this reluctance to get started?
Could it be the others? There had been four of us to start with; did I shrink from only one returning?
I sat there and tried to be honest with myself and found that it was difficult to be honest with myself.
Tuck and George were out of reach and so was Hoot. There was no sense hunting them to bring them back. But there was Sara still. She could be reached and I could bring her back, somehow I still could manage that.
I sat and tried to fight it all out once again and there was a funny smarting in my eyes and with something close to horror I realized that tears were running down my cheeks.
Sara, I said to myself. Sara, for the love of Christ, why did you have to go and find what you were looking for? Why can’t you come back and go home with me? Why can’t I go and get you?
I remembered that last night as we’d sat beside the campfire and she had said it could have been so good between us-so good between us if we’d not gone charging out to chase a legend. And why did the stupid legend have to turn out to be true and spoil it all for us?
And I remembered, too, that first day when she’d met me in the hall of that house back on Earth and we’d walked down the hall together, arm in arm, to the room where Tuck and George had waited.
Not Tuck or George or Hoot, for they were out of reach. Not Sara, because I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But there was someone else.
I heaved out of the chair and went to the cabinet at the back of the cabin. From it I took the spare laser gun.
“We’re going back,” I said to Roscoe.
“Going back,” said Roscoe, “for Miss Foster?”
“No,” I said. “For Paint.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was insane, of course, Paint was nothing but a hobby. He’d still be in the gulley, flat upon his back, if it hadn’t been for me. How long did I have to keep flying to his rescue? He’d said he wanted to go to Earth and what did he know of Earth? He had never been there. He had even had to ask me what I meant by Earth. He hadn’t wanted to go until I’d told him what it was. And yet I could not shake the memory of him going so slowly down the trail so he’d still be in hearing distance if I should call him back. And I remembered, too, how he’d carried me so bravely in the battle with the centaur. Although, come to think of it, neither he nor I could claim any credit there. The credit all was Sara’s.
“I wish,” said Roscoe, striding along beside me, “that I could understand, in fullness, the concept of multiple- realities. I am certain I have it all in mind, if I could only see it. It’s like a puzzle with a million pieces and all you have to do is put the pieces all together and there it is, so simple that you wonder why you didn’t see it all to start with.”
It would have been better, I thought, if he went back to mumbling. It would be less disturbing that way. I wouldn’t have to listen to his mumbling because I’d know it made no sense. But I had to keep on listening to his chattering because there might be something in whatever he was saying.
“It is a new ability,” ‘said Roscoe, “and it is most confusing. Environmental-sensing, I suppose, would be the proper term for it. No matter where you go you sense, and know, the environmental factors.”
I didn’t pay too much attention to him, for I had a lot of thinking to be done. I wasn’t even sure we should be heading out again. The logical thing to have done would have been to close the hatch and take off and be shut of the planet. Although if I had wanted to cash in later we should have picked up a pocketful of the seeds so they could be tested to see if they really carried knowledge. We could have left, I told myself, with clear consciences. All accounts were settled. The purpose of the voyage had been accomplished and everyone had gotten what they wanted.
Half a dozen times I was ready to turn back, but each time kept on going. It was as if someone had a broad hand against my back and was shoving me along.
When we had left the city there had been no sign of the monstrous beasts which had chased us into it. I had half expected they might be waiting for us and I almost wished they had been. With the laser rifle they would have been no sweat. But they weren’t there and we went on, past the great red building dreaming in the sunlight, past the mighty tree trunk prone upon the ground for miles and the noisome pit centering on the jagged stump.
The way seemed shorter than it had on the first trip out. We drove ourselves, as if there were some great urgency. And at night around the campfire Roscoe smoothed out a patch of ground and worked on endless equations, mumbling at his work, half to me, half to himself.
Night after night, as he wrote and mumbled, I sat with him in the flare of the campfire light and tried to figure out why we were here and not many millions of miles in space, heading back toward the galaxy. And it came clearly to me that it was not Paint alone, although Paint was a part of it. It was more than Paint; it was Sara who was dragging me back across the empty miles. I saw her face in the firelight, across the blaze from me, with the lock of hair forever falling in her eyes, with the streak of travel smudge smeared across one cheek, with her eyes looking at
