memory. Nothing was left.
“It seems hopeless to me,” said Mary, “this blind searching for some unknown factor. Even if it should be here, and there’s no evidence that it is, it could take years to find. If you ask me, I think the Brigadier’s insane.”
“Perhaps not insane,” said Lansing. “Simply a man driven by an insane purpose. Even when we were at the cube, he was certain that what we were looking for would be found in the city. At that time, of course, he was thinking of the city in different terms. He was thinking we would find people here.”
“But not finding them, wouldn’t it seem reasonable he should change his thinking?”
“Perhaps it would be reasonable for you and me. We can admit mistakes; we can adjust to changing situations. But not the Brigadier. He plans a course of action and he follows it. If he says a thing is so, then it is so. He will not change his mind.”
“Knowing this, what do we do about it?” “We play along with him. We travel a few more miles with him. Maybe the time will come, not too long from now, when he’ll become persuaded.” “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait too long.” “If so,” said Lansing, “then we’ll decide what to do.” “Knocking in his silly head would be my first suggestion.”
He grinned at her, and she smiled back. “Maybe,” she told him, “that’s a shade too vicious. But there are times I like to think of it.”
They had been sitting on a slab of stone and as they rose to go on, Mary spoke sharply. “Listen. Is that someone screaming?”
For a moment they stood rigid, side by side, then the sound that Lansing had not heard at first came again — faint, far off, thinned by distance, the sound of a woman screaming.
“Sandra!” Mary cried and started to run down the street toward the plaza. She was running lightly, as if her feet were winged, Lansing coming on heavily in her wake. The path was tortuous, hemmed in by blocks of stone that had fallen in the narrow street. Several times Lansing heard the screaming again. He burst out of the street into the plaza. Mary was halfway across it. On the stairs that led up to the camp stood Sandra, waving her arms frantically, still screaming. He tried to force a burst of speed, but his legs would not respond.
Mary flew up the stairs and caught Sandra in her arms, the two of them standing together, clinging to one another. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Brigadier pop out of a street into the plaza. Lansing kept on doggedly, reached the bottom of the stairs and dashed on up. “What goes on?” he panted.
“It’s the Parson,” Mary said. “He has disappeared.” “Disappeared! Sandra was supposed to watch him.” “I had to go to the bathroom,” Sandra yelled at him. “I had to find a place to go. It was only for a minute.”
“You’ve looked?” asked Mary.
“I’ve looked for him,” Sandra shrilled. “I’ve looked everywhere.”
The Brigadier came puffing up the stairs. Behind him, still out in the plaza, Jurgens came, hopping along, nailing with his crutch in an attempt to hurry.
“What’s all the racket?” the Brigadier demanded.
“The Parson’s gone,” said Lansing.
“So he ran off,” said the Brigadier. “The little scut ran off.”
“I tried to find him,” Sandra screamed.
“I know where he is,” said Mary. “I am sure I know.”
“So do I,” said Lansing, charging for the entrance.
Mary yelled after him, running as she called, “You’ll find a flashlight by my sleeping bag. I kept it there all night.”
Lansing saw the flash and scooped it up, scarcely pausing in his stride. He ran for the basement stairs. As he went down them, he was talking to himself. “The fool!” he said. “The terrible, awful fool!”
He reached the basement and plunged for the central corridor, the bobbing flashlight beaming the way before him.
There still might be time, he told himself. There still might be time, but he was sure there wasn’t.
He was right — there wasn’t.
The big room at the end of the corridor was empty. The row of peepholes gleamed faintly in the dark.
He reached the first door, the one that opened on the crabapple world, and flashed the torch upon it. The lugs that had held the door securely against opening dangled on their bolts.
Lansing reached for the door and a terrific force hit him from behind, throwing him to the floor. The flashlight, still lit, went rolling. He had bumped his head against the floor in falling and stars and flashes of light went buzzing through his brain, but still he fought against the weight that held him down.
“You idiot!” yelled the Brigadier. “What were you about to do?”
“The Parson,” Lansing mumbled thickly. “He went through the door.”
“And you were going to follow?”
“Why, yes, of course. I could have found him…”
“You utter fool!” yelled the Brigadier. “That’s a one-way door. You go in, but you can’t come back. Go in and there is no door. Now will you behave yourself if I let you up?”
Mary had picked up the flashlight and was shining it on Lansing. “The Brigadier is right,” she said. “It could be a one-way door.” Then she screamed, “Sandra, get away from there!”
As she screamed, Jurgens came out of the dark and lunged with his crutch at Sandra. It struck her in the ribs and flung her to one side.
The Brigadier lumbered to his feet and backed against the door, guarding it against all comers.
“You understand,” he said. “No one goes through this door. No one touches it.”
Lansing climbed shakily to his feet. Jurgens, after knocking her down, was helping Sandra up.
“There it is,” said Mary, shining the torch upon the floor. “There’s the wrench he used to loosen the lugs.”
“I saw it yesterday,” said Jurgens. “It was hanging on a hook beside the door.”
Mary stooped and picked up the wrench.
“Now,” said the Brigadier, “since all of us have gone through our periods of insanity, let’s settle down. We’ll put the lugs back in place, then we’ll throw away the wrench.”
“How do you know it’s a one-way door?” Sandra demanded.
“I don’t know,” said the Brigadier. “I’m just betting that it is.”
And that was it, thought Lansing. No one could know, not even the Brigadier. And until they knew, knew without question, no one could go through the door.
“There’s no way of knowing,” said Jurgens, “until you step through the door. Then it could be too late.”
“How right,” said the Brigadier. “But no one is going to try.”
He held out a hand to Mary, and she handed him the wrench.
“Hold the light on me,” he said, “so I can see what I’m doing.”
18
“He escaped,” said the Brigadier. “Lansing, when he talked with you last night did he mention escape?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t, but apparently he was hopeless. He said this place was Hell and he meant that it was Hell, the actual biblical Hell. He wasn’t simply swearing.”
“He was a weak man,” said the Brigadier. “He took the coward’s way out. He was the first of us to go.”
“You sound,” said Sandra, still tearful, “as if you expect others of us to go.”
“There are always casualties,” said the Brigadier. “One must count on casualties. Of course, you do your best to hold them down to an acceptable percentage.”
Lansing grimaced. “If you think of this as humor, let me say that it’s repugnant humor. You’ll get no laughs from us.”
“And now you’re going to tell us,” Mary said, “that we must carry on. Even with the Parson gone, we must carry on.”
“Of course we must,” said the Brigadier. “It’s our only chance. If we don’t find something here—”
