came a high sound of almost unbelievable laughter.
«Tell him to come down,» whispered Chatterton. «He'll be killed.»
Nobody heard. Their faces were raised away from Chatterton; they were stunned and smiling.
At last Driscoll landed at their feet. «Did you see me? My God, I flew!» They had seen.
«Let me sit down, oh Lord, Lord.» Driscoll slapped his knees, chuckling. «I'm a sparrow, I'm a hawk, God bless me. Go on, all of you, try it!»
«It's the wind. It picked me up and flew me!» he said, a moment later, gasping, shivering with delight.
«Let's get out of here.» Chatterton started turning slowly in circles, watching the blue sky. «It's a trap, it wants us all to fly in the air. Then it'll drop us all at once and kill us. I'm going back to the ship.»
«You'll wait for my order on that,» said Forester. The men were frowning, standing in the warm-cool air, while the wind sighed about them. There was a kite sound in the air, a sound of eternal March.
«I asked the wind to fly me,» said Driscoll. «And it did!»
Forester waved the others aside. «I'll chance it next. If I'm killed, back to the ship, all of you.»
«I'm sorry, I can't allow this; you're the captain,» said Chatterton. «We can't risk you.» He took out his gun. «I should have some sort of authority or force here. This game's gone on too long; I'm ordering us back to the ship!»
«Holster your gun,» said Forester quietly.
«Stand still, you idiot!» Chatterton blinked now at this man, now at that. «Haven't you felt it? This world's alive, it has a look to it, it's playing with us, biding its time.»
«I'll be the judge of that,» said Forester. «You're going back to the ship, in a moment, under arrest, if you don't put up that gun.»
«If you fools won't come with me, you can die out here. I'm going back, get my samples, and get out.»
«Chatterton!»
«Don't try to stop me!»
Chatterton started to run. Then, suddenly, he gave a cry.
Everyone shouted and looked up.
«There he goes,» said Driscoll.
Chatterton was up in the sky.
Night had come on like the closing of a great but gentle eye. Chatterton sat stunned on the side of the hill. The other men sat around him, exhausted and laughing. He would not look at them, he would not look at the sky, he would only feel of the earth, and his arms and his legs and his body, tightening in on himself.
«God, wasn't it perfect!» said a man named Koestler.
They had all flown, like orioles and eagles and sparrows, and they were all happy.
«Come out of it, Chatterton, it was fun, wasn't it?» said Koestler.
«It's impossible.» Chatterton shut his eyes, tight, tight. «It can't do it. There's only one way for it to do it; it's alive. The air's alive. Like a fist, it picked me up. Any minute now, it can kill us all. It's alive!»
«All right,» said Koestler, «say it's alive. And a living thing must have purposes. Suppose the purpose of this world is to make us happy.»
As if to add to this, Driscoll came flying up, canteens in each hand. «I found a creek, tested and pure water, wait'll you try it!»
Forester took a canteen, nudged Chatterton with it, offering a drink. Chatterton shook his head and drew hastily away. He put his hands over his face. «It's the blood of this planet. Living blood. Drink that, put that inside and you put this world inside you to peer out your eyes and listen through your ears. No thanks!»
Forester shrugged and drank.
«Wine!» he said.
«It can't be!»
«It is. Smell it, taste it! A rare white wine!»
«French domestic.» Driscoll sipped his.
«Poison,» said Chatterton.
They passed the canteens round.
They idled on through the gentle afternoon, not wanting to do anything to disturb the peace that lay all about them. They were like very young men in the presence of great beauty, of a fine and famous woman, afraid that by some word, some gesture, they might turn her face away, avert her loveliness and her kindly attentions. They had felt the earthquake that had greeted Chatterton, thought Forester, and they did not want earthquake. Let them enjoy this Day After School Lets Out, this fishing weather. Let them sit under the shade trees or walk on the tender hills, but let them drill no drillings, test no testings, contaminate no contaminations.
They found a small stream which poured into a boiling water pool. Fish, swimming in the cold creek above, fell glittering into the hot spring and floated, minutes later, cooked, to the surface.
Chatterton reluctantly joined the others, eating.
«It'll poison us all. There's always a trick to things like this. I'm sleeping in the rocket tonight. You can sleep out if you want. To quote a map I saw in medieval history: 'Here there be tigers.' Some time tonight when you're sleeping, the tigers and cannibals will show up.»
Forester shook his head. «I'll go along with you, this planet is alive. It's a race unto itself. But it needs us to show off to, to appreciate its beauty. What's the use of a stage full of miracles if there's no audience?»
But Chatterton was busy. He was bent over, being sick.
«I'm poisoned! Poisoned!»
They held his shoulders until the sickness passed. They gave him water. The others were feeling fine.
«Better eat nothing but ship's food from now on,» advised Forester. «It'd be safer.»
«We're starting work right now.» Chatterton swayed, wiping his mouth. «We've wasted a whole day. I'll work alone if I have to. I'll show this damned thing.» He staggered away towards the rocket. «He doesn't know when he's well off,» murmured Driscoll. «Can't we stop him, Captain?»
«He practically owns the expedition. We don't have to help him; there's a clause in our contract that guarantees refusal to work under dangerous conditions. So… do unto this Picnic Ground as you would have it do unto you. No initial-cutting on the trees. Replace the turf on the greens. Clean up your banana-peels after you.»
Now, below, in the ship there was an immense humming. From the storage port rolled the great shining Drill. Chatterton followed it, called directions to its robot radio. «This way, here!» «The fool.»
«Now!» cried Chatterton.
The Drill plunged its long screw-bore into the green grass. Chatterton waved up at the other men. «I'll show it!»
The sky trembled.
The Drill stood in the centre of a little sea of grass. For a moment it plunged away, bringing up moist corks of sod which it spat unceremoniously into a shaking analysis bin.
Now the Drill gave a wrenched, metallic squeal like a monster interrupted at its feed. From the soil beneath it, slow, bluish liquids bubbled up.
Chatterton shouted, «Get back, you fool!»
The Drill lumbered in a prehistoric dance. It shrieked like a mighty train turning on a sharp curve, throwing out red sparks. It was sinking. The black slime gave under it in a dark pool.
With a coughing sigh, a series of pants and churnings, the Drill sank into a black scum like an elephant shot and dying, trumpeting, like a mammoth at the end of an Age, vanishing limb by ponderous limb into the pit.
«My God,» said Forester under his breath, fascinated with the scene. «You know what that is, Driscoll? It's tar. The damn fool machine hit a tar-pit!'»
«Listen, listen!» cried Chatterton at the Drill, running about on the edge of the oily lake. «This way, over here!»
But like the old tyrants of the earth, the dinosaurs with their tubed and screaming necks, the Drill was plunging and thrashing in the one lake from where there was no returning to bask on the firm and understandable shore.
Chatterton turned to the other men far away. «Do something, someone!»
The Drill was gone.
