The Three Suns of Amara

Then memories came back like a rushing multitude. With them, the anguish of the realization of a double loss.

But among them were no memories of what had happened since he looked upon a shattered room containing two dead men, where his experiences had carried him beyond the verge of sanity.

His witless wandering had brought him to this lozenge-shaped natural pool in a waste of green grass. He stood up and made a more careful survey of the area. In the opposite direction to the far-away mountain range there was what appeared to be another ridge. He looked hard at it and saw that it was, in fact, no more than a ridge. Although it formed the sky-line it was actually quite near. The grass carpet rolled up and over it.

His gaze wandered along the crest, then focused on what looked like a small conical cairn heaped there. A primitive grave? His eyes watered as he forced them to gather more detail.

He divined that it was no cairn, but part of something which stood beyond the ridge.

He was staring at the dull nose of a space-ship—and it could only be the Pegasus

,

For all his anxious calculations, detours and misadventures, he had arrived at Na-Abiza at last without realizing it.

The discovery gave him a real shot in the arm. He even took time out to walk back and take a closer look at the line of white effulgence. Not too close a look; its brightness pained the eyes. Moreover, he suspected radioactivity here. So this was the “slow burn.” It seemed to be a channel of liquid fire, hardly more than a couple of inches wide. The eye could detect no progress. All the same, the burn was progressing, as he knew from Lee’s description, and must be heading for the grassy ridge.

He surveyed its line of march. With a little shock, he saw that the Pegasus stood plumb on an extrapolation of that line. It was a chance in millions. But he wondered if it, like many other odd freaks on Amara, was due only to the laws of chance. There seemed no laws of nature here. Why should there be laws of chance?

He set off towards the ship. There was a vague sense of something missing. Then, for the first time, he noticed that he had arrived at this place minus two old faithfuls—the rucksack and the machete. They’d accompanied him for so long that it seemed a pity they wouldn’t complete the journey with him. He guessed he’d left them back there in that room of horror.

He climbed on to the top of the ridge; the effort sapped a deal of his small bonus of energy. Now he could see that the ridge had concealed more than the bulk of the Pegasus. There was an irregular cluster of wattle and daub huts, the crudest he had seen on Amara. Among them a few natives were strolling. They were tall and well built. In the yellow sunlight they looked yellow, which meant that they could be yellow or white.

He observed with surprise that the base of the spaceship was totally enclosed by a high fence, also of sticks and clay. None of the crew was visible. This was his goal. Alone on his raft, he had yearned to get here. For this he had walked out on Rosala. Now, with the goal attained, he felt strangely indifferent. He walked down towards the ship, desiring food more than human company. The natives noticed him. They gathered, whispering. They seemed excited. By now, he reckoned, they must know—by sight, anyhow—all of the crew members of the Pegasus. So he was a phenomenon; the new Earth-man who had arrived on Amara somehow without a ship. Maybe he could fly through space by just waving his arms like the wings of a bird.

As he neared, without exception they sank to their knees and bowed their heads to him.

He acknowledged the salutation with weary amusement. “Well, thanks, folks. But no autographs today.”

They remained silent, bowed, reverent.

There was a gate in the fence around the ship. He pushed through. At the bottom of the ship’s ladder, Captain Bagshaw was sunning himself in a sagging canvas chair. He wore only bathing trunks, which had stretched and split. On his left was a big pile of fruit, loaves, and native dishes. On his right, within reach, a swollen wineskin lay in the shade of a broad-leaved potted plant. Sherret stopped short at the sight of him.

Was this Bagshaw, the immaculate Englishman, sartorial wonder of the Space Corps, proud of his narrow waist and broad shoulders, affectionately known as

“The Tailor’s Dummy?”

Bagshaw was equally surprised at the sight of Sherret.

“Who the devil are you?”

Sherret performed a salute which the Captain ignored.

“Lieutenant Sherret, sir, of the Endeavor.”