its sense of the sustained rational order of time and space. Without them, his awareness of reality shrank to little more than the few square inches of sand beneath his feet. On one of his last ventures into the maze, he spent all night and much of the following morning in a futile attempt to escape. Dragging himself from one rectangle of shadow to another, his leg as heavy as a club and apparently inflamed to the knee, he realized that he must soon find an equivalent for the blocks or he would end his life within them, trapped inside this self-constructed mausoleum as surely as the retinue of Pharaoh.
He was sitting helplessly somewhere in the centre of the system, the faceless lines of tomb-booths receding from him, when the sky was slowly divided by the drone of a fight aircraft. This passed overhead, and then returned five minutes later. Seizing his opportunity, Traven struggled to his feet and made his exit from the blocks, his head raised to follow the faintly glistening beacon of the exhaust trail. As he lay in the bunker he dimly heard the aircraft return and carry out an inspection of the site.
Belated Rescue
'Who are you? Do you realize you're on your last legs?'
'Traven I've had some sort of accident. I'm glad you flew over.' 'I'm sure you are. But why didn't you use our radio-tele-phone? Anyway, we'll call the Navy and have you picked up.' 'No…' Traven sat up on one elbow and felt weakly in his hip pocket. 'I have a pass somewhere. I'm carrying out research.' 'Into what?' The question assumed a complete understanding of Traven's motives. He lay in the shade under the lee of the bunker, and drank weakly from a canteen as Dr Osborne dressed his foot. 'You've also been stealing our stores.' Traven shook his head. Fifty yards away the striped blue Cessna stood on the concrete apron like a brilliant dragonfly. 'I didn't realize you were coming back.' 'You must be in a trance.' The young woman sitting at the controls of the aircraft climbed out and walked over to them. She glanced at the grey bunkers and towers, and seemed uninterested in the decrepit figure of Traven. Osborne spoke to her and after a downward glance at Traven she went back to the aircraft. As she turned Traven rose involuntarily, recognizing the child in the photograph he had pinned to the wall of the bunker. Then he remembered that the magazine could not have been more than four or five years old. The engine of the aircraft started. As Traven watched, it turned on to one of the roadways and took offinto the wind.
Later that afternoon the young woman drove over to the blocks by jeep and unloaded a small camp-bed and a canvas awning. During the intervening hours Traven had slept. He woke refreshed when Osborne returned from his scrutiny of the surrounding dunes.
'What are you doing here?' the young woman asked as she secured the guy-ropes to the roof of the bunker.
Traven watched her move about. 'I'm… searching for my wife and son.'
'They're on this island?' Surprised, but taking the reply at face value, she looked around her. 'Here?'
'In a manner of speaking.'
After inspecting the bunker, Osborne joined them. 'The child in the photograph - is she your daughter?'
Traven hesitated. 'No. She's adopted me.'
Unable to make any sense of his replies, but accepting his assurances that he would leave file island, Osborne and the young woman drove back to their camp. Each day Osborne returned to change the dressing, driven by the young woman, who seemed now to grasp the role cast for her by Traven.
Osborne, when he learned of Traven's previous career as a military pilot, appeared to suspect that he might be a latter-day martyr left high and dry by the moratorium on thermonuclear tests.
'A guilt complex isn't an indiscriminate supply of moral sanctions. I think you may be over-stretching yours.' When he mentioned the name Eatherly, Traven shook his head.
Undeterred, Osborne pressed: 'Are you sure you're not making similar use of the image of Eniwetok - waiting for your Pentecostal wind?'
'Believe me, Doctor, no,' Traven replied firmly. 'For me the hydrogen bomb was a symbol of absolute freedom. I feel it's given me the right- the obligation, even- to do anything I want.'
'That seems strange logic,' Osborne commented. 'Aren't we at least responsible for our physical selves, if for nothing else?'
'Not now, I think,' Traven replied. 'After all, in effect we are men raised from the dead.'
Often, however, he thought of Eatherly: the prototypal Pre-Third Man - dating the Pre-Third from August 6, 945 - carrying a full load of cosmic guilt.
Shortly after Traven was strong enough to walk, he had to be rescued from the blocks for a second time. Osborne became less conciliatory.
'Our work is almost complete,' he said warningly. 'You'll die here, Traven. What are you looking for among those blocks?'
To himself, Traven murmured: the tomb of the unknown civilian, Homo hydrogenesis, Eniwetok Man. 'Doctor,' he said, 'your laboratory is at the wrong end of this island.'
Tartly, Osborne replied: 'I'm aware of that, Traven. There are rarer fish swimming in your head than in any submarine pen.'
On the day before they left, the young woman drove Traven over to the lakes where he had first arrived. As a final present, an ironic gesture unexpected from the elderly biologist, she had brought from Osborne the correct list of legends for the chromosome charts. They stopped by the derelict juke-box and she pasted them on to the selection panel.
They wandered among the supine wrecks of the Super-fortresses. Traven lost sight of her, and for the next ten minutes searched in and out of the dunes. He found her standing in a small amphitheatre formed by the sloping 5o mirrors of a solar energy device built by one of the visiting expeditions. She smiled to Traven as he stepped through the scaffolding. A dozen fragmented images of herself were reflected in the broken panes - in some she was sans head, in others multiples of her arms circled about her like the serpent limbs of a Hindu goddess. Confused, Traven turned and walked back to the jeep.
As they drove away he recovered himself. He described his glimpses of his. wife and son. 'Their faces are always calm,' he said. 'My son's particularly, though really he was always laughing. The only time his face was grave was when he was being born - then he seemed millions of years old.'
The young woman nodded. 'I hope you find them.' As an afterthought she added: 'Dr Osborne is going to tell the Navy that you're here. Hide somewhere.'
Traven thanked her.
From the centre of the blocks he waved to her the following day when she flew away for the last time.
The Naval Party
When the search party came for him Traven hid in the only logical place. Fortunately the search was perfunctory, and was called off after a few hours. The sailors had brought a supply of beer with them and the search soon turned into a drunken ramble.
On the walls of the recording towers Traven later found balloons of obscene dialogue chalked into the mouths of the shadowy figures, giving their postures the priapic gaiety of the dancers in cave drawings.
The climax of the party was the ignition of a store of gasoline in an underground tank near the air-strip. As he listened, first to the megaphones shouting his name, the echoes receding among the dunes like the forlorn calls of dying birds, then to the boom of the explosion and the laughter as the landing craft left, Traven felt a premonition that these were the last sounds he would hear.
He had hidden in one of the target basins, lying among the broken bodies of the plastic models. In the hot sunlight their deformed faces gaped at him sightlessly from the tangle of 15I limbs, their blurred smiles like those of the soundlessly laughing dead.
Their faces filled his mind as he climbed over the bodies and returned to his bunker. As he walked towards the blocks he saw the figures of his wife and son standing in his path.
