He began to laugh softly.
What would happen if he just gave up, drifted off into sleep? Sleep, ah, sleep; perchance to dream. All the world a stage. … What if he gave up the unequal struggle, lapsed down?
Eeeeeeeeeee
, the high, shrill warning sound of battle metal.
He shivered. His tongue moved in his dry, burry mouth.
Iorr and Tylle would battle out their ancient battle.
Leonard Sale would become quite insane.
And whichever won the battle, would take this ruin of an insane man, the shaking, laughing wild body, and wander it across the face of this world for ten, twenty years, occupying it, striding in it, pompous, holding court, making grand gestures, ordering heads severed, calling on inward unseen dancing girls. Leonard Sale, what remained of him, would be led off to some hidden cave, there to be infested with wars and worms of wars for twenty insane years, occupied and prostituted by old and outlandish thoughts.
When the rescue ship arrived it would find nothing. Sale would be hidden somewhere by a triumphant army in his head. Hidden in some cleft of rock, placed there like a nest for Iorr to lie upon in evil occupation.
The thought of it almost broke him in half.
Twenty years of insanity. Twenty years of torture, doing what you don’t want to do. Twenty years of wars raging and being split apart, twenty years of nausea and trembling.
His head sank down between his knees. His eyes snapped and cracked and made soft noises. His eardrum popped tiredly.
Sleep, sleep
, sang soft sea voices.
I’ll—I’ll make a proposition with you, listen, thought Leonard Sale. You, Iorr, you, too, Tylle! Iorr, you can occupy me on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Tylle, you can take me over on Sundays, Tuesdays and Saturdays. Thursday is maid’s night out. Okay?
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee
, sang the sea tides, seething in his brain.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
, sang the distant voices softly, soft.
What’ll you say, is it a bargain, Iorr, Tylle?
No
, said a voice.
No
, said another.
Greedy, both of you, greedy! complained Sale. A pox on both your houses!
He slept.
He was Iorr, jeweled rings on his hands. He arose beside his rocket and held out his fingers, commanding blind armies. He was Iorr, ancient ruler of jeweled warriors.
He was Tylle, lover of women, killer of dogs!
With some hidden bit of awareness, his hand crept to the holster at his hip. The sleeping hand withdrew the gun there. The hand lifted, the gun pointed.
The armies of Tylle and Iorr gave battle.
The gun exploded.
The bullet tore across Sale’s forehead, wakening him.
He stayed awake for another six hours, getting over his latest siege. He knew it to be hopeless now. He washed and bandaged the wound he had given himself. He wished he had aimed straighter and it was all over. He watched the sky. Two more days. Two more. Come on, ship, come on. He was heavy with sleeplessness.
No use. At the end of six hours he was raving badly. He took the gun up and put it down and took it up again, put it against his head, tightened his hand on the trigger, changed his mind, looked at the sky again.
Night settled. He tried to read, threw the book away. He tore it up and burned it, just to have something to do.
So tired. In another hour, he decided. If nothing happens, I’ll kill myself. This is for certain now. I’ll do it, this time.
He got the gun ready and laid it on the ground next to himself.
He was very calm now, though tired. It would be over and done. He would be dead.
He watched the minute hand of his watch. One minute, five minutes, twenty-five minutes.
The flame appeared on the sky.
It was so unbelievable he started to cry. “A rocket,” he said, standing up. “A rocket!” he cried, rubbing his eyes. He ran forward.
The flame brightened, grew, came down.
He waved frantically, running forward, leaving his gun, his supplies, everything behind. “You see that, Iorr, Tylle! You savages, you monsters, I beat you! I won! They’re coming to rescue me now! I’ve won, damn you.”
He laughed harshly at the rocks and the sky and the backs of his hands.
The rocket landed. Leonard Sale stood swaying, waiting for the door to lid open.
“Goodbye, Iorr, goodbye, Tylle!” he shouted in triumph, grinning, eyes hot.
Eeeeee
, sang a diminishing roar in time.
Ahhhhhh
, voices faded.
The rocket flipped wide its airlock. Two men jumped out.
“Sale?” they called. “We’re Ship ACDN13. Intercepted your SOS and decided to pick you up ourselves. The Marsport ship won’t get through until day after tomorrow. We want a spot of rest ourselves. Thought it’d be good to spend the night here, pick you up, and go on.”
“No,” said Sale, face melting with terror. “No spend night—”
He couldn’t talk. He fell to the ground.
“Quick,” said a voice, in the bleary vortex over him. “Give him a shot of food liquid, another of sedative. He needs sustenance and rest.”
“No rest!” screamed Sale.
“Delirious,” said one man softly.
“No sleep!” screamed Sale.
“There, there,” said the man gently. A needle poked into Sale’s arm.
Sale thrashed. “No sleep, go!” he mouthed horribly. “Oh, go!”
“Delirious,” said one man. “Shock.”
“No sedative!” screamed Sale.
The sedative flowed into him.
Eeeeeeeeeeee
, sang the ancient winds.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh
, sang the ancient seas.
“No sedative, no sleep, please, don’t, don’t, don’t!” screamed Sale, trying to get up. “You don’t—understand!”
“Take it easy, old man, you’re safe among us now, nothing to worry about,” said the rescuer above him.
Leonard Sale slept. The two men stood over him.
As they watched, Sale’s features changed violently. He groaned and cried and snarled in his sleep. His face was riven with emotion. It was the face of a saint, a sinner, a fiend, a monster, a darkness, a light, one, many, an army, a vacuum, all, all!
He writhed in his sleep.
Eeeeeeeeee!
the sound burst from his mouth. Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
he screamed.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked one of the two rescuers.
“I don’t know. More sedative?”
“More sedative. Nerves. He needs more sleep.”
They stuck the needle in his arm. Sale writhed and spat and moaned.
Then, suddenly, he was dead.
He lay there, the two
