“And where do you fit in, Mr. Greypoole?”
The little man seemed to blush; he lowered his eyes. “I was head caretaker, you see. But I wasn’t well—gastric complaints, liver, heart palpitations, this and that; so, I decided to allow them to … change me. They turned all manner of machines on my body and pumped me full of fluids and by the time I got here, why, I was almost, you might say, a machine myself! Fortunately, though, they left a good deal of Greypoole. All I know is that whenever the film is punctured, I wake and become a machine, do my prescribed duties in a complex way and—”
“The film?”
“The covering that seals in the conditioning. Nothing can get out, nothing get in—except things like rockets. Then, it’s self-sealing, needless to say. But to get on, Captain. With all the technical advancements, it soon got to where there was no real work to be done here; they threw up the film and coated us with their preservative or, as they put it, Eternifier, and—well, with the exception of my calendar and the communications system, everything’s worked perfectly, including myself.”
No one said anything for a while. Then Captain Webber said, with great slowness, “You’re lying. This is all a crazy, hideous plot.” The little man chuckled at the word plot.
“In the first place, no cemetery or form of cemetery has existed on Earth for—how long, Friden?”
Mr. Friden stared at his fingers. “Years and years.”
“Exactly. There are communal furnaces now.”
Mr. Greypoole winced.
“And furthermore,” continued the captain, “this whole concept is ridiculous.”
Mr. Chitterwick threw down the pamphlet and began to tremble. “We should have stayed home,” he remarked to a young woman who did not answer.
“Mr. Greypoole,” Webber said, “I think that you know more than you’re saying. You didn’t seem very surprised when you learned we weren’t the men you expected; you don’t seem very surprised now that I tell you that your ‘Happy Glades’ and all the people connected with it have been dead for ages. So, why the display of interest in our explanations, why—”
The faint murmur, “A good machine checks and double checks,” could be heard from Mr. Greypoole, who otherwise said nothing.
“I speak for my men: we’re confused, terribly confused. But whatever this is, we’re stuck, can’t you see? All we want is a place to begin again—” Captain Webber paused, looked at the others and went on in a softer tone. “We’re tired men, Mr. Greypoole; we’re poorly equipped, but we do have weapons and if this is some hypnotic kind of trap. …”
The little man waved his hand, offendedly.
“There are lakes and farms and all we need to make a new start—more than we’d hoped for, much more.”
“What had you hoped for, Captain?”
“Something. Nothing. Just escape—”
“But I see no women—how could you begin again, as you suggest?”
“Women? Too weak; they would not have lasted. We brought along eggs and machines—enough for our needs.”
Mr. Greypoole clucked his tongue. “Mr. Waldmeyer certainly did look ahead,” he muttered, “he certainly did.”
“Will we be honest now? Will you help us?”
“Yes, Captain, I will help you. Let us go back to your rocket.” Mr. Greypoole smiled. “Things will be better there.”
Captain Webber signaled. They left the building and walked by the foot of a white mountain.
They passed a garden with little spotted trees and flowers, a brown desert of shifting sands and a striped tent; they walked by strawberry fields and airplane hangars and coal mines; tiny yellow cottages, cramped apartments, fluted houses and Tudor houses and houses without description. …
Past rock pools and a great zoo full of animals that stared out of vacant eyes; and everywhere, the seasons changing gently: crisp autumn, cottony summer, windy spring and winters cool and white. …
The six men in uniforms followed the little man with the thin hair. They did not speak as they walked, but looked around, stared, craned, wondered. …
And the old, young, middle-aged, white, brown, yellow people who did not move wondered back at the men with their eyes. …
“You see, Captain, the success of Mr. Waldmeyer’s plan?”
Captain Webber rubbed his cheek.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“But you do see, all of you, the perfection here, the quality of Eternal Happiness which the circular speaks of?”
“Yes … we see that.”
“Here we have happiness and brotherhood, here there have never been wars or hatreds or prejudices. And now you who were many and left Earth to escape war and hatred, who were many by your own word and are now only six, you want to begin life here?”
Cross-breezes ruffled the men’s hair.
“To begin, when from the moment of your departure you had wars of your own, and killed, and hurled mocking prejudice against a race of people not like you, a race who rejected and cast you out into space again! From your own account! No gentlemen, I am truly sorry. It may be that I misjudged those of you who are left, or rather, that Happy Glades misjudged you. You may mean well, after all—and, of course, the location of this asteroid was so planned by the Board as to be uncharted forever. But—oh, I am sorry.” Mr. Greypoole sighed.
“What does he mean by that?” asked Mr. Friden and Lieutenant Peterson.
Captain Webber was gazing at a herd of cows in the distance.
“What do you mean, you’re ‘sorry’?” demanded Mr. Friden.
“Well. …”
“Captain Webber!” cried Mr. Chitterwick, blinking.
“Yes, yes?”
“I feel queer.”
Mr. Goeblin clutched at his stomach.
“So do I!”
“And me!”
Captain Webber looked back at the fields, then at Mr. Greypoole. His mouth twitched in sudden pain.
“We feel awful, Captain!”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. Follow me to your ship, quickly.” Mr. Greypoole motioned curiously with his hands and began to step briskly.
They circled a small pond where a motionless boy strained toe-high on an extended board. And the day once again turned to night as they hurried past a shadowed cathedral.
When they were in sight of the
