Return from the Stars (32 page)

"Contact with galactic civilizations? Whoever said anything about that? None of us, not one of the scholars, not Merquier, not Simonadi, not Rag Ngamieli—no one; no expedition counted on any such contact, and therefore all that talk about fossils flying through space and the perpetually delayed galactic mail, it's a refutation of an argument that no one ever made. What can one get from the stars? And of what use was Amundsen's expedition? Or Andree's? None. The only clear benefit lay in the fact that they had proved a possibility. That it could be done. Or, more precisely, that it was, for a given time, the most difficult attainable thing. I don't know if we even did that much, Bregg. I really don't. But we were there."

I was silent. Thurber did not look at me now. He rested his fists on the edge of the desk.

"What did Starck prove to you—the futility of cosmodromia? As if we did not know that ourselves! And the poles! What was at the poles? Those who conquered them knew that there was nothing there. And the Moon? What did Ross's group seek in the crater Eratosthenes? Diamonds? And why did Bant and Jegorin cross the face of Mercury—to get a tan? And Kellen and Offshagg—the only thing they knew for certain, when they flew to the cold cloud of Cerber, was that they could die there. Don't you know what Starck is really saying? That a human being must eat, drink, and clothe himself; and the rest is madness. Every man has his Starck, Bregg. Every period in history has had one. Why did Gimma send you and Arder? To collect samples from the corona. Who sent Gimma? Science. Cut and dried, isn't it? The study of the stars. Bregg, do you think we wouldn't have gone if there had been no stars? I say we would have. We would have wanted to examine that emptiness, to provide an explanation for it, Geonides or someone else would have told us what valuable measurements and experiments we could carry out on the way. Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying that the stars are only an excuse. Neither was the pole; Nansen and Andree needed it… Everest meant more to Mallory and Irving than the air itself. You say that I ordered you 'in the name of science'? You know that isn't true. You were testing my memory. Shall I test yours? Do you remember Thomas's planetoid?"

I started.

"You lied to us then. You flew down a second time, knowing that he was dead. True?"

I was silent.

"I guessed immediately. I never discussed it with Gimma, but I think he also guessed. Why did you do it, Bregg? That was not Arcturus or Kereneia, and there was no one to save. What purpose did you have, man?"

I was silent. Thurber gave a faint smile.

"You know what our problem is, Bregg? The fact that we made it and are sitting here. Man always comes back empty-handed…"

He stopped. His smile became an almost meaningless scowl. For a moment he breathed more loudly, gripping the desk with both hands. I looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time; it struck me that he was old, and the realization was a shock. I had never thought of him that way, as if he were ageless…

"Thurber," I said quietly, "listen … this is, well … only a eulogy over the graves of—the insatiable. There are none like them now. And will not be again. So—after all—Starck wins…"

He showed his flat yellow teeth, but it was not a smile.

"Bregg, give me your word that you will repeat to no one what I am about to tell you."

I hesitated.

"To no one," he repeated, with emphasis.

"All right."

He stood, went over to the corner, picked up a tube of paper, and returned with it to the desk.

The paper rustled as it unrolled in his hands. I saw what looked like a gutted fish, red lines, like blood.

"Thurber!"

"Yes," he replied quietly, rolling the paper back up with both hands.

"A new expedition?"

"Yes," he repeated. And went back to the corner and leaned the tube against the wall, like a rifle.

"When? Where?"

"Not soon. To the Center."

"Sagittarius…" I whispered.

"Yes. The preparations will take a long time. But thanks to anabiosis…"

He continued, but only single words and expressions came through to me—"loop flight," "nongravitational acceleration"—and the excitement I felt when I saw the drawing of the giant rocket gave way to an unexpected languor, from which, as through a descending gloom, I examined the hands resting on my knees. Thurber stopped, glanced at me, went to his desk, and began to gather papers, as if giving me time to digest the news. I should have been firing questions at him—which of us, of the old guard, would be flying; how many years the expedition would last; its objectives—but I asked nothing. Not even why the whole thing was being kept a secret. I looked at his huge, thick hands, which showed his age more distinctly than did his face, and I felt a small measure of satisfaction, as unexpected as it was base—that he, in any case, would not be flying. I would not live to see their return, not even if I broke Methuselah's record. It didn't matter. Was unimportant. I got up. Thurber rustled his papers.

"Bregg," he said, without looking up, "I still have work to do. If you like, we can have dinner together. You can spend the night in the dormitory; it's empty now."

I mumbled, "All right," and walked to the door. He had started to work as if I were no longer there. I stood awhile in the doorway, then left. I was not aware of exactly where I was, until the steady clap of my own footsteps reached me. I halted. I was in the middle of the long corridor, between two rows of identical doors. The echo of my steps could still be heard. An illusion? Someone following me? I turned and saw a tall figure disappear through a door at the far end. It happened so quickly that I did not get a good look at him, saw just a movement, a back, and the closing door. There was nothing for me to do here. No sense in walking farther—the corridor came to a dead end. I turned back, walked past an enormous window through which I could see the glow of the city, silver on the vast black park, and again stopped in front of the door marked "In here, Bregg," where Thurber was working. I no longer wanted to see him. I had nothing to say to him, nor he to me. Why had I come in the first place? Suddenly, with surprise, I remembered why. I would go back inside and ask about Olaf—but not now. Not just yet. I wasn't tired, I felt perfectly fine, but something was happening to me, something I didn't understand. I went to the stairs. Opposite them stood the last of the doors, the one into which the unknown person had disappeared a moment ago. I recalled that I had looked into that same room at the beginning, when I entered the building; I recognized the patch of peeling paint. There had been nothing at all in that room. What could the person have been looking for?

I was certain that he had not been looking for anything, that he was only hiding from me, and I stood undecided for some time in front of the stairs, the empty white motionless stairs. Slowly, very slowly, I turned. I felt an odd uneasiness; not an uneasiness exactly, for I was not afraid of anything; it was the way one feels after an injection of an anesthetic—tense, yet collected. I took two steps and strained my ears; it seemed to me that I heard—on the other side of the door—the sound of breathing. Impossible. I decided to go, but couldn't, I had given too much attention to that ridiculous door to walk away. I opened it and looked inside. Under a small ceiling lamp, in the middle of the empty room, stood Olaf. In the same old clothes, and with his sleeves rolled up, as if he had just put down his tools.

We looked at each other. Seeing that I wasn't going to speak, he spoke.

"How are you, Hal?"

His voice was not altogether steady.

I didn't want to play games, I was just surprised by this unexpected meeting, and perhaps, too, the shock of Thurber's words had not yet left me; in any case I said nothing in reply. I went over to the window, which had the same view, the black park and the glow of the city, and turned and sat on the sill. Olaf didn't move. He stood in the center of the room; from the book in his hand a single sheet of paper slipped and glided to the floor. We bent at the same time; I picked up the sheet and saw on it the blueprint of the rocket, the one that Thurber had shown me a moment ago. At the bottom of the sheet were comments in Olaf's handwriting. So that was it, I thought. He hadn't written because he would be flying, he'd wanted to spare me that knowledge. I would tell him that he was mistaken, that I didn't care about the expedition. I'd had enough of the stars, and anyway I knew everything from Thurber, so he could talk to me with a clear conscience.

I looked carefully at the lines of the drawing in my hand, as if approving the streamlined shape of the rocket, but said nothing; I merely returned the paper, which he took from me with a certain reluctance, folded in two, and put inside the book. All this took place in total silence, not by design, I am sure, but because it was acted out in silence the scene took on a symbolic significance, as though I had learned of his participation in the expedition and, by returning the drawing, accepted this step, without enthusiasm, but also without regret. When I tried to catch his eye he looked away, only to glance at me a moment later—the picture of uncertainty and confusion. Even now, when I knew everything? The silence in the small room became unbearable. I heard him breathe a little faster. His face was haggard and his eyes not as bright as when I had seen him last, as though he had been working hard and sleeping little, but there was another expression in them, too, one I did not recognize.

"I'm fine…" I said slowly. "And you?"

The instant I said these words I realized that the time for them had passed; they would have suited when I entered, but now they sounded almost hostile, or even sarcastic.

"Did you see Thurber?" he asked.

"Yes."

"The students have gone… There's no one here now, they gave us the whole building…" he began awkwardly.

"So that you could work out the plan for the expedition?" I prompted him, and he answered eagerly.

"Yes, Hal. Well, but you know the kind of work it is. Right now there are only a handful of us, but we have fantastic machines, these robots, you know…"

"That's good."

After these words, however, there was another silence. And, oddly enough, the longer it lasted, the greater grew Olaf's anxiety, his exaggerated stiffness, for he still stood in the center of the room, as if nailed to the floor, under the light, prepared for the worst. I decided to end this.

"Listen," I said very softly. "What exactly did you imagine? The coward's way doesn't work, you know… Did you really think I wouldn't find out if you didn't tell me?"

I broke off, and he remained silent, with his head hung to one side. I had gone too far, no doubt, since he was not to blame—in his shoes I probably would have done the same. Nor did I hold against him his month-long silence; it was that attempt to escape, to hide from me in this deserted room, when he saw me stepping out of Thurber's office—but I couldn't tell him this directly, it was too stupid and ridiculous. I raised my voice, called him a damned fool, but even then he didn't defend himself.

"So you think there's nothing left to discuss?" I snapped.

"That depends on you…"

"How so, on me?"

"On you," he repeated stubbornly. "It was important, who would be the one to tell you…"

"You really believe that?"

"That was how it seemed to me…"

"It makes no difference," I muttered.

"What do you intend to do?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing."

Olaf looked at me suspiciously.

"Hal, look, I…"

He didn't finish. I felt I was torturing him with my presence, yet I couldn't forgive him for running away; and to leave like that, at that moment, without a word, would have been worse than the uncertainty that had brought me there. I didn't know what to say; everything that united us was forbidden. I looked at him in the same moment that he glanced at me—each of us, even now, was counting on the other to help.

I got up from the sill.

"Olaf … it's late. I'm going. Don't think that I'm angry with you; nothing of the sort. We'll get together, anyway, perhaps you'll drop in on us." I said this with effort; each word was unnatural, and he knew it.

"What … you're not staying the night?"

"I can't, you see, I promised…"

I did not say her name. Olaf mumbled:

"As you wish. I'll see you out."

We left the room together and went down the stairs; outside it was completely dark. Olaf walked beside me without a word; suddenly he stopped. And I stopped.

"Stay," he whispered, as if ashamed. I could see only the vague blur of his face.

"All right," I agreed unexpectedly and turned around. He was not prepared for that. He stood for a while, then took me by the arm and led me to another, lower, building. In an empty room, where a few lights had been left on, we ate dinner on a counter, without even sitting down. During the entire time we exchanged perhaps ten words. Then went upstairs.

The room to which he led me was almost perfectly square, decorated in dull white, with a wide window that must have overlooked the park from a different direction, because I could see no trace of the city's glow above the trees; there was a freshly made bed, two chairs, and a third chair, larger, by the window. Through the narrow opening of a doorway the tiles of a bathroom glistened. Olaf stood at the door with his arms hanging, as if waiting for me to speak, but I said nothing, just walked around the room and touched the pieces of furniture mechanically, as though temporarily taking possession of them; he asked quietly:

"Can I … do anything for you?"

"Yes," I said. "Leave me alone."

He continued to stand there, not moving. His face turned red, then pale, and suddenly he smiled—smiled to hide the insult, because it had sounded like an insult. At this helpless, pathetic smile, something within me broke; in a convulsive effort to tear away the mask of indifference I had been wearing, since I had no other, I ran to him as he turned to leave, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it, as if asking his forgiveness with this violent clasp, and he, without looking at me, replied with a similar squeeze and went out. His firm grip still tingled in my hand when he had closed the door after himself, closed it carefully and quietly, as though leaving a sickroom. I was left alone, as I had wanted.