Harry Harrison - Fifty Stories in Fifty Years

50 in 50:

Fifty Stories in Fifty Years

Harry Harrison

V2.0 – fixed garbled text, formatting, broken paragraphs; by peragwinn

Alien Shores

The Streets of Ashkelon

Somewhere above, hidden by the eternal clouds of Wesker's World, a thunder rumbled and grew.

Trader Garth stopped suddenly when he heard it, his boots sinking slowly into the muck, and cupped his

good ear to catch the sound. It swelled and waned in the thick atmosphere, growing louder.

"That noise is the same as the noise of your sky-ship," Itin said, with stolid Wesker logicality, slowly

pulverizing the idea in his mind and turning over the bits one by one for closer examination. "But your ship

is still sitting where you landed it. It must be, even though we cannot see it, because you are the only one

who can operate it. And even if anyone else could operate it we would have heard it rising into the sky.

Since we did not, and if this sound is a sky-ship sound, then it must mean—"

"Yes, another ship," Garth said, too absorbed in his own thoughts to wait for the laborious

Weskerian chains of logic to clank their way through to the end. Of course it was another spacer, it had

been only a matter of time before one appeared, and undoubtedly this one was homing on the S.S radar

reflector as he had done. His own ship would show up clearly on the newcomer's screen and they would

probably set down as close to it as they could.

"You better go ahead, Itin," he said. "Use the water so you can get to the village quickly. Tell

everyone to get back into the swamps, well clear of the hard ground. That ship is landing on instruments

and anyone underneath at touchdown is going to be cooked."

This immediate threat was clear enough to the little Wesker amphibian. Before Garth had finished

speaking Itin's ribbed ears had folded like a bat's wings and he slipped silently into the nearby canal.

Garth squelched on through the mud, making as good time as be could over the clinging surface. He had

just reached the fringes of the village clearing when the rumbling grew to a head-splitting roar and the

spacer broke through the low-hanging layer of clouds above. Garth shielded his eyes from the

down-reaching tongue of flame and examined the growing form of the gray-black ship with mixed

feelings.

After almost a standard year on Wesker's World he had to fight down a longing for human

companionship of any kind. While this buried fragment of herd-spirit chattered for the rest of the monkey

tribe, his trader's mind was busily drawing a line under a column of figures and adding up the total. This

could very well be another trader's ship, and if it was his monopoly of the Wesker's trade was at an end.

Then again, this might not be a trader at all, which was the reason he stayed in the shelter of the giant fern

and loosened his gun in its holster. The ship baked dry a hundred square meters of mud, the roaring blast

died, and the landing feet crunched down through the crackling crust. Metal creaked and settled into

place while the cloud of smoke and steam slowly drifted lower in the humid air.

"Garth—you native-cheating extortionist—where are you?" the ship's speaker boomed. The lines of

the spacer had looked only slightly familiar, but there was no mistaking the rasping tones of that voice.

Garth had a twisted smile when he stepped out into the open and whistled shrilly through two fingers. A

directional microphone ground out of its casing on the ship's fin and turned in his direction.

"What are you doing here, Singh?" he shouted towards the mike. "Too crooked to find a planet of

your own and have to come here to steal an honest trader's profits?"

"Honest!" the amplified voice roared. "This from the man who has been in more jails than

cathouses—and that a goodly number in itself, I do declare. Sorry, friend of my youth, but I cannot join

you in exploiting this aboriginal pesthole. I am on course to a more fairly at-mosphered world where a

fortune is waiting to be made. I only stopped here since an opportunity presented, to turn an honest

credit by running a taxi service. I bring you friendship, the perfect companionship, a man in a different line

of business who might help you in yours. I'd come out and say hello myself, except I would have to

decon for biologicals. I'm cycling the passenger through the lock so I hope you won't mind helping with

his luggage."

At least there would be no other trader on the planet now, that worry was gone. But Garth still

wondered what sort of passenger would be taking one-way passage to an undeveloped world. And what

was behind that concealed hint of merriment in Singh's voice? He walked around to the far side of the

spacer where the ramp had dropped, and looked up at the man in the cargo lock who was wrestling

ineffectually with a large crate. The man turned towards him and Garth saw the clerical dog-collar and

knew just what it was Singh had been chuckling about.

"What are you doing here?" Garth asked, and in spite of his attempt at self-control he snapped the

words. If the man noticed this he ignored it, because he was still smiling and putting out his hand as he

came down the ramp.

"Father Mark," he said, "of the Missionary Society of Brothers. I'm very pleased to meet—"

"I said what are you doing here." Garth's voice was under control now, quiet and cold. He knew

what had to be done, and it must be done quickly or not at all.

"That should be obvious.” Father Mark said, his good nature still unruffled. "Our missionary society

has raised funds to send spiritual emissaries to alien worlds for the first time. I was lucky enough—"

"Take your luggage and get back into the ship. You're not wanted here—and have no permission to

land. You'll be a liability and there is no one on Wesker's World to take care of you. Get back into the

ship."

"I" don't know who you are sir, or why you are lying to me," the priest said. He was still calm but the

smile was gone. "But I have studied galactic law and the history of this planet very well. There are no

diseases or beasts here that I should have any particular fear of. It is also an open planet, and until the

Space Survey changes that status I have as much right to be here as you do."

The man was of course right, but Garth couldn't let him know that. He had been bluffing, hoping the

priest didn't know his rights. But he did. There was only one distasteful course left for him, and he had

better do it while there was still time.

"Get back in that ship," he shouted, not hiding his anger now. With a smooth motion his gun was out

of the holster and the pitted black muzzle only inches from the priest's stomach. The man's face turned

white, but he did not move.

"What the hell are you doing, Garth?!" Singh's shocked voice grated from the speaker. "The guy paid

his fare and you have no rights at all to throw him off the planet."

"I have this right," Garth said, raising his gun and sighting between the priest's eyes. "I give him thirty

seconds to get back aboard the ship or I pull the trigger."

"Well, I think you are either off your head or playing a joke," Singh's exasperated voice rasped down

at them. "If it is a joke, it is in bad taste. But either way you're not getting away with it. Two can play at

that game—only I can play it better."

There was the rumble of heavy bearings and the remote-controlled four-gun turret on the ship's side

rotated and pointed at Garth. "Now—down gun and give Father Mark a hand with the luggage," the

speaker commanded, a trace of humor back in the voice now. "As much as I would like to help, Old

Friend, I cannot. I feel it is time you had a chance to talk to the father, after all, I have had the

opportunity of speaking with him all the way from Earth."

Garth jammed the gun back into the holster with an acute feeling of loss. Father Mark stepped

forward, the winning smile back now and a Bible, taken from a pocket of his robe, in his raised hand.

"My son—" he said.

"I'm not your son," was all Garth could choke out as the bitterness and defeat welled up within him.

His fist drew back as the anger rose, and the best he could do was open the fist so he struck only with

the flat of his hand. Still the blow sent the priest crashing to the ground and hurled the white pages of the

book splattering into the thick mud.

Itin and the other Weskers had watched everything with seemingly emotionless interest. Garth made

no attempt to answer their unspoken questions. He started towards his house, but turned back when he

saw they were still unmoving.

"A new man has come," he told them. "He will need help with the things he has brought. If he doesn't

have any place for them, you can put them in the big warehouse until he has a place of his own."

He watched them waddle across the clearing towards the ship, then went inside and gained a certain

satisfaction from slamming the door hard enough to crack one of the panes. There was an equal amount

of painful pleasure in breaking out one of the remaining bottles of Irish whiskey that he had been saving

for a special occasion. Well this was special enough, though not really what he had had in mind. The

whiskey was good and burned away some of the bad taste in his mouth, but not all of it. If his tactics had

worked, success would have justified everything. But he had failed and in addition to the pain of failure

there was the acute feeling that he had made a horse's ass out of himself. Singh had blasted off without

any goodbyes. There was no telling what sense he had made of the whole matter, though he would surely

carry some strange stories back to the trader's lodge. Well, that could be worried about the next time

Garth signed in. Right now he had to go about setting things right with the missionary. Squinting out

through the rain he saw the man struggling to erect a collapsible tent while the entire population of the

village stood in ordered ranks and watched. Naturally none of them offered to help.

By the time the tent was up and the crates and boxes stowed inside it the rain had stopped. The level

of fluid in the bottle was a good bit lower and Garth felt more like facing up to the unavoidable meeting.

In truth, he was looking forward to talking to the man. This whole nasty business aside, after an entire

solitary year any human companionship looked good. Will you join me now for dinner! John Garth, he

wrote on the back of an old invoice. But maybe the guy was too frightened to come? Which was no way

to start any kind of relationship. Rummaging under the bunk, he found a box that was big enough and put

his pistol inside. Itin was of course waiting outside the door when he opened it, since this was his tour as

Knowledge Collector. He handed him the note and box.

"Would you take these to the new man?" he said.

"Is the new man's name New Man?" Itin asked.

"No, it's not!" Garth snapped. "His name is Mark. But I'm only asking you to deliver this, not get

involved in conversation."

As always when he lost his temper, the literal-minded Weskers won the round. "You are not asking

for conversation," Itin said slowly, "but Mark may ask for conversation. And others will ask me his

name,- if I do not know his na—"

The voice cut off as Garth slammed the door. This didn't work in the long run either because next

time he saw Itin—a day, a week, or even a month later—the monologue would be picked up on the very

word it had ended and the thought rambled out to its last frayed end. Garth cursed under his breath and

poured water over a pair of the tastier concentrates that he had left.

"Come in," he said when there was a quiet knock on the door. The priest entered and held out the

box with the gun.

"Thank you for the loan, Mr. Garth, I appreciate the spirit that made you send it. I have no idea of

what caused the unhappy affair when I landed, but I think it would be best forgotten if we are going to be

on this planet together for any length of time."

"Drink?" Garth asked, taking the box and pointing to the bottle on the table. He poured two glasses

full and handed one to the priest. "That's about what I had in mind, but I still owe you an explanation of

what happened out there." He scowled into his glass for a second, then raised it to the other man. "It's a

big universe and I guess we have to make out as best we can. Here's to Sanity."

"God be with you," Father Mark said, and raised his glass as well.

"Not with me or with this planet," Garth said firmly. "And that's the crux of the matter." He

half-drained the glass and sighed.

"Do you say that to shock me?" the priest asked with a smile. "I assure you that it doesn't."

"Not intended to shock. I meant it quite literally. I suppose I'm what you would call an atheist, so

revealed religion is no concern of mine. While these natives, simple and unlettered Stone Age types that

they are, have managed to come this far with no superstitions or traces of deism whatsoever. I had hoped

that they might continue that way."

"What are you saying?" The priest frowned. "Do you mean they have no gods, no belief in the

hereafter? They must die . . . ?"

"Die they do, and to dust returneth. Like the rest of the animals. They have thunder, trees and water

without having thunder-gods, tree sprites, or water nymphs. They have no ugly little gods, taboos, or

spells to hag-ride and limit their lives. They are the only primitive people I have ever encountered that are

completely free of superstition and appear to be much happier and sane because of it. I just wanted to

keep them that way."

"You wanted to keep them from God—from salvation?" The priest's eyes widened and he recoiled

slightly.

"No," Garth said. "I wanted to keep them from superstition until they knew more and could think

about it realistically without being absorbed and perhaps destroyed by it."

"You're being insulting to the Church, sir, to equate it with superstition . . ."

"Please.” Garth said, raising his hand. "No theological arguments. I don't think your society footed the

bill for this trip just to attempt to convert me. Just accept the fact that my beliefs have been arrived at

through careful thought over a period of years, and no amount of undergraduate metaphysics will change

them. I'll promise not to try and convert you—if you will do the same for me."

"Agreed, Mr. Garth. As you have reminded me, my mission here is to save these souls, and that is

what I must do. But why should my work disturb you so much that you try and keep me from landing?

Even threaten me with your gun, and—" The priest broke off and looked into his glass.

"And even slug you?" Garth asked, suddenly frowning. "There was no excuse for that, and I would

like to say that I'm sorry. Plain bad manners and an even worse temper. Live alone long enough and you

find yourself doing that kind of thing." He brooded down at his big hands where they lay on the table,

reading memories into the scars and calluses patterned there. "Let's just call it frustration, for lack of a

better word. In your business you must have had a lot of chance to peep into the darker places in men's

minds and you should know a bit about motives and happiness. I have had too busy a life to ever

consider settling down and raising a family, and right up until recently I never missed it. Maybe leakage

radiation is softening up my brain, but I had begun to think of these furry and fishy Weskers as being a

little like my own children, that I was somehow responsible to them."

"We are all His children," Father Mark said quietly.

"Well, here are some of His children that can't even imagine His existence," Garth said, suddenly

angry at himself for allowing gentler emotions to show through. Yet he forgot himself at once, leaning

forward with the intensity of his feelings. "Can't you realize the importance of this? Live with these

Weskers a while and you will discover a simple and happy life that matches the state of grace you people

are always talking about. They get pleasure from their lives— and cause no one pain. By circumstances

they have evolved on an almost barren world, so have never had a chance to grow out of a physical

Stone Age culture. But mentally they are our match—or perhaps better. They have all learned my

language so I can easily explain the many things they want to know. Knowledge and the gaining of

knowledge gives them real satisfaction. They tend to be exasperating at times because every new fact

must be related to the structure of all other things, but the more they learn the faster this process

becomes. Someday they are going to be man's equal in every way, perhaps surpass us. If—would you

do me a favor?"

"Whatever I can."

"Leave them alone. Or teach them if you must—history and science, philosophy, law, anything that

will help them face the realities of the greater universe they never even knew existed before. But don't

confuse them with your hatreds and pain, guilt, sin, and punishment. Who knows the harm—"

"You are being insulting, sir!" the priest said, jumping to his feet. The top of his grey head barely

came to the massive spaceman's chin, yet he showed no fear in defending what he believed. Garth,

standing now himself, was no longer the penitent. They faced each other in anger, as men have always

stood, unbending in the defense of that which they think right.

"Yours is the insult," Garth shouted. "The incredible egotism to feel that your derivative little

mythology, differing only slightly from the thousands of others that still burden men, can do anything but

confuse their still fresh minds. Don't you realize that they believe in truth—and have never heard of such a

thing as a lie? They have not been trained yet to understand that other kinds of minds can think differently

from theirs. Will you spare them this . . . ?"

"I will do my duty which is His will, Mr. Garth. These are God's creatures here, and they have souls.

I cannot shirk my duty, which is to bring them His word so that they may be saved and enter into the

Kingdom of Heaven."

When the priest opened the door the wind caught it and blew it wide. He vanished into the

storm-swept darkness and the door swung back and forth and a splatter of raindrops blew in. Garth's

boots left muddy footprints when he closed the door, shutting out the sight of Itin sitting patiently and

uncomplaining in the storm, hoping only that Garth might stop for a moment and leave with him some of

the wonderful knowledge of which he had so much.

By unspoken consent that first night was never mentioned again. After a few days of loneliness, made

worse because each knew of the other's proximity, they found themselves talking on carefully neutral

grounds. Garth slowly packed and stowed away his stock and never admitted that his work was finished

and he could leave at any time. He had a fair amount of interesting drugs and botanicals that would fetch

a good price. And the Wesker artifacts were sure to create a sensation in the sophisticated galactic

market. Crafts on the planet here had been limited before his arrival, mostly pieces of carving painfully

chipped into the hard wood with fragments of stone. He had supplied tools and a stock of raw metal

from his own supplies, nothing more than that. In a few months the Weskers had not only learned to

work with the new materials, but had translated their own designs and forms into the most alien—but

most beautiful—artifacts that he had ever seen. All he had to do was release these on the market to

create a primary demand, then return for a new supply. The Weskers wanted only books and tools and

knowledge in return, and through their own efforts he knew they would pull themselves into the galactic

union.

This is what Garth had hoped. But a wind of change was blowing through the settlement that had

grown up around his ship. No longer was he the center of attention and focal point of the village life. He

had to grin when he thought of his fall from power,- yet there was very little humor in the smile. Serious

and attentive Weskers still took turns of duty as Knowledge Collectors, but their recording of dry facts

was in sharp contrast to the intellectual hurricane that surrounded the priest.

Where Garth had made them work for each book and machine, the priest gave freely. Garth had

tried to be progressive in his supply of knowledge, treating them as bright but unlettered children. He had

wanted them to walk before they could run, to master one step before going on to the next.

Father Mark simply brought them the benefits of Christianity. The only physical work he required

was the construction of a church, a place of worship and learning. More Weskers had appeared out of

the limitless planetary swamps and within days the roof was up, supported on a framework of poles.

Each morning the congregation worked a little while on the walls, then hurried inside to learn the

all-promising, all-encompassing, all-important facts about the universe.

Garth never told the Weskers what he thought about their new interest, and this was mainly because

they had never asked him. Pride or honor stood in the way of his grabbing a willing listener and pouring

out his grievances. Perhaps it would have been different if Itin was on Collecting duty, he was the

brightest of the lot, but Itin had been rotated the day after the priest had arrived and Garth had not talked

to him since.

It was a surprise then when after seventeen of the trebly-long Wes-ker days, he found a delegation at

his doorstep when he emerged after breakfast. Itin was their spokesman, and his mouth was open

slightly. Many of the other Weskers had their mouths open as well, one even appearing to be yawning,

clearly revealing the double row of sharp teeth and the purple-black throat. The mouths impressed Garth

as to the seriousness of the meeting: this was the one Wesker expression he had learned to recognize. An

open mouth indicated some strong emotion: happiness, sadness, anger, he could never be really sure

which. The Weskers were normally placid and he had never seen enough open mouths to tell what was

causing them. But he was surrounded by them now.

"Will you help us, Garth?" Itin said. "We have a question."

"I'll answer any questions you ask," Garth said, with more than a hint of misgiving. "What is it?"

"Is there a God?"

"What do you mean by 'God'?" Garth asked in turn. What should he tell them? What had been going

on in their minds that they should come to him with this question?

"God is our Father in Heaven, who made us all and protects us. Whom we pray to for aid, and if we

are Saved will find a place—"

"That's enough," Garth said. "There is no God."

All of them had their mouths open now, even Itin, as they looked at Garth and thought about his

answer. The rows of pink teeth would have been frightening if he hadn't known these creatures so well.

For one instant he wondered if perhaps they had been already indoctrinated and looked upon him as a

heretic, but he brushed the thought away.

"Thank you," Itin said, and they turned and left.

Though the morning was still cool, Garth noticed that he was sweating and wondered why.

The reaction was not long in coming. Itin returned that same afternoon. "Will you come to the

church?" he asked. "Many of the things that we study are difficult to learn, but none as difficult as this.

We need your help because we must hear you and Father Mark talk together. This is because he says

one thing is true and you say another is true and both cannot be true at the same time. We must find out

what is true."

"I'll come, of course," Garth said, trying to hide the sudden feeling of elation. He had done nothing,

but the Weskers had come to him anyway. There could still be grounds for hope that they might Yet be

free.It was hot inside the church, and Garth was surprised at the number of Weskers who were there,

more than he had seen gathered at any one time before. There were many open mouths. Father Mark sat

at a table covered with books. He looked unhappy but didn't say anything when Garth came in. Garth

spoke first.

"I hope you realize this is their idea—that they came to me of their own free will and asked me to

come here?"

"I know that.” the priest said resignedly. "At times they can be very difficult. But they are learning and

want to believe, and that is what is important."

"Father Mark, Trader Garth, we need your help," Itin said. "You both know many things that we do

not know. You must help us come to religion, which is not an easy thing to do." Garth started to say

something, then changed his mind. Itin went on. "We have read the bibles and all the books that Father

Mark gave us, and one thing is clear. We have discussed this and we are all agreed. These books are

very different from the ones that Trader Garth gave us. In Trader Garth's books there is the universe

which we have not seen, and it goes on without God, for He is mentioned nowhere, we have searched

very carefully. In Father Mark's books He is everywhere and nothing can go without Him. One of these

must be right and the other must be wrong. We do not know how this can be, but after we find out which

is right then perhaps we will know. If God does not exist..."

"Of course He exists, my children," Father Mark said in a voice of heartfelt intensity. "He is our

Father in Heaven who has created us all. . ."

"Who created God?" Itin asked and the murmur ceased and every one of the Weskers watched

Father Mark intensely. He recoiled a bit under the impact of their eyes, then smiled.

"Nothing created God, since He is the Creator. He always was—"

"If He always was in existence—why cannot the universe have always been in existence? Without

having had a creator?" Itin broke in with a rush of words. The importance of the question was obvious.

The priest answered slowly, with infinite patience.

"Would that the answers were that simple, my children. But even the scientists do not agree about the

creation of the universe. While they doubt—we who have seen the light know. We can see the miracle of

creation all about us. And how can there be a creation without a Creator? That is He, our Father, our

God in Heaven. I know you have doubts and that is because you have souls and free will. Still the answer

is simple. Have faith, that is all you need. Just believe."

"How can we believe without proof?"

"If you cannot see that this world itself is proof of His existence, then I say to you that belief needs no

proof—if you have faith!"

A babble of voices arose in the room and more of the Wesker mouths were open now as they tried

to force their thoughts through the tangled skein of words and separate the thread of truth.

"Can you tell us, Garth?" Itin asked, and the sound of his voice quieted the hubbub.

"I can tell you to use the scientific method which can examine all things—including itself—and give

you answers that can prove the truth or falsity of any statement."

"That is what we must do," Itin said. "We had reached the same conclusion." He held a thick book

before him and a ripple of nods ran across the watchers. "We have been studying the Bible as Father

Mark told us to do, and we have found the answer. God will make a iracle for us, thereby proving that

He is watching us. And by this sign we will know Him and go to Him."

"This is a sign of false pride," Father Mark said. "God needs no miracles to prove His existence."

But we need a miracle!" Itin shouted, and though he wasn't human there was still the cry of need in

his voice. "We have read here of many smaller miracles, loaves, fishes, wine, snakes—many of them, for

much smaller reasons. Now all He need do is make a miracle and He will bring us all to Him—the

wonder of an entire new world worshiping at His throne, as you have told us, Father Mark. And you

have told us how important this is. We have discussed this and find that there is only one miracle that is

best for this kind of thing."

His boredom and amused interest in the incessant theological wrangling drained from Garth in an

instant. He had not been really thinking or he would have realized where all this was leading. By turning

slightly he could see the illustration in the Bible where Itin held it open, and knew in advance what picture

it was. He rose slowly from his chair, as if stretching, and turned to the priest behind him.

"Get ready!" he whispered. "Get out the back and get to the ship, I'll keep them busy here. I don't

think they'll harm—"

"What do you mean . . . ?" Father Mark asked, blinking in surprise.

"Get out, you fool!" Garth hissed. "What miracle do you think they mean? What miracle is supposed

to have converted the world to Christianity?"

"No!" Father Mark said. "It cannot be. It just cannot—"

"GET MOVING!" Garth shouted, dragging the priest from the chair and hurling him towards the rear

wall. Father Mark stumbled to a halt, turned back. Garth leaped for him, but it was already too late. The

amphibians were small, but there were so many of them. Garth lashed out and his fist struck Itin, hurling

him back into the crowd. The others came on as he fought his way towards the priest. He beat at them

but it was like struggling against the waves. The furry, musky bodies washed over and engulfed him. He

struggled until they tied him, and he still struggled until they beat on his head until he stopped. Then they

pulled him outside, where he could only lie in the rain and curse and watch.

Of course the Weskers were marvelous craftsmen, and everything had been constructed down to the

last detail, following the illustration in the Bible. There was the cross, planted firmly on the top of a small

hill, the gleaming metal spikes, the hammer. Father Mark was stripped and draped in a carefully pleated

loincloth. They led him out of the church and at the sight of the cross he almost fainted. After that he held

his head high and determined to die as he had lived, with faith.

Yet this was hard. It was unbearable even for Garth, who only watched. It is one thing to talk of

crucifixion and look at the gentle carved bodies in the dim light of prayer. It is another to see a man

naked, ropes cutting into his skin where he hangs from a bar of wood. And to see the needle-tipped

spike raised and placed against the soft flesh of his palm, to see the hammer come back with the calm

deliberation of an artisan's measured stroke. To hear the thick sound of metal penetrating flesh.

Then to hear the screams.

Few are born to be martyrs and Father Mark was not one of them. With the first blows, the blood

ran from his lips where his clenched teeth met. Then his mouth was wide and his head strained back and

the awful guttural horror of his screams sliced through the susurration of the falling rain. It resounded as a

silent echo from the masses of watching Weskers, for whatever emotion opened their mouths was now

tearing at their bodies with all its force, and row after row of gaping jaws reflected the crucified priest's

agony.

Mercifully he fainted as the last nail was driven home. Blood ran from the raw wounds, mixing with

the rain to drip faintly pink from his feet as the life ran out of him. At this time, somewhere at this time,

sobbing and tearing at his own bonds, numbed from the blows on the head, Garth lost consciousness.

He awoke in his own warehouse and it was dark. Someone was cutting away the woven ropes they

had bound him with. The rain still dripped and splashed outside.

"Itin," he said. It could be no one else.

"Yes," the alien voice whispered back. "The others are all talking in the church. Lin died after you

struck his head, and Inon is very sick. There are some that say you should be crucified too, and I think

that is what will happen. Or perhaps killed by stoning on the head. They have found in the Bible where it

says—"

"I know." With infinite weariness. "An eye for an eye. You'll find lots of things like that once you start

looking."

"You must go, you can get to your ship without anyone seeing you. There has been enough killing."

Itin as well spoke with a newfound weariness.

Garth experimented, pulling himself to his feet. He pressed his head to the rough wall until the nausea

stopped.

"He's dead." He said it as a statement, not a question.

"Yes, some time ago. Or I could not have come away to see you."

"And buried of course, or they wouldn't be thinking about starting on me next."

"And buried!" There was almost a ring of emotion in the alien's voice, an echo of the dead priest's.

"He is buried and he will rise on High. It is written and that is the way it will happen. Father Mark will be

so happy that it has happened like this." The voice ended in a sound like a human sob, but of course it

couldn't have been that since Itin was alien, and not human at all. Garth painfully worked his way towards

the door, leaning against the wall so he wouldn't fall.

"We did the right thing, didn't we?" Itin asked. There was no answer. "He will rise up, Garth, won't

he rise?"

Garth was at the door and enough light came from the brightly lit church to show his torn and bloody

hands clutching at the frame. Itin's face swam into sight close to his, and Garth felt the delicate,

many-fingered hands with the sharp nails catch at his clothes.

"He will rise, won't he, Garth?"

"No," Garth said, "he is going to stay buried right where you put him. Nothing is going to happen,

because he is dead and he is going to stay dead."

The rain runneled through Itin's fur and his mouth was opened so wide that he seemed to be

screaming into the night. Only with effort could he talk, squeezing out the alien thoughts in an alien

language.

"Then we will not be saved? We will not become pure?"

"You were pure," Garth said, in a voice somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "That's the horrible

ugly dirty part of it. You were pure. Now you are—"

"Murderers," Itin said, and the water ran down from his lowered head and streamed away into the

darkness.

Rescue Operation

"Pull! Pull steadily . . . !" Dragomir shouted, clutching at the tarry cords of the net. Beside him in the

hot darkness Pribislav Polasek grunted as he heaved on the wet strands. The net was invisible in the

black water, but the blue light trapped in it rose closer and closer to the surface.

"It's slipping ..." Pribislav groaned and clutched the rough gunwale of the little boat. For a single

instant he could see the blue light on the helmet, a faceplate and the suited body that faded into

blackness, then it slipped free of the net. He had just a glimpse of a dark shape before it was gone. "Did

you see it?" he asked. "Just before he fell he waved his hand."

"How can I know? The hand moved, it could have been the net, or he might still be alive." Dragomir

had his face bent almost to the glassy surface of the water, but there was nothing more to be seen. "He

might be alive."

The two fishermen sat back in the boat and stared at each other in the harsh light of the hissing

acetylene lamp in the bow. They were very different men, yet greatly alike in their stained, baggy trousers

and faded cotton shirts. Their hands were deeply wrinkled and callused from a lifetime of hard labor,

their thoughts slowed by the rhythm of work and years.

"We cannot get him up with the net," Dragomir finally said, speaking first as always.

"Then we will need help," Pribislav added. "We have anchored the buoy here, we can find the spot

again."

"Yes, we need help." Dragomir opened and closed his large hands, then leaned over to bring the rest

of the net into the boat. "The diver, the one who stays with the widow Korenc, he will know what to do.

His name is Kukovic and Petar said he is a doctor of science from the university in Ljubljana."

They bent to their oars and sent the heavy boat steadily over the glasslike water of the Adriatic.

Before they had reached shore, the sky was light and when they tied to the sea wall in Brbinj the sun was

above the horizon.

Joze Kukovic looked at the rising ball of the sun, already hot on his skin, yawned and stretched. The

widow shuffled out with his coffee, mumbled good morning and put it on the stone rail of the porch. Ho

pushed the tray aside and sat down next to it, then emptied the coffee from the small, long-handled pot

into his cup. The thick Turkish coffee would wake him up, in spite of the impossible hour. From the rail

he had a view down the unpaved and dusty street to the port, already stirring to life. Two women, with

the morning's water in brass pots balanced on their heads, stopped to talk. The peasants were bringing in

their produce for the morning market, baskets of cabbages and potatoes and trays of tomatoes, strapped

onto tiny donkeys. One of them brayed, a harsh noise that sawed through the stillness of the morning,

bouncing echoes from the yellowed buildings. It was hot already. Brbinj was a town at the edge of

nowhere, located between empty ocean and barren hills, asleep for centuries and dying by degrees.

There were no attractions here, if you did not count the sea. But under the flat, blue calm of the water

was another world that Joze loved.

Cool shadows, deep valleys, more alive than all the sun-blasted shores that surrounded it.

Excitement, too: just the day before, too late in the afternoon to really explore it, he had found a Roman

galley half-buried in the sand. He would get into it today, the first human in two thousand years, and

heaven alone knew what he would find there. In the sand about it had been shards of broken amphorae,-

there might be whole ones inside the hull.

Sipping happily at his coffee he watched the small boat tying up in the harbor, and wondered why the

two fishermen were in such a hurry. They were almost running, and no one ran here in the summer.

Stopping below his porch the bigger one called up to him.

"Doctor, may we come up? There is something urgent."

"Yes, of course." He was surprised and wondered if they took him for a physician.

Dragomir shuffled forward and did not know where to begin. He pointed out over the ocean.

"It fell, out there last night, we saw it, a sputnik without a doubt?"

"A traveler?" Joze Kukovic wrinkled his forehead, not quite sure that he heard right. When the locals

were excited it was hard to follow their dialect. For such a small country Yugoslavia was cursed with a

multitude of tongues.

"No, it was not a putnik, but a sputnik, one of the Russian spaceships."

"Or an American one." Pribislav spoke for the first time, but he was ignored.

Joze smiled and sipped his coffee. "Are you sure it wasn't a meteorite you saw? There is always a

heavy meteor shower this time of the year."

"A sputnik." Dragomir insisted stolidly. "The ship fell far out in the Jadransko Mor and vanished, we

saw that. But the space pilot came down almost on top of us, into the water ..."

"The WHAT?" Joze gasped, jumping to his feet and knocking the coffee tray to the floor. The brass

tray clanged and rattled in circles unnoticed. "There was a man in this thing—and he got clear?"

Both fishermen nodded at the same time and Dragomir continued. "We saw this light fall from the

sputnik when it went overhead and drop into the water. He couldn't see what it was, just a light, and we

rowed there as fast as we could. It was still sinking and we dropped a net and managed to catch him ..."

"You have the pilot?"

"No, but once we pulled him close enough to the surface to see he was in a heavy suit, with a

window like a diving suit, and there was something on the back that might have been like your tanks

there."

"He waved his hand," Pribislav insisted.

"He might have waved a hand, we could not be sure. We came back for help."

The silence lengthened and Joze realized that he was the help that they needed, and that they had

turned the responsibility over to him. What should he do first? The astronaut might have his own oxygen

tanks, Joze had no real idea what provisions were made for water landings, but if there were oxygen the

man might still be alive.

Joze paced the floor while he thought, a short, square figure in khaki shorts and sandals. He was not

handsome, his nose was too big and his teeth were too obvious for that, but he generated a certainty of

power. He stopped and pointed to Pribislav.

"We're going to have to get him out. You can find the spot again?"

"A buoy."

"Good. And we may need a doctor. You have none here, but is there one in Osor?"

"Dr. Bratos, but he is very old ..."

"As long as he is still alive, we'll have to get him. Can anyone in this town drive an automobile?"

The fishermen looked towards the roof and concentrated, while Joze controlled his impatience.

"Yes, I think so," Dragomir finally said. "Petar was a partisan."

"That's right," the other fisherman finished the thought. "He has told many times how they stole

German trucks and how he drove ..."

"Well, then one of you get this Petar and give him the keys to my car, it's a German car so he should

be able to manage. Tell him to bring the doctor back at once."

Dragomir took the keys, but handed them to Pribislav who ran out.

"Now let's see if we can get the man up.” Joze said, grabbing his scuba gear and leading the way

towards the boat.

They rowed, side by side though Dragomir's powerful stroke did most of the work.

"How deep is the water out here?" Joze asked. He was already dripping with sweat as the sun

burned on him.

"The Kvarneric is deeper up by Rab, but we were fishing off Trsten-ilc and the bottom is only about

four fathoms there. We're coming to the buoy."

"Seven meters, it shouldn't be too hard to find him." Joze kneeled in the bottom of the boat and

slipped into the straps of the scuba. He buckled it tight, checked the valves, then turned to the fisherman

before he bit into the mouthpiece. "Keep the boat near this buoy and I'll use it for a guide while I search.

If I need a line or any help, I'll surface over the astronaut, then you can bring the boat to me."

He turned on the oxygen and slipped over the side, the cool water rising up his body as he sank

Harry Harrison - Fifty Stories in Fifty Years

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