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and the falling snow (which meant that they could not be far ahead of us, else
their tracks would have been erased entirely), then along the perimeter of the
trees for more than a hundred yards, and finally into the primeval northern
forest. Under the pines, in the bleak wilderness, our flashlights were of more
use to us than they had been out on the open land, for the snow did not blow
and sheet before us, cutting our range of vision; and the yellow beams opened
the night for twelve or fourteen feet ahead, like a scalpel slicing through
skin. Connie went first along the narrow woodland trails, for I felt that if
we were to be attacked, the enemy would surely try to surprise us from behind.
After all, the flashlight re vealed the way ahead and protected us from
stum bling blindly into alien arms; therefore, the beasts might circle around
us. She carried the rifle, and I carried the shotgun. Occasionally, spooked by
the weird shadows caused by the dancing flashlight beams, one of us would
bring up a gun and whirl and nearly open fire. And as we walked we kept
glancing behind us: I did it to see if we were still alone, and Connie did it
to see if the footsteps she heard behind her were still mine.
"We've come so far," she said at one point. "Why would they bring him so far?"
"I don't know."
But then a short while later I did know. Twenty minutes after we entered the
forest, I realized that we were heading in the general direction from which
that brilliant purple light had flashed at me two days ago, just after I had
come out of the woods from finding Blueberry's skeleton. The light must have
been some manifestation of their space craft: it marked the spot of their
landing, their invasion base. And now they were taking Toby to their space
ship . . .
For what?
Examination?
Tests?
Dissection?
Were they taking him as a specimen, taking him away into the stars?
We picked up our pace, walked as fast as we could manage, with less regard
than before to the possibility of a surprise attack. Time was running
out-fast.
I sensed that we were closing on them, that they might be no more than a few
hundred yards along the trail. Once, I thought that mental fingers pressed
lightly, so very lightly, against my skull, but I could not be certain.
Nothing tried to force its way into me; but I knew that it was there and
waiting.
We followed the trail up a hillock, down into a shallow ravine, around an
outcropping of limestone.
And the ship lay before us.
Connie stopped.
I moved beside her and put one hand on her shoulder.
The ship stood in a clearing. It was a sphere at least one hundred and fifty
feet in diameter, abso lutely enormous, stunning. It towered over us, as high
as a fourteen- or fifteen-story office building. There were no windows or
doors or hatches, no marks of any kind upon it. The perfectly seamless pearl
gray material from which it was made gave off a cold, cold light.
There was no noise at all. We could not even hear the wind moaning above us.
And although we were in the open once more, well beyond the shelter of the
trees, the wind did not touch us, and the snow did not fall here. Apparently,
the sphere was enveloped in a subtle but effective shield, one which did not
exclude its crew members or us, but which protected the vessel from earth's
weather.
I felt like a savage as I stared up at the vast sphere, like a savage peering
up through the jungle and catching his first glimpse of a passing jet
airliner.
"Toby's in there," Connie said.
I didn't want to think about that.
"What are we going to do, Don?"
"Get him out."
"How?"
Before I could answer, I was struck from behind: hard. I was quite literally
bowled from my feet, and I rolled end over end. I lost the shotgun; it went
spin ning off into the brush.
Connie cried out.
I heard a rifle boom.
Dazed, I got to my knees and looked up in time to see four aliens crowding in
on her.
She fired again.
One of the beasts reached for the rifle with the claws at the end of its
multi-jointed foreleg.
She backed up and fired.
In a rage one of the creatures rushed her, reared up on its four hindmost
legs, and revealed a wicked yard-long stinger which had folded out of the
forward part of its belly. The chitinous saber was bright green and dripped
what could only be venom.
"Connie-"
The thing was on her in an instant, clutching her with its forelegs, plunging
the stinger into her stom ach. The razored tip of it came out of her back,
streaming blood and yellow ichor.
There was no doubt that she was dead. The effect of the venom was really
academic. The stab wound, gouged through vital organs, would have finished her
in the blink of an eye.
I lost control. Madness swept over me. I began to scream and could not stop.
(It was not merely grief that had driven me over the edge. Oh God, I loved
that woman, yes, loved her more than I loved myself. And what more can I say?
What greater love could there be? When I lost her I knew that I had lost my
reason for getting up in the morning. And yet there were other components of
my madness. At the same time I suddenly realized that, just as in Vietnam,
here were two cultures, two alien societies, clashing senselessly. Instead of
trying to communicate, they had killed. And instead of try ing to think of
some way to reach them and make them understand, I had killed. Murder is
always easier than judicious, reasoned action. Violence is not the resource of
last resort for mankind (and for superior races such as these aliens) but it
is the pri mary resource, the first reaction. And that is why there is no hope
for a peaceful future, regardless of our scientific and technological
advancements. We are flawed because the universe is flawed. The uni verse is a
madhouse-and we are all madmen, whether humans or intelligent insects. And it
was seeing this so clearly, as well as the grief, that sent me gibbering.)
I got to my feet, screaming and babbling unintel ligibly, overwhelmed with
hatred, self-hatred, and grief. I raised my fists and swung at the air and ran
toward the nearest alien. I saw his stinger coming out of his belly, but I
didn't care. In fact I wanted him to use it. I ran straight for him,
screaming, screaming-
-and felt a pressure around my skull, then in my skull, then overwhelming me,
pushing me down, tak ing full control, pushing me to the back of my own brain,
pushing me into darkness . . .
25.
When I regained consciousness hours later I was in the farmhouse again. I was
sitting behind the desk in the den. Through the window on my right I could see
the crown of our hill and the barn bright red in the snow. Saturday must be
well along, I thought, for the sky was light. The snow was falling, although
not so fast and thick as it had been coming for days now.
I was not alone. One of the aliens was standing just outside the door of the
den, watching me. Its mandibles clacked together, opened, clacked shut, opened
. . . Another alien was in the room-and Toby stood at its side.
The boy's face was pale, his eyes blank. "Do you know where you are?" he asked
me.
My mouth was dry. I nodded.
"Do you feel all right?"
I understood that I was not talking to Toby at all but to the alien beside him
who was using Toby's brain and tongue and lips to communicate with me. I said,
"I feel rotten."
"Physically or emotionally."
"Emotionally."
"That's all right," Toby-alien said.
"Maybe to you it is."
"We have found that we cannot control an adult mind or learn much from it.
That is why I am not inside your head, speaking to you from within. You
wouldn't permit it. You would be overwhelmed with fear and disgust. Therefore
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