Day of the Dragonstar (22 page)

“Yes, well, may I remind you that there are certain fanged and clawed beasties afoot hereabouts who would just dearly love that, in hope of soon stumbling across us and having some human flesh along with their gulp of fresh water. Very rare stuff, human flesh. I’ve developed this paranoid notion that the roaring critters have quite a taste for it.”

“You really think that we’ll discover shelter in that city?” Her eyes were closed, her features the very model of resignation itself.

“I haven’t the faintest. But I know we
must
push on,” No irony of phrase twist in that; he was serious. He wanted to stay here as much as she did, if only to rest his leg.

She stretched out her arms and yawned deliciously. “Why must you be always right? You remind me of Kemp.”

“Becky, we’re not in a world of right and wrong now. We’re in a world of
alive
and
dead.
I don’t think there’s any necessity to lecture you on
that
subject.”

“You know, I like you.”

“That proves you’re still alive.”

Playfully: “Oh, and if I didn’t like you, I’d be dead?”

“Only in spirit, oh thou of excellent taste.”

Becky opened her eyes, and suddenly all Coopersmith wanted to do was stare into them for a long time, forget his pains and anxieties. But those eyes were averted now, staring into the stream as though to memorize its pleasures.

“You know, Ian,” she said slowly and thoughtfully. “I used to think—oh,
eons
ago, it seems—that without all the paraphernalia of structured civilization about me, without my family and friends, and TV and music . . . well, without all that, life just wasn’t worth living. In fact, back ten years ago when the threat of a nuke war with China was about as close as it ever came, I chose to attend school in Washington, D.C., not because I particularly cared for Georgetown University, as nice as it is . . . no, I thought, if there ever
is
a nuclear holocaust that wipes out modern civilization as we know it, with only a few radioactive humans bumbling about left to show for the old gene pool,
I
want to be right under that first bomb and go out”—she snapped her fingers briskly— “just like that. No moaning or mourning. No struggle for wretched survival, no weeping for lost pasts or loved ones. But you know . . .” She turned to him, and he got what he was hoping for: a chance to stare into her very lovely eyes. “ . . . you know, Ian. All that time, I was
wrong.”

“Oh? How so?”

She grappled for words in short movements of hands and fingers. “I mean . . . I mean, these weeks here . . . with you . . . Why, they’ve been
miserable
and horrifying and just dreadful . . .”

“Oh, thanks.”

“No. You see, despite all that, I’m
alive.
And I know I’m alive, I’m aware that I’m alive; not walking through a daydream of work and socializing, hitting other people’s keys and letting them hit mine. I’m
alive
and when I eat food I
taste
it, and when I drink water it’s the most satisfying drink I’ve ever had. And when I see you, Ian . . .”

“Yes?” The feeling in that word was invested naturally.

“Well, I know who you are, more than I’ve ever known anyone else before. I . . . I. . . . Oh hell, I can’t explain, dammit!”

Solemnly, Coopersmith said, “You don’t need to explain, Becky. I know exactly how you feel. About all of it.”

That excited her. “You mean you were like that too? I mean, so dependent on civilization?”

“I suppose so. I suppose we all are, aren’t we? I must admit, though,” he chuckled lowly. “If the bomb ever dropped, at no time did I particularly want to be under it.”

She didn’t notice his sarcasm. Indeed, she hardly seemed to be listening to him at all. “No, I’ve never felt so alive. And you know, I want to survive. I want to keep on living and Iiving, and growing and discovering. And I know, now, I’ll never be bored again. I’m almost glad this happened. Is that a wretched thing to say, Ian?”

“I think you’ve got illuminator stroke, dearie.” Somewhere a strident and hungry cry split the silence of the rocky plain. Coopersmith paused for a moment to listen. “And if you want to keep on knowing what life feels like, we’d better keep moving toward what appears to be our only hope.”

Again, she didn’t seem to be paying attention to what he was saying. Instead, Rebecca Thalberg was staring dreamily again at the water, sheened with the brilliant reflection of the streak of light that spread from “horizon” to “horizon.”

“Becky, dear, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Coopersmith said slowly, savoring the motion of his words.

Licking her lips, she looked down at the shallow stream. “I don’t see any of the usual fauna around this water . . . or under it. Not like everywhere else . . . Oh, I’d love . . . I think it’s worth the chance!”

“Right!” Coopersmith said cheerfully, beginning to unbuckle his belt.

However, Becky paused only long enough to take off her shoes before she leaped, fully clothed, into the water, splashing merrily.

“Oh, hell,” said Coopersmith, dropping his gunbelt, shuffling off his shoes, and joining her immediately.

The water that folded over him was crisp and cool, bracing and refreshing.

It felt wonderful.

* * *

“Well, at least our shoes are dry,” said Becky. Coopersmith hitched up his backpack for better balance, and grunted in reply. Their clothes were taking an awfully long time drying in this muggy heat. Not a frightfully pleasant sensation, slopping around in wet clothes in this kind of wretched climate. All the same, he had to agree with Becky: the clothes were much cleaner now. And they both smelled better, if that mattered.

They were still keeping to the rocks and the trees, away from the long plain where the bigger beasts roamed. They were making less than excellent time, however, due to Ian’s ankle. Limping was not the best form of travel. By Coopersmith’s estimation, they had a good two hours or more of illuminator light left before that great rod in the sky called it a night and the dinosaurs began to prowl in earnest. That gave them an hour and a half more to march, and a half-hour to find some place that looked reasonably safe in which to hole up.

To think that the Earth had been like this for millions upon
millions
of years! From this steaming stew of life had emerged mammals and subsequently human beings. Ian had always felt a gentle
oneness
with nature and physics. His expertise in mathematics gave him the language to express that. But here, in this primeval nature, his own heritage, he felt alien, out of synch. The ecology, though perfectly balanced, seemed to be no place for the more advanced beings that this very environment eventually created. In the middle of a land filled with monsters whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to kill and to eat, he could empathize with the first mammals in their fight to stay on the right side of saurian stomachs.

He hoped his ankle improved. He used to travel with a clean, efficient stride. After a few wearisome days, he’d taught Becky to move with a similar economy of motion. Her aches and cramps gone, she was able to keep up with his normal pace easily. Though her legs were shorter, she was lighter and more agile. Now, trailing behind her, Coopersmith was enjoying watching her. Her movements gave him a certain aesthetic pleasure. The constant reminder of her company displayed lithely before him, feminine sleekness and all, reinforced his own inner supply of security. He’d made sure she knew that. They had learned to give those sort of things to one another, and to accept. The relationship worked smoothly, in that respect.

Through narrow gullies, over stands of scrub-trees, around craggy rocks, they walked, always skirting the plain which afforded no protection. From time to time, Coopersmith caught peripheral but distant glimpses of dinosaurs, convincing him of the wisdom of this path. Only fifteen minutes short of lights-out, they located a tiny crevasse with an overhang they could use to conceal themselves. The entryway was narrow enough to prevent any large head from squeezing through, if its owner was smart enough to find them, which Coopersmith doubted.

With Becky tucked comfortably against him, and their dinner of well-done lizard flesh and fruit digesting with little objection in his stomach, Coopersmith kept the first watch. The Magnum in his right hand gave his mind ease. Rebecca, breathing softly In sleep against his body, however; supplied him with true repose.

* * *

She’d always enjoyed ruins.

Since her childhood, Rebecca Thalberg’s idea of a wonderfully adventurous day-trip was to seek out some old house or fort and wander. England and Europe had been a trip of perpetual bliss. She’d always felt that houses somehow stored up the impressions of the times and the people they’d been through. To walk amongst the remains of a very old establishment built by human beings was to somehow touch them across the gap of decades or centuries. In the tower of an ancient castle, or in the rocks of the foundation of an old New England home, mossy and blackened with age, there was a feeling of knowing something of the people who’d put them together, who had used them for shelter.

The ruins of the old city were different, however.

Superficially, they resembled some of the assembled stones and mortar that Becky had encountered before on Earth, if only in shapes and material of the structures. But they felt quite alien.

“You think they’re all dead?” she asked Ian, surveying the expanse of one of the crumbling, viney pyramidal forms.

“Hmm?” Ian was too busy examining the rune-like carvings in the side of a jutting bit of stone. Pictographs composed part of the message. Characters of some odd written language consisting of what appeared to be claw scratchings made up the rest. Coopersmith had long since given up trying to discern the meaning of the scratches. He was now concentrating on the sequence of sketches, trying to determine if they were supposed to compose a series of related thoughts that would reveal something of the creatures who’d drawn them.

“Whoever built all of this. The species, I mean. Obviously not human.”

“What brings you to that conclusion?”

She shrugged. “Oh, just the texture of this place. The feelings I get here.”

“Ah! How I love the logic of a woman doctor of science.” Only her familiarity with Ian’s brand of understated humor checked her anger. She actually found his statement amusing. Being with him all this time, she’d actually begun to be amused at herself. Just think. Intense Rebecca Thalberg, torpedoing through life, now able to chuckle at her own inner paradoxes, her absurdities. How that would please her father.

“You know what I mean, damn you, Ian.”

“Absolutely. These pictographs, for example.” He fingered one of them thoughtfully, tracing the simple, two-dimensional figures. “Obviously they do not depict humans of any kind.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that there weren’t—”

“Correct. But notice that these figures are pictured in various poses. They hold things in their hands. Weapons. And these bowls here, with what looks like smoke issuing from them. They know about the uses of fire. Ergo, it’s reasonable to conclude that the artists were drawing self-portraits.”

“Ian. They have
tails.”

“Quite. “

“You think—”

“That these are the creatures . . . or the
sort
of creatures . . . that were responsible for building this spacefaring terrarium?”

“Precisely my conclusion. It’s a possibility. No more, no less.”

“Something goes wrong with the ship. It’s stranded in our system and those operating it are forced to live in this encapsulated environment, returning to savagery and then working their way back . . .”

“So where are they now?”

“I was just suggesting possibilities.”

“Just so.” He squatted down to examine the lower layer of pictures. “Now this sequence here. I don’t know if you’re supposed to follow it from left to right or right to left or even if it’s a
sequence
as we understand the meaning of that word. But it appears to depict some sort of ceremony. The pouring of the fire. This pattern here . . . the two creatures in some kind of dance.”

“Religious?”

“Sexual? A fertility rite? A prayer for good crops or to protect them from their less intelligent and more savage counterparts . . .”

“You know, that may be why the aliens wanted a bit of Earth as a sample. Perhaps the similar lines of evolution. They wanted to study . . .”

“Whoa ho! Just because they seem to have long tails and snouts doesn’t mean that they’re lizards, dearest.”

“Maybe.”

Ian turned his attention back to the inscribed pictures.

“Perhaps it’s just a big Saturday night shindig.”

Ian glanced at his watch. “Speaking of night, I do believe we’ve got one coming on in about an hour. I think we had better find shelter, old girl.”

“Yes, and maybe gather up some wood for a campfire to cook with. I’m ravenous!”

They had hiked half the day without incident, somehow able to avoid the other hungry denizens of this ship-world before reaching the main section of ruins of this ancient city. They had managed to beat their way through the overflowing vegetation that thrived so well on the remnants of civilization. They had passed dozens of dilapidated huts and houses, heading for the nearest of the pyramids, operating on the assumption that any written remnant of intelligent life would be kept in what was obviously some kind of monument. And they’d found that remnant, worn and vine-covered as it was, to Ian’s immense satisfaction.

Ian was a bit of a puzzle to Becky. He was as much a mass of paradoxes as she was. Sometimes he seemed to thrive on this whole experience, keeping his mind detached enough from the struggle to survive to concentrate on the sifting through of all this fascinating information. Other times he just was barely able to cope. That death could be very close indeed obviously weighed on his mind, and yet it was also obvious that he was much more concerned with Rebecca’s life than with his own. That was something that was new to her after her long involvement with Phineas Kemp, who, when not involved with himself, was preoccupied with that holy extension of himself, the good old IASA.