Джон Макдональд - Wine of the Dreamers [= Planet of the Dreamers]

He fought the desire to return. He went on. Behind him, the wind erased his tracks. The ships grew larger. Their fluted sterns rested on the sand. One of them was canted at a slight angle. Never had he realized their true size, nor their distance from each other. The last hundred feet was the easiest because the nearest ship cut the force of the harsh, steady wind. The sand was piled high in long sharp ridges extending out on either side of the ship. Above him, the bulge of the ship was a dizzy overhang. The surface, though still of shining metal, was pitted and scarred and worn. And there was no way to get into the ship. No way at all. He circled it, almost weeping in frustration. Shining and unclimbable metal. He steadied himself with one hand against it as he clambered awkwardly over the drifts. Both hands were so numb that he could not feel the texture of the metal against his fingers. He made two complete circuits of the ship. Across the plain the tall white world seemed to watch with silent amusement.

He tripped and fell heavily. His face struck against the side of the ship, half stunning him. He lay, trying to summon up the energy he would need to get back to his feet. The ship was inches from his eyes. He tensed. An angular crack showed in the metal, too straight to be accidental. He sat with spread legs, like a child in a sand pile, and dug with hands that were like clubs. The crack grew, turned into the right angle of what could be a square port. He began to laugh as he dug, chuckling deep in his throat, over the wind-scream.

He stopped digging and patted the ship affectionately, called it words of endearment. And now he felt much warmer. Pleasantly warm.

He fumbled up onto his feet with drunken dignity. Pretty ship. Take him to Earth. See Sharan.

Raul turned. No need to go to Earth after all. There was Sharan, standing there, smiling. She didn’t mind the wind. She was warm too. He advanced toward her and she backed away, teasingly. His feet made no tracks in the sand.

“Sharan!” he bawled hoarsely, his voice lost in the constant wind-shriek. “Sharan!” He lifted his unfeeling legs in a stumbling run. She was still elusive, backing toward the white warm world he had left. He hoped Leesa was watching, so that she could see Sharan too. Now Sharan was gone. He couldn’t find her. He ran on and tripped and fell headlong. He was far too comfortable to get up. Too warm. The sand piled quickly up along his left side, and at last spilled across the back of his neck with a gentle touch that was like a caress.

Sharan Inly looked with distaste at the narrow street. The man from the agency pulled up at the curb and stopped. It was dusk and neon was beginning to flicker.

The agency man pointed toward the place called Joe’s Alibi.

“He’ll be in there, miss. Want me to go yank him out? It’s no place for a girl, and he won’t be in any shape to come willingly.”

“I’ll go in,” she said.

“I better come with you then. You’ll need help with him.”

“If you wish,” she said.

The agency man looked at the grubby children nearby, carefully locked the car before crossing the street with her.

They heard hoarse laughter as they crossed the sidewalk. The laughter and the rumble of conversation stopped as Sharan pushed the screen open and walked in. She walked into the room and then turned to the agency man.

“He’s not here,” she said with sinking heart.

“Take a second look, miss,” he said.

She looked at the man at the table. His chair was tilted back against the wall. His chin was on his chest and he was asleep. His gaunt gray face was stubbled with beard and his open collar was soiled.

Sharan went quickly to the table. “Bard!” she cried softly. “Bard!”

“That his name?” the bartender said in the silence. “We call him the perfessor. He’s what you might call a mascot around here. You want him woke up?”

The heavy-shouldered bartender came around the corner of the bar, tilted Bard’s chair forward, caught him on the front of the stained suit, lifted him effortlessly and slapped his cheek with a full arm swing. It resounded like a pistol shot.

“Take it easy, friend,” the agency man said softly.

Bard opened his eyes owlishly. “Now listen to his act,” the bartender said. “Perfessor! Can you hear me, Perfessor? Tell us about them Martians.”

In a hollow, whisky-hoarse tone, Bard said, “They come to us from a distant planet and take over our souls. They fill our minds with evil and lead us to dark deeds. You never know when they are coming. No one ever knows. We should be on guard.”

“Cute, ain’t he?” the bartender said, grinning.

Sharan curled her fingers and took a half step toward the bartender. “Get away from him,” she whispered.

“Sure, lady. Sure thing. No harm intended.”

Bard found her with his eyes. He frowned. “What do you want?”

“Come with me, Bard.”

“I like it here. Sorry,” he mumbled.

The agency man stepped around her. He caught Bard’s wrist, brought it around and up into the small of Bard’s back. Bard made feeble struggles. The agency man marched him to the door as Sharan followed.

“Take good care of the perfessor, sweetheart,” one of the customers said. Sharan flushed. The room was once again filled with laughter.

She unlocked the car and the agency man edged Bard in onto the seat. As soon as Bard was sitting, he fell asleep again. He was between them as the agency man started the car. “Smells a little strong, don’t he?” the agency man said.

Sharan didn’t answer. The rooming house was in the next block. It was a scabrous building, full of the memories of evil, of the wry ghosts of orgy.

“Second floor front,” the agency man said. He woke Bard up. Bard Lane seemed dazed. There was no more protest in him. Sharan followed them up the stairs, the agency man supporting Bard with an arm around his waist. The door was unlocked. The room was tiny, shabby, and the hall was sour and dim.

“You want I should stay and help you, lady?” the man asked.

“Thank you. I’ll take it from here on,” she said. “And thank you.”

“All in the day’s work. Be careful. Some of them go a little nutty when you start to wring them out.”

He had collapsed on the narrow bed. He snored. She unlocked the door behind her and took the key. In an hour she was back with a complete set of new clothes that would fit him. She turned on the single light, cleaned up some of the litter in the room. The bath was across the hall. No shower. Just a tub.

His shoes were cracked and broken things that could have come from a trash barrel. He wore no socks. His ankles were grubby. She laid out his shaving things, the new clothes, in the bathroom.

Then came the nightmare of waking him, of seeing the eyes open vague in the gray face. He no longer seemed to know her. She supported more than half his weight getting him across the hall. He could not help himself. He sat on the stool with his back against the wall and let himself be undressed, like a child. Getting him into the tub was a major engineering project, and then she had to wait until the cold water revived him enough so that she could be sure he did not drown. She went out and brought back a quart of hot coffee. He drank it and looked at her with a bit more comprehension.

“Bard! Listen to me. Clean up and get dressed.”

“Sure, sure,” he mumbled.

From time to time she went back to the bathroom door and listened. She heard him splashing, moving around. Later she heard the scrape of a razor. She bundled his old clothes in the plastex wrapper that had been around the new clothes.

At last he came slowly into the room. He sat down quickly, cupped trembling hands over his eyes. “How do you feel?” she asked.