would be far too long. Besides, we have nuclear missiles, laser beams, biological and chemical weapons. There can be no possibility of conquest, none whatever. We need the scientific breakthrough they can provide. The galaxy will open up to us like a flower blossoming.”
As Crane anticipated, the debate went in Baker’s favor. It was a landslide victory—the votes only needed to be counted for the record—and he got the go-ahead to lead a contact mission aboard a military spaceship, the only ship ready to leave almost at once.
After his defeat, Crane left the House and called on his friend Judson to ask for help in stopping Baker.
* * * *
Crane kept moving. He moved carefully because the rope bound around his boots had frayed and the surface was treacherous. He moved slowly to avoid sweating; water turning to ice on his body was always a major hazard.
For the first few minutes he traveled in an arc leading away from the cave, afraid of leading the hunters to his hideaway. Living on an island limited his options.
He dare not cross the ice-bridge to the mainland where groups of survivors fought bitterly over anything edible. The ocean was far too dangerous to risk. The boundary where ice met the as yet unfrozen deep could give way without warning, as he had discovered when he tried fishing. He could hear the dull growling of new ice grinding against the old.
His breath was a cloud of vapor in the gloom. He turned and glimpsed the dim figures of the hunters. He removed his glove and fired a warning shot in their direction, then headed for his cave. Inside, he could light a fire and eat to get his strength back. If they rushed him, he could pick them off by firelight.
He hoped they’d give up and leave. He had seen they were only armed with spears, but he didn’t really believe that would stop them. They were black, and blamed the whites for the unnatural dark and cold—and he represented food.
He dragged the corpse of the dog by the hind-leg and carried the rifle in his free hand. In a land of permanent winter he had only the stars to guide him.
Wrapped in a fur coat that had once belonged to a rich woman, Crane headed directly for his hideout. The shadowy figures of the hunters hung back at a respectful distance, but they still followed him.…
* * * *
Howard Judson was an old friend from college days. Now he held a high-ranking position in the space arm of the military.
Crane sat in a deep armchair in a room lined with bookcases. Evening sunlight streamed through the window and tinted the curtains with a warm orange glow. He sipped an expensive brandy.
Judson, broad of beam and craggy with it, relaxed with a cigar.
“Of course I agree with you, Walter. Aliens can’t be trusted, ever. We know nothing of their weapons or their motivation. Baker is a fool. I want this contact stopped just as much as you.”
He tapped ash from his cigar into a chunky piece of pottery.
“We should put our armed forces on red alert and be prepared for anything. You and I, Walter, are on the same side—but how far are you prepared to go?”
“As far as necessary.”
Hudson made a thin smile and asked quietly, “As far as murder?”
For a moment, Crane recoiled. His friendship with Judson had suffered many strained moments in its time. Outsiders considered it a strange friendship because he was a pacifist and Judson a career soldier.
“How would killing Baker stop the contact?” he asked. “Someone else would go.”
“Not Baker alone. A nuclear device aboard the ship, timed to go off in space.”
“But the crew—”
“The crew would die.”
Crane struggled briefly against the idea, but his ideals lost to his fear of an alien threat.
He said, sanctimoniously, “The few must be sacrificed to save the many.”
Judson crushed out his cigar with every sign of satisfaction. “Good! I would be too obvious—but you, a V.I.P., could get away with it. It’s a simple job to set the timer on a nuclear device and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“But smuggling the thing aboard—”
“You forget, Walter, the only ship available at short notice is a military ship. Naturally it carries nuclear weapons. I’ll see you get five minutes alone. But you must apply for permission to inspect the ship before blast-off.”
“I’ll do it,” Crane said impulsively.
* * * *
Crane felt his bones ache; he was colder than he’d ever been in his life, and afraid. The black hunters paced along behind him, just out of gunshot range—but they stayed there, waiting their chance. One mistake on his part could prove fatal.
Traveling by starlight strained his eyes. He had to avoid obstacles, decide whether a darker shadow hid some new danger or not. Only faint outlines showed in a world without color.
The frayed rope around his left boot snapped and the smooth soles slipped and skidded. He dropped both the dog and his rifle in an attempt to break his fall. His leg twisted beneath him.
When he tried to rise, pain whiplashed up his leg. He’d landed heavily and turned his ankle. Sprained it? Broken it? Sweat froze on his face as he tried to stand.
The hunters closed rapidly. A thrown spear tugged at his fur. He fumbled off a glove, reached for his rifle and fired once, then a second time. He hadn’t many bullets left, but they weren’t to know that. They retreated.
Crane ignored the pain in his leg and tried to judge how close he was to the cave. Not far now. He could crawl. He would have to crawl. He gathered up the spear; one less weapon for the enemy. He didn’t want to leave the dog’s carcass, but it might give him the extra time he needed to reach safety.
He began crawling on hands and knees, his injured leg dragging behind him, the rifle in one hand and the spear in the other. After a few minutes, he paused to look back.
The hunters had pounced on the frozen body of the dog, tearing its flesh with their teeth. He crawled on.
They finished the dog and moved silently after him.…
* * * *
Walter Crane sat alone in his apartment, nursing a bottle and watching the television. The big satellite telescope held the Earth ship firmly in focus, following its path through space.
Crane waited numbly for news. The ship did not explode but traveled on to meet the alien ship. He drank steadily, despairing. What had he done wrong?
He was sure he’d set the timing device as Judson had instructed. Sure! His application had been granted, and certainly Judson must have had a hand in that. It had been simple, as his friend chatted with the ship’s officers, to excuse himself to go to the head.
But—now—Martin Baker was on the point of contacting the aliens, a contact that could prove to be
