Time is the Simplest Thing

EIGHTEEN

Blaine lay back upon the bed and stared up at the ceiling. A breeze came sniffing through the window, and leaf shadows from a tree outside played fitfully upon the wall. It must be a stubborn tree, Blaine thought, among the last to lose its leaves, for it was late October now.

He listened to the muffled sounds that came from the hushed corridors beyond the room, and the biting antiseptic smell was still hanging in the air.

He must get out of here, he thought; he must be on his way. But on his way to where? On his way to Pierre, of course — to Pierre and Harriet, if Harriet were there. But Pierre itself was dead end. So far as he might know, there was no purpose in it. So far as he could know, it was just a place to run to.

For he was running still, in blind and desperate flight. He’d been running since that moment when he’d returned from his mission to the stars. And worst of all, running without purpose, running only to be safe, just to get away.

The lack of purpose hurt. It made him an empty thing. It made him a wind-blown striving that had no free will of its own.

He lay there and let the hurt sink in — and the bitterness and wonder, the wonder if it had been wise to run from Fishhook, if it had been the thing to do. Then he remembered Freddy Bates and Freddy’s painted smile and the glitter in his eyes and the gun in Freddy’s pocket. And he knew there was no doubt about it: it had been the thing to do.

But somewhere there must be something he could lay his fingers on, something he could grasp, some shred of hope or promise he could cling to. He must not go on forever floating without purpose. The time must come when he could stop his running, when he could set his feet, when he could look around.

On the bed Riley gasped and wheezed and gurgled and was silent.

There was no sense in staying, Blaine told himself, as the doctor wished. For there was nothing that the doc could find and nothing Blaine could tell him and there was no profit in it for either one of them.

He got off the bed again and walked across the room to the door that more than likely led into a closet.

He opened the door and it was a closet and his clothes hung there. There was no sign of underwear, but his pants and shirt were hanging there and his shoes sat underneath them. His jacket had fallen off the hook and lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor.

He stripped off the hospital gown and reached for his trousers. He stepped into them and cinched them tight about his middle.

He was reaching for the shirt when the stillness struck him — the peaceful, mellow stillness of an autumn afternoon. The peace of yellow leaf and the mellowness of the haze upon the distant hills and the winelike richness of the season.

But the stillness was all wrong.

There should be a gasping and a bubbling from the man upon the bed.

With his shoulders hunched, as if against a blow, Blaine waited for the sound and there was no sound.

He spun around and took a step toward the bed, then halted. For there was no reason for going near the bed. Riley’s swathed body lay still and quiet, and the bubble on the lips was frozen there.

“Doctor!” Blaine yelled, “Doctor!” running to the door, knowing even as he ran and yelled that he was being foolish, that his reaction was irrational.

He reached the door and stopped. He put his hands against the jambs and leaned forward to thrust his head out into the corridor.

The doctor was coming down the hall, hurrying, but not running.

“Doctor,” whispered Blaine.

The doctor reached the door. He put out a hand and pushed Blaine back into the room. He strode over to the bed.

He stooped with his stethoscope placed against the mummy, then stepped back from the bed.

He looked hard at Blaine.

“And you are going where?” he asked.

“He’s dead,” said Blaine. “His breathing stopped and it was a long time—”

“Yes, he’s dead. He never had a chance. Even with gobathian he didn’t have a chance.”

“Gobathian? That was what you used? That was why he was all wrapped up?”

“He was broken,” said the doctor. “Like a toy someone had thrown on the floor and jumped on. He was . . .”

He stopped and for a long, hard moment looked at Blaine.

“What do you know about gobathian?” he asked.

“I’ve heard of it,” said Blaine.

And he’d heard of it, all right, he thought.

“An alien drug,” the doctor said. “Used by an insect race. A warring insect race. And it’s done miracles. It can patch up a smashed and broken body. It can repair bones and organs. It can grow new tissue.”

He glanced down at the swathed deadness, then looked back at Blaine.

“You’ve read the literature?” he asked.

“A popularization, Blaine lied. “In a magazine.”

And he could see again the seething madness of that jungle planet where he had stumbled on this drug the insects used — although in very truth they were not insects nor was it a drug they used.

Although, he told himself, there was no need to quibble. Terminology, always difficult, had become impossible with the going to the stars. You used approximations and let it go at that. You did the best you could.

“We’ll move you to another room,” the doctor told him.

“No need of that,” said Blaine. “I was just about to leave.”

“You can’t,” said the doctor, flatly. “I will not allow it. I won’t have you on my conscience. There’s something wrong with you, something very wrong. There’s no one to look after you — no friends, no people.”

“I’ll get along. I always have before.”

The doctor moved closer.

“I have a feeling,” he said, “that you’re not telling me the truth — not the entire truth.”

Blaine walked away from him. He reached the closet and got his shirt and put it on. He scuffed into his shoes. He picked up his jacket and shut the closet door, then turned around.

“Now,” he said, “if you’ll just move aside, I’ll be going out.”

There was someone coming down the corridor. Perhaps, Blaine thought, someone with the food the doctor promised. And maybe he should wait until the food arrived, for he needed it.

But there was more than one person coming down the corridor — there were at least a pair of footsteps. Perhaps someone who had heard him yelling for the doctor, bearing down upon the room to see if help were needed.

“I wish that you would change your mind,” the doctor said. “Aside from the feeling you need help, there also is the matter of formalities . . .”

Blaine heard no more of what he had to say, for the walkers had reached the door and were standing just outside of it, looking in the room.

Harriet Quimby, cool as ice, was saying: “Shep, how did you wind up here? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

And the telepathic undertone hit him like a whiplash: Give! Quick! Fill me in!

Just claim me, that is all (ferocious woman dragging errant urchin behind her with no ceremony). If you do that, they’ll let me go. Found me lying underneath a willow tree. . . .

(Drunk who had somehow climbed into a garbage can and can’t get out of it, top hat tilted on one ear, nose snapping and flashing like an advertising sign, crossed eyes registering a rather mild surprise.)

No, not that, Blaine pleaded. Just stretched out underneath the tree, dead to all the world. He thinks there’s something wrong with me. . . .

There is. . . .

But not what he —

And Godfrey Stone was saying, smoothly, friendly, with a half-relieved, half-worried smile: “So you’ve been having the old trouble. Too much liquor, I suppose. You know the doctor told you—”

“Ah, hell,” protested Blaine, “just a snort or two. Not enough. . . .”

“Aunt Edna has been wild,” said Harriet. “She imagined all sorts of things. You know what an imaginer she is. She was convinced you were gone for good and all this time.”

Godfrey! Godfrey! Oh, my God, three years. . . .

Take it easy, Shep. No time now. Get you out of here.

Dr. Wetmore said: “You people know this man? A relative of yours?”

“Not relatives,” said Stone. “Just friends. His Aunt Edna—”

“Well, let’s go,” said Blaine.

Stone glanced questioningly at the doctor, and Wetmore nodded.

“Stop at the desk,” he said, “and pick up his release. I’ll phone it down. They’ll want your names.”

“Gladly,” said Stone. “And thank you very much.”

It’squite all right.”

Blaine stopped at the door and turned back to the doctor.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t tell the truth. I am not proud of it.”

“All of us,” the doctor said, “have moments in which we can take no pride. You are not alone.”

“Good-by, Doctor.”

“So long,” said the doctor. “Take care of yourself.”

Then they were going down the corridor, the three of them abreast.

Who was in that other bed? asked Stone.

A man by the name of Riley.

Riley!

A truck driver.

Riley! He was the man we were looking for. We just ran into you.

Stone halted and half turned to go back.

No use, said Blaine. He’s dead.

And his truck?

Smashed. He ran off the road.

“Oh, Godfrey!” Harriet cried.

He shook his head at her. “No use,” he said. “No use.”

Hey, what is going on?

We’ll tell you all of it. First, let’s get out of here.

Stone seized him by the elbow and hustled him along.

Just one thing. How is Lambert Finn mixed up in all of this?

“Lambert Finn,” Stone said vocally, “is the most dangerous man in the world today.”