VI
The sun settled behind the forest horizon, its pale pink rays filtering through the branches of trees and angling onto the cool meadow. The glare was reflected by the silver rocket and by the cross above Van Gundy's grave and by the small harmonica and the jetman's medallion.
Captain Torkel stood alone before the grave. Laughter drifted faintly from within the rocket. It was a lonely sound to Captain Torkel. You're really alone now, he thought. Apart from Earth, and now apart from the men. You and Van Gundy.
To hell with it, he thought bitterly. Why not join the men? Why not bathe and shave and smell of lotion and put on a clean white dress uniform? Why not forget about an insignificant planet fifty trillion miles away?
He pivoted toward the rocket, toward the laughter and the happy, getting-ready sounds. Then a small gust of wind sent Van Gundy's medallion tinkling against the grave-cross.
He paused. Through his mind passed a swirling vision of the people of Earth: the silent children too frightened to play in the sunlight, the white-faced women scanning the callous sky, the grim-lipped priests chanting ceaseless prayers. Two billion souls wrapped in a shroud of fear, counting off the swift seconds that carried them closer and closer to oblivion.
You can't force the men to go with you, he told himself. You can't make them believe that the Sirians are dangerous. You've got to make them want to return to Earth. And once they get to the village, they're lost. There's so little time....
He rubbed his chin. He was sure the Sirians had killed Van Gundy. If only Garcia could remember—
Suddenly he straightened.