The VANDERLARK
by M. ST. CLAIR
The peculiar quality of deep space is hard to put into words. On earth, however isolated we are, whatever happens to us, we are yet on our home planet. The man afloat on the life raft in the Pacific, delirious with exposure and loneliness, floats nonetheless on an element whose very saltiness relates it to the red sea water in his veins. The flyer forced down in the desert curses the rising sun; but the same sun that sucks water out of his drying tissues is the glorious temporal lord on whose radiation all terrestrial life processes depend. On earth our extremest terrors, our ultimate catastrophes, are yet like the blows of a familiar hand. It is very different in deep space.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories January 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Are there any more of them?" Alice asked McFeen when he came back from two hold.
"Yes."
Alice's mouth opened in a soundless O. Her hand went to her breast. After a moment she picked up the comb and began pulling it again through her brittle hair. "How many more?" she asked.
"I didn't count them. Hyra are hard to count. Quite a lot."
The comb caught on a tangle. Alice put it down unsteadily. "I wish we'd never brought them," she said abruptly. "I wish we'd never started on this trip. I hate those things. They're uncanny. They give me the creeps. What do you suppose is making them increase like that?"