// The worn phrase has it: "Where there's life there's hope." //
// Perhaps it needs a little rewriting to stress how important hope //
// is to life...// //
Souvenir
By Gregg Wolford
Astrogator Harold Smith opened his eyes. My, but that went fast, he thought.
And then, with a shiver, TWO HUNDRED YEARS...
He sat up, automatically cutting off his supply of adrenalin which had woken
him. He swung onto his feet. Standing upright again after so many years
felt... peculiar.
The door opened. "Hi, Hal." It was Bill Smith, Hal's life-long drinking
companion and currently starship doctor. "Have a good night's sleep?" Both
men laughed. Hal recalled that they had laughed before, many years before, at
the prospect of feeling "uncomfortable" about returning to Earth 200 years
after their peers were dead. That no longer seemed funny.
The two left the room. After a few seconds they were joined by a third, Maj.
Robert Clarke. "Hiya, Skip," said Hal.
Clark smiled. "Well, 'hail, hail, the gang's all here'. The question is: Why
aren't you good-for-nothing loafers in here contacting base?"
"Well, that is, we --"
"Can it. Anyhow, if you'd started without me I would have killed you with my
bare hands!" All three laughed.
The trio turned on "base radio frequency". They waited for landing
confirmation. And waited. And waited. And....
"GODDAMN IT SKIP!! Do we have to wait for this confirmation?" It was Wilson,
expressing the thoughts of all three of them.
Clark frowned. "Aw, I dunno. Personally I don't see how it could make any
difference."
"Then we land?"
An endless pause. Then, "Yeah."
Like a leaf from a tree, the ship settled onto earth. The airlock opened while
Clark was talking. "Now you've got 200 year's back pay coming, so don't spend
it all in one --" He froze, stupefied.
The shock was overwhelming. Instead of the busy starship station they were
expecting, they gazed out on a deserted desert, riddled with craters as far as
the eye could see. Emptiness, thought Clarke. Death, thought Smith.
Clarke gulped. "It appears," he began, "that our infallible autopilot system
has made a mistake. As this isn't earth, it will be up to our astrogator to
locate earth for us." He paused, proud of himself for coming up with a
rational answer.
Everyone seemed satisfied with Clarke's explanation. Finally, Smith detached
hmself from the group and started to walk back towards the ship. Before he had
travelled five yards, he stopped, and stooped over to pick something up. A
little piece of metal," he explained. "It'll make an interesting conversation
piece... back home." He turned away.
In fifteen minutes, he returned. "You were right," he said to Clarke. "The
autopilot slipped a few hundredths of a degree. I fixed it, but it'll take at
least 20 years to get back to Earth."
*******
Harold Smith layed down, slowly turning the dials that would put him asleep.
And he thought, I couldn't help it. If I had told them the truth about this
planet, it would destroy them. Now they have the rest of their lifetimes to go
on searching for the unobtainable, while only I will know the truth. They'll
have... hope. And the much-wanted oblivion came over him.
And hidden, where no one but himself would ever see, was Harold Smith's
souvenir: a two hundred year old, corroded, disfigured, but still recognizable
Lincoln head penny.
END
*******
It was interesting to me, if interesting to no one else, to notice the parallel
in Friz Leiber's guest editorial in the April FANTASTIC. Leiber speaks of old
historians peopling the Unknown with monsters and of how monsters actually
represent the Unknown. And now notice the titles of our zines -- the NO-EYED
MONSTER and the UNKNOWN! -- nem
[pp. 3 - 5, NO-EYED MONSTER #3, Summer 1965]
Updated June 26, 2001. If you have a comment about these web pages please send a note to the Fanac Webmaster. Thank you.