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The men were frowning, standing in the warm-cool air, while the wind sighed about them. There was a kite sound in the air, a sound of eternal March.
‘I asked the wind to fly me,’ said Driscoll. ‘And it did !’
Forester waved the others aside. ‘I’ll chance it next. If I’m killed, back to the ship, all of you.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t allow this; you’re the captain,’ said Chatterton. ‘We can’t risk you.’ He took out his gun. ‘I should have some sort of authority or force here. This game’s gone on too long; I’m ordering us back to the ship!’
‘Holster your gun,’ said Forester quietly.
‘Stand still, you idiot!’ Chatterton blinked now at this man, now at that. ‘Haven’t you felt it? This world’s alive, it has a look to it, it’s playing with us, biding its time.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Forester. ‘You’re going back to the ship, in a moment, under arrest, if you don’t put up that gun.’
‘If you fools won’t come with me, you can die out here. I’m going back, get my samples, and get out.’
‘Ch
atterton!’
‘Don’t try to stop me!’
Chatterton started to run. Then, suddenly, he gave a cry.
Everyone shouted and looked up.
‘There he goes,’ said Driscoll.
Chatterton was up in the sky.
Night had come on like the closing of a great but gentle eye. Chatterton sat stunned on the side of the hill. The other men sat around him, exhausted and laughing. He would not look at them, he would not look at the sky, he would only feel of the earth, and his arms and his legs and his body, tightening in on himself.
‘God, wasn’t it perfect!’ said a man named Koestler.
They had all flown, like orioles and eagles and sparrows, and they were all happy.
‘Come out of it, Chatterton, it was fun, wasn’t it?’ said Koestler.
‘It’s impossible.’ Chatterton shut his eyes, tight, tight. ‘It can’t do it. There’s only one way for it to do it; it’s alive. The air’s alive. Like a fist, it picked me up. Any minute now, it can kill us all. It’s alive!’
‘All right,’ said Koestler, ‘say it’s alive. And a living thing must have purposes. Suppose the purpose of this world is to make us happy.’
As if to add to this, Driscoll came flying up, canteens in each hand. ‘I found a creek, tested and pure water, wait’ll you try it!’
Forester took a canteen, nudged Chatterton with it, offering a drink. Chatterton shook his head and drew hastily away. He put his hands over his face. ‘It’s the blood of this planet. Living blood. Drink that, put that inside and you put this world inside you to peer out your eyes and listen through your ears. No thanks!’
Forester shrugged and drank.
‘Wine!’ he said.
‘It can’t be!’
‘It is. Smell it, taste it! A rare white wine!’
‘French domestic’ Driscoll sipped his.
‘Poison,’ said Chatterton.
They passed the canteens round.
