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‘A versatile world,’ said Koestler dryly. ‘A woman who’ll do anything to please her guests, as long as we’re kind to her. Chatterton wasn’t kind.’
‘Chatterton. What about him?’
As if to answer this, someone cried from a distance. The two men who had flown off to find Chatterton were waving at the edge of the woods.
Forester, Driscoll, and Koestler flew down alone.
‘What’s up?’
The men pointed into the forest. ‘Thought you’d want to see this, Captain. It’s damned eerie.’ One of the men indicated a pathway. ‘Look here, sir.’
The marks of great claws stood on the path, fresh and clear.
‘And over here.’
A few drops of blood.
A heavy smell of some feline animal hung in the air.
‘Chatterton?’
‘I don’t think we’ll ever find him, Captain.’
Faintly, faintly, moving away, now gone in the breathing silence of twilight, came the roar of a tiger.
The men lay on the resilient grass by the rocket and the night was warm. ‘Reminds me of nights when I was a kid,’ said Driscoll. ‘My brother and I waited for the hottest night in July and then we slept on the Court House lawn, counting the stars, talking; it was a great night, the best night of the year, and now, when I think back on it, the best night of my life.’ Then he added, ‘Not counting tonight, of course.’
‘I keep thinking about Chatterton,’ said Koestler.
‘Don’t,’ said Forester. ‘We’ll sleep a few hours and take off. We can’t chance staying here another day. I don’t mean the danger that got Chatterton. No. I mean, if we stayed on we’d get to liking this world too much. We’d never want to leave.’
A soft wind blew over them.
‘I don’t want to leave now.’ Driscoll put his hands behind his head, lying quietly. ‘And it doesn’t want us to leave.’
‘If we go back to Earth and tell everyone what a lovely planet it is, what then, Captain? They’ll come smashing in here and ruin it.’
‘No,’ said Forester, idly. ‘First, this planet wouldn’t put up with a full-scale invasion. I don’t know what it’d do, but it could probably think of some interesting things. Secondly, I like this planet too much; I respect it. We’ll go back to Earth and lie about it. Say it’s hostile. Which it would be to the average man, like Chatterton, jumping in here to hurt it. I guess we won’t be lying after all.’
‘Funny thing,’ said Koestler. ‘I’m not afraid. Chatterton vanishes, is killed most horribly, perhaps, yet we lie here, no one runs, no one trembles. It’s idiotic. Yet it’s right. We trust it, and it trusts us.’
‘Did you notice, after you drank just so much of the wine-water, you didn’t want more? A world of moderation.’
They lay listening to something like the great heart of this earth beating slowly and warmly under their bodies.
Forester thought, I’m thirsty.
A drop of rain splashed on his lips.
He laughed quietly.
I’m lonely, he thought.
Distantly, he heard soft high voices.
He turned his eyes in upon a vision. There was a group of hills from which flowed a clear river, and in the shallows of that river, sending up spray, their faces shimmering, were the beautiful women. They played like children on the shore. And it came to Forester to know about them and their life. They were nomads, roaming the face of this world as was their desire. There were no highways or cities, there were only hills and plains and winds to carry them like white feathers where they wished. As Forester shaped the question, some invisible answerer whispered the answers. There were no men. These women, alone, produced their race. The men had vanished fifty thousand years ago. And where were these women now? A mile down from the green forest, a mile over on the wine-stream by the six white stones, and a third mile to the large river. There, in the shallows, were the women who would make fine wives, and raise beautiful children.
Forester opened his eyes. The other men were sitting up.
