Second Variety and Other Stories (57 page)

"May I ask you something?" Trent said.

"What?"

"I'm the first human you've seen? There aren't any more around here?"

"I'm the first human you've seen? There aren't any more around here?"

"Are there reports of human settlements anywhere?"

"Why?"

"Just curious," Trent said tightly.

"You're the only one." The bug was pleased. "We'll get a bonus for this -- for capturing you.
There's a standing reward. Nobody's ever claimed it before."

A human was wanted here too. A human brought with him valuable gnosis, odds and ends of
tradition the mutants needed to incorporate into their shaky social structures. Mutant cultures were still
unsteady. They needed contact with the past. A human being was a shaman, a Wise Man to teach and
instruct. To teach the mutants how life had been, how their ancestors had lived and acted and looked.

A valuable possession for any tribe -- especially if no other humans existed in the region.

Trent cursed savagely. None? No others? There had to be other humans -- some place. If not
north, then east. Europe, Asia, Australia. Some place, somewhere on the globe. Humans with tools and
machines and equipment. The Mine couldn't be the only settlement, the last fragment of true man. Prized
curiosities -- doomed when their compressors burned out and their food tanks dried up. If he didn't have
any luck pretty soon... The bugs halted, listening. Their antennae twitched suspiciously.

"What is it?" Trent asked.

"Nothing." They started on. "For a moment --"

A flash. The bugs ahead on the trail winked out of existence. A dull roar of light rolled over them.

Trent sprawled. He struggled, caught in the vines and sappy weeds. Around him bugs twisted
and fought wildly. Tangling with small furry creatures that fired rapidly and efficiently with hand weapons
and, when they got close, kicked and gouged with immense hind legs. Runners.

The bugs were losing. They retreated back down the trail, scattering into the jungle. The runners
hopped after them, springing on their powerful hind legs like kangaroos. The last bug departed. The noise
died down.

"Okay," a runner ordered. He gasped for breath, straightening up. "Where's the human?"

Trent got slowly to his feet. "Here."

The runners helped him up. They were small, not over four feet high. Fat and round, covered
with thick pelts. Little good-natured faces peered up at him with concern. Beady eyes, quivering noses
and great kangaroo legs. "You all right?" one asked. He offered Trent his water canteen.

"I'm all right." Trent pushed the canteen away. "They got my blaster."

The runners searched around. The blaster was nowhere to be seen.

"Let it go." Trent shook his head dully, trying to collect himself. "What happened? The light."

"A grenade." The runners puffed with pride. "We stretched a wire across the trail, attached to the
pin."

"The bugs control most of this area," another said. "We have to fight our way through." Around
his neck hung a pair of binoculars. The runners were armed with slug-pistols and knives.

"Are you really a human being?" a runner asked. "The original stock?"

"That's right," Trent muttered in unsteady tones.

The runners were awed. Their beady eyes grew wide. They touched his metal suit, his viewplate.
His oxygen tank and pack. One squatted down and expertly traced the circuit of his transmitter
apparatus.

"Where are you from?" the leader asked in his deep purr-like voice. "You're the first human
we've seen in months."

Trent spun, choking. "Months? Then ..."

"None around here. We're from Canada. Up around Montreal. There's a human settlement up
there."

Trent's breath came fast. "Walking distance?"

"Well, we made it in a couple of days. But we go fairly fast." The runner eyed Trent's metal-clad
legs doubtfully. "I don't know. For you it would take longer."

Humans. A human settlement. "How many? A big settlement? Advanced?"

Humans. A human settlement. "How many? A big settlement? Advanced?"

"They're operating successfully? They have tools -- machinery -- compressors? Food tanks to
keep going?"

The runner twisted uneasily. "As a matter of fact they may not be there any more."

Trent froze. Fear cut through him like a knife. "Not there? What do you mean?"

"They may be gone."

"Gone where?" Trent's voice was bleak. "What happened to them?"

"I don't know," the runner said. "I don't know what happened to them. Nobody knows."

He pushed on, hurrying frantically north. The jungle gave way to a bitterly cold fern-like forest.
Great silent trees on all sides. The air was thin and brittle.

He was exhausted. And only one tube of oxygen remained in the tank. After that he would have
to open his helmet. How long would he last? The first rain cloud would bring lethal particles sweeping
into his lungs. Or the first strong wind, blowing from the ocean.

He halted, gasping for breath. He had reached the top of a long slope. At the bottom a plain
stretched out -- tree-covered -- a dark green expanse, almost brown. Here and there a spot of white
gleamed. Ruins of some kind. A human city had been here three centuries ago.

Nothing stirred -- no sign of life. No sign anywhere.

Trent made his way down the slope. Around him the forest was silent. A dismal oppression hung
over everything. Even the usual rustling of small animals was lacking. Animals, insects, men -- all were
gone. Most of the runners had moved south. The small things probably had died. And the men?

He came out among the ruins. This had been a great city once. Then men had probably gone
down in air-raid shelters and mines and subways. Later on they had enlarged their underground
chambers. For three centuries men -- true men -- had held on, living below the surface. Wearing
lead-lined suits when they came up, growing food in tanks, filtering their water, compressing particle-free
air. Shielding their eyes against the glare of the bright sun.

And now -- nothing at all.

He lifted his transmitter. "Mine," he snapped. "This is Trent."

The transmitter sputtered feebly. It was a long time before it responded. The voice was faint,
distant. Almost lost in the static. "Well? Did you find them?"

"They're gone."

"But ..."

"Nothing. No one. Completely abandoned." Trent sat down on a broken stump of concrete. His
body was dead. Drained of life. "They were here recently. The ruins aren't covered. They must have left
in the last few weeks."

"It doesn't make sense. Mason and Douglas are on their way. Douglas has the tractor car. He
should be there in a couple of days. How long will your oxygen last?"

"Twenty-four hours."

"We'll tell him to make time."

"I'm sorry I don't have more to report. Something better." Bitterness welled up in his voice.
"After all these years. They were here all this time. And now that we've finally got to them..."

"Any clues? Can you tell what became of them?"

"I'll look." Trent got heavily to his feet. "If I find anything I'll report."

"Good luck." The faint voice faded off into static. "We'll be waiting."

Trent returned the transmitter to his belt. He peered up at the gray sky. Evening -- almost night.
The forest was bleak and ominous. A faint blanket of snow was falling silently over the brown growth,
hiding it under a layer of grimy white. Snow mixed with particles. Lethal dust -- still falling, after three
hundred years.

He switched on his helmet-beam. The beam cut a pale swath ahead of him through the trees,
among the ruined columns of concrete, the occasional heaps of rusted slag. He entered the ruins.

among the ruined columns of concrete, the occasional heaps of rusted slag. He entered the ruins.

Where had they gone? What had happened to them? Trent wandered around dully. Human
beings had lived here, worked here, survived. They had come up to the surface. He could see the
bore-nosed cars parked among the towers, now gray with the night snow. They had come up and then -gone.

Where?

He sat down in the shelter of a ruined column and flicked on his heater. His suit warmed up, a
slow red glow that made him feel better. He examined his counter. The area was hot. If he intended to
eat and drink he'd have to move on.

He was tired. Too damn tired to move on. He sat resting, hunched over in a heap, his
helmet-beam lighting up a circle of gray snow ahead of him. Over him the snow fell silently. Presently he
was covered, a gray lump sitting among the ruined concrete. As silent and unmoving as the towers and
scaffolding around him.

He dozed. His heater hummed gently. Around him a wind came up, swirling the snow, blowing it
up against him. He slid forward a little until his metal and plastic helmet came to rest against the concrete.

Towards midnight he woke up. He straightened, suddenly alert. Something -- a noise. He
listened.

Far off, a dull roaring.

Douglas in the car? No, not yet -- not for another two days. He stood up, snow pouring off him.
The roar was growing, getting louder. His heart began to hammer wildly. He peered around, his beam
flashing through the night.

The ground shook, vibrating through him, rattling his almost empty oxygen tank. He gazed up at
the sky -- and gasped.

A glowing trail slashed over the sky, igniting the early morning darkness. A deep red, swelling
each second. He watched it, open-mouthed.

Something was coming down -- landing.

A rocket.

The long metal hull glittered in the morning sun. Men were working busily, loading supplies and
equipment. Tunnel cars raced up and down, hauling material from the undersurface levels to the waiting
ship. The men worked carefully and efficiently, each in his metal-and-plastic suit, in his carefully sealed
lead-lined protection shield.

"How many back at your Mine?" Norris asked quietly.

"About thirty." Trent's eyes were on the ship. "Thirty-three, including all those out."

"Out?"

"Looking. Like me. A couple are on their way here. They should arrive soon. Late today or
tomorrow."

Norris made some notes on his chart. "We can handle about fifteen with this load. We'll catch the
rest next time. They can hold out another week?"

"Yes."

Norris eyed him curiously. "How did you find us? This is a long way from Pennsylvania. We're
making our last stop. If you had come a couple days later..."

"Some runners sent me this way. They said you had gone they didn't know where."

Norris laughed. "We didn't know where either."

"You must be taking all this stuff some place. This ship. It's old, isn't it? Fixed up."

"Originally it was some kind of bomb. We located it and repaired it -- worked on it from time to
time. We weren't sure what we wanted to do. We're not sure yet. But we know we have to leave."

"Leave? Leave Earth?"

The men were almost finished. The last cars were half empty, bringing up the final remains from
underground. Books, records, pictures, artifacts -- the remains of a culture. A multitude of representative
objects, shot into the hold of the ship to be carried off, away from Earth. "Where?" Trent asked.

"To Mars for the time being. But we're not staying there. We'll probably go on out, towards the
moons of Jupiter and Saturn. Ganymede may turn out to be something. If not Ganymede, one of the
others. If worse comes to worst we can stay on Mars. It's pretty dry and barren but it's not radioactive."

"There's no chance here -- no possibility of reclaiming the radioactive areas? If we could cool off
Earth, neutralize the hot clouds and --"

"If we did that," Norris said, "they'd all die."

"They?"

"Rollers, runners, worms, toads, bugs, all the rest. The endless varieties of life. Countless forms
adapted to this Earth -- this hot Earth. These plants and animals use the radioactive metals. Essentially
the new basis of life here is an assimilation of hot metallic salts. Salts which are utterly lethal to us."

"But even so --"

"Even so, it's not really our world."

"We're the true humans," Trent said.

"Not any more. Earth is alive, teeming with life. Growing wildly -- in all directions. We're one
form, an old form. To live here, we'd have to restore the old conditions, the old factors, the balance as it
was three hundred and fifty years ago. A colossal job. And if we succeeded, if we managed to cool
Earth, none of this would remain."

Norris pointed at the great brown forest. And beyond it, towards the south, at the beginning of
the steaming jungle that continued all the way to the Straits of Magellan.

"In a way it's what we deserve. We brought the War. We changed Earth. Not destroyed -changed.
Made it so different we can't live here any longer."

Norris indicated the lines of helmeted men. Men sheathed in lead, in heavy protection suits,
covered with layers of metal and wiring, counters, oxygen tanks, shields, food pellets, filtered water. The
men worked, sweated in their heavy suits. "See them? What do they resemble?"

A worker came up, gasping and panting. For a brief second he lifted his viewplate and took a
hasty breath of air. He slammed his plate and nervously locked it in place. "Ready to go, sir. All loaded."

"Change of plan," Norris said. "We're going to wait until this man's companions get here. Their
camp is breaking up. Another day won't make any difference."

"All right, sir." The worker pushed off, climbing back down to the surface, a weird figure in his
heavy lead-lined suit and bulging helmet and intricate gear.