Part 21 (1/2)

And he resolved that he must not take that fear with him into death.

He wanted to die with something better than that. Wasn't there something he could find and cling to, perhaps some memory--?

A minute is so short, and eighty years is so long. Jesse stood there, swaying, watching them draw nearer, watching them as they caught sight of him and raised their weapons.

He scanned rapidly into the past. Into the past, before the time the wench was dead, back to when you and I were young, Maggie, back still earlier, and earlier, seeking the high point, the high school, that was it, the high school, the highlight, the moment of triumph, the game with Lincoln. Yes, that was it. He hadn't been ashamed of being six feet three inches then, he'd been proud of it, proud as he raised his arms and--

_Splashed down into the water as the bullets struck._

And that was the end of Jesse Pringle. Jesse Pringle, champion basketball center of the Cla.s.s of '79....

12. Littlejohn--2065

The helicopter landed on the roof, and the attendants wheeled it over to one side. They propped the ladder up, and Littlejohn descended slowly, panting.

They had a coasterchair waiting and he sank into it, grateful for the rest. Hardy fellows, these attendants, but then they were almost three feet tall. More stamina, that was the secret. Common stock, of course, but they served a purpose. Somebody had to carry out orders.

When they wheeled the coasterchair into the elevator, Littlejohn descended. The elevator halted on the first floor and he breathed a sigh of relief. Great heights always made him faint and dizzy, and even a short helicopter trip took its toll--the mere thought of soaring two hundred feet above the ground was enough to paralyze him.

But this journey was vital. Thurmon was waiting for him.

Yes, Thurmon was waiting for him here in the council chamber. The coasterchair rolled forward into the room and again Littlejohn felt a twinge of apprehension. The room was vast--too big for comfort. It must be all of fifty feet long, and over ten feet in height. How could Thurmon stand it, working here?

But he had to endure it, Littlejohn reminded himself. He was head of the council.

Thurmon was lying on the couch when Littlejohn rolled in, but he sat up and smiled.

”I greet you,” he said.

”I greet you,” Littlejohn answered. ”No, don't bother to stay seated.

Surely we don't need to be ceremonious.”

Thurmon p.r.i.c.ked up his ears at the sound of the unfamiliar word. He wasn't the scholarly type, like Littlejohn. But he appreciated Littlejohn's learning and knew he was important to the council. They needed scholars these days, and antiquarians too. One has to look to the past when rebuilding a world.

”You sent for me?” Littlejohn asked. The question was purely rhetorical, but he wanted to break the silence. Thurmon looked troubled as he replied.

”Yes. It is a matter of confidence between us.”

”So be it. You may speak in trust.”

Thurmon eyed the door. ”Come nearer,” he said.

Littlejohn pressed a lever and rolled up to the couchside. Thurmon's eyes peered at him through the thick contact lenses. Littlejohn noted the deep wrinkles around his mouth, but without surprise. After all, Thurmon was an old man--he must be over thirty.

”I have been thinking,” Thurmon said, abruptly. ”We have failed.”

”Failed?”

Thurmon nodded. ”Need I explain? You have been close to the council for many years. You have seen what we've attempted, ever since the close of the Naturalist wars.”

”A magnificent effort,” Littlejohn answered politely. ”In less than thirty years an entire new world has risen from the ruins of the old.