Part 7 (1/2)

And his head suddenly exploded into a million dazzling lights as he sank unconscious to the ground--

It was a tiny room, completely without windows, the artificial light filtering through from ventilation slits near the top. Shandor sat up, shaking as the chill in the room became painfully evident. A small electric heater sat in the corner beaming valiantly, but the heat hardly reached his numbed toes. He stood up, shaking himself, slapping his arms against his sides to drive off the coldness--and he heard a noise through the door as soon as he had made a sound.

Muted footsteps stopped outside the door, and a huge man stepped inside.

He looked at Shandor carefully, then closed the door behind him, without locking it. ”I'm Baker,” he rasped cheerfully. ”How are you feeling?”

Shandor rubbed his head, suddenly and acutely aware of a very sore nose and a bruised rib cage. ”Not so hot,” he muttered. ”How long have I been out?”

”Long enough.” The man pulled out a plug of tobacco, ripped off a chunk with his teeth. ”Chew?”

”I smoke.” Shandor fished for cigarettes in an empty pocket.

”Not in here you don't,” said Baker. He shrugged his huge shoulders and settled affably down on a bench near the wall. ”You feel like talking?”

Shandor eyed the unlocked door, and turned his eyes to the huge man.

”Sure,” he said. ”What do you want to talk about?”

”I don't want to talk about nothin',” the big man replied, indifferently. ”Thought you might, though.”

”Are you the one that roughed me up?”

”Yuh.” Baker grinned. ”Hope I didn't hurt you much. Boss said to keep you in one piece, but we had to hurry up, and take care of those Army guys you brought in on your tail. That was dumb. You almost upset everything.”

Memory flooded back, and Shandor's eyes widened. ”Yes--they followed me all the way from Lincoln--what happened to them?”

Baker grinned and chomped his tobacco. ”They're a long way away now.

Don't worry about them.”

Shandor eyed the door uneasily. The latch hadn't caught, and the door had swung open an inch or two. ”Where am I?” he asked, inching toward the door. ”What--what are you planning to do to me?”

Baker watched him edging away. ”You're safe,” he said. ”The boss'll talk to you pretty soon if you feel like it--” He squinted at Tom in surprise, pointing an indolent thumb toward the door. ”You planning to go out or something?”

Tom stopped short, his face red. The big man shrugged. ”Go ahead. I ain't going to stop you.” He grinned. ”Go as far as you can.”

Without a word Shandor threw open the door, looked out into the concrete corridor. At the end was a large, bright room. Cautiously he started down, then suddenly let out a cry and broke into a run, his eyes wide--

He reached the room, a large room, with heavy plastic windows. He ran to one of the windows, pulse pounding, and stared, a cry choking in his throat. The blackness of the crags contrasted dimly with the inky blackness of the sky beyond. Mile upon mile of jagged, rocky crags, black rock, ageless, unaged rock. And it struck him with a jolt how easily he had been able to run, how lightning-swift his movements. He stared again, and then he saw what he had seen in the pit, standing high outside the building on a rocky flat, standing bright and silvery, like a phantom finger pointing to the inky heavens, sleek, smooth, resting on polished tailfins, like an other-worldly bird poised for flight--

A voice behind him said, ”You aren't really going anyplace, you know.

Why run?” It was a soft voice, a kindly voice, cultured, not rough and biting like Baker's voice. It came from directly behind Shandor, and he felt his skin crawl. He had heard that voice before--many times before.

Even in his dreams he had heard that voice. ”You see, it's pretty cold out there. And there isn't any air. You're on the Moon, Mr. Shandor--”

He whirled, his face twisted and white. And he stared at the small figure standing at the door, a stoop-shouldered man, white hair slightly untidy, crow's-feet about his tired eyes. An old man, with eyes that carried a sparkle of youth and kindliness. The eyes of David P.

Ingersoll.

Shandor stared for a long moment, shaking his head like a man seeing a phantom. When he found words, his voice was choked, the words wrenched out as if by force. ”You're--you're alive.”

”Yes. I'm alive.”