Escape Velocity: The Anthology (6 page)

       “
I read you. We are fine. We do not require assistance.”

       “
Too bad. Look up. We're already on our way into the canyon.”

      
A soft sigh came over the radio. “So be it. Do you see me? I am waving at you.”

       “
I see you.”

       “
The largest boulders. We are working behind them.”

      
As Matthews and Davis made their way into the canyon, they spotted the very top of a large spacecraft that had landed among the gigantic stones. Rounding the last of the massive obstacles, both men stopped and stared in shock at what they saw.

      
It was not an unmanned lander, or a sample-return craft. It was a spacecraft sitting on four legs, similar to an old Apollo Lunar Module.

      
Alexei Gordonov snapped a picture and moved to his right for another shot from a different angle.

      
Greshchenko was standing at the top of the access ladder on the lander and peering into a circular window built into the hatch door. He said something in Russian and Gordonov replied with a grunt.

       “
What the hell is this thing?” Matthews gasped.

      
Gordonov snapped another photograph. “It is an LK, the lunar lander section of a LOK system. It was launched from Earth by an N-1 rocket.”

       “
This isn't for sample returns,” said Davis. “It's almost as large as an Apollo LEM!”

       “
Yes. The LK was designed to carry one person to the lunar surface.”

       “
Is there someone inside?”

       “
Yes. He is dead, of course.”

      
Matthews was suddenly angry. “I don't understand!” He approached Gordonov as quickly as his bulky moon suit would allow and grabbed him by the arm. “What the hell is this all about? I've studied your lunar program. All the N-1 heavy-lift rockets exploded on the pad. The LOK system never made it to the moon.”

      
Alexei Gordonov answered the agitated Matthews calmly. “Try to understand. This is a historical site. Please stand aside and let us finish our work. I will explain everything afterward.” The cosmonaut pulled himself free of Matthews' grip and continued snapping pictures from different angles.

      
Greshchenko, standing at the top of the access ladder, spoke in Russian and pointed at the porthole.

      
Gordonov waved in response.

       “
What did he say?” Matthews demanded.

       “
The cosmonaut inside the craft is holding a notebook. He wants to retrieve it.”

       “
Baloney.” Matthews walked toward the spacecraft and stopped at the bottom of the ladder. “Greshchenko! Come on down from there!”

      
The cosmonaut looked to his partner for advice.

      
Gordonov waved for him to come down and motioned to let Matthews take his place.

      
The cosmonaut shrugged and started down. As soon as he reached the ground, Matthews took the rungs in his hands.

      
Greshchenko grabbed Matthews by the arm and spoke angrily in Russian. Matthews shook him off brusquely and started up the ladder. “What did he say now, Gordonov?”

       “
He says you should be more respectful of the dead. I agree with him. The man inside that spacecraft was a person of great courage.”

      
Matthews continued climbing.

      
Walt Davis pointed to the ground. “Look at that. You can still see the ejector blanket from the descent engine throwing dust.”

       “
Yes,” said Gordonov. “The pilot was extremely lucky during the landing. You can see he had to put down between these boulders. He was our best pilot at the time.”

       “
Why didn't he just fire his ascent engine and go home? Did something go wrong?”

       “
Not exactly. The engine was operational. He chose to stay.”

       “
Why?”

       “
He knew we would come for him someday.”

       “
That doesn't make any sense,” said Davis.

       “
Of course it does,” said Gordonov.

      
Rick Matthews peered through the thick round glass. He adjusted his helmet light to maximum and shined it into the spacecraft.

      
He saw a figure lying on its side dressed in a pressure suit with the head down. Matthews could not see a face. “There's something in there. It could be a dummy in a suit. I can't tell.”

       “
It is a
man
,” said Gordonov.

       “
How do you open the hatch? I'd like to see for myself.”

       “
As you wish. Do you see the four small handles at the corners?”

       “
Yes.”

       “
Turn each one to the left until you feel a solid click. Grasp the larger handle and pull it toward you.”

      
Matthews did as he was told and opened the hatch. He reached inside and grasped the arm of the suited figure, rolling it over on its back. It was like moving a stone statue. As the front of the helmet became visible, he saw the face of a man with his eyes closed as if he were asleep.

The man's features were still recognizable, although the skin on the skull had dried and given him a mummified appearance.

       “
Oh, my God...” Matthews let the body roll back onto its face and backed out of the hatch.
This isn't possible
, he thought.
That man was killed in a jet crash.
He started down the ladder, nearly losing his grip.

       “
Carefully now,” said Gordonov.

      
Matthews joined the other astronauts and stood side-by-side with them. All four stared at the spider-legged craft in awe.

       “
It's Yuri Gagarin, isn't it?” Matthews finally asked.

       “
Yes. He was supposed to test the LOK system in Earth orbit,” said Gordonov. “Everything was going flawlessly until Ground Control discovered the heat shield for the reentry capsule had been seriously damaged during liftoff. He could not return to Earth.”

       “
And he asked if he could try for the moon...” Davis whispered.

       “
That is correct. The LK does not need a heat shield to land on the moon. Ground Control said yes, so he fired the rockets on the LOK and reached lunar orbit four days later. He disengaged the LK from the LOK and made his descent. He could have fired the ascent engine, but it would have served no purpose. He kept up a running commentary for another eighteen hours until his oxygen was exhausted.”

       “
How long has he been here?” said Matthews.

       “
Since June twenty-ninth, nineteen sixty-eight.”

       “
No...”

       “
Yes,” said Gordonov. “More than a year before Neil Armstrong.”

The Zozoian

Duane Byers

The Zozoian waited with impatience for the next bus to heave over to the assigned stop at the curb.

      
The monstrous bulk of the bus had extricated itself from the log jammed intersection at the far end of the block. While the Zozoian grew more anxious by the minute, the bus finally rounded the corner. Its snub nose parted the veil of rain; its fat wheels plowed the deep water inundating the rain slicked street. The bug eyed front windows loomed larger in the steady silver gray downpour, its engine thrumming like a motorboat on a choppy lake.

      
The Zozoian had overheard the radio weatherman’s description of the torrential rain as ‘the worst storm in a decade.’ Feverish to seek dry cover as soon as possible, he elbowed his way impatiently through the press of the others waiting in line. He squeezed forward, only to run straight into a portable radio snuggled protectively under a teenager’s muscled arm. The volume-control button received the brunt of the collision, and suddenly the radio weatherman could be heard more loudly than before over the speakers of the boom box.

      
The rough physical contact had aggravated the teen, and he immediately turned down the volume to where it suited him. As soon as he was satisfied, he shoved back viciously at the Zozoian. Having finished the business at hand, the teen turned his back as if the small man did not exist.

      
The Zozoian was ruffled and humiliated. He glared at the back of the impetuous Earthling, but he said nothing.

      
The freak storm perturbed him a great deal more than the hotheaded teen. Rivulets of the poisonous water crawled in serpentine tendrils down his clothes. His wet skin prickled and itched, a danger sign that the water had taxed his immune system to the limit. With increasing dread, he knew there was little time to spare. The bus splashed through the water at a snail’s pace, and then braked with a release of compressed air, blasting it into the Zozoian’s wet face.

      
The accordion door swung open.

      
Assertive passengers started butting into a better place in line in the column. He was jostled to the tail end of the queue. At last, he reached the door and put a leg into the first step.

      
He shivered with his body halfway inside the door, and halfway out. The killing downpour soaked him to the skin, a chill as cold as death.

      
He climbed into the bus and dropped the required coins into the slot. The warmth and dryness made the interior a comparative paradise. He brooded on the odds of his dying in the next few minutes. The seats in back held only a few scant passengers. If he were to die now, he decided that the rear of the bus would be a dignified place where he could die simply.

      
On one side of the aisle near the back, a fat woman twitched and scratched her nose. On the other side, two pretty teenage girls were giggling at some private joke. At the very rear, the Zozoian saw a geezer who was talking loudly to nobody. He chose a seat directly across from the geezer and sat down. He was dying from his exposure to the rain; he no longer doubted it. His hands were as putty and he could barely move them. As his brain turned to mush, his eyes seemed to be as windows against which floodwaters rose.

       “
Buddy,” the geezer spoke in undertone.

      
The Zozoian’s dying thought was the realization that he had another piece of bad luck by drawing the fellow’s attention. Now he probably would not even be able to die in a dignified fashion.

      
The old man continued talking to him. “Buddy, I got news for you.” The geezer pointed toward the front of the bus. “See them two girls?”

      
The Zozoian melted away like butter; the face sunk in like a plastic doll’s in the heart of an incinerator; the shoulders might now belong to an infirm old lady. Then the coat collapsed like an illusionist’s disappearing act.

       “
Those girls are whores,” the old man explained as he reached up and pulled on the stop cord for the bus.

      
The bus pulled over to the curb. The driver braked, and water flowed down the aisle from out of the Zozoian’s lump of clothes and leather shoes.

      
The old man spit words out to no one in particular. “This bus. They let whores on.” He got up from his seat, stepped to the middle door, and had a last wistful look at the girls.

       “
Ninth and Main,” announced the bus driver.

       “
Driver,” the old man said. “Why don’t you do something about the water in the aisle, and be quick about it. It ain’t safe.”

       “
I’ve got a mop on board. I’ll take care of it at the next stop. Have to wait ten minutes there.”

       “
Amen.”

      
The Zozoian’s life force crept through the water toward the geezer. It soaked the battered shoes; wet the bony feet; penetrated the painful knee throbbing with a fresh livid bruise; the hollow belly with the pitiful heartburn, courtesy of an early morning alcoholic beverage; the tender palms and arms considerably thinned with age; the mouth, tasting of stale cigarette tobacco; and the dry parchment cheeks – the body was so infirm. 

      
The middle door fell back. The smell of rain met the old man’s nostrils. He looked wide-awake at the downpour.

       “
So?” the bus driver called. “You gettin’ off here, or what?”

       “
Not my stop! Not my stop!”

      
They lurched ahead. The old man reached for the metal safety pole. He was suddenly beside himself with unreasoning dread. The knuckles with graying hair grasped the stainless steel pole even tighter. An unconscious fear of something he could not identify made him look around for a moment. However, there was only the rain and the damp and the growling of the bus.

      
The Zozoian extinguished the geezer’s soul. Now he could begin to give the body the care it was due.
If only the dice had rolled up something younger this time,
he thought.

      
He decided to go back to the seat and sit down, where he began a habit of talking too much, to nobody at all. Rotund drops pounded the roof harder than ever.

      
The Zozoian brooded aloud. “Damn it to hell. Damn it to hell.”

      
The babbling geezer mumbled away, his voice much wearier and heavier than before. He had only one thing on his mind: the girls were whores.