The Big Front Yard and Other Stories (20 page)

He fought for a grip on himself. It was fear such as this that drove men mad in space. He'd read about that, heard about it. Fear of the loneliness and the terrible depths of space … fear of the indifference of endless miles of void, fear of the unknown that always lurked just at elbow distance.

“Meek,” he told himself, “you should have stayed at home.”

Dawn came shortly, but no such dawn as one would see on Earth. Just a gradual dimming of the stars, a gradual lifting of the blacker darkness as a larger star, the Sun, swung above the peaks.

The stars still shone, but a gray light filtered over the landscape, made the mountains solid things instead of ghostly shapes.

Jagged peaks loomed on one side of the plateau, fearsome depths on the other. A meteor thudded somewhere to his right and Meek shuddered. There was no sound of the impact but he could feel the vibrations of the blow as the whizzing mass struck the cliffs.

But it was foolish to be afraid of meteors, he told himself. He had greater and more immediate worries.

There were less than eight hours of air left in the tanks of his space suit. He had no idea where he was, although he knew that many miles of rugged, fearsome country stretched between him and Asteroid City.

The space suit carried no food and no water, but that was of minor moment, he realized, for his air would give out long before he felt the pangs of thirst or hunger.

He sat down on a massive boulder and tried to think. There wasn't much to think about. Everywhere his thoughts met black walls. The situation, he told himself, was hopeless.

If only he hadn't come to Asteroid City in the first place! Or having come, if he had only minded his business, this never would have happened. If he hadn't been so anxious to show off what he knew about card dealing tricks. If only he hadn't agreed to be sworn in as marshal. If he'd swallowed his pride and left when Hoffman told him to.

He brushed away such thoughts as futile, took stock of his surroundings.

The cliff on the right hand side was undercut, overhanging several hundred feet of level ground.

Ponderously, he heaved himself off the boulder, wandered aimlessly up the wider tongue of plateau. The undercut, he saw, grew deeper, forming a deep cleft, as if someone had furrowed out the mountain side. Heavy shadows clung within it.

Suddenly he stopped, riveted to the ground, scarcely daring to breathe.

Something was moving in the deep shadow of the undercut. Something that seemed to glint faintly with reflected light.

The thing lurched forward and, in the fleeting instant before he turned and ran, Oliver Meek had an impression of a barrel-like body, a long neck, a cruel mouth, monstrous eyes that glowed with hidden fires.

There was no speculation in Oliver Meek's mind. From the description given him by Stiffy, from the very terror of the thing, he knew the being shambling toward him was the Asteroid Prowler.

With a shriek of pure fear, Meek turned and fled and behind him came the Prowler, its head swaying on the end of its whip-like neck.

Meek's legs worked like pistons, his breath gasping in his throat, his body soaring through space as he covered long distances at each leap under the influence of lesser gravity.

Thunderous blasts hammered at the earphones in his helmet and as he ran he craned his head skyward.

Shooting down toward the plateau, forward rockets braking, was a small spaceship!

Hope rose within him and he glanced back over his shoulder. Hope died instantly. The Prowler was gaining on him, gaining fast.

Suddenly his legs gave out. Simply folded up, worn out with the punishment they had taken. He threw up his arms to shield his helmet plate and sobbed in panic.

The Asteroid Prowler would get him now. Sure as shooting. Just at the minute rescue came, the Prowler would get him.

But the Prowler didn't get him. Nothing happened at all. Surprised, he sat up and spun around, crouching.

The ship had landed, almost at the edge of the plateau and a man was tumbling out of the port. The Prowler had changed his course, was galloping toward the ship.

The man from the ship ran in leaping bounds, a pistol in one gloved hand, and his yelp of terror rang in Meek's earphones.

“Run, dang you. Run! That dad-blamed Prowler will be after us any minute now.”

“Stiffy,” yelled Meek. “Stiffy, you came out to get me.”

Stiffy landed beside him, hauled him to his feet.

“Dang right I came to get you,” he panted. “I thought them hoodlums would be up to some dirty tricks, so I stuck around and watched.”

He jerked at Meek's arm.

“Come on, Oliver, we got to get along.”

But Meek jerked his arm away.

“Look what he's doing!” he shouted. “Just look at him!”

The Prowler seemed to be bent on systematic destruction of the space ship. His jaws were ripping at the steel plating … Ripping at it and tearing it away, peeling it off the frame as one might peel an orange.

“Hey,” howled Stiffy. “You can't do that. Get out of there, you danged …”

The Prowler turned to look at them, a heavy power cable in its mouth.

“You'll be electrocuted,” yelped Stiffy. “Danged if it won't serve you right.”

But, far from being electrocuted, the Prowler seemed to be enjoying himself. He sucked at the power cable and his eyes glowed blissfully.

Stiffy flourished his pistol.

“Get away,” he yelled. “Get away or I'll blister your danged hide.”

Almost playfully the Prowler minced away from the ship, feet dancing.

“He did it!” said Meek.

“Did what?” Stiffy scowled bewilderedly.

“Got away from that ship, just like you told him to.”

Stiffy snorted. “Don't even kid yourself he did it because I told him to. He couldn't even hear me, probably. Living out here like this, he wouldn't have anything to hear with. Probably he's just trying to decide which one of us he'll catch first. Better be ready to kick you up some dust.”

The Prowler trotted toward them, head bobbing up and down.

“Get going,” Stiffy yelled at Meek and brought up his pistol. A blue shaft of light whipped out, smacked the Prowler in the head, but the Prowler didn't even falter in his stride. The energy charge seemed to have no power at all. It didn't even spatter … it looked as if the blue pencil of raging death was boring straight into the spread of forehead between the monstrous eyes.

“Run, you danged fool,” Stiffy screeched at Meek. “I can't hold him off.”

But Meek didn't run … instead he sprang straight into the Prowler's path, arm upraised.

“Stop!” he yelled.

III

The Prowler skidded to a stop, his metal hooves leaving scratches on the solid rock.

For a moment the three of them stood stock still, Stiffy's jaw hanging in astonishment.

Meek reached out a hand and patted the Prowler's massive shoulder.

“Good boy,” he said. “Good boy.”

“Come away from there!” Stiffy yelled in sudden terror. “Just one good gulp and that guy would have you.”

“Ah, shucks,” said Meek, “he won't hurt anybody. He's only hungry, that's all.”

“That,” declared Stiffy, “is just what I'm afraid of.”

“You don't understand,” insisted Meek. “He isn't hungry for us. He's starved for energy. Give him another shot from the gun.”

Stiffy stared at the gun hanging in his hand.

“You're sure it wouldn't make him sore?” he asked.

“Gosh, no,” said Meek. “That's what he wants. He soaks it up. Didn't you notice how the beam went right into him without spattering or anything. And the way he sucked that power cable. He drained your ship of every drop of energy it had.”

“He did what?” yelped Stiffy.

“He drained the ship of energy. That's what he lives on. That's why he chased you. He wanted you to keep on shooting.”

Stiffy clapped a hand to his forehead.

“We're sunk for certain, now,” he declared. “There might have been a chance to get back with just a few plates ripped off the ship. But with all the energy gone …”

“Hey, Stiffy,” yelled Meek, “take a look at this.”

Stiffy moved nearer, cautiously.

“What you got now?” he demanded irritably.

“These marks on his shoulder,” said Meek. His gloved finger shook excitedly as he pointed. “They're the same kind of marks as were on those stones I read about in the book. Marks no one could read. Fellow who wrote the book figured they were made by some other race that had visited Juno. Maybe a race from outside the Solar System, even.”

“Good gravy,” said Stiffy, in awe, “you don't think …”

“Sure, I do,” Meek declared with the air of a man who is sure of his knowledge. “A race came here one time and they had the Prowler along. For some reason they left him. Maybe he was just a robot and they didn't have room for him, or maybe something happened to them …”

“Say,” said Stiffy, “I bet you that's just what he is. A robot. Attuned to thought waves. That's why he minds you.”

“That's what I figured,” Meek agreed. “Thought waves would be the same, no matter who thought them … human being or a … well … or something else.”

A sudden thought struck Stiffy. “Maybe them guys found the Lost Mine! By cracky, that would be something, wouldn't it? Maybe this critter could lead us to it.”

“Maybe?” Meek said doubtfully.

Meek patted the Prowler's rocky shoulder gently, filled with wonder. In some unguessed time, in some unknown sector of space, the Prowler had been fashioned by an alien people. For some reason they had made him, for some reason they had left him here. Abandonment or purpose?

Meek shook his head. That would be something to puzzle over later, something to roll around in his brain on some monotonous flight into the maw of space.

Space! Startled at the thought clanging on his brain he jerked a quick glance upward, saw the bleak stars staring at him. Eyes that seemed to be laughing at him, cruel, ironic laughter.

“Stiffy,” he whispered. “Stiffy, I just thought of something.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

Stark terror walked in Meek's words. “My oxygen tank is better than half gone. And the ship is wrecked. …”

“Cripes,” said Stiffy, “I guess we just forgot. We sure are behind the eight ball. Somehow we got to get back to Asteroid City. And we got to get there quick.”

Meek's eyes brightened. “Stiffy, maybe … Maybe we could ride the Prowler.”

Stiffy backed away. But Meek reached out and grasped his arm. “Come on. It's the only way, Stiffy. We have to get there and the Prowler can take us.”

“But … but … but …” Stiffy stammered.

“Give me a leg up,” Meek ordered.

Stiffy complied and Meek leaped astride the broad metal back, reached down and hauled Stiffy aboard.

“Get going, you flea-bitten nag!” Meek yipped, in sudden elation.

There was reason for elation. Not until that moment had he stopped to consider the Prowler might object to being ridden. Might consider it an insult.

The Prowler apparently was astonished, but that was all. He shook his head in bewilderment and weaved his neck around as if he wasn't quite sure just what to do. But at least he hadn't started to take the place apart.

“Giddap!” yelled Stiffy, bringing the butt of his pistol down.

The Prowler jigged a little, then gathered himself together and started. The landscape blurred with speed as he leaped a mighty boulder, skipped along a narrow ledge around a slick-faced mountain, skidded a hairpin turn.

Meek and Stiffy fought desperately to hang on. The metal back was slick and broad and there weren't any handholds. They bounced and thumped, almost fell off a dozen times.

“Stiffy,” yelled Meek, “how do we know he's taking us to Asteroid City?”

“Don't fret about that,” said Stiffy. “He knows where we want to go. He read our minds.”

“I hope so,” Meek said, prayerfully.

The Prowler whished around a right angle turn on a narrow ledge and the distant peaks wheeled sickeningly against the sky.

Meek lay flat on his belly and hugged the Prowler's sides. The mountains whistled past. He stole a look at the jagged peaks on the near horizon and they looked like a tight board fence.

Oliver Meek fought manfully to get back his composure as the Prowled pranced down the main street of Asteroid City.

The sidewalks were lined with hundreds of staring faces, faces that dropped in astonishment and disbelief.

Stiffy was yelling at someone. “Now, doggone you, will you believe there is a Prowler?”

And the man he yelled at didn't have a word to say, just stood and stared.

In the swarm of faces, Meek saw those of the Reverend Harold Brown and Andrew Smith and, almost as if in a dream, he waved jauntily to them. At least, he hoped the wave was jaunty. Wouldn't do to let them know his knees were too weak to hold him up.

Smith waved back and shouted something, but the Reverend Brown's jaw hung open and he seemed too wonder-struck to move.

This, thought Meek, is the kind of thing you read about. The conquering hero coming home astride his mighty charger. Only the conquering hero, he remembered with a sudden twinge, usually was a young lad who sat straight in the saddle instead of an old man with shoulders hunched from thirty years of poring over dusty ledgers.

A man was stepping out into the street, a man who carried a gun in hand and suddenly Meek realized they were abreast of the Silver Moon.

The armed man was Blacky Hoffman.

Here, thought Meek, is where I get it. This is what I get for playing the big shot … for being a smart alec, for remembering how cards shouldn't be dealt and for shooting a man's gun out of his hand and letting myself be talked into being a marshal.

But he sat stiff and as straight as he could on the Prowler and kept his eyes on Hoffman. That was the only way to do. That was the way all the heroes did in the stories he had read. And doggone, he was a hero. Whether he liked it or not, he was one.