exhausted.”
“And bloody,” said Turnbull.
“And scared half to death!” Clayborne added.
Turnbull looked at Gill. “I almost shot him.”
“That’s because you’re all geared up to be a minder,” Gill said. “And in a place like this you’re bound to be edgy. I was just seeing a bit clearer than you, that’s all.”
Anderson was still white, his face gleaming with cold sweat in the light of the high-sailing moon. “What was that place, Gill?” he said. “The mist, the howling dog, and then this fellow …”
“Well, it wasn’t Scotland,” said Gill. “Scotland’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I know, but nobody hates it that much!”
“Is that your British sense of humour?” Varre was perplexed. His claustrophobia seemed to have abated a little; paradoxically, to him the night had always made everything seem somehow larger, less enclosed. “How can you find anything funny in these circumstances?”
Turnbull answered him. “See, Spencer here has just had a big lift. Oh, this whole thing is a downer, no denying that, but for him it isn’t so bad. Before this, we had an advantage over him. Just about everybody was better off than Spencer. We were all going to live out our lives in full, but Spencer knew he didn’t have too much time left. What’s happened here is like the Big Equalizer. Now it looks like we’ve all got exactly the same amount of time left. Namely, not a lot.”
“Whatever do you mean, Jack?” Anderson snapped.
“Work it out for yourself,” Turnbull answered.
“He’s talking about little things like food and water,” said Gill. “And about staying alive. He’s talking about our continued existence in an alien environment. Or environments.”
“Environments?” Clayborne repeated him. “Plural?”
Gill shrugged. “It speaks for itself, doesn’t it? What’s the sense of all these doors if they all lead to the same place? But as far as I’m concerned that’s not a bad thing. I mean wherever this bloke came from, it’s no kind of place for me!”
“He has a lot of bruises,” said Angela. “He’s thin, too. Starved, I’d say. But his cuts are fairly superficial. The blood is mainly dry on him. He looks worse than he is. I’d say he’s been on the run, long and hard.” What she didn’t say was that she knew how the unknown man must feel. Something of it, anyway. She’d been on the run, too.
And that was when the battered stranger woke up.
He opened his eyes and by moon and starlight looked up at them, and they down on him. Then he gave a choking cry and hugged to Angela for dear life. He clutched at her as if she were the sole source of sanity, light, a rope dangling from a sheer cliff. His cliff. “Back!” he finally croaked, his voice high-pitched and yet cracked. “God, I’ve come back! I’m really … back?” But a note of doubt had entered his voice, and the life had seemed suddenly to go out of his eyes as they fastened on the alien moon.
“No,” he said then, the word strangled in his throat, bitter with disappointment. “No, I’m not back … .” He struggled free of Angela’s embrace, pushed to his feet and tottered there. And now the group could see him more clearly. Colours were difficult in the yellow moonlight, but a general description was possible:
He was small, no more than five-seven. Youngish, he’d be maybe twenty-six or -seven, and there wasn’t a lot of flesh on him. His copper hair, once crewcut, had gone a little wild; he had small, piggy eyes, gangling arms, puffy, petulant lips and a weak chin. His clothes were hard to make out. The wide lapels and padded shoulders of his tattered jacket might be considered smart in certain circles; likewise his stylishly baggy trousers; but his appearance generally, allowing for the damage, seemed somehow false. In pristine condition he and his gear might look just a shade too flash. In any case and whatever he’d been before, now he looked like he’d just come through a
“And bloody,” said Turnbull.
“And scared half to death!” Clayborne added.
Turnbull looked at Gill. “I almost shot him.”
“That’s because you’re all geared up to be a minder,” Gill said. “And in a place like this you’re bound to be edgy. I was just seeing a bit clearer than you, that’s all.”
Anderson was still white, his face gleaming with cold sweat in the light of the high-sailing moon. “What was that place, Gill?” he said. “The mist, the howling dog, and then this fellow …”
“Well, it wasn’t Scotland,” said Gill. “Scotland’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I know, but nobody hates it that much!”
“Is that your British sense of humour?” Varre was perplexed. His claustrophobia seemed to have abated a little; paradoxically, to him the night had always made everything seem somehow larger, less enclosed. “How can you find anything funny in these circumstances?”
Turnbull answered him. “See, Spencer here has just had a big lift. Oh, this whole thing is a downer, no denying that, but for him it isn’t so bad. Before this, we had an advantage over him. Just about everybody was better off than Spencer. We were all going to live out our lives in full, but Spencer knew he didn’t have too much time left. What’s happened here is like the Big Equalizer. Now it looks like we’ve all got exactly the same amount of time left. Namely, not a lot.”
“Whatever do you mean, Jack?” Anderson snapped.
“Work it out for yourself,” Turnbull answered.
“He’s talking about little things like food and water,” said Gill. “And about staying alive. He’s talking about our continued existence in an alien environment. Or environments.”
“Environments?” Clayborne repeated him. “Plural?”
Gill shrugged. “It speaks for itself, doesn’t it? What’s the sense of all these doors if they all lead to the same place? But as far as I’m concerned that’s not a bad thing. I mean wherever this bloke came from, it’s no kind of place for me!”
“He has a lot of bruises,” said Angela. “He’s thin, too. Starved, I’d say. But his cuts are fairly superficial. The blood is mainly dry on him. He looks worse than he is. I’d say he’s been on the run, long and hard.” What she didn’t say was that she knew how the unknown man must feel. Something of it, anyway. She’d been on the run, too.
And that was when the battered stranger woke up.
He opened his eyes and by moon and starlight looked up at them, and they down on him. Then he gave a choking cry and hugged to Angela for dear life. He clutched at her as if she were the sole source of sanity, light, a rope dangling from a sheer cliff. His cliff. “Back!” he finally croaked, his voice high-pitched and yet cracked. “God, I’ve come back! I’m really … back?” But a note of doubt had entered his voice, and the life had seemed suddenly to go out of his eyes as they fastened on the alien moon.
“No,” he said then, the word strangled in his throat, bitter with disappointment. “No, I’m not back … .” He struggled free of Angela’s embrace, pushed to his feet and tottered there. And now the group could see him more clearly. Colours were difficult in the yellow moonlight, but a general description was possible:
He was small, no more than five-seven. Youngish, he’d be maybe twenty-six or -seven, and there wasn’t a lot of flesh on him. His copper hair, once crewcut, had gone a little wild; he had small, piggy eyes, gangling arms, puffy, petulant lips and a weak chin. His clothes were hard to make out. The wide lapels and padded shoulders of his tattered jacket might be considered smart in certain circles; likewise his stylishly baggy trousers; but his appearance generally, allowing for the damage, seemed somehow false. In pristine condition he and his gear might look just a shade too flash. In any case and whatever he’d been before, now he looked like he’d just come through a
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