The Chromosomal Code, page 2
Where to go from there was not quite so simple to determine. The snow was deep enough to tunnel in, but that would be incredibly slow, and the tunnels would fall in fairly quickly if the temperature remained above freezing; therefore, he couldn't go under the snow. He had no way of going above it, other than walking through it leaving tracks. But, although he could scarcely go around all the snow – over the years it had gotten just about everywhere – he could go around the open area where his footprints would stand out. He could crawl along under the pine trees. The snow-laden branches would hide him, and, though he would be leaving a trail, it would not be easy to spot.
There were pine trees bordering three sides of the parking lot, and more around the edges of the golf course; he wasn't sure if these had been intended to discourage stray balls or to keep such plebian objects as the back of a supermarket out of sight of the golfers. It didn't matter much what their original purpose had been; small and storm-battered as most of them were, they would still provide satisfactory cover.
He glanced back up over the roof and saw nothing but snow; he paused and listened, but heard nothing save the sound of his own body settling into the snow. That was hardly decisive evidence of anything, but he guessed that he had a few moments at least before anyone came close enough to notice him.
That decided, he slid back down the drift and reentered the store. His cola stood on the checkout where he had left it; he bolted the rest of it. There were still a few candy bars beside the cash register; he snatched up a handful and stuffed them in his pockets. Thus provisioned, and unable to think of anything else he would need that wouldn't weigh him down unnecessarily, he stalked carefully out and marched back up the drift once again.
When he was on the roof he paused, debating whether he should head for the pines immediately or take the time for another look at the ship. Curiosity won out over caution; he crawled up the snowbank and peered over the top.
The ship sat there, the color of raw steel, harsh and gray against the pristine white of the snow. He could still see no sign of a hatch anywhere, but half a dozen figures had emerged somehow and were milling about in the open space around the ship's bow, where the fourth green had once been. They gave every appearance of being human; they were upright bipeds of not more than two meters in height, each with two arms and a head. He could not distinguish much detail over the intervening distance, but they looked very ordinary, wearing matching blue coats and dark pants, as best he could tell.
He felt a certain disappointment that there were no tentacled horrors or twelve-legged lizards anywhere to be seen. Though it might still be conceivable that the thing was a starship, he no longer believed it to be one.
He continued to stare, watching especially closely when the newcomers moved out of the huge vessel's shadow. They were certainly human, and in fact they all appeared to be white male adults of similar build.
Such homogeneity depressed him slightly; he had had idealistic hopes that the great upheavals of the southward exodus might have uprooted old patterns of behavior, and that the survivors might have abandoned their old prejudices. It appeared they had not. He wondered whether there was a single woman, black, or Oriental aboard the entire ship. There had been a flurry of neofascist propaganda during the final chaotic period before everything fell apart completely and the area was abandoned; the apparent popularity of the pronouncements on racial purity and culling of the unfit had been a major influence on his own decision to stay where he was. Had such theories been carried beyond the propaganda stage? Perhaps there were no blacks or Orientals left; the northern whites might have driven them out of their own lands.
That, he decided, was unreasonably pessimistic. The fact that the men he could see all happened to be white might just be coincidental. Or perhaps some sort of discrimination was practiced; there was no need to assume genocide.
Perhaps whoever had sent the ship was afraid that neofascists still lingered in the wastes, ready to shoot any nonwhite they might see.
Perhaps there had been a struggle and the blacks or Orientals had won, and these whites were being exiled. The similarity in their attire he had at first thought to be military or paramilitary in appearance, but it might as easily be prison uniform.
He saw no sign of guards, however, and the men were behaving more like soldiers than prisoners, moving casually and looking about themselves. He told himself that it would be foolish to make any assumptions about their status until he had more information. Guesswork would get him nowhere.
The newcomers were gathering together now, forming a tight little knot. They appeared to be talking; he saw gestures, but could hear only faint and garbled traces that did not come anywhere close to being intelligible.
Something appeared to have been settled; they turned toward him and started making their way along the fairway in his direction, floundering awkwardly through the deep snow. His first thought was that this was an ideal opportunity for a closer look at them; he need merely remain out of their sight. Then a vague memory stirred; weren't there such things as infrared trackers that could home in on a person's body heat even over so great a distance? Hadn't he once heard of sound detectors that could pick up a human heartbeat a kilometer away? It could, of course, be coincidence that the group was heading in his direction – but he usually believed in the old adage, “Better safe than sorry.” It was time to leave the roof. If the advancing party of men changed direction to follow him, it was time to leave the area as quickly as he could.
He had no proof that they were after him, or that they thought anyone might still be alive out here; they might merely be interested in the old market. Or perhaps they had seen his trail from the air and wanted to investigate, not knowing whether he was still in the vicinity or not. They might be honestly friendly; he saw no rifles or other recognizable weapons in evidence. Three of the six did carry various pieces of equipment, none of which he could identify, and other gadgets were hung on belts. One man held a boxy contraption out before him and glanced at it every so often.
That box might be a tracking device or something else entirely; Starkman had no way of knowing.
Cautiously, he pushed himself back down toward the edge of the roof, behind the top of the drift he had been peering over. Once he was reasonably sure he was out of sight, he shifted into a crouch and hurried to the corner of the building. From there he inched his way along the side, watching carefully. He was more than halfway to the rear edge of the roof before he could see the advancing strangers; the heaped snow screened him perfectly.
If he were to avoid leaving a trail of footprints he had to go from the roof directly to the cover of the pines; the only trees directly adjoining the building were along the back, the side nearest the strangers. He had to risk being spotted while crossing the intervening distance.
When he glimpsed them over the snow he dropped flat and began crawling, moving as quickly as he could. By the time he reached the rear edge he could see the newcomers even while prone; he hoped they would not notice him.
There was a fairly tall pine close to the corner he was approaching; in a quick dash he ducked behind it. He waited, listening, but heard nothing except a desultory mutter of unintelligible conversation and the shuffling of boots through wet snow. Carefully, still listening, he turned and lowered himself down over the edge of the roof. After a moment's hesitation he let himself drop.
There was a branch in his way, hidden by the snow; it snapped loudly as it broke beneath his weight. He landed on his back atop the branch and a pile of snow, his breath jarred out of him. More snow pattered onto his chest from the remaining tree limbs. He lay utterly still even when his breathing managed to restore itself.
The faint crunching of footsteps ceased and the voices became quicker, louder and more excited, but still incomprehensible. He guessed from the sound that the party was about fifty meters away.
Much sooner than he had expected someone called loudly, “Hello! Where are you?” These people, whoever they were, reached decisions quickly; they had taken only a very few seconds to debate before calling out. They might be following a standard course of action, or one might be sufficiently authoritative or reckless to take the matter into his own hands, but Starkman was quite sure that had roles been reversed he would not have called out like that, with no idea of whom they faced, nor even of how many.
But then, he realized, if their instrumentation were good enough, they might already know that they faced a lone unarmed man.
In any case, they were apparently trying to seem friendly. Still, he had no intention of simply walking out into the open. It could be that they were fearless due to absolute confidence in their superiority, rather than because they were actually friendly. He lay still.
“Listen, we mean you no harm! We're here to take you back south with us!”
The strangers spoke English, and with an American accent – or at any rate the two he had heard so far did. They, or their parents, were presumably his former countrymen.
There was still plenty of room for speculation. Were they being exiled after defeat at the hands of native southerners, or had they taken over somewhere and set up a new United States? Were they telling the truth? If so, why did they want to take him south? Was it simple humanitarianism, or were they planning to reoccupy the country and seeking whatever information he might provide about current conditions?
He wondered if he were being unreasonably suspicious. Perhaps he was becoming a trifle paranoid after living so long alone. After all, these men were obviously civilized, and were more or less his own kind.
There was the catch; he was more or less, but not exactly, like them. Many of the reasons he had had for not going south in the first rush, fifteen years ago, or in any of the later parties, still applied. He had no way of knowing what conditions were in the southern lands, who was in charge, how things were run. The fact that the entire group was white and male was not an encouraging sign. Even if the neofascists weren't in power, even if the ruling elite, whatever it might be, was willing to tolerate him, he did not want to go through life merely being tolerated. If there was a truly free and pluralistic society, one that would accept him, he might be better off going, but until he had some assurance that that was what awaited, he preferred to stay where he was. He fished his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on, being careful not to disturb the snow and risk another fall, and trying not to rustle his coat too much. With the glasses securely in place he twisted around, still attempting as much stealth as he could, and looked out toward the strangers.
They were all looking almost exactly in his direction; the one with the box was holding it out toward him, it seemed. They were perhaps fifty meters away.
Starkman rolled over and began crawling away from the supermarket, staying out of sight beneath the pines. Five of the men kept on as they had, but the one with the box suddenly stopped and called, “Hey, don't go away!”
They were tracking him. That had become obvious. He stopped, wishing he had a weapon, and tried to think what he could do.
“Hello! Are you there?” one of them called.
He slid down behind a thick clump of branches and the concealing pile of snow it supported.
“Come on out!” a new voice shouted.
“Do you see him anywhere?” They were close enough for him to hear their conversation as well as their cries.
“What if it's a girl?”
“It doesn't matter, does it?”
“No, but you said 'him.'“
“So what? You think you're smart, don't you?”
Starkman listened, and was suddenly confused. Was his memory playing tricks on him? These people sounded more like a bunch of kids playing hide-and-seek than an adult search party; was that accurate, or was he misremembering the way people spoke? He had heard no voice but his own in so very long that he could not be completely certain. Perhaps he was confusing ordinary conversation with the stilted dialogue in his books.
The man with the box pointed at him and announced, “He's right there.”
“I see him! I see him!” another one shouted.
For a brief moment, Starkman considered flight. He was more accustomed to snow than these men were, that was obvious. However, it was also obvious that they could track him; even if he were to escape temporarily they could hunt him down at their leisure. Furthermore, his chances of escaping even temporarily were not really very good; he was entangled in the pines, for one thing. If he emerged from the trees on their side he didn't have a chance, one against six; if he moved along the row of trees they could easily pace him in the clear and catch him when he emerged. If he were to make a break back out across the parking lot he might have a chance, as they would be delayed by the pines – but it wasn't a very good chance, and if they were armed they might just decide to shoot him in the back if he ran.
Reluctantly, he raised his hands above his head and stood up, pushing his way out through the snowy branches. He looked over his captors from behind his mirrored glasses.
They were not aliens. Quite aside from their human features, they wore perfectly ordinary fleece-lined coats, blue, with heavy steel zippers and drawstring hoods. The hoods hid their hair, and Starkman wondered idly how long they wore it; his own hadn't been cut in years, and was washed only rarely since heating water was such a nuisance, so that it reached halfway down his back in greasy, uncombed strands. The blue coats bore no insignia, and were not overtly military in style, but they did all match – as did the blue leggings and black boots each wore.
All six appeared to be young men, in their early to middle twenties, and all wore full beards, rough and untrimmed. That seemed slightly odd; even if beards were the current fashion, he would have expected at least one of the six to take the trouble to maintain a neat appearance by keeping his trimmed. It was curious that all six were slobs.
The colors of their beards varied, which comforted him somewhat; during the chaotic period at least one radical faction had advocated the elimination of people with black hair or other signs of impure heritage. Two of the six he now faced had thick black beards – but all had pale white skin.
All were in fact pale to the point of being pasty and unhealthy in appearance; Starkman wondered how they managed it. Were even the southern lands so cold and sunless that no one was tanned?
There was something slightly peculiar about their eyes, as well; Starkman wasn't sure what it was, but they were somehow not quite right. After a second's thought he dismissed it as either his imagination, or faulty memory from having lived so long without seeing any eyes but his own, or a subtle sign that these people were drugged. The last possibility, he realized, might account for the slightly bizarre behavior they had displayed.
“Hi,” one of the men said. “We're here to take you to Brazil.”
“You can put your hands down,” another added helpfully. “We're not armed.”
“You're not supposed to tell him that!” snapped the one who had spoken first.
These people, Starkman told himself, were acting like half-wits; it was not just faulty memory on his part. Either they were really as stupid and childish as they appeared, in which case it seemed incredible that they could be in command of a craft such as the one that had brought them, or they were playing dumb to lure him into over confidence.
“You're from Brazil?” he asked.
“Naw,” replied the one who had suggested he lower his hands. “That's just where we set up our headquarters here on Earth. Actually, we're from the Galactic Empire.”
Chapter Two
Starkman said nothing for a long moment as he considered the stranger's claim. Cautiously, he allowed his hands to drop to his sides.
These people were ordinary human beings. It was utterly impossible for him to accept them as extraterrestrials. Therefore, either he was finally going insane from his long isolation – perhaps this entire episode was an elaborate hallucination – or he was dealing with a bunch of lunatics.
Or, just possibly, these men were perpetrating some complex hoax; he could imagine no reason for them to do so, but he had to admit it was a possibility.
“You're from the Galactic Empire?” he asked at last.
“Yeah.” It was the one who had first mentioned Brazil who replied; he seemed to be more or less the group's spokesman.
“Sort of,” added one with a blond beard.
“Sort of?”
“It's kind of complicated; don't worry about it. Is there anyone else around here? We're supposed to take everyone we can find back to Brazil with us; that's why we're here.”
Hesitantly, Starkman asked, “Who are you guys?”
“I'm Joey,” answered the black-bearded spokesman. “That's Bobby, and Jim, and Jason, and Bill, and Mike. We're the search party.”
“The search party from the Galactic Empire.”
“Yeah, well, one of them, anyway. Who're you?”
“My name's John Starkman.” There could be no harm in telling the truth.
“Pleased to meet you, Johnny.” Joey stuck out a hand; reluctantly, Starkman shook it. “Is there anyone else around here? We're supposed to get everybody we can find. We saw the tracks in the snow over there, so we landed, but we didn't see anyone but you with the scopes.”
After a second's hesitation, he admitted, “I'm alone; there hasn't been anyone else around here for years.”
“Maybe he's lying,” said Jim, the blond who had spoken before.
“Why would he do that?” asked Bobby.
“To confuse us; maybe he thinks we're bad guys, and he's trying to protect his friends.”
“Aw, that's silly. You're just a worry-wart,” replied Jason, the one who had told him to lower his hands.
“I didn't see anyone else with the scope,” Joey said.
“Try again,” Bobby suggested.
Joey shrugged, and fiddled with the box he held. “There's just us,” he reported.
