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Quietus

Ross Rocklynne

The creatures from Alcon saw from the first that Earth, as a planet, was practically dead; dead in the

sense that it had given birth to life, and was responsible, indirectly, for its almost complete extinction.

"This type of planet is the most distressing," said Tark, absently smoothing down the brilliantly

colored feathers of his left wing. "I can stand the dark, barren worlds which never have, and probably

never will, hold life. But these that have been killed by some celestial catastrophe! Think of what great

things might have come from their inhabitants."

As he spoke thus to his mate, Vascar, he was marking down in a book the position of this planet, its

general appearance from space, and the number and kind of satellites it supported.

Vascar, sitting at the controls, both her claws and her vestigial hands at work, guided the spherical

ship at slowly decreasing speed toward the planet Earth. A thousand miles above it, she set the craft into

an orbital motion, and then proceeded to study the planet, Tark setting the account into his book, for

later insertion into the Astronomical Archives of Alcon.

"Evidently," mused Vascar, her brilliant, unblinking eyes looking at the planet through a transparent

section above the control board, "some large meteor, or an errant asteroid—that seems most

likely—must have struck this specimen a terrible blow. Look at those great, gaping cracks that run from

pole to pole, Tark. It looks as if volcanic eruptions are still taking place, too. At any rate, the whole

planet seems entirely denuded—except for that single, short strip of green we saw as we came in."

Tark nodded. He was truly a bird, for in the evolutionary race on his planet, distant uncounted

light-years away, his stock had won out over the others. His wings were short, true, and in another

thousand years would be too short for flight, save in a dense atmosphere; but his head was large, and his

eyes, red, small, set close together, showed intelligence and a kind benevolence. He and Vascar had left

Alcon, their planet, a good many years ago; but they were on their way back now. Their outward-bound

trip had taken them many light-years north of the Solar System; but on the way back, they had decided

to make it one of the stop-off points in their zigzag course. Probably their greatest interest in all this long

cruise was in the discovery of planets—they were indeed few. And that pleasure might even be

secondary to the discovery of life. To find a planet that had almost entirely died was, conversely,

distressing. Their interest in the planet Earth was, because of this, a wistful one.

The ship made the slow circuit of Earth—the planet was a hodge-podge of tumbled, churned

mountains; of abysmal, frightfully long cracks exuding unholy vapors; of volcanoes that threw their fires

and hot liquid rocks far into the sky; of vast oceans disturbed from the ocean bed by cataclysmic

eruptions. And of life they saw nothing save a single strip of green perhaps a thousand miles long, a

hundred wide, in the Western Hemisphere.

"I don't think we'll find intelligent life," Tark said pessimistically. "This planet was given a terrific

blow—I wouldn't be surprised if her rotation period was cut down considerably in a single instant. Such

a charge would be unsupportable. Whole cities would literally be snapped away from their

foundations—churned, ground to dust. The intelligent creatures who built them would die by the

millions—the billions—in that holocaust; and whatever destruction was left incomplete would be finished

up by the appearance of volcanoes and faults in the crust of the planet."

Vascar reminded him, "Remember, where there's vegetation, even as little as evidenced by that single

strip down there, there must be some kind of animal life."

Tark ruffled his wings in a shrug. "I doubt it. The plants would get all the carbon dioxide they needed

from volcanoes—animal life wouldn't have to exist. Still, let's take a look. Don't worry, I'm hoping there's

intelligent life, too. If there is, it will doubtless need some help if it is to survive. Which ties in with our

aims, for that is our principal purpose on this expedition—to discover intelligent life, and, wherever

possible, to give it what help we can, if it needs help."

Vascar's vestigial hands worked the controls, and the ship dropped leisurely downward toward the

green strip.

* * *

A rabbit darted out of the underbrush—Tommy leaped at it with the speed and dexterity of a

thoroughly wild animal. His powerful hands wrapped around the creature—its struggles ceased as its

vertebra was snapped. Tommy squatted, tore the skin off the creature, and proceeded to eat great

mouthfuls of the still warm flesh.

Blacky cawed harshly, squawked, and his untidy form came flashing down through the air to land

precariously on Tommy's shoulder. Tommy went on eating, while the crow fluttered its wings, smoothed

them out, and settled down to a restless somnolence. The quiet of the scrub forest, save for the cries and

sounds of movement of birds and small animals moving through the forest, settled down about Tommy as

he ate. "Tommy" was what he called himself. A long time ago, he remembered, there used to be a great

many people in the world—perhaps a hundred—many of whom, and particularly two people whom he

had called Mom and Pop, had called him by that name. They were gone now, and the others with them.

Exactly where they went, Tommy did not know. But the world had rocked one night—it was the night

Tommy ran away from home, with Blacky riding on his shoulder—and when Tommy came out of the

cave where he had been sleeping, all was in flames, and the city on the horizon had fallen so that it was

nothing but a huge pile of dust—but in the end it had not mattered to Tommy. Of course, he was

lonesome, terrified, at first, but he got over that. He continued to live, eating, drinking, sleeping, walking

endlessly; and Blacky, his talking crow, was good company. Blacky was smart. He could speak every

word that Tommy knew, and a good many others that he didn't. Tommy was not Blacky's first owner.

But though he had been happy, the last year had brought the recurrence of a strange feeling that had

plagued him off and on, but never so strongly as now. A strange, terrible hunger was settling on him.

Hunger? He knew this sensation. He had forthwith slain a wild dog, and eaten of the meat. He saw then

that it was not a hunger of the belly. It was a hunger of the mind, and it was all the worse because he

could not know what it was. He had come to his feet, restless, looking into the tangled depths of the

second growth forest.

"Hungry," he had said, and his shoulders shook and tears coursed out of his eyes, and he sat down

on the ground and sobbed without trying to stop himself, for he had never been told that to weep was

unmanly. What was it he wanted?

He had everything there was all to himself. Southward in winter, northward in summer, eating of

berries and small animals as he went, and Blacky to talk to and Blacky to talk the same words back at

him. This was the natural life—he had lived it ever since the world went bang. But still he cried, and felt a

panic growing in his stomach, and he didn't know what it was he was afraid of, or longed for, whichever

it was. He was twenty-one years old. Tears were natural to him, to be indulged in whenever he felt like it.

Before the world went bang—there were some things he remembered—the creature whom he called

Mom generally put her arms around him and merely said, "It's all right, Tommy, it's all right."

So on that occasion, he arose from the ground and said, "It's all right, Tommy, it's all right."

Blacky, he with the split tongue, said harshly, as was his wont, "It's all right, Tommy, it's all right! I tell

you, the price of wheat is going down!"

Blacky, the smartest crow anybody had—why did he say that? There wasn't anybody else, and there

weren't any more crows—helped a lot. He not only knew all the words and sentences that Tommy

knew, but he knew others that Tommy could never understand because he didn't know where they came

from, or what they referred to. And in addition to all that, Blacky had the ability to anticipate what

Tommy said, and frequently took whole words and sentences right out of Tommy's mouth.

* * *

Tommy finished eating the rabbit, and threw the skin aside, and sat quite still, a peculiarly blank look

in his eyes. The strange hunger was on him again. He looked off across the lush plain of grasses that

stretched away, searching into the distance, toward where the Sun was setting. He looked to left and

right. He drew himself softly to his feet, and peered into the shadows of the forest behind him. His heavily

bearded lips began to tremble, and the tears started from his eyes again. He turned and stumbled from

the forest, blinded.

Blacky clutched at Tommy's broad shoulder, and rode him, and a split second before Tommy said,

"It's all right, Tommy, it's all right."

Tommy said the words angrily to himself, and blinked the tears away.

He was a little bit tired. The Sun was setting, and night would soon come. But it wasn't that that made

him tired. It was a weariness of the mind, a feeling of futility, for, whatever it was he wanted, he could

never, never find it, because he would not know where he should look for it.

His bare foot trampled on something wet—he stopped and looked at the ground. He stooped and

picked up the skin of a recently killed rabbit. He turned it over and over in his hands, frowning. This was

not an animal he had killed, certainly—the skin had been taken off in a different way. Someone else—no!

But his shoulders began to shake with a wild excitement. Someone else? No, it couldn't be! There was

no one—there could be no one—could there? The skin dropped from his nerveless fingers as he saw a

single footprint not far ahead of him. He stooped over it, examining, and knew again that he had not done

this, either. And certainly it could be no other animal than a man!

It was a small footprint at which he stared, as if a child, or an under-sized man, might have stepped in

the soft humus. Suddenly he raised his head. He had definitely heard the crackling of a twig, not more

than forty feet away, certainly. His eyes stared ahead through the gathering dusk. Something looking

back at him? Yes! Something there in the bushes that was not an animal!

"No noise, Blacky," he whispered, and forgot Blacky's general response to that command.

"No noise, Blacky!" the big, ugly bird blasted out. "No noise, Blacky! Well, fer cryin' out loud!"

Blacky uttered a scared squawk as Tommy leaped ahead, a snarl contorting his features, and

flapping from his master's shoulder. For several minutes Tommy ran after the vanishing figure, with all the

strength and agility of his singularly powerful legs. But whoever—or whatever—it was that fled him,

outdistanced him easily, and Tommy had to stop at last, panting. Then he stooped, and picked up a

handful of pebbles and hurled them at the squawking bird. A single tail feather fell to earth as Blacky

swooped away.

"Told you not to make noise," Tommy snarled, and the tears started to run again. The hunger was

starting up in his mind again, too! He sat down on a log, and put his chin in his palms, while his tears

flowed. Blacky came flapping through the air, almost like a shadow—it was getting dark. The bird

tentatively settled on his shoulder, cautiously flapped away again and then came back.

Tommy turned his head and looked at it bitterly, and then turned away, and groaned.

"It's all your fault, Blacky!"

"It's all your fault," the bird said. "Oh, Tommy, I could spank you! I get so exasperated!"

Sitting there, Tommy tried to learn exactly what he had seen. He had been sure it was a human figure,

just like himself, only different. Different! It had been smaller, had seemed to possess a slender grace—it

was impossible! Every time he thought of it, the hunger in his mind raged!

He jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. This hunger had been in him too long! He must find out what

caused it—he must find her—why did the word her come to his mind? Suddenly, he was flooded with a

host of childhood remembrances.

"It was a girl!" he gasped. "Oh, Tommy must want a girl!"

The thought was so utterly new that it left him stunned; but the thought grew. He must find her, if it

took him all the rest of his life! His chest deepened, his muscles swelled, and a new light came into his

blue eyes. Southward in winter, northward in summer—eating—sleeping—truly, there was nothing in

such a life. Now he felt the strength of a purpose swelling up in him. He threw himself to the ground and

slept; and Blacky flapped to the limb of a tree, inserted his head beneath a wing, and slept also. Perhaps,

in the last ten or fifteen years, he also had wanted a mate, but probably he had long ago given up

hope—for, it seemed, there were no more crows left in the world. Anyway, Blacky was very old,

perhaps twice as old as Tommy; he was merely content to live.

* * *

Tark and Vascar sent their spherical ship lightly plummeting above the green strip—it proved to be

vegetation, just as they had supposed. Either one or the other kept constant watch of the ground

below—they discovered nothing that might conceivably be classed as intelligent life. Insects they found,

and decided that they worked entirely by instinct; small animals, rabbits, squirrels, rats, raccoons, otters,

opossums, and large animals, deer, horses, sheep, cattle, pigs, dogs, they found to be just that—animals,

and nothing more.

"Looks as if it was all killed off, Vascar," said Tark, "and not so long ago at that, judging by the fact

that this forest must have grown entirely in the last few years."

Vascar agreed; she suggested they put the ship down for a few days and rest.

"It would be wonderful if we could find intelligent life after all," she said wistfully. "Think what a great

triumph it would be if we were the ones to start the last members of that race on the upward trail again.

Anyway," she added, "I think this atmosphere is dense enough for us to fly in."

He laughed—a trilling sound. "You've been looking for such an atmosphere for years. But I think

you're right about this one. Put the ship down there, Vascar—looks like a good spot."

For five days Tommy followed the trail of the girl with a grim determination. He knew now that it was

a woman; perhaps—indeed, very probably—the only one left alive. He had only the vaguest of ideas of

why he wanted her—he thought it was for human companionship, that alone. At any rate, he felt that this

terrible hunger in him—he could give it no other word—would be allayed when he caught up with her.

She was fleeing him, and staying just near enough to him to make him continue the chase, and he

knew that with a fierce exultation. And somehow her actions seemed right and proper. Twice he had

seen her, once on the crest of a ridge, once as she swam a river. Both times she had easily outdistanced

him. But by cross-hatching, he picked up her trail again—a bent twig or weed, a footprint, the skin of a

dead rabbit.

Once, at night, he had the impression that she crept up close, and looked at him curiously, perhaps

with the same great longing that he felt. He could not be sure. But he knew that very soon now she would

be his—and perhaps she would be glad of it.

Once he heard a terrible moaning, high up in the air. He looked upward. Blacky uttered a surprised

squawk. A large, spherical thing was darting overhead.

"I wonder what that is," Blacky squawked.

"I wonder what that is," said Tommy, feeling a faint fear. "There ain't nothin' like that in the yard."

He watched as the spaceship disappeared from sight. Then, with the unquestioning attitude of the

savage, he dismissed the matter from his mind, and took up his tantalizing trail again.

"Better watch out, Tommy," the bird cawed.

"Better watch out, Tommy," Tommy muttered to himself. He only vaguely heard Blacky—Blacky

always anticipated what Tommy was going to say, because he had known Tommy so long.

The river was wide, swirling, muddy, primeval in its surge of resistless strength. Tommy stood on the

bank, and looked out over the waters—suddenly his breath soughed from his lungs.

"It's her!" he gasped. "It's her, Blacky! She's drownin'!"

No time to waste in thought—a figure truly struggled against the push of the treacherous waters,

seemingly went under. Tommy dived cleanly, and Blacky spread his wings at the last instant and escaped

a bath. He saw his master disappear beneath the swirling waters, saw him emerge, strike out with

singularly powerful arms, slightly upstream, fighting every inch of the way. Blacky hovered over the

waters, cawing frantically, and screaming.

"Tommy, I could spank you! I could spank you! I get so exasperated! You wait till your father

comes home!"

A log was coming downstream. Tommy saw it coming, but knew he'd escape it. He struck out, paid

no more attention to it. The log came down with a rush, and would have missed him had it not suddenly

swung broadside on. It clipped the swimming man on the side of the head. Tommy went under, threshing

feebly, barely conscious, his limbs like leaden bars. That seemed to go on for a very long time. He

seemed to be breathing water. Then something grabbed hold of his long black hair—

When he awoke, he was lying on his back, and he was staring into her eyes. Something in Tommy's

stomach fell out—perhaps the hunger was going. He came to his feet, staring at her, his eyes blazing. She

stood only about twenty feet away from him. There was something pleasing about her, the slimness of her

arms, the roundness of her hips, the strangeness of her body, her large, startled, timid eyes, the mass of

ebon hair that fell below her hips. He started toward her. She gazed at him as if in a trance.

Blacky came flapping mournfully across the river. He was making no sound, but the girl must have

been frightened as he landed on Tommy's shoulder. She tensed, and was away like a rabbit. Tommy

went after her in long, loping bounds, but his foot caught in a tangle of dead grass, and he plummeted

head foremost to the ground.

The other vanished over a rise of ground.

He arose again, and knew no disappointment that he had again lost her. He knew now that it was

only her timidity, the timidity of a wild creature, that made her flee him. He started off again, for now that

he knew what the hunger was, it seemed worse than ever.

* * *

The air of this planet was deliciously breathable, and was the nearest thing to their own atmosphere

that Tark and Vascar had encountered.

Vascar ruffled her brilliant plumage, and spread her wings, flapping them. Tark watched her, as she

laughed at him in her own way, and then made a few short, running jumps and took off. She spiraled,

called down to him.

"Come on up. The air's fine, Tark."

Tark considered. "All right," he conceded, "but wait until I get a couple of guns."

"I can't imagine why," Vascar called down; but nevertheless, as they rose higher and higher above the

second growth forest, each had a belt strapped loosely around the neck, carrying a weapon similar to a

pistol.

"I can't help but hope we run into some kind of intelligent life," said Vascar. "This is really a lovely

planet. In time the volcanoes will die down, and vegetation will spread all over. It's a shame that the

planet has to go to waste."

"We could stay and colonize it," Tark suggested rakishly.

"Oh, not I. I like Alcon too well for that, and the sooner we get back there, the better—Look! Tark!

Down there!"

Tark looked, caught sight of a medium large animal moving through the underbrush. He dropped a

little lower. And then rose again.

"It's nothing," he said. "An animal, somewhat larger than the majority we've seen, probably the last of

its kind. From the looks of it, I'd say it wasn't particularly pleasant on the eyes. Its skin shows—Oh, now

I see what you mean, Vascar!"

This time he was really interested as he dropped lower, and a strange excitement throbbed through

his veins. Could it be that they were going to discover intelligent life after all—perhaps the last of its kind?

It was indeed an exciting sight the two bird-creatures from another planet saw. They flapped slowly

above and a number of yards behind the unsuspecting upright beast, that moved swiftly through the

forest, a black creature not unlike themselves in general structure riding its shoulder.

"It must mean intelligence!" Vascar whispered excitedly, her brilliant red eyes glowing with interest.

"One of the first requisites of intelligent creatures it to put animals lower in the scale of evolution to work

as beasts of burden and transportation."

"Wait awhile," cautioned Tark, "before you make any irrational conclusions. After all, there are

creatures of different species which live together in friendship. Perhaps the creature which looks so much

like us keeps the other's skin and hair free of vermin. And perhaps the other way around, too."

"I don't think so," insisted his mate. "Tark, the bird-creature is riding the shoulder of the beast.

Perhaps that means its race is so old, and has used this means of transportation so long, that its wings

have atrophied. That would almost certainly mean intelligence. It's talking now—you can hear it. It's

probably telling its beast to stop—there, it has stopped!"

"Its voice is not so melodious," said Tark dryly.

She looked at him reprovingly; the tips of their flapping wings were almost touching.

"That isn't like you, Tark. You know very well that one of our rules is not to place intelligence on

creatures who seem like ourselves, and neglect others while we do so. Its harsh voice proves

nothing—to one of its race, if there are any left, its voice may be pleasing in the extreme. At any rate, it

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