become dry; he would die of thirst long before he died of hunger.
The machine said in the calm voice so familiar to him now, "The trip to the Martian settlements takes approximately seventy-five minutes. You will be supplied with adequate ventilation and heat, but there is no provision for food except in emergency."
Isn't this an emergency? Parsons thought. Will it recognize it as such? When I begin to die of thirst, perhaps?
Will it squirt me with water from taps somewhere in the walls of the ship? Across from him the bit of gray rat tissue floated in its medium. You're not alive, Parsons said to himself. You're not suffering; you're not even aware of this.
He thought about Stenog. Did you plan this? I can't believe it. This is some hideous freak accident. Nobody planned this.
Someone took away Mars and the Earth, he thought. And forgot about me. Take me too, he thought, Don't forget me; I want to go along.
The machine clicked and said, "This ship is so constructed that tampering with any portion of it will produce a detonation."
He felt a surge of bizarre hope. Better if the ship blew up, than this. Perhaps he could get loose . . . anything would be better.
In the viewing slot, the distant stars. Nothing to notice him.
While he stared at the viewing slot, a star detached itself. It was not a star. It was an object.
The object grew.
Coming closer, Parsons thought. For what seemed to him an unbearable time the object remained virtually the same size, not getting either larger or smaller. He could not tell what it was. A meteor? Bit of space debris? A ship? Keeping its distance . . .
The machine said, "We are about to land. Be prepared for a series of concussions as the ship adjusts itself."
This time, Parsons thought, something is out there. Not Mars. Not a planet. But--something.
"We are going to land," the machine said, and, as before, began a rapid series of uncertain noises. "We have landed," it said at last.
The lock slid open. Again the void. Where is it? Parsons asked silently. Has it gone? He could do nothing but sit, strapped to his chair. Please, he prayed. Don't go away.
In the entrance lock an opaque surface dropped into place, blocking the sight of stars.
"Help," Parsons shouted. His voice rebounded deafeningly in his helmet.
A man appeared, wearing a helmet that made him look like a giant frog. Without hesitation he sprinted toward Parsons. A second man followed him. Expertly obviously knowing exactly to do, they began cutting through the straps that held him to the chair. Sparks from the seared metal showered throughout the ship--and then they had him loose.
"Hurry," one of the men said, touching his helmet against Parsons' to make a medium for his voice. "It's open only a few more minutes."
Parsons, struggling painfully up, said, "What went wrong?"
"Nothing," the man said, helping him. The other holding what Parsons recognized as a weapon, prowled about the ship watchfully. "We couldn't show up on Earth," the first man said, as he and Parsons moved toward the lock. "They were waiting--the shupos are good at it. We moved this ship back into time."
On the man's face, Parsons saw the grin of triumph. He and the man started from the ship, through the open lock. Not more than a hundred feet away a larger ship, like a pencil, hung waiting, its lock open, lights gleaming out. A cord connected the two ships.
Beside Parsons, his companion turned back for the other man. "Be careful," the man said to Parsons. "You're not experienced in crossing. Remember, no gravity. You could sail off." He clung to the cable, beckoning to his colleague.
His colleague took a step toward the lock. From the wall of the ship the muzzle of a gun appeared; the muzzle flashed orange, and the man pitched forward on his face. Beside Parsons, his companion gasped. His eyes met Parsons'. For an instant Parsons saw the man's face, distended with fear and comprehension; then the man had lifted a weapon and fired directly at
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