Free The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction MEGAPACK® by Robert Silverberg Page B

alien again.
    This time the Shaulan folded up accordionwise and huddled on the floor. It focused those three deep solid-black eyes on Murchison reproachfully.
    Murchison looked back. They stared at each other for a long, moment, until it seemed that their eyes were linked by an invisible cord. Then Murchison looked away.
    “Get out of here,” he muttered to the alien, and the Shaulan rose and departed, limping a little but still intact. Those aliens were more solid than they seemed.
    “I guess you’re going to put me in the brig,” Murchison said to me. “Okay. I’ll go quietly.”
    * * * *
    We didn’t brig him, because there was nothing to be gained by that. I had seen the explosion coming right from the start. When you drop a lighted match into a tub of hydrazine, you don’t punish the hydrazine for blowing up. And Murchison couldn’t be blamed for what he did, either.
    He got the silent treatment instead. The men at the base would have nothing to do with him whatsoever, because in their year on Shaula they had developed a respect for the aliens not far from worship, and any man who would actually use physical violence—well, he just wasn’t worth wasting breath on.
    The men of our crew gave him a wide berth too. He wandered among us, a tall, powerful figure with anger and loneliness stamped on his face, and he said nothing to any of us and no one said anything to him. Whenever he saw one of the aliens, he went far out of his way to avoid a meeting.
    Murchison got another X on his psych report, and that second X meant he’d never be allowed to visit any world inhabited by intelligent life again. It was a BuSpace regulation, one of the many they have for the purpose of locking the barn door too late.
    Three days went by this way on Shaula. On the fourth, we took aboard the twenty-eight departing men, said goodbye to Gloster and his staff and the twenty-eight we had ferried out to him, and—somewhat guiltily—goodbye to the Shaulans too.
    The six of them showed up for our blastoff, including the somewhat battered one who had had the run-in with Murchison. They wished us well, gravely, without any sign of bitterness. For the hundredth time I was astonished by their patience, their wisdom, their understanding.
    I held Azga’s rough hand in mine and said goodbye. I told him for the first time what I had been wanting to say since our first meeting, how much I hoped we’d eventually reach the mental equilibrium and inner calm of the Shaulans. He smiled warmly at me, and I said goodbye again and entered the ship.
    We ran the usual pre-blast checkups, and got ready for departure. Everything was working well; Murchison had none of his usual grumbles and complaints, and we were off the ground in record time.
    A couple of days of ion-drive, three weeks of warp, two more of ion-drive deceleration, and we would be back on Earth.
    * * * *
    The three weeks passed slowly, of course; when Earth lies ahead of you, time drags. But after the interminable greyness of warp came the sudden wrenching twist and the bright slippery sliding feeling as our Bohling generator threw us back into ordinary space.
    I pushed down the communicator stud near my arm and heard the voice of Navigator Henrichs saying, “Murchison, give me the coordinates, will you?”
    “Hold on,” came Murchison’s growl. “Patience, Sam. You’ll get your coordinates as soon as I got ’em.”
    There was a pause; then Captain Knight said, “Murchison, what’s holding up those coordinates? Where are we, anyway? Turn on the visiplates?”
    “ Please , Captain.” Murchison’s heavy voice was surprisingly polite. Then he ruined it. “Please, be good enough to shut up and let a man think.”
    “Murchison—” Knight sputtered, and stopped. We all knew one solid fact about our signalman: he did as he pleased. No one but no one coerced him into anything.
    So we waited, spinning end-over-end somewhere in the vicinity of Earth, completely blind behind our wall