As he spoke, the empty tank parted into two shell-like halves. The pilot lay slumped and twisted at the bottom, like a doll, his suit glistening in the light of the C.O.‘s torch.
“Help me. By the shoulders, real easy. That’s it; lift. Easy, now.”
Numbly, McDonough helped. It was true that the oil would have drowned the fragile, pitiful figure, but this was no help, either. The thing came up out of the cabin like a marionette with all its strings cut. Martinson cut the last of them: the flexible tubes which kept it connected to the ship.
The three of them put it down, sprawling bonelessly.
… AND STILL THE DAZZLING SKY-BLUE SHEEP ARE GRAZING
IN THE RED FIELD …
Just like that, McDonough saw it.
A coloring book!
That was what the scene was. That was why the colors were wrong, and the size referents. Of course the sheeplike animals did not look much like sheep, which the pilot could never have seen except in pictures. Of course the sheep’s heads looked like the heads of kittens; everyone has seen kittens. Of course the brain was powerful out of all propor-tion to its survival drive and its knowledge of death; it was the brain of a genius, but a genius without experience. And of course, this way, the USSR could get a rocket fighter to the United States on a one-way trip.
The helmet fell off the body, and rolled off into the gutter which carried away the water condensing on the wall of the tunnel. Martinson gasped, and then began to swear in a low, grinding monotone. Andy Persons said nothing, but his light, as he played it on the pilot’s head, shook with fury.