“Where are the people?” Sebastian asked.
“Never returned. The air was clean, the water pure, and the cities had been rebuilt into splendor and mystery. But no one wanted Earth. To shrug off the old image, the cities were renamed and advertising campaigns were launched. But only a few thousand have ever trickled homeward.”
“You did,” Sebastian said.
Pertos sighed. “Yes, and I was foolish. Rumor said every man on Earth was rich, and that alien forms of entertainment were welcomed. So I brought my puppets to make my thousands. And I have made thousands. But I didn’t know about the departure fee which makes it impossible for all but the richest immigrants ever to return to the stars. They’re determined to keep every man here, even if he’d rather go to the stars to die.”
“I’ll die here,” Sebastian said.
For the first time, he looked at Pertos. The green glow from the control console washed across his pallid face, made his eyes seem strangely alive.
“Yes,” Pertos agreed. “But you were born here, and that makes a difference.”
“Where were you born?” Sebastian asked, his voice a slow, measured base as he struggled with each word.
“In the city of Blackfawn on the planet Uri-two which circles a sun called Ozalius.” He looked at the idiot and frowned at the incomprehension he saw there. “I was born near a far star. And I’ve been trapped on this godforsaken ball of mud for five years now, trying to scrape up a bit of money to pay departure fees and be gone. And I haven’t anything to show for it.”
“You have me,” Sebastian said.
Pertos smiled. It was a genuine smile this time, not an accident of his features. “True enough.”
They rode on in silence, watching the darkness blur past them. In time, the idiot dug his left hand into the pocket of his slacks and took out a plastic card. On one side was his picture, his name and a few bits and pieces about his life. He read these with fascination, for he always found something new to ponder over. On the reverse face of the card, there was a simply worded message for him which told him he came from Soldiersville, Kentucky, his hometown, should he ever wish to return there. It also explained how he could contact government representatives for sickness insurance or for pension movies. He read all this twice, which took a long while, then replaced the card in his pocket.
“Were you really born . . . in the stars?” he asked Pertos.
“Yes,” Godelhausser answered. He no longer felt like
carrying on a conversation. Even his permanent smile had a bitter look to it.
“Imagine,” Sebastian said.
“Imagine what?”
“The stars. Who would ever think . . .from stars?”
They rode.
“Who would ever?” Sebastion asked later. “Stars?”
There were a great many trees in Springsun, especially along the avenues before and behind the cultural center. In the darkness of that early autumn morning the trees rustled overhead like conspiratorial old women and shed a few
leaves on the heads of the puppeteer and the idiot.
The lowering sky rumbled with distant thunder, and the clouds seemed to skim along the peaks of the tallest structures. The air was chilly,and it forced Pertos to stand sheltered by the ogee door of the cargo hold of his truck, t his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his overcoat, shivering, daring from one foot to the other to generate a little heat.
Sebastian labored to unload the contents of the van and transport everything inside to the theater’s guest quarters. He had carried all their personal belongings inside and was now finislitag with the Furnace, which he handled with
great care even though he knew the pieces were unbreakable.
As he waited for the idiot to return to take the last piece, Pertos heard footsteps. the stone of the plaza floor that connected all the buildings in the cultural complex. He stepped aroud the end of the truck and watched them:
three men their midthirties, all lean and handsome, if somewhat harshly dressed is a severity that was not normal
far Earth whom all manner of alien designs were imported and worn.