“No,” he said quietly, “there is more. Come.” The tube narrowed in again, then enlarged and we were again in a somewhat smaller chamber like that of the slugs. Again there were transparent walls and again there were things floating beyond them.
I had to look twice before I could fully make out and believe what I saw.
Floating just beyond the wall, face down, was the body of a man—a human, Earth-born man—about forty to fifty years old. He was grizzled and almost bald. His arms were curved across his chest and his knees were drawn up, as if he were sleeping safe in bed—or in the womb.
I watched him, thinking terrible thoughts. He was not alone; there were more beyond him, male and female, young and old—but he was the only one I could see properly and he got my attention. I was sure that he was dead; it did not occur to me to think otherwise—then I saw his mouth working—and then I wished he were dead.
Mary was wandering around in that chamber as if she were drunk—no, not drunk but preoccupied and dazed. She went from one transparent wall to the other, peering intently into the crowded, half-seen depths. The Old Man looked only at her. “Well, Mary?” he said softly.
“I can’t find them!” she said piteously in a voice like a little girl’s. She ran back to the other side.
The Old Man grasped her arm and stopped her. “You’re not looking for them in the right place,” he said firmly. “Go back where they are. Remember?”
She stopped and her voice was a wail. “I can’t remember!”
“You must remember . . . now. This is what you can do for them. You must return to where they are and look for them.”
Her eyes closed and tears started leaking from them. She gasped and choked. I pushed myself between them and said, “Stop this! What are you doing to her?”
He grabbed me with his free hand and pushed me away. “No, son,” he whispered fiercely. “Keep out of this—you must keep out.”
“But—”
“No!” He let go of Mary and led me away to the entrance. “Stay there. And, as you love your wife, as you hate the titans, do not interfere. I shan’t hurt her—that’s a promise.”
“What are you going to do?” But he had turned away. I stayed, unwilling to let it go on, afraid to tamper with what I did not understand.
Mary had sunk down to the floor and now squatted on it like a child, her face covered with her hands. The Old Man went back to her, knelt down and touched her arm. “Go back,” I heard him say. “Go back to where it started.”
I could barely hear her answer, “No . . . no.”
“How old were you? You seemed to be about seven or eight when you were found. It was before that?”
“Yes—yes, it was before that.” She sobbed and collapsed completely to the floor. “Mama! Mama!”
“What is your mama saying?” he asked gently.
“She doesn’t say anything. She’s looking at me so queerly. There’s something on her back. I’m afraid, I’m afraid!”
I got up and hurried toward them, crouching to keep from hitting the low ceiling. Without taking his eyes off Mary the Old Man motioned me back. I stopped, hesitated. “Go back,” he ordered. “Way back.”
The words were directed at me and I obeyed them—but so did Mary. “There was a ship,” she muttered, “a big shiny ship—” He said something to her; if she answered I could not hear it. I stayed back this time and made no attempt to interfere. I could see that he was doing her no physical hurt and, despite my vastly disturbed emotions, I realized that something important was going on, something big enough to absorb the Old Man’s full attention in the very teeth of the enemy.
He continued to talk to her, soothingly but insistently. Mary quieted down, seemed to sink almost into a lethargy, but I could hear that she answered him. After a while she was talking in the monotonous logorrhea of emotional release. Only occasionally did the Old Man prompt her.