With a sudden burst of grief I mourned my father.
The broken belt of my seat was flapping uselessly just above me. My hands were still tied and so were my ankles, and one arm at least seemed to be broken. One eye was stuck shut and it hurt me to breathe; I quit taking stock of my injuries. Dad was no longer plastered against the wheel and that puzzled me. With painful effort I rolled my head over to see the rest of the car with my one good eye. He was lying not far from me, three feet or so, from my head to his. He was bloody and cold and I was sure that he was dead. I think it took me about a half hour to cross that three feet.
I lay face to face with him, almost cheek to cheek. So far as I could tell there was no trace of life, nor, from the odd and twisted way in which he lay, did it seem possible.
“Dad,” I said hoarsely. Then I screamed it. “Dad!”
His eyes flickered but did not open. “Hello, son,” he whispered. “Thanks, boy, thanks—” His voice died out.
I wanted to shake him but all I could do was shout. “Dad! Wake up—are you all right?”
He spoke again, as if every word were a painful task. “Your mother—said to tell you . . . she was—proud of you.” His voice died out again and his breathing was labored in that ominous dry-stick sound.
“Dad,” I sobbed, “don’t die—I can’t get along without you.”
His eyes opened wide. “Yes, you can, son.” He paused and labored, then added, “I’m hurt, boy.” His eyes closed again.
I could not get any more out of him, though I shouted and screamed. Presently I lay my face against his and let my tears mix with the dirt and blood.
XXXV
And now to clean up Titan!
Each of us who are going is writing one of these reports, for we know that we may not come back. If not, this is our legacy to free human beings—all that we learned and all that we know of how the titan parasites operate and what must be guarded against. For Kelly was right; there is no getting Humpty-Dumpty back together. In spite of the almost complete success of Schedule Mercy there is no way to be sure that the slugs are all gone. No longer ago than last week it was reported that a bear was shot, up Yukon way, wearing a hump.
The race will have to be always on guard; most especially it will have to be on guard about twenty-five years from now if we don’t come back—but the flying saucers do. We don’t know why the titan monsters follow the twenty-nine year cycle of Saturn’s “year”, but they do. The human race has many cycles which match the Earth year; the reasons may be equally simple for the titans. We hope that they are active only at one period of their “year”; if they are. Operation Vengeance may have easy pickings. Not that we are counting on it. I am going out, heaven help us, as an “applied psychologist (exotic)”, but I am also a combat trooper, as is every one of us, from chaplain to cook. This is for keeps and we intend to show those slugs that they made the mistake of tangling with the toughest, meanest, deadliest, most unrelenting—and ablest—form of life in this section of space, a critter that can be killed but can’t be tamed.
(I have a private hope that we will find some way to save the little elf creatures, the androgynes. We weren’t able to save any of those in the saucer we found near Kansas City when the fighting was over, but that doesn’t prove anything. I think we could get along with the elves. They are probably the real natives of Titan, anyhow; certainly they aren’t related to the slugs.)
Whether we make it, or not, the human race has got to keep up its well-earned reputation for ferocity. If the slugs taught us anything, it was that the price of freedom is the willingness to do sudden battle, anywhere, any time, and with utter recklessness. If we did not learn that, well—”Dinosaurs, move over! We are ready to become extinct.”