Part 17

They were human tracks--feet soled in what seemed to suggest smooth leather. The tracks had crossed their path a day before they reached the foothills. They had eagerly followed the apparently purposeful line of the footprints--not a single set of prints, but many, indicating that the trail was frequently used. Their own progress was slow all that day, held back by Ann's weakness. In his excitement over the discovery of the freshly made tracks Hendley had found an untapped core of strength and stamina, and not until Ann stumbled twice late in the afternoon did he become sharply aware of how weak and sick she was.

He had insisted on stopping immediately. Hurriedly he built a fire, before which he made her rest while he scoured the area for fresh roots. From these and the juice squeezed from green plants he made a kind of thick, stringy soup. During the night, in spite of his own deep fatigue, he slept little, watching over Ann anxiously. She kept waking, and what sleep she had was disturbed and restless. He waited several hours after dawn, putting down her objections, before they sat off again.

Early in the afternoon she collapsed. "I'm sorry, Hendley," she kept repeating as he lifted her and carried her into the shade of an outcropping of rock. "I'm sorry."

He brushed her words aside almost brusquely. "What have you to be sorry for? I've been pushing you too hard--I should have realized. I haven't let you rest."

"It's not that. If only I had some water...."

Hating to leave her for long, he made quick forays through the remainder of the afternoon searching for some sign of water. The foothills were greener than the main desert plain--there had to be water not too far away. It must be there!

But, though he ranged farther each time, he found nothing, returning after each trip with a sharper fear.

Night again found him watching over her worriedly, listening to her dry, hacking cough. Her lips were cracked and swollen. He was vaguely surprised to find his own lips split so that one was bleeding.

And on his last scouting trip he had stumbled badly. A low grade had exhausted him. His strength was waning.

They could not live long without water. The human trail they had followed for two days must surely lead to help, to a source of food and water. But time was running out on them. Should he keep following the tracks, or strike out across the foothills, searching for a stream? He didn't know, and the uncertainty plagued him through the long night.

Falling into fitful sleep, he dreamed of a rushing mountain stream, clear and cold, frothing as it boiled over beds of rock, cold and sweet and nourishing...

In the morning Ann seemed stronger. They set off at an easy, careful pace. Hendley helped her when the way was steep, carrying her over the most difficult stretches. They climbed steadily, following the fresh trail. When she could go no farther, he lifted her across his shoulders and went on, laboring.

They made little progress. At noon he had to rest. Because the day was cloudy and cool, with a stiff cutting wind whining through the gullies and bending the grasses that covered the foothills. Hendley searched carefully for a sheltered cove. He knew they had gone almost as far as they could go. Alone he might have struggled on for another day, perhaps more. But he would not leave her to save himself.

After a brief rest he made one more fruitless search for water. Exploring a ravine which looked promising, a slash across the hills once carved by a river but now dry, he was gone longer than he had intended. When he returned, he found Ann sprawled on the ground, only half-conscious.

They were absolutely alone in the vast, empty land. To the east now there was only an endless reach of denuded prairie. The towers of the city were no longer visible. The only sign of human existence other than themselves was the tauntingly recent trail they had been following. What men were these? Where did the tracks lead? How far?

He felt again the sense of being cheated, of a promise made, a hope nurtured, which could not be fulfilled.

Shortly after dusk he heard the buzz of an aircraft overhead, but he could not find it. This remote sign of life quickened no hope. The blind copters droning across the sky carried no one who could, or would, save them.

Ann came out of her delirium to stare at him. Her eyes were large, wide open, unexpectedly lucid. "You must go on without me," she said calmly. "You can make it without me."

He shook his head. "There is nothing without you."

"You could find help--come back for me."

"No, Ann," he said gently. "We have to face it. There is no help. And I won't leave you alone."

She stared at him for a long moment. He saw, peering closely, that her eyes were liquid with tears. "Are you sorry you came?" he asked, not knowing until the words were out what he was saying. "Would you go back?"

She seemed to gather strength for her reply, drawing from a worn, thin body a surprising vigor. Her eyes shone. "Never!" she cried.

He lay beside her on the ground near the fire and folded her into his arms. "Nor I," he said.

When, some time later, the fire began to die, the two figures bundled together before it did not stir. The fire slowly darkened, its orange glow turning to gray ash, and then to black, obscuring the last feeble flicker....

15

Epilogue

_So few of them survived, the hunter reflected. So few lasted long enough to be found. And of those who did, few were able to adapt to the rigors of the new life._

_But the survivors were strong. The tribe was growing stronger all the time, larger and stronger and more skilled. While those in the cities were growing weaker._

_Time, he thought, is on our side._

_For a moment longer he gazed thoughtfully down at the two prone, wasted figures. The branches of a gnarled, twisted tree reached almost over their shelter. Absently, the hunter probed with his hand into one of the low-hanging branches to pluck one of the round fruits concealed among the waxen leaves. With strong white teeth he bit through the outer skin and sucked up the delicious juice. He scraped out all of the nourishing pulp with his teeth. When he had finished he tore the rubbery skin into strips and placed these in a pouch at his waist, except for one piece which he kept in his mouth to chew on._

_Using a blanket, he repeated his earlier smoke signals, alternately smothering and exposing the fire he had raised on the coals of the old one. He worked patiently, whistling softly through his teeth._

_The woman must have been very pretty, he mused._

_The curling puffs of smoke climbed into the bright morning sky and scattered slowly before the wind. After several minutes the hunter desisted._

_From a leather gourd he poured water into a crude, hand-shaped cup. He knelt beside the two strangers and, for the second time since his arrival, forced a little water between their cracked lips. The man was breathing well now, he noted. The woman had been much weaker, her heartbeat almost imperceptible. But with care she would live._

_They had come a long way, he thought. The man, stronger, could have continued. That was important. Love and loyalty were always important. These two would be valuable additions to the tribe. And from them would come another generation, born to freedom, stronger and more adaptable than their parents. It was a pleasure to watch the children cope with the new world so easily, so naturally...._

_While the hunter was still engaged in caring for his two sick charges, the drone of an aircraft wove a thin thread of sound across the bright blue sky. Reaching the drifting smoke signals, the aircraft swung in slow circles, each one lower. It was a crude craft, lightweight and spindly looking, but very maneuverable._

_The hunter glanced up. Banking low above him, the aircraft seemed to balance on one wingtip. From the windowed cabin the pilot waved. The hunter, smiling, returned the salute._

_As the plane veered off toward the flat plain below, where it would be safe to land, the hunter rose. He began to search the area for materials from which to fashion a stretcher. It would take, he reckoned, a half hour for the pilot to reach him, another hour to transport the two strangers down to the aircraft. He set to work._

_The man on the ground stirred and opened his eyes._

* * * * *

RIGID!

LOCKED!

ENSLAVED!

that was our Earth in 2200. East and West had merged at last, so there were no more wars, no more political differences.

Citizens everywhere could concentrate on working off their TAX DEBTS! If you were capable and industrious, you might be able to make freeman status for the last few years of your life.

No one questioned. No one spoke out. No one rebelled until one bright morning Citizen TRH-247 decided not to go to work--and worse than that, became desirous of a girl below his own classification!

Thus he made himself an outcast with the whole world against him and mere survival dependent on his wits, his daring, his strength.

THE SENTINEL STARS--a novel of our world run as the Bureau of Internal Revenue would run it!