Part 1

THE WAY BACK

By SAM MOSKOWITZ

_The Story of a Vagabond of Space Who Found Himself in the Far Galaxies._

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Comet January 41. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Michel Drawers crumpled the enormous star-map in his big hairy arms and let it drop from listless fingers. It floated slowly to the ground, scarcely claimed by the infinitesimal gravity of the tiny sky-rock.

Hopelessly he gazed aloft, searching, with an air of finality the immense sweep of the cosmos for some familiar sign--a well known constellation, perhaps, that might be utilized as a sign post of space.

Unrewarded, he eased himself off a hard, metallic projection he had been seated upon and turned back toward his petite little star-ship--appropriately and affectionately known as "Star-Struck."

He had to face cold, inevitable reality. He was lost--lost amid the stark immensity of unfamiliar worlds. Ahead of him lay a long and hopeless search. He must sweep across the void from zone to zone. Exploring the most colossal work of all nature for some clue that might solve this puzzle and show him the way back--the way back home.

And he smirked as he thought of applying the term "home" to Tellus. A home was something only successful people could boast of in this day and age. Misfit youth could not expect such comfort. Himself, and thousands like him, unable to fit into the scheme of civilization currently preponderant upon Earth must take the only course open to them. Must be vanguards of a new frontier--the greatest frontier.

Sick with nostalgia and ineffable longing, they must brave the dangers, the rigors of outer space--blast trillions of miles past the solar system on a metal steed that laughed at the limited speeds of light. That roared and romped past universe after island universe. And always the delicate Roxitometer clicked along--searching with tireless, machine-like efficiency for traces of Roxite on the many worlds passed.

Roxite? That was the fuel that made these star-ships possible. The substance whose elemental atoms could be split with tremendous fury to release an inconceivable flood of power--controlled power--controlled by the comparatively tiny Roxite engines which curbed these terrible energies and directed them into the proper channels of usefulness.

Centuries ago men had searched for gold. Now gold was merely another metal. Today, men searched for Roxite--a few ounces of which commanded fabulous prices from the great interplanetary corporations on Earth.

And as gold had eluded the best efforts of most men in past years, so Roxite eluded all but the luckiest prospectors today. There was plenty of Roxite in the universe. But most of it was buried deep within the cores of tremendous suns. Suns that had a surface temperature that made the hottest things on Earth seem like a bitter arctic blast by comparison.

The thing that counted on Earth these days was brains. Everyone had ample opportunity to develop what brain power they had. The finest schools and universities boasting the most advanced and elaborately presented programs of education ever known were free to the multitudes. But of what value was an ultra fine education when everyone else had one, too? It still settled back to basic ingenuity and natural inborn intelligence when it came to the man who got ahead and the man who stayed behind.

Five hundred years ago, possessing his present knowledge he might have been one of the world's greatest men. Today he was just one of millions of others, all of whom could do the same things he could--and some of them could do better.

What an incomparable paradox he presented. Physically he was more than a match for ninety-nine per cent of all Earth men. His great height and weight, his brutal strength--those thick hairy arms of his could crush the average man in a few minutes. Gigantic muscles didn't count any more. Of what use sixteen inch biceps when the frailest child could operate the buttons necessary to perform most of the menial duties of life?

Men like him were pushed by invisible, relentless pressures into the only thing open for them. To operate one of these tiny star-ships and comb the universe for more Roxite--to keep the interplanetary liners blasting.

Roxite. He had found some. Enough to keep his ship operating as it plunged past millions of starry universes. But not enough to bring back to Earth and collect any sizeable sum.

But he couldn't stand this life any longer. The inexpressible loneliness of space. Inconceivable light years from the world that bore him. Six years alone in such vastness was too much for any man.

Six years of heartrending disappointments as he searched tirelessly for the precious Roxite--and found only a little.

But this was the end. He was going to make a last desperate attempt to find his way back. Back to a cold, hostile, unfriendly civilization that might, out of charity, provide some lowly position for him--let him work enough to stay alive.

Still, that was better than this. At least he could look up into the blue ceiling of the sky. Tread over green carpeted fields. Eat real, substantial, solid food and see other people.

Yes, of a poor choice that alternative was the best.

But here he was bitter again. Deluging himself with waves of self-pity. The fault was not entirely with Earth and the way of life on Earth. He was equally to blame. He was a throw-back. A throw-back to the days when men pushed back new frontiers, blazed new trails for civilization to follow. When brawn had been the equal, if not the superior of brains. But this was a new world. It was built for the many, not the few. Simply because there was a few thousand of misfits among a population of millions was no creditable reason for revamping an entire way of life to the satisfaction of a minor group of disgruntled men. No, progress was relentless, inevitable. The old must bow before the new, and the world must fight on toward its distant dream of tomorrow.

Funny how a man could become so completely lost. But he had plenty of time to look for the right avenue back to his world. Plenty of time, patience, fuel and food. And he would find it--though it take him the rest of his life.

So Michel Drawers roared away from a tiny, lonely little rock in a strange distant universe, and, with his seemingly inexhaustible patience explored the sky ways for the section of the milky way in which his solar system might be located.

And as the months passed his homesickness grew and grew and reached unbearable proportions. A subconscious chant repeated itself and reiterated in pounding rhythms within his brain. He must find a way back, a way back, a way back, a way back, a way back. God! he couldn't stand this any longer. Where was the way back? Merciful heavens, how much more of this torture could he endure without going mad? And the distant pin-points of light mocked him with cold ferocity. Gloated with aloof disdain. Laughed at his fruitless efforts to escape their mighty trap.

But the soul of the frontiersman, the conqueror, burnt on. Michel Drawers did not go mad. He simply went on and on and on. Searching, seeking the way back.

Then, when it seemed that interminable eons had fled past he was awakened from a sleeping period by the piercing, raucous scream of the Roxitometer, pleading to him to arise and investigate its latest discoveries before they flashed past and it was too late.

In a mad lunge he pulled the space bar all the way back. The forward tubes blasted violently--the ship drew to a theoretical stop. Poised motionless amidst the splendor of a trillion stars.

Working frantically Michel Drawers made the proper connections. He might find a valuable deposit of Roxite yet. Perhaps there would be something to take back to Earth after all. Perhaps all was not yet hopeless. He might still be rich when he got back--if he got back.

The powerful little rockets streamed blazing glory again and the little silvery projectile was drawn by the magic of the Roxitometer, down the path of Roxite radiations to some still unknown world from where it emanated.

And gradually Drawers began to realize that they were heading for a beautiful little globe more than sixty million miles from a medium sized sun. And he prepared to enter the atmosphere of this world--and let the powers of the Roxitometer lead him to the location of the Roxite deposit. He muttered a silent prayer that it might not be located too deeply in the bowels of the planet.

Now he was holding tight as the "Star-Struck" streamed through the atmosphere of the planet. The landscape began to lay itself out before him. He could make out soft blue forests of alien vegetation--golden streams of unknown liquids. At two thousand feet he halted the ship's descent. Momentarily he allowed it to float above the terrain of this strange world. Drinking in its wonders with curious eyes.

He had been drawn to many worlds before by the insistent clangings of the Roxitometer--but never had he witnessed a world of such unutterable beauty and color. Barely a discordant note in the entire scheme of things. Even the winds blew softly, gently, against the hull of his ship. Prompted by an unfathomable urge he tested the atmosphere of the planet. Oxygen and Nitrogen proved present in appreciable quantities--but there was also another--and unknown gas of undetermined qualities.

He wondered if it were breathable. It had been so long, so very long since he had known anything other than the metallic smell of synthetic air. With gladness he would trade half of his possessions for a few great lungfulls of pure, fresh, untainted air.

Then it was that Michel Drawers performed a suicidical act. He opened the inner and outer locks of his ship simultaneously and allowed the atmosphere of this unfamiliar world to pour in and mingle with that of the ship. He breathed in deeply, heavily. Lungful after lungful. Nothing happened. The new air had a certain, pleasant perfumed quality--perhaps a characteristic of the new gas. If it were fatally poisonous, at least it was not immediately so.

Forgotten were thoughts of Roxite and riches. Forgotten was his heartbreaking longing for Earth. Only one instinct possessed him. A desire to set foot upon real soil again. To tread agilely forward--to breath in natural air--to view natural, though alien sights. To see streams of liquids bubble past.

He settled the "Star-Struck" with unprecedented clumsiness down upon the surface of the world--saved from a bad shock by the light gravitational pull of the planet.

Then, with the demeanor of a school-boy released for summer vacation, his huge frame trod lightly from the ship, and he ambled grotesquely amidst an almost fragile world.

With ecstatic delight he plucked brilliant, sweet smelling blossoms; plunged his face recklessly into the golden liquid that tumbled in miniature falls down a short sloping hill; marveled at the coolness, the exhilaration of it--and in the midst of this madness the idea struck him that this gleaming liquid was the aqua pura of this world. It took the place of water, in fact it seemed to have every attribute of water except for its golden color, and the few drops that had trickled between his lips left a pure, clean, sweet taste that could be described only by comparing it to the palate of a man, three days on the desert without a drink, suddenly being presented with a tall, cool glass of water.

It was becoming more and more noticeable that the color motive of this world was not so much green as it was golden.

And he wandered on. Far, far from the ship he strayed. As if possessed by a strange, uncontrollable mania he laughed and cried by turns. Sometimes he ran, sometimes he walked. Often he leaped incredible distances into the air--floating softly down--his two hundred and fifteen pound bulk landing with only the slightest jar.

And as suddenly as this crazy thing had come upon him it passed. He stood stock sober; the awful realization of the inconceivable risks he had run swelling his brain like a painful hangover.

That he was alive and apparently in good health was a miracle. The worlds where a native of Earth might cavort with reckless abandon and utter disregard for existing conditions were few and far between. Swift doom often descended upon those who made light of other worldly conditions.

Now he saw in every brilliant blossom a lurking death of hideous proportions. He examined their expansive golden-yellow blossoms with critical care. Many of the plants were predominantly blue. Blue and gold. Here flowers with tall, slender, graceful stalks moved gracefully to and fro in the soft breeze. There, gigantic blue plants towered far above his head, with stalks the thickness of trunks and blossoms the circumference of a water-wheel but, throughout, the idea of fragility persisted. And with it a gnawing doubt as to their innocent nature. It seemed more and more that the strange gas that permeated the air had its source here in those blossoms which grew in such abundance, with groves the thickness of forests, and a multiplicity that replaced trees, on this world at least.

He stumbled on, his hand wiping again and again at his face as if to scrape away a golden liquid which was no longer there.

He even breathed with fearful deliberateness--wracking his brain for all he knew and had heard of the effects and varieties of fatal gases.

But the luck of the gods was with him. No untoward symptoms appeared and as he made his way back to the ship his fears began to dissipate one by one and a new sense of reasonableness replace them.

Into the clearing he trod--and then recoiled with amazement. Before him stood a human figure! A small man, perfectly, beautifully proportioned, radiating a golden aureole and crowned by curly, yellow locks of hair. He seemed fragile, incredibly delicate, yet he bore himself with buoyant ease, a result of the lighter gravitational pull of the planet, and in his eyes sparkled whirling motes of color that lent to him an air of unimpeachable intelligence.

Michel Drawers advanced slowly toward the man. His towering bulk looming massively with strikingly primitive and brutal aspect in comparison to the statuesque lines and angelic beauty of this native son.

"Who? Who are you?" Michel Drawers questioned, his loud, rough voice almost artificial in an obvious attempt at impossible gentleness.

The aura of golden light seemed to thicken about the form of the little man.

Softly, Drawers thought he heard:

"I, strange one, am Persum, dweller in the city of Saeve. In all my years I have never known a man like you. From whence do you come?"

Drawers was rigid, surprise-struck. He had heard or thought he heard words as clear, as plain as words could be--_yet he had seen no lips move_, knew that no sound, other than his own voice had pierced the air.

"Telepathy," he uttered in awe. "Mental telepathy."

"Telepathy? Telepathy?" an unspoken voice returned. "We have no such word in our language. What is its meaning?"

"To communicate without sound--by thought."

A look of comprehension dawned upon the golden man's features.

"Ah, yes. Here, in my city, all men speak by thought--that is the purpose of this radiance which surrounds me--to help pick up and to transmit thoughts. Apparently your race is not so gifted. I wondered why you writhed your lips peculiarly when you questioned me! Your brain must be a very powerful one indeed to transmit thoughts without any natural aid."

Drawers laughed inwardly at the unexpected compliment. Men had often told him that he possessed a marvelous physique, but no one had ever attempted to hint that his brain was other than passably mediocre, even poor. And here, the most intelligent little man he had ever met--not over five feet tall--a man with the power to transmit thoughts telepathically--an achievement that practically no earthman could boast, had told him that he was unusually gifted in a mental sort of a way. It was funny, ironic.

Suddenly Drawers became almost timid in the presence of this superb little creature. There was almost a god-like quality about him. An innate goodness, kindness, that could be taken for granted.

"Would you care to partake of our hospitality?" came an inviting thought.

The invitation brought a gasp of amazement to Michel Drawers' lips, and also a trace of suspicion.

This little man before him, who, common sense said must be feeling uneasy, to put it mildly, in the presence of a stranger of hitherto unknown size and undetermined strength--someone who was as different in make-up and physique from his as night is from day--still had been able to suppress his fears sufficiently to extend a cordial invitation.

"Oh--I can stay on the ship," Drawers replied, his mind sparring for additional time to clear its confusion.

"My people would be very interested in meeting you," the golden man replied.

Still, Drawers hung back with obvious reluctance. This man was small, but it wasn't size that counted, as experience had taught him--it was brains--and this alien had those in super abundance. How was he to know the creature's motives? Perhaps they might overcome him with some strange ray, and use him for some diabolical experiment.

Even as the thoughts surged through his mind, a trace of a smile seemed to flicker across the golden man's features.

As if he had read his thoughts the golden man challenged.

"Certainly you are not afraid to accompany me? I should be the one to fear, not you. One of those great arms that hang at your side could overpower me in an instant. You have nothing to fear."

Mental argument was an achievement Michel Drawers had never been particularly adept in. He found his fears being chided, and his own subconscious mind seemed to tell him there was no danger, still--

Michel stepped slowly forward to accompany the golden man, his hands tapping his hips for the butts of his low-voltage guns and finding only the empty holsters. _He had left them in the ship!_

Without further thought the golden man turned and strode gracefully from the clearing. Michel Drawers lumbered self-consciously along behind, tripping occasionally over vine-like foliage--and with the light of curiosity growing ever brighter within him.

Through thick growths of blue plants they trailed. Across chuckling stream's of bubbling, brilliant liquids; through fields thick with yellow blossoms, and overhead a golden sun hung resplendent in the sky as if to match the make-up of the planet.

Drawers' attention was suddenly distracted by one of the most unusual plants he had yet seen. This one was golden as were the others but had long, regular veins of blue running like a well formed design up the outside of the blossom. Instinctively he sniffed at it. As he did so he felt his new found companion plucking at his sleeve. He paid no notice, preferring to again smell the beautiful blossom. The fragrance affected him like a heady, aromatic perfume. Entirely different from any scent he had ever known before.

Persum finally distracted his attention by mental urging.

"Come away, that plant is deadly. I cannot understand why you have not been already overcome."

Drawers turned back to Persum in curiosity. "This plant deadly? Why it has a delightful fragrance. The most pleasing I've ever smelled."

It was obvious that Persum was disconcerted.

"I do not understand it. A small whiff of the odor exuded by that plant is enough to render any of my race unconscious. A few minutes under its influence often brings death. You are the first man I have ever known who has been able to inhale its gases without succumbing. This is most curious. I must inform others of my race."

They walked on, Persum shaking his head in bewilderment.

Drawers began to realize that this plant, although affecting him only to the extent that a pleasant perfume affects an individual, could be deadly to the golden people. From Persum's description of its effects it acted almost like an anesthetic--a few breaths induced temporary unconsciousness, but if released to its influence for more then a few minutes it resulted in death.

Abruptly a lovely city of golden towers and soaring minarets appeared resplendently before them--a city of incarnate beauty and craftsmanship--a city that might have been designed by a master draftsman--with an eye to blending harmoniously to the surrounding color scheme.

Drawers stopped for a moment to take in the wonder of it.

"You like it?" Persum queried.

"It's great!" Drawers rumbled enthusiastically.

"We take delight in the development of our cities," Persum continued. "There are seven cities, all constructed along the lines of this one. These seven cities contain the total populations of our people; about one hundred thousand people to a city. They are built with great care. The smaller buildings form the general limits of the city, and then we construct the buildings taller toward the center of the city. They are all unlike in structure for we try to give each and every one a distinct artistic touch. We do not believe in building row after monotonous row of dwellings that are of value for efficiency alone. The human pride and joy in beauty amply compensates us for any loss in efficiency."

Drawers did not reply. He was gazing in astonishment at the long curved walks that stretched between the taller buildings. Some of them must have been two hundred feet from the ground, with no noticeable railing for safety, and they were hardly more than three feet in width. Dozens of the golden people at this very moment could be seen moving leisurely across these shaky bridges, seeming to take no notice of the great chasm that yawned beneath. Even as Drawers watched, one of the golden people lost his balance, weaved erratically about for a moment, then started to fall.

Drawers closed his eyes to shut out the horror of the scene. Then he slowly opened them and gaped with astonishment to see a little golden man floating casually down to the ground, and alighting with scarcely a jar. Then he understood! The gravitational pull of this world was not very exacting. Few falls could be fatal here. The golden people had little to fear on that score.

Then a gigantic wall of auspicious strength and thickness bordering the city caught Drawers' eye. It seemed to inject a discordant note.

Questioningly Drawers turned to the golden man and asked. "What is the reason for that enormous wall?"

A sad, haunted look entered the expressive eyes of the little man. For a moment he did not answer, then replied.

"Perhaps, in your land you have no Griffs."

"Griffs? What are Griffs?"

As they walked the little man explained.

"Long ago, there were no violent forms of life on this planet. There were no cities with thick walls about them, and the people of our race lived luxuriously, cradled in the gentle arms of nature. Our home was wherever we happened to be at the time. Art and knowledge flourished and our people were content. Then, one day, an earthquake of violent proportions rocked the land. Great rifts were torn in the ground. And from subterranean caverns, of which we had no knowledge, emerged terrible monsters who lived on flesh and preyed upon my people unceasingly.

"We have never had strife of any kind on this world. Weapons have always been unknown. There was no way we knew to fight back. In desperation we built great walls around the cities to keep these great monsters away. Only when the sun is at its height do we dare emerge and gather food or wander through the forests we love so much. Sun hurts the Griffs' eyes and they prefer to do their hunting at night or on cloudy days.