The Hills of Home | Page 2

Plant Men.
For a moment, Kimmy felt a thrill of apprehension. The deepening
stillness of the river was closing in around him. Even the music from
the phonograph was very, very faint. Above him, the great vault of the
sky was changing from pink to gray to dusty blue. A bright star was
breaking through the curtain of fading light. He knew it was Venus, the
Evening Star. But let it be Earth, he thought. And instead of white, let it
be the color of an emerald.
He paused in midstream, letting the warm water riffle around his feet.
Looking up at the green beacon of his home planet, he thought: I've left
all that behind me. It was never really what I wanted. Mars is where I
belong. With my friends, Tars Tarkas the great Green Jeddak, and
Carter, the Warlord, and all the beautiful brave people.
* * * * *
The phonograph sang with Vallee's voice: "Cradle me where southern
skies can watch me with a million eyes----"
Kimmy's eyes narrowed and he waded stealthily across the sacred river.
That would be Matai Shang, the Father of Holy Therns--spreading his
arms to the sunset and standing safely on his high balcony in the
Golden Cliffs while the Plant Men gathered to attack the poor pilgrims
Iss had brought to this cursed valley.
"Sing me to sleep, lullaby of the leaves"--the phonograph sang. Kimmy
stepped cautiously ashore and moved into the cover of a clump of
willows. The sky was darkening fast. Other stars were shining through.
There wasn't much time left.
* * * * *

Kimball stood now in the bright glare of the briefing shack, a strange
figure in blood-colored plastic. The representatives of the press had
been handed the mimeographed releases by the PRO and now they sat
in silence, studying the red figure of the man who was to ride the
rocket.
They were thinking: Why him? Out of all the scores of
applicants--because there are always applicants for a sure-death
job--and all the qualified pilots, why this one?
The Public Relations Officer was speaking now, reading from the
mimeoed release as though these civilians couldn't be trusted to get the
sparse information given them straight without his help, given
grudgingly and without expression.
Kimball listened, only half aware of what was being said. He watched
the faces of the men sitting on the rows of folding chairs, saw their eyes
like wounds, red from the early morning hour and the murmuring
reception of the night before in the Officers' Club. They are wondering
how I feel, he was thinking. And asking themselves why I want to go.
On the dais nearby, listening to the PRO, but watching Kimball, sat
Steinhart, the team analyst. Kimball returned his steady gaze thinking:
They start out burning with desire to cure the human mind and end with
the shadow of the images. The words become the fact, the therapy the
aim. What could Steinhart know of longing? No, he thought, I'm not
being fair. Steinhart was only doing his job.
The big clock on the back wall of the briefing shack said three fifty-five.
Zero minus one hour and five minutes.
Kimball looked around the room at the pale faces, the open mouths.
What have I to do with you now, he thought?
* * * * *
Outside, the winter night lay cold and still over the Base. Floodlights
spilled brilliance over the dunes and the scrubby earth, high fences

casting laced shadows across the burning white expanses of
ferroconcrete.
As they filed out of the briefing shack, Steinhart climbed into the
command car with Kimball. Chance or design? Kimball wondered. The
others, he noticed, were leaving both of them alone.
"We haven't gotten on too well, have we, Colonel?" Steinhart observed
in a quiet voice.
Kimball thought: He's pale skinned and very blond. What is it that he
reminds me of? Shouldn't there be a diadem on his forehead? He smiled
vaguely into the rumbling night. That's what it was. Odd that he should
have forgotten. How many rocket pilots, he wondered, were weaned on
Burroughs' books? And how many remembered now that the Thern
priests all wore yellow wings and a circlet of gold with some fantastic
jewel on their forehead?
"We've done as well as could be expected," he said.
Steinhart reached for a cigaret and then stopped, remembering that
Kimball had had to give them up because of the flight. Kimball caught
the movement and half-smiled.
"I didn't try to kill the assignment for you, Kim," the psych said.
"It doesn't matter now."
"No, I suppose not."
"You just didn't think I was the man for the job."
"Your record is good all the way. You know that," Steinhart said. "It's
just some