The Sky Is Falling | Page 3

movie doll, but a sort of pretty girl who was also a darned good cook. For a man of
thirty who'd always been a scrawny, shy runt like the one in the "before" pictures, he'd
been doing all right.
Then came the letter from his uncle, offering him triple salary as a maintenance man on
the computers used for the construction job. There was nothing said about romance and
beauteous Indian maids, but Dave filled that in himself. He would need the money when
he and Bertha got married, too, and all that healthy outdoor living was just what the
doctor would have ordered.
The Indian maids, of course, turned out to be a few fat old squaws who knew all about
white men. The outdoor living developed into five months of rain, hail, sleet, blizzard,
fog and constant freezing in tractors while breathing the healthy fumes of diesels. Uncle
David turned out to be a construction genius, all right, but his interest in Dave seemed to
lie in the fact that he was tired of being Simon Legree to strangers and wanted to take it
out on one of his own family. And the easy job turned into hell when the regular
computer-man couldn't take any more and quit, leaving Dave to do everything, including
making the field tests to gain the needed data.
Now Bertha was writing frantic letters, telling him how much he'd better come back and
marry her immediately. And Uncle David thought it was a joke!
Dave paid no attention to where his feet were leading him, only vaguely aware that he
was heading down a gully below the current construction job. He heard the tractors and
bulldozers moving along the narrow cliff above him, but he was used to the sound. He
heard frantic yelling from above, too, but paid no attention to it; in any Hanson
construction program, somebody was always yelling about something that had to be done
day before yesterday. It wasn't until he finally became aware of his own name being
shouted that he looked up. Then he froze in horror.
The bulldozer was teetering at the edge of the cliff as he saw it, right above him. And the
cliff was crumbling from under it, while the tread spun idiotically out of control. As
Dave's eyes took in the whole situation, the cliff crumbled completely, and the dozer
came lunging over the edge, plunging straight for him. His shout was drowned in the roar
of the motor. He tried to force his legs to jump, but they were frozen in terror. The heavy
mass came straight for him, its treads churning like great teeth reaching for him.
Then it hit, squarely on top of him. Something ripped and splattered and blacked out in an
unbearable welter of agony.
Dave Hanson came awake trying to scream and thrusting at the bed with arms too weak
to raise him. The dream of the past was already fading. The horror he had thought was

death lay somewhere in the past.
Now he was here--wherever here was.
The obvious answer was that he was in a normal hospital, somehow still alive, being
patched up. The things he seemed to remember from his other waking must be a mixture
of fact and delirium. Besides, how was he to judge what was normal in extreme cases of
surgery?
He managed to struggle up to a sitting position in the bed, trying to make out more of his
surroundings. But the room was dark now. As his eyes adjusted, he made out a small
brazier there, with a cadaverous old man in a dark robe spotted with looped crosses. On
his head was something like a miter, carrying a coiled brass snake in front of it. The old
man's white goatee bobbed as he mouthed something silently and made passes over the
flame, which shot up prismatically. Clouds of white fire belched up.
Dave reached to adjust his glasses, and found again that he wasn't wearing them. But he'd
never seen so clearly before.
At that moment, a chanting voice broke into his puzzled thoughts. It sounded like Ser
Perth. Dave turned his head weakly. The motion set sick waves of nausea running
through him, but he could see the doctor kneeling on the floor in some sort of pantomime.
The words of the chant were meaningless.
A hand closed over Dave's eyes, and the voice of the nurse whispered in his ear. "Shh,
Dave Hanson. It's the Sather Karf, so don't interrupt. There may be a conjunction."
He fell back, panting, his heart fluttering. Whatever was going on, he was in no shape to
interrupt anything. But he knew that this was no delirium. He didn't have that kind of
imagination.
The chant changed, after a