THE BIRDS OF LORRANE
By BILL DOEDE
Illustrated by BURNS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Intelligent birds! They knew a dead-end
planet when they visited one!
Ingomar Bjorgson knew he was going to die.
He turned his back on his useless ship and went inside the bubble housethat had been his home for ninety-nine days. Methodically he donned hisall-weather clothes, his environment suit. He did not want to die inthis place. Here was food and refrigeration for the days, warmth andcomfort for the nights. He could not bring himself to put a gun to hishead, or end it by any other direct, willful act. But out there in thedesert, away from man-made helps for survival ... there a man could gethimself into circumstances where nature took care of it.
That was his reason for being here on this lonely planet, in the firstplace—the promise of finding intelligent life. For intelligence wasrare in the universe, after all. A lone adventurer, a year before,forced down on this planet by a cosmic storm, had waited a week herefor the storm to subside, then had landed on Earth with the feverishnews of intelligent life. Ingomar Bjorgson had come to investigate.
Birds, yet.
They were only two. Two birds with minds like the edge of a razor,living alone on this planet that was one hundred per cent desert.
He took one last look around the bubble, then walked out, leaving thedoor open. From ten feet away he watched the sand already blowing inthrough the doorway, and he felt very lonely and small. He knew thathis death, like his life, would never be marked anywhere with anydegree of permanence.
He walked. There was no hurry, so he walked slowly, stoppingoccasionally to turn and stare at the tracks his feet had scuffed inthe sand, watching sand drift into them. He smiled wryly. The universewas so eager to be rid of him—as if he were a disease.
He looked up again, studying the whole sky. But there was no movementof wings, no silver streak of a ship coming to pick him up. Only onespot marred the desert's domain—the tiny bright reflection of theburning sun on the now distant bubble.
The birds had promised him. They had been so sure of themselves.
When he knew that the fierce sun and wind would kill him before hecould get back to the bubble, he started removing his all-weatherclothes. He flung them aside like a dancer. Coat to the left, trousersto the right. The hot wind threw the trousers back against his face. Hetore them off with a curse. Shirt to the left. He kept the shoes on,out of respect for his feet. Then he trudged on, wondering vaguely howa half dressed man, dying on his feet, could make the same marks in thesand as a fully clothed, comfortable one.
He stumbled on an outcropping of rock. He fell. He picked himself upagain. It would be quick, after all. The sun was in league with therest of the universe. He would die soon.
He fell again.
He had found the planet of Lorrane easily. The adventurer's charts wereaccurate. It was a dry, barren place, an old, worn-out world where onlywind and sand moved, where mountains shoved their eroded peaks intothe impotent sky. But Ingomar found, upon emerging from his ship, thatthere was another movement. Two black dots appeared far away in the skyand rapidly grew larger. He had been told that the planet was populatedby