THE COLONISTS
By Raymond F. Jones
Illustrated by Paul Orban
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of ScienceFiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
This was the rainy year. Last year had been the dry one, and it wouldcome again. But they wouldn't be here to see it, Captain Louis Carnahanthought. They had seen four dry ones, and now had come the fourth wetone, and soon they would be going home. For them, this was the end ofthe cycle.
At first they had kept track of the days, checking each one off on theircalendars, but the calendars had long since been mingledindistinguishably with the stuff of the planet itself—along with mostof the rest of their equipment. By that time, however, they had learnedthat the cycle of wet and dry seasons was almost precisely equivalent toa pair of their own Terran years, so they had no more need for thecalendars.
But at the beginning of this wet season Carnahan had begun marking offthe days once again with scratches on the post of the hut in which helived. The chronometers were gone, too, but one and three-quarters Earthdays equalled one Serrengian day, and by that he could compute when theships from Earth were due.
He had dug moats about the hut to keep rain water from coming in overhis dirt floor. Only two of the walls were erected, and he didn't knowor much care whether he would get the other two up or not. Most of thematerials had blown away during the last dry period and he doubted verymuch that he would replace them. The two available walls were corneredagainst the prevailing winds. The roof was still in good shape, allowinghim a sufficient space free of leaks to accommodate his cooking and themat which he called a bed.
He picked up a gourd container from the rough bench in the center of theroom and took a swallow of the burning liquid. From the front of the huthe looked out over the rain swept terrain at the circle of huts.Diametrically across from him he could see Bolinger, the littlebiologist, moving energetically about. Bolinger was the only one who hadretained any semblance of scientific interest. He puttered continuallyover his collection, which had grown enormously over the eight yearperiod.
When they got back, Bolinger at least would have some accomplishment toview with pride. The rest of them—?
Carnahan laughed sharply and took another big swallow from the gourd,feeling the fresh surge of hot liquor already crossing the portals ofhis brain, bringing its false sense of wisdom and clarity. He knew itwas false, but it was the only source of wisdom he had left, he toldhimself.
He staggered back to the bed with the gourd. He caught a glimpse of hisimage in the small steel mirror on the little table at the end of thebed. Pausing to stare, he stroked the thick mat of beard and ran hisfingers through the mane of hair that had been very black when he came,and was now a dirty silver grey.
He hadn't looked at himself for a long time, but now he had to. He hadto know what they would see when the ships of Earth came to pick up thepersonnel of the Base and leave another crew. The image made him sick.
At the beginning of this final season of the rains, all his l