the end of year one
barney chard came up out of an uneasy sleep to the sudden sharp awareness that something was wrong. for some seconds he lay staring about the unlit cabin, mouth dry, heart hammering with apprehension. then he discovered it was only that he had left the exit door open and the window switched on.... only? this was the first time since they had left him here that he had gone to sleep without sealing the cabin first—even when blind drunk, really embalmed.
he thought of climbing out of bed and taking care of it now, but decided to let the thing ride. after all he knew there was nothing in the valley—nothing, in fact, on this world—of which he had a realistic reason to be afraid. and he felt dead tired. weak and sick. feeling like that no longer alarmed him as it had done at first; it was a simple physical fact. the sheet under him was wet with sweat, though it was no more than comfortably warm in the room. the cabin never became more than comfortably warm. barney lay back again, trying to figure out how it had happened he had forgotten about the window and the door.
it had been night for quite a while when he went to sleep, but regardless of how long he'd slept, it was going to go on being night a good deal longer. the last time he had bothered to check—which, barney decided on reflection, might be several months ago now—the sunless period had continued for better than fifty-six hours. not long before dropping on the bed, he was standing in front of the big clock while the minute hand on the hour dial slid up to the point which marked the end of the first year in earth time he had spent in the cabin. watching it happen, he was suddenly overwhelmed again by the enormity of his solitude, and it looked as if it were going to turn into another of those periods when he sat with the gun in his hand, sobbing and swearing in a violent muddle of self-pity and helpless fury. he decided to knock off the lamenting and get good and drunk instead. and he would make it a drunk to top all drunks on this happy anniversary night.
but he hadn't done that either. he had everything set up, downright festively—glasses, crushed ice, a formidable little squad of fresh bottles. but when he looked at the array, he suddenly felt sick in advance. then there was a wave of leaden heaviness, of complete fatigue. he hadn't had time to think of sealing the cabin. he had simply fallen into the bed then and there, and for all practical purposes passed out on the spot.
barney chard lay wondering about that. it had been, one might say, a rough year. through the long days in particular, he had been doing his level best to obliterate his surroundings behind sustained fogs of alcoholism. the thought of the hellishly brilliant far-off star around which this world circled, the awareness that only the roof and walls of the cabin were between himself and that blazing alien watcher, seemed entirely unbearable. the nights, after a while, were easier to take. they had their strangeness too, but the difference wasn't so great. he grew accustomed to the big green moon, and developed almost an affection for a smaller one, which was butter-yellow and on an orbit that made it a comparatively infrequent visitor in the sky over the valley. by night he began to leave the view window in operation and finally even the door open for hours at a time. but he had never done it before when he wanted to go to sleep.
alcoholism, barney decided, stirring uneasily on the sweat-soiled, wrinkled sheet, hadn't been much of a success. his body, or perhaps some resistant factor in his mind, let him go so far and no farther. when he exceeded the limit, he became suddenly and violently ill. and remembering the drunk periods wasn't pleasant. barney chard, that steel-tough lad, breaking up, going to pieces, did not make a pretty picture. it was when he couldn't keep that picture from his mind that he most frequently had sat there with the gun, turning it slowly around in his hand. it had been a rather close thing at times.
perhaps he simply hated mcallen and the association too much to use the gun. drunk or sober, he brooded endlessly over methods of destroying them. he had to be alive when they came back. some while ago there had been a space of several days when he was hallucinating the event, when mcallen and the association seemed to be present, and he was arguing with them, threatening them, even pleading with them. he came out of that period deeply frightened by what he was doing. since then he hadn't been drinking as heavily.
but this was the first time he'd gone to sleep without drinking at all.
