Casting out narrow, slanting rays of light, the blazing sun began to set. The air was rapidly losing its daytime dry heat, and from the plain and the deep channels, a sharp, piercing cold was already seeping in.
John and Lewis ran across the dimming plain, which in the twilight seemed even more desolate and hostile. Every shadow from the "salt towers" and cacti elongated, turning into black pits, and every stone tried to trip them. They hurried towards the familiar bank of a channel—their only landmark in this chaos of an alien world. The sun, small and furious, quickly disappeared behind the flat, jagged edge of the world. In its place, a blinding crimson afterglow flared up, spreading across half the sky like liquid fire. But it too quickly surrendered, covered by an ashy veil, and died. The sky thickened, turning into a velvety blackness.
And in this ashy gloom, low over Rosana's horizon line, a large, slow-moving star rose, densely red like a smoldering ember. It floated upwards, filling with light, like an angry, unblinking eye inserted into the sky. For several long moments, the entire darkness was saturated only with its grim, ruby radiance, from which objects cast faint, bloody shadows.
But gradually, as if piercing a thin film, stars began to pour out across the impenetrable sky. But this was not the familiar Milky Way of their childhood, but completely alien constellations: sparse, geometric chains of greenish, overly bright and cold points. Their rays, sharp and icy, stung the eyes. And the red star, rising higher, only burned more intensely.
Reaching the familiar white bank of the channel, paved with ancient slabs, John stopped, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. Then he straightened up and, without taking his eyes off it, simply pointed a hand at the red star, now floating among the sinister green lights.
"Looks like we're very close to a huge planet compared to which our Jupiter looks like a toy."
His words hung in the cold air. Lewis wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, tilting his head back, and silently stared at the blazing planet in the sky for a long time. His weathered face, accustomed to a smirk, in this red light seemed utterly unfamiliar—sad and pale.
So they stood on the star-lit ancient shore, two silhouettes on the edge of a dead channel, gazing into the abyss of space where, infinitely far away somewhere, their lost home was located.
But the night on Rosana turned out to be double. From behind the dark, sharp line of the horizon on the opposite side of the sky, a thin, elegant crescent suddenly appeared. It was smaller than the red planet, almost toy-like, and its light was cold, phosphorescent. Rising, it cast long, sharp shadows on the cactus field, turning the familiar daytime landscape into a forest of black, clawed limbs.
Lewis nudged John with his elbow, not taking his eyes off the new luminary.
"Behind us, look."
John turned around. Over the hilly plain, over the dark masses of groves and fortress ruins they had just left, hung Rosana's second satellite. A full, round disc, yellowish and dull like antique gilding. It was slightly larger than the first and was already descending towards the jagged silhouettes of distant mountains. Its ghostly light slid over the hills, and where they knew the metal discs of the defensive perimeter flickered with faint glimmers, now visible only as dull, sickly spots.
"What a night," whispered Lewis, and in his whisper was not only fatigue but also subdued acknowledgment. "Like a dream. A nightmare one."
Having caught their breath and looked around, they decided to continue their way to a safe place. Cautiously, trying not to make noise, they descended from the stone bank into the dark thicket of the cactus field. Sand crunched underfoot, and something dry and brittle, like shells. From under Lewis's boot, a shadow suddenly darted into the night—a furry ball racing through patches of moonlight. A short, dry scraping sound was heard, followed by a piercing, unbearably thin squeak that made their teeth clench.
And around them, in the dead light of the two moons, the fleshy leaves of cacti stirred, turning towards the cold sources of light. Sticky, invisible by day, cobwebs clung to their faces, elastic and adhesive.
And then the night echoed with a howl. Quiet, insinuating, seeming to crawl from the very darkness. It started low, rose to a rending shriek, and suddenly broke off. And the silence that followed became ten times more terrifying.
Lewis and John exchanged glances. Without a word, they took off. Their leaps in the low gravity were huge, almost real short flights. They vaulted over the stirring, animate plants, stumbling on invisible roots upon landing, shuddering with pure, animal disgust and horror at this unfamiliar awakening nocturnal life.
Finally, in the cold light of the rising crescent, a familiar settlement gleamed near the site of their arrival in this world. The settlement had several not entirely ruined houses they had already inspected, which could now serve as their shelter. They ran to the settlement and leaned against the wall of one intact house, desperately gulping the thin air.
"Right, no," Lewis rasped. "I'm not wandering into these spider-infested places at night. It's scary enough walking here during the day."
He clambered inside, into the cramped but safe room of the house. John lingered outside a little longer. He listened to the night for a long time, peering into the stellar scattering in the sky. And then, between the chains of green stars, momentarily crossing the red light of the huge planet, a clear, black shadow glided by. For a bird, this silhouette was too angular and too regular. More like a winged, swift shadow of a low-flying ship.
The shadow dissolved into the darkness as suddenly as it had appeared. John climbed onto the flat roof of the house. The chill emanating from the roof and seemingly from space simultaneously pierced him through. He sat for a long time, glancing at the stars but no longer seeing them. Before his eyes, that silhouette in the night sky still hung.
Was it truly a ship or an unknown bird of an unknown world? If it was a ship, who was its crew, and how would they meet him and Lewis? These thoughts tormented him, forcing him to peer until his eyes ached into the dark alien sky in search of answers.
Inside the house, Lewis was already bustling about as if he owned the place. His muttering was audible, and the scraping of "souvenirs" being packed into his backpack—those very vials and faceted stone spheres. Then his head, illuminated by the dim light of a flashlight, appeared on the roof.
"Say what you will, but these souvenirs would fetch a fortune on Earth. Sell these things at auction—it would be ten wagonloads of dollars. Might not even need to save pennies for old age anymore."
His head disappeared, and soon steady, contented snoring emanated from the house. Lewis was a happy man. He had managed to find a simple, understandable purpose in this world of absurdity.
But John couldn't sleep. He still sat on the cold house roof. Thoughts, driven away during the day by movement and danger, now bore down on him with all their weight. While Lewis had been rummaging through the fortress house, John had managed to examine the mosaic in the main hall in detail.
What the hell was it! Where on Rosana, in another world, in another galaxy, could images of African masks with that distinctive third eye in the shape of honeycombs come from? Not something similar, but an exact replica. And the mosaic in the hall? A destroyed city, and then giants flying among the stars? And the image of a sphinx's head on the shields?
And this sign—a golden parabola with two spheres: ruby (Earth?) and brick-red (Rosana?). A sign of power over two worlds? Incomprehensible. And the book that sang in his head? And the ghost city that flashed on the dead screen? And most importantly—why was this rich, clearly powerful world abandoned, forsaken, given over to spiders and time?
John shook his head forcefully. If only day would come. It was completely obvious that the Rosanian pilot they had startled in the cactus field would report somewhere to a populated center. And perhaps they were already being searched for, and that ship that had passed before the stars—was precisely sent for them. The thought was alarming, but it offered at least some certainty.
John scanned the sky once more. The reddish star had shifted, and its light paled in the glow of the two moons; it was nearing its zenith. It seemed to him that a finest, imaginary beam from it passed through the darkness and struck him directly in the chest, right in the heart.
Suddenly, a memory pierced him. Just the night before last, standing in the window of his house in Washington, he had looked with the same cold sadness at the moon rising over the earth. Only one night separated that moment on Earth from this one, and from the tormenting shadows of the past. And now? Now years, parsecs, and an impassable wall of reality separated him from home. What an abyss! What a night!
Earth. Native, green, sometimes drowning in clouds, sometimes flooded with sun, lush, full of waters, sometimes cruel to its children, watered with the hot blood of endless wars and conflicts, about which Lewis had written colorfully in his reports... and yet beloved. Homeland.
Suddenly, a new thought overwhelmed him—cold and terrifying, like an icy blow. John seemed to see himself from the outside: a small figure on the roof of a half-collapsed house, lost in the middle of an endless, alien desert. Alone, cut off from everything that had once been familiar to him.
It seemed to him that time had lost its boundaries. Past and future had merged into one, as if all of this—the life of one enormous Mind, slowly bringing order to the world. Perhaps the red flaming sphere in the sky was merely its living heart, scattered across space and time?
And man... merely a brief surge of life, an instantaneous awakening. But he, John, with his stubborn will and dangerous curiosity, seemed to have torn himself out of this whole. And now he remained alone—needed by no one, a stranger, sitting on the ruins of an alien world in the very heart of an unfamiliar universe.
This thought could drive one mad. His heart in his chest truly seemed to freeze. Here it was, genuine, absolute loneliness. Physical—and spiritual.
John jumped up abruptly, and the rotten roof decking squealed plaintively under his feet. He jumped down and made his way into the house. It smelled of human beings—sweat, clothing, and earthly life.
He settled down next to the snoring Lewis. The warmth of his body and his even breathing—simple, almost animal signs of life—calmed John a little. With them, it became easier to breathe.
Lewis was a simple man. Even here, he had not betrayed his homeland. He had flown from another galaxy and thought of only one thing: how to tell people about this new world. To prove that humanity is not alone, that in the immeasurable cosmos there truly is life. And for him, the proofs were simple—only what could be seen, touched, and taken back home. So that no one would doubt it was all true.
Lewis slept peacefully. His conscience was clear. In his world, everything remained simple and right.
From the warmth and monstrous fatigue, John finally fell asleep. And in his dream, as if as a reward for the horror he had endured, consolation came to him.
He dreamed of the shore of a turbulent, unfamiliar river with high banks. Oaks and slender birches rustled in the wind over the water. Clouds drifted slowly across the sky, and sun-sparkles trembled on the water's surface.
And on the opposite shore, in a space flooded with light, stood someone in white. But it wasn't Mary—her image remained forever in his soul. It was another, vague, indistinct silhouette. Someone waved to him, called, beckoned him over...
Morning came suddenly, but it wasn't the light of the new day that woke Lewis and John. They were torn from sleep by a growing, rumbling roar. The flimsy walls of the house in which they had found shelter trembled.
A low, heavy noise of air screws tore through the silence of the Rosanan morning.