THOMPSON'S CAT
By ROBERT MOORE WILLIAMS
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories September1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"It's a dead world," Thompson spoke. There was awe in his voice, and inspite of his sure knowledge that nothing could happen to him or to hiscrew here on this world, there was also somewhere inside of him thetrace of a beginning fear.
Standing beside him on the rooftop of the building, Kurkil spoke in awhisper, asking a question that had been better unasked. "What killedit?"
Thompson stirred fretfully. He hadn't wanted to hear this question, hedidn't want to hear it now. His gaze went automatically to the trimlines of the space cruiser resting quietly in the square below thebuilding. His spirits lifted at the sight. That was his ship, he was incharge of this far-flung exploring expedition thrown out from SolCluster to the fringes of the universe, thrown out by Earth-sired racesbeginning their long exploration of the mysteries of space and of theworlds of space. There was pride in the sight of the ship and pride inthe thought of belonging to this space-ranging race. Then his gaze wentover the deserted city radiating in all directions from them and he wasaware again of the touch of fear.
Resolutely he turned the feeling out of his mind, began seeking ananswer to Kurkil's question.
This place had been a city once. If you counted buildings and streets,tall structures where people might work quietly and effectively, broadavenues leading out to trim homes where they might rest in peace aftertheir labors of the day, if you counted these things as being important,it was still a city. But if you thought that the important element inthe make-up of a city was its inhabitants then this place no longerdeserved the name.
It had no inhabitants.
"I don't know what killed it," Thompson said. Before landing they hadcircled this world. From the air they had seen more than a dozen citiessuch as this one. All of them dead, all of them deserted, all of themwith streets overgrown by shrubbery, the pavements buckling from thesimple pressure of roots pushing upward, the buildings falling away intoruin for the same reason. But they had seen no inhabitants. They hadseen the roads the inhabitants had built to connect their cities,deserted now. They had seen the fields where these people had onceworked, fields that now were turning back into forests. They had seen noevidence of landing fields for air craft or space ships. The race thathad built the cities had not yet learned the secret of wings.
From the roof of the building where they stood, the only livingcreatures to be seen were visible through the plastic viewport of theship below them—Grant, the communication specialist, and Buster, theship's cat.
Grant had been left to guard the vessel. Buster had been required toremain within the ship, obviously against his will. He had wanted tocome with Thompson. A trace of a grin came to Thompson's face at thesight of the cat. He and Buster were firm mutual friends.
"I don't like this place," Kurkil spoke suddenly. "We shouldn't havelanded here."