Visions of the Future Read Online Free PDF

people’s air.
    I’d have made a better tree, he mused tiredly. Pearson wondered if he’d have made a very good tree. Certainly he couldn’t have been a worse tree than he had a man. He saw himself as a youth, cocky in a sniveling sort of way. Saw himself toadying up to the smoother, more professional criminals in hopes of worming his way into their company, their society, their friendship.
    Naw, he hadn’t even made a very good boot-licker. Nor could he go straight, the couple of times he’d tried. The real, legal world had regarded him with the same resigned contempt as the less virtuous. So he’d lived in a tenebrous, mucousy vacuum of his own invention, not quite functioning efficiently in the mental sense and only barely in the physical.
    If only… but no, he stopped himself sharply. He was going to die. Might as well be honest for a change, if only with himself. The misfortunes he’d suffered were his own doing, always his own doing, not the fault of others as he’d forever been telling himself. There had been a few pitying ones who’d tried to help him. Somehow he always managed to screw things up. If nothing else, perhaps he could die being honest with his own thoughts.
    He had heard that dying of thirst was not pleasant.
    The sun went down, and no moon came up. Naturally not, for a world this small could not afford the luxury of a moon. It was a wonder it held onto a breathable atmosphere. Pearson wondered idly if there was life existing on the fine, flat soil around him. Plants, maybe. He’d come down too fast and messily to spend time on such details. Since he was unable to turn his head, he could do no more than wonder.
    Air rippled across him, a cool night breeze, pleasant after the mild, hazy heat of day. He felt it keenly on his face. The rest of his body’s external receptors were dead. It was possible he’d suffered severe burns. If so, he couldn’t react to them. In that respect the paralysis was a blessing. He knew that other parts of his body were functioning, though. He could smell himself.
    When the sun rose again he was still wide awake. He estimated this world’s day at three to four hours, followed by a night of equal duration. The information was of no practical use, but such speculation helped keep his mind busy. He was slowly adjusting to his situation. It’s said the human mind can adjust to anything.
    After a while he discovered the thought of death no longer bothered him. It would be a relief of sorts. No more running; from others, from his pitiful self. No one would grieve over him. No one would miss him. By his absence he would spare others the infection of his presence. The first hints of thirst, faint but unmistakable, took possession of his throat.
    Short days passed and a few clouds appeared. He’d never paid any attention to clouds and little to the weather. Now he had time and reason to study both. He could see nothing else. It occurred to him he might be able to use his one functioning arm to turn his head and thus vary his line of sight. But when he tried, he found the arm would not respond sufficiently to carry out the complex maneuver.
    Odd, the emotions. He discovered that the chance his one working limb might be becoming paralyzed frightened him more than the certain onslaught of death.
    Clouds continued to gather above him. He regarded them indifferently. Rain might prolong his life a few earthly days, but eventually he’d starve. The concentrates in his suit pack could keep him alive for months, probably longer considering his lack of activity. But they might as well have been vaporized with the ship. He couldn’t reach them.
    His mind speculated on possible methods of suicide. If his arm would respond and there was a sharp piece of metal nearby, a scrap of ship, he might cut his throat. If… if…
    It did rain. Gently and steadily, for an entire half day. His open mouth caught enough to sate him. The clouds passed and shattered, and the distant sun returned.