Northwest Smith is one of the great adventurers of Science Fiction,one of that group of cool, gray-eyed men who roam the spaceways andprovide much of the inspiration for the legends that are a part of thefolklore of space. Here is Northwest Smith, in a rare moment of peace,in a remarkable vignette, published here by permission of the author.
He had been promising himself this moment for howmany lonely months and years on alien worlds?
Beneath him the cloveredhill-slope was warmin the sun. Northwest Smithmoved his shoulders againstthe earth and closed his eyes,breathing so deeply that thegun holstered upon his chestdrew tight against its strapas he drank the fragrance ofEarth and clover warm in thesun. Here in the hollow ofthe hills, willow-shaded, pillowedupon clover and thelap of Earth, he let hisbreath run out in a long sighand drew one palm across thegrass in a caress like alover's.
He had been promisinghimself this moment for howlong—how many months andyears on alien worlds? Hewould not think of it now.He would not remember thedark spaceways or the redslag of Martian drylands orthe pearl-gray days on Venuswhen he had dreamed of theEarth that had outlawedhim. So he lay, with his eyesclosed and the sunlightdrenching him through, nosound in his ears but the passageof a breeze through thegrass and a creaking of someinsect nearby—the violent,blood-smelling years behindhim might never have been.Except for the gun pressedinto his ribs between hischest and the clovered earth,he might be a boy again,years upon years ago, longbefore he had broken hisfirst law or killed his firstman.
No one else alive nowknew who that boy had been.Not even the all knowing Patrol.Not even Venusian Yarol,who had been his closestfriend for so many riotousyears. No one would everknow—now. Not his name(which had not always beenSmith) or his native land orthe home that had bred him,or the first violent deed thathad sent him down the deviouspaths which led here—hereto the clover hollow inthe hills of an Earth that hadforbidden him ever to setfoot again upon her soil.
He unclasped the hands behindhis head and rolled overto lay a scarred cheek on hisarm, smiling to himself.Well, here was Earth beneathhim. No longer a greenstar high in alien skies, butwarm soil, new clover sonear his face he could seeall the little stems and trefoilleaves, moist earth granularat their roots. An antran by with waving antennaeclose beside his cheek. Heclosed his eyes and drew anotherdeep breath. Better noteven look; better to lie herelike an animal, absorbing thesun and the feel of Earthblindly, wordlessly.
Now he was not NorthwestSmith, scarred outlawof the spaceways. Now hewas a boy again with all hislife before him. There wouldbe a white-columned housejust over the hill, withshaded porches and whitecurtains blowing in thebreeze and the sound ofsweet, familiar voices indoors.There would be a girlwith hair like poured honeyhesitating just inside thedoor, lifting her eyes to him.Tears in the eyes. He layvery still, remembering.
Curious how vividly it allcame back, though the househad been ashes for nearlytwenty years, and the girl—thegirl ...
He rolled over violently,opening his eyes. No use rememberingher. There hadbeen that fatal flaw in himfrom the very first, he knewnow. If he were the boyagain knowing all he knewtoday, still the flaw would bethere and sooner or later thesame thing must have