Lucifer Comet (2464 CE)

by Ian Wallace

  Narsua swings her abdomen between her legs, web-shoots Quarfar-Medzok, leaps upon him for the kill….

  The sky-scene faded out. Absorbed, Methuen apprehended the laconic mind-voice of Narsua: There are two of your answers. How he could lead us across the ice, it was that the god Quarfar had traveled to Dora in the body of Dorita and had subsequently entered into Medzok. Quarfar gave Medzok creative knowledge to lead us through and go on from there. But Medzok was inflamed by his own godhead; he became a genocidal maniac. So I ate him.

  She waited while the humans comprehended the last four thought-words and, in varying degrees of trouble, contemplated the bathos of God-Hero Quarfar’s ending.

  Then Zorbin wrily queried: “Did this make you creative, Narsua, and the humans not?”

  On the contrary, sir, there was no such effect. Humans remained creative, nervoi remained logical; it is what is in the breed. But I did acquire Quarfar’s knowledge and skills and perspectives, and these we use logically to bridle human excesses and improve human applications. For example, when the humans chose a Medzok Two, I will not say that we did not inwardly influence their choice.

  But as to Dorita, Captain. She begged leave to return northward in search of Narfar. My sting had terminated her time-capability and blunted her telekinesis; I warned her that she could die en route. She insisted, pointing out that she had learned some skills during our year-long trek. Medzok Two gave her a bag of provisions, a fire-stick and tinder, and a spear, and we blessed her, and she departed. She was a devil, but she had brought us our deliverance.

  Methuen, dull: “Do you know whether she made it?”

  If this interests you. Captain, it will be worth your while to visit the rim of that polar crater before you depart for Erth. Can you take us there please?

  43

  Night of Day One Twenty-Four

  The Farragut went into rapidly decaying Dora-orbit and was down to a hundred kilometers altitude when the planetary limn began to appear above darkside. The eyes of Methuen and Sari panned planetary surface; Zorbin was tight on his instruments, locating and heading for the north pole; Narsua and her aide watched them passively.

  “I have it,” Zorbin announced; “approximately 1,620 kilos at azimuth 249°41‘22*’; I am making for there slowing from 120 kps. Are we low enough?”

  “We are looking,” said Methuen, “for a crater at latitude 87°2′18″ north, longitude 18°39′5″, diameter approximately two kilometers, walled by a circle of sharktooth pinnacles. How distant is that?”

  “We are on the wrong side of Dora, unless we want to cross the pole and come down on the crater from the north. I would ask Queen Narsua whether it would be more advantageous to approach from north or south.”

  Commander, what you are looking for is on the south rim; if you come in from the north, you will first see it across crater, and that will be advantageous.

  “Confirm, Captain?”

  “Confirm. How distant, then?”

  “It will be 787 kilometers beyond the pole on this course, meaning that we are now about a hundred kilometers south of the pole at 25 kps and slowing: at this velocity, we’ll be there in—thirty-two seconds if I hold it.”

  “Keep slowing, Mr. Zorbin, I want to be drifting at no more than a kilometer per minute when we come in on the crater.”

  “Will do, sir; a full minute then, averaging 750 per minute;

  we have crossed the pole, our heading is southward at longitude 18-39-5.”

  Sari stared at Methuen’s face, which was rigid and heavily lined with mouth comers drawn far down toward knotted chin as he fixated the ice-field waste beneath. He said taut: “Drop her to three kilometers above the table-ice, Mr. Zor-bin. And be good enough to ask the scientists to gather in the observation room, I want them all to see the crater where Comet Gladys originated—and whatever else we are going to see there.”

  Having sent the word on intercom, Zorbin consulted his cutichron and reported: “Crater in fourteen seconds, sir; I think I see the—yes, sharktooth ridges dead ahead, north rim. We’ll clear them at less than thirty meters; shall I loft us a bit?”

  “Too late,” Methuen snapped. “We’re there. What’s our speed?”

  “One per minute.”

  “Brake to dead stall!”

  At this nearly motionless drift, they didn’t have to rotate the ship: a short blast from three nose-nozzles did it. They were just past the north rim, gazing down into the great hole which by now was snow-filled so that, from the interior view, only the very tallest teeth were visible, while glacial motion flowed snow-ice over the buried teeth and on downward. …

  When we were there, remarked Narsua, it was jungle way down in, because of a transparent sealant which Narfar had roofed us with. After Dorita penetrated the ceiling, she had to downclimb four kilometers of steep cliffs; when we departed, we had to reverse the process.

  “Madam, is this what you wanted me to see?”

  Only in part; remember that what you are mainly to see is on the south rim almost two kilometers distant.

  His voice was dead. “Mr. Zorbin, kindly pass me the telescanner.” He lifted the twenty-power binocular instrument to his eyes and peered far across the crater.

  He said, “Oh, my, God.” Handing the telescanner to Sari, he ordered Zorbin to move due south at a kilometer per minute and to give the con to the captain as they approached the rim. Then he almost snatched the telescanner from intent Sari and gave it to Zorbin.

  Said the commander, after inspection: “Indeed, B.J., oh my God.”

  Narsua was mind-silent.

  Feathering the ship to a midair standstill a hundred meters short of the south rim, Zorbin murmured, “Take her, Captain.” Personally assuming the controls, Methuen lowered the ship as though in an airshaft until they were almost exactly on a level with the sharktooth-peak on which was raised the ice-mummification of Narfar and Dorita.

  They contemplated the statue. Narfar sat frozen into the gloomy Thinker attitude, chin supported on knuckles, wings drooping behind him. Kneeling on his hunkered-up knees, an emaciated and facially deformed Dorita arm-clutched his neck with her cheek pressed against his cheek; and horror was frozen on her face.

  Had been frozen there during fifty millennia.

  Narsua, behind them: I am sorry, Captain, truly sorry. I know how you feel, and in a blunted way I feel how you feet: the emotions of nervoi are flatter than those of humans, but we do have them. I hope you will come to see it all in terms of larger purposes. It is regrettable that Narfar and his co-humans could not survive to work out their co-destiny with Quarfar’s Medzok-humans and with us; but Narfar and his people are gone, and perhaps in the eyes of some god it is just as well so, because Narfar's people could never have competed with the Medzok line, they would always have been second-rate humans in the Medzok scale of values.

  “However,” Methuen swiftly rebutted, “there are other scales of values.”

  This I do not deny, sir; indeed, I affirm it; and perhaps, in due course and with our help, the Medzokians will begin to see this.

  Meanwhile I say to you, Methuen, Zorbin, Sari—believe Narsua in every respect; trust me, trust my nervoi. Since you three have come into our ken, the modulating interest of nervoi in humans has come to transcend humans on Dora. You Farragut people are the first extra-planetary humans we have encountered since Dorita; you meet us as equals, not scratching our ruffs as the Medzokians do.

  Perhaps we have been servant modulators long enough. That is, continuing as servants, perhaps we need to exercise some degree of leadership by influencing humans toward new ways of looking at aliens and aspirations.

  “Then,” Zorbin suggested, “you are after all now un-creative.”

  However that may be, sir, we respect you, and we will not permit the Dorian humans to do evil to your Erth. Nevertheless, to avoid some mishap, you would be wise to proceed with your plan of erasing the five-forty-six gradient.

  Sari interpolated: “Regrettably, Madam, th
ere is no way for us to destroy the gradient. You have been able to backtime us only by two days. But, as I have advised the captain, the only way for us to kill the gradient would be to start for Erth from a backtime position of two weeks in the past of germinality; and then, taking two weeks for the trip at top drive along the gradient, we could by careful timing touch down on Erth at the same instant when we departed Dora. Thus we would have made an instantaneous passage; it would be a specious simultaneity, but it would have satisfied the physical requirements to erase the gradient. However, as I said, we are only two days back—”

  We are deeper than that. I was able to backtime only two days on the first take; but since then, in a series of passes, / have indeed brought your ship back just two weeks. Captain, l do suggest that you pour on the coal.

  “You surely do not plan to come with us, Narsua?”

  But the two nervoi were no longer there. Neither, as later inspection revealed, were the guardian spiders.

  44

  Into Day One Twenty-Five

  Yet another two hours drifted the Farragut near the eternally frozen couple, while Methuen brooded, always with Sari concernedly hovering. Zorbin was on the controls again: sympathetic with his captain, almost telereceptive, he saw to the languid purposiveness of the ship-drifting.

  Methuen uttered, “I think I want to touch them. Sita, will you join me?” She nodded. “Saul?”

  “I’d better stay here,” said Zorbin. “Apart from holding the ship in position, I’m doing some internal scanning.”

  Clad in warmsuits, Methuen and Sari emerged from the entry-exit hatch and, using shoulder thrusters, wavered twenty meters to shark-tooth tip. Considerately Sari stood apart while Methuen went to the statue of paleolithic ice. He stood in front of it, peering into the melancholy flattened face of Narfar whose eyes were glazed-open as though he were contemplating the crater; dwelt on the flattened profile of Dorita who timelessly clutched her Narfar gazing into the god’s unresponsive face.

  Going close to them, Methuen removed a warmglove, touched Narfar’s cheek, lingered on a frigid Dorita cheek. He stepped back, replacing the glove. He contemplated them.

  Abruptly he lofted toward the ship-hatch. Shrugging, Sita lofted after him. He paused outside the hatch, looked down, radio-spoke: “I didn’t mean to abandon you, Sita—”

  Tenderly she replied, “I know that, you need no excuses.” He hovered while she preceded him into the frigate.

  Out of warmsuit and onto bridge, with Sari silently following, he demanded of Zorbin: “Saul, are they genuine?”

  Zorbin replied: “They are long-frozen organic; I can’t imagine why their shapes have stayed so clear so long, they should be encrusted with ice accretions.”

  “But, Saul,” Methuen murmured, “you forget that their fifty thousand years here have passed in a matter of days.” And, picking up an intercom transmitter, placidly he said, “Now hear this, Captain Methuen speaking. The scientists aboard will surely wish to disembark long enough to inspect this double ice-statue which has turned out to be the true frozen selves of Narfar and Dorita Lanceo. There are sufficient warmsuits with shoulder-thrust near the entry exit hatch. I regret that my officers and crew must confine themselves to viewports. Scientists, it is now 2301 ship’s time; we depart Dora at 2400 hours, be sure you are aboard. Do not collect specimens; repeat, do not collect specimens. That is all.”

  During their hundred days here, happily Dora had remained on Erthside of Saiph. They picked up the gradient and launched themselves along it at a thrust calculated to bring them just inside Pluto-orbit in a bit over twelve days, assuming no delaying accidents; that would leave them nearly two days to pick their way through the complexities of Sol System and touch down on Erth at precisely the same date* moment when they had departed Medzok City. The pseudo-instantaneous trip in backtime (where in fact raw space was fueling them normally) would presumably erase the five-forty-six gradient; and should there be a delaying accident en route, the gradient at least would have been erased to that point.

  When they had it all under control and rolling, it was after 0200 hours; Methuen and Zorbin had been up since 0600 the prior day. Zorbin turned to Methuen with a wan grin: “I’m for sacking-out, B.J. What do you think?”

  Methuen was bone-weary; but also, he was puzzled about his own mental-emotional apathy. He waved a languid hand: it was affirmation. Zorbin, via intercom, summoned the duty-lieutenant. When the officer arrived, Zorbin arose and worked his way off the bridge.

  Methuen turned to Sari, who sat watching him. “Sack-time for you, too, Sita. Want a drink first?”

  She suggested, “We might have one in your cabin.”

  “We would disturb Zorbin. How about one in your cabin?” “Zorbin is in my cabin.”

  He stared at her. She spread hands. He worked his way to his feet and plodded on ahead of her.

  Over her drink, she watched Methuen in another chair. Still he was apathetic.

  She told her drink: “Obviously I am available, but I don’t get aroused until something is begun. And I don’t get mad if nothing is begun. I just sort of thought you might need a woman around tonight, although I have to admit that as a woman I’m no Semiramis. Well, we can just talk business or anything else, if you like, just so tonight you have a female on the premises, because—well, you know.”

  He considered her: until recently, he had thought of her only as a crisp scientist. Had she thought of him only as a crisp captain? He acknowledged to himself that her presence was some kind of gift, no strings; perhaps his most graceful response would be the response that he wanted to give— to accept with relaxed pleasure, to let her ease him physically …

  He blurted: “B.J. means Barathra Jeroboam.” And seethed. She considered him, feeling somehow semi-wifely in a comfortable way. “Thank you, B.J., that was generous. Please lead—or do nothing.”

  “I’m trying to get my head on straight.”

  “Say what you like. I will listen.”

  “I’ve been trying to decide which one of the brothers, Quarfar or Narfar, was more nearly in the soul-image of Lucifer.”

  “Ah.”

  “And I think I have that one straight now, Sita—”

  “My way?”

  “Probably. But there’s more. I thought I was in love with Dorita. No: flatly, I was in love with her. But when she took off with Narfar, I guess my subconscious accepted what my conscious wouldn’t.”

  “That is a sort of situation not unknown to me personally.” “This is the thing, Sita: when I saw them frozen there, what I felt was—cosmic pity. Frozen together there, without any consciousness of being together. Worst of all, Narfar could never have known that she came back to him—and she knew that he couldn’t know … Christ, Sita, is that what hell is?” He broke off and drained his drink.

  She went and filled for both of them. She suggested then: “Maybe there’s another dimension for those two.”

  “Do you have any evidence, Doctor?”

  “None that is scientific. But none against the possibility, either.”

  “I keep thinking that those two nuts ought to have a chance to learn how to live with each other … Ah!” He broke off, poured down all of his second drink, stood. “I’m for the sack. Want me to undress in the head?”

  “Don’t bother.” Already she was shedding clothes; before his shirt was off, she was nude as a dark skinny herring and heading for Zorbin’s bunk, remarking: “I always sleep raw; hope you don’t mind.”

  “Be my good guest. I wear pajama pants, it’s a ship-habit because of the fast emergencies that come up. Come to think of it, what’s to come up now? Emergencies, I mean—” Dropping his shorts, he went raw to his bunk, sliding under the sheet which was all that he needed in the controlled cabin temperature. “Ready for lights-out, Sita?”

  “ ’Night, B J.”

  Silence.

  He, low: “Why are you with me?”

  “Sometimes a new woman’s company helps mollify the stin
g of a woman-loss. I mean, with or without games, just the company.”

  “Please know that you are helping.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Dark silence.

  He, low: “I guess maybe you could help me even more.”

  She, low: “Dear B.J.—I am one who must always be free.”

  He, low: “Dear Sita—I think I too am one who must always be free.”

  She, very low: “Your place, or mine?”

  Rigid-cold, immobile, squatting eternally unblinking, wide-open eyes filled with a mountainous infinity of snow-ice….

  Distantly faint help-cry: Narfar!

  Desperation: she is coming, she needs my help, she is freezing down there somewhere, no use, I cannot move, cannot even blink, am unable to send a replying mind-call….

  Closer: Narfar! Help me!

  I see her down there: a speck laboring up the ice-mountain. She will fall, I must fly down and help her. I am bursting my soul trying: no wing-response, nothing….

  Very close: AJar far, I managed a space-jump, I’m making it, I’ll be with you, I love you!

  Is Quarfar the devil who has awakened me to face this ultimate misery? Quarfar, why did you not leave me asleep? Sure, I know, you went through something like this on a mountain with vultures eating the liver of your soul—but you had no Dorita coming back to you, and you impotent. ..

  She appears just in front of me on top of the tooth, gadzyook-swaddled, arms dangling but hands twitching to touch me, and pours out her heart: Narfar, I know now what I want, it is you I want, just you and nothing else, to be with you and help you always, that is my life-meaning, every other meaning was vain, there is no other meaning . ..

  Narfar?

  NARFAR—

  She blazes to her feet, sheds her gadzyook fur, sheds all her clothing. Running to me, she leaps onto me. kneeling on my knees, embracing my neck, crowding her cold cheek against my icy cheek….