by Jerry
“But what do we know about the green one?” Joe asked.
The ship had been here for three months, studying the world, sending down probes, finding a breathable, oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. There was an isolated, equatorial mountain down on the planet, the peak of which had been flattened and sterilized with a single clean fusion bomb. The first landing by a manned shuttle had been made there. A base camp would soon be set up . . .
Joe stopped listening. He was distracted by his physical sensations. The medicine was burning out the cotton in his insides.
No one had bothered to turn the lights back on. In the huge window, the stars wheeled by. Never in his life had Joe seen stars like that: shining shoals of them, laced with dark rifts and ropes. Joe abruptly asked, “Catharin, what did you mean ‘on and on’ ?”
Silence fell. Catharin looked away.
“What year is it?”
Atlanta said slowly, “It’s the year thirty-two ten.”
Joe Toronto nearly fainted. From before the beginning of the starflight, he remembered the projected time limit for stasis, how fantasically overlong it had sounded, how absurdly millennial: one thousand years. But the flight had taken one hundred and seventeen years more than a millennium. They had gone a solid 10 percent over the purported safe limit.
By now, the cells in his body had sustained irreversible damage. The molecules were hurt. With physiological consequences that might prove to be unpleasant. And possibly fatal.
Joe felt sick.
The ship shrank as Joe watched through a porthole. As the shuttleplane pulled away, more and more of her came into view, a huge sphere with relatively few lights near her north pole. Those few lights represented the habitat of more than one thousand awakened people. Mostly dark and dormant, the ship was an enormous Earth egg, Joe thought.
Three months of labor lay between his wake-up day and the present moment. Never in his life on Earth had he worked so hard. And never had he struggled against a chronically unhealthy body. But the damned stasis fever refused to go away. His months’ work now seemed as desperate and brief as a night full of bad dreams. He was going down at last: one brief descent and he would arrive at Unity Base—and at the cusp of the future.
Settling back into his seat with a sigh, he glanced at his one fellow passenger.
“Dr. Toronto!” said Wing. “Your health has finally returned?”
“No,” Joe grunted. “But I need to be at the base.”
Wing continued, “How unfortunate! But I suppose that your research can’t wait any longer, stasis fever or none.”
Joe grimly smiled out of the cabin window.
From the cockpit, the shuttleplane’s pilot chimed in, “We’ve all got a touch of stasis fever!”
“Including you?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, but it’s clearing up. Don’t worry.”
The plane angled down from the ship’s orbit and streaked across the planet’s nightside. With a blue splash of radiance, the hurricane moon rolled up from the horizon. Ironic, Joe thought, cosmically ironic that the diligent autopilot had brought the Ship to a solar system where the habitable zone held not one but three planets.
Joe turned toward Wing. “Haven’t I heard your name in connection with the Third Planet Option?”
“Possibly so,” Wing said modestly. “I am no xenobiologist. only a botanist who has specialized in the study of ferns. But I think that this world is unsafe for us to colonize—even if we bum bare places in which to settle.”
Holocaustic site preparation. Joe did not intend for that particular future to come to pass.
Wing continued. “The Third Planet, though, is barren and lifeless already. When we left the Solar System, Mars was being terraformed with success; this one would turn out more nicely.”
“That’s not saying a whole lot!” interjected the pilot. “Secure your belts, gentlemen.”
The bulk of the planet swelled. Joe suddenly noticed how the nightside looked. The big seamoon’s light stained the dark world, splashed vast splotches and streaks of cobalt across the topography.
With an initial tremor that offended his stomach, the shuttleplane penetrated thicker atmosphere. Soon the plane shook. G-forces punched at his guts. Cursing the fever, he hoped that the anti-nausea drugs would do their job. A fiery friction mist swirled beyond his window.
Finally the ride smoothed, to Joe’s relief. The window filled with the red light of a sun on the horizon. Beyond that cataract of light, he could barely discern daylit landscape hurtling by below. Eyes watering, he looked away. On the other side of the cabin. Wing sat glued to his window like a schoolboy on a field trip.
“Setting sun ahead!” the pilot sang out. “We’re flying from east to west. Present altitude two miles. Welcome to Westpark!”
“What?”
“A nickname for this world,” Wing supplied. “West—because that word has romantic, adventurous connotations. For Westerners.” Wing sounded sour. “Some of the expedition members say that this world reminds them of a park.”
“Huh? Why?” said Joe, genuinely surprised.
“Because it seems to be all trees and lakes, mild weather, gentle topography.
and no animals.” Wing leaned closer to make himself audible over the air noise.
Joe had seen the reports that came up from Unity Base, but he had not paid attention to the emotional footnotes, the human reactions on the part of the expedition team members. But now it would be useful to know how they felt about the planet. “No sign of animals—how do people feel about that?” Joe asked innocently.
“Mmmm. Disappointed, on the whole! Hopes are high for discovering large creatures in the seas.”
It wasn’t technically true that Westpark seemed to have no animals. The world harbored plenty of animal biomass. Consisting, in the words of the microbiologist Srivastava, of “slugs, bugs, and crud.” Invertebrates, insects, but above all else, microbes. “Such lovely crud!” Srivastava had exclaimed. By that, he meant that the microbial ecology was at least as elaborate and extensive as Earth’s, and exotic in many respects. Srivastava was the happiest scientist on the ship.
“Thus this world is not a park at all,” Wing was saying. “There are no birds, no squirrels, no butterflies, and none of the flora which evolve together with the higher and more active animal life. Westpark has no flowers.”
“S’OK,” said the pilot. “We brought our own! Be ready for a big turn coming up, fellows.”
“What about those slugs?” Toronto asked Wing.
Wing shrugged. “Large enough to have acquired a nickname. They are called zucchini slugs.”
“But not anybody’s idea of interesting animal life, eh?”
Adjusting its bite on the air around it, the shuttleplane turned back toward nightfall and moonlight. The red light in Joe’s porthole faded. His stomach disintegrated.
The pilot spoke on the radio, apparently addressing Unity Base. “Coming in on scenic route one. Over.” To his passengers he said, “The Third Planet doesn’t look very inviting compared to what’s down there.”
“We are not invited,” Wing said sharply.
Joe had already seen the land around Unity Base, on televison, and had listened to explanations of its every feature, to the point of surfeit. He half-watched the expanding landscape as the plane descended. Shallow lakes were strewn across a plain. Anaerobic bacteria tinted the lakes red and purple and chartreuse, like puddles of tempera paint. Westpark indeed, he thought, an asinine nickname—yet one which might mitigate against holocaust.
East of the anaerobic lakes, the land got higher and drier, a rumpled rug, its dark green nap worn and bare in places. Rain showers dotted the slight hills in the distance ahead. Taller than the other hills, Unity Mountain lifted its head above the showery clouds. It was not much of a mountain by Earth standards.
“Look at the mountaintop,” Wing said gloomily. “Even from here, you can see the absence of vegetation where we blasted the peak flat. This world suffers
its first wound from the devices of mankind.”
Flying too high and fast for a landing, the plane banked instead. Joe guessed that their path would consist of circling the mountain a time or two, low enough to get an eyeful of scenery. Wing reattached himself to his window to take in the view.
Joe gritted his teeth and told his stomach to lie still. At this point, that organ was affected by more than fever: he had begun to anticipate meeting the expedition team at Unity Base. Few in number, they included a good third of the colony’s leaders—the most healthy and vigorous third, at that. In the next hour or so, with his words and his science, he intended to chart the future of the colony.
Disengaging his briefcase from the safety rack, he clutched it, pressed it against his knotting and squirming stomach. He had spent three months, and possibly what had been left of his health after the starflight, to reach this hour.
Wing’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Look at the roots of the mountain! I have not seen that before—the vegetation looks maroon, like wine. That is the zone of dusk, I think. The red light of sunset and the blue light of the moon, making a wine-dark bath around the feet of the mountain,” he rhapsodized.
“But the mountaintop—it is still sunlit. There is iron oxide in that bare soil. And now it looks so red and raw,” Wing said softly.
Joe grunted.
“Hey, we can make some grass grow over that!” the pilot said defensively. The plane swooped below the level of the mountain and banked. “We haven’t exactly had time for landscaping!”
“Shut up and fly!” Joe told him.
Wing said half to himself, “Even these park lovers only understand nature when it is remade by the human hand. Broken and butchered first, and then lovingly remade.”
“This world, as is, appeals to you?” Joe asked.
“Yes . . . I do not see it as a park made for us to find. Its ecosystem is alien yet beautiful. Life is abundant here, and without animal violence, so far,” He smiled slightly. “Perhaps, if we leave this young world to itself, intelligence will arise by less bloody paths than on our world.”
“You’re wrong,” said Joe. “This world isn’t young. It’s old.”
Wing’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
“Life has existed here for eight billion years. Without producing intelligence—without even producing animals. This ecosystem has totally failed to develop higher forms of life.”
“How do you know that?”
With the toe of one long leg, Joe nudged the cockpit door. It clicked shut. The pilot did not need to hear this. “They’ve generated a hell of a lot of data down there at the base. And it’s all been telemetered to my lab on the ship. So—my research has been going at full tilt for three months now.”
“And why has this been kept secret?” Wing demanded.
“Politics.” Joe grinned thinly. “This morning, on behalf of my committee, I made a formal recommendation to the colonial government. I’m going down to Unity Base to deliver my recommendation in person. And to explain the findings that support that recommendation.” He tapped his briefcase. “I think most of the expedition team will be happy to hear what I have to say.”
“May I ask what is your recommendation?” Wing said tensely.
Joe answered, “To colonize this world, without extraordinary precautions.”
“No!” Plainly, Wing was appalled. “But you are a biologist! A molecular biologist, who should know about invisible biological danger! How can you advocate such a careless approach to an alien world?!”
“Yes, there are microbes here,” Joe countered. “But they are characterized by two things: specific adaptation to plants, and slow activity including rate of mutation. We, on the other hand, intruders that we are, have our own, exquisitely mutable terrestrial microbes. And razor-sharp immune systems—compared to those of the native organisms.” Joe gestured breezily. “On the molecular level, things happen slowly here compared with Earth.”
“You are certain?”
“Believe me, the data are convincing. Then there’s the fact that we brought science with us—in particular, a highly advanced level of molecular biology and genetic engineering. State-of-the-art labs, top-notch doctors and scientists. So, I guarantee you. we can outrun and outfight the native microorganisms!”
He decided to let that sink in for a while. Glancing out of the window, he saw clouds and one thunderhead in the sky around them. The thunderhead, not very much like the ominous anvils of Earth, looked pink and pudgy.
“How can you reach such conclusions when you have not even been down there?” Wing demanded. “You have no first-hand knowledge of the planet!”
“Not necessary. I work with a computer—massage the data and make models to account for it. I’m a scientist, not a naturalist!”
“Is it not enough for your science to conquer a lifeless world?” said Wing, flushed with anger. “Is it so much better to conquer a living one?”
“You’d rather see it burned? Believe me, your Third Planet movement doesn’t stand a chance. But a lot of people—such as our pilot friend there—are going to welcome my recommendation. If you pull with me, we may—barely—swing the balance away from local holocaust!”
Evidently Wing would not be turned into an ally so easily. “A plague on both your houses,” Wing said bitterly.
The plane curved around the side of the mountain. In the dusky sky, the seamoon rolled by, shining blue and bright as a beacon.
On the mountain below, in the maroon dusk zone, Joe thought that he saw a river: a trace of water running down the densely vegetated slopes.
And then for an instant it looked like blood, a blood-red trickle from the blasted mountaintop. The brief vision jolted him.
The light did it. Light from a sun redder than Sol, setting, mixed with the big blue moon’s light. Such a dusk the human eye had never known before. The eye did not know how to interpret it. That, plus the stasis fever and the guilt that Wing was trying to disseminate, had made him see blood on the mountain. Clammy sweat beaded on his forehead.
“I do not dispute your science,” said Wing. “Perhaps we have the knowledge and the might to make ourselves at home here. But we do not have the right!”
“We reached the stars,” Joe said shortly. “That gives us the right.”
The plane started to climb. The last of the energy of dropping out of space had been burned off; they felt the engines kick in powerfully. Presumably they were climbing toward Unity Base to land, the scenic tour mercifully over.
“Can you open the cockpit door?” said Wing urgently. “Tell this character to stop showing off. We are flying too close to the mountainside for safety!”
Joe started to reach for the door, but as he did he glanced out through the porthole. He froze. The storm loomed over the plane now, a mass of cloud standing on a thick leg of precipitation. Lightening flickered in its belly.
They hit the fringes of the thunder-head’s rains and winds. The plane quivered. Joe sank back and pressed the briefcase against his quaking stomach.
With a sick fascination he watched the storm. The cloud and its rain still did not look as violent as the storms of Earth. But they looked wrong, the thunderhead misshapen, too smooth and not puffy enough, the rain that issued from it flushed with a maroon color. He stared fixedly and tried to convince himself of the simple meterological nature of the phenomenon.
Instead, in the alien light, Joe suddenly saw the clouds as a bleeding mass: vast flesh mangled beyond recognition. Vast wounds spurted blood. Rains turned into streams of blood. The gory rain spattered the plane’s windows. Joe flinched.
Incredibly, so did the plane.
The plane veered sharply away from the rain. The mountain leaned over them. Wing cried, “No!” Now the plane veered the other way. But a down-draft lowered on the plane like an invisible fist. The plane dropped abruptly.
The plane twitched as the pilot fought to regain altitude and control. It was too late. The plane’s wing grazed
a treetop with a grinding scratch. The plane twisted, throwing Joe against the straps of his seat belt. Clear water streamed on the porthole glass. And then a hell of noise and violent motion broke loose. Cracking pain seized his left shoulder. In agony, he struggled, caught in a contorted position. He blacked out.
Joe phased back into consciousness aware, only aware, of horrible pain in his shoulder. Joe cursed the pain until it backed off.
Curled up on sloping ground, he felt the roughness of dirt and duff under him. He began to notice a kind of vague light, a twilight, around him. Propping up on his right elbow, he saw one, two, three dark blue tree trunks not far away, and then, downhill, a steaming metallic ruin. He stared incredulously.
Wing emerged from the ruined plane and hurried uphill. “How do you feel?” Wing crouched beside him.
“Godawful,” he mumbled. “Something’s fractured. Can’t use my left arm. Head hurts, too.” With his right hand, he explored his scalp. A cut: his fingers came away bloody at the tips. “What happened?”
“I do not know why we crashed,” Wing said shakily. “The plane ended on its left side. Where you were. I managed to pull you out.”
“The pilot?”
“The nose of the plane hit the mountain first. He died.” Wing bowed his head.
Rain began falling. It came down almost soundlessly, dripped off Joe’s hair. Meanwhile, the pain in his shoulder eased to a tolerable level. Joe felt his left hand stinging. To examine it, he had to use his other hand; the left would not turn on its own. He discovered a nasty scratch. Both hands were streaked with soft black organic soil. He shuddered.
Wing said faintly, “I got him out of the plane just in time to give last rites.”
“What?!”
“Last rites.” Head still bowed down. Wing sighed. “I am a priest, of the kind who has a secular profession too.”
“Well, if it comes to it, don’t try that with me!”
Wing looked up incredulously. “You are not a believer?”
“I’m an atheist!”
“Perhaps you should reconsider that,” Wing said sharply.