by Jack Vance
“Atmosphere!” cried the cartographer. The meteorologist looked up in interest. “Mean temperature-—twenty-four degrees!”
Bemisty came to look, and measured the gravity himself. “One and one-tenth normal..He motioned to the navigator, who needed no more to compute for a landing.
Bemisty stood watching the disk of the planet in the viewplate. “There must be something wrong with it. Either the Kay or ourselves must have checked a hundred times; it’s directly between us.”
“No record of the planet, Bemisty,” reported the librarian, burrowing eagerly among his tapes and pivots. “No record of exploration; no record of anything.”
“Surely it’s known the star exists?” demanded Bemisty with a hint of sarcasm.
“Oh, indeed—we call if Maraplexa, the Kay call it Melliflo. But there is no mention of either system exploring or developing.”
“Atmosphere,” called the meteorologist, “methane, carbon dioxide, ammonia, water vapor. Unbreathable, but Type 6-D—potential.”
“No chlorophyll, haemaphyll, blusk, or petradine absorption,” mut-
Jack Vance 23 1
tered the botanist, an eye to the spectrograph. “In short—no native vegetation.”
“Let me understand all this,” said Bemisty. “Temperature, gravity,
pressure okay?”
“Okay.”
“No corrosive gas?”
“None.”
“No native life?”
“No sign.”
“And no record of exploration, claim or development?”
“None.”
“Then,“ said Bemisty triumphantly, “we’re moving in.” To the radios man: “Issue notice of intent. Broadcast to all quarters, the Archive Station. From this hour, Maraplexa is a Blue Star development!”
The Blauelm slowed, and swung down to land. Bemisty sat watching
with Berel the play'girl.
“Why—why— why!” Blandwick the navigator argued with the cat' tographer. “Why have not the Kay started development?”
“The same reason, evidently, that we haven’t; we look too far
afield.”
“We comb the fringes of the galaxy,” said Berel with a sly side^glance
at Bemisty. “We sift the globular clusters.”
“And here,“ said Bemisty, ruefully, “a nearmeighbor to our own star—a world that merely needs an atmosphere modification—a world we
can mold into a garden!”
“But will the Kay allow?” Blandwick put forth.
“What may they do?”
“This will come hard to them.”
“So much the worse for the Kay!”
“They will claim a prior right.”
“There are no records to demonstrate.”
“And then—”
Bemisty interrupted. “Blandwick, go croak your calamity to the play^girls. With the men at work, they will be bored and so will listen to
your woe.”
“I know the Kay,” maintained Blandwick. “They will never submit to what they will consider a humiliation—a stride ahead by Blue Star.
“They have no choice; they must submit,” declared Berel, with the laughing recklessness that originally had called her to Bemisty s eye.
“You are wrong,” cried Blandwick excitedly, and Bemisty held up his
hand for peace.
“We shall see, we shall see.”
Presently, Bufco—the radioman—brought three messages. The first, from Blue Star Central, conveyed congratulations; the second,
from the Archive Station, corroborated the discovery; the third, from Kerrykirk, was clearly a hasty improvisation. It declared that the Kay System had long regarded Maraplexa as neutral, a no-man’s-land between the two Systems; that a Blue Star development would be unfa- vorably received.
Bemisty chuckled at each of the three messages, most of all at the last. “The ears of their explorators are singing; they need new lands even more desperately than we do, what with their fecund breeding.”
“Like farrowing pigs, rather than true men,” sniffed Berel.
‘They’re true men if legend can be believed. We’re said to be all stock of the same planet—all from the same lone world.”
“The legend is pretty, but—where is this world—this old Earth of the fable?”
Bemisty shrugged. “I hold no brief for the myth; and now—here is our world below us.”
“What will you name it?”
Bemisty considered. “In due course we’ll find a name. Perhaps ‘New Earth,’ to honor our primeval home.”
The unsophisticated eye might have found New Earth harsh, bleak, savage. The windy atmosphere roared across plains and mountains; sum light glared on deserts and seas of white alkali. Bemisty, however, saw the world as a diamond in the rough—the classic example of a world right for modification. The radiation was right; the gravity was right; the atmosphere held no halogens or corrosive fractions; the soil was free of alien life, and alien proteins, which poisoned even more effectively than the halogens.
Sauntering out on the windy surface, he discussed all this with Berel. “Of such ground are gardens built,” indicating a plain of loess which spread away from the base of the ship. “And of such hills—” he pointed to the range of hills behind —do rivers come.”
“When aerial water exists to form rain,” remarked Berel.
“A detail, a detail; could we call ourselves ecologists and be deterred by so small a matter?”
“1 am a play-girl, no ecologist—”
“Except in the largest possible sense.”
I can not consider a thousand billion tons of water a detail.”
Bemisty laughed. “We go by easy stages. First the carbon dioxide is sucked down and reduced; for this reason we sowed standard 6-D Basic vetch along the loess today.”
“But how will it breathe? Don’t plants need oxygen?”
From the Blauelm , a cloud of brown-green smoke erupted, rose in a greasy plume to be carried off downwind. “Spores of symbiotic lichens: Type Z forms oxygen-pods on the vetch. Type RS is non-photosyn-
thetic—it combines methane with oxygen to make water, which the vetch uses for its growth. The three plants are the standard primary unit for worlds like this one.”
Berel looked around the dusty horizon. “I suppose it will develop as you predict—and I will never cease to marvel.”
“In three weeks, the plain will be green; in six weeks, the sporing and seeding will be in full swing; in six months, the entire planet will be forty feet deep in vegetation, and in a year, we’ll start establishing the ultimate ecology of the planet.”
“If the Kay allow.”
“The Kay cannot prevent; the planet is ours.”
Berel inspected the burly shoulders, the hard profile. “You speak with masculine profile. “You speak with masculine positivity, where every' thing depends and stipulates from the traditions of the Archive Station. I have no such certainty; my universe is more dubious.”
“You are intuitive, I am rational.”
“Reason,” mused Berel, “tells you the Kay will abide by the Archive laws; my intuition tells me they will not.”
“But what can they do? Attack us? Drive us off?”
“Who knows?”
Bemisty snorted. “They’ll never dare.”
“How long do we wait here?”
“Only to verify the germination of the vetch, then back to Blue Star.”
“And then?”
“And then—we return to develop the full scale ecology.”
II
On the thirteenth day, Bartenbrock, the botanist, trudged back from a day on the windy loess to announce the first shoots of vegetation. He showed samples to Bemisty—small pale sprigs with varnished leaves at the tip.
Bemisty critically examined the stem. Fastened like tiny galls were sacs in two colors—pale green and white. He pointed these out to Berel. “The green pods store oxygen, the white
collect water.”
“So,” said Berel, “already New Earth begins to shift its atmosphere.”
“Before your life runs out, you will see Blue Star cities along that
plain.”
“Somehow, my Bemisty, I doubt that.”
The headset sounded. “X. Bemisty; Radioman Bufco here. Three ships circling the planet; they refuse to acknowledge signals.”
Bemisty cast the sprig of vetch to the ground. “That’ll be the Kay.”
Berel looked after him. “Where are the Blue Star cities now?”
Bemisty hastening away made no answer. Berel came after, followed
to the control room of the Blauelm , where Bemisty tuned the viewplate. “Where are they?” she asked.
“They’re around the planet just now—scouting.”
“What kind of ships are they?”
“Patrol-attack vessels. Kay design. Here they come now.”
Three dark shapes showed on the screen. Bemisty snapped to Bufco, “Send out the Universal Greeting Code.”
“Yes, Bemisty.”
Bemisty watched, while Bufco spoke in the archaic Universal language.
The ships paused, swerved, settled.
“It looks,” said Berel softly, “as if they are landing.”
“Yes.”
“They are armed; they can destroy us.”
“They can—but they’ll never dare.”
“I don’t think you quite understand the Kay psyche.”
“Do you?” snapped Bemisty.
She nodded. “Before I entered my girl-hood, I studied; now that I near its end, I plan to continue.”
“You are more productive as a girl; while you study and cram your pretty head, I must find a new companion for my cruising.”
She nodded at the settling black ships. “If there is to be more cruising for any of us.”
Bufco leaned over his instrument, as a voice spoke from the mesh. Bemisty listened to syllables he could not understand, though the peremptory tones told their own story.
“What’s he say?”
“He demands that we vacate this planet; he says it is claimed by the
Kay.”
“Tell him to vacate himself; tell him he’s crazy... .No, better, tell him to communicate with Archive Station.”
Bufco spoke in the archaic tongue, the response crackled forth.
“He is landing. He sounds pretty firm.”
Let him land; let him be firm! Our claim is guaranteed by the Archive Station!” But Bemisty nevertheless pulled on his head-dome, and went outside to watch the Kay ships settle upon the loess, and he winced at the energy singeing the tender young vetch he had planted.
There was movement at his back; it was Berel. “What do you do here?” he asked brusquely. “This is no place for play-girls.”
“I come now as a student.”
Bemisty laughed shortly; the concept of Berel as a serious worker seemed somehow ridiculous.
“You laugh,” said Berel. “Very well, let me talk to the Kay.”
“You!”
“I know both Kay and Universal.”
Bemisty glared, then shrugged. “You may interpret.”
The ports of the black ship opened; eight Kay men came forward. This was the first time Bemisty had ever met one of the alien system face-to-face, and at first sight he found them fully as bizarre as he had expected. They were tall spare men, on the whole. They wore flowing black cloaks; the hair had been shorn smooth from their heads, and their scalps were decorated with heavy layers of scarlet and black enamel.
“No doubt,” whispered Berel, “they find us just as unique.”
Bemisty made no answer, having never before considered himself unique.
The eight men halted, twenty feet distant, stared at Bemisty with curious, cold, unfriendly eyes. Bemisty noted that all were armed.
Berel spoke; the dark eyes swung to her in surprise. The foremost responded.
“What’s he say?” demanded Bemisty.
Berel grinned. “They want to know if I, a woman, lead the expedition.”
Bemisty quivered and flushed. “You tell them that I, Explorator Bemisty, am in full command.”
Berel spoke, at rather greater length than seemed necessary to convey his message. The Kay answered.
“Well?”
“He says we’ll have to go; that he bears authorization from Kerrykirk to clear the planet, by force if necessary.”
Bemisty sized up the man. “Get his name,” he said, to win a moment or two.
Berel spoke, received a cool reply.
“He’s some kind of a commodore,” she told Bemisty. “I can’t quite get it clear. His name is Kallish or Kallis....”
“Well, ask Kallish if he’s planning to start a war. Ask him which side the Archive Station will stand behind.”
Berel translated. Kallish responded at length.
Berel told Bemisty, “He maintains that we are on Kay ground, that Kay colonizers explored this world, but never recorded the exploration. He claims that if war comes it is our responsibility.”
“He wants to bluff us,” muttered Bemisty from the comer of his mouth. “Well, two can play that game.” He drew his needle-beam, scratched a smoking line in the dust two paces in front of Kallish.
Kallish reacted sharply, jerking his hand to his own weapon; the others in his party did likewise.
Bemisty said from the side of his mouth, “Tell ’em to leave—take off back to Kerrykirk, if they don’t want the beam along their legs....”
Berel translated, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. For answer, Kallish snapped on his own beam, burned a flaring orange mark in front of Bemisty.
Berel shakily translated his message. “He says for us to leave.”
Bemisty slowly burned another line into the dust, closer to the black-shod feet. “He’s asking for it.”
Berel said in a worried voice, “Bemisty, you underestimate the Kay! They’re rock-hard—stubborn—”
“And they underestimate Bemisty!”
There was quick staccato talk among the Kay; then Kallish, moving with a jerky flamboyance, snapped down another flickering trench almost at Bemisty’s toes.
Bemisty swayed a trifle, then setting his teeth, leaned forward.
“This is a dangerous game,” cried Berel.
Bemisty aimed, spattered hot dust over Kallish’s sandals. Kallish stepped back; the Kay behind him roared. Kallish, his face a saturnine grinning mask; slowly started burning a line that would cut across Bemisty’s ankles. Bemisty could move back—or Kallish could curve aside his beam...
Berel sighed. The beam spat straight, Bemisty stood rock-still. The beam cut the ground, cut over Bemisty’s feet, cut on.
Bemisty stood still grinning. He raised his needle-beam.
Kallish turned on his heel, strode away, the black cape flapping in the ammoniacal wine.
Bemisty stood watching; a taut shape, frozen between triumph, pain and fury. Berel waited, not daring to speak. A minute passed. The Kay ships rose up from the dusty soil of New Earth, and the energy burnt down more shoots of the tender young vetch....
Berel turned to Bemisty; he was stumbling; his face was drawn and ghastly. She caught him under the armpits. From the Blauelm came Blandwick and a medic. They placed Bemisty in a litter, and conveyed him to the sick-ward.
As the medic cut cloth and leather away from the charred bones,
Bemisty croaked to Berel, “1 won today. They’re not done But today—I
won!”
“It cost you your feet!”
“I can grow new feet—” Bemisty gasped and sweat as the medic touched a live nerve “-—I can’t grow a new planet...”
Contrary to Bemisty’s expectations, the Kay made no further landing on New Earth. Indeed, the days passed with deceptive calm. The sun rose, glared a while over the ocher, yellow and gray landscape, sank in a western puddle of greens and reds. The winds slowed; a peculiar calm fell over t
he loess plain. The medic, by judicious hormones, grafts and calcium
transplants, set Bemisty’s feet to growing again. Temporarily he hobbled around in special shoes, staying close to Blauelm.
Six days after the Kay had come and gone, the Beaudry arrived from Blue Star. It brought a complete ecological laboratory, with stocks of seeds, spores, eggs, sperm; spawn, bulbs, grafts; frozen fingerlings, copepods, experimental cells and embryos; grubs, larva, pupae; amoeba, bacteria, viruses; as well as nutritive cultures and solutions. There were also tools for manipulating or mutating established species; even a supply of raw nuclein, unpattemed tissue, clear protoplasm from which simple forms of life could be designed and constructed. It was now Bemisty’s option either to return to Blue Star with the Blauelm , or remain to direct the development of New Earth. Without conscious thought he made his choice; he elected to stay. Almost two-thirds his technical crew made the same choice. And the day after the arrival of the Beaudry , the Blauelm took off for Blue Star.
This day was notable in several respects. It signalized the complete changeover in Bemisty’s life; from Explorator, pure and simple, to the more highly-specialized Master Ecologist, with the corresponding rise in prestige. It was on this day that New Earth took on the semblance of a habitable world, rather than a barren mass of rock and gas to be molded. The vetch over the loess plain had grown to a mottled green-brown sea, beaded and wadded with lichen pods. Already it was coming to its first seed. The lichens had already spored three or four times. There was yet no detectable change in the New Earth atmosphere; it was still C02, methane, ammonia, with traces of water vapor and inert gases, but the effect of the vetch was geometrically progressive, and as yet the total amount of vegetation was small compared to what it would be.
The third event of importance upon this day was the appearance of Kathryn.
She came down in a small spaceboat, and landed with a roughness that indicated either lack of skill or great physical weakness. Bemisty watched the boat’s arrival from the dorsal promenade of the Beaudry , with Berel standing at his elbow.
“A Kay boat,” said Berel huskily.
Bemisty looked at her in quick surprise. “Why do you say that? It might be a boat from Alvan or Canopus—or the Graemer System, or a Dannie vessel from Copenhag.”