“Unfortunately,” said Chirico with a wry smile, “Mike happens to be right. We do not know how these—these primitive poltergeists operate. . . . But hell, we have to do something, don’t we?”
“Why not get out of here and touch down somewhere else?” asked Duluth lazily. “Anything for a quiet life.”
Alsdorf withered him with a glance. “And lose the finest platinum deposits we’re ever likely to see?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” drawled Duluth, “but haven’t we already lost ’em?”
Glancing quickly from face to face, Lukas could see that the expedition’s morale had reached a crucial phase. While he personally would have gladly accepted Duluth’s suggestion, for some reason that he could not yet fully understand, he realized that it was psychologically unsound. For the first time in history a space crew had come up against a quasi-human culture—one that was both beyond and below its terrestrial equivalent—and they could not, with self-respect, ignore its challenge. To do so would be to admit that their own sense of superiority was hollow. And Lukas was dimly aware that if human beings were to realize that they could be beaten by a different kind of creature, with a different concept of power, it would be as big a shock as the original discovery that Earth was not the fixed center of the universe.
He looked at the faces of his companions and offered the compromise he had decided upon at the beginning.
“Kurt would like to get tough with the hominids,” he said slowly, “but we agree that we’re not in a position to get tough. Joe suggests pulling up anchor and trying elsewhere. But that is no good, either. Sooner or later this kind of problem will occur again. We have to try and tackle it here. ... I suggest that, tomorrow, three of us— with defensive arms, if it makes you feel better—take the
tractor and pay them a visit. The aim being to try to find a peaceful solution. One thing we do know: the hominids will understand what we are getting at—if they want to understand. If they don’t feel like cooperating over the platinum, well, we’ll have to think again. . . . But this is their territory, and we can’t afford to create a situation that might jeopardize the next space crew to get here.” Chirico made up his mind immediately. “That’s the best idea yet, Mike. If the hominids really are mindreaders, they’ll know we aren’t out for trouble, and they might be willing to meet us. . . . What do you say, Kurt?”
The geophysicist shrugged. “I think they will laugh at us. But I’m willing to try diplomacy—once.”
“It could be interesting,” remarked Duluth. “I’m for it—providing I’m not elected to stay behind and guard the ship. If they can knock off the platinum deposits, they might take it into their nuts to have a crack at vanishing the Poincare.”
“That’s my responsibility,” said Lukas. “You three had better get some sleep while I take the first watch.”
It was late afternoon before the expedition started. Lukas had suggested the delay in case the hominids themselves chose to make a visit. But though a constant watch had been kept on the forest line, no movement had been observed; and it looked as if the hominids were content to rest on their achievements so far.
Alsdorf’s defensive armament consisted of two machine pistols and a box of gas bombs. He stowed himself, the gas bombs, and one machine pistol in the tractor’s observation turret, while Duluth took the other machine pistol below and sat with Chirico, who was the driver.
Lukas came down the ladder to see them off. He exchanged a few last-minute words with Alsdorf, who had decided to ride with the turret hatch open—in case quick action was needed.
“How is the adrenalin, Kurt?”
The geophysicist gave him a thin smile. “I’m not trigger-happy, if that’s what you mean.”
Lukas grinned. “If they start throwing telepathy at you, don’t waste time with the sleep bombs. Get the hell out of there.”
“We’ll see.”
Lukas went to the driver’s compartment. “I’ll call you on the transceiver in fifteen minutes, Joe. Don’t let them pull any rabbits out of your hat.”
Duluth laughed. “Maybe we’ll use a little magic ourselves.”
Chirico waved and switched on the engine. Presently the tractor was lumbering purposefully toward the forest in a dead straight line.
Lukas went back to the navigation deck and settled down to wait and watch. He lit a cigarette and made himself comfortable in the astrodome, thus commanding the view on all sides. There was nothing to be seen. Eventually he realized it was time for the radio check. He climbed down the short ladder and switched the transceiver on.
“Ship to tractor, ship to tractor. Have you made contact yet?”
“Tractor to ship.” Lukas recognized Duluth’s voice. “Tractor to ship. We hit shantytown a couple of minutes ago. Kurt is raising his blood pressure trying to make Masumo understand what he’s talking about. The old son of an ape is playing stupid. Looks as if he’s enjoying it, too. Any developments your end?”
“Dead quiet. I hope it stays that way. ... I’ll leave this set on receive; then you can call me any time.”
“O.K., Mike. This is the picture so far. The old boy wanted to take Kurt into one of those adobe shacks—a bit bigger than the rest. It looks like some kind of council chamber. But Kurt wasn’t having any. So he and Masumo are standing just in front of the tractor. The louder Kurt shouts, the more the old boy seems to like it. At the moment he’s calmly drawing patterns in the sand with a pointed stick. You know, they look like star maps. . . . Jesus, they are star maps! Mike, can you believe this—he’s plotted our course for a Solar deceleration! Now Kurt has really lost his temper. Any moment now he’ll start tossing something. . . . Hey, Kurt! For Chrissake—”
Suddenly Duluth’s voice was cut off. Lukas felt the sweat forming on his forehead. He immediately threw the switch to transmit.
“Ship to tractor! Joe! What’s happened? Are you receiving me?”
There was no background noise—nothing.
Lukas stared dully at the transceiver, trying to work out all possibilities. Mechanical failure was possible, but least likely. Somebody or something had blasted the transmission.
Minutes went by, and nothing happened. Lukas hauled himself up into the astrodome and gazed intently on all sides. The landscape was as empty as ever. He went down and tried the transceiver again, but his calls were unanswered. He tried to decide what to do. But all the plans he devised were blocked by the basic fact that he must not leave the ship unguarded. That would be the final stupidity. Again he tried the transceiver, and again there was no response. He could only wait and hope.
Meanwhile the sun moved slowly down the yellowish sky until it hung over the forest. Mechanically, Lukas swung himself up into the astrodome for the twentieth time and looked around. Then he saw something moving and grabbed the telescope.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. The tractor was halfway across the sand belt, heading straight for the Henri Poincare. Sitting crosslegged in front of its turret, rocking gently with the tractor’s motion and looking like a somnolent toad, was Masumo.
Lukas jumped down from the dome. He knew simultaneously that everything had gone wrong and yet, that somehow it was all right.
Then he heard a voice speak softly in his ear: “Be not afraid, man of the sky-machine. I come in peace.”
Against all reason—even against his will—Lukas laid down the machine pistol he had just picked up, and felt the tension drain out of him. The words had acted on him not as a command but as a compulsion. Calmly he went down the companion ladder and out of the space ship. He stood on the still warm sand, watching the tractor draw near.
It pulled up smoothly, and at the same time Masumo stood up, jumped lightly from the turret, and raised his hand in the customary greeting. On his face was a fixed, bland smile.
Lukas almost ignored him. His attention was riveted to the tractor.
Chirico was sitting at the wheel, stiff as a ramrod, gazing fixedly ahead with a vacancy of expression that seem
ed to suggest a state of hypnosis. Duluth, his eyes open, his brain still working, had slumped on his seat in a catatonic stupor. Alsdorf lay quietly on the floor, curled up in a tight foetal ball.
With a sudden blaze of anger, Lukas turned to Masumo, raising his arm for a crushing blow. Then he saw the expression in the old hominid’s eyes, and his arm dropped impotently to his side.
It was as if the landscape had darkened, as if Masumo had somehow become luminous, as if he had grown taller than the ship. As if his head had suddenly filled the yellow sky.
Lukas gazed at the eyes, fascinated. They became lakes, then whirlpools of infinite depth, drawing him down. Masumo’s smile did not change, his lips did not move, but the voice spoke once more.
It was a calm, quiet voice. And yet, the voice of thunder.
“Man-of-the-sky, you came to my village, and 1 read your heart. I saw there the picture of your machine-made civilization, its dreams of conquest, its nightmares of fear. Your people are but children. We can allow them to play a little longer. But presently they must put away their childish toys. Presently they must learn to take their place as a single world-spirit m the star culture of immortals.
Men live and die. But the racial purpose is beyond time. We of this world had learned to surrender to that purpose, to become one with all world-spirits throughout the vast pattern of stars, before your people could stand upright on two feet.
Someday your race will find itself and freely follow the universal destiny. We, the enlightened ones, whom you have chosen to see only as ignorant savages, will await you. Until then it is our task to see that you do not plunder the stars too much.
Suspecting the reason for your visit, Man-of-the-sky, we tested you and your companions with the rare metals you desire. And thus we learned how far you have yet to travel to reach enlightenment. . . .
You will leave this planet now. When you are voyaging through the dark oceans of the sky, your companions will recover. But neither they nor you will remember these happenings. You will know only that the journey was futile, that the planet was barren of all you sought. . . . Farewell, Man-of-the-sky. May your people reach the ultimate tranquillity in which diverse worlds—greater in number than the sands of the sea—have found their common end.”
Suddenly Masumo seemed to return to his normal stature. He raised his arm once more to Lukas, lightly touched the center of his forehead, then turned and walked slowly away over the sand belt toward the dark line of the forest.
Lukas watched until the hominid was no more than a moving speck. Then, like a remotely controlled automaton, he went to the tractor.
Presently, some time after the sun had set, the Henri Poincare emitted a jet of green flame from its planetary drive. Swiftly it began to climb in a blinding arc until, moving up into the reaches of sunlight again, its path was etched like a bow of burning gold.
In the few seconds before it passed beyond the visible range, it was observed from the surface of Fomalhaut Three—by eyes that were no longer dark and without luster. Eyes that radiated an incomprehensible power, that glowed like twin diamonds, that burned like bright binary stars.
JUDGMENT DAY
I am an old man now, but the memory of that September morning fifty years ago has burned into my brain so that day or night the scene is still alive for me with all the terrible reality of a nightmare. I shall not be sorry to die, because then the memory too will die. And for me that is the only possible meaning of peace.
Sometimes I realize that it is very pleasant here on the farm in this Derbyshire valley. Especially in spring when I have finished the morning stint of weaving and can look forward to spending a long, lazy afternoon sitting in the doorway of my cottage. There is nothing to do then but watch the sunlight slanting over low blue-green hills and listen to the voices of the children at play. And wait until darkness falls. . . .
They are a strange breed, these children of the Dark Age. Their blue eyes are filled with longing and their thoughts are centered not upon the future but on what they regard as the glorious past. The age of heroes, the almost mythical age of powered machines and teeming cities, radio and television, jetcraft and fast cars.
And on clear evenings there are still satellites passing across the sky like bright stars in hurried transit. A few nights ago one of them fell out of orbit and passed through the upper atmosphere, a thin, curved shaft of radiance, until the friction made it explode into a tiny flower of light. And so, perhaps, they will all eventually come down—one by one, until there is nothing left to show that man was once at the very gateway to the stars.
The children like to hear about the satellites. But I think they do not quite believe in them. Or at least, not in the way that I do. As a survivor of the age in which satellites were fired into orbit, I can recognize them for what they are—engines of destruction, awaiting the signal to release their bombs from a button that is no longer there to be pushed. Though some of them—the first ones—are no more than tiny celestial laboratories, perhaps still sending their faint bleep-bleeps down to a deaf world. . . .
For the children, however, the satellites are simply mobile stars—impressive only because they were sent upon their lonely journeys by the Great Ones.
The Great Ones!
It is sad to think that an entire mythology can grow in the space of a single lifetime. Human beings do not seem to be able to live without myths, and perhaps, after all, the myths created from an already shadowy past are merely clouded mirror images of hope for the future. Perhaps the children are creating for themselves some kind of challenge, an ideal that will carry them through this Dark Age into a world where progress will have a clearer objective than racial suicide.
Yet whenever I hear them talk of the Great Ones, I find it hard to suppress a surge of bitter inward laughter. Somehow I manage to keep silent, for it is unwise to disillusion the young. But I cannot help thinking that now there are probably less than ten million people on a planet that once supported nearly four thousand million. And that, to me, is a fitting epitaph for the Great Ones. . . .
I remember them as men—ordinary men in an extraordinary world of their own making. Men with fast brains and slow hearts, with the gift of creation in their dreams and the impulse of destruction in their fingers.
Most of all, I remember that bright September morning when civilization died, and the few terrible days that followed when it seemed as if the human race could no longer survive.
It was a crisp and beautiful morning, with sunlight spreading a gold patina over fields and hills and cities, and with all the strange, exhilarating scents of early autumn drifting lazily across the still air.
I had just been discharged from the hospital after a minor operation. And to me the world was doubly attractive, because after spending two weeks in the restricted cosmos of a general ward, I felt as if I were seeing it for the first time.
Justine, my wife, had come to meet me. We were both especially pleased because I had been discharged in time to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. She had a taxi ready to take me home, and I remember how we quarreled a little even while we were kissing each other, because I wanted to walk through the park and she was convinced that the effort would exhaust me. Eventually I won my point. The morning was too lovely for us to waste any of it riding in a taxi, and we set off arm in arm, walking very slowly because my muscles were still stiff and, although the incision had healed remarkably well, my stomach was still very tender.
After twenty minutes we reached the park. By then the exertion of being upright was beginning to tell on me, so we found a bench where I could sit down and rest for a few minutes. We were not the only ones taking advantage of the sunshine. Here and there babies and small children were romping about, watched indulgently by their mothers, while on the other benches a few old people basked with half-closed eyes as if they had all the time in the world before them.
About two hundred yards away I noticed a small group of people standing in the middle of the carria
geway. They looked as if they were gazing at something on the ground, but I didn’t pay much attention until I saw a figure detach itself from the group and run quickly toward the far end of the park. Somewhere in the distance we heard the incongruously frenzied ring of an ambulance bell.
“There must have been an accident,” said Justine. “Do you think I ought to . .
“No, darling,” I said. “Stay here and look after your own invalid. There are enough people about, and I suppose they’ve done what’s necessary.”
The ambulance had already turned into the broad carriageway at the other end of die park.
“I should hate to have to go into the hospital on a morning like this,” murmured Justine as she watched the ambulance heading toward the little group.
“Hear, hear,” I agreed with some feeling. “Maybe it’s not very serious. I expect some dear old soul has slipped on a banana skin, or something like that.”
But even as I spoke the subtle ordinariness of that lazy autumn morning was crushed like a rose beneath some invisible foot. Suddenly the ambulance swerved from the carriageway and lurched drunkenly across the grass toward a large oak tree. The thud of impact rolled dully through the still air.
“My God! What the hell—” I stopped. A small child—a girl of about seven—who had been playing near our bench suddenly began to scream. But the scream was terminated abruptly by a spasm of projectile vomiting. Her whole body convulsed as the contents of her stomach were thrown up in a thin, pathetic stream.
Justine jumped to her feet and ran toward the child. But she had taken no more than half a dozen steps before the little girl crumpled at the knees and fell onto the grass, her tiny body still shaken by that terrible retching.
By the time I had managed to get to my feet and walk gingerly to where Justine was kneeling by the child, the convulsion had subsided into a peculiar twitching. Justine was loosening the little girl’s frock, which seemed to be rather tight. I tried to kneel down and help her, but there was a sudden stab of pain in my operation scar and I couldn’t.
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