A party of six Hams was gathered in the courtyard. They were all squat, burly men. The Hams wore their peculiar wrappings of skin, tied in place by bits of thong or vegetable rope, not shaped or sewn. They carried weapons, spears and clubs on loops of rope or tucked into their belts, and their broad elliptical heads were shaded by hats of woven grass.
One of them was Thomas, the man who had rescued Malenfant and Nemoto from the wild Runners in the first place.
Malenfant couldn’t figure out why the Hams had gotten the lens to him (or come to that how they knew he would be interested). Maybe they just like the story, Malenfant thought, the guy who flies to another world in search of his wife. Just like the American taxpayer. Or maybe there are aspects of these quasi people none of us will ever understand.
When Malenfant approached to thank him, Thomas shook his hand, an oddly delicate gesture he must have learned from the stranded English, taking care not to crush Malenfant’s bones. But, when Malenfant questioned him away from the others, he would say nothing of where he had found Emma’s lens.
Two Hams opened the gates of the stockade, and the little party formed up. McCann was to ride in a kind of litter — ‘What a Portugoose would call a machila, I’m told.’ The litter, just a platform of wood, was to be borne by two Hams, and McCann had offered the same to Malenfant and Nemoto.
Malenfant had refused.
Nemoto had been sceptical. “You are sentimental, Malenfant. After a few hours you may long for a ride. And besides, the Hams are well capable of bearing our weight. They are treated well—”
“That’s not the point.”
“Survival is the point. What else?”
Anyhow, with the sun still climbing — with McCann’s litter in the van, Malenfant and Nemoto walking in the centre with Hams beside and behind them — the little party set off.
McCann said they would take a roundabout route to the lander. It would take longer, but would avoid the densest forest and so would be less problematic.
They walked through the forest. The air was laden with moisture and without a breath of wind. The sweat was soon dripping from Malenfant’s scalp into his eyes, and his buckskin was clinging to his back as if glued there.
The Hams walked barefoot along a trail that was invisible to Malenfant, with their feet splayed at wide angles, making fast, short steps, almost delicate. Malenfant tried to keep up. But the brown sheets of dead leaves on top of wet mud made him slip, or he would walk into thorny lianas, or trip over the surface roots that splayed out from the boles of the largest trees. As the feet and legs of the Ham in front began to blur, he realized he was going to have to imitate the Ham’s small movements, but he lost further ground as he tried to master the oddly precise mincing motions.
McCann walked alongside Malenfant, musing. “Hear how quiet it is. One does miss birdsong. Africa is full of birds, of course: parrots and plovers, kingfishers and skimmers. How sad a world without the song of birds, Malenfant.”
Here was a canthium tree: a massive straight black trunk, branches spreading high above the palms. “Keep away from it,” McCann said. “The flowers stink like corpses — to attract flies, you see, which carry its pollen. The pre-sapients keep away from it. The trunk is covered in biting ants—” He froze, and held Malenfant’s arm. “Look there. An Elf.” He dropped to all fours and crawled forward, hiding behind a tree.
Malenfant followed suit. The two of them finished lying in cold mud, side by side, peering through a brush of greenery.
A man sat on a bough, a few feet off the ground — a dwarfish, naked, hairy man with a face like a chimp’s, and no forehead to speak of. He had long legs like a human, long arms like an ape. He pulled twigs towards his face and bit off leaves, with thick, active lips. His face was black, his eyes brown, sheltered by a thick brow of bone. He moved slowly, thoughtfully.
A twig cracked.
The Elf stopped eating. He leaned forward, rocked from side to side to see better. He urinated, a stream of acrid piss that splashed to the floor not feet from Malenfant’s face.
Then he turned away and called. “Oo-hah!”
Suddenly there were more of them, more Elves, shadowy figures with glinting eyes and empty hands. They had black faces and palms and soles. If they had crouched like chimpanzees it would have been okay, but they didn’t; they stood eerily upright, as if their bodies had been distorted in some hideous lab. They were wrong, and Malenfant shivered.
“There are ways to trap them,” McCann whispered. “Though their more robust cousins the Nutcrackers provide better meat. You hunt with special spears, twelve feet long. Then you goad the Nutcracker-man, until he charges onto your spear point…”
The first Elf man stood up straight on his bough. He opened his mouth wide, revealing pink gums and impressive canines, and let out a series of short, piercing barks. He slapped the tree trunk and rattled a branch.
The others joined in, whooping with rage. Their hair was suddenly erect, which made them look twice the size, and they stamped and shook branches in a frenzy. It was quite a display, Malenfant thought, a mass of noise and movement.
Then the man in the tree turned, bent over and let out an explosion of faeces that showered over Malenfant and McCann.
Malenfant brushed gloopy shit off his head. “Jesus. What a situation.”
McCann was laughing.
Now McCann’s Hams stood up. They yelled and banged their spears together, or against-logs and tree trunks.
The Elves turned and ran, melting into the green shadows as fast as they had appeared.
Malenfant was relieved when they broke out of the forest, just as McCann had promised, and he found himself walking through a more open country, a kind of parkland of grass and scattered clumps of trees.
Nemoto trudged sourly beside him, her small face hidden by a broad straw hat.
There were herbs in the grass, and when they were crushed by bare Neandertal feet they sent up a rich aroma. The sun was strong on Malenfant’s face, and the blue Earth rode high in the sky. Malenfant felt lifted, exhilarated — even giddy, he thought, anoxic perhaps, and he made sure he kept his breathing deep and even, making the most of the thin air.
McCann noticed Malenfant’s mood. With a touch of the stubby whip he called a sjambok, he directed his Ham bearers to carry him closer to Malenfant. “Quite a day, isn’t it, Malenfant? You know, I believe that with a knight’s move of that mopani tree over here one might take that kopje, with the thicket of wild banana, over there.”
Malenfant forced a laugh. “Remember, I’m a checkers man.”
McCann was clutching a battered Gladstone bag on his lap, from which he extracted water and ointments to dab on his face, neck and wrists. He looked sideways at Malenfant, as if apologetically. “I fear I may have come across as something less than a man to you, on our first meetings.”
“Not at all.”
“It’s just that one is so desperate for company. But you mustn’t think that I am protesting my lot. I draw strength from the teachings of my father — I grew up in a kirk on the Scottish borders — which took a grip on my mind from early days. My father made me a fatalist in creed: man is but a playing-piece in the hands of the Maker. Chess again, eh? And so it was foreordained that I should be brought to this distant shore. But I admit to a great deal of pleasure in my new home on a day like today. Much of it is familiar. In my time here I’ve spotted wildebeest, kudu, impala. There are few birds in flight, but you’ll find flightless, clucking versions of quail, partridge, pheasant…”
“But it isn’t your true home,” Malenfant said gently. “Nor mine. It’s not even from the right universe. Just as it isn’t home for these Hams, is it?”
McCann eyed him sharply. “You’ve been talking to the fragrant Julia — their legend of the Grey Earth, the place in the sky from which they stumbled. Yes?” He laughed. “Well, it might even be true. Perhaps a party of bar-bars did fall through a shining portal, just as you say your wife did. But it was a blooming
long time ago, Malenfant.
“Listen. Once upon a time old Crawford got it into his head that there might be something of value in the ground here — gold, diamonds, even hidden treasure of obscure origin, perhaps laid down by some race of supermen. And he went digging — especially in the hearths and caves of the bar-bars. He had to turf out a few of them to do that, for they will cling to their domiciles. He found no treasure. But what he did find was more bar-bars, or anyhow traces of them, their buried bones mixed in with those peculiar knobkerries and assegais they favour in the wild. There was layer upon layer of bone, said old Crawford, in every place he dug.
“Well, the meaning is obvious. These bar-bars have endured a long stretch on this exotic little world: they must surely have been here for hundreds of generations, thousands of years, or more. And in all that time they have clung to their dreams of home.” He considered Malenfant. “You may think I am harsh with the bar-bars, Malenfant, or uncaring. I am not. Inferior they may be. But what memory lies buried in those deep skulls of theirs! — don’t you think?”
The country began to rise. The little party grew strung out. The grass grew thinner, the underlying crimson soil more densely packed.
They reached the crest of a ridge and took a break. The ground was hard-packed here, covered thinly by bracken and little bushes like hazels. The party, drinking water from a pannikin handed around by a Ham, was surrounded by a thin, subsiding cloud of red dust.
Malenfant stepped forward. The ground fell away before him, and he saw that this ridge curved around, making a neat circle. It was a bowl of greenery. A few improbably tall trees sprouted, but much of the basin was covered by grass that was littered with colour, the yellow and white of marigolds and lilies. Pools glistened on the uneven floor, ringed by lush primeval-looking ferns.
It was a crater, a classic impact formation a couple of miles across. Standing here, Malenfant heard distant calls and hoots. They were the cries of hominids, cousins to mankind, patrolling this forested crater. It was a startling, uplifting, utterly alien prospect.
McCann was standing beside him. “Here we stand, men born on different worlds, confronting a third. Do you know your Plutarch, Malenfant? Alexander wept when he heard from Anaxarchus that there was an infinite number of worlds… ‘Do you not think it lamentable that with such a vast multitude of worlds, we have not yet conquered one?’” He pointed with imperious confidence into the bowl of the crater. “There lies our Redoubtable — or at least her corpse. Come, you men.”
Brushing a walking stick before him, he strode off down the flank of the crater. Malenfant and Nemoto, and the Hams with their litter, hurried to follow.
Malenfant came first on a rib of metal, heavily corroded, that arched into the air above him. Its smooth circular shape was a startling contrast to the fractal profusion of the greenery all around. He stepped under the rib, onto twisted and rusted metallic remnants that groaned under his weight. He found he was in a long cylindrical chamber, its walls extensively broken and corroded, open to the sky. When it was intact this tank must have been six or seven yards in diameter.
Thorn bushes pushed through the base of the cylinder, and creepers.curled over its sides; above, a thick canopy turned the light dim, moist and green. The ship had been a long time dead, and the vegetation had grown over and through it, concealing its remains.
McCann walked in alongside him, followed by Nemoto. The Hams lingered on the fringe of the deeper forest, leaning on the litter and sipping water. Thomas kept an eye on McCann, but his gaze slid over the lines of the ship, as if it were a thing of mists and shadows, not really there.
“This was the propellant tank,” McCann said. He pointed with his stick. “You can see the bulkheads to either end, or what’s left of “em.” McCann pushed on through mazes of piping and cables. Malenfant and Nemoto followed more cautiously, taking care of the sharp edges of twisted metal under their feet.
McCann’s figure was stocky and competent, and swathed in his treated animal skins he looked somehow right against the background of the fallen, smashed-open ship; Malenfant wondered how often he visited this relic of home.
They passed through a ripped-open dome into another cylindrical tank. “Here we stored oxidants. Though of course much of the oxidant was drawn from the air.”
“A ramjet,” Malenfant said to Nemoto.
McCann came to a tangle of what looked like crude electrical equipment, valves and relays, so badly corroded it was an inseparable mass. “Control gear,” he said. “For the pumps and valves and so forth.” They passed through a more solid bulkhead, supported by heavy ribs, and arrived in what appeared to have been habitable quarters. There had been several decks, separated by two or three yards — but now tipped over, so the floors and ceilings had become walls. A fireman’s pole ran along the length of this section, passing neatly through holes in the floors, horizontal now.
McCann pointed out highlights with his stick. “Stores.” Malenfant saw the crumpled remnants of bulky machines, perhaps recycling and cleansing devices for air and water, and refrigerated stores for food, but damaged by fire and gutted; they lay in the dark of the rocket’s hull like foetuses in unhatched dinosaur eggs. “Infirmary, galley, sleeping quarters and such.” Little was left here save a bare frame that might have held bunk beds, a heavy table bolted to the tilted over floor and fitted with leather restraints, perhaps intended for surgery, and the nubs of pipes and flues showed where galley equipment had been ripped out or salvaged.
“And the bridge.” At the nub of the ship, this had been lined with polished oak panels, now scuffed, broken and covered by lichen and moss. Brass portholes bore only fragments of the thick glass that had once lined them. There were heavy couch frames bolted to the floor, long since stripped of their soft coverings. Malenfant could make little of what must once have been instrument panels; now they were just rectangular hollows in the fascia, though he glimpsed tangles of wires behind.
McCann saw him looking. “Once we realized the old lady wasn’t serviceable we stripped out what we could. We built a succession of radio transmitters and heliographs. We got replies, of course, as long as the Earth — I mean, my Earth — still hovered in the sky. That, and promises of rescue, which assurances I have no doubt would have been fulfilled. We kept on trying even after Earth had gone, until the last generator seized up. Powered by a bicycling Runner, incidentally.”
“I’m sorry,” Malenfant said. “She must have been a beautiful ship.”
“Oh, she was. Help me.” Leaning on Malenfant’s arm, he clambered stiffly up the hull wall, using gaping porthole sockets as hand and footholds.
Malenfant followed him. Soon the two of them stood side by side on the outer hull of the habitable section, surrounded by gashes and treacherous-looking rents. But McCann was confident in his step.
From here Malenfant could make out the full sweep of the ship’s length, a slim spear that must have been two hundred yards long. Its lovely back was broken; and green tendrils clutched at the ship, as if pulling it into the belly of the Moon that had killed it. But still a solitary fin poked out of the greenery, crumpled but defiant. The fin bore a faded roundel that reminded Malenfant of the logo of the Royal Air Force.
The Ham man, Thomas, walked beside the ship close to McCann, keeping his eyes on the Englishman.
“He is loyal,” said Malenfant. “He looks out for you all the time.”
“He knows I have done my best to improve the lot of his people.”
Even if it didn’t need improving, Malenfant thought. “But he seems to be having trouble looking at the rocket.”
“The bar-bar mind is rigid, Malenfant. Conservative beyond imagining, they are utterly resistant to the new. At the beginning we had a devil of a battle to keep them from destroying our gear — even when tamed, a bar-bar still harbours destructive tendencies.”
Malenfant recalled the fate of his shoulder camera. He said, “That almost seems superstitious.”
“Oh, not
that. There is no superstition among the bar-bars: there is no magic in their world, no sense of the numinous. To them the surface of the world is everything; they do not see hidden meanings, nor seek deeper explanations.”
“They have no gods, then.”
“Nor can they even conceive of the possibility.” McCann smiled. “And what a loss that is. I am sure they are well spared propitiations to the savage and bloody gods of the jungle. But they cannot know the Mercy of the one true God. You understand, it is not merely that they do not know Him — they cannot. And without God, there is no order to their lives, no meaning — save what we provide.” He tapped Malenfant on the chest with the worn head of his walking stick. “I know you are uncomfortable with our relationship to these barbarians, Malenfant. I see it in your eyes. I’ve seen it in Africa, when men of conscience go among the Kaffirs there. But can’t you see it is our duty to provide them with a Johannen way of life — even if they can’t comprehend its meaning? — just as the philosophers and theologians have been proposing since the first steel clippers found these bar-bars” cousins running wild in the New World.”
Malenfant studied Thomas’s face, but could see no hint of reaction to McCann’s sermonizing.
McCann began to talk briskly about the horsepower generated by the “Darwin engines” that had once powered the ship. “I know your little tub came gliding in like a bat. We applied a little more brute force. In the last stages of its descent the redoubtable was intended to land upright on Earth or Moon, standing on its rocket exhaust. And it should have taken off in the same manner.”
“Direct ascent,” Malenfant said. It was a mode that had been considered for Apollo’s lunar landings, a whole ship traversing back and forth between Earth and Moon. But aside from the greater expense compared to the final Lunar Module design, landing such a giant ship with rockets would have posed stability problems, like an ICBM landing on its tail.
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