“Unless you did it to me first. Still, I don’t think it’s ever likely to happen to the Hercules. Five days out of port’s the longest we’ve ever been, isn’t it? Talk about the romance of the spaceways!”
The captain didn’t reply. He was peering into the eyepiece of the navigating telescope, for the Star Queen should now be within optical range. There was a long pause while he adjusted the vernier controls. Then he gave a little sigh of satisfaction.
“There she is—about ninety-five kilometers away. Tell the crew to stand by—and send a message to cheer him up. Say we’ll be there in thirty minutes even if it isn’t quite true.”
Slowly the thousand-meter nylon ropes yielded beneath the strain as they absorbed the relative momentum of the ships, then slackened again as the Star Queen and the Hercules rebounded toward each other. The electric winches began to turn and, like a spider crawling up its thread, the Hercules drew alongside the freighter.
Men in space-suits sweated with heavy reaction units—tricky work, this—until the airlocks had registered and could be coupled together. The outer doors slid aside and the air in the locks mingled, fresh with foul. As the mate of the Hercules waited, oxygen cylinder in hand, he wondered what condition the survivor would be in. Then the Star Queen’s inner door slid open.
For a moment the two men stood looking at each other across the short corridor that now connected the two airlocks. The mate was surprised and a little disappointed to find that he felt no particular sense of drama.
So much had happened to make this moment possible that its actual achievement was almost an anticlimax, even in the instant when it was slipping into the past. He wished—for he was an incurable romantic—that he could think of something memorable to say, some “Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” phrase that would pass into history.
But all he actually said was, “Well, McNeil, I’m pleased to see you.”
Though he was considerably thinner and somewhat haggard, McNeil had stood the ordeal well. He breathed gratefully the blast of raw oxygen and rejected the idea that he might like to lie down and sleep. As he explained, he had done very little but sleep for the last week to conserve air. The first mate looked relieved. He had been afraid he might have to wait for the story.
The cargo was being trans-shipped and the other two tugs were climbing up from the great blinding crescent of Venus while McNeil retraced the events of the last few weeks and the mate made surreptitious notes.
He spoke quite calmly and impersonally, as if he were relating some adventure that had happened to another person, or indeed had never happened at all. Which was, of course, to some extent the case, though it would be unfair to suggest that McNeil was telling any lies.
He invented nothing, but omitted a good deal. He had had three weeks in which to prepare his narrative and he did not think it had any flaws . . .
Grant had already reached the door when McNeil called softly after him, “What’s the hurry? I thought we had something to discuss.”
Grant grabbed the doorway to halt his headlong flight. He turned slowly and stared unbelievingly at the engineer. McNeil should be already dead—but he was sitting quite comfortably, looking at him with a most peculiar expression.
“Sit down,” he said sharply—and in that moment it suddenly seemed that all authority had passed to him. Grant did so, quite without volition. Something had gone wrong, though what it was he could not imagine.
The silence in the control room seemed to last for ages. Then McNeil said rather sadly, “I’d hoped better of you, Grant.”
At last Grant found his voice, though he could barely recognize it.
“What do you mean?” he whispered.
“What do you think I mean?” replied McNeil, with what seemed no more than mild irritation. “This little attempt of yours to poison me, of course.”
Grant’s tottering world collapsed at last, but he no longer cared greatly one way or the other. McNeil began to examine his beautifully kept fingernails with some attention.
“As a matter of interest,” he said, in a way that one might ask the time, “when did you decide to kill me?”
The sense of unreality was so overwhelming that Grant felt he was acting a part, that this had nothing to do with real life at all.
“Only this morning,” he said, and believed it.
“Hmm,” remarked McNeil, obviously without much conviction. He rose to his feet and moved over to the medicine chest. Grant’s eyes followed him as he fumbled in the compartment and came back with the little poison bottle. It still appeared to be full. Grant had been careful about that.
“I suppose I should get pretty mad about this whole business,” McNeil continued conversationally, holding the bottle between thumb and forefinger. “But somehow I’m not. Maybe it’s because I never had many illusions about human nature. And, of course, I saw it coming a long time ago.”
Only the last phrase really reached Grant’s consciousness.
“You—saw it coming?”
“Heavens, yes! You’re too transparent to make a good criminal, I’m afraid. And now that your little plot’s failed it leaves us both in an embarrassing position, doesn’t it?”
To this masterly understatement there seemed no possible reply.
“By rights,” continued the engineer thoughtfully, “I should now work myself into a good temper, call Venus central, and denounce you to the authorities. But it would be a rather pointless thing to do, and I’ve never been much good at losing my temper anyway. Of course, you’ll say that’s because I’m too lazy—but I don’t think so.”
He gave Grant a twisted smile.
“Oh, I know what you think about me—you’ve got me neatly classified in that orderly mind of yours, haven’t you? I’m soft and self-indulgent, I haven’t any moral courage—or any morals for that matter—and I don’t give a damn for anyone but myself. Well, I’m not denying it. Maybe it’s ninety percent true. But the odd ten percent is mighty important, Grant!”
Grant felt in no condition to indulge in psychological analysis, and this seemed hardly the time for anything of the sort. Besides, he was still obsessed with the problem of his failure and the mystery of McNeil’s continued existence. McNeil, who knew this perfectly well, seemed in no hurry to satisfy his curiosity.
“Well, what do you intend to do now?” Grant asked, anxious to get it over.
“I would like,” said McNeil calmly, “to carry on our discussion where it was interrupted by the coffee.”
“You don’t mean—”
“But I do. Just as if nothing had happened.”
“That doesn’t make sense. You’ve got something up your sleeve!” cried Grant.
McNeil sighed. He put down the poison bottle and looked firmly at Grant.
“You’re in no position to accuse me of plotting anything. To repeat my earlier remarks, I am suggesting that we decide which one of us shall take poison—only we don’t want any more unilateral decisions. Also”—he picked up the bottle again—“it will be the real thing this time. the stuff in here merely leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”
A light was beginning to dawn in Grant’s mind. “You changed the poison!”
“Naturally. You may think you’re a good actor, Grant, but frankly—from the balcony—I thought the performance stank. I could tell you were plotting something, probably before you knew it yourself. In the last few days, I’ve deloused the ship pretty thoroughly. Thinking of all the ways you might have done me in was quite amusing and helped to pass the time. The poison was so obvious that it was the first thing I fixed. But I rather overdid the danger signals and nearly gave myself away when I took the first sip. Salt doesn’t go at all well with coffee.”
He gave that wry grin again. “Also, I’d hoped for something more subtle. So far I’ve found fifteen infallible ways of murdering anyone aboard a spaceship. But I don’t propose to describe them now.”
This was fantastic, Grant thought. He was being treated, not like a crimin
al, but like a rather stupid schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework properly.
“Yet you’re still willing,” said Grant unbelievingly, “to start all over again? And you’d still take the position yourself if you lost?”
McNeil was silent for a long time. Then he began, slowly, “I can see that you still don’t believe me. It doesn’t fit at all nicely into your tidy little picture does it? But perhaps I can make you understand. It’s really quite simple.
“I’ve enjoyed life, Grant, without many scruples or regrets—but the better part of it’s over now and I don’t cling to what’s left as desperately as you might imagine. Yet while I am alive I’m rather particular about some things.
“It may surprise you to know that I’ve got any ideals at all. But I have, Grant—I’ve always tried to act like a civilized, rational being. I’ve not always succeeded. When I’ve failed I’ve tried to redeem myself.”
He paused, and when he resume it was as though he, and not Grant, was on the defensive. “I’ve never exactly liked you, Grant, but I’ve often admired you and that’s why I’m sorry it’s come to this. I admired you most of all the day the ship was holed.”
For the first time, McNeil seemed to have some difficulty in choosing his words. When he spoke again, he avoided Grant’s eyes.
“I didn’t behave well then. Something happened that I thought was impossible. I’ve always been quite sure that I’d never lose my nerve but—well—it was so sudden it knocked me over.”
He attempted to hide his embarrassment by humor. “The same sort of thing happened on my very first trip. I was sure I’d never be spacesick—and as a result I was much worse than if I had not been over-confident. But I got over it then—and again this time. It was one of the biggest surprises of my life, Grant, when I saw that all of you people were beginning to crack.
“Oh, yes—the business of the wines! I can see you’re thinking about that. Well, that's one thing I don’t regret. I said I’d always tried to act like a civilized man—and a civilized man should always know when to get drunk. But perhaps you wouldn’t understand.”
Oddly enough, that was just what Grant was beginning to do. He had caught his first real glimpse of McNeil’s intricate and tortuous personality and realized how utterly he had misjudged him. No—misjudged was not the right word. In many ways his judgment had been correct. But it had only touched the surface—he had never suspected the depths that lay beneath.
In a moment of insight that had never come before, and from the nature of things could never come again, Grant understood the reasons behind McNeil’s action. This was nothing so simple as a coward trying to reinstate himself in the eyes of the world, for no one need ever know what happened aboard the Star Queen.
In any case, McNeil probably cared nothing for the world’s opinion, thanks to the sleek self-sufficiency that had so often annoyed Grant. But that very self-sufficiency meant that at all costs he must preserve his own good opinion of himself. Without it life would not be worth living—and McNeil had never accepted life save on his own terms.
The engineer was watching him intently and must have guessed that Grant was coming near the truth, for he suddenly changed his tone as though he was sorry he had revealed so much of his character.
“Don't think I get quixotic pleasure from turning the other cheek,” he said. “Just consider it from the point of view of pure logic. After all, we‘ve got to come to some agreement.
“Has it occurred to you that if only one of us survives without a covering message from the other, he’ll have a very uncomfortable time explaining just what happened?”
In this blind fury, Grant had completely forgotten this. But he did not believe it bulked at all important in McNeil’s own thoughts.
“Yes,“ he said, “I suppose you’re right.”
He felt far better now. All the hate had drained out of him and he was at peace. The truth was known and he accepted it. That it was so different from what he had imagined did not seem to matter now.
“Well, let’s get it over,“ he said unemotionally. “There’s a new pack of cards lying around somewhere.”
“I think we’d better speak to Venus first—both of us,” replied McNeil, with peculiar emphasis. “We want a complete agreement on record in case anyone asks awkward questions later.“
Grant nodded absently. He did not mind very much now one way or the other. He even smiled, ten minutes later, as he drew his card from the pack and laid it, face upward, beside McNeil’s.
“So that’s the whole story is it?” said the first mate, wondering how soon he could decently get to the transmitter.
“Yes,” said McNeil evenly, “that’s all there was to it.”
The mate bit his pencil, trying to frame the next question. “And I suppose Grant took it all quite calmly?”
The captain gave him a glare, which he avoided, and McNeil looked at him coldly as if he could see through to the sensation-mongering headlines ranged behind. He got to his feet and moved over to the observation port.
“You heard this broadcast, didn’t you? Wasn’t that calm enough?”
The mate sighed. It still seemed hard to believe that in such circumstances two men could have behaved in so reasonable, so unemotional a manner. He could have pictured all sorts of dramatic possibilities—sudden outbursts of insanity, even attempts at murder. Yet according to McNeil nothing at all had happened. It was too bad.
McNeil was speaking again, as if to himself. “Yes, Grant behaved very well—very well indeed. It was a great pity—”
Then he seemed to lose himself in the ever-fresh, incomparable glory of the approaching planet. Not far beneath, and coming closer by kilometers every second, the snow-white crescent arms of Venus spanned more than half the sky. Down there were life and warmth and civilization—and air.
The future, which not long ago had seemed contracted to a point, had opened out again into all its unknown possibilities and wonders. But behind him McNeil could sense the eyes of his rescuers, probing, questioning—yes, and condemning too.
All his life he would hear whispers. Voices would be saying behind his back, “Isn’t that the man who—?”
He did not care. For once in his life at least, he had done something of which he could feel unashamed. Perhaps one day his own pitiless self-analysis would strip bear the motives behind his actions, would whisper in his ear, “Altruism? Don’t be a fool! You did it to bolster up your own good opinion of yourself—so much more important than anyone else’s!”
But the perverse maddening voices, which all his life had made nothing seem worthwhile, were silent for the moment and he felt content. He had reached the calm at the center of the hurricane. While it lasted he would enjoy it to the full.
THE SENTINEL
Next to “The Star” and “The Nine Billion Names of God,” I suppose “The Sentinel” is my best-known short story—though not for itself, but as the seed from which 2001: A Space Odyssey sprang, twenty years after it was written in 1948. I wonder if I even noticed Christmas that year; Opus 62 bears the date 23–26 December . . .
Unlike most of my short stories, this one was aimed at a specific target—which it missed completely. The BBC had just announced a Short Story Competition; I submitted “The Sentinel” hot from the typewriter, and got it back a month later.
Somehow, I’ve never had any luck with such contests. A few years later I wrote “The Star” specifically for a London Observer competition on the subject “2500 A.D.” It too was bounced—though the judges were perceptive enough to give an award to one Brian Aldiss.
I am continually annoyed by careless references to “The Sentinel” as “the story on which 2001 is based”; it bears about as much relation to the movie as an acorn to the resultant full-grown oak. (Considerably less, in fact, because ideas from several other stories were also incorporated.) Even the elements that Stanley Kubrick and I did actually use were considerably modified. Thus the “glittering, roughly pyramidal structure . . . s
et in the rock like a gigantic, many-faceted jewel” became—after several modifications—the famous black monolith. And the locale was moved from the Mare Crisium to the most spectacular of all lunar craters, Tycho—easily visible to the naked eye from Earth at Full Moon.
Some time after “The Sentinel” was published, I was asked if I had ever read Jack London’s “The Red One” (1918). As I’d never even heard of it, I hastened to do so, and was deeply impressed by his thirty-year-earlier tale of the “Star-Born,” an enormous sphere lying for ages in the jungles of Guadalcanal. I wonder if this is the first treatment of a theme which has suddenly become topical, now that the focus of the SETI debate has changed from “Where’s Everyone?” to the even more puzzling “Where Are Their Artifacts?”
THE NEXT TIME YOU SEE THE FULL MOON high in the south, look carefully at its right-hand edge and let your eye travel upward along the curve of the disk. Round about two o’clock you will notice a small, dark oval: anyone with normal eyesight can find it quite easily. It is the great walled plain, one of the finest on the Moon, known as the Mare Crisium—the Sea of Crises. Three hundred miles in diameter, and almost completely surrounded by a ring of magnificent mountains, it had never been explored until we entered it in the late summer of 1996.
Our expedition was a large one. We had two heavy freighters which had flown our supplies and equipment from the main lunar base in the Mare Serenitatis, five hundred miles away. There were also three small rockets which were intended for short-range transport over regions which our surface vehicles couldn’t cross. Luckily, most of the Mare Crisium is very flat. There are none of the great crevasses so common and so dangerous elsewhere, and very few craters or mountains of any size. As far as we could tell, our powerful caterpillar tractors would have no difficulty in taking us wherever we wished to go.
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