IT WAS A long night. The monorail car went round the circuit of the Five Cities—Talbot, Vorshinski, Brandt, Aragon, Chiang—several times before Idris had finally had enough and felt it was time to return to Mary.
Before the party broke up, he had drunk much kafra and talked with many young people whose names and faces he could only vaguely remember. It was true that they saw him as a saviour, a Jesus Freak. They wanted him to pull a rabbit out of the hat, destroy the status quo and build an expanding society. But, despite the words of the ballad and the protestations of the Friends of the Ways, he knew that they did not seriously expect him to lead them back to Earth. Basically, they only wanted a greater freedom than the present rigid society of Minerva afforded.
But they were too weak to organise themselves effectively to do anything about it. Like children, they wanted someone they could trust to lead them. Like children, they wanted to be told what to do. But would they have the nerve to do what was necessary? Would they be resolute enough to use force—if necessary? Would they be prepared to seize key installations—the power plants, the hydroponics units, the farms—and hold the Councils of the Five Cities to ransom to achieve their aims? Idris looked at them, and doubted it very much.
With only a hundred Earth men, Idris knew that he could have controlled the entire Five Cities complex. But not even with a thousand of the Friends of the Ways could he hope to force the Triple-T faction, the fossilised power structure, to allow Minervan society to enter an expansive phase. It looked as if Talbot’s Creed had achieved one thing, at least. It looked as if aggression, the love of adventure, the compulsion to go always one step further, had been successfully erased from the mind of man.
These effete young people simply wanted their Jesus Freak to perform tailor-made miracles. They didn’t want any mess, they didn’t want any conflict. They just wanted a painless, bloodless revolution. A miracle.
As the night wore on, Idris noticed that two or three of the original Earth children he had taken aboard the Dag for Mars had joined the Friends of the Ways. At first he felt glad. Here was hope. But after he had talked to them, he became depressed. They too, had succumbed to the subtle Minervan programming. When he had suggested that it might be. possible to capture and hold the key personnel of one city and use that advantage to intimidate the administrations of the remaining four, they recoiled, horrified. Violence was out. Not just killing, but any kind of violence. They, too, wanted the Jesus Freak to walk upon the face of the water.
Idris returned to Mary Evans, dispirited, tired, a little drunk. She was deeply asleep. Subtle odours of sex still lay about her. He woke her gently and made love. But this time it was a totally mechanical action, aimed only at providing some sense of release, aimed only at providing oblivion. He said little, but she sensed his mood and responded as best she could. She knew that her body was not strong and young, as Zylonia’s must be; but it was enough for her to be held by a man of Earth and know that he held her close because she, too, was of Earth. It was a great consolation.
The following morning he had an early visitor, an oldish man who seemed to have an uncanny resemblance to Manfrius de Skun, and who introduced himself as Harlen Zebrov. He asked to talk to Idris privately.
“Can you not say what you have to say in front of my wife?” he demanded brusquely.
It was the first time he had referred to Mary as his wife. He had done it deliberately. It caused Harlen Zebrov to wince, and also caused Mary’s eyes to glisten.
“Here on Minerva, we have time-pairing, as you must know, Captain Hamilton. The term wife has no meaning for us. And, incidentally, Mary Evans is not even your registered time-partner. However, that is not important. To answer your question: our discussion may certainly take place in the presence of Mary Evans. But I do assure you there are certain things it is safer and wiser for her not to know. However, the decision is yours.”
Despite the resemblance to Manfrius de Skun, Idris had taken an immediate dislike to his visitor.
“As you must know, Mr. Zebrov, I am an Earth man and a qualified space captain. As such, I am empowered to marry any two consenting Earth people whether I am in command of a vessel or not.” He turned to Mary. “Do you, Mary Evans, of your own free will, in the presence of this witness, take me, Idris Hamilton to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” said Mary. Somehow, as she spoke, her breasts were no longer soft. They became proud and high. Idris marvelled at the residual magic that still persisted in those few ancient words.
“I, Idris Hamilton, of my own free will, in the presence of this witness, take you, Mary Evans, to be my lawfully wedded wife. And I, Idris Hamilton, qualified space captain, nationality Australian, by mandate of the United Nations Organisation of Earth, now declare us to be man and wife.” He grinned. “I have no ring, Mary. But a ring is not necessary according to Earth law. Customarily, at this point, the bridegroom kisses the bride. I will avail myself of this privilege.”
“I love you,” said Mary.
“Sweet, you have just married a terrible man. But I will try to do my best for you. Believe that.” He kissed her.
“I believe it.”
“Charming,” said Harlen Zebrov. “But this quaint ceremony has no relevance on Minerva.”
“Do you believe in justice, Mr. Zebrov? Do you believe in upholding the law?”
“I do. That is why I am here to talk to you.”
“Then you must realise that, according to interplanetary law, specifically the Agreement between U.N.O. Earth, the Lunar Commission and Mars Council of AD 2019, Mary Evans has now become my wife. I have been—shall we say—absent for five thousand years. But I do not think this Agreement was ever rescinded. My wife will remain present during our discussion. In fairness to you, I will remind you that under interplanetary law, she cannot, under any circumstances, be required to testify against her husband.”
Harlen Zebrov laughed. “Captain Hamilton, you live in a dream world.”
“No, sir. I live on Minerva. And I claim the privileges of a citizen of Earth under interplanetary law.”
“But all that is ancient history to us.”
“Must time corrupt justice, Mr. Zebrov? Now say what you have to say in the presence of my wife.”
“First, I wish you to understand that what I have to say is not intended to be offensive. It is intended only as a statement of the Minervan point of view—and as a warning. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do.”
“Good, then. Although I hold no political office, I am a. prominent member of that group of Minervans who wish to preserve all that is good in our society. We are called, as you doubtless know, the Triple-T party. You have read the Creed, I understand, and therefore you must know our basic philosophy. Garfield Talbot was a great man; and his ideas and standards have stood the test of time.
“The point is, Captain Hamilton, that we have developed a stable, harmonious and virtually non-violent society. But that harmony is beginning to be threatened. It is threatened by your very existence. You are the product of a violent and self-destructive culture; and, regrettably, you have already demonstrated that you retain your capacity for violence. This disturbs and saddens most Minervans, but there are some for whom it has an unhealthy fascination. That is where the danger lies. We fear that—inadvertently, perhaps—your attitudes and beliefs might contaminate some of our younger and more impressionable citizens. Do I make myself clear?”
“I think so. You mean that you know I have met the Friends of the Ways. You smell a conspiracy.”
Harlen Zebrov shrugged. “You are very blunt. I would not have put it like that. But I see we understand each other … Consider this, then. For thousands of years, your body was nothing but a desiccated piece of space flotsam drifting through the void in the wreckage of your last command. We Minervans restored you to life. Perhaps you will agree that you owe us something.”
“Manfrius de Skun restored me to life. I agree that I owe him everythi
ng.”
“Manfrius de Skun is dead, Captain Hamilton.”
“Quite so. And you did not allow the techniques he developed to be used to restore him to life, did you?”
“We digress. That is a matter of Minervan policy—which you are neither competent to judge or to interfere with. I am assuming that you are sufficiently civilised to respect the values of our society. I am therefore asking you to give an undertaking not to renew your contact with the young and misguided people who call themselves the Friends of the Ways.”
“It is illegal for me to talk to people I meet on monorail cars?”
Harlen Zebrov smiled. “You know it is not—at least, not yet. But I am sure we continue to understand each other. It is inadvisable. That is all.”
“If that is all,” said Idris calmly, “I will continue to exercise my freedom until it is curtailed. But thank you for your interest.”
Zebrov sighed. “I felt it my duty to warn you … As you know, violent crime is minimal in the Five Cities, and we have no death penalty. But for serious transgressions, we do retain the power to exile. I think you should know that.”
“Exile? Exile to where?”
“To the surface, Captain Hamilton. Where else? No one has been exiled from the Five Cities for a long time. It would be tragic if the next exile were to be you. Such a waste, don’t you think? Such a waste of your second life and of the years Dr. de Skun laboured to restore sanity to a brain in a tank.”
Idris felt murderous. He felt like taking Harlen Zebrov apart and spreading him in a thin film all over the floor. He mastered the desire with some difficulty.
“It was good of you to call on me, Mr. Zebrov,” he said evenly. “I will think very carefully about what you have said.”
“You will give the undertaking I require?”
“Allow me to think about it.”
“Time is short, Captain Hamilton.”
Idris smiled. “Time is always too short for all of us.”
When he had gone, Mary said: “You know what he really means, Idris?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“I love you, and I don’t want you to take risks. You have just declared me to be your wife. That makes me so happy. But please—please don’t turn me into a widow.”
He held her and kissed her. “Love, love, we must do what we can for Earth. I’ll try not to make you a widow.”
“I’m selfish,” she sobbed. “I want you, only you.”
“Then harden yourself, my dear. Because I am not willing to spend the rest of my days in this sepulchre they call Minerva.”
29
FOR THE NEXT few days, Idris did nothing that could be construed as provocative. He spent his time exploring the Five Cities, sometimes with Mary and sometimes without her. He wandered from city to city by monorail, strolled apparently aimlessly among the central thoroughfares and gardens. He liked the city centres, though there was little variation. Each had its garden square, Council chambers, its hospital, its commissariat, its social centre. Each social centre was an amalgam of pub, disco, gymnasium, swimming pool, library and meeting room. Many people, he discovered, spent their entire free time at the social centres just as, in ancient times on Earth, many Romans spent their entire day at the baths. In each city the social centre was a forum for gossip, political argument, scientific and technological interchange, sexual and social reshuffling.
In many ways, Idris despised the Minervans. But in one way, they commanded his profound respect. They had exceptionally good manners—the like of which he had never seen on Earth or on Mars. They all knew who he was. His picture, his history, his recent actions had been on their screens and had obviously monopolised much of their discussion. Yet they respected his privacy. He was not mobbed, taunted, accosted. Generally, he was allowed to move about freely without feeling that all eyes were upon him. He was grateful. The only untoward encounter was when an elderly man, obviously drunk, offered to remove his old brain from his new body and drop it in the trash can where it belonged.
Idris accepted the old man’s insults and refused to be provoked. Probably, he reflected, many Minervans would like to remove his brain and drop it in the trash can. From their point of view, he was an ungrateful wretch. He had been restored to life by immense effort and, so far, in their eyes, had only created trouble.
Before the old man could get violent, friends led him away. One of them, a woman, apologised profusely to Idris.
“Forgive him, Captain Hamilton. He has not only drunk too much, he is also overwrought. I am his current time-partner. If you wish to lodge a complaint, his name is Willem de Skun. He is the half-brother of Manfrius de Skun.”
“Madam, I do not wish to lodge any complaint. I understand his mood. When he is more himself, please tell him that I am sorry if I offended him. His brother was a great man. I am bitterly sorry if in any way I was responsible for his death.”
“You were responsible for the death of Manfrius,” she said calmly. “By your actions, you ruined his life’s work.” She sighed. “But how could you, an Earth man, begin to understand the subtle politics of our society? I will tell Willem that you are sorry. He believed—as we all believed—that you care only for yourself.”
“I care for myself, certainly,” said Idris. “But I care more for mankind. Tell Willem that. Tell him also that Dr. de Skun was my friend, that he understood my attitudes even if he did not agree with them. Tell him that I, too, mourn the loss of a great man.”
The exploration of the Five Cities and their communications system was not entirely haphazard, though Idris contrived to make it look so. He knew that he was being followed, that his actions and movements were being reported—probably to Harlen Zebrov. The Triple-T party was waiting for him to make a serious mistake.
Sometimes, he could detect the person who was following him. Sometimes, he was aware when the switch was made, and a new shadow took up the task. But, even when he could not identify his follower, he was aware all the time that someone was watching him closely.
He made his movements random so that the followers would not know his true intentions. He was making a mental map of the Five Cities. He would dearly have loved to commit the map to paper. But that would have been too dangerous. So the streets and avenues leading to monorail stations had to be memorised, and the map had to be an abstraction in his mind.
It was when Mary was with him that he made the most important discovery of all. The Five Cities formed a rough pentagon, and the monorail track linking them was roughly circular. But at Talbot there was a branch line. He had not noticed it before. Or, if he had, he had dismissed it as a branch tunnel to a repair shop.
While they were waiting at Talbot for a car, Mary said wistfully: “Wouldn’t it be splendid to take a one-way trip down there, and find the Amazonia crewed and waiting for your orders?”
“Where does it lead?”
She was surprised. “To Talbot Field. I thought you knew.”
He smiled. “Perhaps that was something they preferred me not to know. How far is it from here?”
“Seven or eight kilometres, I suppose. I don’t know really. I have never been there … I must have made the journey once from the space-port to here, but I wasn’t conscious at the time.”
“Interesting,” said Idris. “Love, we are being watched, so don’t stare at that damned tunnel.”
Zylonia de Herrens and Sirius Bourne boarded the same car.
“Hello,” said Idris to Zylonia. “I’m breaking the rules, I know. But it won’t be for long. I was sad to learn about the death of your father.”
“You killed him,” said Zylonia coldly. “You destroyed him and his work for nothing.”
“I don’t think I killed him. I understand he died of heart failure.”
“You killed him. Violence spreads out from you like ripples from a stone thrown into water.”
“I am sorry you believe that.” He turned to Sirius Bourne. “I hope you will forgive my behaviour at Vorshinski
Farm. I found it difficult to accept that you had a relationship with Zylonia before I did. I apologise for being so stupid.”
“All that is past,” said Sirius uncomfortably. “Let us live for the future, Captain Hamilton. I bear you no malice.”
“May I introduce my wife,” Idris said coolly. “Mary Evans, whom you must know, is now Mary Hamilton by ancient interplanetary law. This is no time-pairing. It is a one-to-one relationship that I will defend to the death.”
Zylonia burst out crying. She and Sirius Bourne got off at the next station. Perhaps they had wanted to go there. Perhaps not.
30
IN THE END, in desperation Idris contacted the Friends of the Ways once more. He had worked out a plan—a crazy, half-cock notion of a plan—that would help his aims and theirs, if it succeeded.
If it succeeded. There was the catch.
If it failed, that would be the end of Idris Hamilton, the last Earth man. But there was one thing he was sure of: he could not resign himself to spend the rest of his days trapped under the rock of a frozen planet; trapped in a totally stable, totally frustrating society.
Better to accept the risk of exile—what but a sick society could claim to have abolished capital punishment but retained the right to exile a man to the surface where he must surely die?—than to face years and years of deadening inactivity, just existing for the sake of existing.
But he had no right to involve Mary in his enterprise—if, indeed, it ever came to anything—any more than she was involved already. If his plan failed and he was killed, Mary might still be allowed to live, provided she had played no part in the attempted coup. Whatever else they were, the Minervans were not deliberately vindictive. However, they would compulsively abort her baby because it was not ‘authorised’ and, doubtless, because they would be afraid of its genetic heritage.
So he told her nothing of his plan. Even Idris was realistic enough to know that the odds against it succeeding were at least a hundred to one. He simply told her that he wished to talk again with the young people who called themselves the Friends of the Ways. He begged her to get a good night’s sleep, for the sake of the child she carried, and promised to tell her all about his encounter next morning. Mary Hamilton, neé Evans, knew that Idris was engaged in something more than a social venture. But, in the short time that she had known him, she had come to trust him as well as to love him. He had made a woman of her. She knew that now, because she knew that she had not been fully a woman before. Also, he had given her hope. The least she could do in return was to give him unlimited trust. He was the last man of Earth, perhaps the last hope of mankind; and he had released his seed into her belly. It made her proud …
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