“One murder can be remembered and regretted. Ten thousand murders become as meaningless as ten thousand love affairs or ten thousand games of chess. Time and repetition grind them all to the same dust. Yet now we do regret, and a naive passion has come to us, a passion to be forgiven, if not by our victims then perhaps by ourselves.
“Thus our great project is undertaken. The people of Kharif, because their coasts are accessible and their young people exceptionally handsome and sturdy, have suffered more from us than any other single nation. We will try now to make some restitution.”
THE scene shifted from Sinharat to a desolate stretch of desert coastline beside the shrunken sea. The land had once been populous. There were the remains of cities and town, connected by paved roads. There had been factories and power stations, all the appurtenances of an advanced technology. These were now rusting away, and the wind blew ochre dust to bury them.
“For a hundred years,” said the Rama voice, “it has not rained.”
There was an oasis, with wells of good water. Tall brown-haired men and women worked the well-sweeps, irrigating fields of considerable extent. There was a village of neat huts, housing perhaps a thousand people.
“Mother Mars has killed far more of her children than we. The fortunate survivors live in ‘cities’ like these. The less fortunate…”
A long line of beasts and hooded human shapes moved across a bitter wasteland. And the Dryland chiefs cried out, “Our people!”
“We will give them water again,” said the Rama voice.
The spool ended. In the brief interval before the next one began, Woodthorpe coughed uneasily and muttered, “This was all long ago, Carey. The winds of change…”
“Are blowing up a real storm, Woodthorpe. You’ll see why.”
The tapes began again. A huge plant now stood at the edge of the sea, distilling fresh water from the salt. A settlement had sprung up beside it, with fields and plantations of young trees.
“It has gone well,” said the Rama voice. “It will go better with time, for their short generations move quickly.”
The settlement became a city. The population grew, spread, built more cities, planted more crops. The land flourished.
“Many thousands live,” the Rama said, “who would otherwise not have been born. We have repaid our murders.” The spool ended. Woodthorpe said, “But we’re not trying to atone for anything. We…”
“If my house burns down,” said Carey, “I do not greatly care whether it was by a stroke of lightning, deliberate arson, or a child playing with matches. The end result is the same.” The third spool began. A different voice spoke now. Carey wondered if the owner of the first had chosen death himself, or simply lacked the heart to go on with the record. The distilling plant was wearing out and metals for repair were poor and difficult to find. The solar batteries could not be replaced. The stream of water dwindled. Crops died. There was famine and panic, and then the pumps stopped altogether and the cities were stranded like the hulks of ships in dry harbors.
THE Rama voice said, “These are the consequences of the one kind act we have ever done. Now these thousands that we called into life must die as their forebears did. The cruel laws of survival that we caused them to forget are all to be learned again. They had suffered once, and mastered it, and were content. Now there is nothing we can do to help. We can only stand and watch.”
“Shut it off,” said Woodthorpe.
“No,” said Carey, “see it out.”
They saw it out.
“Now,” said Carey, “I will remind you that Kharif was the homeland from which most of the Drylands were settled.” He was speaking to the Committee more than to Woodthorpe. “These so-called primitives have been through all this before, and they have long memories. Their tribal legends are explicit about what happened to them the last time they put their trust in the transitory works of men. Now can you understand why they’re so determined to fight?”
Woodthorpe looked at the disturbed and frowning faces of the Committee. “But,” he said, “it wouldn’t be like that now. Our resources…”
“Are millions of miles away on other planets. How long can you guarantee to keep your pumps working? And the Ramas at least had left the natural water sources for the survivors to go back to. You want to destroy those so they would have nothing.” Carey glanced at the men from the City-States. “The City-States would pay the price for that. They have the best of what there is, and with a large population about to die of famine and thirst…” He shrugged, and then went on,
“There are other ways to help. Food and medicines. Education, to enable the young people to look for greener pastures in other places, if they wish to. In the meantime, there is an army on the move. You have the power to stop it. You’ve heard all there is to be said. Now the chiefs are waiting to hear what you will say.”
The Chairman of the Committee conferred with the members. The conference was quite brief.
“Tell the chiefs,” the Chairman said, “that it is not our intent to create wars. Tell them to go in peace. Tell them the Rehabilitation Project for Mars is cancelled.”
* * *
The great tide rolled slowly back into the Drylands and dispersed. Carey went through a perfunctory hearing on his activities, took his reprimand and dismissal with a light heart, shook hands with Howard Wales, and went back to Jekkara, to drink with Derech and walk beside the Low-Canal that would be there now for whatever ages were left to it in the slow course of a planet’s dying.
And this was good. But at the end of the canal was Barrakesh, and the southward-moving caravans, and the long road to Sinharat. Carey thought of the vaults beyond the fallen block of marble, and he knew that some day he would walk that road again.
The Coming of the Terrans Page 17