by John Wyndham
“An increase in density can be simulated; we've done that here. But no one has succeeded in simulating a decrease — nor, we think now, ever will. So you see our people had to choose a small world. All the moons of Yan are bleak, but this was the best of them, and our people were desperate. When they got here they lived in the ships and began to burrow into the ground to get away from the cold. They gradually burnt their way in, making halls and rooms and galleries, and the food-growing tanks, and the culture fields, and all the rest of it. Then they sealed it, and warmed it, and moved in from the ships and went on working inside. It was all a very long time ago.”
Jannessa sat for a moment in thought.
“Telta said that perhaps I came from the third planet, Sonnal. Do you think so?”
“It may be. We know there was some kind of civilization there.”
“If they came once, they might come again — and take me home.”
Toti looked at her, troubled, and a little hurt.
“Home?” he said. “You feel like that?”
Jannessa caught his expression. She put her white hand quickly into his slaty-blue one.
“I'm sorry, Toti. I didn't mean that. I love you, and Telta, and Melga. You know that. It's just ... oh, how can you know what it's like to be different — different from everyone around you? I'm so tired of being a freak, Toti, dear. Inside me I'm just like any other girl. Can't you understand what it would mean to me to be looked on by everyone as normal?”
Toti was silent for a while. When he spoke, his tone was troubled:
“Jannessa, have you ever thought that after spending all your life here this really is your world? Another might seem very ... well, strange to you.”
“You mean living on the outside instead of the inside. Yes, that would seem funny.”
“Not just that, my dear,” he said, carefully. “You know that after I found you up there and brought you in the doctors had to work hard to save your life?”
“Telta told me.” Jannessa nodded. “What did they do?”
“Do you know what glands are?”
“I think so. They sort of control things.”
“They do. Well, yours were set to control things suitably for your world. So the doctors had to be very clever. They had to give you very accurate injections — it was a kind of balancing process, you see, so that the glands would work in the proper proportions to suit you for life here. Do you understand?”
“To make me comfortable at a lower temperature, help me to digest this kind of food, stop overstimulation by the high oxygen content, things like that,” Telta said.
“Things like that,” Toti agreed. “It's called adaptation. They did the best they could to make you suited for life here among us.”
“It was very clever of them,” Jannessa said, speaking much as she had spoken years ago to Telta. “But why didn't they do more? Why did they leave me white like this? Why didn't they make my hair a lovely silver like yours and Telta's? I wouldn't have been a freak then — I should have felt that I really belong here.” Tears stood in her eyes.
Toti put his arms around her.
“My poor dear. I didn't know it was as bad as that. And I love you — so does Telta — as if you were our own daughter.”
“I don't see how you can — with this!” She held up her pale hand.
“But, we do, Jannessa, dear. Does that really matter so very much?”
“It's what makes me different. It reminds me all the time that I belong to another world, really. Perhaps I shall go there one day.”
Toti frowned.
“That's just a dream, Jannessa. You don't know any world but this. It couldn't be what you expect. Stop dreaming, stop worrying yourself, my dear. Make up your mind to be happy here with us.”
“You don't understand, Toti,” she said gently. “Somewhere there are people like me — my own kind.”
It was only a few months later that the observers in one of the domes reported the landing of a ship from space.
“Listen, you old cynic,” said Franklyn's voice, almost before his image was sharp on the screen. “They've found her — and she's on the way Home.”
“Found — Jannessa?” Dr. Forbes said, hesitantly.
“Of course. Who else would I be meaning?”
“Are you — quite sure, Frank?”
“You old sceptic. Would I have rung you if I weren't? She's on Mars right now. They put in there for fuel, and to delay for proximity.”
“But can you be sure?”
“There's her name — and some papers found with her.”
“Well, I suppose—”
“Not enough, eh?” Franklyn's image grinned. “All right, then. Take a look at this.”
He reached for a photograph on his desk and held it close to the transmitting screen.
“Told them to take it there, and transmit here by radio,” he explained. “Now what about it?”
Dr. Forbes studied the picture on the screen carefully. It showed a girl posed with a rough wall for a background. Her only visible garment was a piece of shining cloth, draped around her, rather in the manner of a sari. The hair was fair and dressed in an unfamiliar style. But it was the face looking from beneath it that made him catch his breath. It was Marilyn Godalpin's face, gazing back at him across eighteen years.
“Yes, Frank,” he said, slowly. “Yes, that's Jannessa. I ... I don't know what to say, Frank.”
“Not even congratulations?”
“Yes, oh yes — of course. It's ... well, it's just a miracle. I'm not used to miracles.”
The day that the newspaper told him that the Chloe, a research ship belonging to the Jason Mining Corporation, was due to make ground at noon, was spent absent-mindedly by Dr. Forbes. He was sure that there would be a message from Franklyn Godalpin, and he found himself unable to settle to anything until he should receive it. When, at about four o'clock the bell rang, he answered it with a swift excitement. But the screen did not clear to the expected features of Franklyn. Instead, a woman's face looked at him anxiously. He recognized her as Godalpin's housekeeper.
“It's Mr. Godalpin, doctor,” she said. “He's been taken ill. If you could come—?”
A taxi set him down on Godalpin's strip fifteen minutes later. The housekeeper met him and hurried him to the stairs through the rabble of journalists, photographers and commentators that filled the hall. Franklyn was lying on his bed with his clothes loosened. A secretary and a frightened-looking girl stood by. Dr. Forbes made an examination and gave an injection.
“Shock, following anxiety,” he said. “Not surprising. He's been under a great strain lately. Get him to bed. Hot bottles, and see that he's kept warm.”
The housekeeper spoke as he turned away.
“Doctor, while you're here. There's the ... I mean, if you wouldn't mind having a look at ... at Miss Jannessa, too.”
“Yes, of course. Where is she?”
The housekeeper led the way to another room, and pointed.
“She's in there, doctor.”
Dr. Forbes pushed open the door and went in. A sound of bitter sobbing ended in choking as he entered. Looking for the source of it he saw a child standing beside the bed.
“Where—?” he began. Then the child turned towards him. It was not a child's face. It was Marilyn's face, with Marilyn's hair, and Marilyn's eyes looking at him. But a Marilyn who was twenty-five inches tall — Jannessa.
* * *
BOOK INFORMATION
THE BEST OF JOHN WYNDHAM
SPHERE BOOKS LIMITED
30/32 Gray's Inn Road, London WCIX 8JL
First published in Great Britain by Sphere Books Ltd 1973
Copyright © The Executors of the Estate of the late John Wyndham 1973
Anthology copyright © Sphere Books Ltd 1973
Introduction copyright © Leslie Flood 1973
Bibliography copyright © Gerald Bishop 1973
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Lost Machine: Amazing Stories, 1932
The Man from Beyond: Wonder Stories, 1934
Perfect Creature: Tales of Wonder, 1937
The Trojan Beam: Fantasy, 1939
Vengeance by Proxy: Strange Stories, 1940
Adaptation: Astounding Science Fiction, 1949
Pawley's Peepholes: Science Fantasy, 1951
The Red Stuff: Marvel Science Stories, 1951
And the Walls Came Tumbling Down: Startling Stories, 1951
Dumb Martian: Galaxy Science Fiction, 1952
Close Behind Him: Fantastic, 1953
The Emptiness of Space: New Worlds, 1960
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Set in Linotype Times
Printed in Great Britain by
Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk.
ISBN 0 7221 9369 6