The Final Planet

by Andrew M. Greeley

  There wasn’t much in the group of forty young people who had piled into the meeting room that would give hope for their success. The idea of their overthrowing an ancient social structure and establishing a new one would have been a joke were they not so serious. Their leader was an old-young man named Chronos, a marginal instructor in philosophy at the university. Though his gray hair marked him as a man in his forties, he maintained the language and enthusiasm of youth.

  Chronos was not a military or political leader. He was a mystical visionary with dreamy eyes and a beatific smile. He talked about freedom as if its simple attainment would solve all the problems of Zylongian society. They would seize the Military Center, break into its arsenal for more carbines and ammunition (they had only ten guns, a few hundred pounds of ammunition, and a couple score small explosive charges in their underground hideaway), and then quickly occupy the Central Building and the Energy Center, thus gaining control of three-fourths of the Central Plaza, which should ensure a successful takeover of the government.

  It would be a “purifying fire of freedom!” Chronos finished his ringing appeal to action. What would catch fire, how it would be put out, and what would rise from the ashes didn’t seem worth his consideration.

  The young people loved it. Enthusiasm might enable them to carry out the quick, simple thrust of their bold strategy—although a thousand things could go wrong with it. After the Committee, what? No one seemed to know or care. These Young Ones were not much different from the Hooded Ones; they both saw no farther than the destruction of existing institutions.

  Marjetta whispered into his ear. “You see why it took so long for me to join them; the man is appalling. He is far worse than an amadon.”

  Well, at least his woman wasn’t being taken in.

  “Is this the best there is? No other revolutionary group at all?”

  “All the others are even worse; these have some strategy and plan. The rest are mystics, dreamers, and mad anarchists.”

  Seamus had nothing against mystics, dreamers, or anarchists. Many Tarans were all three. But Chronos would never have been permitted on the Iona. “Emotionally unstable,” Podraig would have announced, with an appropriate volley of foul words. “Six out of ten chances of a breakdown.” That would have been that.

  After his speech and the singing of the freedom song, Chronos took his leave, greeting the two new members of the group—Marjetta and O’Neill—with polite disinterest. Yens, Horor, Margie, and O’Neill, the de facto high command, remained behind. O’Neill promptly demanded to know about what they expected to happen after power was seized. The idea didn’t seem to be important to the young people.

  They were not hypocrites, planning to set themselves up as a new Committee to oppress the people in the name of the people. Out of the chaos that was bound to result there could be something much worse than the present dictatorship. The forces tearing Zylong apart would do their work regardless of the Young Ones. The question was, who would pick up the pieces?

  After the others left, Margie stood on tiptoe and kissed the back of his neck. “Come with me, Geemie.” And she led him to one of the small rooms that branched off a corridor exiting from the larger meeting room. She had somehow managed to furnish it with a number of soft Zylongi cloaks, much like their desertwear but more finely woven.

  He was still disturbed, and too upset by the evening’s events to appreciate the promise these accommodations offered.

  “You don’t like it, dear Geemie?” she asked sorrowfully.

  “Would you expect me to be jumping up and down in celebration, woman? A pack of amadons and onchoks, presided over by a psycho, and they’re organizing a revolution and then a free society. Freedom indeed! You and I will be the targets. Sure they all ought to be put permanently on your tranquillity pills.”

  “What’s an onchok?”

  “A female amadon!” he replied tartly.

  “Glory be, I learn more about your language every day.” She was now tenderly stroking his hair. “Seamus, I have some news. First, the hordi army did not disintegrate when Narth died. There is a new leader, a man named Popilo, our former Army Commander who was sent into exile last year.”

  “You mean they’ve got a full-fledged General out there? And I bet he’s just the opposite of the poor old fella that’s sitting in his chair now.” He put his arms around her. An idjit she might be, but she certainly filled your arms nicely. He kissed her forehead, though clumsily because he was still trying to think about the revolution.

  “He is smart, tough, and very ambitious, which is why the Committee got rid of him. They said he was guilty of the crime of Bonapartism—which he was.” She pulled his robe off, running her hands quickly down his back.

  “What kind of man was he?” He slipped off her garment. Sure he wasn’t going to be the only naked person at the party.

  “Cruel, Geemie, very cruel. I think he is sick emotionally—even worse than Narth. I had him as a teacher when I was a Cadet. He … he is a very bad man.”

  “And what’s the other bit of bad news? Out with it, woman.” He began to kiss her; his lips quickly found their way to her wonderful, swelling young breasts. Ah, you’re a lucky man, O’Neill, despite all your complaints.

  “If you keep that up, I won’t be able to tell you.… I didn’t mean stop, Geemie, just a little slower. Uhm, that’s very nice. Well, the second news is about you. The Committee is so disorganized that they plan to do nothing about you. They feel that you won’t do anything unless you are attacked. They now think they can deal with you after the Festival.”

  His fingers gripped her waist. Time now to sweep her to the crude couch—no—one last question.… “And who’s going to lead this thing when Chronos falls apart? … Some of you must have thought about what comes afterward.…”

  In the dim light of the portable lantern her eyes were now dreamy with longing, her nipples rigid against his chest. She hesitated before answering. “That is not important.” The longing eyes darted away from him.

  So that’s the way the story goes. He pushed her unceremoniously onto the makeshift bed, grabbed for his clothes, and began to dress. “You’re a bitch, Margie!” he exploded. “I wouldn’t make love to you tonight for all the coin on this damn planet!” Truth to tell, all desire had left him, replaced by cold fury.

  She sat on the cloak-strewn floor, dispirited and guilty. “What have I done, Seamus?” she asked weakly. “Please forgive me. Whatever it is, I did not intend it.”

  “We weren’t even back in the City and you were volunteering my services for this harebrained revolution of yours.…” he said, sulking. “Now you’ve got me pegged to be the leader. Well, let me tell you one thing, woman … you’re not going—”

  “—I am truly sorry, Good Mate,” she interrupted. “I didn’t mean … I hardly … but … oh, I am so sorry. Please forgive my ignorance and stupidity. I will never learn, I fear.… Don’t … I should have told you. I didn’t know how to put it.” She was weeping now. “Everyone takes it for granted that you will lead us. You act like a leader … we didn’t think you would be just a follower.…”

  Gracefully she stood up. Damn naked woman, don’t try to charm me.

  She touched his arm soothingly. “Don’t be angry with me for too long … we have so little time together.”

  His heart turned from butter to cream. He patted her backside affectionately and drew her close. “Ah, sure, woman, you’re right. I’d be no damn good as a follower. But I’m no king or ruler either, do you hear me? Just a temporary military chief, that’s all. Do you understand that?” He tightened his grip. Well, maybe I’ll not throw her out tonight after all.

  “Yes, darling,” she said, nodding submissively.

  “All right, then.” But he still didn’t believe her completely.

  Later, after they had slept, she whispered in his ear, “Were you angry because I made fun of you at the entertainment tonight?”

  He swatted her backside harder, though
not enough to hurt. “It was terrible disrespectful.”

  “It was not. You loved every second of it. Tarans don’t care what you say about them as long as you make them the center of attention.”

  “You’ll be getting yourself raped again, if you say things like that.” He kissed her delicately, waiting for his physiology to catch up with his affection.

  “It’s true,” she sighed. “Don’t deny it.”

  “What you haven’t figured out, woman, is that we are disappointed if our friends don’t ridicule us just a little. Sure a proper wife ought to make fun of her husband now and again so everyone knows that she loves him.”

  “You didn’t fight back.” She stroked his chest. “That wasn’t fair.”

  So he sang a few stanzas of the bawdy ballad he’d written about her loss of virginity, the refrain of which was “Seamus, roll the woman over again.”

  She began her dirty sniggering after the first stanza and exhausted herself laughing as he went on.

  “That would have been terrible,” she managed to say between spasms of laughing. “It would have shocked everyone. I would have been delighted … but it is well that you didn’t do it. The poor Research Director would never recover.”

  The image of a shocked Sammy seemed to delight her especially. So O’Neill, ever eager to keep his proper woman amused, made up some new stanzas.

  “Does it ever stop?” she demanded. “Does the poor woman ever get loved?”

  “A proper Taran ballad never stops, but the woman does get loved. Let me show you.”

  So he did.

  Later, as they slipped out of their temporary trysting place into the dim unfriendly light of a Zylongian dawn, O’Neill, complacent and well satisfied with himself, realized that he would do almost anything she wanted. Lust was spent after a passionate, almost despairing night together. Love was stronger than ever. In the clarity of dawn he saw a truth he had been dodging: he could not live without her.

  Now look at the trouble Your Fine Eminence has got me into.

  PART THREE

  THE FESTIVAL

  19

  O’Neill reached for his knife. There was someone coming up from the beach. He tensed for the attack. He knew enough about how the Zylongi behaved during harvest to be ready for anything. He moved to the side of the tent opening and stood quietly.

  It was Sammy who lifted up the flap of the tent, her body sleek and wet from the River. “Geemie,” she announced breathlessly, “we thought you would be lonely, so we have come to visit you.” Her eyes were wide with delight.

  Energy Supervisor Niora and State Painter Reena, the two guests at his first nourishment on Zylong, followed her in—equally breathless and equally clad only in their undergarments. There was much laughter, shaking of hair, removing of clothes to dry, and toweling of ripe womanly bodies. Like the women’s locker room next to the hockey fields on Iona. Not that he’d ever had a peek inside that sanctum save in his fantasy. Modesty apparently wasn’t a problem during harvest-time.

  He was not to worry, they assured him, nobody would bother them. They had brought cakes in a waterproof bag and merely wanted to drink la-ir with him and sing songs.

  The harvest ritual had begun with pep rallies, citizens singing and swinging their harvesting tools in all the plazas of the City, three days before the actual harvest began. On the third day, Sammy and Ernie had bundled him off to the Island with a tent, food, a large quantity of poteen, and a pile of books. The word had come down from the Committee that he couldn’t stay in the City and couldn’t visit the fields during the sacred ritual of the harvest.

  He was worried about Marjetta, despite the careful plans that had been made to rescue her and the rest of their friends before the Festival winds began to blow, and to provide them with the pills to control their emotions and the weapons with which to defend themselves.

  It was a harebrained scheme if he’d ever heard of one, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

  On the first day of the harvest, the Zylongi assembled in small bands at their preassigned places and marched out of the City, singing lustily. Many came right down the plain to the River, where O’Neill could see them easily from his vantage point on the Island. Women worked below the River and men above it. Every action was ritualized and supported by chants—the swinging of the tool, the packing of the bundles, the loading of the hand-drawn carts, the rest periods, even swimming in the River before the evening meal.

  The rituals, the songs, the stylized movements were hypnotic; the workers were in deep trance during their working hours. Their evening swim was designed to shake them out of it so that they could get some natural sleep before the wake-up signal for the next day’s activities.

  The horn sounding on the last day of harvest would be the signal for O’Neill to steal a hovercraft and head back to the Dev for the tranquillity pills that his young allies would need when the sun set. Then their crazy revolt would begin.

  He had enough on his mind: he missed Margie desperately, he was worried about the crazy revolution. He didn’t need the stimulation of these hyped-up and uncharacteristically excited women.

  Well, never let it be said that a Taran is not hospitable and prepared to entertain.

  The circumstances called for soft, sad, and erotic songs. So he began by teaching his lovely visitors a neo-Celtic love song.

  If you come at all

  come only at night

  and walk quietly

  ____don’t frighten me.

  You’ll find the key

  under the doorstep

  and me by myself

  ____don’t frighten me

  There’s no pot in the way

  no stool or can

  or rope of straw

  ____nothing at all.

  The dog is quiet

  and won’t say a word

  —it’s no shame to him:

  —I’ve trained him well

  My mammy’s asleep

  and my daddy is coaxing her

  kissing her mouth

  —and kissing her mouth

  Isn’t she lucky!

  Have pity on me

  lying here by myself

  —in the feather bed.

  Then he asked them to teach him their songs. There were some embarrassed giggles, but as the la-ir was consumed, they became bolder. Their songs were much more explicit than his. And these were the same women who would have been shocked a few days earlier by his mildly bawdy ballad about the winning of Marjetta.

  Whoever conceived the system of carnival orgies followed by long months of repression had given considerable thought to the conditioning techniques necessary for the change from a sexless existence to madcap Festivals.

  There was a certain logic to the system, once you admitted the basic premise that sex interfered with responsible human living. Concentrate it all in two bashes every year, enough for reproduction (more than enough, considering the antichildren bias of the planet) and for sexual release, and sedate citizens mentally and physically to repress it the rest of the time. Logical system, but mad premise—not completely unknown in the rest of the galaxy, or even in the history of Christianity, for that matter.

  The temperature in the tent rose; his guests were crowding him, their faces and bodies close to his. Sammy rested her head on his chest. He hurriedly started to sing something comic. She put her hand over his mouth and laughed softly. The other two women were watching avidly. Sammy began to stroke his face with the tips of her fingers. Her eyes were round and large, her figure passive, available, inviting. With the three lovely bodies gleaming with sweat and pressing against him, O’Neill felt himself drifting slowly back toward a primal unity with all things fertile and creative. He was being absorbed by the strong, overpowering power of the loving Earth Mother. He had wanted her from the first moment he had seen her, and now this superb creature was forcing herself on him. He didn’t want to break his Rules or hers. He summoned every bit of self-discipline he’d learned d
uring the pilgrimage and pulled back, with a playful slap on her rump. It broke the spell. She eased away from him, disappointed and hurt. Her friends sighed subaudibly. They had come to watch the show.

  After more singing and storytelling, most of it dispirited, Sammy and her companions excused themselves to swim back across the River to prepare for another day’s work.

  They returned twice more; each time he entertained them with ballads, though he avoided the more erotic ones. Their behavior was more restrained. Sammy seemed hurt but still friendly. He was relieved when on the night before the end of the harvest the women did not come. Well, I survived that, the Lord be praised.

  His gratitude to the Deity was premature.

  Just before dawn he was suddenly awakened by a powerful incense odor. As he struggled awake, he saw Sammy standing above him, naked, available, vulnerable. Coquetry had been replaced by frank and anxious invitation: Please love me before we both die.

  She had banked the tent in flowers, lighted an incense capsule, and tied a ring of blossoms around her waist. She knelt and placed a wreath of similar flowers on his head.

  “I am yours, Geemie, for whatever you want to do with me. You have always wanted me and I have always wanted you. Since the first day. Let us exchange the gift now while we still have time.”

  Seamus gulped. This was no blushing, energetic but untried youthful virgin. This was an experienced, mature, extremely desirable woman. He’d never made love to such a one, despite all his fantasies.

  Why not?

  Well, there are a thousand reasons, the first two of which are Margie and Ernie.

  Neither one of them would ever have to know.

  “You hesitate?” she seemed ready to weep. “But it is not wrong. In two more days I am soon to be the play object of every heavy-handed smelly man who wants me. Why not give myself first to a man who loves me? My Good Mate would not mind. He prefers that I be loved by those who respect me.”