The Fall of the Families

by Phillip Mann

  The Fare-Thee-Well! The ship that had carried the first immigrants from the prison world called Luxury to Elliott’s Pocket. They all knew the ship in their imaginations. They all knew the story of how John Death Elliott had driven the Fare-Thee-Well into the heart of the Pocket and there disappeared. And now here it was: big, decayed and broken, but unmistakable, and with its passenger door gaping wide just above the waterline. For hours they hung above it and then Pettet, fine captain though he was, succumbed to temptation and ordered the ship to land. The seduction was complete.

  Haberjin guided the ship under the canopy of the tree and down to the soft vegetation at the margin of the lake. The ship settled. Checked. Settled again. And then finally its stabilizers bit down into the planet and it came to rest. The engines died. Outside there was total stillness. Not a breath of air moved the pressing vegetation or stirred the surface of the still lake. It was already late in the afternoon.

  Looking through the windows they could see the blunt shape of the Fare-Thee-Well where it reared out of the water. As Pettet stared at it strange thoughts began to stir in his mind. Perhaps it was for this very moment that the trio of Erix, Thule and Candle had appeared, perhaps to return the great ship to the people of the Pocket as a symbol of hope. Perhaps he, Pettet, giant and leader of men had been born just to accomplish this.

  But such thoughts made Pettet suspicious. Like most men of the Pocket he had an abnormally large bump of common sense and was not a great believer in individual destiny.

  It was agreed that Cordoba and Peron would stay with the ship. The others equipped themselves for outside. Pettet hoisted metal cutting gear onto his back. Haberjin carried a small inflatable raft. Wystan took care of the medical supplies and Tank hefted a particle gun on to his shoulders.

  Moving deliberately, Pettet threw open the door to the ship breathed deeply of the air of Thule. And it was sweet. After the recycled air of the ship, Thule smelled of moist earth and humus and rich black soil. These were smells that the Pocket dwellers had hardly ever experienced in their life.

  One by one they stepped down from the ship and into the high shrubbery. Haberjin and Wystan almost disappeared from view. Pettet led the way, pushing back the plants, treading them down when he could, making a path. Halfway to the lake they paused and looked up. Towering over them was the vast canopy of the tree. Its presence was enormous. For the first time they could hear the tree. It made a soft growling as the trunk flexed, keeping the giant spreading branches in balance.

  “Do you realize,” said Haberjin, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, “that we have never seen one of these trees fallen?”

  The margin of the lake was soft and marshy and covered with short reeds which broke when they trod on them. Pettet looked round for footprints or hoof marks. There were none. There were not even any insects. The only things which disturbed the calm of the lake were small white twigs which drifted down from the high canopy.

  Quickly Haberjin inflated the raft and pushed it out into the shallows. Then he hopped aboard. Pettet followed with the cutting gear. Tank waded into the dark water, steering the boat in front of him.

  “Come on Wystan. Hurry up if you are coming.”

  “No,” said Wystan, squatting down at the water’s edge. “I’ve no mind for sailing. I’ll wait. I’ll cover you.”

  Tank, unsuspecting, shrugged as if to say “Suit yourself” and handed the heavy particle cannon over. Then he pushed the boat forward and dived over on top of it. Haberjin took up the stroke and soon the raft was out over the dark water and moving steadily towards the small open doorway in the side of the Fare-Thee-Well.

  Wystan watched them go. Avoiding them had been easier than he expected. He returned his gaze to the tree.

  When he had looked at it from outside the ship, it had seemed to him that it spoke to him, not in words, but in spirit. He stared at the soaring white trunk and it lifted his soul. He saw the branches, miles above him, divide and divide again right out to the limit of the canopy. He saw dark places between the twisted branches where strange lights flickered. He wanted to be up there in the place where the life of the tree was at its greatest. He wanted to climb. With a rush, the whole of his vegetative being responded to the tree and he forsook friends and home and began to run.

  He left the particle cannon in the water and began to splash through the shallows. Running was not easy, and several times he stumbled in the dark ooze, but surprise was on his side.

  Peron saw him first and shouted to the men in the raft, but they couldn’t hear him. He jumped from the ship and ran down to the water’s edge, but by now Wystan was too far away for him to give chase. He called and waved and finally Tank turned.

  Wystan reached the place where the first creamy roots emerged from the lake. There he paused and began tearing off his clothes.

  Tank dived into the black water and began swimming towards the tree, but it was a hopeless chase. Wystan began to climb. The bark was not smooth and he was able to hold on to rough edges and squeeze his feet into fissures. By the time that Tank reached the water’s edge, Wystan was already high. He stood for a moment in the place where a great vein made a fissure in the trunk and waved to them. He called something, but his voice didn’t carry. Then he turned and was lost to sight.

  On the ground the men gathered by the water side. Any thought of trying to enter the Fare-Thee-Well was gone. Pettet was caught between a helpless desire to go after Wystan and the urgent need to protect the other members of his party. He reached his decision quickly. It was obvious that some influence had been at work on Wystan. There was no way they could catch him and it was already moving to late afternoon. At most they would only have had another hour on the planet before Erix began to rise.

  “Back to the ship,” he said. “We’ll take her up as quickly as we can. We’ll come back tomorrow and see if there is any sign of Wystan.”

  It was a good plan, an honourable plan. But when they returned to the ship they found that although all the systems worked, the anti-gravity units failed to lift them. Haberjin sat at the controls, sweating, staring at the instruments which told him that the ship should be rising at a rate of gees. But it didn’t even tremble. He tried to edge it forward and then back, but there was no movement, not even a whine of frustrated power.

  One by one the crew unfastened their safety harnesses and sat on the side of their bunks staring at him.

  “Must be some of the relays shot,” Haberjin muttered. “Maybe I gave a bit of a bump when I landed.” But there was no conviction in his words.

  Pettet reached over and cut the main drive and then the auxiliary engines. He sat for a while staring at the control panel and then he spoke. “So. It looks as though we are here for the night.” His voice was level and controlled, scrubbed of all emotion. “Haberjin will overhaul the engine in the morning. We’ll find what’s wrong.”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” said Haberjin softly.

  No one else spoke.

  They sat in silence, while outside the evening gathered. No one could think of anything to say. In each of their minds was a memory of the many spaceships they had seen under the trees.

  Cordoba lay back with her eyes closed and her hands over her ears. Her mind was outside the ship, trying to discover what force was holding them to the ground.

  Finally Tank breathed deeply and blew out lustily like a swimmer who is catching his breath after a hard race. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got an idea. The problem we are facing is not mechanical. There’s nothing wrong with the ship. I don’t think anything happens mechanically in this world. All our difficulties are linked to that purple bastard out there.” He nodded towards the window. “It is holding us here. We left it too late, that’s all.”

  They looked out of the window. It was now almost completely dark and the luminous purple bag of Erix hung in the sky, casting its festering light over hills and trees and highlighting the solid bulk of the Fare-Thee-Well.

  “Do you mean you
think we’ll be able to take off tomorrow when Erix has gone?” asked Peron tentatively.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. Can’t you feel what it’s like? We have been close to that bastard. We’ve felt its power. Everything is oppressed. It oppresses everything. Somehow it has stopped our ship. Don’t ask me how. Tomorrow we’ll lift, but for tonight we must be careful. Fear is our greatest enemy. We should all stay awake this night.”

  For the first time since the failure of the engines Peron felt a gleam of hope. Still he persisted. “But what about those other ships, the ones which are stranded. Why didn’t they escape?”

  “Because they didn’t want to,” said Tank.

  “Food,” said Haberjin. “If we are going to stay awake all night there’s no reason why we should go hungry. Place your orders. And afterwards we’ll tell stories. Hell, just think what is standing outside there. We’ve seen what no one in the Pocket has seen for centuries. We’ve found the Fare-Thee-Well. I’m going to crack open a bottle to the memory of John Death Elliott and drink his health. Who’ll join me?”

  Haberjin’s enthusiasm was infectious. All the men relaxed. Only Cordoba didn’t move, but lay still on her couch.

  And after they had eaten they did tell stories and sang songs. Haberjin and Pettet told about their adventures. Tank made lightning sketches and caricatures of some of their friends in the Pocket. Even Peron, who did not regard himself as a storyteller, found himself taking part and telling about his encounter with the Hammer. The hours began to slip away.

  In a pause in the conversation, while Haberjin was off to the larder to bring back more wine, Cordoba suddenly woke up. “I’ve been with Wystan,” she said. “He’s happy enough, but tired now. He’s still climbing.”

  “Will he come back to us?” asked Pettet.

  Cordoba laughed and shook her head. “No. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. He’s almost into the high canopy. I don’t think he’ll survive the night. Don’t feel responsible, Pettet. He would have escaped one way or the other. He’s found something he wanted and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Tomorrow we must leave him here. He has brought some strength to this lonely planet. Think of him as a sacrifice, an offering. Nothing more.”

  Pettet shrugged. “But I could have done things better.”

  Haberjin returned. “Welcome back to the living, witch-woman. Here, I’ve brought you a drink. You’re going to have some rare stories to tell your grandchildren when we get back.”

  Cordoba accepted the drink and smiled at Haberjin, but it was a sad smile. Peron wondered why. He guessed that she had seen more on her travels than she was prepared to say. There was both a sadness and a delight about her.

  Peron marvelled at himself. Here was he, a trained historian with a clear rational mind, and yet how easily he had accepted the strange ways of the Pocket.

  *

  Something was happening outside. Erix had swung by overhead and could now no longer be seen, but the tree was beginning to shine. Pulses of light gathered about the roots and then shot up the trunk on their long journey to the canopy. Everyone gathered to watch, shielding their eyes from the brilliant glare. Gradually the pulses came quicker, until the whole tree became a pillar of silver fire. Lines of force radiated from the canopy, filling the dark sky with wrinkles.

  Peron could watch no more and yet he couldn’t drag his eyes away. He felt himself shaking with the tree’s energy. He felt his teeth bite his lips and the bones shake in his wrists and fingers. He felt himself gasping. He couldn’t breathe. He saw his mother and sisters. He saw a school friend he had not thought of for many years. He saw Pawl Paxwax and Laurel and the Hammer with its gaping orifice of tentacles … and then blackness stunned him like a flying brick.

  When he came to he found himself crouched in a corner under his bunk, and there was blood on his hands and face. The grey light of dawn filled the cabin. He had a strange voice pounding in his head. It said, “What was born? What was born?” The words kept on repeating. The voice took on shape and form. Peron recognized Tank.

  Haberjin lay face down on his bunk. Pettet was crushed against the control panel. Only Tank was still on his feet. Tank, strongest of all of them, stood at the window, gripping the guide rails in his huge hands and shouting, “What was born? What was born?” Pettet and Haberjin came to themselves quickly. Together they eased Tank away from the window and lifted him on to his bed. There he at once relaxed. “Cordoba is outside,” he said. “She knows it all.” Then the whites of his eyes turned up and he passed out.

  Pettet and Haberjin ran to the window and stared out. A fine misty rain was falling. The canopy of the tree was hidden and thin wraiths of cloud scudded past the black fins of the Fare-Thee-Well. At the water’s edge they could see Cordoba. She was dancing, lifting her knees high and waving her arms gracefully above her head. As they watched there was movement in the lake, as though a large fish was in the shallows; and then the figure of a man reared up, and began to wade ashore.

  Pettet was out of the ship in a flash. He landed running but tripped and fell his length in the wet vegetation. Then he was up and running again. Cordoba heard him coming and turned and raised her hands as though to ward off a blow. Pettet hesitated, and in that time Haberjin and Peron were able to catch up to him.

  The man from the lake stood up to his knees in black water. He had a bland featureless face, almost like a baby’s. Thin strands of hair like threads of glass were plastered down on to his head and his skin was so pale that the bones could be seen. As they watched his features changed. He became an old man. The muscles on his arms sagged and his belly began to pot.

  “Meet my husband,” said Cordoba. “We haven’t seen one another for many years.”

  The man took a step forward.

  “No,” growled Pettet. “No. No. No!” Haberjin and Peron grabbed his arms, but he threw them off easily. “Come back to the ship, Cordoba. This is some creature dreamed up on this planet. I knew your husband. This is not him.”

  “Dreamed up. Yes. But I dreamed him.”

  “Come back to the ship.”

  Cordoba backed away towards the lake and the man put his arms round her, enclosing her old breasts and nuzzling at her neck.

  Pettet advanced. There was no doubt that he meant to kill. He reached for Cordoba and she bit his arm. A hand went for his eyes but he turned his head away, and she seized his beard and scratched in it. He forced her from him and held her at arm’s length and then thrust her into Haberjin’s arms. The two of them fell back and rolled in the soft weeds at the water’s edge.

  Pettet seized the man by one thin arm and jerked forwards and then his hand closed on his throat. The man didn’t struggle.

  Peron, who had watched everything, jumped for Pettet’s shoulders. Though he could not have explained it, he knew that killing the alien was wrong. Pettet shrugged him off and began to squeeze. The man’s mouth opened but no sounds emerged.

  Suddenly there was a cry from behind. Peron, who was struggling to his feet, was sent flying face first into the water as Tank burst through the vegetation and began to grapple with Pettet. He grabbed his beard and punched, but Pettet would not release his grip on the alien’s throat. Tank punched again and again, and then sank his fist into Pettet’s stomach. That released the grip. The two giants fought in the water until finally Tank had Pettet’s arms behind him and was able to force his head down into the water. He held him until Pettet stopped struggling, and then released him and heaved his body up on to the shore.

  But the old man was dead. He floated face-down with his arms spread wide and his toes dragging in the silt. Slowly, gently, Tank turned him over. The face was changing again, becoming pink and smooth like a baby’s. Whatever character was there seeped away, leaving a bland face without history.

  Peron moved to help but Tank stopped him. “Leave it there. It is not human. Nor yet completely alien either.” He took the corpse by the feet and pushed it out into the water. “if you want to do somethin
g, make sure that Cordoba is all right.”

  Cordoba was kneeling. She was at the water’s edge, leaning forward into the mud and tearing at her hair. Haberjin sat back. Ugly scratches had opened up one side of his face and one arm. His blood was being washed away in the soft rain.

  Before anyone could move, Cordoba jumped to her feet. She seemed to have the grace of a girl. She ran into the water to where the body of the alien lolled and then she dived. She never emerged … and the body drifted out into the middle of the lake.

  Tank shook his head. It looked for a moment as though he was going to lumber into the water after Cordoba. But he turned and applied his strength to Pettet, pressing him in the back until the giant vomited out the black water and lay coughing.

  It had all happened so quickly. Peron sat for a moment in the ooze looking about him and then he got to his feet and offered his hand to Haberjin. Haberjin spat redly.

  An hour later the four men sat together in the ship. Tank held one of Pettet’s hands and was stroking it. Haberjin held the other hand in the firm grip of friendship. Peron busied himself making breakfast. He tried to listen as much as he could, for Tank was explaining what he thought had happened.

  “You were right, Pettet. The thing Cordoba saw and thought was her husband was alien. It came from the tree. I saw it last night. I saw a lot of things. Most of them I don’t understand. But this much I can guess. The tree responded to us. It responded to our emotion. Emotion is the great generator of the universe. It is the first true sign of consciousness. Everything flows from emotion. The tree took our emotion and somehow made it physical. If we had been terrified it would have made shapes from our terror. As it was we were happy, and our thoughts were of those we love. Whether it can make shapes from hatred I do not know. I somehow doubt it. Hatred belongs with all dark thoughts and is part of that purple beast that looks down on this world. Anyway, when we were on Erix I saw particles without form. Here I saw nothing but potential form. It was magnificent and terrible. Cordoba knew all this. She willed that form of her husband to come into existence. It was all she wanted. Cordoba is the kind of woman who loves only once. She wanted him for just a few more hours. He died far from her, you know, and she never forgave herself that she was not by his side. Anyway, what does it all matter? You are free to leave whenever you want. The ship’s engines will lift. I guarantee that. The only people who stay on Ultima Thule are those who want to.”