‘I can well believe that,’ replied Pearson, a little dryly. ‘How successful have you been so far?’
‘Completely. You see, his own eagerness defeats his purpose, by filling me with a kind of nausea and self-loathing whenever I think of sex. Lord, to think that I’ve laughed at the prudes all my life, yet now I’ve become one myself!’
There, thought Pearson in a sudden flash of insight, was the answer. He would never have believed it, but Connolly’s past had finally caught up with him. Omega was nothing more than a symbol of conscience, a personification of guilt. When Connolly realised this, he would cease to be haunted. As for the remarkably detailed nature of the hallucination, that was yet another example of the tricks the human mind can play in its efforts to deceive itself. There must be some reason why the obsession had taken this form, but that was of minor importance.
Pearson explained this to Connolly at some length as they approached the village. The other listened so patiently that Pearson had an uncomfortable feeling that he was the one who was being humoured, but he continued grimly to the end. When he had finished, Connolly gave a short, mirthless laugh.
‘Your story’s as logical as mine, but neither of us can convince the other. If you’re right, then in time I may return to “normal”. You can’t imagine how real Omega is to me. He’s more real than you are: if I close my eyes you’re gone, but he’s still there. I wish I knew what he was waiting for! I’ve left my old life behind; he knows I won’t go back to it while he’s there. So what’s he got to gain by hanging on?’ He turned to Pearson with a feverish eagerness. ‘That’s what really frightens me, Jack. He must know what my future is – all my life must be like a book he can dip into where he pleases. So there must still be some experience ahead of me that he’s waiting to savour. Sometimes – sometimes I wonder if it’s my death.’
They were now among the houses at the outskirts of the village, and ahead of them the nightlife of Syrene was getting into its stride. Now that they were no longer alone, there came a subtle change in Connolly’s attitude. On the hilltop he had been, if not his normal self, at least friendly and prepared to talk. But now the sight of the happy, carefree crowds ahead seemed to make him withdraw into himself. He lagged behind as Pearson advanced and presently refused to come any further.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pearson. ‘Surely you’ll come down to the hotel and have dinner with me?’
Connolly shook his head.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’d meet too many people.’
It was an astonishing remark from a man who had always delighted in crowds and parties. It showed, as nothing else had done, how much Connolly had changed. Before Pearson could think of a suitable reply, the other had turned on his heels and made off up a side-street. Hurt and annoyed, Pearson started to pursue him, then decided that it was useless.
That night he sent a long telegram to Ruth, giving what reassurance he could. Then, tired out, he went to bed.
Yet for an hour he was unable to sleep. His body was exhausted, but his brain was still active. He lay watching the patch of moonlight move across the pattern on the wall, marking the passage of time as inexorably as it must still do in the distant age that Connolly had glimpsed. Of course, that was pure fantasy – yet against his will Pearson was growing to accept Omega as a real and living threat. And in a sense Omega was real – as real as those other mental abstractions, the Ego and the Subconscious Mind.
Pearson wondered if Connolly had been wise to come back to Syrene. In times of emotional crisis – there had been others, though none so important as this – Connolly’s reaction was always the same. He would return again to the lovely island where his charming, feckless parents had borne him and where he had spent his youth. He was seeking now, Pearson knew well enough, the contentment he had known only for one period of his life, and which he had sought so vainly in the arms of Ruth and all those others who had been unable to resist him.
Pearson was not attempting to criticise his unhappy friend. He never passed judgments; he merely observed with a bright-eyed, sympathetic interest that was hardly tolerance, since tolerance implied the relaxation of standards which he had never possessed….
After a restless night, Pearson finally dropped into a sleep so sound that he awoke an hour later than usual. He had breakfast in his room, then went down to the reception desk to see if there was any reply from Ruth. Someone else had arrived in the night: two travelling cases, obviously English, were stacked in a corner of the hall, waiting for the porter to move them. Idly curious, Pearson glanced at the labels to see who his compatriot might be. Then he stiffened, looked hastily around, and hurried across to the the receptionist.
‘This Englishwoman,’ he said anxiously. ‘When did she arrive?’
‘An hour ago, Signor, on the morning boat.’
‘Is she in now?’
The receptionist looked a little undecided, then capitulated gracefully.
‘No, Signor. She was in a great hurry, and asked me where she could find Mr Connolly. So I told her. I hope it was all right.’
Pearson cursed under his breath. It was an incredible stroke of bad luck, something he would never have dreamed of guarding against. Maude White was a woman of even greater determination than Connolly had hinted. Somehow she had discovered where he had fled, and pride or desire or both had driven her to follow. That she had come to this hotel was not surprising; it was an almost inevitable choice for English visitors to Syrene.
As he climbed the road to the villa, Pearson fought against an increasing sense of futility and uselessness. He had no idea what he should do when he met Connolly and Maude. He merely felt a vague yet urgent impulse to be helpful. If he could catch Maude before she reached the villa, he might be able to convince her that Connolly was a sick man and that her intervention could only do harm. Yet was this true? It was perfectly possible that a touching reconciliation had already taken place, and that neither party had the least desire to see him.
They were talking together on the beautifully laid-out lawn in front of the villa when Pearson turned through the gates and paused for breath. Connolly was resting on a wrought-iron seat beneath a palm tree, while Maude was pacing up and down a few yards away. She was speaking swiftly; Pearson could not hear her words, but from the intonation of her voice she was obviously pleading with Connolly. It was an embarrassing situation. While Pearson was still wondering whether to go forward, Connolly looked up and caught sight of him. His face was a completely expressionless mask; it showed neither welcome nor resentment.
At the interruption, Maude spun round to see who the intruder was, and for the first time Pearson glimpsed her face. She was a beautiful woman, but despair and anger had so twisted her features that she looked like a figure from some Greek tragedy. She was suffering not only the bitterness of being scorned, but the agony of not knowing why.
Pearson’s arrival must have acted as a trigger to her pent-up emotions. She suddenly whirled away from him and turned toward Connolly, who continued to watch her with lack-lustre eyes. For a moment Pearson could not see what she was doing; then he cried in horror: ‘Look out, Roy!’
Connolly moved with surprising speed, as if he had suddenly emerged from a trance. He caught Maude’s wrist, there was a brief struggle, and then he was backing away from her, looking with fascination at something in the palm of his hand. The woman stood motionless, paralysed with fear and shame, knuckles pressed against her mouth.
Connolly gripped the pistol with his right hand and stroked it lovingly with his left. There was a low moan from Maude.
‘I only meant to frighten you, Roy! I swear it!’
‘That’s all right, my dear,’ said Connolly softly. ‘I believe you. There’s nothing to worry about.’ His voice was perfectly natural. He turned toward Pearson, and gave him his old, boyish smile.
‘So this is what he was waiting for, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to disappoint him.’
‘No!’ gasped Pearso
n, white with terror. ‘Don’t, Roy, for God’s sake!’
But Connolly was beyond the reach of his friend’s entreaties as he turned the pistol to his head. In that same moment Pearson knew at last, with an awful clarity, that Omega was real and that Omega would now be seeking for a new abode.
He never saw the flash of the gun or heard the feeble but adequate explosion. The world he knew had faded from his sight, and around him now were the fixed yet crawling mists of the blue room. Staring from its centre – as they had stared down the ages at how many others? – were two vast and lidless eyes. They were satiated for the moment, but for the moment only.
Jupiter Five
First published in If, May 1953
Collected in Reach for Tomorrow
In 1962, I commented that ‘I am by no means sure that I could write “Jupiter Five” today; it involved twenty or thirty pages of orbital calculations and should by rights be dedicated to Professor G. C. McVittie, my erstwhile tutor in applied mathematics. (I had better hasten to add that he bears no slightest resemblance to the professor in the story.)’
‘Jupiter Five’ formed the basis of the fifth novel in the series ‘Arthur C. Clarke’s Venus Prime’, written by Paul Preuss.
Professor Forster is such a small man that a special space-suit had to be made for him. But what he lacked in physical size he more than made up – as is so often the case – in sheer drive and determination. When I met him, he’d spent twenty years pursuing a dream. What is more to the point, he had persuaded a whole succession of hard-headed business men, World Council Delegates and administrators of scientific trusts to underwrite his expenses and to fit out a ship for him. Despite everything that happened later, I still think that was his most remarkable achievement….
The Arnold Toynbee had a crew of six aboard when we left Earth. Besides the Professor and Charles Ashton, his chief assistant, there was the usual pilot-navigator-engineer triumvirate and two graduate students – Bill Hawkins and myself. Neither of us had ever gone into space before, and we were still so excited over the whole thing that we didn’t care in the least whether we got back to Earth before the next term started. We had a strong suspicion that our tutor had very similar views. The reference he had produced for us was a masterpiece of ambiguity, but as the number of people who could even begin to read Martian script could be counted, if I may coin a phrase, on the fingers of one hand, we’d got the job.
As we were going to Jupiter, and not to Mars, the purpose of this particular qualification seemed a little obscure, though knowing something about the Professor’s theories we had some pretty shrewd suspicions. They were partly confirmed when we were ten days out from Earth.
The Professor looked at us very thoughtfully when we answered his summons. Even under zero g he always managed to preserve his dignity, while the best we could do was to cling to the nearest handhold and float around like drifting seaweed. I got the impression – though I may of course be wrong – that he was thinking: What have I done to deserve this? as he looked from Bill to me and back again. Then he gave a sort of ‘It’s too late to do anything about it now’ sigh and began to speak in that slow, patient way he always does when he has something to explain. At least, he always uses it when he’s speaking to us, but it’s just occurred to me – oh, never mind.
‘Since we left Earth,’ he said, ‘I’ve not had much chance of telling you the purpose of this expedition. Perhaps you’ve guessed it already.’
‘I think I have,’ said Bill.
‘Well, go on,’ replied the Professor, a peculiar gleam in his eye. I did my best to stop Bill, but have you ever tried to kick anyone when you’re in free fall?
‘You want to find some proof – I mean, some more proof – of your diffusion theory of extraterrestrial culture.’
‘And have you any idea why I’m going to Jupiter to look for it?’
‘Well, not exactly. I suppose you hope to find something on one of the moons.’
‘Brilliant, Bill, brilliant. There are fifteen known satellites, and their total area is about half that of Earth. Where would you start looking if you had a couple of weeks to spare? I’d rather like to know.’
Bill glanced doubtfully at the Professor, as if he almost suspected him of sarcasm.
‘I don’t know much about astronomy,’ he said. ‘But there are four big moons, aren’t there? I’d start on those.’
‘For your information, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto are each about as big as Africa. Would you work through them in alphabetical order?’
‘No,’ Bill replied promptly. ‘I’d start on the one nearest Jupiter, and go outward.’
‘I don’t think we’ll waste any more time pursuing your logical processes,’ sighed the Professor. He was obviously impatient to begin his set speech. ‘Anyway, you’re quite wrong. We’re not going to the big moons at all. They’ve been photographically surveyed from space and large areas have been explored on the surface. They’ve got nothing of archaeological interest. We’re going to a place that’s never been visited before.’
‘Not to Jupiter!’ I gasped.
‘Heavens no, nothing as drastic as that! But we’re going nearer to him than anyone else has ever been.’
He paused thoughtfully.
‘It’s a curious thing, you know – or you probably don’t – that it’s nearly as difficult to travel between Jupiter’s satellites as it is to go between the planets, although the distances are so much smaller. This is because Jupiter’s got such a terrific gravitational field and his moons are travelling so quickly. The innermost moon’s moving almost as fast as Earth, and the journey to it from Ganymede costs almost as much fuel as the trip from Earth to Venus, even though it takes only a day and a half.
‘And it’s that journey which we’re going to make. No one’s ever done it before because nobody could think of any good reason for the expense. Jupiter Five is only thirty kilometres in diameter, so it couldn’t possibly be of much interest. Even some of the outer satellites, which are far easier to reach, haven’t been visited because it hardly seemed worth while to waste the rocket fuel.’
‘Then why are we going to waste it?’ I asked impatiently. The whole thing sounded like a complete wild-goose chase, though as long as it proved interesting, and involved no actual danger, I didn’t greatly mind.
Perhaps I ought to confess – though I’m tempted to say nothing, as a good many others have done – that at this time I didn’t believe a word of Professor Forster’s theories. Of course I realised that he was a very brilliant man in his field, but I did draw the line at some of his more fantastic ideas. After all, the evidence was so slight and the conclusions so revolutionary that one could hardly help being sceptical.
Perhaps you can still remember the astonishment when the first Martian expedition found the remains not of one ancient civilisation, but of two. Both had been highly advanced, but both had perished more than five million years ago. The reason was unknown (and still is). It did not seem to be warfare, as the two cultures appear to have lived amicably together. One of the races had been insect-like, the other vaguely reptilian. The insects seem to have been the genuine, original Martians. The reptile-people – usually referred to as ‘Culture X’ – had arrived on the scene later.
So, at least, Professor Forster maintained. They had certainly possessed the secret of space travel, because the ruins of their peculiar cruciform cities had been found on – of all places – Mercury. Forster believed that they had tried to colonise all the smaller planets – Earth and Venus having been ruled out because of their excessive gravity. It was a source of some disappointment to the Professor that no traces of Culture X had ever been found on the Moon, though he was certain that such a discovery was only a matter of time.
The ‘conventional’ theory of Culture X was that it had originally come from one of the smaller planets or satellites, had made peaceful contact with the Martians – the only other intelligent race in the known history of the System – and ha
d died out at the same time as the Martian civilisation. But Professor Forster had more ambitious ideas: he was convinced that Culture X had entered the Solar System from intersteller space. The fact that no one else believed this annoyed him, though not very much, for he is one of those people who are happy only when in a minority.
From where I was sitting, I could see Jupiter through the cabin porthole as Professor Forster unfolded his plan. It was a beautiful sight: I could just make out the equatorial cloud belts, and three of the satellites were visible as little stars close to the planet. I wondered which was Ganymede, our first port of call.
‘If Jack will condescend to pay attention,’ the Professor continued, ‘I’ll tell you why we’re going such a long way from home. You know that last year I spent a good deal of time poking among the ruins in the twilight belt of Mercury. Perhaps you read the paper I gave on the subject at the London School of Economics. You may even have been there – I do remember a disturbance at the back of the hall.
‘What I didn’t tell anyone then was that while I was on Mercury I discovered an important clue to the origin of Culture X. I’ve kept quiet about it, although I’ve been sorely tempted when fools like Dr Haughton have tried to be funny at my expense. But I wasn’t going to risk letting someone else get here before I could organise this expedition.
‘One of the things I found on Mercury was a rather well preserved bas-relief of the Solar System. It’s not the first that’s been discovered – as you know, astronomical motifs are common in true Martian and Culture X art. But there were certain peculiar symbols against various planets, including Mars and Mercury. I think the pattern had some historic significance, and the most curious thing about it is that little Jupiter Five – one of the least important of all the satellites – seemed to have the most attention drawn to it. I’m convinced that there’s something on Five which is the key to the whole problem of Culture X, and I’m going there to discover what it is.’
Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke Page 65