What if Nature or God or Whoever decided that mankind was so few in numbers he was now below the survival level? And, in the so far inscrutable ways of the universe, the women left would just cease to bear? Consider those species that had in the past been reduced to near-extinction on Earth. A few females still lived, theoretically capable of reproducing and of starting anew the species. But, for some reason, they could not have young. Nature had called a halt; she had turned her back on the species.
If this should happen to us, thought Broward, we deserve it. Man, the Mad Thinker, the Irrational Rationalist, the Illogical Logician who thought himself into oblivion. "The next thing you know," he muttered to himself, "I'll be believing in God." And he considered how the loneliness and the darkness had thrust him so swiftly into the mental condition of the frightened savage.
"What's the matter?"
"Take your hands off me!" she cried. "You... you man!"
"All right," he said gently. "What's my gender done to yours?"
Tears streamed down her cheeks. "They just decided that it's only fair... for the men, of course, never mind us... oh, those men..."
"You're incoherent," he said. "And all the time I thought you were Ingrid."
"Jokes! Jokes at a time like this! Can't you see I'm crying?"
"I'm just trying to calm you down."
She put her head on his shoulder. His arms went around her, and her shoulders began to shake while her tears wet his uniform.
"They've decided... to make every woman be the mate of two or more men... or whatever the proportion of men to women might be! It's for the good of humanity... they say. And there were women who voted along with the men for it! Women!"
"Did Scone push that through?" said Broward. "That..."
Ingrid stepped back from his arms and looked up at him. "Oh, no, I'll say that for him. He fought it. He said we shouldn't do anything about the man-woman ratio until we'd settled the account with Mars. For once, he couldn't get his way. He was shouted down. Those men were like a pack of howling wolves."
"Sure, he opposed it. He wants you for himself."
Ingrid took a handkerchief from her coverall pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "Well, he can't have me. At least, I'll be able to pick the men I want. You can bet your bottom ruble that he won't be one of them. Unless he's one of those left over after all the picking and choosing is done. Then, hell be assigned by a committee. And the poor woman that gets him won't have a thing to say about it."
Broward said, "I suppose that, the situation being what it is, nothing else could be done. It's..."
"What kind of a man are you?" she wailed, and she began crying again.
"I'm trying to be logical. Objective. Getting emotional isn't going to help any."
"Well, I intend to be emotional. All emotional. I haven't got a bit of logic about this, and I don't intend to have any! Are you really telling me you'll stand by while some other man takes me off to bed?"
"If there's a way out, I'll think of it," he said. "But it'll take brain power, not tears."
Ingrid turned away from him and ran away. He watched her flight down the hall, the luminescence of the panels keeping pace with her. "A firefly," he thought. "In reverse. The flames pursuing her."
And he laughed, though weakly, at himself. Always the romantic poet, no matter what the situation.
He decided it would do no good at the moment to follow her and try to comfort her. He entered the conference room in time to hear Scone appoint a committee of nine. This was to consider methods for implementing the new rule, already termed "Sexual Grouping Policy." After drawing up a set of principles and rules for enforcing them, the committee was to submit them for a general vote.
Some of the women were angry, and some were pale with shock. But it was obvious that nothing could have more pleased Sonya Abarbanel, the beautiful biochemist. Seeing her, Broward became even more angry. For a second, he thought of proposing that the problem be solved by making her an official whore for both Eratosthenes and Clavius. Then, controlling himself, he saw how ridiculous he would appear and what a sharp public rebuke he would receive.
Nevertheless, he could not help loathing her. It did not detract from his feeling to remind himself that he had once had an affair with her. His celibate life on the Moon had made him an easy prey for her—if prey was the word for such a willing participant as himself. Then, on discovering that she was bedding with at least ten other men at the same time, he had quit her in disgust and shame.
A moment later, as usual, he regretted his loathing. Poor creature, she could not help it. Who knew what strange and powerful desires moved her, what her compulsions were? And she had served—was serving—a deep need. Many of the men led monastic lives here. As long as they were to be here only a year or two, they could be supposed to endure the enforced continence or could not be blamed if they took advantage of any chance to break it
But, no man now could be expected to live like a holy hermit the rest of his life, especially since, unlike the ancient hermit, he would come into daily contact with women. So, despite his anger and Ingrid's grief, he had to admit that the decision was the only one to make. That did not mean he had to like it.
It was a mess, and God only knew how many heartbreaks— his among them—would result.
His attention was caught by the man then speaking from the floor. He was Pierre Schwartz, the only Swiss on the Moon, and he was making a motion that nationalism be condemned. He proposed that each base transfer a third of its personnel to another. This would also pave the way for men to think of themselves as Soviets only, not American Soviets or Russian or Chinese Soviets. It would be a foolproof way to make certain that their sons and daughters would think of themselves as members of a single group.
Several dozen people leaped up, shaking their fists and screaming at Schwartz. Order was restored only by Scone's gavel and his roaring.
"Schwartz! I am denying you the right to make such a motion! You yourself are the living proof that people of different national origins and speaking different languages can live harmoniously! You are—were—a citizen of
Shrugging, the Swiss obeyed. Immediately, Jack Campbell, a Canadian, got Scone's recognition.
"Mr. Chairman, are we to understand that the principle of nationalism—although basically not one of Marx's tenets— is the recognized rule on the Moon? And, when we return to Earth, on Earth?"
"It is, Mr. Campbell."
"I have just been talking to Mr. Gomez, a Mexican, and Mr. Lorilleux, a Frenchman. We agree that, following your rule, we each have a valid right to a base where we may establish and preserve our own nationalities. Contrary to what you seem to take for granted, those of us who are not Yankees are not happy at the prospect of becoming Yankees. We are as proud of our nationalities as you are of yours."
For the first time since Broward had known him, Scone became red in the face.
He shouted, "It's obvious to anyone but an idiot that this rule can be followed only when practical! We don't have the means for every piddling little national to go his own way. What would you do, have us dig you two cells in the rock a thousand miles away and set a dome over it and hoist the Canadian flag over it? And do the same for the Swiss, and the Frenchman, and the Mexican, and the Swede? How would you reproduce? Would each of you take a woman with you, a woman who probably would not want to give up her nationality for yours?
"No, Mr. Campbell, you're being utterly ridiculous. You know it; you're trying to wreck the proceedings of this conference, and trying to make me look foolish."
"If I'm ridiculous," said Campbell, "then so is everyone else here, you included. There aren't more than three hundred people on the Moon, yet you talk of maintaining nationalities and separate bases. We need each other. We must tear down all barriers. I think that Schwartz's proposal is a very sensible one, the only one, in fact. Unless we all move into one base."
Broward was about to leap to his feet to back Campbell when he became aware of a man s
tanding by him. He looked up to see Sergeant Ross.
'Time for you to report to the Dorland, sir." Broward started to ask why an escort had been sent for him. Then, he closed his mouth. Scone did not want him to talk to Ingrid before he left.
He rose and said, "I want to see somebody for a minute."
The sergeant looked at his watch and shook his head. "No time, sir. Your takeoff is automatic; your flight path is, too, until you reach your destination. You can't be one second behind time."
Broward knew that this was not true. The latest navigational equipment had capabilities for self-adjustment to changes. But Scone must have given Ross strict orders. Sighing, Broward nodded and walked out of the room.
He found Moshe and Wellers and several engineers and technicians waiting for him. Wellers gave them final instructions. Then, just as they were ready to board the Dorland, they saw a sergeant enter. He held a carton of cigarettes in his hand.
Coming up to Broward, he saluted, then said, "Compliments of Colonel Scone, sir."
Broward took the carton and said, "That's very nice of the colonel, Sergeant. Tell him thanks for me."
"It's the last one in Clavius, sir," replied the sergeant. "Maybe the last in the whole Moon."
"And he sent it to me," murmured Broward. "In the old days, the condemned were always given a big meal and cigarettes just before the execution," Yamanuchi said.
Yes, thought Broward, but this gift was not one to be expected from Scone. He was thoroughly unsentimental. Moreover, Scone smoked and giving this carton meant a sacrifice for him. Until the tobacco plants were taken from the Zemlya's tanks and placed in a garden in the Moon, there would be no more smokes for the Moon personnel. And it was not likely that it would be grown for a long time. The strict economy of the Moon could not afford the luxury of tobacco fields.
Maybe, thought Broward, it would be better if the plant was never taken out of the tanks. Most of mankind had gotten along quite well without nicotine before Columbus, and they'd be much better off without it now. Be that as it might, Scone's act was entirely unexpected.
"You smoke?" he said to the sergeant.
"Not for long," the sergeant replied. "I got half a pack left, and I'm nursing that."
"Here," said Broward, handing the carton to him, "take a couple of packs. Pass the rest around among your men."
Broward raised his hand to stop the sergeant's protests. "I have to quit sometime; I may not live long enough to get through a pack. No use wasting them."
He turned away and said, "Let's go, Moshe."
They entered the ship through an airlock and seated themselves in two chairs placed just before the control panel and observation screen. The sergeant pressed a button on the panel; long slender rods topped by curved metal plates rose from orifices in the chairs and clamped themselves around the heads, chests, arms, and legs of the two seated men. The sergeant then pressed another button; nothing seemed to result from the action. But the sergeant, testing, found that he could not push his hand through the "stasis" field that now surrounded the two. He signalled to them, and both depressed a plate on the right arm of their chairs. Immediately, the sergeant could extend his hand as near them as he wished.
"The stasis is O.K.," he said. "Reactivate it now."
Broward and Yamanuchi settled back. The plates on the rods were not restraining devices but reminders that they must stay in the chair. One of the peculiarities of the not well-understood stasis was that a material object on the outside of the field could not pass through, not unless it was hurled with much more energy than the muscles of a man could expend. Light and sound could pass through the stasis both ways, and a man within it could easily walk out through it. If, however, during the state of terrific acceleration that would be experienced by the ship on most of its journey to the Earth, a man within stasis were to stick so much as a finger through the field, he would be sucked out into the "normal" fields and would be subject to them. That is, he would be crushed to death.
though they were expecting and had experienced the sensation, they were away from the moon and in the glare of the sun. Before them, on the control panel, the red light in the G column crept upwards; they were already past fifty gravities.
The round of the Earth, dark on their left, luminous on their right, perceptibly ballooned. Outlines of the continents and the flashings of the sun from the oceans and big lakes were missing. Since that fatal day, the Earth had been covered with clouds. Even the ice caps of the Poles were smudged.
The two men were silent for a long time. Broward found himself reaching towards his pocket for a cigarette. He smiled, but he wondered if he had not been too impulsive in giving away all his tobacco. Not that he could smoke now, anyway. Light and sound and air could travel through the barrier. Theoretically, it was safe to smoke, but regulations forbade.
Broward turned his head to look at Moshe on his left. Moshe had his eyes closed, and he was smiling slightly.
"Thinking of women again?" said Broward.
"Bagels and lox," said Moshe. "Sara Bagels and Judith Lox, that is."
Moshe laughed, then said, "I'm lying. I was thinking of my mother and father."
"And you can laugh?"
"Laughter and tears are means of relieving tension. Sometimes, I laugh when others cry, and vice versa. Maybe it's because I've had to dissimulate all my life. It's not easy to be a Jew."
"You're not a Jew," said Broward.
"Tell the others that. Tell them that being a Jew is a matter of one's religion, not of one's genes or whatever faith one's parents happened to be."
"That's all in the past," said Broward. "People will forget after a while. Even if there is some slight feeling left in their relations with you, your children won't be affected by it"
"My parents made an effort to educate me in their religion. Secretly, of course. Nominally, they were atheists, but they celebrated all the old ceremonies: Passover, Rosh Hashanah, and so on. They even gave me a Bar Mitzvah; there were twelve others present then, all masked, of course, so nobody would know who they were. Although I was the only one who didn't know. Maybe they were afraid I'd turn them in. Rightly so. Not that I did or even thought of doing so for a moment. I mean they were right not to take the chance that I would.
"But I went through the ceremony only to please them; I had no interest whatsoever or belief in perpetuating their faith. I just wanted to forget about the whole ridiculous and tragic thing."
He was silent for a moment, then said, as if continuing aloud his thought and as if not addressing Broward, "But I can't forget. It's not that a voice has spoken to me out of the fire in the bushes. But there's a voice. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof."
"You're letting the events of the last two weeks get to you," said Broward. "The old world is destroyed, and there's nothing you can do about it. But we do have a new world to make, and if we profit by the mistakes the old world made, well..."
"You have as much chance getting everybody to agree on what the brave new world should be as Scone will have on getting everybody to agree to make the Moon a New America," said Moshe.
Broward did not reply. It was true that Moshe was a member of his Athenian party, but Broward had all along felt that Moshe had joined him only in protest against the Communists. He did not have a sincere or deep belief in the principles Broward expounded. Not in the ability of men to carry out the principles, anyway. When Moshe had lost his faith in the God of his fathers—if he ever had any—he had also lost his faith in men.
The rest of the way the two talked about trivial things, about those they knew on the Moon, about friends and enemies they had known on Earth, their childhoods, jokes. Exactly one and a half hours after they had hurtled from the surface of the Moon, an alarm rang through the ship. This, as the appropriate blinking light on the panel validated, was the signal that the ship was beginning to decelerate. It was not needed, for the vessel had been on automatic from the beginning. It would continue to be so until it had brought t
hem into the atmosphere and close to the area where they were to land. Then, Moshe would take over the controls.
They waited, silently, while the ship plunged into the clouds that blanketed the planet. Broward showed his nervousness by the swift tapping of his fingers on the chair-arm; Moshe hummed softly. Outside, all was gloom except for flashes of lightning in the distance. Suddenly, they were in a heavy rain.
"We're on the nightside," said Moshe. "Out of contact with the Moon. There's nothing to keep us from taking off again, keeping the Earth between us and the Moon until we are out of detection range."
"Where would we go?" said Broward. "And why should we go?"
"Ganymede. Mercury. Ganymede'd be better. Did you ever read the report on the complex of caverns in it? A whole city could hide there and never be found. As to why, well, why go back to a people that hate you or, at least, have contempt for you? Or to a leader that wants to use you as tools for his own twisted ideology, not as a human being with rights and desires of his own? And..."
"Forget it. I'm just talking. First, let's find what we came for, then..."
Their goal was ten kilometers off the coast of the East Siberian Sea, near the city of Yakan, and a quarter of a kilometer beneath the surface. The ship took them to the exact spot—or so the instruments indicated—and then it poised ten meters above the waves. So thick was the mixture of smoke and fog, that the two men could see nothing. They had not glimpsed the land once during their descent. Broward had wanted to see something of the devastation. At the same time, he did not want to see it. He was not sure that he could bear the sight. Knowing about it had been almost too much; to view the glassed-over and fused cities that had suffered direct hits, to see the shattered remnants of the areas that had been on the fringes, to have to see the thousands, the millions of bodies of those who had died from radiation, the human beings, the animals, birds... this was more than he could endure even to imagine. No, he was glad that the smoke from burning cities and the forests hid dead Earth.
Tongues of the Moon Page 6