by Lake, Jay
“It—it frightens me,” stuttered Van Gundy. “There’s death out there. The air is poisonous. I feel it.”
“We’re crazy,” Garcia spat. “As crazy as Kelly.” His eyes widened. “Or maybe we’re dead. Could that be?”
“E—excuse me, Captain,” said Lieutenant Washington. “I think I’ll go aft for a minute.”
Captain Torkel said nothing. He had forgotten where he was. He was nameless and lost, among strangers in a strange place.
But at this moment he somehow did not care. He was content to let his hungry gaze absorb the rainbow beauty beyond the ports.
The meadow was like molten emerald stirring lazily in a slight breeze. The meadow was spotted with flowers as large as a man’s head, shaped like teardrops, and shining purple and yellow and blue and crimson in the light from a swollen, blood-red sun.
Some five hundred yards away on the rocket’s starboard side rose a towering green forest. In its shadow was a dark jungle of colossal fern and twisted vines and more flowers. Beyond that, far away, snow-cloaked mountains stretched their ponderous bulk into sea-blue sky.
Captain Torkel returned his slow gaze to the interior of the strange place in which he stood. He beheld a group of strange men doing strange things.
A stern-looking man with tight lips and menacing eyes was looking up from a litter of glass flasks and electronic devices. “Air twenty-nine per cent oxygen—a bit higher than on Earth. Sixty-five per cent nitrogen. Rest is a mixture of water vapor, CO2 and inert gases.”
A small-boned man with a brown beard was saying, “Mass point-eight-three. That and the increased oxygen should make us feel like kids again.”
A hawk-nosed man with trembling hands and a forehead glistening with perspiration said, “Temperature sixty-four Fahrenheit. No harmful radiation, pathogenic tests negative. Air pressure, eleven-point-three.”
He pointed to an odd-looking flower and a tuft of grass in the window of a metal, box-like chamber. “Flora shows the same oxygen-CO2 cycle as on Earth. Only the flowers here seem edible.”
The men looked at one another.
“Captain, is everything all right?” the brown-bearded man asked anxiously.
Captain Torkel sensed that the strange men desired an affirmative answer from him. “Yes,” he said.
The brown-bearded man clapped his hands. “And we can go outside! How about it, Captain? Can we go outside without our suits? Can we go out now—please?”
Click.
* * * *
Memory returned to Captain Torkel like water crashing out of a broken dam and into a barren valley. He blinked and took a deep breath.
The three men before him became Garcia and Fox and Van Gundy. He saw that Kelly was still strapped in his crash-chair. He did not see Lieutenant Washington, but from the aft compartment came a faint tinkling of glassware.
“Yes,” he said, “we’ll go outside. But first someone should go alone—just in case. Who’ll volunteer?”
“Not me,” said Van Gundy. “You can’t depend on those tests. There’s death out there. The whole human race will die out if it comes here.”
“Why not let Kelly go?” asked Fox. “It’s his planet.”
“Sure,” said Garcia. “If he dies, it’d serve him right, after what he did.”
Captain Torkel thought, It may be a dangerous planet. The captain ought to go first. He shouldn’t send a madman to do a captain’s job.
“Let Kelly go first,” he said, hating himself.
Fox helped Kelly out of the crash-chair, pushed him to the airlock.
“Go on, Kelly. This is your planet. You’ll be the first to set foot on it.”
Kelly did not move.
Fox pulled him to a port. “Look out there, Kelly. Damn it, don’t keep looking at your feet. Out there, out the port!”
Fox raised Kelly’s head and brushed the red hair back from his eyes.
The madman looked.
“Heaven?” he whispered.
“Not Heaven. Kelly’s Planet. Your planet, Kelly.”
They pushed Kelly into the airlock. A minute later they saw him stumble onto the green meadows. For eleven more minutes he stood silent and motionless. Then he turned toward the rocket. Through the ports the men saw his lips move.
“Heaven!” yelled Fox. “That’s what he said! He said ‘Heaven’!”
III
Captain Torkel and Fox and Garcia and Van Gundy stood beside Kelly. Lieutenant Washington, too drunk to stand, sprawled in the grass.
They let the cool, clean air wash out their lungs like sweet perfume. They took off their shoes. They dug their toes into the soft, silky grass. They sniffed the poignant, spicy smell of the brilliant flowers.
Van Gundy, despite his trembling, played Turkey in the Straw on his harmonica. Captain Torkel did a dance like that of a Russian Cossack. Lieutenant Washington, squatting like a dark Buddha and with his torso swaying drunkenly, clapped his hands in time with the dance. Fox hummed the tune, and even Kelly nodded his head rhythmically. Only Garcia stood motionless.
“It’s a good planet!” exclaimed Fox at last.
Van Gundy’s trembling hand whacked spit out of his harmonica. His eyes rolled fearfully toward the forest. “We don’t know for sure yet.”
“I think Fox is right,” said Captain Torkel. “It is a good planet. Enjoy it, men. Breathe deeply. Smell those flowers. Feel the grass. Because very soon we’ve got to start Earthward. We’ve got to store our memories full of this beauty so it’ll last for twelve years.”
“Oh, God,” sighed Fox. “Twelve years.”
Garcia stepped forward, swelling his chest. Strangely, it seemed that all the hatred had been drained out of him. “I was wrong,” he said. “We’re not crazy and we’re not dead. This planet is good. It’s so good that I’d like to stay here as long as I live.”
“What?” asked Captain Torkel, blinking.
“I said I’d like to stay here as long as I live.”
The words echoed in the still air. They were like evil seeds, falling into fertile minds and sprouting.
“And not go back to Earth?” asked Fox, stroking his beard.
“And not go back to Earth.”
* * * *
Captain Torkel stiffened. “Get those thoughts out of your head, Garcia. There are two billion people back on Earth. They’ll die unless we tell them about this planet. We’ve got wives, friends—”
“Not me,” said Garcia sternly. “No wife and no friends.”
Fox shrilled, “The only reason I volunteered for this trip was to get away from my wife and that lousy New York apartment. You’re not married, are you, Captain?”
“N—no.”
“Me neither,” hiccoughed Lieutenant Washington. “Not many girls’ll marry spacemen.”
“Kelly’s married, though,” mused Fox. “How about it, Kelly?”
“Heaven,” mumbled Kelly.
Fox laughed. “Kelly means he wants to stay here.”
Captain Torkel wiped perspiration from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “We got to get these thoughts out of our minds. We’re talking like murderers. Garcia, think of the people you used to know. Think of their faces. Imagine how it would be for them to die.”
Garcia looked up into the sky, his features softening. “I can’t remember any faces, Captain. I can remember how the gulls used to fly over the coast at Monterey and how the fishing boats used to bounce over the waves. That’s all. The gulls and the boats will be destroyed anyway. We can’t save those.”
Captain Torkel turned to Fox. “You remember faces, don’t you, Fox?”
The little man shrugged. “They’re like those crowd scenes we used to see in movies—hundreds and thousands of faces all huddled together. You
really can’t remember a single one. They’re like shadows.”
“But you remember your wife’s face.”
“I don’t want to remember that. I might vomit. And I don’t want to remember that cheesy New York apartment either.”
In desperation the captain turned to Van Gundy. “And you?”
“I—I remember the face of an old woman who sold flowers on O’Farrell Street in Frisco. Stood there all year long, she did. In winter, summer, spring, fall. I used to buy gardenias from her when I had a date.”
“Do you want her to die?”
“She was so old that she’s probably dead by this time anyway. But listen, Captain, I—I’m not sure yet that this planet—”
Captain Torkel whirled frantically to Lieutenant Washington, kicked him lightly in the side. The lieutenant, apparently somewhat sobered by the cool air, rose shakily.
“Lieutenant, you remember the people of Earth. Can’t you still see their faces in your mind?”
* * * *
“The only face I remember,” drawled Lieutenant Washington, “is my Mom’s. A good face, with a lot of work in it, but thin around the lips and wrinkled around the eyes. It was a cold face, though. Mom was born in Louisiana and then moved up to Maine as a girl. Her bones weren’t the kind to take those New England winters. So Mom slept, ate, lived and died cold. Been dead now for eight years, and I think she’s still cold, even in her grave. I don’t believe Mom’d mind one bit if the Earth burns up. She’d be warm then. I think she’d like it.”
“That’s not the point,” said Captain Torkel angrily. “The point is—”
Fox broke in: “What do you remember, Captain?”
Captain Torkel swallowed hard. “Me? Why, I remember, I—” His mouth remaining open, he scratched the back of his neck. His memories suddenly vanished like puffs of smoke.
“Just like the rest of us!” burst Garcia, triumphantly.
“You know, Captain,” said Fox, “if we didn’t go back, the race wouldn’t have to roast. People would still escape in their emergency rockets.”
“But they wouldn’t know where to go. They’d float around a few years, and then those flimsy mass-production ships would break up. Good Lord, men, we’ve got to act like human beings!”
Garcia stepped forward. “Why don’t we decide this later? Can’t we relax for a few hours, Captain?”
Lieutenant Washington nodded agreement. “He’s right. You said yourself, Captain, that if the planet was good we’d spend a day or so getting the madness out of our systems.”
“All right,” murmured Captain Torkel, shoulders drooping. “We’ll look around some more.”
They walked toward the forest. Fox led Kelly by the hand. Lieutenant Washington advanced under his own power.
They saw trees five hundred feet high with brown trunks like twisted, lumpy crullers and leaves like elephant ears of green velvet. From smaller trees hung fruit that shimmered like golden snow as light touched it. Here and there were clusters of scarlet berries as large as apples, and chocolate-brown balls the size of coconuts.
“Don’t touch ’em,” said Van Gundy, trembling. “I’ll bet they’re deadly poison.”
“They look delicious,” said Captain Torkel, stuffing three specimens in his knapsack, “but we’ll test them first.”
Van Gundy screamed.
The others whirled to look at him.
Van Gundy, speechless, pointed with a trembling forefinger.
A brown, smiling face broke out of the fern foliage. Then another appeared, and another and another.
A score or more of brown-skinned humanoids walked up to them.
IV
The Sirians were dressed in loin cloths as bright and multi-colored as the tear-shaped meadow flowers. Their resemblance to Earthmen made Captain Torkel gasp.
He could discern no appreciable difference save for the perfect roundness of their dark eyes and a slight elongation of their ears. Their flesh was golden tan.
“Well, hello!” said Captain Torkel.
The Sirians moved toward him, with such grace that they seemed not men striding through the singing forest, but part of the living trees and ferns and flowers.
“Hello,” echoed the foremost Sirian, smiling. He was a young man, about thirty by Earth standards, with long black hair and wide, muscular shoulders. His handsome face reminded Captain Torkel of romantic Latin heroes in the micro-movies aboard the Star Queen.
Captain Torkel pointed to the sky. “We come from up there, from another world.”
The Sirian’s eyes were like black lights spearing into the captain’s skull. “Yes, you come from star. You are Star People. Where is your star?”
“It’s a long way—”
“Hey, he spoke in English!” cried Fox. “What the hell!”
“I—I’m going back to the rocket,” stammered Van Gundy, shaking.
“Lord, I need a drink,” murmured Lieutenant Washington, stepping back with Van Gundy.
“Wait, all of you,” Captain Torkel commanded them. To the Sirian he said, “We know that Earthmen haven’t been here before. How do you speak our language?”
The young man’s smile broadened. “Your mind is a fire sending out warmth to us. Within the warmth I see sounds you use to make words.”
“Telepathy,” said Captain Torkel.
“Yes,” the Sirian agreed. “And I see that your people are troubled. They fear a strange thing—a coming of heat and light. Your world is soon to be destroyed, yes?”
Suddenly the captain was afraid. The fear came to him in an invisible cloud, settling over him, seeping into his flesh and chilling his bones. He tried to believe that it was the senseless fear of a child whose imagination has peopled the dark corners of his room with nameless monsters. He tried to crush the fear, but it clung to him in fog-cold intensity.
The Sirian nodded understandingly. “You must not worry now about the coming of the great heat. You are tired. You must come with us to our village. You must see how we live.”
* * * *
The captain’s legs were weak. He wanted to flee; he wanted to escape from the Sirian’s omnipresent smile and his round-eyed piercing gaze.
Van Gundy whispered to him, very softly, “Did you bring weapons, Captain? Should we go without weapons?”
“I—I forgot about weapons,” he whispered back, his face reddening.
Fox said anxiously, “How about it, Captain? Do we go with them?”
“I don’t want to go,” said Van Gundy, trembling. “Don’t make me go, Captain.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll go,” muttered Garcia. “I’m going back to the rocket.”
Captain Torkel nodded. “You two can go back to the rocket.”
Fox leaned forward. “The rest of us can go, can’t we?”
Captain Torkel frowned at Fox and Lieutenant Washington and Kelly. The fear was still in him, but he said softly, “All right, we’ll go.”
Garcia and Van Gundy ran back toward the Star Queen, white-faced, shoulders hunched. Captain Torkel and Fox and Kelly and Lieutenant Washington, led by the young Sirian, stumbled down a wide forest trail. Other Sirians darted on either side of them and behind them, half hidden by the thick foliage. They were like happy, dancing nymphs. Every second or two the forest echoed their clear, melodious laughter.
“We forgot to introduce ourselves,” Captain Torkel said to the Sirian. “My name is Torkel, Captain Jeffrey Torkel.”
“My name is Taaleeb,” replied the Sirian.
“A pretty name. You are the leader of your people?”
The Sirian’s smile gave way to uncertainty. “Leader—that is a strange thought in your mind. We have no leaders.”
“But you must have leaders.”
�
��Why?” asked the Sirian, his eyes wide. “We have no star-boat. We are not going anyplace.”
The captain cleared his throat. “We have leaders not only in our rockets. We have them to help us make our laws, to supervise our work, to guide us in the decisions of our living.”
The Sirian laughed like a happy child. “Laws, work—more strange thoughts. We do not have laws. We do not have work.”
A scowl creased Captain Torkel’s forehead. “But you must do work of some kind. What do you do all the time?”
“We pick fruit from the trees and make love and sing and sleep and lie in the forest and make up poems. Is there anything else to do?”
“But when you build shelters or make clothes—that is work.”
Taaleeb laughed again. “No, no. Building a shelter or making clothes is just building a shelter or making clothes.”
They came to the village. It lay in circle of domes about eight feet high that reflected the same shining colors as the meadow flowers. Whether they were wooden, metallic or vegetable Captain Torkel could not tell.
“This is where we live,” said Taaleeb proudly.
Captain Torkel nodded.
Then he saw the women coming toward them.
He felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck. For an instant he thought he was going to fall backward. Somehow he caught himself and managed to remain erect.
The women stood in a line in the center of the clearing as if gathered to meet the Earthmen. Like the men, they were clad only in loin-cloths. They were bronzed, sultry young goddesses.
The captain’s gaze traveled over the nearest, a girl of perhaps twenty. His gaze began with her midnight hair that cascaded to firm, round breasts in a shower of black silk. It turned to her piquant, up-turned nose and dimpled cheeks and pink, sensual mouth. It fell to the slim, full body and the sweep of long, tanned thigh.
The girl smiled at him. Her eyes were like wells of interstellar space silvered with sparkling stars.
He sat down on his haunches, too weak to stand. He’d almost forgotten that women of flesh and blood existed. He’d almost begun to believe that women were memories hidden in dark corners of his mind or flickering images striding across a micro-movie screen.