The Disestablishment of Paradise

by Phillip Mann

  Captain Abhuradin paused, saddened by the import of her own speech. When she next spoke her tone was more measured.

  ‘Your clever quotation earlier about a few good women doing nothing . . . Well in my view there are only a few good women and a few good men too – Tim Isherwood is probably one of the better ones – and the good people have to sleep sometimes, and that is when the bad boys do their business. Goodbye, Hera. Go back down and join your own kind. Write your report.’

  Hera stood still. Abhuradin’s words had shocked her, and, as happened to her when in a state of shock, she had momentarily become a block of wood. The awful reality behind Abhuradin’s words was dawning on her. Finally she spoke and her voice was small. ‘Will you be coming to the judicial review?’

  ‘Not unless I am ordered to attend. I shall not be putting in an official submission. No point. But in any case . . .’

  ‘In any case what?’

  ‘In any case, I do not want to be there and see you humiliated.’

  There were no more words. Hera returned to the ORBE station, and when she reached the surface Hemi was waiting for her. He was anxious. ‘Hell, Hera, you’re never going to forgive me for this. I missed this message for you. It got mixed with some routine stuff. It was from Captain Howavyabin. The secretary general, Timothy Isherwood, has asked her to set up a fractal video link. She wanted to let you know. Sorry.’ He looked at her, his face in an exaggerated wince as though about to be hit by a flying brick. ‘Was it OK?’

  3

  A Moment of Madness

  Hera did not blow up at Hemi. She simply nodded tightly, and then excused herself and went home. She needed to be alone.

  Sitting in her tidy apartment, staring out of the window, Hera could see, above the adjacent buildings, the flapping pennants on the masts of the small flotilla of yachts in the marina. If even half of the things that Abhuradin had mentioned came true, those yachts would soon be counted in their millions. Even so, how she wished she could just climb aboard one, cast off and sail away. But running away was out of the question.

  What a fool she had been not to see it all sooner! The plans had been carefully laid by the Space Council. Smarmy bloody Timothy Isherwood and that crone van Terfel! Ugh! Abhuradin had been right all along: she had, from her limited perspective, seen what was happening. And Hera, who prided herself on having a dirty mind when it came to politics, had not seen the danger. God, would she butcher them if she had them in front of her right now? But they were probably smiling over cocktails at this very minute, grinning and clinking glasses.

  Hera stood up. She needed to do something, something different, to commit an outrage of some kind. But what? What? And a sudden thought came to her.

  She found her keys where she had thrown them and went back to ORBE HQ. She did not enter the main office but went to the building next door, close to the small Shapiro Library, and entered the cryogenics lab. All the researchers had their own facilities here, and Hera’s containers were in a small side room. She tapped in the access code and opened the fridge door. This was a special fridge where she kept historic samples of fruits and leaves and seeds. She removed a stainless-steel container on the top of which glowed a panel showing that the contents were held at a constant 34.7°F. Methodically she switched off all lights, closed and locked all doors and then carried the container to her shilo. There was a grim determination about her movements.

  Back in her kitchen, she set the container down and turned off its refrigeration controls. This released a magnetic lock. Carefully she unscrewed the lid and set it aside. Then she tipped the container into a clean white bowl. Out rolled an object slightly smaller than her fist. It was a Paradise plum, a vintage one, well over a hundred years old, picked in its prime, long before the plums became toxic. As she watched, the plum responded to the warmth of the room. Slowly it changed colour, a bloom came to its skin and its perfume reached her – one of the quintessential smells of Paradise. She touched it and could feel that special tightness that one can detect on the skin of fruit when it is just coming to ripeness and can be bruised so easily.

  The plum was a gift to Hera, and a note was tied to its stem on which was written in a wavering hand, ‘For my dear H. In memory. Issy’.1

  Strange to relate, but Hera, who knew so much about the plants of Paradise, had never tasted a Paradise plum, although Shapiro had on occasion invited her to join him. He had always claimed that the plum brought wisdom and relief from pain. Well, Hera had never followed Shapiro’s recommendation, for he was a renowned addict, but now . . . now she was in need of something that would dull the ache inside her. Perhaps the bonus would be sweet oblivion. At least it would be one in the eye for the greedy plum-hungry Hilder van Terfel.

  Quite conscious that what she held in her hand was worth many thousands of solas, Hera placed the plum on the cutting board, selected a sharp knife and slit it open. The knife cut through the flesh easily and the two halves fell apart, spilling clear seeds that leaked a blue juice with the texture of fine oil. The veined red flesh was firm. Hera scooped out the seeds and set them aside. She was no Estelle Richter and had no impetuous desire to crunch and swallow. Instead she took the two halves and squeezed them above a glass. The juice ran red, and within that redness were threads of deep blue, which, like oil with water, never mixed with the juice, but rather coiled on its surface.

  When the run of juice reduced to a trickle, she set the cut halves aside. Their colour was changing again, darkening.

  Hera raised her glass. It was half full. ‘Here’s to you, old man. May you rest in peace. And to you, Estelle – wherever you found rest for your adventurous spirit. And to you, Hilder van Terfel. May you live to regret the day you chose to disestablish Paradise.’

  She put the beaker to her lips and sipped. Then she opened her lips wide and drank.

  It was the smell of the plum that smote her first, like sweet incense curling in her mind. Then, as the juice found its way down her throat and to her stomach, she tasted all its colours and it made her legs feel weak so she had to lean back against the counter. She was aware as her eyes gradually lost focus and everything seemed to shine and seethe with light. For a moment she felt every hair on her body stir, and the sound of her breathing was loud. She felt the juice spread along her arms and out to the tips of her fingers; it coursed down the inside of her legs and into her toes. She felt it swirl in her heart and in her womb and it made her sigh.

  And then, just as she was raising the beaker to her lips to drink what remained, she felt her stomach contract and heave beyond any control. She twisted round, managing to get her head over the kitchen sink just in time.

  She had to grip the taps to keep herself from falling as her body convulsed. It was as though she was being beaten, as though someone was standing behind her and hitting her. But she could not cry out. It was as much as she could do to hang on, to catch breath and hope that her body would survive and purge itself.

  How long she stayed like this Hera did not know, but finally she contained nothing more. She drank water and vomited it. But she persisted in drinking and eventually she was able to keep the water down and began to feel better. Gradually her vision cleared. She became aware that her skin was puffy at wrists and ankles, that she was wet with sweat, that she had peed herself, and her hair felt lank and clammy. The final, residual effect, however, was on her sense of smell. Everything smelled foul – especially her own body and the mess in the sink. This last was so strong that all she could do was turn away from it to stumble to the window and gulp the clean air. That was better. Not far away was a Tattersall weed; its blue flowers were open and the sweetness of its perfume reached her. Finally, when she could breathe more normally, she made her way through to the shower cubicle, holding on to the walls all the way. There she stripped as quickly as she could, pulling off her damp clothes and kicking them aside. The shower began to flow and she washed and shampooed and soaped until she was pink.

  Hera experienced two mor
e attacks of nausea while she showered, and after the second she felt distinctly better. Something had finally left her and she was able to towel herself dry without shaking.

  She found clean clothes, bundled up her old things and sealed them in a plastic bag and threw them into the garbage container.

  When she came back into the kitchen, there were the remains of the plum. The seeds had lost their clear lustre and turned to slush. The squeezed halves of the plum had dribbled juice all over the counter and it had dried in sticky veins. The juice in the beaker had thickened and was now unmistakably like congealing blood.

  What had she done? The question hit her like a body blow. What had she done? What moment of madness had gripped her? How, how, how could she make amends?

  She scooped up the remains of the plum and its seeds. She took them out into her small garden and there, under the light of the moon called Tonic, which had now risen over the horizon, she buried them, offering a prayer to Paradise and asking for forgiveness. There was nothing else she could do. Finally, she cleaned the knife and the cutting board, scrubbing them and putting them in the automatic cleanser just for good measure.

  Finally, drained and white, she switched out the lights, went back outside and stood for a while in her garden staring up at Tonic, and then quietly made her way to bed.

  Lying there, curled up on her side with her arms crossed and holding herself tight, she wondered what wisdom had come to her. It was, she decided, that she had come perilously close to crossing a boundary of innocence. In trying to taste the plum, she had gone against something deep in her nature, and her body, with a wisdom of its own, had taken over and cleansed her – and she was so glad. She was Hera still.

  She should have known better, of course, and for that she could not readily forgive herself. It had been a moment of madness. What fools we women are sometimes! And now it had passed. And it had left her whole, in possession of her faculties and, in all the ways that really mattered, undamaged.

  She wondered, even as she began to doze, how people had managed to eat those things, and faintly she seemed to hear Shapiro’s wheezing laugh. ‘It takes practice, Hera . . . and a certain amount of self-disgust at the beast in us.’

  And when Hera woke up she was clear-eyed and ready for battle.

  4

  Political Games – Concluded

  The following morning Hera dispatched two formal messages.

  The first was to Abhuradin acknowledging that Hemi had indeed received the captain’s message but had neglected to inform her. The second was to the Space Council applying for a special review hearing.

  To the first message Hera received no answer and she had to wait two days for a reply from the Space Council. Their communication, when it arrived, was a brief acknowledgment from a certain M. Hackabout inviting the senior management team of the ORBE project to present their arguments in writing. Dr Melhuish was assured that if the review panel considered the arguments carried sufficient weight then the Recommendation of Disestablishment served on Paradise would be put on hold and a formal public hearing held. Hera noted with some optimism that the review committee was to be chaired by Ishriba, a senior diplomat who had, in his youth, been a fractal pilot. He had visited Paradise many times and knew the work of the ORBE project well.

  Hera prepared her submission carefully. She argued that the absence of consultation by the Economic Subcommittee was an unacceptable breach of protocol. She maintained that the Economic Subcommittee was in error regarding the scientific work of the ORBE project and appended a list of successful projects which, she claimed, would have a bearing not only on the future of Paradise but on the shape of future space exploration. Her strongest argument was saved till last – that space exploration being still in its infancy, the difficulties being encountered on Paradise were to be valued as evidence of the ‘dimension of the alien’. Far from disestablishing Paradise and hence closing the ORBE project down, she argued that it should be given a wider mandate than merely to service the agricultural needs of Paradise. It should, she claimed, ‘become the main scientific arm of the Space Council dealing with non-terran bio-forms’. Her final paragraph was full of characteristic bravura.

  So here is where we now stand. Paradise is a unique world. In all our wanderings in space to date we have not encountered another world like it. We have encountered life, yes, in the warm caves on Mars, on other worlds, but nothing like Paradise. But we will, and stranger worlds too, which will baffle us even more than Paradise does now. Paradise is well named. But let its name not blind us to the fact that it is a vast and largely unknown alien world – it is not a second Earth or an idealized Earth. I sometimes wish it was just called X or Z so that its name did not provoke such high expectations – but yet its name is good, for on Paradise we confront life in an abundant, vigorous, pristine and alien state, and there is so much to learn from it. The parallels with structures we are familiar with from Earth are remarkable, but so are the differences. We have really hardly begun. Let us look upon the agricultural work we have done to date as one big experiment, for that is what it truly is. And any scientist will tell you that you learn as much, if not more, from experiments that fail as from those that succeed. We study. We learn. We adapt. We try again. And we will succeed. But there must be no retreat. The ORBE project was never conceived as a fly-by-night one-issue project, but as a place of contact between the human and the ‘other’, a place of learning and discovery. It demonstrates our faith in the future and represents the finest traditions of our science. And of course it costs money. But to disestablish Paradise and abort the ORBE project now is akin to stopping Galileo just as he was on his way up the steps of the leaning tower of Pisa, or Newton as he was about to sit down in his orchard, or Archimedes when just about to take a bath, or Einstein because his experiments took place in his mind, in his vision, and lesser minds could not understand them. Let us not make that mistake.

  A week after submitting her letter Hera received the following reply from the secretary of the Special Review Committee of the Space Council.

  Dr Hera Melhuish

  Director ORBE project

  Paradise

  The Special Review Committee has considered your submission re the Disestablishment of Paradise. After due deliberation, the Committee has concluded that your letter provides insufficient grounds for the summoning of a full review hearing. No further action will be taken on this matter. The committee will therefore recommend that the Disestablishment of Paradise proceed as proposed.

  M. Hackabout

  Secretary to the Review Committee

  White-faced, Hera pinned the letter up on the board for all to see. It was greeted with anger, frustration, disbelief and talk of revolution – the entire ORBE project seethed with such feelings.

  Hera contacted the Settlers’ Agricultural Association (SAA) to see what their reaction was, but they were strangely unresponsive, evasive even. That night stones were thrown through the front windows of the ORBE HQ.

  The very next morning Hera was informed by the legal division of the Space Council that serious allegations of malpractice had been lodged against the ORBE project by members of that same Settlers’ Agricultural Association and that the project was to be audited forthwith. She was ordered to make all files, letters and fractal transcripts available to the investigative body. She was also informed that she would be summonsed in due course to answer any allegations that were found to be substantiated.

  Later that very same day agents from the Audit Unit began to arrive at the shuttle port. All filing cabinets and computers were immediately seized and sealed and taken to the New Syracuse Library for evaluation. The library was placed under guard. The reaction of the ORBE staff was, predictably, one of outrage. Who had ordered this? Why? On what grounds? But answers were slow in coming. The only assurances they received were that the cabinets and computers would be returned as soon as their contents had been viewed and, where relevant, copied. That left many feeling very uneas
y.

  Soon the entire ORBE HQ was alive with AU agents. They had a mandate signed by Tim Isherwood himself, giving them wide powers. They could investigate anything and everything, from financial records to the suspected use of ORBE equipment for personal activities. They behaved in a manner that seemed calculated to create maximum disruption and irritation.

  Work ground to a halt. Tempers flared, resulting in flat disobedience and non-cooperation. Passwords were withheld and someone crashed the entire computer and communications network. It fell to Hera to try and calm the situation – which, as one wit observed, was like asking the fire to cool the pot. But she did broker a deal whereby the computers and filing cabinets were returned in exchange for sworn assurances that no data would be destroyed until vetted. Magically the network repaired itself and work recommenced. But everyone was shaken, not least Hera, who had never experienced the full abrasive impact of bureaucratic ruthlessness.

  Special audit teams went out to the various outposts where experimental work was taking place. This led to a clash at the umbrella tree plantation. One of the investigators urinated under a tree and Pietr Z, already fuming from answering questions about how his work helped farmers trying to grow corn, grabbed the man and threw him off the observation platform and into the marsh which surrounded the trees. There he became entangled in the Talking Jenny and almost drowned. By the time he was rescued Pietr Z had run off into the dense thickets surrounding the plantation, thickets in which he knew every path and glade. Pietr Z was never caught or seen again.