The Neutral Stars

by Dan Morgan;John Kippax

"You'll like her; she's fun—with a capital F, if you follow me?"

  "I thought you and Elsa—?"

  "Why sure we are—I'm only telling you what they say," said Prince, laughing. "But you're unattached."

  Unattached. . . That was for sure, thought Bruce

  grimly. Whatever had once existed between himself and Helen could never happen again.

  "We leave from Clarke Field at midnight on Friday —all right?" said Prince.

  "Yes, sure, fine. . . Thanks, Bob. I'll look forward to it."

  "Me too—we've got a lot to talk over. 'Bye."

  "'Bye." Bruce switched off and turned away from the screen. A lot to talk over. . . Yes, a whole new future. There was no going back careerwise, any more than there was in his love life. The Corps had ruined what existed between him and Helen Lindstrom— he had little doubt of that—grinding it down and fitting it into pigeon holes of duty and obedience. Prince had been right—the Corps took everything. . .

  But not anymore. This weekend would be the beginning of a new phase in the career of Tom Bruce. Animated by a new resolution, he went out.

  Chapter Nine

  It is very unusual for salmon native to the waters of Earth to migrate during their first year of existence, when they are in the stage of development known as parr. The characteristic marks of a parr are ten or eleven dark bands on an orange ground along the middle of each side of the fish and round black spots on the gill covers. During this period the fish remains in the fresh water where it was hatched, returning to the sea when it moves into the smolt stage, during which the dark bands gradually disappear and the orange is replaced by silver. Soon after this the characteristic silvery appearance of the adult salmon is attained.

  In salmon native to Orphelin—or, to express their origin more correctly, salmon which are descendants of the fry introduced into the fresh-water pools and rivers of the southern islands of the Orphelin ocean some twenty-five years previously—the process of maturation through the stages of parr and smolt has been so telescoped that the fish is manifestly adult at the age of six months and begins the process of, migration back to the breeding

  grounds, which have been established in those same pools and rivers, shortly afterwards.

  The spawning process is acknowledged to be a particularly exhausting one, and very few male fish survive to breed a second time amongst those native to Earth. The spent fish—known as "kelts" or "slats"—are in a very enfeebled condition, and on the long and arduous return journey to the sea many succumb to disease, injuries or starvation, or fall easy prey to their enemies. On Orphelin, however, this journey proves much less hazardous. There are a far lesser number of predators and very few parasites, such as the gill-infesting Salmincola, and the bacillus Salmonispestis is practically unknown. Thus, my observations indicate that some 90% of the kelts survive the return journey to the sea, where abundant food soon restores them to their normal condition.

  This recovery is so swift and complete that it is not uncommon to find a fish making its way once more in the migration to the breeding grounds less than three months after its return to the sea. Thus, whereas an Earth salmon will spawn at the most three times during its life, on Orphelin a fish may do so anywhere up to ten times. This fact, combined with the above-mentioned lack of predators and disease, goes a long way towards explaining the extraordinary population explosion that has taken place amongst the Orphelin salmon.

  It is my contention that during the decade and a half that has elapsed since its introduction to the waters of Orphelin, Salar Solar has undergone some kind of evolutionary process—mutation would perhaps be a more correct term—which has resulted in a greatly accel

  erated life cycle and an enormous increase in fecundity. This being so, I feel that there may be some justification for a suggestion that the fish produced by this phenomenon should be regarded as a new sub-species, for which the most appropriate name would be Salar Salar Orphelis.

  Extract from Chapter Three of The Anadromous Fishes of Orphelin III

  by ANGUS ALEXANDER MACGUINNESS, M.Sc., B.Sc., M.B. (Edinburgh, published by Ratcliffe & Toomey.)

  When MacGuinness returned from his inspection of the tanks Bill Emery was still outside the hut tidying up the area between it and the flycar. MacGuinness watched the man at work for a few minutes, at the same time skillfully lighting himself a cigar. From inside the hut he could hear the sounds of Alan Emery preparing their evening meal. Apart from a certain facility for making porridge, MacGuinness's mastery of the culinary art was limited to the single, although admittedly regal, masterpiece of Saumon MacGuinness. In any case, there were a great many other tasks pressing on his attention, tasks for which he alone of the three had the training and knowledge. Over the past few months he had developed a considerable attachment for the two Emerys. Hard-working and uncomplaining men—he could not have asked for a more congenial pair of companions on an expedition of this nature.

  "Och! I think you can safely give it a rest now, Bill, and take a look at the sunset," he said at length, waving his hand toward the majestic redness of the western horizon. "Yon clouds are a work of art, no less."

  "God's work," said Bill Emery, a curious, quiet smile on his weatherbeaten face as he looked towards the horizon.

  "Aye. That's true enough. And He certainly did you people here on Orphelin Three proud. It's a marvel you haven't all changed into idle lotus-eaters."

  "Idle hands, Professor?" Bill shook his greying, tight-curled head. "That's not our way—nor His."

  "I'll not argue with that," said MacGuinness. A natural agnostic himself, he had learned to respect the quiet faith of these colonists as a necessary part of their existence. Orphelin Three might be a near-paradise, but the very thought of the vast distance that separated this planet from Earth and the solar system carried with it a constant threat. In purely practical terms, the idea that the same Creator watched over Orphelin was helpful. Leaving Bill to his work, he walked on past and into the hut.

  Alan Emery was standing by the stove, a blue-and-white-striped butcher's apron tied around his stocky middle. Even without the sight of the half-empty glass in his left hand and the bottle that stood on the table, the source of the glow on the colonist's rugged features would have been obvious. Alan's susceptibility to the charms of Bell's Scotch was beginning to be an anxiety to MacGuinness. The last thing he wanted to do was to offend Alan, but sooner or later he knew he was going to have to point out that a man needed a special kind of head to drink the stuff in such quantities without ill-effects.

  "Land crab salad, followed by steak and onions, with tomatoes and french-fries on the side, and pineapple slices with cream to finish. How does that grab you, Professor?" Alan said.

  "Like a vice," MacGuinness said approvingly. "Back on Earth I see real meat maybe once a week, and even then it's usually like bootleather." He took a glass and poured himself a generous measure from the fast-dwindling bottle. "Take my advice, Alan—don't you ever go home. You people here have got it made."

  "This is my home, Professor," Alan said, grinning. He finished his drink at a gulp and reached for the bottle.

  "By adoption, sure," MacGuinness said. "And that's the best way to think of it. Nobody with any sense would want to go back after over twenty years of this kind of life. . . The last few months has unsettled me, I can tell you."

  "No, Professor, you misunderstand," Alan said. "Orphelin is the only planet I ever knew. I was bom here.'*

  "Aye, and you can pull the other one. It's got bells on," MacGuinness said, laughing. "Och! You'll be claiming next to be an autochthon sprung from the very soil of Orphelin, and that you and Bill were there to meet the colonization ship when it landed twenty-five years ago. No—that's carrying the idea of adoption too far."

  "I'm not joking, Professor," Alan said. "Bill was on the ship, naturally, because he's one of the original settlers."

  MacGuinness's laughter faded in the face of the stocky man's quiet solemnity. "And youP'

/>   Alan shrugged. "I was just—how's the saying?—a gleam in his eye at the time, not due to make my appearance on the scene for something like twenty-seven months after that."

  MacGuinness felt something move deep in the pit of his stomach as he looked into the weatherbeaten face of the apparently-middle-aged man. "How old are you, Alan?" He asked the question fearfully, because his acute mind had already moved on ahead, suggesting the answer.

  "Pushing twenty-three," said Alan cheerfully.

  "Are you married?"

  "Why sure—twelve years ago next Landing Anniversary," Alan said. "Matter of fact, the old lady and I are expecting to be grandparents any time now. By the time we get back. . . Say, Professor, there something wrong?" This last as MacGuinness turned abruptly arid headed out of the hut, almost colliding in the doorway with Bill Emery, who was on the way in.

  "Going out, Professor?" Bill said.

  "Something I forgot," mumbled MacGuinness, preoccupied with his own racing thoughts. "Is the flycar door unlocked?"

  "Why sure, Professor," Bill said. "But you're not going to take her up now, are you? I thought dinner was nearly ready."

  "I'll no' be long," MacGuinness said. "I just remembered something I left out of that report I radioed into Josiahtown. If I call right now I might catch it before they've relayed it back to Earth."

  He hurried across toward the flycar. The sky had deepened into purple twilight now, and the moon had not yet risen. There was no wind, and the whole island seemed unnaturally still, the only sound the sighing of small wavelets as they broke on the stones of the beach. To the ears of Angus MacGuinness they sounded like the measured breathing of some gigantic, satisfied animal—the planet that he himself had called a near-paradise only a few minutes before. He shuddered, cursing himself for not having interpreted, before this, the import of the thousands of pieces of evidence that had been staring him in the face ever since the day he landed—small things, true, but ones that now fitted with shattering clarity into the overall picture. True, he had been sent to Orphelin to report on fish, not human beings—but that was no excuse for such blindness.

  As he opened up the door of the flycar he heard Alan Emery's voice from the direction of the hut. "Don't be too long, Professor. This steak isn't going to keep rare forever."

  Alan, who was twenty-two years old and looked in his late forties—older than Bill, his own father. Alan, who would surely be senile before he reached the age of thirty.

  MacGuinness asked himself why these people accepted such a situation. It must have been obvious, to the original colonizers at least, that something was terribly wrong. The answer, when it came, was all too obvious. What was their alternative? People like the Orphelin colonists, with their pioneering spirit of independence, would rather make any sacrifice than be dispossessed of the world that had become their home and be returned to the confines of overcrowded Earth. Their investment of blood, toil and sweat in a future on Orphelin Three was a commitment that they could not abandon without a struggle. And he had no doubt that such a struggle had been going on quietly for years now, beneath the cover of a planetwide conspiracy of silence—a desperate search for the cause of the shortened life-span trend, and when that was isolated, for a cure.

  Visitors from Earth were infrequent on Orphelin, most of them freighter crews enjoying a short leave between arrival and reloading. Such men were in search of a good time, and they would hardly be likely to look with a scientist's critical eye on the society of the planet Even he himself had not begun to suspect the existence of the secret until now. Perhaps he never would have if it had not been for Alan Emery's alcohol-induced indiscretion.

  Now he realized, that he was faced with a whole planetary population in a state of mind similar to that of a person who, suffering from some loathsome, socially unacceptable disease, attempts to treat himself, resorting to quack remedies and potions. And MacGuinness's science-trained mind told him quite clearly that on this planetwide scale the prognosis was likely to be the same one he would give for an individual case: that if the patient was to survive it must be in spite of himself—that he would have to be saved from the consequences of his own ineptitude and given proper treatment. MacGuinness felt a bitter compassion, but he reached for the transmitter switch.

  Chapter Ten

  Clinical experience to date has only sewed to confirm the original opinions of Meyer and Klutz that Geo-Nostalgic Psychosis will not yield to any known form of treatment. The only possible course for a Medical Officer under these circumstances is to place the patient under deep sedation. In this respect it should be borne in mind that the condition is so deep-seated and devastating in its mental and physical effects that sedation only serves to slow down the deteriorative process. It is therefore imperative that all possible steps should be taken to ensure the early return of the patient to Earth. Then, and only then, there is a possibility of recovery, and this, if and when it does come, will be due rather to the natural processes than to the effects of any medication.

  Corps Medical Handbook:

  SURGEON GENERAL KARL HURWITZ

  "You can't possibly be serious about this!" Robert Prince stared at his father-in-law, his handsome features frozen in an expression of horror. "Where an investment of this size is concerned I

  am always serious," said Elkan Niebohr, seated massively behind his executive desk.

  "Have you, ever seen a man in the grip of Geo-nostalgic Psychosis?" said Prince, who sat opposite him in the much less regal chair allocated to visitors.

  "No—but I have read accounts."

  "Well I have seen it," said Prince. "I've seen strong men turned into blubbering, incontinent idiots. One time I was officer on duty when a crewman went raving mad under a sudden attack and fired himself out of one of the missile tubes. A bloody mess."

  "My dear Robert, I am just not interested in your horror stories. My mind is made up. All that now remains is to decide which planet we are going to use. In the main there are two requirements—that it should possess approximately Earth gravity, and that it should be, if necessary, expendable."

  "Like Koninburger?"

  "Now you know very well that is not my attitude at all," said Niebohr with some impatience. "I would hardly be going to so much trouble and expense if I thought so lightly of his survival. Fane's contract alone will cost us a cool two million, apart from the expense of building the underground base for the research project."

  "Underground?"

  "Naturally. Apart from the fact that it will make the task of preserving Koninburger's illusion that he is still on Earth somewhat easier, it fits in with the story I have told him about the construction of a secret base on the Antarctic continent. He knows very well that Fong would stop his experiments for fear of the dangers outlined by Carter; whereas I have paid him the compliment of telling him that I accept his figures."

  "And do you?"

  Niebohr spread his hands palms upward on the desk top. "Koninburger is the expert, after all; if he is prepared to risk his own life, who am I to argue with him? And if he succeeds the rewards will be great."

  "But if he fails the people at the base will die with him," Prince said. "How does Fane feel about that?"

  "Fane's task is to monitor the environment and make sure that Koninburger never for a moment suspects that he is no longer on Earth. It would be of no advantage to him to be burdened with the details of Koninburger's work." .

  "In other words, you haven't told him of the risk involved," Prince said.

  "What would be the point?"

  "And the other people who will be working with Koninburger?"

  "They will all be specialists, most of them capable of assessing the situation for themselves," Niebohr said. "It's my guess that they will be prepared to accept Koninburger's figures, if only because of the honor of being associated with him in such an historic project."

  Prince shook his head, a worried frown on his face. "I can't help but think that the whole operation rests on a
very shaky basis—if not an immoral one. Everything depends on maintaining the illusion in the mind of Koninburger that he is still on Earth. If he once has the slightest suspicion, then the whole thing collapses. Apart from anything else, you realize that he could well die as a result? Under the circumstances you might find yourself facing criminal charges."

  "You have a lot to learn, Robert," Niebohr said mildly. "I respect your principles and your honesty, but

  I must point out that they only represent a point of view—nothing more. Due in some measure to your advice, I have committed the Excelsior Corporation and myself to the development of the Koninburger Drive. I have no intention of backing down now."

  "The legal aspect of the matter doesn't bother you at all—the idea that you will be virtually kidnapping Koninburger and transporting him to another system under the influence of drugs?"

  "The only real crime in an operation of this magnitude is failure," Niebohr said. "Why do you think Fong cornered me for that little heart-to-heart chat the other night? Just to stop Koninburger from experimenting on Earth? Not on your life! If that was all he wanted he could have done it any time he liked."

  "Then why?"

  "Because Fong knows me well enough to be sure that I wouldn't take such a challenge lying down. United Earth needs that Drive badly, and although there's a chance that Carter and his people on Tarasco IV will come up with the right answers, Fong believes in hedging his bets. He knew that I would find some way of handling the situation that he, in his position, wouldn't dare try. When you're suffering from those occasional pangs of principle, just remember that when he wants a pig killed, even Henry Fong has to go to a butcher." Niebohr rose from his seat and walked across to the left-hand wall of the room, in which was set an enormous, three-dimensional star map on which the zones of the Excelsior Corporation's interests were shown in bright red. "Now then, you're the expert," he said. "Where do we find our expendable, Earth-type planet?"

  "Let me have the controls," Prince said. He con-suited a table of light years and set the three check rays for the requisite system. He murmured: "You just don't let anything stop you, do you?"