“What do you think you’ll need all that for?” Kelly asked him.
“I don’t think I’m coming back,” Reynolds said.
“They won’t hurt you,” she said.
“No. I won’t be coming back because I won’t be wanting to come back.”
“You can’t do that,” O’Hara said.
“Sure I can,” said Reynolds.
It took the base’s entire fleet of seven shuttle tugs to ferry the delegation from Washington up to the starship. At that, a good quarter of the group had to be left behind for lack of room. Reynolds had requested and received permission to call the starship prior to departure, so the aliens were aware of what was coming up to meet them. They had not protested, but Reynolds knew they wouldn’t, at least not over the radio. Like almost all mechanical or electronic gadgets, a radio was a fearsome object to them.
Kelly and Reynolds arrived with the first group and entered the air lock. At intervals of a minute or two, the others arrived. When the entire party was clustered in the lock, the last tug holding to the hull in preparation for the return trip, Reynolds signaled that it was time to move out.
“Wait a minute,” one of the men called. “We’re not all here. Acton and Dodd went back to the tug to get suits.”
“Then they’ll have to stay there,” Reynolds said. “The air is pure here – nobody needs a suit.”
“But,” said another man, pinching his nose. “This smell. It’s awful.”
Reynolds smiled. He had barely noticed the odor. Compared to the stench of the first few days, this was nothing today. “The aliens won’t talk if you’re wearing suits. They have a taboo against artificial communication. The smell gets better as you go farther inside. Until then, hold your nose, breathe through your mouth.”
“It’s making me almost sick,” confided a man at Reynolds’ elbow. “You’re sure what you say is true, Doctor?”
“Cross my heart,” Reynolds said. The two men who had left to fetch the suits returned. Reynolds wasted another minute lecturing them.
“Stop enjoying yourself so much,” Kelly whispered when they were at last under way.
Before they reached the first of the tight passages where crawling was necessary, three men had dropped away, dashing back toward the tug. Working from a hasty map given him by the aliens, he was leading the party toward a section of the ship where he had never been before. The walk was less difficult than usual. In most places a man could walk comfortably and the ceilings were high enough to accommodate the aliens themselves. Reynolds ignored the occasional shouted exclamation from the men behind. He steered a silent course toward his destination.
The room, when they reached it, was huge, big as a basketball gymnasium, the ceiling lost in the deep shadows above. Turning, Reynolds counted the aliens present: fifteen . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . forty . . . forty-five . . . forty-six. That had to be about all. He wondered if this was the full crew.
Then he counted his own people: twenty-two. Better than he had expected – only six lost en route, victims of the smell.
He spoke directly to the alien who stood in front of the others. “Greetings,” he said. The alien wasn’t Vergnan, but it could have been Jonathon.
From behind, he heard, “They’re just like giraffes.”
“And they even seem intelligent,” said another.
“Exceedingly so. Their eyes.”
“And friendly too.”
“Hello, Reynolds,” the alien said. “Are these the ones?” “Jonathon?” asked Reynolds.
“Yes.”
“These are the ones.”
“They are your leaders – they wish to question my people?”
“They do.”
“May I serve as our spokesman in order to save time?”
“Of course,” Reynolds said. He turned and faced his party, looking from face to face, hoping to spot a single glimmer of intelligence, no matter how minute. But he found nothing. “Gentlemen?” he said. “You heard?”
“His name is Jonathon?” said one.
“It is a convenient expression. Do you have a real question?”
“Yes,” the man said. He continued speaking to Reynolds. “Where is your homeworld located?”
Jonathon ignored the man’s rudeness and promptly named a star.
“Where is that?” the man asked, speaking directly to the alien now.
Reynolds told him it lay some thirty light-years from Earth. As a star, it was very much like the sun, though somewhat larger.
“Exactly how many miles in a light-year?” a man wanted to know.
Reynolds tried to explain. The man claimed he understood, though Reynolds remained skeptical.
It was time for another question.
“Why have you come to our world?”
“Our mission is purely one of exploration and discovery,” Jonathon said.
“Have you discovered any other intelligent races besides our own?”
“Yes. Several.”
This answer elicited a murmur of surprise from the men. Reynolds wondered who they were, how they had been chosen for this mission. Not what they were, but who. What made them tick. He knew what they were: politicians, NASA bureaucrats, a sprinkling of real scientists. But who?
“Are any of these people aggressive?” asked a man, almost certainly a politician. “Do they pose a threat to you – or – or to us?”
“No,” Jonathon said. “None.”
Reynolds was barely hearing the questions and answers now. His attention was focused upon Jonathon’s eyes. He had stopped blinking now. The last two questions – the ones dealing with intelligent life forms – he had told the truth. Reynolds thought he was beginning to understand. He had underestimated these creatures. Plainly, they had encountered other races during their travels before coming to Earth. They were experienced. Jonathon was lying – yes – but unlike before, he was lying well, only when the truth would not suffice.
“How long do you intend to remain in orbit about our moon?”
“Until the moment you and your friends leave our craft. Then we shall depart.”
This set up an immediate clamor among the men. Waving his arms furiously, Reynolds attempted to silence them. The man who had been unfamiliar with the term “light-year” shouted out an invitation for Jonathon to visit Earth.
This did what Reynolds himself could not do. The others fell silent in order to hear Jonathon’s reply.
“It is impossible,” Jonathon said. “Our established schedule requires us to depart immediately.”
“Is it this man’s fault?” demanded a voice. “He should have asked you himself long before now.”
“No,” Jonathon said. “I could not have come – or any of my people – because we were uncertain of your peaceful intentions. Not until we came to know Reynolds well did we fully comprehend the benevolence of your race.” The alien blinked rapidly now.
He stopped during the technical questions. The politicians and bureaucrats stepped back to speak among themselves and the scientists came forward. Reynolds was amazed at the intelligence of their questions. To this extent at least, the expedition had not been wholly a farce.
Then the questions were over and all the men came forward to listen to Jonathon’s last words.
“We will soon return to our homeworld and when we do we shall tell the leaders of our race of the greatness and glory of the human race. In passing here, we have come to know your star and through it you people who live beneath its soothing rays. I consider your visit here a personal honor to me as an individual. I am sure my brothers share my pride and only regret an inability to utter their gratitude.”
Then Jonathon ceased blinking and looked hard at Reynolds. “Will you be going too?”
“No,” Reynolds said. “I’d like to talk to you alone if I can.”
“Certainly,” Jonathon said.
Several of the men in the party protested to Kelly or O’Hara, but there was nothing they could do. One by one they
left the chamber to wait in the corridor. Kelly was the last to leave. “Don’t be a fool,” she cautioned.
“I won’t,” he said.
When the men had gone, Jonathon took Reynolds away from the central room. It was only a brief walk to the old room where they had always met before. As if practicing a routine, Jonathon promptly marched to the farthest wall and stood there waiting. Reynolds smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
“You are welcome.”
“For lying to them. I was afraid they would offend you with their stupidity. I thought you would show your contempt by lying badly, offending them in return. I underestimated you. You handled them very well.”
“But you have something you wish to ask of me?”
“Yes,” Reynolds said. “I want you to take me away with you.”
As always, Jonathon remained expressionless. Still, for a long time, it said nothing. Then, “Why do you wish this? We shall never return here.”
“I don’t care. I told you before: I am not typical of my race. I can never be happy here.”
“But are you typical of my race? Would you not be unhappy with us?”
“I don’t know. But I’d like to try.”
“It is impossible,” Jonathon said.
“But – but – why?”
“Because we have neither the time nor the abilities to care for you. Our mission is a most desperate one. Already, during our absence, our homeworld may have gone mad. We must hurry. Our time is growing brief. And you will not be of any help to us. I am sorry, but you know that is true.”
“I can talk to the stars.”
“No,” Jonathon said. “You cannot.”
“But I did.”
“Vergnan did. Without him, you could not.”
“Your answer is final? There’s no one else I can ask? The captain?”
“I am the captain.”
Reynolds nodded. He had carried his suitcases and crates all this way and now he would have to haul them home again. Home? No, not home. Only the moon. “Could you find out if they left a tug for me?” he asked.
“Yes. One moment.”
Jonathon rippled lightly away, disappearing into the corridor. Reynolds turned and looked at the walls. Again, as he stared, the rainbow patterns appeared to shift and dance and swirl of their own volition. Watching this, he felt sad, but his sadness was not that of grief. It was the sadness of emptiness and aloneness. This emptiness had so long been a part of him that he sometimes forgot it was there. He knew it now. He knew, whether consciously aware of it or not, that he had spent the past ten years of his life searching vainly for a way of filling this void. Perhaps even more than that: perhaps his whole life had been nothing more than a search for that one moment of real completion. Only twice had he ever really come close. The first time had been on Mars. When he had lived and watched while the others had died. Then he had not been alone or empty. And the other time had been right here in this very room – with Vergnan. Only twice in his life had he been allowed to approach the edge of true meaning. Twice in fifty-eight long and endless years. Would it ever happen again? When? How?
Jonathon returned, pausing in the doorway. “A pilot is there,” it said.
Reynolds went toward the door, ready to leave. “Are you still planning to visit our sun?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. We shall continue trying, searching. We know nothing else. You do not believe – even after what Vergnan showed you – do you, Reynolds?”
“No, I do not believe.”
“I understand,” Jonathon said. “And I sympathize. All of us – even I – sometimes we have doubts.”
Reynolds continued forward into the corridor. Behind, he heard a heavy clipping noise and turned to see Jonathon coming after him. He waited for the alien to join him and then they walked together. In the narrow corridor, there was barely room for both.
Reynolds did not try to talk. As far as he could see, there was nothing left to be said that might possibly be said in so short a time as that which remained. Better to say nothing, he thought, than to say too little.
The air lock was open. Past it, Reynolds glimpsed the squat bulk of the shuttle tug clinging to the creased skin of the starship.
There was nothing left to say. Turning to Jonathon, he said, “Good-bye,” and as he said it, for the first time he wondered about what he was going back to. More than likely, he would find himself a hero once again. A celebrity. But that was all right: fame was fleeting; it was bearable. Two hundred forty thousand miles was still a great distance. He would be all right.
As if reading his thoughts, Jonathon asked, “Will you be remaining here or will you return to your homeworld?”
The question surprised Reynolds; it was the first time the alien had ever evidenced a personal interest in him. “I’ll stay here. I’m happier.”
“And there will be a new director?”
“Yes. How did you know that? But I think I’m going to be famous again. I can get Kelly retained.”
“You could have the job yourself,” Jonathon said.
“But I don’t want it. How do you know all this? About Kelly and so on?”
“I listen to the stars,” Jonathon said in its high warbling voice.
“They are alive, aren’t they?” Reynolds said suddenly.
“Of course. We are permitted to see them for what they are. You do not. But you are young.”
“They are balls of ionized gas. Thermonuclear reactions.”
The alien moved, shifting its neck as though a joint lay in the middle of it. Reynolds did not understand the gesture. Nor would he ever. Time had run out at last.
Jonathon said, “When they come to you, they assume a disguise you can see. That is how they spend their time in this universe. Think of them as doorways.”
“Through which I cannot pass.”
“Yes.”
Reynolds smiled, nodded and passed into the lock. It contracted behind him, engulfing the image of his friend. A few moments of drifting silence, then the other end of the lock furled open.
The pilot was a stranger. Ignoring the man, Reynolds dressed, strapped himself down and thought about Jonathon. What was it that it had said? I listen to the stars. Yes, and the stars had told it that Kelly had been fired?
He did not like that part. But the part he liked even less was this: when it said it, Jonathon had not blinked.
(1) It had been telling the truth. (2) It could lie without flicking a lash.
Choose one.
Reynolds did, and the tug fell toward the moon.
I Still Call Australia Home
GEORGE TURNER
George Turner (1916– ) is the most influential Australian SF writer and critic. From the 1960s onward he was a leading contemporary Australian novelist who also wrote SF criticism. It wasn’t until the mid 1970s that he turned to writing science fiction. His first SF novel, Beloved Son (1978), published when he was in his early sixties, was recognized as an important debut, and he has gone on to write a number of first-rate SF novels, including The Sea and Summer (1987, published as Drowning Towers in the U.S.), which won the Arthur C. Clarke Award. Beloved Son involves interstellar travel, a post-holocaust civilization in the 21st century, and genetic engineering – this last has remained one of the principal concerns of his fiction, in recent works such as Brain Child (1991), The Destiny Makers (1993), and Genetic Soldier (1994).
Turner’s literary execution is contoured by deeply held moral convictions and his life as a contemporary novelist. “I prefer to maintain a low key in my own work,” says Turner. “To this end I have concentrated on simple, staple SF ideas, mostly those which have become conventions in the genre, injected without background or discussion into stories on the understanding that readers know all they need to know about such things. My SF method remains the same as for my mainstream novels – set characters in motion in speculative situations and let them work out their destinies with a minimum of auctorial interference.”
His future so
cieties have a satisfying complexity, portraying class conflict and economic disparities in a gritty, realistic fashion absent from most American science fiction. While American science fiction generally sees space as simply the new frontier, Turner, the Australian, envisions it as an alien place with a strange and different culture, one with its own moral imperatives and structures – as he envisions the future on Earth as operating under other moral structures different from ours today.
He has written comparatively few short SF stories, less than a dozen to date. This one is about the conflict of values between cultures in the future, and has intriguing resonances with James Tiptree, Jr.’s “Beam Us Home.”
———————————
The past is another country; they do things differently there.
– L. P. Hartley
1
The complement of Starfarer had no idea, when they started out, of how long they might be gone. They searched the sky, the three hundred of them, men and women, black and brown and white and yellow, and in thirty years landed on forty planets whose life-support parameters appeared – from distant observation – close to those of Earth.
Man, they discovered, might fit his own terrestrial niche perfectly, but those parameters for his existence were tight and inelastic. There were planets where they could have dwelt in sealed environments, venturing out only in special suits, even one planet where they could have existed comfortably through half its year but been burned and suffocated in the other half. They found not one where they could establish a colony of mankind.
In thirty years they achieved nothing but an expectable increase in their numbers and this was a factor in their decision to return home. The ship was becoming crowded and, in the way of crowded tenements, something of a slum.
So they headed for Earth; and, at the end of the thirty-first year, took up a precessing north-south orbit allowing them a leisurely overview, day by day, of the entire planet.
This was wise. They had spent thirty years in space, travelling between solar systems at relativistic speeds, and reckoned that about six hundred local years had passed since they set out. They did not know what manner of world they might find.
The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II Page 42