Old Venus

by George R. R. Martin

  “Why not?” He drinks, and Jor notes that D’Yquem’s hand shakes. “It’s their garbage.”

  “Not all of it,” Jor says. “A good percentage includes material from Earth.”

  “Who needs it? Let the Venerians have the, ah, metal shavings, torn fabric, odd bits of this and that, broken furniture, and, oh yes, food by-products, such as whatever our favorite bruemaster has left over when his alchemy is done.” D’Yquem smirks. “I think it’s also where the organic waste from the residence goes, if you’re truly concerned—”

  “Be serious.”

  “You are years too late in suggesting that.” He has drained his glass and is already filling another. Jor sees again how shaky he is.

  “Did you start without me?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re trembling.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Jor knows that voice and chooses not to pursue the matter. He had arrived at 13-Plus and sat down with D’Yquem as he had for years, launching right into the latest TA stupidity.

  Which must be pursued to its conclusion. Anything to postpone the painful conversation about Abdera. “Why would TA reward the Venerians for their bad behavior?”

  “Perhaps to compensate for our own?” Jor thinks of the five dead premales. “Besides,” D’Yquem says, “it is unsightly and unhealthy and better for the Venerians to take it off into the wilderness and bury it. Or remake it into jewelry or clothing … I don’t care, as long as I don’t have to look at it. Or talk about it anymore.”

  That is a clear message: change the subject. But, in addition to the Lennox family’s emotional distance, Jor has the mulishness, too. It is difficult to move him when he isn’t ready to be moved.

  “What do you think about this whole Sunset business?”

  D’Yquem smirks. “If it’s good enough for your girlfriend—”

  Jor lets that pass for now. “So you admit the possibility that Venus might rotate again.”

  “There’s Rostov. Let’s ask him.”

  D’Yquem nods toward a burly Terrestrian in his fifties, droopy-eyed, sad-faced, drinking alone at the bar.

  With an EQ totaling 12, Serge Rostov is not technically eligible for entry into 13-Plus, but Petros isn’t complaining, not with business down this day. Nor, in a departure from his normal role as EQ judge and jury, is D’Yquem.

  “Rostov, my child,” D’Yquem says, as he and Jor approach.

  “Fuck off.” Rostov doesn’t even look at D’Yquem. Jor has no idea what has caused this hostility—beyond D’Yquem’s noted ability to get people angry at him.

  “Serge,” Jor says. “Given all that’s happened … this whole Sunset business.”

  Forgetting his anger, Rostov laughs. He is an impulsive man given to emotional outbursts, quickly forgotten. “What do you want me to tell you, Mr. Rational Engineer? The expected, the predictable? ‘Our science shows no evidence that Venus ever turned. It is a world that has never seen a sunset.’ You’re a sensible man.” Even though he no longer seems overtly angry at D’Yquem, Rostov addresses his remarks only to Jor.

  “I hope so,” Jor says. “But I thought the Venerians were sensible, too—”

  “Some are, some are not.” And here, if Jor is not mistaken, Rostov actually leers. “Some see us as invaders and take any excuse to strike back.”

  “So the attack is political. The religious business is just a cover.”

  “That is the sensible conclusion.” Obviously eager to end the conversation, he turns to Petros to order another drink.

  “Let me get that,” Jor says. His reward is a dissatisfied sigh from D’Yquem.

  But now Rostov is obligated. “Look,” he says. “I was originally trained in astronomy. TA has encouraged me to broaden my interests and specialties to include geology or—”

  “Venereology?” D’Yquem says brightly. He cannot stop himself, no matter the circumstances.

  “We have taken core samples. We have done our surveys. We have mapped Venus from Equilateral—and created a radar map, too.

  “The Venerians claim that there have been many sunsets in their recorded history. For that to be true, their recorded history would have to span 500 million years. Our fossil and geological record goes cold beyond that.”

  “Well, they are unusually long-lived,” D’Yquem chirps. Rostov ignores him.

  “So this is just another myth,” Jor says. Like the Christianity of the Lennoxes.

  “So it would seem. Though it is a powerful one that is uniform across all the clans and controls their actions.” Like the Christianity of the Lennoxes!

  Jor had begun to feel reassured. Now he’s wavering. “What are you saying?”

  “I am not an orthodox man,” Rostov says, shrugging. “As you know from my EQ.”

  “Unorthodox enough to suggest that we should be worried?”

  Now Rostov smiles, revealing jagged, steel teeth that make him look savage rather than sagelike. “Why worry about things you can’t change? If the sunset happens, if the planet somehow magically begins to rotate … the damage would be indescribable. Earthquakes, tsunamis, eruptions. The only safe place would be Equilateral.” He points to the ceiling.

  “This is idiocy,” D’Yquem says.

  Rostov acts as though D’Yquem is addressing his remarks to someone else.

  But Jor cannot resist. “Which part? His willingness to consider the possibility, or—”

  “His description of the event is ludicrous. This worldwide catastrophe. He makes it sound biblical.”

  “Please, friend D’Yquem,” Rostov says, engaging the computationist for the first time. “Share your vision of this hypothetical event.”

  D’Yquem glances at Jor, as if to say, this is all your fault. Jor notices that D’Yquem’s hands are no longer shaking … and that he is ignoring his empty glass. “Stipulate that the Venerian myth is true, that every few thousand years their world moves. I’ve actually seen a paper—suppressed now, of course—that suggests that Venus isn’t tide-locked, but that it merely has a very slow and irregular period—”

  “—Which is nonsense,” Rostov says. “Not the concept … the idea that the paper was suppressed.”

  “Perhaps not in your circles,” D’Yquem says.

  “I don’t care about that,” Jor says, growing angrier.

  “Stipulating,” D’Yquem says, “we must then accept the idea that the Sunset is not a world-wrecking catastrophe but far less damaging. After all,” he says, “if it had the ability to rearrange the surface of the planet, to wipe out all life … why are the Venerians still here?”

  At that moment everyone in 13-Plus feels the tower shudder. Jor fears that it’s another attack on the Lens but soon realizes that it’s the rain. A sudden squall has blown in from the Bright Sea, so strong it rattles the windows of the bar.

  Conversation ceases. Even Petros pauses in his work, glancing, like Jor, toward the big window, where the view of Venus Port from on high has vanished, replaced by sheets of water and roiling black clouds.

  Jor wants to leave. It isn’t fear; he’s not afraid that 13-Plus will be damaged. It’s just the situation … the storm, the crowd, the growing sense of a sour smell all around him, which he blames on Rostov. He hates speculations, preferring facts. His emotions are confused, too. And all of this is likely due to last night’s events, the lack of sleep, and the stress of the situation with Abdera and D’Yquem.

  He thanks Rostov and abruptly heads for the door. He realizes that what is really driving him is a desire to be out of D’Yquem’s presence. In fact, for the first time in fifteen years, he no longer wants to be a Terrestrian on Venus at all.

  D’Yquem catches him before he reaches the elevator. “Where are you going?”

  “My flat.”

  “Retreating is so unlike you.” It is usually D’Yquem, veteran of ten thousand drunken evenings, who calls a halt to the festivities. Jor will sit there until staggering.

  “I’m tired.”<
br />
  “Actually, you’re angry. Not quite the same.”

  “Rostov—”

  “Is a bore. Which I told you. Worse yet, he’s a fairly stupid one. At least he could know his science.”

  “It doesn’t seem that anyone actually knows the science.”

  “Of Sunset? There is no science, that’s the problem.”

  Jor feels dizzy and nauseous. “What do you think?”

  “Haven’t I made that clear? I’m quite open to the idea.”

  “Your open-mindedness doesn’t extend to, I don’t know, making emergency plans.”

  “Jor, there can’t be any plans, only evacuation. And then only at gunpoint. The flight here was so monstrous for most of us that getting back into those ships”—he points toward the spaceport, where three squat, shell-shaped vehicles wait—“is like being pushed off the top of a tower. Risking death only to escape certain death.”

  “So we can’t do anything?”

  D’Yquem grins. “Oh, we can resume drinking.”

  For the first time in their friendship, drowning in this tidal wave of betrayal, smugness, intransigence, Jor wants to punch D’Yquem. He grabs his shoulder, about to turn him. But D’Yquem sees what’s coming and raises an arm to block it. “You’re being tiresome.”

  “Then I’ve always been tiresome.”

  “No. You used to be interesting in a perfectly American manner, treating your forced exile here as some kind of fresh start.” D’Yquem is pointing at him now, accusing him like a prosecutor. “Given your background, that was not surprising—and part of the fun of knowing you has been watching to see if you might be correct. You’ve almost finished the Lens, and that will surely expand the Terrestrian presence—

  “Or, well, it would have, except for the pesky Venerians and their superior knowledge of their own world … and their remarkable long-range planning, of which we suspect little and truly know nothing.”

  “You suspected, obviously.”

  “Only out of habit. Given my own family and its history, I would have had to be much stupider to fail to be suspicious of everything I see or to expect that everyone is keeping secrets.”

  “Or betraying a friend.”

  “Ah, well, yes. I can understand why you might see it that way.”

  “I realize it’s too much to expect an apology,” Jor says. “But can’t you even acknowledge your mistake?”

  D’Yquem takes an unusual amount of time to respond. When he speaks, his voice is harsh. “What makes you think I had any choice in the matter? Or that any Terrestrian has any control over his destiny on Venus? That we can take any action that will have any effect?” He laughs bitterly. “We are just being swept along like … like weed on the Bright Sea, my friend. Not just me: you, too.”

  He turns and staggers. Jor realizes that his former friend is drunker than he’s ever seen him. Given the number of times they have shared brue, and the amounts, this is shocking.

  Could he be telling the truth?

  “Oh, by the way,” D’Yquem said. “After you left, that idiot Russian confirmed it. The Sun is not only visible now, it’s lower in the sky.”

  And then he enters the elevator. Jor lets the doors close. He doesn’t want to go with him.

  By the time Jor reaches the ground floor and prepares to leave, the storm has passed. The rain has returned to its expected state of hot drizzle. Emerging from the 13-Plus tower and heading toward his residence, he feels unusually alone.

  And no wonder. There is no Terrestrian traffic at all—the immigrants from Earth are all tucked into their towers. And the Venerian presence is nonexistent, too, with shops largely gone or certainly abandoned … streets empty and, in fact, no longer streets but merely tracked areas between larger untracked ones.

  The Lens tower looms even taller in the near distance. Jor is drawn to it, following the pathway toward it that takes him between the two residence towers.

  Then he hears his name. “Jordan!”

  Abdera steps forward. She has clearly been waiting some time; even her waterproof Venerian garb couldn’t stand up to that storm. She is soaked, her hair plastered to her skull … making her look definitively alien.

  Yet, the voice is the same.

  “What do you want?” he asks. “To apologize?”

  “No.”

  “To explain, then.” He can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  “Impossible.”

  “Then why are you standing in the rain?”

  “To honor what we had,” she says.

  “I can’t do that.” He wants to recall their times together, but it’s as if D’Yquem’s shadow hides them.

  “One day you will.”

  And, as if this is all she wanted to say, she turns. Now Jor grabs for her. “Is that it? You stood in the rain to tell me nothing?”

  “No, to see you one more time.”

  “You’re leaving.”

  “It’s Sunset.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  And now she laughs. “I have warned you. All of us have warned you. Since the day Terrestrians arrived, we have been engaged in the reloquere! Yet you continued to build.”

  “Is that why you cheated with D’Yquem?” he says, struggling to find a motive. “Because I built the Lens?”

  She gives him the Venerian stare. “I wanted you to build your Lens,” she says. “And you should go to it.”

  Then she leaves, turning abruptly and without breaking into a run, moving so quickly that Jor couldn’t possibly catch her.

  She is headed for the landing, where skiffs still bob on the tide.

  Jor watches her. He feels as he did when Njeri told him she must return to Africa—times ten. And yet, how foolish to think they had a future. Venerian and Terrestrian. This moment was inevitable; only the details remained to be determined.

  He can’t go back to his residence yet. So he will grasp for the last moment of his relationship with Abdera … will take her advice.

  And go to his Lens.

  By the time he has reached the top, he has worked himself into a proper Lennox-style rage. First, he finds that the security team is not on duty—called off by Tuttle? Or simply having deserted their posts due to a storm?

  Jor would have returned to the towers to find them, but not before assuring himself that the Lens is secure.

  And it is, controls caged and ready. Giant dish strong and steady, glistening from its recent bath.

  Jor looks to the east, toward the Bright Sea. D’Yquem told the truth: not only is the Sun visible, it is notably lower in the sky.

  The shallow water of the Venus Port delta is receding, too, carrying with it the last of the Venerian skiffs, Abdera’s clan, and Abdera.

  As it goes, so does Jor’s spirit. He is enough of an engineer to know what this means … soon there will be a wall of water, how tall? It really won’t matter. Even though he is hundreds of feet high, the violence of the crashing wave is likely to destroy the Lens tower.

  And all of the Terrestrian quarter of Venus Port.

  The evening is clear; he can see the four towers, their windows lit. Do those fools know what’s happening? D’Yquem was right; no one believed. No one prepared. They would only head for the three ships at the spaceport if their towers fell on them.

  Suddenly Jor has an idea.

  He enters the control station and powers it up.

  The Lens controls that are designed to focus transmission beams work just as well on the visible spectrum … and now, with the sun making its first appearance in the Venerian sky, Jor moves the Lens.

  It takes precious minutes, but eventually he has it in the right position, taking the light from the new sun and focusing it on the four Terrestrian towers.

  Then he narrows the beam, increasing the light and, more to the point, the heat.

  He knows the materials used in the construction of the towers, how truly fragile they are. (TA’s famed cheapness. Having the surface be waterproof was sufficient.)


  The tops of two residence towers ignite, meaning that Jor’s residence in one will soon be ablaze … and so will D’Yquem’s in the other. Then the third tower, the oldest one, Tuttle’s TA headquarters.

  Finally the fourth, site of 13-Plus. Jor regrets that, but only for a moment.

  The air must be changing, because he believes he can hear not only sizzling and crackling as the top floors begin to burn, but alarms.

  He hopes for alarms.

  He knows there is a chance he is injuring or killing Terrestrians, not motivating them to save themselves. At this moment, frankly, it doesn’t really matter.

  The water continues to recede, exposing a muddy sea bottom identical to the muddy plains Jor has crossed so many times on Venus. He tries to see, but clouds are forming to the east … soon they will boil high enough to cover the setting sun.

  He looks up at the Lens, tweaks his aim. Then looks to the towers. There is a swirling layer of fog rolling in not from the sea, but from the west, obscuring Jor’s view of the base of the towers. But shifting light and shadows there suggest that people are gathered … that they are in motion.

  And now the wind kicks up from the west—quite strongly. A sudden gust rattles the platform so violently that Jor is knocked down.

  He rises to reaim the Lens, thinking of the disappointment on Earth at the loss of the Terrestrian base … at the thousands or tens of thousands with high EQs who will not be shipped off-planet.

  He is wondering why he has no sympathy for their plight when he sees the beginnings of a giant wave forming in the Bright Sea … and is struck by a piece of the Lens structure as it comes apart in the wind.

  When he regains consciousness, he is in orbit, at Equilateral, strapped to the floor of a cabin whose four bunks are already filled with the injured. He feels cold, as if pulled from the ocean—and possibly he was. His head hurts. He is hungry.

  “Welcome back,” D’Yquem says from the open hatch. He, too, is injured, both hands bandaged. In spite of their last encounters, Jor is happy to see his friend.

  Happy to see anyone, in fact.

  “Some of us made it,” he says.

  “Most Terrestrians did reach the spaceport ahead of the wave,” D’Yquem says. “Which was fortunately on higher ground than Venus Port. Everyone jammed in and took off so close to the waves that we generated a considerable amount of steam.