The Tenth Planet

THE TENTH PLANET

Edmund Cooper

www.sfgateway.com

I
DRIS
H
AMILTON, MASTER
of the
Dag Hammarskjold
, had been staring at Earth for the best part of an hour. It would have been better to have looked ahead, to have allowed his practised eye to pick out Mars and magnify it in his imagination until he could see the craters, and the mountains and the five cities, and the tiny, precious, man-made waterways. It would have been better just to have gazed mindlessly—as he had so often done—at all the pin-pricks of cold light in the black velvet of the firmament. But he had sentenced himself to look back at Earth.

He had looked at Earth as one might look upon the face of a dying friend. Correction—a dead friend. For Earth already wore its death-mask. No longer was it the brilliant jewel of the solar system, its iridescent oceans flecked with white and silver clouds, its continents glowing green with vegetation, its night-side cities bright with filaments of light. Earth was now wrapped in its winding sheet, its shroud of perpetual fog. Though, a hundred thousand miles away, on that grey sphere hanging in the void, there were many millions of the species
homo sapiens
who were taking an unconscionable time adying.

But, still, Earth was dead. When a man dies, the microorganisms to which he plays host do not immediately react to his death. When a planet dies, a number of life-forms may yet linger awhile. Earth was dead; and the people back
there, below that grey shroud, were, at last, aware of the fact. But they had yet to face their own individual deaths. They were not unthinking micro-organisms: they were human beings. They had the life-force and they had intelligence. Death would not treat them gently.

Idris Hamilton made the mistake of sending his imagination back down there among them. He shuddered and let out a great cry of anguish. Then, with a shaking finger, he pressed the stud that would screen the observation panels with duralumin shutters. He could take no more.

So now the
Dag Hammarskjold
was an enclosed world of its own, scurrying to Mars like a rat that deserts a sinking ship.

Hamilton sat on the edge of his contour chair, and tears coursed down his cheeks.

‘I am not crying,’ he told himself reasonably. ‘I am master of this vessel and I am not empowered to weep … It is something to be master of the last space-ship to leave Earth. It is something to have witnessed the greatest crisis in the history of mankind. It is too big for tears.’

And yet, even by command, his eyes would not remain dry.

He broke the habit of fifteen years of space service. He walked carefully across the bond-fuzz carpet of the navigation deck to an emergency stores cabinet, one of which was in every compartment of the vessel, and took out a plastic bulb of whisky—or the alcohol, water and flavouring that passed these days for whisky—and broke the seal. Expertly, he filled his mouth with the burning fluid, not losing a drop. Then he swallowed.

Even as a wild young ensign, Hamilton had never sneaked a drink on duty. He had despised other men he had known who drank on watch. Now he had only himself to despise. He despised himself because he was a chosen survivor.

The whisky tasted bitter, made him cough. He drank some more. It didn’t taste quite so bitter the second time. ‘What the hell,’ he told himself. ‘The ship is in fall for a hundred and forty hours.’ Which did not alter the fact that
the captain of the
Dag Hammarskjold
was quietly going to pieces.

He remembered the time when you had to use magnetic shoes even inboard in a field of zero G. Clang, clang, every step you took. The noise alone drove some people round the twist. Bond-fuzz carpeting was better. It reminded him always of the time when he was a boy—how many centuries ago?—and used to throw hooked thistle-heads that stuck on people’s clothes. That, of course, was on Earth—the dead planet.

“What the hell?” he demanded aloud. “I’m alone with it. Who’s going to know? Who’s going to know that Captain Hamilton, Distinguished Space Service Cross, seventy-five thousand space-hours logged, is falling apart? Brackley will be checking the frozen kids in the hold, Davison will be monitoring his precious atomic fuel, and Suzy Wu will be deciding on which culinary masterpiece to present us with for dinner, and which of us thereafter needs some old-fashioned therapy most.”

“I’m going to know, skipper.” The voice belonged to Orlando Brackley. “But don’t let it worry you.”

Orlando came floating along the navigation deck like a graceful bird. He hated the bond-fuzz carpets. He should have been a ballet-dancer.

“Sorry about that, lieutenant.” Hamilton’s voice was light.

“Captain, you think you’re the only one with a wet face?” Orlando touched down gracefully on the bond-fuzz in front of Idris Hamilton. He did everything gracefully. Idris envied him. Youth! Youth! Orlando was only twenty-three.

“How are the children?”

“Cool. They do not complain. Life support systems function normally.”

“And the lady teachers?”

Orlando laughed. “Ah, the lady teachers. Not just teachers. But the lady teachers. I like that. Well, captain, the lady teachers also are safely chilled and likewise do not
complain. Let us hope that suspended animation does not affect their wombs unduly. Mars will require them to bear many children.”

“Stop that!”

“Ay ay, sir.”

“Forgive me, Orlando … It is an occasion, is it not?”

“Yes sir. We were lucky to get away from Woomera—evidently the last open space-port. It is an occasion.”

Idris said: “Compound my felony. Help yourself to a bulb of whisky.”

“Thank you, sir.” Orlando took off gracefully and floated to the emergency cabinet. He took a bulb of whisky out of its clip and expertly gave himself a shot. “
Salud
, sir … How do we account for this illegal consumption of emergency booze?”

“
Prosit
, Orlando.
A votre santé. Grüss Gott
… You see, the dead languages of Earth haunt us even in our drinking … Don’t worry about the tally sheet. There are two solutions. I will make good the loss from general stores or I will write in my log: this day, 23rd March 2077, two bulbs of emergency booze were used for emergency medical treatment … Yes, Woomera was a nasty business. You did not look out just before lift-off?”

Orlando wore a pained expression. “Captain, you know I didn’t. I had to monitor the life-support systems of our passengers under the G thrust.”

“You were lucky, Orlando. I did. The rebels brought in tanks and field guns. They blasted the control tower to rubble ninety seconds before we burned.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Another dead symbol. Jesus was a man of Earth. Long, long ago … We were lucky the pad was more than two miles from Control. They couldn’t get our range in time. Otherwise, the
Dag
would have been blasted before it could lift.”

“Commander Hillovan? Chief Worthing? That delicious computer queen with the fantastic boobs? What was her name? Sally Weingarten. What a hell of a name! Sally
Weingarten.”

Idris drank more whisky, regarded the transparent bulb as a surgeon might regard his patient. “They are all gone, Orlando,” he said thickly. “All gone under the hill, as some bloody poet once said. Hillovan, Worthing, Weingarten were blasted by their own people. They bought us enough time to lift off … Remember that when we touch down on Mars. Or perhaps I should say if.”

Orlando raised an eyebrow. “Now I know who Suzy is going to cheer up first. We got away, sir. We are in fall. This is a good vessel. What the hell can happen now?”

Idris withered him with a look. “Anything. You’ve logged enough space hours to know that … But, specifically, I was thinking of sabotage. By my estimation there had to be at least seventy-five people concerned with loading, servicing and make-ready while the
Dag
sat on its arse at Woomera. None of those people had a snowball in hell’s chance of dying in their beds, and they knew it. If, among seventy-five doomed people, you are going to count seventy-five saints, I shall call you a liar.”

“Captain, the ship was double-checked.”

“
They
double-checked—the security boys who very likely are now dead or dying. We didn’t. We were too busy … So tell Leo Davison and Suzy they are entitled to a bulb of booze each, if that is their pleasure. But, afterwards, we all wash our faces and go over the
Dag
with a tooth comb. And, Orlando …”

“Sir?”

“You were born on Mars, I was born on Earth. If, at any time during the next few days my behaviour seems peculiar to you, you will assume command of this vessel and place me under restraint. I will immediately put this order in writing.”

“Sir!” Lieutenant Brackley was shaken. “It is not necessary.”

Idris Hamilton gave him a wintry smile. “Allow me to decide that. The night before lift-off, I checked internal security and then turned in and went to sleep. Next thing I
knew, I woke up standing on the pad, wearing my vest and pants, drenched in rain, surrounded by security guards. I almost got myself shot. They told me I’d been stooping and picking at things on the ground that weren’t there.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Matter of fact, I’d been dreaming I was a child at home, picking spring flowers … The lost flowers of Earth … So, lieutenant, it is an order and I will put it in writing. They must have taught you back at space-school that the effects of stress are often magnified in free fall. Therefore you carry the order on your person at all times. You will only show it to Engineer Officer Davison and Miss Wu if it becomes necessary to relieve me of my command. If, as I hope, we touch down on Mars without incident, you will return the order to me. Understand?”