The Tenth Planet (20 page)

He was prepared for the death sentence that was, in Minervan terms, not quite a death sentence. It came as no surprise.

Before the sentence of exile to the surface was carried out, his treatment was not bad. By Earth standards, it was highly civilised, if not luxurious. His apartment was little different from a standard living-module; but it was heavily guarded. Two men with anaesthetic guns were permanently on duty outside the door, which, strangely, was not locked. However, they had orders to shoot instantly if the door was opened from the inside without Idris having first asked permission over an intercom. A third man was available if Idris wished to play chess, talk or make any request. He was the only man allowed to approach within two metres of the prisoner. He was unarmed. He was also the most skilful gymnast on Minerva and an authority on the ancient art of judo.

Idris was allowed visitors; but only if they requested to see him. The tribunal had granted him ten M-days before exile.

How do you make the best use of your last ten days of life? He did not know. He had already passed once through the trauma of dying. But, until the bomb went off on the navigation deck of the
Dag Hammarskjold
, he had given little thought to the enigma of death. And when death came it had been mercifully quick. So now he was just as baffled as any man who has to face the prospect of certain and imminent
extinction.

Mary visited him daily. Damaris came to see him once. Zylonia came to see him once—having, apparently, circumnavigated the order against personal contact. In any case, it could not matter now. The Earth animal would not be a threat to the social stability of Minerva much longer.

Mary’s first visit was harrowing; but after a brief, semi-hysterical outburst of anguish she managed to regain control of herself. Thereafter she managed to maintain if not a mask of cheerfulness at least an outward show of calm acceptance. Idris felt doubly sorry for her. After he had gone there remained for Mary the ordeal of abortion. He knew that, physically, it would not be much of an ordeal; but he was afraid for her of the spiritual pain. He knew that, despite the somewhat flippant ceremony he had performed, she truly regarded herself as being married to him. To have her husband executed and then to have the child she was carrying destroyed would be enough to break most women, he thought. And she was the last true Earth woman married to the last Earth man and carrying the last Earth child. Poor Mary. Death—or exile, as they chose to call it—would be relatively quick for Idris. Then Mary would be left with much to endure.

They talked about it.

“I think I shall probably kill myself,” said Mary calmly. “I don’t want to live without you. Until you married me, Idris, I wasn’t very much alive anyway. Afterwards …” she faltered. “Afterwards it will be worse.”

“Love, I would prefer it if you didn’t kill yourself. There is still Earth blood here on Minerva … There is still hope.”

“The children?”

“Yes, the children. But children no longer. There are, perhaps, one or two young men who might—”

“You would want me to do that?” she demanded fiercely.

“If you could … If you would … Can you understand, Mary?” He took her hands. “I don’t want to go topside knowing that the last hope for Earth goes with me … You can carry another child—legitimate and Minervan, by
Minervan standards—but it would be a true Earth child, and you could ensure that it remained a true Earth child. So long as the blood continues, there is a chance.”

She said nothing, because there seemed nothing to say. Instead she took off her clothes and told herself that it did not matter that there were men with anaesthetising guns outside. Compulsively, idiotically, as they made love, she tried to will his semen to penetrate every cell of her body. So that Idris Hamilton, man of Earth, would remain alive in her flesh.

The visit from Damaris de Gaulle was brief.

She brought him a bunch of flowers—strange, fragrant Minervan flowers that looked like some kind of combination of terrestrial rose and carnation, which, quite possibly, they were.

“To get these, I had to promise to time-pair with a man at Brandt Hydro,” she said lightly. “They are quite long-lasting. I hope you like them.”

“I like them very much.” The fragrance was sweet, but not overpowering.

“They were bred from Martian flowers. But, of course, all the flowers of Mars came from the gardens of Earth … Will you do something for me, dear Jesus Freak? Will you take one bloom with you when you are exiled.”

“If it will please you.”

“It will please me very much. There is a legend, you see. According to the legend, when one of these flowers dies another instantly blooms.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Now you will regard me as just a stupid Minervan girl who wants to salve her conscience with an empty myth.”

Idris smiled. “Wrong again … I never was your Jesus Freak, Damaris.” He kissed her on the forehead. “But the flower legend is a good one. I like it.”

Her attempt at calmness disintegrated. “If it were not for me,” she sobbed, “you would not now be under sentence of exile. Forgive me, Idris Hamilton. Forgive me for asking you to meet the Friends of the Ways. Forgive us all for being ineffectual children. We want to change things, but
we are afraid of paying the price. We have caused your destruction.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “I was already routed for destruction. You must know that. Because I am what I am, I was already on a collision course with Minervan values … It would have happened anyway, sooner or later. What I regret most of all is that Manfrius de Skun gave the best part of his life to bringing me back from the dead. He was ill rewarded … Yes, I like your flower legend. I
believe it. I may die but, somehow, Earth will live.”

“Goodbye,” said Damaris. “I must go now. I am sorry. I am a coward.”

“Goodbye, Damaris.” He glanced at the flowers. “I will take the red one. It reminds me of an English rose. And when it dies, I will believe that another will instantly bloom.”

The encounter with Zylonia was no less harrowing.

“Greetings, Idris.”

“Greetings to you, Zylonia. How is Sirius? I hope he bears me no ill will.”

“He is unhappy for you. He asks your forgiveness.”

Idris raised an eyebrow. “But there is nothing to forgive. It was I who injured him.”

“He asks your forgiveness,” said Zylonia, “because he did not fully understand …” she faltered. “Because he did not fully understand how an Earth man would feel about a woman he had possessed—in Earth fashion.”

Idris gave a deep sigh. “You remember when I asked you to take off your clothes? It seems a long time ago.”

“I remember. And it is not very long ago.”

Idris shrugged. “It is—in subjective terms. I fell in love with you then.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Yes. But not as I did. Dreams die, Zylonia. New dreams are born. Now I regard myself as married—in the Earth sense—to Mary Evans. She is a good woman, and she is an Earth woman. Between me and her there exists something that could never have existed between me and you. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Well, then. Look me in the eyes, Zylonia, whom I loved and still love. Look me in the eyes and swear that you will do everything possible to stop Mary having her baby—the last Earth child—aborted.”

Zylonia could not look him in the eyes. She covered her face with her hands. “I will do all that I can, Idris. I can promise nothing. But I will do all that I can.”

“That is enough,” he said tranquilly. “I no longer expect miracles. But I hold you to your word … I am sorry about your father. Plainly, he wasted himself upon me. For that I am truly sorry … Tell Sirius Bourne that my ghost will haunt him if he does not make you happy.”

“Farewell, Idris.”

“Farewell, my love. And thank you.”

The last visitor of all was Mary. She gave herself to Idris, freely, desperately, joyously. She tried to distract him from watching the clock.

She succeeded.

When the man with the anaesthetising gun opened the door and pointed his weapon, Idris barely had time to realise that time—his time—had come to an end.

I
DRIS AWOKE TO
find himself lying on a trolley, such as might be used in a hospital. He was in a plain, unfurnished room whose walls were of metal. There was a module with a V-screen, a clock, a communicator, a pressure meter and a control panel, fixed on one wall. There was also a space suit hanging from a hook with two life-support packs lying close by it. A single red flower lay on one of the packs.

Idris sat up and waited for his head to clear. He already knew the kind of room he was in. He had used them many times before. He was in an air-lock.

He pulled himself together and stood up. As he did so, the V-screen came alive, and the face of Harlen Zebrov appeared.

So he had been under observation and they had been waiting for him to regain consciousness.

“Captain Hamilton,” said Zebrov, “it is my duty to inform you that, in accordance with the orders of the Grand Council of Minerva, the sentence of exile is now being carried out. You are in the air-lock of Talbot Tower. In one hour from now—or less time upon your request—the air will be evacuated from this chamber and the door leading to the surface of Minerva will be opened. You may, if you require, demand one extra hour for the purpose of preparation. If you require this extra time, you must make your demand known within the next half-hour. If you have any other
lawful and reasonable requests, please make them known as soon as possible. If you are unfamiliar with the equipment with which you have been provided, a technician is available to answer any questions. Both life-support packs are good for ten hours. Do you read me?”

“I read you, loud and clear. I am sorry about your son, Zebrov.”

“Thank you. The prerogative of mercy does not lie in my power, Captain Hamilton.”

Idris became angry. “I am not asking for mercy. I got my sentence from a hanging tribunal. I know better than to ask for a playback.”

“Please, I do not understand you.”

“No matter. I am sorry about your son, that is all. I hope you will believe that.”

“I will try to believe it, Captain Hamilton. Now, are there any requests you wish to make?”

Idris thought for a moment or two. Then he said: “Will you give my thanks to Damaris de Gaulle? Tell her that the flower and the legend are greatly appreciated.”

“Request granted.”

“Will you also tell my wife that I think of her with deep affection and that I am sorry I have caused her such unhappiness? Tell her, too, that I believe that Earth will endure and that once again mankind will flourish upon its fertile lands.”

“You have no wife under Minervan law, Captain Hamilton. But, of course, I know the person to whom you refer. Request granted.”

“And will you assure me that no harm will come to Mary because of me? She was not in any way responsible for my actions.”

“No action will be taken against Mary Evans, though, as you will recall, she was legally responsible for your good behaviour. The Grand Council feels that your sentence of exile is in itself sufficient punishment. Have you any further requests?”

Idris managed the ghost of a smile. “I would like to
borrow your space-ship to exile myself to Earth.”

“Permission denied,” said Harlen Zebrov without a flicker of expression. “I will now break contact. Unless you open communication once more within the next forty-five minutes, the air-lock will be evacuated. Goodbye, Captain Hamilton.”

“Goodbye, Zebrov. Who knows—one of these days you may wake up and realise what you and your Triple-T friends have done to mankind.”

The screen darkened. Idris, with the method of years of discipline, began his inspection of the space-suit and the life-support packs. Technology had developed greatly in the five thousand years since his first death. The equipment was vastly superior to anything he had ever known.

Damn these Minervans! They had immense talent and refused to make proper use of it. They could have done so much but they preferred to sit in their underground cities like troglodytes. Though their science was immensely sophisticated, they had allowed themselves to regress to a primitive condition. They had become afraid of everything, including themselves.

For a short time, Idris was tempted not to put on the space suit. When the air-lock was evacuated and the door opened, death would come very quickly. Perhaps it was better to end that way than to wander about on the surface, counting the hours and then the minutes until the life-support systems failed. Would he have the guts to pull the plug before that happened, or would he want to go to the last gasp of fetid air? He did not know. How could a man ever really know?

But he realised that, in his last hours, he wanted to look at the stars once more. The stars, to an experienced spaceman, were almost personal friends. Beacons of the night that gave him a sense of location. Far, lonely torches, reminding him that he was not alone, that other sentient races existed—with problems as great or greater than those which confronted him personally and his people as a whole.

Yes, the stars were personal friends. By their very distance and remoteness they would remind him that, despite the
interval of five thousand years and despite the fact that the Minervans were descendants of refugees from Mars, they were of the same blood as Idris Hamilton. Earth blood, For what is a mere five thousand years in star time?

So he checked both life-support packs, familiarised himself with the connection mechanisms, clipped one pack on the back of the suit, tested the seals, got into the suit and made ready to go out on to the surface of Minerva.

It would be interesting—very interesting—to take a walk on the surface of the tenth planet, he hold himself.

When he had got himself ready and checked once more that his equipment was in order, he sat on the trolley and waited patiently for the external door to open. The door that would open to eventual oblivion.

T
HE FIVE ATOMIC
lamps, each on top of a pylon three hundred metres high close to a city tower, shone brilliantly like fixed miniature suns.