The Tenth Planet (6 page)

“Ah, you are satisfied. That is good. I like the sound of your voice … I am called Zylonia. It is the name of a very small flower which can bloom in almost total darkness. Do you like my name?”

“It is strange, but pretty.” He realised that he was speaking English, yet she was speaking the alien tongue.

She seemed to divine his thoughts, and tried English—disastrously. “Ay hef stoodeed yor lengwish, bet it is herd, hoord—no, hard. No onny spek it noo. Yo know mi lengwish. Can you spek en it?”

He found he could speak in it, easily. “How did I learn to speak it? I did not know that I had learned.”

“You were programmed while you were sleeping—no, waiting is the better term. We had much success with your language areas … Do you remember who you are?”

Such an innocent question. Yet it seemed to pierce him like a knife. And, like a knife held firmly and twisted, it brought searing, excruciating pain.

Such an innocent question! He realised now that the answer was one among many dreadful things he had thrust away into some deep recess of the mind …

“I am Idris Hamilton,” he screamed, “and I died on the
Dag Hammarskjold
. What have you done to me?
What have you done?
”

O
NCE MORE HE
went hurtling into the dark, running away from everything. Running away with his mind.

Back to the
Dag
. Chess with Orlando, about twenty hours before touch-down at Woomera.

Orlando was two pawns down and would lose a bishop in about three moves. Idris put the bulb of beer to his lips and pressed gently. He pulled a face. Lousy Martian beer. No body in it … Orlando’s strategy was terrifyingly indecisive. No sense of pattern. The boy would never make a good chess player. He didn’t have the killer instinct.

Orlando said: “Don’t think I’ve lost, skipper. I’m merely giving you a false sense of security.”

Idris laughed. “I like that false sense of security. I’m a sucker. Incidentally, it is my professional opinion that you are about ten moves from an excellent resigning position.”

Orlando sighed. “Don’t quote me, but I think you are right … Idris, how do you feel about it—about making this last shoot to Earth?”

Idris continued to suck beer calmly. “It won’t be
my
last shoot,” he said. “Earth dies harder than you bloody Martians think. I shall come back. Many of us will come back. There will be a time to start again. You’ll see.”

Orlando lifted his beer. “I’ll drink to that. I’d like to believe it.”

“Then do believe it, ensign,” snapped Idris. “And go on
believing it until we start again or until every Earthman in the system is dead.” He took the bishop and didn’t give Orlando a chance to resign. He found a way to achieve an elegant checkmate in six moves.

And that is how it will be with Earth, he thought. The Martians and the Loonies will write us off; but, somehow, we will produce a rabbit from the hat.

Earth must not die—at least, not permanently.

But what if no hat? Then, alas, no rabbit.

It was something he refused to contemplate.

Orlando and the
Dag
dissolved.

There was a girl on Mars. Such a girl! Not just big breasts—beautiful breasts. Living symbols of richness and fertility. She was Earth-born, but shipped to Mars before she could talk. So she was a Martian. Idris met her at a space-port hop. And loved her instantly. Her name was Catherine Howard—a splendid English name.

“Are you married?” he asked her bluntly as they danced. He did not then know why he asked her. The knowledge came later.

“No, captain. Are you?”

“No … My name is Idris.”

“That is Welsh, isn’t it?”

“My mother was Welsh, my father was Scottish. I am Australian.”

She smiled. “Soon, I’m afraid, you will be a Martian.”

He shook his head. “No. Never.” He laughed grimly. “Perhaps I am destined to be the last Earthman … No, not even that. Earth will survive.”

She shivered. “I hope so. But things look bad, don’t they?”

“Yes, things look bad … Are you thinking of getting married?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone in particular?”

She laughed. “Some nice Martian boy, probably a planetary engineer, with a big future and a dune buggy and a hovercar and a three-roomed apartment.”

“Let’s sit this one out. I’ll get you a drink … Why not a spaceman? They are the guys with the best health certificates and the best brains.”

“You wouldn’t be making me an offer, would you?”

“Given enough time, I might. But why not a spaceman?”

“The answer is simple. If I really loved him, I couldn’t bear to be separated by such immensities of time and space, not knowing when or if …” She faltered. “Why don’t you get me that drink you promised?”

“Sorry.” He elbowed his way through the throng at the bar. Cadets, ensigns, engineer officers, a commander or two. Shamelessly he pulled rank.

He gave her a glass. “The bar is running dry. There was a choice of gin and tonic, gin and coke, gin and ice. I thought you looked like gin and tonic.”

“You thought right … Why haven’t
you
married, Idris? After all, you are quite—” She stopped, not knowing how to say it.

He grinned. “Ancient?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“But you have been counting the grey hairs … Well, I’ll try to give you an honest answer. I have been too damn busy getting where I am.”

“And where are you?”

He looked at the gold braid on his sleeve and shrugged. “You are right, of course. Nowhere … I would like to be married, though. It would be something—something permanent. Something to hold on to. Especially if there were a child.”

“A child.” Catherine gave a faint smile. “Somehow, I cannot see you in the role of Daddy, Idris.”

“To tell the truth, nor can I. But I don’t believe in God, and I have to have something. I believe our only hope of immortality lies in our actions, in what we do to and for others, and in our children.”

“A romantic atheist!” She sighed. “This conversation is getting too damned serious… A fine father you’d make … Hush, baby. Daddy is fifty million miles away; and if you
are very good, he’ll come and see you some time next year—I hope … No, Idris, spacemen should not marry, and they certainly shouldn’t have children.”

“I could give it up if I had the right incentive.”

“What is the right incentive?”

“You.”

“Me?” She was surprised at the seriousness, the intensity of this man she had known barely two hours.

“I love you.” He was amazed that he had actually had the nerve to say it.

“Isn’t this all happening rather quickly?”

“Haven’t you noticed? All the serious things, all the important things, all the dangerous things happen quickly. Spacemen are trained to react quickly. That is how they stay alive.”

“You wouldn’t stay alive very long if you had to ground yourself because some silly woman with a belly full of baby couldn’t bear to see you shoot towards the stars.”

“Try me.”

“No. I’m no gambler. I’m afraid to play for high stakes.” There were tears in her eyes. “Damn you! You’re the first man to see me cry.”

“And you, Catherine, are the first woman to make me say: I love you.” He raised his glass. “I am sorry. Forget everything I have said. Let there be peace between us … I will even drink to that unknown Martian planetary engineer who is destined to give you what you want.”

“I’ll go to bed with you,” she sniffed, “if that is what you would like.”

He took her in his arms. “We’ll dance. That is what we came for, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that is what we came for.” Catherine dabbed at her eyes, and smiled at him. “You’d better kiss me. Otherwise people might think we were quarrelling.”

He held her close, then found that he was holding nothing, only darkness. Darkness, anguish, loneliness.

He kept on running. But wherever he ran, however fast he ran, there was no place where he could stay. No island
on which, like a mariner of old, he could find refuge from the dark waters that threatened to engulf him.

“Father, I’ve passed the medical and the psychiatric. I have an interview with
the Board of Space Commissioners.”

“Well done, sport. To hell with this confounded rain. We’ll go into Sydney, and I’ll buy you a beer.”

Darkness. Cold darkness.

“What is your name?”

“Suzy Wu, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost twenty-one, Captain Hamilton.”

“How many space-hours have you logged?”

“The regulation two hundred.”

“The shoot to Earth should be routine. But the conditions we find when—and if—we touch-down, well, they are imponderable. It could be a one-way trip. You are sure you want to sign on for the
Dag Hammarskjold?
”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?” Earth to flourish on Mars.”

“You are a romantic fool, Suzy.”

She was dejected, anticipating dismissal. “Yes, sir.”

“But the
Dag Hammarskjold
is crewed entirely by fools. Sign here.”

Darkness again. So cold.

What the hell! If you can’t run any more, then for Christ’s sake stop trying.

I want to feel wind on my face, he screamed to himself. That I had a hand in bringing back a part of the dying I want to walk on grass. I want to watch some youngster take the Gagarin cup. I want to listen to music, make jokes, very vulnerable. “I want to do something,” she said desperately. “Something worthwhile. I want to help salvage a fragment of Earth I can’t properly explain it. But it would be something to be proud of, something to remember.

She looked much younger than twenty-one. Very young, kiss a pretty girl. I want to
breathe
.

“CAPTAIN HAMILTON, PLEASE RESPOND! I
DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU!”

The voice was shattering, the pain dreadful. What the hell! If you can’t run any more, then for Christ’s sake stop trying.

He didn’t have to open his eyes to see. He only had to want to see, or submit to the ordeal of seeing.

She was still there, the girl who called herself Zylonia. He found he could control his vision quite easily this time. No ripples. No cloud imploding.

“If I am not already mad,” he said reasonably, “I am thinking of going mad. It seems a good idea. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Captain Hamilton, you are quite sane, but traumatized. We will not let you retreat into madness.”

He managed to laugh. The pitch was wrong, but the noise sounded roughly like laughter. “You think you can stop me?”

“If we have to, yes. But we wish to minimize our interference with your mental processes.”

“Baby, you are talking to a ghost. I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe in immortality, I don’t believe in ghosts. But you are talking to one. So how can you stop a ghost from declaring himself insane?”

“You are not a ghost, Captain Hamilton.”

“So? I died on the
Dag Hammarskjold
. Tell me it was a delusion. That will only prove you have whistled up a mad ghost. Q.E.D.”

“You did die on the
Dag Hammarskjold.
” There was a note of exasperation in her voice. “But, demonstrably, you are not dead now … You are making matters difficult, Captain Hamilton. It was decided that you should be phased back into reality slowly, so that you would have time to adjust.”

Again he laughed, dreadfully. “It was decided … Screw that … As far as I am concerned, you are just part of a dead man’s nightmares until you prove otherwise. I know—or
think
I know—that I haven’t got my own body, my own eyes, my own voice. All I’ve got—all I
think
I’ve got—are
my own memories. Now if you—pretty delusion that you are—don’t give me a very convincing shot of truth, I shall do my damnedest to blow myself into the big dark, where there are no dreams, no nightmares, no memories, no nothing. So talk fast, because I’m listening but for not much longer.”

“Give me a few moments,” she said. “Your responses are being monitored. I must consult my colleagues.”

There was darkness and silence. It was as if the girl had suddenly disintegrated.

“I’m counting to twenty,” he shouted, being now unable to hear the voice he used and not knowing if she heard it either. “If you are not back with some very convincing information by then, I’m going to blow. This I swear.”

He began to count to himself. One, two, three, four, five …

She came back at seventeen.

There was light; and he saw her black hair, her pale face, her golden tunic.

“It has been decided that you shall have the relevant facts. We hope that you will be able to accept them. You died approximately five thousand three hundred and seventy Earth-years ago, in the manner you recall. Your vessel, the
Dag Hammarskjold
was reduced to a derelict hulk by three major explosions which we can only assume were caused by people who wished to destroy it and its occupants. The wrecked vessel drifted beyond Mars orbit, even beyond the orbit of Pluto. It settled into an eccentric orbit more than six billion Earth miles from the sun. That is where we found it. By an extraordinary freak of fate, the top half of your body remained frozen and sealed perfectly in vacuum. Even more remarkable was the fact that brain damage was negligible. So you will understand that—”

“That I am nothing but a colony of cells in a life-support system.” He was amazed at how calm his synthetic voice sounded. He was amazed that he was not hysterical, that he did not weep, that he did not utter a great scream of horror.

“Is that not what every living creature is?” she countered.

“Good for you. Score one … The story becomes interesting. I like it. Five thousand three hundred and seventy years … Hey, maybe that’s a record! Tell me it’s a record. Then we can break open a case of booze and celebrate. Sorry, I forgot. I have no mouth … Now, let’s shoot for the big one. Where am I—woman whose lips I shall never touch, whose tits I shall never fondle—where have you and your unseen friends chosen to perform the resurrection-and-the-life trick?”

“You are on the tenth solar planet, Minerva. Captain Hamilton, do not be cynical. Many courageous and dedicated people have worked hard to restore you to consciousness and to give you the means of communication. Here is one of them.”