The Tenth Planet (8 page)

So the original plans were cancelled after the fleet had been in space for less than two thousand hours. The fleet would not disperse to its assigned stars—which there was little hope of reaching anyway—but would touch down on the outermost solar planet, which at least offered a sanctuary that should not be beyond the ingenuity of man to improve.

One adventurous and rebellious captain refused to accept the change of plan. Garfield Talbot considered his refusal to be an affront to divine guidance, and promptly blasted his vessel out of space with an atomic torpedo. The remaining space-ships—twelve in all—obediently changed course for Minerva.

After touch-down, after the colonists had established underground bases large enough to support them, Talbot ordered the destruction of the fleet, his argument being that God, in his infinite mercy, had offered mankind a third chance. If the race of man could not learn to live in peace in the solar system, it would not manage to do so elsewhere. Conditions on—-or under—the surface of Minerva were extremely hard. But that was simply God’s punishment and his way of testing.

Garfield Talbot was forty-three years old when he brought the remnants of Martian civilisation to Minerva. He lived to the ripe age of one hundred and twenty-one, working with almost fanatical dedication for nearly eighty years to establish a harmonious and stable community. For him, stability and harmony meant strict discipline, strict adherence to the law, swift and stern justice.

He had set down his ideas on the purpose and nature of society and of human destiny in a book called simply
Talbot’s Creed
. Over the centuries it had attained the stature of a testament. It was the only authoritative bible on Minerva. The Judeo-Christian mythologies had lost their significance even before the Martian culture had disintegrated. But the mythological parallel was obvious. Garfield Talbot, the Moses of deep space, had brought his chosen people to the promised land of Minerva. It was an inhospitable
wilderness frozen in everlasting night. Therefore it was the perfect place for mankind to atone for previous sins and to establish a new harmonic order of society.

Since Garfield Talbot’s great passion was for order and balance, Minervan culture had not evolved greatly in the thirty Earth-centuries that the tenth planet had been colonised. Government, in the form of the Five Cities Council, had found it convenient and necessary to adhere strictly to the teachings of
Talbot’s Creed
.

Although a fanatic and a dreamer, Talbot had been acutely aware of the limits of the technological skills brought by the original colonists. Therefore he had ordained that the maximum population should be ten thousand. That maximum had been religiously kept despite new scientific discoveries and new technological development. Minerva was now capable of supporting one hundred thousand people. But
Talbot’s Creed
was stronger than scientific and technological progress.
Talbot’s Creed
was the law.

As time passed Idris learned much about Talbot and his influence on Minervan society. Also, he learned much about Zylonia, as a woman and as a Minervan.

But, most of all, he learned about himself.

“W
HEN CAN I
meet the other survivors from the
Dag?
” It was a question he had asked many times, with increasing impatience.

“Soon. Quite soon, now.” Zylonia gave him the standard reply.

He began to suspect a conspiracy. He began to think that, for some reason, the Minervans had decided not to let him see the surviving children and their teacher.

The trouble was he had to take everything they said and did on trust. He could not investigate personally. He was just a brain in a tank of nutrient. A biological curio wired electronically for sound and vision, capable of receiving only the data deliberately fed into it. He was a prisoner.

Perhaps the survivors did not exist. Perhaps Manfrius de Skun did not exist. Perhaps Zylonia did not exist. Perhaps Orlando and Leo and Suzy were still alive, and the
Dag Hammarskjold
was shooting uneventfully to Mars, and the captain was confined to his cabin because he had quietly gone nuts.

So, therefore, his deranged mind must have invented Minerva, the girl Zylonia, and the old man who claimed to be his psycho-surgeon. It figured. Paranoia was a distinct possibility for a man who had logged too many space-hours and who had had to lift a salvage cargo from his home planet before it died.

It figured. Yes, paranoia was a good solution. The
Dag Hammarskjold
had never been sabotaged. All was well. Except that Captain Idris Hamilton was busy creating three-dimensional paper dolls.

“How bloody long is soon?” he screamed.

Zylonia cowered, putting her hands over her ears. “If you are going to use your voice as a weapon, I shall have to turn down the volume. You will find it exhausting, Idris. You will always have to shout to be heard.”

He was contrite. “I’m sorry. Even if you are a paper doll, I have to accept some responsibility for your existence. I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know … Or I’m afraid to know … Let’s get back to the children and the surviving teacher.”

“Idris, you must be patient. Please try to believe that our most highly skilled doctors are doing all they believe to be best for you and the others.” She smiled. “Medicine and psycho-surgery have made great advances since your time. Otherwise you would not be alive now. But, if we are not to end up with mentally deranged people, the process of integration and orientation must be carried out slowly. Are you prepared to risk their sanity, as well as yours, because you are impatient?”

He was silent for a while. Then he said bitterly: “I have a choice of believing you or disbelieving you. I will try to believe you if only because it is less agonizing … But take good care of those Earth children—if they exist, and if you exist. I want to think that it didn’t all happen for nothing.”

“We are taking good care of them,” she said softly. “I promise you.”

“Well, then, Miss Zylonia de Herrens, take off your clothes.”

“Take off my clothes?” She was amazed.

He enjoyed her amazement. He could feel himself enjoying it. The sensation was good.

“I want to find out what the sight of a naked woman does to me.” He laughed. “As a scientist you should be very
interested in the response of a brain in a tank to sexual stimulus … Or are you too inhibited? Perhaps Minervan society has a stricter sexual code than I imagined.”

“I am not too inhibited,” she said tartly, “and Minervan society is not riddled with primitive sexual tabu. I am reluctant only because there is your incidence of frustration to consider.”

He was vastly amused at the thought. “My incidence of frustration! That’s a pleasing phrase. I like it … Maybe if you Minervans had given some thought to my incidence of frustration, you would have left my corpse—or the half of it you found—to drift through the galaxy in peace. Strip, Zylonia! Give a few billion resuscitated grey cells a treat.”

“I—I—” She was confused, and he enjoyed her confusion.

“Ho, ho! This is one of my good times. Maybe life is worth living—using the word somewhat loosely—after all … I presume we are monitored. It would account for your confusion.”

“Yes—No. Idris, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“So, we are monitored. I thought as much. But it doesn’t matter. Let’s give the boys at the video screens a bit of fun. Strip, child. No doubt Manfrius de Skun will have much joy deciphering the variations in my brain rhythms. Strip!”

He thought she would chicken, but she didn’t.

Zylonia took off her tunic, her chemise, her bra, her panties. He was delighted to discover that such garments had changed very little in five thousand years. It was a great consolation.

Having committed herself, Zylonia at least carried out the task bravely. She placed her hands on her hips and stood facing his ‘eye’ calmly. “Does this improve your state of mind, Idris? Do you like what you see?”

He did not answer for a while. At last, he said: “I like what I see. It’s a real tonic. It feels as if I had forgotten about the human body—not the facts, but, somehow, the idea. I am glad to be reminded … The body is a very beautiful thing. Seeing you like this is a renewal of intimacy,
a kind of contact. It makes me feel less lonely. Walk about, Zylonia. I want to see the muscles move.”

She walked about the cabin, a little self-consciously. She stooped to pick up the clothes she had taken off, smoothed them out and placed them carefully on the bunk.

Idris experienced real pleasure. He willed his ‘eye’ to follow her closely, lovingly, almost caressingly. The sensation of pleasure was intoxicating. It was the first time he had experienced it, since his resurrection.

“May I put my clothes on now?” said Zylonia. “Surely you have seen enough?”

“No to both,” he said emphatically. “I have news for you and for those bright lads at the monitor screens. I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying it immensely. Dr. de Skun will doubtless be interested to learn that, deprived of a body, a glandular system, any means of touch or fulfilment, this thing in a tank can still experience sexual arousal, immense pleasure.” He laughed. “You Minervans are to be congratulated. You have created the most dedicated voyeur in the solar system … I’ll tell you something else, Zylonia. I want a lavatory, a head, a john or whatever you call it, installed in this stage set. I see you eat and relax and sleep. I want to see you do the everyday things that people do with their bodies…. Don’t you understand? You are my proxy. It is only through you that I can cherish the illusion of being alive.”

Unaccountably, she began to cry. “You
are
alive. Oh, Idris, it won’t be long before you can be fully alive. They are growing a new body for you.”

“
What did you say?
”

“They are growing a new body for you … You weren’t supposed to learn about it so early in the programme. But it’s true.”

H
E SHOT HIS
mobile eye very close to her face so that, for an instant, she was afraid he was literally hurling the camera at her by will-power. Instinctively, she held up her hands to protect herself.

“Sorry! It never occurred to me that I could use my eye as a weapon. An interesting thought …”

She lowered her hands. He looked closely, searchingly, at her face.

“Now, make it slow and clear, Zylonia, because I am only a stupid spaceman—or, at least, I used to be. How the hell can they grow me a new body?”

“Do you understand anything of genetics?”

“No. But I am willing to learn.”

“You have heard of cloning?”

“I seem to recall that it’s a technique of duplication. It was used on Earth, and on Mars, I think, for producing exact copies of prize cattle. Beyond that I know nothing.”

“The principle is simple,” said Zylonia, “but the techniques involved are fantastically complicated. You see, the cells of the body each contain all the genetic coding, or design for an entirely new body. I know very little of the actual process of cellular surgery, and we have only recently succeeded in cloning from human cells; but given the right kind of environment—in this case a synthetic uterus—it is possible to electronically trigger the reproduction code in the
cell nucleus so that the development cycle begins. Eventually, it yields a mature physical copy of the being from which the genetic material was taken.”

“So. You are busy growing a new Idris Hamilton. That’s very resourceful. I can see I am going to be eternally grateful to all you helpful Minervans.” He managed to get heavy sarcasm into his voice—and that, too, was a tribute to Minervan technology.

“Not a new Idris Hamilton. The seat of identity is the brain. You are Idris Hamilton. You only. No one else can be.”

“Ah yes, the brain. A poor thing, but mine own … But it occurs to me that the zombie you are creating—which is, so to speak, my blood brother—will also have problems. He, too, has a brain—a hot little seat of identity.”

“May I put my clothes on?” she said.

“No, damn you! I, too, exist in a kind of nakedness. But the sight of your breasts and belly reminds me that I was once a man. If you are going to live with me as my reality-anchor, I think you call it, then you can
be
real for some of the time … Now back to Idris Hamilton, Mark Two. What about
his
brain? Are you proposing to give me his body and stick him in my tank? If so, I don’t think he is going to like it.”

“Fortunately, we do not have such a difficult ethical problem. Your clone brother has never been allowed to attain full consciousness. We have been able to accelerate the development processes of his body while retarding the process of individuation in the brain. It is a magnificent achievement.”

“A magnificent achievement? One man who was dead has been given a facsimile of living, and a man who is alive is being confined to a pseudo-death. All this, I presume, is to further scientific progress. If I had a mouth I would vomit!”

The door opened and Manfrius de Skun entered the cabin. “Put on your clothes, Zylonia,” he said peremptorily. “The monitors are registering unacceptable response turbulence.
You were not empowered to inform Idris Hamilton of the cloned body. We need time to consider the possible consequences.”

“Ah, the good doctor!” Idris brought his eye close to Manfrius de Skun. “I was expecting you. You are disturbed by the reaction of your guinea pig. So you should be. I have been thinking. I have plenty of time to think, you know. I asked myself why should a colony of ten thousand people devote so much of its available resources to resurrecting a dead Earthman? An interesting question. I think I have the answer.”

Manfrius de Skun smiled. “Captain Hamilton, we realised you were a man of great courage and considerable intelligence. Such qualities are necessary for anyone in command of a space-ship. Also, you were expendable—or, more correctly, I should say expended—material. Therefore—”

“Therefore,” cut in Idris, “I was an ideal candidate for your immortality project. Nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Correct?”