Darkover: First Contact (11 page)

“But nothing like that turned up in our air samples,” MacLeod argued, “and the effect was more like that of a drug.”

“An airborne drug? It seems unlikely,” Di Asturien said, “although the aphrodisiac effect seems to have been considerable also. Do I correctly assume that there was some sexual stimulation effect on all of you?”

Ewen said, “I already mentioned that, sir. It seemed to affect all three of us—Miss Stuart, Dr. MacLeod and myself. It had no such effect on Dr. Zabal to my knowledge, but he was in a moribund condition.”

“Mr. MacAran?”

He felt for some strange reason embarrassed, but before Di Asturien’s cool clinical eyes he said, “Yes, sir. You can check this with Lieutenant Del Rey if you like.”

“Hm. I understand, Dr. Ross, that you and Miss Stuart are currently paired in any case, so perhaps we can discount that. But Mr. MacAran, you and the Lieutenant—”

“I’m interested in her,” he said steadily, “but as far as I know she’s completely indifferent to me. Even hostile. Except under the influence of—of whatever happened to us.” He faced it, then. Camilla had not turned to him as a woman to a man she cared for. She had simply been affected by the virus, or drug, or whatever strange thing had sent them all mad. What to him had been love, to her had been madness—and now she resented it.

To his immense relief the Medic Chief did not pursue the subject. “Doctor Lovat?”

Judy did not look up. She said quietly, “I can’t say. I can’t remember. What I think I remember may very well be entirely delusion.”

Di Asturien said, “I wish you would co-operate with us, Dr. Lovat.”

“I’d rather not.” Judy went on fingering something in her lap, and no persuasion could force her to say any more.

Di Asturien said, “In about a week, then, we’ll have to test all three of you for possible pregnancy.”

“How can that be necessary?” Heather asked. “I, at least, am taking regular anti shots. I’m not sure about Camilla, but I suspect crew regulations require it for anyone between twenty and forty-five.”

Di Asturien looked disturbed. “That’s true,” he said, “but there is something very peculiar which we discovered in a Medic meeting yesterday. Tell them, Nurse Raimondi.”

Margaret Raimondi said, “I’m in charge of keeping records and issuing contraceptive and sanitary supplies for all women of menstrual age, both crew and passengers. You all know the drill; every two weeks, at the time of menstruation and halfway between, every woman reports for either a single shot of hormone or, in some cases, a patch strip to send small doses of hormones into the blood, which suppress ovulation. There are a total of one hundred and nineteen women surviving in the right age bracket, which means, with an average arbitrary cycle of thirty days, approximately four women would be reporting every day, either for menstrual supplies or for the appropriate shot or patch which is given four days after onset of menstruation. It’s been ten days since the crash, which means about one-third of the women should have reported to me for one reason or the other. Say forty.”

“And they haven’t been,” Dr. Di Asturien said. “How many women have reported since the crash?”

“Nine,” said Nurse Raimondi grimly. “
Nine.
This means that two-thirds of the women involved have had their biological cycles disrupted on this planet—either by the change in gravity, or by some hormone disruption. And since the standard contraceptive we use is entirely keyed to the internal cycle, we have no way of telling whether it’s effective or not.”

MacAran didn’t need to be told how serious this was. A wave of pregnancies could indeed be emotionally disruptive. Infants—or even young children—could not endure interstellar FTL drive; and since the universal acceptance of reliable contraceptives, and the population laws on overcrowded Earth, a wave of feeling had made abortion completely unthinkable. Unwanted children were simply never conceived. But would there be any alternative here?

Dr. Di Asturien said, “Of course, on new planets women are often sterile for a few months, largely because of the changes in air and gravity. But we can’t count on it.”

MacAran was thinking,
if Camllla is pregnant, will she hate me?
The thought that a child of theirs might have to be destroyed was frightening. Ewen asked soberly, “What are we going to do, Doctor? We can’t demand that two hundred adult men and women take a vow of chastity!”

“Obviously not. That would be worse for mental health than the other dangers,” Di Asturien said, “but we must warn everyone that we’re no longer sure about the effectiveness of our contraceptive program.”

“I can see that. And as soon as possible.”

Di Asturien said, “The Captain has called a mass meeting tonight—crew
and
colonists. Maybe I can announce it there.” He made a wry face. “I’m not looking forward to it. It’s going to be an awfully damned unpopular announcement. As if we didn’t have enough troubles already!”

The mass meeting was held in the hospital tent, the only place big enough to hold the crew and passengers all at once. It had begun to cloud over by midafternoon and when the meeting was called, a thin fine cold rain was falling and distant lightning could be seen over the peaks of the hills. The members of the exploring party sat together at the front, in case they were called on for a report, but Camilla was not among them. She came in with Captain Leicester and the rest of the crew officers, and MacAran noticed that they had all put on formal uniform. Somehow that struck him as a bad sign. Why should they try to emphasize their solidarity and authority that way?

The electricians on the crew had put up a rostrum and rigged an elementary public address system, so that the Captain’s voice, low and rather hoarse, could be heard throughout the big room.

“I have asked you all to come here tonight,” he said, “instead of reporting only to your leaders, because in spite of every precaution, in a group this size rumors can get started, and can also get out of hand. First, I will give you what good news there is to give. To the best of our knowledge and belief, the air and water on this planet will support life indefinitely without damage to health, and the soil will probably grow Earth crops to supplement our food supply during the period of time while we are forced to remain here. Now I must give you the news which is not so good. The damage to the ship’s drive units and computers is far more extensive than originally believed, and there is no possibility of immediate or rapid repairs. Although eventually it may be possible to become spaceborne, with our current personnel and materials, we cannot make repairs at all.”

He paused, and a stir of voices, appalled, apprehensive, rose in the room. Captain Leicester raised his hand.

“I am not saying that we should lose hope,” he said. “But in our current state we cannot make repairs. To get this ship off the surface of the planet is going to demand extensive changes in our present setup and will be a very long-range project demanding the total co-operation of every man and woman in this room.”

Silence, and MacAran wondered what he meant by that. What exactly was the Captain saying?
Could
repairs be made or
couldn’t
they?

“This may sound like a contradictory statement,” the Captain went on. “We have not the material to make repairs. However, we
do
have, among all of us, the
knowledge
to make repairs; and we have an unexplored planet at our disposal, where we can certainly find the raw materials and
build
the material to make repairs.”

MacAran frowned, wondering exactly how that was meant. Captain Leicester proceeded to explain.

“Many of you people bound for the colonies have skills which will be useful there but which are of no use to us here,” he said. “Within a day or two we will set up a personnel department to inventory all known skills. Some of you who have registered as farmers or artisans will be placed under the direction of our scientists or engineers to be trained. I demand a total push.”

At the back of the room, Moray rose. He said, “May I ask a question, Captain?”

“You may.”

“Are you saying that the two hundred of us in this room can, within five or ten years, develop a technological culture capable of building—or rebuilding—a starship? That we can discover the metals, mine them, refine them, machine them, and build the necessary machinery?”

The Captain said quietly, “With the full co-operation of every person here, this can be done. I estimate that it will take between three and five years.”

Moray said flatly, “You’re insane. You’re asking us to evolve a whole technology!”

“What man has done, man can do again,” Captain Leicester said imperturbably. “After all, Mr. Moray, I remind you that we have no alternative.”

“The hell we don’t!”

“You are out of order,” the Captain said sternly. “Please take your seat.”

“No, damn it! If you really believe all this can be done,” Moray said, “I can only assume that you’re stark raving mad. Or that the mind of an engineer or spaceman works so differently from any sane man’s that there’s no way to communicate. You say this will take three to five years. May I respectfully remind you that we have about a year to eighteen months’ supply of food and medical supplies? May I also remind you that even now—moving toward summer—the climate is harsh and rigorous and our shelters are insufficient? The winter on this world, with its exaggerated tilt on the axis, is likely to be more brutal than anything any Earthman has ever experienced.”

“Doesn’t that prove the necessity of getting off this world as soon as possible?”

“No, it proves the need of finding reliable sources of food and shelter,” Moray said. “
That’s
where we need our total push! Forget your ship, Captain. It isn’t going anywhere. Come to your senses. We’re colonists, not scientists. We have everything we need to survive here—to settle down here. But we can’t do it if half our energies are devoted to some senseless plan of diverting all our resources to repair a hopelessly crashed ship!”

There was a small uproar in the hall, a flood of cries, questions, outrage. The Captain repeatedly called for order, and finally the cries died down to dull mutterings. Moray demanded, “I call for a vote,” and the uproar rose again.

The Captain said, “I refuse to consider your proposal, Mr. Moray. The matter will not come to a vote. May I remind you that I am currently in supreme command of this ship? Must I order your arrest?”

“Arrest, hell,” Moray said scornfully. “You’re not in space now, Captain. You’re not on the bridge of your ship. You have no authority over any of us, Captain—except maybe your own crew, if they want to obey you.”

Leicester stood on the rostrum, as white as his shirt, his eyes gleaming with fury. He said, “I remind all of you that MacAran’s party, sent out to explore, has discovered traces of intelligent life on this planet. Earth Expeditionary has a standard policy of not placing colonies on inhabited planets. If we settle here we are likely to bring cultural shock to the stone age culture.”

Another uproar. Moray shouted angrily, “Do you think your attempts to evolve a technology here for your repairs wouldn’t do that? In God’s name, sir, we have everything we need to establish a colony here. If we divert all our resources to your insane effort to repair the ship, it’s doubtful if we can even survive!”

Captain Leicester made a distinct effort to master himself, but his fury was obvious. He said harshly, “You are suggesting that we abandon the effort—and relapse into barbarism?”

Moray was suddenly very grave. He came forward to the rostrum and stood beside the Captain. His voice was level and calm.

“I hope not, Captain. It is man’s mind that makes him a barbarian, not his technology. We may have to do without top-level technology, at least for a few generations, but that doesn’t mean we can’t establish a good world here for ourselves and our children, a civilized world. There have been civilizations which have existed for centuries almost without technology. The illusion that man’s culture is only the history of his technostructures is propaganda from the engineers, sir. It has no basis in sociology—or in philosophy.”

The Captain said harshly, “I’m not interested in your social theories, Mr. Moray.”

Doctor Di Asturien rose. He said, “Captain, one thing must be taken into account. We made a most disquieting discovery today—”

At that moment a violent clap of thunder rocked the hospital tent. The hastily rigged lights went out. And from the door one of the security men shouted:

“Captain! Captain! The woods are on fire!”

Everyone kept their heads; Captain Leicester bellowed from the platform, “Get some lights in here; security, get some lights!” One of the young men on the Medic staff found a handlamp for the Captain and one of the bridge officers shouted, “Everyone! Stay in place and wait for orders, there is no danger here! Get those lights rigged as fast as you can!”

MacAran was near enough to the door to see the distant rising glare against the darkness. In a few minutes lamps were being distributed, and Moray, from the platform, said urgently, “Captain, we have tree-felling and earth-moving equipment. Let me order a detail to work on firebreaks around the encampment.”

“Right, Mr. Moray. Get with it,” Leicester said harshly. “All bridge officers, gather here; get to the ship and secure any flammable or explosive material.” He hurried away toward the back of the tent. Moray ordered all able-bodied men to the clearing, and requisitioned all available handlamps not in use on the bridge. “Form up in the same squads you did for gravedigging detail,” he ordered. MacAran found himself in a crew with Father Valentine and eight strangers, felling trees in a ten-foot swath around the clearing. The fire was still a distant roar on a slope miles away, a red glare against the sky, but the air smelled of smoke, with a strange acrid undertone.