The Songs of Distant Earth (7 page)

“We’re still good for another ten light-years, but that’s not enough. Our final destination is the planet Sagan 2 – seventy-five lights to go.”

“So now you understand, Mr. President, why we stopped at Thalassa. We would like to borrow – well, beg, since we can hardly promise to return it – a hundred or so thousand tons of water from you. We must build another iceberg, up there in orbit, to sweep the path ahead of us when we go on to the stars.”

“How can we possibly help you to do that? Technically, you must be centuries ahead of us.”

“I doubt it – except for the quantum drive. Perhaps Deputy Captain Malina can outline our plans – subject to your approval, of course.”

“Please go ahead.”

“First we have to locate a site for the freezing plant. There are many possibilities – it could be on any isolated stretch of coastline. It will cause absolutely no ecological disturbance, but if you wish, we’ll put it on East Island – and hope that Krakan won’t blow before we’ve finished!

“The plant design is virtually complete, needing only minor modifications to match whatever site we finally choose. Most of the main components can go into production right away. They’re all very straightforward – pumps, refrigerating systems, heat exchangers, cranes – good old-fashioned Second Millennium technology!

“If everything goes smoothly, we should have our first ice in ninety days. We plan to make standard-sized blocks, each weighing six hundred tons – flat, hexagonal plates – someone’s christened them snowflakes, and the name seems to have stuck.

“When production’s started, we’ll lift one snowflake every day. They’ll be assembled in orbit and keyed together to build up the shield. From first lift to final structural test should take two hundred and fifty days. Then we’ll be ready to leave.”

When the deputy captain had finished, President Farradine sat in silence for a moment, a faraway look in his eye. Then he said, almost reverently. “Ice – I’ve never seen any, except at the bottom of a drink …”

As he shook hands with the departing visitors, President Farradine became aware of something strange. Their aromatic odour was now barely perceptible.

Had he grown accustomed to it already – or was he losing his sense of smell?

Although both answers were correct, around midnight he would have accepted only the second. He woke up with his eyes watering, and his nose so clogged that it was difficult to breathe.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Mrs President said anxiously.

“Call the –
atischoo! –
doctor,” the chief executive answered. “Ours –
and
the one up in the ship. I don’t believe there’s a damn thing they can do, but I want to give them –
atischoo –
a piece of my mind. And I hope
you
haven’t caught it as well.”

The president’s lady started to reassure him, but was interrupted by a sneeze.

They both sat up in bed and looked at each other unhappily.

“I believe it took seven days to get over it,” sniffed the president. “But perhaps medical science has advanced in the last few centuries.”

His hope was fulfilled, though barely. By heroic efforts, and with no loss of life, the epidemic was stamped out – in six miserable days.

It was not an auspicious beginning for the first contact between star-sundered cousins in almost a thousand years.

12. Heritage

W
e’ve been here two weeks, Evelyn – though it doesn’t seem like it as that’s only eleven of Thalassa’s days. Sooner or later we’ll have to abandon the old calendar, but my heart will always beat to the ancient rhythms of Earth.

It’s been a busy time, and on the whole a pleasant one. The only real problem was medical; despite all precautions, we broke quarantine too soon, and about twenty per cent of the Lassans caught some kind of virus. To make us feel even guiltier, none of us developed any symptoms whatsoever. Luckily no one died, though I’m afraid we can’t give the local doctors too much credit for that. Medical science is definitely backward here; they’ve grown to rely on automated systems so much that they can’t handle anything out of the ordinary.

But we’ve been forgiven; the Lassans are very good-natured, easygoing people. They have been incredibly lucky – perhaps too lucky! – with their planet; it makes the contrast with Sagan 2 even bleaker.

Their only real handicap is lack of land, and they’ve been wise enough to hold the population well below the sustainable maximum. If they’re ever tempted to exceed it, they have the records of Earth’s city-slums as a terrible warning.

Because they’re such beautiful and charming people, it’s a great temptation to help them instead of letting them develop their own culture in their own way. In a sense, they’re our children – and all parents find it hard to accept that, sooner or later, they must cease to interfere.

To some extent, of course, we can’t help interfering; our very presence does that. We’re unexpected – though luckily not unwelcome – guests on their planet. And they can never forget that
Magellan
is orbiting just above the atmosphere, the last emissary from the world of their own ancestors.

I’ve revisited First Landing –
their
birthplace – and gone on the tour that every Lassan makes at least once in his life. It’s a combination of museum and shrine, the only place on the whole planet to which the word “sacred” is remotely applicable. Nothing has changed in seven hundred years. The seedship, though it is now an empty husk, looks as if it has only just landed. All around it are the silent machines – the excavators and constructors and chemical processing plants with their robot attendants. And, of course, the nurseries and schools of Generation One.

There are almost no records of those first decades – perhaps deliberately. Despite all the skills and precautions of the planners, there must have been biological accidents, ruthlessly eliminated by the overriding program. And the time when those who had no organic parents gave way to those who did, must have been full of psychological traumas.

But the tragedy and sadness of the Genesis Decades is now centuries in the past. Like the graves of all pioneers, it has been forgotten by the builders of the new society.

I would be happy to spend the rest of my life here; there’s material on Thalassa for a whole army of anthropologists and psychologists and social scientists. Above all, how I wish I could meet some of my long-dead colleagues and let them know how many of our endless arguments have been finally resolved!

It is possible to build a rational and humane culture completely free from the threat of supernatural restraints. Though in principle I don’t approve of censorship, it seems that those who prepared the archives for the Thalassan colony succeeded in an almost-impossible task. They purged the history and literature of ten thousand years, and the result has justified their efforts. We must be very cautious before replacing anything that was lost
–
however beautiful, however moving a work of art.

The Thalassans were never poisoned by the decay products of dead religions, and in seven hundred years no prophet has arisen here to preach a new faith. The very word “God” has almost vanished from their language, and they’re quite surprised – or amused – when we happen to use it.

My scientist friends are fond of saying that one sample makes very poor statistics, so I wonder if the total lack of religion in this society really proves anything. We know that the Thalassans were also very carefully selected genetically to eliminate as many undesirable social traits as possible. Yes, yes – I know that only about fifteen per cent of human behaviour is determined by the genes – but that fraction is
very
important! The Lassans certainly seem remarkably free from such unpleasant traits as envy, intolerance, jealousy, anger. Is this entirely the result of cultural conditioning?

How I would love to know what happened to the seedships that were sent out by those religious groups in the twenty-sixth century! The Mormons’
Ark of the Covenant,
the
Sword of the Prophet –
there were half a dozen of them. I wonder if any of them succeeded, and if so what part religion played in their success or their failure. Perhaps one day, when the local communications grid is established, we’ll find what happened to those early pioneers.

One result of Thalassa’s total atheism is a serious shortage of expletives. When a Lassan drops something on his toe, he’s at a loss for words. Even the usual references to bodily functions aren’t much help because they’re all taken for granted. About the only general-purpose exclamation is “Krakan!” and that’s badly overworked. But it does show what an impression Mount Krakan made when it erupted four hundred years ago; I hope I’ll have a chance of visiting it before we leave.

That’s still many months ahead, yet already I fear it. Not for the possible danger – if anything happens to the ship, I’ll never know. But because it will mean that another link with Earth has been broken – and, my dearest, with you.

13. Task Force

“
T
he president’s not going to like this,” Mayor Waldron said with relish. “He’s set his heart on getting you to North Island.”

“I know,” Deputy Captain Malina answered. “And we’ll be sorry to disappoint him – he’s been very helpful. But North Island’s far too rocky; the only suitable coastal areas are already developed. Yet there’s a completely deserted bay, with a gently sloping beach, only nine kilometres from Tarna – it will be perfect.”

“Sounds too good to be true.
Why
is it deserted, Brant?”

“That was the Mangrove Project. All the trees died – we still don’t know why – and no one’s had the heart to tidy up the mess. It looks terrible, and smells worse.”

“So it’s already an ecological disaster area – you’re welcome, Captain! You can only improve matters.”

“I can assure you that our plant will be very handsome and won’t damage the environment in the slightest. And of course it will all be dismantled when we leave. Unless you want to keep it.”

“Thank you – but I doubt if we’d have much use for several hundred tons of ice a day. Meanwhile, what facilities can Tarna offer – accommodation, catering, transport? – we’ll be happy to oblige. I assume that quite a number of you will be coming down to work here.”

“Probably about a hundred and we appreciate your offer of hospitality. But I’m afraid we’d be terrible guests: we’ll be having conferences with the ship at all hours of the day and night. So we have to stick together – and as soon as we’ve assembled our little prefabricated village, we’ll move into it with all our equipment. I’m sorry if this seems ungracious – but any other arrangement simply wouldn’t be practical.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the mayor sighed. She had been wondering how she could bend protocol and offer what passed for the hospitality suite to the spectacular Lieutenant Commander Lorenson instead of to Deputy Captain Malina. The problem had appeared insoluble; now, alas, it would not even arise.

She felt so discouraged that she was almost tempted to call North Island and invite her last official consort back for a vacation. But the wretch would probably turn her down again, and she simply couldn’t face that.

14. Mirissa

E
ven when she was a very old woman, Mirissa Leonidas could still remember the exact moment when she first set eyes on Loren. There was no one else – not even Brant – of which this was true.

Novelty had nothing to do with it; she had already met several of the Earthmen before encountering Loren, and they had made no unusual impression on her. Most of them could have passed as Lassans if they had been left out in the sun for a few days.

But not Loren; his skin never tanned, and his startling hair became, if anything, even more silvery. That was certainly what had first drawn her notice as he was emerging from Mayor Waldron’s office with two of his colleagues – all of them bearing that slightly frustrated look which was the usual outcome of a session with Tarna’s lethargic and well-entrenched bureaucracy.

Their eyes had met, but for a moment only. Mirissa took a few more paces; then, without any conscious volition, she came to a dead halt and looked back over her shoulder – to see that the visitor was staring at her. Already, they both knew that their lives had been irrevocably changed.

Later that night, after they had made love, she asked Brant, “Have they said how long they’re staying?”

“You do choose the worst times,” he grumbled sleepily. “At least a year. Maybe two. Goodnight –
again.”

She knew better than to ask any more questions even though she still felt wide awake. For a long time she lay open-eyed, watching the swift shadows of the inner moon sweep across the floor while the cherished body beside her sank gently into sleep.

She had known not a few men before Brant, but since they had been together she had been utterly indifferent to anyone else. Then why this sudden interest – she still pretended it was no stronger than that – in a man she had glimpsed only for a few seconds and whose very name she did not even know? (Though that would certainly be one of tomorrow’s first priorities.)

Mirissa prided herself on being honest and clear-sighted; she looked down on women – or men – who let themselves be ruled by their emotions. Part of the attraction, she was quite sure, was the element of novelty, the glamour of vast new horizons. To be able to speak to someone who had actually walked through the cities of Earth – had witnessed the last hours of the solar system
–
and was now on the way to new suns was a wonder beyond her wildest dreams. It made her once more aware of that underlying dissatisfaction with the placid tempo of Thalassan life despite her happiness with Brant.

Or was it merely contentment and not true happiness? What did she
really
want? Whether she could find it with these strangers from the stars she did not know, but before they left Thalassa forever, she meant to try.