The Tenth Planet (16 page)

Dr. de Skun looked shocked. “Of course it is not bugged, as you call it. Everyone—even a person in detention—is entitled to privacy. It would be unethical not to allow you to talk to your friends in complete freedom.”

“It will take me some time to understand Minervan ethics,” retorted Idris drily. “My simulated cabin was bugged, you may recall.”

“You were not bugged, as you call it,” said Dr. de Skun, making a fine distinction. “It was a monitoring system, vital to your treatment.”

Idris laughed. “The same philosophy may apply now.”

“I assure you it does not. You are now being treated as an ordinary Minervan would be treated, if he had committed an act of transgression.”

“Dr. de Skun, I am afraid you place too much faith in the Queensberry Rules. And, to anticipate your question, that is another metaphor. The Queensberry Rules were drawn up to establish fair play in boxing, a sport in which two Earth men tried to batter each other into insensibility by striking with their fists. But, since I have found no bugging devices, I will go along with your belief … To answer your question, I get along fine with my psychiatrist. I feed him fairy tales to keep him happy; we play chess—he lacks the killer instinct, I may say—and I tell him what it was like on Earth before darkness began to fall from the air … How is Zylonia? By Minervan standards, I seem to have treated her very badly.”

“She is well,” said Manfrius de Skun evenly. “She sends her greetings, and hopes that you are well also. She has time-paired with Sirius Bourne. I think they are happy together for the time being.”

Idris gave a deep sigh. “That figures. When you see her, tell her that I wish her all the luck in the world—this world. Tell her that I am sorry I tried to smash Sirius … No, don’t tell her that. It would only destroy her faith in barbarians.”

Manfrius de Skun shrugged. “You are a strange man, Idris. But I respect you, and I believe that you have much to give us Minervans.”

“You are essentially a good man, Dr. de Skun; and I respect you also. But, like many great scientists, you are naive. Do not expect too much of me. Then you will not be disappointed.”

“I will come again,” said Manfrius de Skun. “We will have further conversation. It is instructive—mutually so, I hope.”

“It is indeed. I shall look forward to your next visit.”

But Dr. de Skun did not come again. A few days later he died of heart failure. Apart from the revolutionary brain transplant technique, the Minervans had long ago perfected
the processes of heart transplant. But, in view of the political situation, the Triple-T party held the power of veto. A suitable heart was available, its former owner having committed suicide by leaping on a monorail at the right time. But the Triple-T people ensured that the heart was used to restore life to a compatible woman capable of bearing children.

As part of his immortality project, Dr. de Skun had arranged for a cloned body to be cultured. It was ready to receive his brain. But, once more, the Triple-T party exercised the power of veto. Both the body of Dr. de Skun and the cloned body were fed into the Minervan re-cycling system.

Idris did not learn of this for some time. He regarded it as murder by default.

D
URING THE COURSE
of his ninety-day term, Idris received two more visitors. Both were women.

The first was Mary Evans, the teacher, the woman of Earth, whose hair was white, though she was still physically young, and upon whose face sadness had inscribed many fine lines.

“Well, Captain Hamilton, and how are you?”

“Well, Miss Evans. And how are you?”

“I have come to offer myself,” she said bluntly. “You must have need of a woman … I am told—I understand—that Zylonia de Herrens has other commitments. So I thought …” She faltered.

“Who sent you?”

“No one sent me. I just came. Do you want me to go away?”

“No. Stay—please. I am suspicious. Surely, it is understandable. Why did you really come?”

“I have told you. I came to offer myself.” She began to cry. “Stupid, isn’t it? Why should you want a woman with white hair and sagging breasts? When you get out of here, you can probably time-pair with every third woman on Minerva. You are a celebrity. But I thought … I thought …” She held her head in her hands and sobbed convulsively.

Idris stroked her hair. Thirty-four years old, he thought.
White hair and sagging breasts. Unfulfilled. But I will make her hair glisten and her breasts proud. Because she is the last woman of Earth and I am the last man. Such a bond is stronger than sex. Such a bond is
vital
.

He held her close.

“You don’t love me,” sobbed Mary. “How can you love me? I am prematurely old. We don’t even know each other. We are complete strangers.”

“My darling Earth woman,” he said. “Forget about Zylonia. Help
me
to forget about Zylonia. But you and I are of Earth’s blood. For that alone we must love each other. Your white hair is a battle honour. Your breasts are Earth breasts and, therefore, beautiful … Now let us pull ourselves together and talk.”

“If you want me to stay,” she said, “I can do. I have permission from the President of Vorshinski.”

Again he was suspicious. “Did you ask him, or did he ask you?”

“I asked him. Was it wrong of me? I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing … I won’t stay unless you really want me to.”

Idris was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “These people are being very accommodating. I wonder why? First, they give me ninety days in a de luxe cooler. Then they agree to let me have the consolations of sex. I wonder why?”

Mary gave him a sad smile. “I imagine I am supposed to be a safety valve. They regard you as a kind of half-wild animal, Idris. I think they would like you to release your inhibitions with someone of your own kind, rather than corrupt the fair women of Minerva.”

“Yes, I am a savage,” he said with grim satisfaction. “Unlike your perfectly adjusted Minervans who are never violent and who are content merely to survive in their technological ant-hill, I have delusions of grandeur. I am dangerous. I react violently when provoked. And I am determined that what is left of the human race shall
live
again. If it involves corrupting the fair women of Minerva—a delicious phrase—and breaking the arms of their socially adjusted
males, I’ll do it. The only way they can stop me is to kill me. I understand they have no death penalty. So that’s one thing going for me … If you decide to stay with me, how do you know that I won’t beat you, or even kill you?”

She gave a deep sigh. “I have lived with the Minervans longer than you have, Idris. In some ways, I admire them. In other ways, they terrify me. They have virtually eliminated the aggressive instinct—which may or may not be a good thing—but they are so devastatingly hygienic, both physically and psychologically.” She laughed, “Perhaps it would be a good thing to be beaten by an Earth man, even to be killed by an Earth man. I’ll take my chance.”

“I like you, Mary Evans.”

“I like you, Idris Hamilton.”

“Well, then, we must plan for the future. By my reckoning, I have forty-seven M-days left to serve. You will share them with me?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot guarantee that I will be good to you in the accepted sense—in the sense that such a statement is understood by Earth people. I cannot guarantee that, when my sentence is over, I will be docile according to Minervan standards. In fact, I can guarantee nothing. If you form an affection for me, or I for you, there could be much heartache.”

“I’ll take my chance. You are the last Earth man. Perhaps, even, the last man. I’ll take my chance.”

He kissed her, held her close. Strangely, the sagging breasts did not seem to sag any more. They were firm against him. Firm and responsive.

“There is something else I have to tell you,” said Mary. “Manfrius de Skun is dead. He had a heart attack. He could have been saved. As you must know, transplant surgery has been developed to a very high level here. But the Triple-T people were strong enough to veto resuscitation, transplant and even the use of his cloned body … That is the way these people deal with rebels, Idris. They do not execute them. They contain them and wait patiently. Then
they let nature take its course.”

He was silent for a while. At length, he said: “Manfrius de Skun was a good man, quite possibly a great one. History will decide. He spent his best years bringing me back to life and giving me a new body … I am Manfrius de Skun’s Joker, Mary. He slipped me into the pack. Now take off your clothes and come to bed. I warn you, I am going to do my damnedest to get you with child.”

T
HE PSYCHIATRIST DID
not approve of the presence of Mary Evans. She was a distraction. She seemed—unintentionally, no doubt—to weaken the trust relationship he hoped to establish with Idris. Nevertheless, he knew there were subtle political reasons why the Earth man should be allowed to have the company of this particular woman during his treatment. He kept his nose out of politics; but he was aware of vague plans in certain quarters to discredit Idris Hamilton yet further.

Mary did her best to fit into the necessary routine. When the psychiatrist made his visit, she was allowed out to stroll in the avenues of Vorshinski City. But she took all her meals with Idris, exercised with him, watched tri-di with him, talked with him, slept with him.

There was much impersonal passion in their love-making. It was, as Idris saw it, not so much a joining of Idris Hamilton and Mary Evans as a joining of the last Earth man and the last true Earth woman. You could not count the children, he reasoned, though they were born of Earth. Their conditioning and their attitudes must now be almost wholly Minervan. Earth bodies, but Minervan minds. …

So the union with Mary was a symbolic union. Sometimes, fantasising, he saw himself as a middle-aged Adam and Mary as a slightly bedraggled Eve. Sometimes, fantasising, he imagined the two of them returning to Earth, the
Garden of Eden that was less than a hundred million miles from the sun, and repopulating it. In more rational moments, he could laugh at his dreams. Between them, the new Adam and Eve would produce a disastrously limited genetic fool.

Minervan drama, as seen on the tri-di, was pathetically naive and amateurish. It contained no violence—either physical or mental. It was pure domestic drama, full of Utopian ideals, manufactured by zombies for zombies. Most of it consisted of variations on a theme: A wished to time-pair with B; B wished to time-pair with C; C was wholly absorbed in the development of a new hydroponics/sociological/electronic/medical/atomic project and had a faithful assistant who desperately wanted to bear C’s child or become pregnant by C, depending upon the sex of A, B and C. The denouement was usually democratic, eminently mature, providing satisfaction for all parties—and as boring as hell.

Where was drama that could equal
Oedipus Rex, Julius Caesar, The Masterbuilder, St. Joan, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
? Lost in the mists of time. There were, apparently, no Minervan dramatists with the brilliance of Shakespeare, the passion of an Ibsen, the earthiness of a Tennessee Williams. There were just no Minervan dramatists. They were all too goddamned safe. They never suffered, they were never threatened, they were never called upon to make sacrifices. They were the perfect hygienic products of a perfect hygienic welfare state. They were zombies.

It was the same with music. Nothing to compare, however remotely, with Bach, Beethoven, Brahms—even Strauss. No fire. No passion. No violence. The best that could be offered was comparable to the worst of Mozart. Even the folk music and songs had a uniform dullness.

The Minervans had obviously a brilliant command of science and technology to enable them to maintain a stable population on or under a frozen planet for thirty centuries but, somehow, the artistic impulse—the creative imagination that gives meaning to life—seemed to have died. And all that was left of mankind now were ten thousand hygienic, totally adjusted zombies, a handful of brainwashed Earth
children, a resuscitated middle-aged Adam and a faded Eve. The odds were pretty heavy against getting a replay of the Garden of Eden set-up.

Or so Idris thought until his second female visitor appeared.

She had the entirely delightful name of Damaris de Gaulle. The surname was familiar. Idris racked his brains. Some time in the twentieth century, he recalled, there had been a French general called de Gaulle, who had played a minor part in the Second World War. Perhaps this girl had some distant, tenuous kinship with him.

Damaris de Gaulle was very young. She could hardly be much more than ten M-years old, less than twenty E-years. She had long, blonde, flowing hair, slightly coarse features, and a well-formed body that would be good for child-bearing.

She gave a cool, self-assured and rather hostile glance at Mary, and confined her conversation to Idris.

“We know that this room is not monitored in any way, so it is possible to talk freely,” she said. “I will be honest and direct with you. I would like you to be honest and direct with me.”

“Who are we?” asked Idris.

“It is not important. But we call ourselves the Friends of the Ways. We are young people. We are night people. May I call you Captain?”

Idris laughed. “You may call me what you wish. Captain, if you like. It is singularly inappropriate because I lost my last command. But that does not matter. Why have you come to see me? Curiosity? The barbaric Earth man at bay?”

Damaris smiled. “They call you the Jesus Freak, but I prefer Captain. It is more dignified. It has a ring of authority.”

“Who calls me the Jesus Freak?”

“The Friends of the Ways. It is because of an ancient myth. You must know it, of course. There was once a man of Earth called Jesus—one of the Friends who is a historian
claims that his real name was Joshua bar David, but no matter—who was executed for revolutionary activity. But somebody called Judas Pilate resuscitated him by a brain transplant, and he then founded the first true commune in Soviet Russia. It flourished mightily, I understand, until the capitalist countries of the west bombed it to extinction … The Friends of the Ways call you the Jesus Freak because of obvious parallels and because they hope you will lead them to establish a new commune that is free from the dreadful constrictions of
Talbot’s Creed
. Will you lead them?”