The World at the End of Time (55 page)

The things weren’t in a museum, or anything like one. They were in a shed on the outskirts of the little colony, and most of the space was full of junk that no one wanted but no one was willing to throw away. Since that exactly described the artifacts from Nebo, they were there—half-concealed behind a litter of broken dune-buggy wheels, stacks of cracked crockery dug out of the ice-age warrens, and other unnameable debris,

When, with Markety’s help, Viktor and Balit got to the Nebo things they were not much better. The largest of them Viktor had already seen, on Nrina’s desk machine, a lavender metal object as big as a man, more or less cubical in shape. Viktor poked it cautiously. It was very solid. “Why weren’t these things taken to the habitats?” he asked.

Markety looked astonished. “They might be
dangerous,
Viktor. You know what happened on Nebo when people tried to poke into that sort of thing. They’re better here, so that in case anyone does anything risky there would be less damage—I mean, to anything
important,”
he explained.

“You mean if anybody tries to see what’s inside them,” Viktor said, nodding. “Maybe you’re right, but it has to be done.”

Markety’s astonishment turned to worry. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Viktor.”

“It doesn’t have to be done here. Maybe they could be taken to some other part of Newmanhome—maybe we could work out some kind of remote-controlled machinery to try to open them up—I don’t know, maybe the best place to do it is on Nebo itself. But in the long run we have to take the chance, because we do have to know!” As the words came out of his mouth Viktor heard, surprisingly, that he sounded as though he were actually growing excited again.

“Pelly says maybe it could be done in space,” Balit offered eagerly.

“Just so it’s done, I don’t care how,” Viktor said. “Those Nebo machines did things human beings couldn’t even imagine—ever—even when they could travel from star to star.”

Markety coughed. “We know they were pretty good at killing people, anyway,” he conceded.

“I don’t think those deaths were on purpose,” Viktor argued. “Not all of them, anyway. At least we know that they actually helped some people—the ones I saw land on Nebo; we have the tapes to prove it. Yes, they died after a while, but they weren’t simply murdered . . . God knows why,” he finished. Then he went on. “I haven’t said all of this even to you, Balit, but I have a kind of an idea. I think there’s another civilization around—not human. At least, I think there was, and that they sent somebody to Nebo long ago—very long ago, even before the first
New Ark
landed here from Earth.”

“Nobody’s ever said anything like that, Viktor,” Balit said worriedly. “Where would those people come from?”

“I don’t know. The star Gold has planets, according to Pelly. Maybe the people who landed on Nebo came from one of those planets. Anyway, I think that for some reason—I can’t even guess what it might have been—they constructed those machines on Nebo to tap the energies of our sun, and use them to accelerate this whole little group of stars.”

“Why would they do that?” Markety asked good-naturedly.

“I have no idea. I said so. But we’ll never have any hope of knowing ‘why’ unless we can figure out ‘how’—and that means taking some of those machines apart to see what made them run!”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Markety said diffidently, “Viktor? You don’t mean you’re going to, well, just try to break one of them open by yourself, do you?”

“If there was no other way, I would,” Viktor said uncompromisingly.

“My,” Markety said, pursing his lips. He studied Viktor’s face uncomprehendingly, then sighed. “Well, let’s talk about something more cheerful. Are you getting hungry?” he asked. “I was hoping you two would join me for lunch—I have some good things Pelly brought from home. What about it, Balit?”

But Balit wasn’t listening. His eyes were on the door. “Viktor? Why is it getting so dark outside?” he asked.

Viktor turned to look. It was true; the bright day had turned gloomy. The sun was gone, and the clouds were thick and black. “Well,” he said, “if we’re going anywhere maybe we’d better hurry. I think it’s going to rain.”

Rain it did—the first big warm drops splashing on them even before they reached Markety’s home, then crashing torrents when they were safely inside. Balit was delighted. He kept jumping up to the doorway, to take more and more pictures. It was coming down most imposingly, with thunder that made Balit hold his ears and lightning strokes that made him squeal—not in fear, or not all in fear, but mostly in a thrill of excitement at this unprecedented, unimaginable spectacle of the elements at work.

The lunch was all Markety had promised, and he was a cheerful host. “I do apologize for not knowing more about those Nebo things, Viktor,” he said, steadying his hand to pour wine. It took both his hands to hold the decanter against Newmanhome’s pull, one to support the other. “It was my wife, really, who was interested in them—Grimler, you remember? You met her when you arrived.”

“Oh,” Viktor said, trying to recapture the memory of a slim, pretty woman. “I think I did.”

“And she went back with Pelly, unfortunately. I really miss her . . . But I can’t say she knew very much about them, you know, it was just that she thought they were interesting.”

“I’d like to talk to her anyway,” Viktor said.

“And so you shall, as soon as she gets back.” Markety sipped the wine, made a critical face, then beamed. “Yes, I think it’s all right. Balit? If you can sit still for a moment I’d like to offer a toast to your wonderful parents.”

“Just a minute,” the boy called from the doorway, fascinated as he took his pictures of the bright violence in the sky and the muddy rivulets that were running down the walkway outside. “Oh, Viktor,” he breathed, “I just can’t wait till I send these pictures to my class—they’ll be so
jealous.”
Then he recollected himself. “You wanted to drink a toast, Markety?”

“To our great artists, Frit and Forta,” Markety said, lifting his glass with ceremony. Then, when they had drunk, he added, “They’re part of the reason Grimler sent the data to you, you know. Of course, she was interested anyway, but she would have done anything if Frit or Forta asked her to—any of us would! Did you see his new dance-poem about the kitten? No? Perhaps it was while you were in flight, but we saw the transmission here.
Marvelous!”

“Did you know that Viktor has danced with Forta?” Balit put in.

Markety blinked at him in astonishment. “This Viktor? He dances? He’s danced with
Forta?
Why, that’s wonderful, Viktor,” he said enthusiastically. “I had no idea. I really envy you, Viktor. Actually—” He permitted himself a rueful little smile. “At one time, you know, I wanted to be a dancer myself. I even hoped to study with Forta for a time. It didn’t work out. He’s kind enough to say he remembers me, but I think he’s just being polite. I didn’t really have the talent, I’m afraid, except in a very amateur way. And in this gravity of course I can’t dance at all.”

“Viktor can,” Balit pointed out. “He grew up here.”

Markety stared at the boy, then, with sudden respect, at Viktor.
“Really,”
he marveled. “Could you some time, Viktor? Perhaps after Grimler comes back? I know she’d be thrilled.”

“Certainly Viktor will dance for you,” Balit said graciously. “We’ll need music, but I’ll ask Forta to transmit some.”

“Wonderful,”
Markety breathed, and if he had been a hospitable host before, now he was almost overwhelming. The scariness of Viktor’s ideas about Nebo were forgotten. Markety selected the finest fruits for Viktor and Balit, and would not eat himself until convinced they were satisfied. But he was beaming. “Isn’t this fine? The rain, and such good company, and all these things going on around us? I can’t tell you how glad we are that we’re here—Grimler and me—I mean, when she’s here.”

Maybe it was the wine. Certainly there had been a lot of it, but for whatever reason, Viktor couldn’t help asking, “How come? I mean, I didn’t think you habitat people liked planets all that much.”

Markety looked both proud and embarrassed. “Grimler and I aren’t like all the habitat people,” he stated confidently. “I admit some of our friends think we’re crazy, but—actually, we like it here. Grimler’s said many times things are just too easy in the habitats. There’s no
challenge.
And here’s a whole planet that we can make live again—we just want to do our little part in bringing that about. So our lives will be worth something, do you understand? And she’d be here now, except for—”

Markety hesitated for a moment, then, grinning, pulled the blue beret off his head.

It was the first time Viktor had seen him bareheaded. Beside him, Balit made a startled little sound as they both saw that Markety’s forehead was emblazoned with the fertility emblem.

“That’s right,” he said, with that same mixture of pride and embarrassment. “Grimler and I decided we even wanted to have our
own
baby! Not that there’s anything wrong with what Nrina does,” he added swiftly. “That’s all very well for those who prefer it. But we wanted one who was our
natural
child, not programmed ahead of time, and so . . . well, we just went ahead and did it, the old-fashioned way. We made Grimler what you call ‘pregnant.’ ”

“I’m amazed,” Viktor declared truthfully.

“Oh, everybody is,” Markety said modestly. “But that’s what we want—someone who can grow up here on Newmanhome, and not have to take all those pills and injections, and—well, to be more or less just like you, Viktor!”

And that was when there was a scrambling at the door and Jeren turned up, soaked and glistening with rain, his face white with misery.

“Viktor!” he croaked. “The farm! We were just up there checking on everything, and it’s gone! All of it! All the seedlings! They’re just washed away!”

And behind him Manett came raging in. “Curse you, Viktor! You made us dig that ditch, and now it’s just ruined
everything!”

And when the worst of the storm was over, and bits of blue were beginning to appear in the east, and Viktor trudged up to look, every word had been true. A healthy stream poured through the new aqueduct, and right on through the little planted area. Not everything was gone, quite. But only a few rows highest up, farthest from the irrigation ditch, survived; everything else was furrowed and glistening mud.

“We should have directed the ditch into some kind of holding pond,” Viktor said remorsefully. “And we shouldn’t have planted on a hillside like this in the first place—I didn’t think about erosion. Especially with all that bare ground up the hill.” He shook his head in self-reproach. “I should have known,” he said.

“Damn right you should,” Manett snarled.

The next day it was as though the storm had never been, the sky cobalt, the sun warm, hardly a cloud in the sky.

But the storm’s traces had not gone away. It wasn’t just the farm. The street of the little community was ankle deep in brown, gluey mud. Nothing with wheels could move in it. Even the gillie litter bearers could make little headway, their furred feet turning into balls of clinging, sticky stuff; the habitat people painfully picked their way along, one slow step at a time, when they had to go out. Most of them chose to spend the day indoors.

Yet Balit was entering the communications shed at the end of the street. Viktor saw the boy and felt a moment’s surprise, but he was talking to Jeren. “We’ll have to find a new place for the farm,” he said. “On a level. Preferably with some sort of a ridge between it and the hills, so if there’s a flood it’ll be diverted away from the plants. And near enough to a stream so we can irrigate.”

“I don’t think we can go looking for a place today,” Jeren said doubtfully.

“No, not until the ground dries out a little,” Viktor agreed. “And we’ll have to do something here, too. I don’t suppose we can pave the street, but maybe we could plant grasses all around the village to hold the soil when it rains.”

“We can do that,” Jeren agreed, looking over Viktor’s shoulder. “Viktor? I think Balit’s waving to you.”

When Viktor turned, he saw it was true. When he trudged his way to the communications shack, the mud sucking at his feet at every step, the boy was bubbling with pleasure. “Viktor, come inside, please. Right away! I’ve just had a message from Moon Mary that I want you to see!”

There was no denying Balit’s excitement. Viktor supposed it would be another loving communication from Frit or Forta, or both of them; for those came almost every day.

It was neither Frit nor Forta. When the picture came on it was a cluster of Balit’s schoolmates, laughing and excited. They weren’t in their classroom. They were gathered around a plot of ground with bright-green, healthy-looking seedlings poking out of it. “See, Viktor? They did what you said,” Balit said proudly.

“What I said?”

“That we should have the soil analyzed. Pelly had some clods on the cryonics capsules he was bringing back, so I asked my school to take it on as part of their project.”

“What
project?” Viktor demanded.

“They’ve taken on Newmanhome as a project,” Balit explained. “Not just the soil—that’s only part of it. But they had it tested to see what it needed, and then they added things. Look at the difference now!”