Johannes smiled a little. “What if I was talking to real Greys? To their Father of Fathers?”
“But how could you be sure?” Dent said. “Wasn’t there actually a struggle for you when you landed on the terra? It very well might be that the real Greys were the ones who first met you.”
Johannes shook his head. “I know who I talked to. Remember your distinction, Dent, between discursive knowledge and knowledge by acquaintance. Here I know directly. I saw it all with my own eyes. No one but Zervan could have shown me what I saw, or taught me what I learned.”
Dent stared at him. “Anything can be faked, Johannes.”
“That’s not so.” Johannes shook his head. “Believe me.”
They looked down at the keyboard. Dent said, “With the right drugs, the right sensorium.…”
“No,” Johannes said. “It’s the vision, the knowledge —that can’t be faked.”
“Anything that can be conceived can be executed. If you can imagine it, then someone else could have too.”
“But I can’t imagine it! My imagination can’t encompass it. It almost breaks me to try.”
“And the Greys?”
“They must have different sorts of minds. Trained or grown or evolved.…”
Now it was Dent who shook his head. “You can’t be so sure. The Greys—they’re only human, Johannes. A group that appears truly fragmented to us. And I’m not even sure it’s been the Greys you’ve been dealing with. Some of the Greys are connected with Ernst Ekern, Johannes. They may work for him. They’re contacting Ekern and the Telemann Works on Earth.”
Johannes laughed. “Maybe he wants an Orchestra of his own. That has nothing to do with me, or with Icarus.”
“But Ekern may be plotting to harm you!”
“He can’t harm me.”
“Yes he can!” Dent said loudly. “And the Greys can harm you too. I’ve heard what shape you were in when you left Icarus—how can you say they can’t harm you?”
A passage of music coursed through his mind, and he could barely hear Dent, barely reply. Don’t speak in music.… “We … will make music, Dent. We will, we must. Same thing. No…” He couldn’t finish.
“Johannes?”
“I’m tired, Dent. Tired. What time is it?” A little laugh. “It’s late. I’ve been at it for a long time.” And still, behind all the words and worries, the rush of sound, the music surging, leaping forward! If only he could tell him.… “Wait until this festival concert, Dent. Then we’ll talk.”
a landscape
A dark pink sandstone sky, banded by pink clouds. Underneath this immense vault, a volcano, the biggest in all the solar system: Olympus Mons. No peaky Fujiyama, however; dear Reader, Olympus Mons is a shield volcano, which has grown over the same spot for a billion years, growing out more than up, so that though it stands twenty-five kilometers above the datum, it is six hundred kilometers across. Its outer perimeter is an escarpment, which in some places is six kilometers tall; above this circling cliff the average slope is only six degrees from the horizontal, in a sinusoidal profile that is slightly flatter near the summit and down near the guardian escarpment. Nestled in the volcano’s broad top is a multi-ringed caldera ninety kilometers in diameter, five kilometers in depth.
On the southeast slope of the shield, halfway between escarpment and caldera, there is a small triangular speck. Descend, and see that the speck is a series of terraces in the shape of a fan, with the point of the fan high, so that the terraces spread in ever broader arcs down the gentle side of the immense slope. The terraces are covered with flagstones of Mars’s oxidized marble; the entire great courtyard stands out on the volcano’s dark lava surface like a piece of bright cloisonné, or a lobate spill of lava from a volcano of a different color. From just above the site wide gradual steps can be seen running down the fan’s middle and its two edges, connecting each terrace with its neighbors above and below. Far upslope the top of the volcano gleams, above the new atmosphere. Below the site, the shield falls away in a broad gentle cone to the plateau above the escarpment; and out there to the southeast, far away in the thin clear air, rise three tall bumps out of the mass of Mars, like three peaks of another planet: Ascraeus Mons, Pavonis Mons, and wide-topped Arsia Mons, the trio of Mars’s prince volcanoes, facing their Olympian king.
For six hundred and seventy days of the Martian year, this great terraced marble courtyard shimmers under the sun and the whitsuns, empty and unvisited, an insignificant dot on the great cone of lava. Freezing dust typhoons scrape the flagstones in winter, leaving layers of rime dust and dirty ice to bury the staircases. In Martian springtime comes a spring miracle: lichen appears on the marble, lichen yellow and olive and black and red and green. The dirty snow half melts and the Syrtis grass adapted to Mars grows on the wet dirt by these slushy pools. Seeds blow by and some make landfall, and mosses and alpine flowers grow: gentian and saxifrage, primrose and Tibetan rhubarb, rock jasmine and figwort and stonecrop. Some birds fly up from the fertile plains surrounding the escarpment, and feed on the insects and flowers. Snow finches and mouse hares share their small burrows; garoks and arctic eagles soar overhead in the hunt for them. In the long Martian summers this marble oasis flourishes as vigorously as any life can at the very top of the new Martian atmosphere.
Now in this summer of the year 3229, dear Reader, on the festival grounds of the thousand-year-old civilization of Mars, crews were setting up tents, pavilions, water tanks, booths, restaurants, lavatories; they were clearing the landing strips just below the lowest terrace, and the tracks that lead from the landing strips to the sides of the courtyard, and up to its various levels. Over a period of three weeks they constructed an entire portable city, on this site that it had occupied for two weeks out of every one of the preceding four hundred and thirty years.
Near the end of this period of construction a small wide-winged plane landed on one of the landing strips, bringing Johannes Wright, Margaret Nevis, Delia Rosario, Anton Vaccero, and a few more of the Grand Tour’s crew to the Areology grounds. They walked in a group up the endless central stairs, past terrace after terrace. The oxidized marble gleamed under a tangerine sun, and most of the tour crew wore polarized sunglasses; Johannes alone stared freely at the scene, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The rainbow array of tents flapped in the cool breeze. Johannes pointed at them, talking to Margaret in brief bursts. It appeared he was in a good humor; Margaret and the others laughed frequently. They climbed all the way to the narrow upper end of the courtyard, which was extended higher with new terraces every few years, to match the rise of the atmosphere. Somewhat down from the very highest terrace a small lava knob had been allowed to remain, and it poked up out of the marble like a black treetrunk. This was the stage where Holywelkin’s Orchestra would be placed during the performance. The tour crew followed Johannes up the spiraling cut steps that led to the smooth flat top of this knob, and looked about them.
For a long time they surveyed the immense prospect, so much larger than anything they had seen before on the tour. They pointed at the three prince volcanoes, and exclaimed over the tremendous distances. Johannes moved away from the rest and stared at the courtyard fanning down and away from him. Eventually he led the others back onto the terraces, and he and Delia went to work, with the others assisting. Margaret stayed with Johannes and took notes; Delia carried a large map of the grounds and meticulously covered it with small dots and initials and notes. Johannes bounced here and there in the two-fifths of a gee, up and down terraces until Margaret began waiting for him at the central staircase; she counted a thousand steps as they worked their way down the slope, then stopped counting. Johannes sang to himself, and his companions laughed as they chattered; only Anton noticed that Johannes had real difficulty returning to speech for his conferences with Delia. Anton approached him and tried to converse with him, but Johannes only sang in a rich glossolalia, that strange border between speech and silence. Once Margaret took him by the upper arm and held him still;
his singing dropped to a chanted whisper, he looked up at her curiously, resentfully: “Use the stairs,” she said, and let him go, afraid of the look in his eyes.
After a few hours’ work they came to the lowest terrace, and looked up at the giants’ stairway, the great terraced field of tents and pavilions curiously unpeopled. The lava knob at the top could still be clearly seen. Johannes looked up at it for a long time, singing to himself all the while. Or perhaps he was looking beyond it, to the volcano’s top puncturing the vault of the sky. Only the wind stirred, ruffling their hair. Johannes turned, stretched up to kiss Margaret briefly. She looked surprised. Johannes stopped humming and all was silent; the wind died and all was still.
areology
Dent Ios awoke to a low babble, as of water over stones, as if he had slept down by the tapir pens, where the stream fell over the pool dam.… He opened his eyes to see the blowing blue nylon of a sunlit tent wall, flapping lazily above him. And he remembered where he was: Mars! The festival grounds! The concert on the slope of Olympus Mons! He tossed aside heavy quilts and leaped off his cot into the cold air, dressed swiftly in bright blue shirt and pants he hadn’t worn since leaving Holland. Outside the tent the water sound resolved into the noise of people everywhere on the terraces, talking. Yananda, dressed in a brilliant orange one-piece, stood outside the doorway of the tent: “Good morning!” he cried.
Their terrace was a parade of Martians, all tall, thin, and long-nosed, all dressed in colorful festival finery. The tight-fitting fashions of Burroughs were not popular everywhere on Mars; here there were men wearing billows and clouds of printed fabric, as if wrapped in one of the tents—women in long dresses, or elaborate pantaloons—and all of them striding with perfect grace through the light gravity.
Dent and Yananda walked with this crowd along their terrace, to the long cafe placed against the railing overlooking the terrace below. They sat under one of the giant speakers that the tour crew had scattered everywhere. Yananda pointed to the east, where a great distance away three shadowed volcanoes stood above the horizon, just below the rising sun.
It is difficult indeed to describe the sheer size of the prospect they had. But imagine you stand on the side of a volcano that is a simple conical mound, broad and flat, but of such bulk that you seem to stand far above the planet, as if in a high altitude balloon—and yet at the same time, the planet rises up to support you. Off to the southeast in the direction of the rising sun are whole plains, canyon systems, and the broad eroded slopes of three other volcano cones, off in the distance so far away that it is difficult to tell that their snowy tops are almost as high as the top of the volcano you stand on. High cirrus clouds cast a pattern of shadow over the broad and broken landscape below you, making a variegated tapestry of rusty tans, one of immense complexity, beauty and size, all seen with an uncanny clarity in the thin air. O to stand on the side of Olympus Mons! Dear Reader, I know you may live in a thatched hut, or in a cardboard shed, or in a crystal palace under the light of Barnard’s Star, or across the galaxy; how I wish I could take you to Olympus Mons, so that standing there you might see better the extent of your selves.…
In any case, Dent and Yananda stood with the rest of the celebrants on that slope, and so felt the subsequent expansion. Their waiter came and Yananda said cheerily, “I must warn you that I plan to drink right at breakfast, a bottle of the White Brother at least. This is a special day for me—it will be the first time I’ve ever heard Wright play. All these months working for him, and I’ve never gotten the chance to see him in performance.”
“I remember what that was like,” Dent said. “But I only had to wait until the third concert. What has it been now, fifteen?”
“I lost count—I wasn’t around during all those in the Jupiter system.” Soon the waiter brought back two large omelets and a heated bottle of the White Brother. They began eating, and Yananda refilled both their glasses often. His low commentary on the passing Martians had Dent hunched over his plate: “Look how skinny that guy is! I bet he just slips through cracks rather than bothering to open doors. And look at that woman! Dent, look at her!” He imitated leaping after the woman in question, and Dent imitated holding him back. “Can you imagine making love to such a woman, Dent? Her legs are as long as I am altogether!”
“Could lead to problems.”
“Not at all! Oh look, she’s an election worker.”
The woman was talking into a loudspeaker, and Martians in the cafe looked annoyed. Some passing Martians shouted at her, but she kept talking: “Our lives depend on a complex technology orbiting within the coronal zone of the sun … run by a political body whose procedures are hidden from us.… We should be free of Holywelkin devices, which are not needed on Mars.… If Prometheus and Vulcan, Hyperion and Apollo discontinue sending us energy, the results will be catastrophic … and yet we have no control over this possibility.…”
The Martian diners reacted in a variety of ways: ignoring her, looking disgusted, arguing among themselves, snapping up at her. There was tension in the air, Dent thought, a sort of electric nervousness apparent on the Martians’ long fine faces.… Yananda stood and waved at the woman before Dent could stop him, and she noticed him and walked over. “Hello,” she said. Unamplified her voice was low and friendly. “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Oberon,” Yananda said. “Originally from Europa. My friend here—”
“Dent Ios,” Dent said. “I’m from Holland, in the Uranus system.”
“Welcome to Mars,” the woman said. “Are you with the Grand Tour?”
The two men nodded. “We were listening to you,” Yananda said, “and I wondered which party you represented?”
“I’m part of the Green Mars movement.”
“I see. And is that one of the majority parties?”
“No,” she said easily. “The majority parties are Red Mars and the Martian Socialists. We’re about as big as the Grimaldians. But recently we’ve been working in coalition with them, and with other groups. Or do you know all this?”
“I wish we knew more about this election,” Dent said, feeling ashamed of their ignorance, their provincialism.
“No reason to,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s mostly internal business.”
“But aren’t there Martians who want to rule all the system?” Yananda asked bluntly.
The woman smiled. “I’m not sure they would agree with your choice of words, but there are some who feel Mars is the center of the system’s economics, yes. And they advocate strengthening that position.”
“And you were advocating self-reliance?” Dent asked. “Freedom from the sphere technology?”
“Yes,” said the woman. “As anthroposophists, we feel it is dangerous.”
“Is that why there aren’t any Greys allowed on Mars?” Yananda said, with a slightly drunken smile.
The woman nodded, and Yananda’s smile disappeared. “That was one bill the coalition succeeded in passing. And our numbers are growing quickly, so perhaps some day—not this election—but some day.…”
Another Martian in a green one-piece called to the woman. She glanced at her and turned back: “I’ve got to get back to haranguing the actual voters,” she said with a polite smile. “I hope you enjoy the Areology.”
“We will,” they assured her. When she was gone Yananda struck his chest. “My my my. She was beautiful.”
“Yes,” Dent said. He looked around at the cafe, the terrace, the great expanse of open sky above them. The center of the system, she had said. Mars, the Earth, Mercury—from the distant edgeworlds they had all seemed the same. And yet when he thought about it, the Martians were their link to the inner worlds, and to the terras across the system in their orbits; and it was the great melting pot of all their cultures, not to mention the historical starting point for many of them. Dent could see many aspects of outer terran culture right there on the festival grounds: the environmental planning, the brilliant compensatory use of color, the intense lov
e of music, the political adventurism; and suddenly he realized that this was, in a very real sense, their home world. “This is the home world!” he said to Yananda, and expected that his companion would laugh at him; but Yananda nodded.
“I know what you mean. Look down there. Listen to that aeolia.”
Below them on the next terrace a small building whistled and trilled like a woodwind octet; it was a Vance aeolia, and small apertures in the walls of the building caught the wind and funnelled it through a host of instruments housed inside. Depending on the wind’s direction and power, various harmonic combinations were blown into existence, shifting with what seemed to be conscious artistry. Dent toasted the cheerful piping rondo with a glass of the White Brother.
“Karna and the crew must be having a tough time keeping people off that knob,” Yananda said.
“At least there is a knob. Without it the Orchestra would probably get overrun.”
“True. And no one but the Martians would be able to see it.”
They laughed as they looked up the big slope to the black knob near the top of the terraces where the Orchestra stood, a fitting crown to the swirl of color below; it sparked like a statue of gold and wood in the bright morning sun, and Dent looked up at it fondly, proudly, a surge of adrenaline rushing in his blood. No wonder the Martians were tense, excited! They finished the bottle of the White Brother and ordered another one. As they drank they commented on the passing crowd, and guessed the origins of all the people of less than Martian height; they laughed at some of the Martian fashions (a tall silk-and-feather headpiece-and-tunic combination especially), and admired the Nefertiti-like Martian women; and soon the second bottle was almost done. The concert would begin shortly.
“Look!” Yananda said, all his cheeriness wiped away in a flash. “Look there—the man on the stairs, with the red beard. Gray curly hair. Isn’t that Ekern?”
The Memory of Whiteness: A Scientific Romance Page 22
