The Edgar Pangborn Megapack

by Edgar Pangborn

  Wright said, “It is not likely to pass. In the old days of Earth they sometimes ruled nations. Or they were put away in institutions, usually after others had been injured. Or they were fanatics of one sort and another, ridden by the devil of one idea. My profession learned a little about them—never enough. The law met them more often and learned less.” He watched Paul, perhaps needing contact with a Charin mind, since the innocence of the others gave them no frame of reference. “I dare say Ed is paranoid only on the one point, technically: all his troubles are caused by me and my—what did he say?—conspiracy. A means to help him believe that only he is right and virtuous and the universe wrong.… It is not so much a sickness, Muson, as the sum of years of mental bad habits. Vanity and dislike of one’s own kind make most of the seed, and this is the fruit.”

  Elis said, “We can overtake him. Six of us giants—we can carry you, overtake him in a walk, if you think best.”

  “Yes.” Wright watched the empty street and Spearman’s palace that already seemed haunted and forlorn. “I believe there’s no need for haste. Twenty miles.…”

  The Vestoian pygmies were not returning; the street was a desolation of rubbish and loneliness with the dull smell of neglect. One of Spearman’s boys was whimpering; the other watched the place where his father had disappeared, a tension in his small face, without forgiveness. Wright said, “Who’s John and who’s David?”

  The crying one muttered, “I’m John.”

  David spoke as if the words had been shaken out: “He said she wouldn’t ever come back. Where is she?”

  “At our island,” Paul told him. “She’s all right, David, and we’re going to take you to her. You want that, don’t you?”

  “Is he going there?”

  “We don’t know, David. You want to go with us, don’t you?”

  “He hit her face. When she said it was his fault that they were all giving up the city. He always had the guards. Six sat around his bed every night. John and me, we tried. We made a grass picture like the priest Kona told us to do, and did things with it and burned it. It was no good.”

  Arek said, “Let’s forget that for now. We’re going to the new ship and then the island. Shall I carry you? I’ve got two boys your age.”

  “Who‘re you? I never saw anybody like you.”

  She dropped on one knee, not too close to him. “I’m like you, David. Just big and furry, that’s all.”

  “Your mother, David”—said Wright, and swallowed—“your mother is living in my house now. She was our friend long before you were born, you know. She came from Earth with us.… You’re with us, aren’t you?”

  The boy scuffed his bare feet in the dust. John was still crying. David slapped him savagely. “You stop yakking, y’son of a bitch.” The words could have no meaning for him, Paul thought, beyond the generalized stink of profanity. John stopped and rubbed his cheek without apparent anger, gulping and then nodding. When Arek reached, David let her pick him up, and he relaxed and buried his face in her fur.…

  The giants made little of the miles. Mijok had Pakriaa and Nisana in his arms and Miniaan perched on his shoulder. They had traveled often that way on the troublesome journey to Vestoia. Elis carried Wright’s trifling 140 pounds, and Muson had John, her slow voice establishing cautious friendship. Paul preferred to walk on his own feet, but before long Sears-Danik stole up behind and swept him into a living cradle. “Slow legs. Don’t mind, do you, Pop?”

  “Pop, huh? No, I don’t mind, Danny. I was getting fifty-year-old cramps and too dumb to admit it.”

  Dunin chuckled. “That’s Danny: knows all, sees all, says nuf’n’. I’d live with him awhile when he grows up if only he wasn’t so lazy.”

  “What’s wrong with being lazy?”

  “Not a thing, rockhead. Only if you’re going to explore, the way I am, you can’t be lazy, the way you are.” She twisted a branch into a leaf crown and walked backward before them, trying the crown on the boy’s head at different angles. “Ah, wonderful! Charging asonis—whuff whuff—and now you look just like the kink that chewed up my diary to make a nest.”

  “Which was your fault for leaving it on a shelf and not writing in it. Explorers have to keep diaries. Doc said so—didn’t he, Paul?”

  “I’m strictly neutral, to avoid bouncing.”

  “So anyway, Dunin, when you trip over a root and smack your fanny, I’m going to laugh.”

  She did. He did.…

  It was an hour before they overtook Spearman, who glanced back without expression, without halting his powerful strides, his tanned body gleaming with sweat and effort. Dunin sobered; she caught Paul’s eyes. She said, “May I carry you, Spearman? Then we can all reach the ship at the same time.”

  Spearman gave no sign of hearing her. He drew up at the side of the trail, staring at the ground, arms folded. David’s face was hidden again at Arek’s breast; John seemed to be asleep. Dunin said, “Please? Why should we leave you behind?”

  Remote and desolate, Spearman watched the ground. Dunin moved on, reluctantly, no more laughter in her. “What is he thinking?”

  Wright said, “At this moment he’s probably thinking it’s brutally unfair that we should go on ahead of him.”

  “But I asked—”

  “You did. What’s more he hasn’t anything against you. All the same, that’s about what he’ll be thinking. Don’t try too hard to understand it, Dunin—I’m not sure it’s worth it. Let’s think about the ship. Paul, is it possible, what he said about charlesite?”

  “I reckon so, Doc. The flame certainly did change to green. I think I remember, long ago, hearing some engineers discuss the possibility of stepping up charlesite enough so it could be used in braking a big ship for descent, instead of keeping the atomics on all the way down. It would char everything over a wide area, but at least it wouldn’t make radioactive desert.…”

  “I can’t feel it,” Wright mumbled. “Mirage.…”

  It was no mirage. The ship Jensen stood high above blackened ground half a mile away; even here at the edge of forest there was a lingering smell, anciently familiar. Paul felt himself grinning stupidly. “Plain carbon tet or something like it. Must have shot it out to kill any grass fires. No mirage.”

  Towering silver-white above a hundred-foot tripod, it flaunted the letters of a great name, and David Spearman rubbed his eyes at it, leaning against Arek’s knee, accepting the protective touch of her hand. Arek said, “What—Oh Paul, what will they be like?”

  Wright shook his head, plainly feeling it now—the thought, the memories, the pleasure, and something far from pleasure. Paul answered, “They will—look like us, Arek.”

  Pakriaa pointed up. “There! That we remember. Oh, the beautiful—”

  “A boat out already?” Paul searched and found the silver flight.

  Wright chattered: “Have we anything, anything white? No—you and I out in the open, Paul—rest of you keep back. They need to recognize what we are—” He was shaking, and Paul embraced his shoulders to steady him as they moved into the open ground. Wright giggled hysterically. “Damn white flag myself—my whiskers—”

  The boat swooped, swelling from a dot to keen familiar lines; it circled above them twice and came to earth in a perfect landing a hundred feet away. A blank pallor in the pilot’s window would be a human face; there would be a human brain shocked into new wonder. It was still necessary for Paul to help his teacher through the grass, for Wright was swaying and stumbling. Paul reminded him: “They’ll be sealed up, afraid of the air.”

  “Ah, yes. I say they needn’t be—we have good air on Lucifer.…”

  Paul was aware of his own struggle for sanity, for clarity in the beginning of this impossible joy which was not pure joy. He heard himself shout at the top of his strong lungs: “‘Ahoy the Jensen!’ No, they wo
n’t hear it. Yes—they did, they did.”

  The door slid open for a meeting of two worlds. A square little bald man, a tall gray-haired woman who fussed at her ears, troubled by the change in atmospheric pressure. Faded overalls, the human look, incredulous stares changing to belief. The bald man gulped and stumbled; he grinned and held out his hand. “Dr. Christopher Wright, I presume?”

  Wright could neither speak nor let go the hand. The woman said, “You must be—well, who could forget the photographs?—you’re Paul Mason.”

  “Yes, We never—for years we haven’t even thought—”

  “Mark Slade,” said the bald man, “Captain Slade. This is Dr. Nora Stern … Sir, I—you are well? You look well—”

  “We are well,” said Wright.

  “I’m afraid to ask—the others? Dr. Oliphant? Captain Jensen? The—the little girls? And there was a young engineer—Edmund Spearman.…”

  Paul managed to say, “Both little girls are mothers. Dr. Oliphant and Captain Jensen died—Jensen on the ship, in the last acceleration. Spearman is—will be here before long, I think. You may find him somewhat changed—” Wright said, “We must let Ed speak for himself, Paul.” In spite of the shock, the newness, Dr. Stern was sensitive to nuances. She said too loudly, “Beautiful country.” She pressed both hands to her ears and took them away and spoke in a normal voice: “There…! Oh, what strange steep hills…!”

  “N-not like any rock of Earth,” Paul stammered. “Defies erosion.” And I am speaking with the pride of a home lover.… “The open ground is a little dangerous—flying carnivores. Come and meet our friends.”

  Captain Slade had already seen the giants and pygmies at the edge of the woods; his small monkey face was ablaze with friendly curiosity and the startled amusement that will wake at anything new, but he said, “In just a moment. Let me take this in. If I can.… We’ve done it, Nora.” He filled his lungs deeply, blinking at a few tears of pleasure. “A world like ours—a new world. Oh, Nora, it’ll be a long time before we can believe this, you and I.… High oxygen, we noticed—feels like it. Sir, your ship—”

  “Lost,” said Wright, tranquilly now, no longer shaking from head to foot. “Out of control in descent, fell in a lake”—he motioned over his shoulder—“a few miles over there. We call it Lake Argo. Too deep even to think of salvage. One of the lifeboats cracked up; we used the other for about a year. Our friends, Captain—you’ll like our friends—”

  Slade murmured, “Speculation on parallel evolution seems to have been sound—here anyway. Humanoid, I see. Two species?”

  “Human,” said Wright. “Their English, by the way, is better than mine. They are close to us, Captain—very dear to us.”

  “I—see,” said Captain Slade kindly. Paul thought: He can’t see—it’s too new. But maybe he will try to see.

  “How many in your party, Captain?”

  Slade grinned. “Only four, Mr. Mason.” Heavens! Mister? That’s me. “A smaller crew, bigger ship. Federation thought best. We left thirteen years after you. Twelve years on the journey. Of course we’ve had to double in brass considerably. The other two are a young couple—Jimmy Mukerji; he’s from Calcutta—Oh, and by the way, Dr. Wright, his mother was Sigrid Hoch, anthropologist, one of your students.”

  “Sigrid—” Wright groped in the past. “Of course. I remember.” But Paul guessed that he did not.

  “Jimmy’s a botanist and engineer and—oh, general technician, good anywhere. Sally Marino—another good technician. Frankly I didn’t want specialists—wanted kids who could turn a hand to anything, and I got ’em.” Slade’s friendly face saddened; he and Dr. Stern were walking clumsily to the woods, feeling the change in gravity. “Ours was to be the last interstellar ship, Dr. Wright, until either you or we came home. There’ll be no building going on now. A Federation decision—matter of public opinion as well as economics. Well, the old lady over there did cost twice as much as your Argo, upped the Federation poll tax three percent just to pay for her on paper. Could have got around that, maybe, but there was a beginning of public hysteria, protest—resentment at the idea of throwing lives and billions into space with nothing to show for it for many years. Fanatics on both sides, and both noisy, plus the war scare of course. Short-term thinking. Human.”

  “You can’t blame them,” said Nora Stern.

  “I do blame them, Nora, now that we know it can be done.…”

  Elis had tried to be ready with a little speech of welcome, but shyness made him stiff with dignity, and it was evident that Dunin would break loose in nervous giggling. Elis said only, “You’re very welcome. We hope you’ll enjoy it here.” Pakriaa might have been back in the days of tribal grandeur, but her control too was only a result of shyness and wonder as she echoed the Governor’s words. It was unfairly difficult for the newcomers, Paul could see—the giants’ furry nakedness and majesty, the pygmies’ tininess and wrinkled baldness; even the Charin-like beauty of Miniaan’s features might be invisible to new Charin eyes. But Slade and Dr. Stern behaved well, with a natural friendliness. “Why,” said Slade, “these boys—”

  “John and David Spearman,” Paul explained. “Ann’s boys. Spearman—we think he’ll be here shortly.”

  Arek asked evenly, “You’ve come to stay, I hope?”

  “To—stay?” Slade shot a startled glance at Wright, who avoided it, giving him no help.

  Paul said quickly, “Captain, we ought to have warned you, but neither Doc nor I could get our wits together until you’d opened the door. About thirteen or fourteen hours from now you’ll have a fever and a period of unconsciousness. Not too much discomfort and, so far as we know, no danger—anyhow all of us recovered in fine shape and we’ve had excellent health ever since. We decided it’s just a part of acclimation to—we call this planet Lucifer. But if you think the two others should stay in the ship till you recover—”

  Dr. Stern was measuring him shrewdly. “You look very healthy, both of you, and I know we can take your word for anything. Jimmy and Sally are pretty rugged. They’ll be wild to join us. Sally will be at the intercom right now, tearing her pretty hair out in handfuls. They might as well chance it with us.… Where do you people live? We saw a—settlement? Over there south of the lake.”

  Wright glanced at Paul with vague entreaty. It was Miniaan who spoke, the small silver of her voice a music in the sun-streaked shadow: “The settlement below the lake is a thing of the past, an empire that died. We live on a warm island over yonder, the other side of those mountains, the island Adelphi. We are returning there now, after a—journey with some trouble in it.”

  “Adelphi,” said Dr. Stern, savoring the name. “Mark—our two boats could fly them all there with us, couldn’t they? Take out the emergency stuff to make room.”

  “It would be wise,” said Paul. “We could take better care of you during the illness, at Adelphi. We have houses there. Here it’s not very safe—biting flies and some dangerous animals.”

  Slade was doubtful. “Anything here that could interfere with the ship if we leave it unguarded?”

  Miniaan laughed. “Certainly the people of Vestoia will not go near it.”

  “Nothing could harm it,” said Wright. “Too big. How in hell do you get down out of it?”

  Slade chuckled and made up his mind. “Electronic lock. Can work it from a transmitter in the lifeboat; only other way’s from inside. Lets down a ladder. Automatic derricks in the side blisters to hoist the lifeboats if, as, and when. They thought of—nearly everything.” He hugged the gray-haired woman. “Even briefing on how to get along with each other for ten-plus years.”

  “Learning love can be difficult,” said Pakriaa. Dr. Stern stared at the tiny woman with new intentness. Pakriaa’s seamed face had taken on its dreamy look. “You must see our island. Last year Mashana Dorothy was Governor of our island. This year it
is this man.” She touched Elis’ knee.

  “A sinecure,” Elis chuckled. “A sinecure, ladies’n’ gentlemen.”

  Captain Slade laughed, standing five feet five, peering up at the Governor’s eight feet seven—half a head more than Mijok’s height. Paul thought he saw there the raw materials of friendship. Dr. Stern said, “And you call this planet Lucifer?”

  “Light-bringer,” said Nisana; there was grief in her face not evident in any of the others. “Son of the morning,” Paul moved toward her, wondering.

  Slade had missed the overtone, and cocked a dark eyebrow. “Industries?”

  Wright shrugged. “A few, sir. All we seem to need at present in such a small community.”

  “Oh.” Slade touched the old man’s jacket. “This is fine fabric. I couldn’t tell it from linen. Is it?”

  “Very similar.” Wright took Nisana’s hand on his palm. “This lady is our best weaver because her hands are so small and sure. Our loom is clumsy because, of course, our metalworking is not far advanced. But it does good work for Nisana.”

  “I like to weave,” Nisana whispered, looking here and there and not at Paul. “I like to make new things.”

  Paul glimpsed the twitch of Mijok’s ears, the beckoning curve of a gray finger; Mijok whispered, “He’s coming, Paul. A few hundred yards away in the woods, breathing hard and limping. Is there nothing we can do for him?”

  “I don’t know, Mijok. I’m afraid whatever is done he must do for himself, and it’s late for that, very late.” He saw that Mijok was trying to understand and could not. “His mind is—living in another country.…”

  But outwardly at least, Edmund Spearman was changed. He even searched out Dunin’s worried face and apologized. “Should have accepted your offer—stupid of me.” He smiled. “Wanted to show what a walker I was, I guess.” John and David slipped behind Muson’s back, tense and cold. Spearman shook Slade’s hand, and Dr. Stern’s. “My God, it doesn’t seem possible. I can’t take it in. Slade, you said? And Dr. Stern. We’ve wondered, dreamed, prayed for it. I can’t tell you—I don’t know what to say.… Good trip?”