Following Marca had been difficult at first, not because of the warp jumps which were regular and automatic, but because when in normal space, as they were now, Marca’s course had been erratic. Evidently he had lost control of his ship several times before taking the decision to put the ship on a fully-automatic pre-set course. As Take knew, the only trouble with letting the ship do everything was that once the necessary co-ordinates had been locked in it was impossible to alter them until planet-fall was made. This was to ensure that a man gone mad with space-ache could not do anything harmful to himself. It had seemed that Marca had not immediately decided where he was going although Take, who had seen Marca’s astrocharts and the course plotted on them, had felt sure he would make straight for the Bleak Worlds of Antares.
Take could not anticipate which planet in Antares Marca was now heading for, but at least he knew for certain now that that was where Marca was going.
Take rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck and watched his screen. They should be going into warp soon. He hoped that Marca didn’t know he was being followed.
Clovis Marca didn’t know he was being followed. He didn’t know very much more than that he was in extreme pain.
It was pain bearing little relation to earthly pain. It was pain that could only be described in one word— space-ache—and that word could only be understood by those who experienced a journey away from Earth.
It was a pain that dredged burning fantasies from the complex labyrinth of the mind, a pain that created illusions that created pain. Away from Earth, away from its precedents and its heritage, the human body and its brain found itself unable to accept that it could be somewhere else, and it reacted desperately. Nerves and muscles, unable to adapt to the concept given them by the brain, sought return. And the mind itself, bewildered, attempted to create, somehow, what it had lost. Yet part of the mind could accept the concept, could accept where it was, and that part sought to control the rest. Thus the body and mind of Clovis Marca became a battleground and though he was conscious, though his senses were functioning and his motor-impulses were usually under his control, he lived in a half-world of agonised illusion wherein he sometimes thought he was on Earth yet knew he was in space.
And all the time—pain.
The longer he remained away from Earth, the worse his condition became.
Fed automatically, exercised automatically, he lay enclosed in a rigid cocoon. Sometimes he was aware of the cocoon and sometimes he was not. He had been imprisoned ,at his own instigation when he had locked the ship’s destination in to the pilot-computer. He would not be released until he made planet-fall, yet even on a planet that was not Earth he would have to fight off the space-ache and its effects.
The illusions came and went. Sometimes he lay in the grass, a small boy reading by a river, sometimes he talked with friends, sometimes he made love to a woman. Pleasant enough illusions, these, when not accompanied by the pain. But they were always accompanied by the pain, always showed him what he could enjoy, but never allowed him to enjoy it. And although all the illusions were of Earth and the things of Earth, they were not always so inviting. Sometimes they were nightmares of shouting voices, violent gestures, threatening figures of beasts and men, earthquakes and tempests, whirlpools and volcanoes, all the most menacing images of nature at its most destructive, images that had no relation to his own experiences, that were racial memories, handed down by remote ancestors to torment him and order him home.
But home he would not go. He had given up the chance when he locked his destination in.
His destination was Klobax in Antares. All the worlds of Antares could support Man, though none of them were to his taste. They were barren worlds of raw, overpowering colours that made Man seem an insignificant intruder, totally out of place in their bleak and ragged landscapes. Even the vegetation was massive and of solid, ungraded colours—slabs of colours that blinded the eye and confused the mind. Bleak they were, and with only the most primitive animal and insect life and thus their dramatic and well-deserved name—the Bleak Worlds.
Yet some were attracted to them. Some would submit to the complex conditioning, training and drugging that, together with simulated Earthly-environments, would make stay on a planet almost bearable. For there was something archetypal in these worlds, a grandeur that could only elsewhere be experienced in a mescalin-dream. Some who first saw the Bleak Worlds even doubted their existence in material space, for they seemed to be the work of mad painters possessed of alarming and metaphysical visions.
There was a faint sound from the ship’s engine, a vibration through its semi-sentient atomic nervous system, and Clovis Marca’s clenched and wincing body was borne into hyper-space for seventeen seconds.
Then the ship was in normal space again and Antares was only 5,926,000 million miles away.
There were five worlds circling Antares. Klobax lay fourth from the sun, a large world in a system where the largest planet was the size of Mars.
The ship was soon inside the system and heading for Klobax, though Clovis Marca did not know it.
All Clovis Marca knew before the ship touched down was that he swam in a salt-warm sea and every movement of his arms tangled his nerves into nests of incessant agony.
The ship landed beneath ochre skies shot with a lurid yellow. The dull grey expanse of the pads terminated abruptly at a rolling landscape of scarlet and black moss that was relieved by slim, jagged crags of brown and orange. Near the ship was a large building, not unlike similar buildings on the spacefields of Earth. A man left the building and began to move slowly towards the ship.
The man was young, but his face was lined and sagging. He had the face of a hound and his large, black eyes were soft, giving no indication as to his character. He was dressed in a tight-fitting jerkin and slacks of a dull, purplish colour. He was fairly short and he held his shoulders back as he walked. He gripped a small kit-box in his hand. In it was a master sonar-key with which he could open the ship’s airlock if it became necessary, a hypogun and an arsenal of drug cartridges.
But inside the ship, Clovis Marca was already being irradiated in the cocoon. The illusions disappeared and so did much of the pain. He blinked his eyes and hauled himself upwards, like a man rising from his coffin. His face was pale, gaunt and held more than a hint of torment. He checked the ship’s instruments, picked up his sonarkey and shut off the power. Then he went to the airlock and opened it manually. He looked out, blinking as the colours struck his eyes. He saw the man below him, looking up.
“How are you feeling? ” the man said. “I’m Retorsh.”
“I feel better than I did.” Clovis squeezed the grav-strap under his arm and stepped out of the lock, drifting down towards the short man. “My name is Clovis Marca.”
Retorsh seemed surprised. “An honour, Clovis Marca,” he waved a hand towards the building. “Come inside. You’ll feel better there—more like Earth.”
Marca felt enervated and depressed. He drifted behind Retorsh as the man led the way to the spacefield building. “Glad you didn’t need any help from me,” Retorsh lifted the kit-box. “Sometimes I have to fight with new arrivals. They’re not all as sensible as you. How they manage to get here without using the automatic system, I don’t know. We had another distinguished visitor a little while ago ...” They reached the door of the building and he stepped aside to let Marca go in first. It was artificially lighted in the reception hall and there were no windows.
“This is better.” Clovis switched off his gravestrap and walked with weak legs into a pleasantly furnished room decorated in quiet pastel colours. “ Your planet’s certainly impressive.”
Retorsh shrugged. “I suppose so. I was born here and I’ve committed suicide three times.”
“Three times? That’s unusual.”
“I suppose I was unlucky. Each time I was found in time and revived. I’ve no wish to for death, yet—” Retorsh smiled wistfully and walked over to a low chest. He lifted the lid. “Drink
? ”
“Not alcohol, I think,” Marca same over to the chest “I don’t know how it will effect me so soon after the trip. Better make it a coaci.” He took the beaker Retorsh handed him and sat down on one of the comfortable couches. He sipped the drink. “You say you’ve had another visitor recently.”
“Yes, the madman.” Retorsh brought his large scotch over and sat at the other end of the couch. “As you know, we’ve got something of a regular population here, such as it is. There’s a whole small town about four hundred kilometres north-west—and we have our rugged individualists. Most of them are self-sufficient, so I don’t know how they get on.”
“You never visit anyone? ”
“There are a couple of women I see occasionally— religious cranks, but quite attractive—you know. Only one’s any good for anything at all and the other’s wired herself up so much she looks more like a gravcoil than a woman. Luckily the one I’m interested in prefers internal re-wiring, but she can’t last much longer and stay human. Apart from them, I see one old man who lives in the nearest mountains—Sadivan. He was a member of your predecessor’s cabinet I believe.”
Clovis thought the name was familiar. “I believe so. What’s he doing here? ”
“He’s writing philosophical essays and setting them to subsonic music. He’s tougher than the girls, manages to keep going on drugs mainly, though most of die time these days he believes he’s on Earth. He’s got a very elaborate set-up—trees, grass, the lot—and and the highest wall around them you’ve ever seen. Sometimes he doesn’t mind our sky intruding, sometimes he rigs up a blue force-curtain and keeps it all out. I thought you might have come to see him. Who have you come to see, Clovis Marca? ”
Marca decided to be frank. He had already burnt his boats on Earth. “I heard of a scientist who was living here. He had a name something like Zarvis.”
Retorsh frowned. “Sharvis—Olono Sharvis. He’s been on Klobax some time.”
“How much time? ”
Retorsh laughed. “Well, he was here when my father and mother landed in 57 and there was some sort of legend that he had been here since Klobax was discovered. That would make him pretty old wouldn’t it.”
“About three-hundred-fifty.”
“Yes, about that.” Retorsh shrugged. “But you know how unreal everything is away from Earth. Things get mixed up.”
“Yes.” Marca finished his drink and refused another when Retorsh went to the chest for a refill.
Coming back to the couch, Retorsh asked: “I don’t know your preference — whether you’ve got anything aboard your ship—but I’ve got a wire kit here that would last you for a couple of months, or drugs, or ... ”
“No thanks,” said Marca. “At least, I don’t think I’ll need them. I had a cocoon job done on me in the ship.”
“They’re the best for a short stay. But at least you’ll need some of these.” Retorsh pointed at his large black eyes. “Lenses,” he explained. “They help a bit to subdue the colours. I’ve worn mine most of my life.” Marca nodded. “I’d appreciate a pair. Have you been on Klobax all your life? ”
“One trip to Earth was enough for me. I nearly stayed, of course, when I got there. I thought it was bad here— but it’s a thousand times worse in space. I’m well looked after, I’m as adapted to Klobax as anyone could ever be.”
“How do you spend your time? ”
Retorsh grinned. “ I’m an artist, like so many here. I spend my time working out the funniest ways of killing myself. I’m nuts I suppose.”
Marca said nothing. Retorsh was, in fact, one of the sanest permanents he had met. He sat back on the couch knowing that he would not be able to relax completely. He needed to keep tight control of himself. To weaken would be to allow his body to remember that they were not on Earth. It was best to pretend as much as possible. The drugs, coils or radiation processes helped as well, but only a very small percentage of people—usually born away from Earth—could make any kind of permanent life on another planet.
Now that he knew for certain that the scientist was here, he felt no further need to rush. Perhaps he would take a trip to the village Retorsh had mentioned, try to find out a bit more about Olono Sharvis before he went to see him. But the rumours, the half-legends, the drunken ramblings and space-maddened ravings had meant something. That was the important thing. A scientist who lived alone on Klobax and had been there for 350 years—an immortal. A tiny piece of information which had taken him a year’s careful work to find. It was a whisper of this that had sent him into space when he had resigned his position as Cabinet Leader, along with the other members of his government.
Soon he would be facing Olono Sharvis. And now that this was imminent, he realised that he was not prepared for the confrontation. How would he approach the man? How would he ask him what he wanted to know? What kind of man would he meet? A man who had spent 350 years in solitude on an alien planet. Yes, he decided, he would visit the village first. Make his way gradually. He had been moving swiftly until now and he must rally his mind, restore his self-control.
Retorsh said: “I lead a philosophical sort of life, really. It may be aimless, but I’m used to it. I once felt I could terminate it whenever I chose—but things seem to be against me. Three times unlucky. Do you know anything about Sharvis that I don’t know? ”
Marca shook his head. “What don’t you know? ”
“Everything. You’re never very curious here. As I say, things are so unreal that what you don’t come in direct contact with doesn’t really have any existence for you. I hardly believed Sharvis was here.”
“I hope you’re wrong.” Marca looked around the room. “Isn’t it all right to sleep here for a while? ”
“I don’t advise too much sleep. If I were you I’d take a session in the revivobath.”
“That would probably be best.”
Retorsh got up. “I’ll show you where it is.” He led the way.
Lying in the familiar timeless, spaceless, weightless comfort of the revivo, Clovis Marca was doing some heavy thinking.
Since the resignation of the government, he had felt his integrity slipping away, and with it he had slewed off many other qualities—his self-control and his selflessness, his principals . . . everything he had regarded as valuable on Earth. And he had given them all up for what? A hope and a whisper of a legend? Perhaps. What he sought was time of his own, and as much as he wanted. He had enjoyed life on Earth to the full, never to excess, but he had only experienced a little of what was possible. He enjoyed life and feared death. Stronger: His enthusiasm for life was such that he would do anything to keep it. He was doing so. Yet was it possible that the very transcience of life made it enjoyable, worth having? Or even that in giving up the qualities he had valued in himself, he could no longer find in life what he had enjoyed. Maybe there were other values?
Die Wahrheit ist konkret. Which German writer, how many centuries ago? The truth is concrete. What is true is immutable. What is true is valuable and what is valuable. . . No, not necessarily. What was now valuable to him might be only an illusion.
The ambiguities and anomalies of life could be forgotten on Earth. In Space, where little seemed real, where everything, from the human viewpoint, seemed disordered and abnormal, it was easy to believe that truth need not be concrete. Indeed, to the individual, it might have no existence at all.
He realised that he was confused, that he had been confused well before he first went into Space. The revelation that the galaxy as he knew it was soon to be destroyed—he had thought that that had been the original cause of his confusion, but there were probably deeper causes. In two hundred years, the end would come. He could expect to live another ninety years. There would be no children to live on through, no future, no posterity. That understanding, hard to reach, harder to remember, was what had driven him here in his useless search.
Yet in a way he had recaptured his innocence, his belief that he could make the impossible possible. So mayb
e he still had something of value. If this were so, then the irony returned, for he had the cash but couldn’t spend it and, he feared, if an opportunity to spend it arose—then he would no longer have the cash.
Outside, on Klobax, the sun beat down on a landscape of rudimentary and primordial colours. Beyond Klobax a spaceship was approaching. In it was a man with a rudimentary and primordial soul. Take had found the right planet.
nine The Tragic Giant
Before he left the next day, Marca remembered another question he had intended to ask Retorsh.
As he stood at the door, his eyes now black and expressionless from the lenses Retorsh had given him, he turned and said to the small man: “I heard on Earth that the artist Alodios came to the Bleak Worlds. He didn’t visit Klobax did he? ”
“He did. He was the man who arrived before you.” Retorsh frowned. “The one I told you about—didn’t I mention his name? The madman I had to fight with. That was Alodios.” He smiled. “He may be a great artist, but he’s a fool of a man.”
Marca looked ahead of him. The raw Klobaxian colours were now muted and easier to bear, but they still retained their primary impression.
“Where did Alodios go?”
“He stayed on Klobax—his ship’s down there,” Retorsh pointed at the ground. “In the hangars where I’m going to put yours.”
“But where did he go here? ”
“I had him here for about a week. He seemed to calm down in a way, but he also seemed drained—you know, like a machine. Everything he did seemed mechanical.” Retorsh appeared to notice Marca’s impatience. “He went to the village first. I don’t know where after that. He may be dead by now. Some of them come here to die. What about you? ”
The Shores of Death Page 6
