When the Five Moons Rise

by Jack Vance

  It was Lynch who made the discovery. He signaled it with an odd growl of sheer dismay, which brought a resonant questioning sound from Sutton. “My God, my God,” muttered Lynch.

  Verona was at his side. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Look. This gear. When we replaced the disks we dephased the whole apparatus one notch. This white dot and this other white dot should synchronize. They’re one sprocket apart. All the results would check and be consistent because they’d all be off by the same factor.”

  Verona sprang into action. Off came the housing, off came various components. Gently he lifted the gear, set it back into correct alignment. The other cadets leaned over him as he worked, except Culpepper who was chief of the watch.

  Henry Belt appeared. “You gentlemen are certainly diligent in your navigation,” he said. “Perfectionists almost.”

  “We do our best,” greeted Lynch between set teeth. “It’s a damn shame sending us out with a machine like this.”

  The red book appeared. “Mr. Lynch, I mark you down not for your private sentiments, which are of course yours to entertain, but for voicing them and thereby contributing to an unhealthy atmosphere of despairing and hysterical pessimism.”

  A tide of red crept up from Lynch’s neck. He bent over the computer, made no comment. But Sutton suddenly cried out, “What else do you expect from us? We came out here to learn, not to suffer, or to fly on forever!” He gave a ghastly laugh. Henry Belt listened patiently. “Think of it!” cried Sutton. “The seven of us. In this capsule, forever!”

  “1 am afraid that I must charge you two demerits for your outburst, Mr. Sutton. A good spaceman maintains his dignity at all costs.”

  Lynch looked up from the computer. “Well, now we’ve got a corrected reading. Do you know what it says?”

  Henry Belt turned him a look of polite inquiry.

  “We’re going to miss,” said Lynch. “We’re going to pass by just as we passed Mars. Jupiter is pulling us around and sending us out toward Gemini ”

  The silence was thick in the room. Henry Belt turned to look at

  Culpepper, who was standing by the porthole, photographing Jupiter with his personal camera.

  “Mr. Culpepper?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You seemed unconcerned by the prospect which Mr. Sutton has set forth.”

  “I hope it’s not imminent.”

  “How do you propose to avoid it?”

  “I imagine that we will radio for help, sir.”

  “You forget that I have destroyed the radio.”

  “I remember noting a crate marked ‘Radio Parts’ stored in the starboard jet-pod.”

  “I am sorry to disillusion you, Mr. Culpepper. That case is mislabeled.”

  Ostrander jumped to his feet, left the wardroom. There was the sound of moving crates. A moment of silence. Then he returned. He glared at Henry Belt. “Whisky. Bottles of whisky.”

  Henry Belt nodded. “I told you as much.”

  “But now we have no radio,” said Lynch in an ugly voice.

  “We never have had a radio, Mr. Lynch. You were warned that you would have to depend on your own resources to bring us home. You have failed, and in the process doomed me as well as yourself. Incidentally, I must mark you all down ten demerits for a faulty cargo check.”

  “Demerits,” said Ostrander in a bleak voice.

  “Now, Mr. Culpepper,” said Henry Belt. “What is your next proposal?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Verona spoke in a placatory voice. “What would you do, sir, if you were in our position?”

  Henry Belt shook his head. “I am an imaginative man, Mr. Verona, but there are certain leaps of the mind which are beyond my powers.” He returned to his compartment.

  Von Gluck looked curiously at Culpepper. “It is a fact. You’re not at all concerned.”

  “Oh, I’m concerned. But I believe that Mr. Belt wants to get home too. He’s too good a spaceman not to know exactly what he’s doing.”

  The door from Henry Belt’s compartment slid back. Henry Belt stood in the opening. “Mr. Culpepper, I chanced to overhear your remark, and I now note down ten demerits against you. This attitude expresses a complacence as dangerous as Mr. Sutton’s utter funk.” He looked about the room. “Pay no heed to Mr. Culpepper. He is wrong. Even if I could repair this disaster, I would not raise a hand. For I expect to die in space.”

  Vli

  The sail was canted vectorless, edgewise to the sun. Jupiter was a smudge astern. There were five cadets in the wardroom. Culpepper, Verona, and von Gluck sat talking in low voices. Ostrander and Lynch lay crouched, arms to knees, faces to the wall. Sutton had gone two days before. Quietly donning his space suit, he had stepped into the exit chamber and thrust himself headlong into space. A propulsion unit gave him added speed, and before any of the cadets could intervene he was gone.

  Shortly thereafter Lynch and Ostrander succumbed to inanition, a kind of despondent helplessness: manic-depression in its most stupefying phase. Culpepper the suave, Verona the pragmatic, and von Gluck the sensitive remained.

  They spoke quietly to themselves, out of earshot of Henry Belt’s room. “1 still believe,” said Culpepper, “that somehow there is a means to get ourselves out of this mess, and that Henry Belt knows it.”

  Verona said, “I wish I could think so.... We’ve been over it a hundred times. If we set sail for Saturn or Neptune or Uranus, the outward vector of thrust plus the outward vector of our momentum will take us far beyond Pluto before we’re anywhere near. The plasma jets could stop us if we had enough energy, but the shield can’t supply it, and we don’t have another power source....”

  Von Gluck hit his fist into his hand. “Gentlemen,” he said in a soft delighted voice, “I believe we have sufficient energy at hand. We will use the sail. Remember? It is bellied. It can function as a mirror. It spreads five square miles of surface. Sunlight out here is thin—but so long as we collect enough of it—”

  “I understand!” said Culpepper. “We back off the hull till the reactor is at the focus of the sail and turn on the jets!”

  Verona said dubiously, “We’ll still be receiving radiation pressure. And what’s worse, the jets will impinge back on the sail. Effect—cancellation. We’ll be nowhere.”

  “If we cut the center out of the sail—just enough to allow the plasma through—we’d beat that objection. And as for the radiation pressure— we’ll surely do better with the plasma drive.”

  “What do we use to make plasma? We don’t have the stock.”

  “Anything that can be ionized. The radio, the computer, your shoes, my shirt, Culpepper’s camera, Henry Belt’s whisky....”

  VIII

  The angel-wagon came up to meet sail 25, in orbit beside Sail 40, which was just making ready to take out a new crew.

  The cargo carrier drifted near, eased into position. Three men sprang across to Sail 40, a few hundred yards behind 25, tossed lines back to the carrier, pulled bales of cargo and equipment across the gap.

  The five cadets and Henry Belt, clad in space suits, stepped out into the sunlight. Earth spread below, green and blue, white and brown, the contours so precious and dear as to bring tears to the eyes. The cadets transferring cargo to Sail 40 gazed at them curiously as they worked. At last they were finished, and the six men of Sail 25 boarded the carrier.

  “Back safe and sound, eh Henry?” said the pilot. “Well, I’m always surprised.”

  Henry Belt made no answer. The cadets stowed their cargo, and standing by the port, took a final look at Sail 25. The carrier retro-jetted; the two sails seemed to rise above them.

  The lighter nosed in and out of the atmosphere; then braking, it extended its wings and glided to an easy landing on the Mojave Desert.

  The cadets, their legs suddenly loose and weak to the unaccustomed gravity, limped after Henry Belt to the carry-all, seated themselves, and were conveyed to the administration complex. They alighted from the c
arry-all, and now Henry Belt motioned the five to the side.

  “Here, gentlemen, is where I leave you. Tonight I will check my red book and prepare my official report. But I believe I can present you an unofficial resume of my impressions. Mr. Lynch and Mr. Ostrander, I feel that you are ill-suited either for command or for any situation which might inflict prolonged emotional pressure upon you. I cannot recommend you for space duty.

  “Mr. von Gluck, Mr. Culpepper, and Mr. Verona, all of you meet my minimum requirements for a recommendation, although I shall write the words ‘Especially Recommended’ only beside the names ‘Clyde von Gluck’ and ‘Marcus Verona.’ You brought the sail back to Earth by essentially faultless navigation.

  “So now our association ends. I trust you have profited by it.” Henry Belt nodded briefly to each of the five and limped off around the building.

  The cadets looked after him. Culpepper reached in his pocket and brought forth a pair of small metal objects which he displayed in his palm. “Recognize these?”

  “Hmf,” said Lynch in a flat voice. “Bearings for the computer disks. The original ones.”

  “I found them in the little spare-parts tray. They weren’t there before.”

  Von Gluck nodded. “The machinery always seemed to fail immediately after sail check, as I recall.”

  Lynch drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. He turned, strode away. Ostrander followed him. Culpepper shrugged. To Verona he gave one of the bearings, to von Gluck the other. “For souvenirs—or medals. You fellows deserve them.”

  “Thanks, Ed,” said von Gluck.

  “Thanks,” muttered Verona. “I’ll make a stickpin of this thing.”

  The three, not able to look at each other, glanced up into the sky where the stars of twilight were appearing, then continued on into the building where family and friends and sweethearts awaited them.

  When the Five Moons Rise

  Seguilo could not have gone far; there was no place for him to go. Once Perrin had searched the lighthouse and the lonesome acre of rock, there were no other possibilities—only the sky and the ocean.

  Seguilo was neither inside the lighthouse nor was he outside.

  Perrin went out into the night, squinted up against the five moons. Seguilo was not to be seen on top of the lighthouse.

  Seguilo had disappeared.

  Perrin looked indecisively over the flowing brine of Maumilam Var. Had Seguilo slipped on the damp rock and fallen into the sea, he certainly would have called out... .The five moons blinked, dazzled, glinted along the surface; Seguilo might even now be floating unseen a hundred yards distant.

  Perrin shouted across the dark water: “Seguilo!”

  He turned, once more looked up the face of the lighthouse. Around the horizon whirled the twin shafts of red and white light, guiding the barges crossing from South Continent to Space town, warning them off Isel Rock.

  Perrin walked quickly toward the lighthouse; Seguilo was no doubt asleep in his bunk, or in the bathroom.

  Perrin went to the top chamber, circled the lumenifer, climbed down the stairs. “Seguilo!”

  No answer. The lighthouse returned a metallic vibrating echo.

  Seguilo was not in his room, in the bathroom, in the commissary, or in the storeroom. Where else could a man go?

  Perrin looked out the door. The five moons cast confusing shadows. He saw a gray blot—“Seguilo!” He ran outside. “Where have you been?”

  Seguilo straightened to his full height, a thin man with a wise, doleful face. He turned his head; the wind blew his words past Perrin’s ears.

  Sudden enlightenment came to Perrin. “You must have been under the generator!” The only place he could have been,

  Seguilo had come closer. “Yes...I was under the generator” He paused uncertainly by the door, stood looking up at the moons, which this evening had risen all bunched together. Puzzlement creased Perrin’s forehead. Why should Seguilo crawl under the generator? “Are you.. .well?”

  “Yes. Perfectly well.”

  Perrin stepped closer and in the light of the five moons, Ista, Bista, Liad, Miad, and Poidel, scrutinized Seguilo sharply. His eyes were dull and noncommittal; he seemed to carry himself stiffly. “Have you hurt yourself? Come over to the steps and sit down.”

  “Very well.” Seguilo ambled across the rock, sat down on the steps.

  “You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “Certain.”

  After a moment, Perrin said, “Just before you...went under the generator, you were about to tell me something you said was important.”

  Seguilo nodded slowly. “That’s true.”

  “What was it?”

  Seguilo stared dumbly up into the sky. There was nothing to be heard but the wash of the sea, hissing and rushing where the rock shelved under.

  “Well?” asked Perrin finally. Seguilo hesitated. “You said that when five moons rose together in the sky, it was not wise to believe anything.”

  “Ah,” nodded Seguilo, “so I did.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why is not believing anything important?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Perrin rose abruptly to his feet. Seguilo normally was crisp, dryly emphatic. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Right as rain.”

  That was more like Seguilo. “Maybe a drink of whisky would fix you

  up.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  Perrin knew where Seguilo kept his private store. “You sit here, I’ll get you a shot.”

  “Yes, I’ll sit here.”

  Perrin hurried inside the lighthouse, clambered the two flights of stairs to the commissary. Seguilo might remain seated or he might not; something in his posture, in the rapt gaze out to sea, suggested that he

  might not. Perrin found the bottle and a glass, ran back down the steps. Somehow he knew that Seguilo would be gone.

  Seguilo was gone. He was not on the steps, nowhere on the windy acre of Isel Rock. It was impossible that he had passed Perrin on the stairs. He might have slipped into the engine room and crawled under the generator once more.

  Perrin flung open the door, switched on the lights, stooped, peered under the housing. Nothing.

  A greasy film of dust, uniform, unmarred, indicated that no one had ever been there.

  Where was Seguilo?

  Perrin went up to the top-most part of the lighthouse, carefully searched every nook and cranny down to the outside entrance. No Seguilo.

  Perrin walked out on the rock. Bare and empty; no Seguilo.

  Seguilo was gone. The dark water of Maumilam Var sighed and flowed across the shelf.

  Perrin opened his mouth to shout across the moon-dazzled swells, but somehow it did not seem right to shout. He went back to the lighthouse, seated himself before the radio transceiver.

  Uncertainly he touched the dials; the instrument had been Seguilo’s responsibility. Seguilo had built it himself, from parts salvaged from a pair of old instruments.

  Perrin tentatively flipped a switch. The screen sputtered into light, the speaker hummed and buzzed. Perrin made hasty adjustments. The screen streaked with darts of blue light, a spatter of quick, red blots. Fuzzy, dim, a face looked forth from the screen. Perrin recognized a junior clerk in the Commission office at Spacetown. He spoke urgently, “This is Harold Perrin, at Isel Rock Lighthouse; send out a relief ship.”

  The face in the screen looked at him as through thick pebbleglass. A faint voice, overlaid by sputtering and crackling, said, “Adjust your tuning. . .1 can’t hear you—”

  Perrin raised his voice. “Can you hear me now?”

  The face in the screen wavered and faded.

  Perrin yelled, “This is Isel Rock Lighthouse! Send out a relief ship! Do you hear? There’s been an accident!”

  “...signals not coming in. Make out a report, send...” the voice sputtered away.

  Cursing furiously under his
breath, Perrin twisted knobs, flipped switches. He pounded the set with his fist. The screen flashed bright orange, went dead.

  Perrin ran behind, worked an anguished five minutes, to no avail. No light, no sound.

  Perrin slowly rose to his feet. Through the window he glimpsed the

  When the Five Moons Rise

  five moons racing for the west. “When the five moons rise together,” Seguilo had said, “it’s not wise to believe anything.” Seguilo was gone. He had been gone once before and come back; maybe he would come back again. Perrin grimaced, shuddered. It would be best now if Seguilo stayed away. He ran down to the outer door, barred and bolted it. Hard on Seguilo, if he came wandering back.. .Perrin leaned a moment with his back to the door, listening. Then he went to the generator room, looked under the generator. Nothing. He shut the door, climbed the steps.

  Nothing in the commissary, the storeroom, the bathroom, the bedrooms. No one in the lightroom. No one on the roof.

  No one in the lighthouse but Perrin.

  He returned to the commissary, brewed a pot of coffee, sat half an hour listening to the sigh of water across the shelf, then went to his bunk.

  Passing Seguilo’s room he looked in. The bunk was empty.

  When at last he rose in the morning, his mouth was dry, his muscles like bundles of withes, his eyes hot from long staring up at the ceiling. He rinsed his face with cold water and, going to the window, searched the horizon. A curtain of dingy overcast hung halfway up the east; blue-green Magda shone through like an ancient coin covered with verdigris. Over the water oily skeins of blue-green light formed and joined and broke and melted....Out along the south horizon Perrin spied a pair of black hyphens—barges riding the Trade Current to Spacetown. After a few moments they disappeared into the overcast.

  Perrin threw the master switch; above him came the fluttering hum of the lumenifer slowing and dimming.

  He descended the stairs, with stiff fingers unbolted the door, flung it wide. The wind blew past his ears, smelling of Maumilam Var. The tide was low; Isel Rock rose out of the water like a saddle. He walked gingerly to the water’s edge. Blue-green Magda broke clear of the overcast; the light struck under the water. Leaning precariously over the shelf, Perrin looked down, past shadows and ledges and grottos, down into the gloom... .Movement of some kind; Perrin strained to see. His foot slipped, he almost fell.