Arthur C Clarke's Venus Prime Omnibus

by Paul Preuss

  The commander closed the hall library doors. “Mister Redfield hasn’t been briefed, Professor.”

  Forster looked at Blake with suspicion. “Do you consider yourself a scholar of Culture X, Redfield?”

  “Not at all,” he said, surprised.

  “Isn’t this the person you spoke of?” Forster asked the commander, raising a bushy eyebrow.

  “Redfield’s work relates to yours, Professor. I think after we’ve talked you’ll see the connections pretty clearly.”

  Blake glanced at the commander. Just before he’d sent him and Ellen to Mars to find the missing plaque, the commander had referred to the assignment as having to do with “archaeological stuff.” As if he’d had no idea why anyone would be interested.

  “Shall we get on with it, then?” Forster said fussily.

  The commander gestured to the library’s well-stuffed leather-upholstered chairs. After some moving of furniture, they found that they had moved their seats to the corners of an invisible equilateral triangle, facing inward.

  “If you don’t mind starting, Professor,” said the commander.

  “I’m eager.”

  “I’ll ask them to bring tea—and something stiffer for you,” he said, catching Forster’s look. He fingered his wrist unit. It chimed softly in confirmation.

  Forster had brought a flat holo projector from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, placed it on the lamp table beside him, and keyed its pad. Several dozen sculptural shapes appeared in midair above the unit, seemingly quite solid, as if cast in type metal.

  “I presume that by now both of you know of my discovery that the Venus tablets constitute a more spectacular linguistic and philological discovery than the fabled Rosetta stone itself,” Forster said brightly. His lack of modesty was so transparent Blake found it almost charming. “Not only were the tablets laid out so as to deliberately reveal the sounds associated with each of the signs you see here—which I have arranged in the frequency of their occurrence, by the way—but the texts, over a dozen different ones, were written phonetically in the Bronze Age languages of Earth. Moreover, they were matched to their translations in the language of Culture X.” Forster cleared his throat grandly. “Thus in a single stroke we were able to obtain not only a sizeable sample of the Culture X language, written and phonetic, but also, as a windfall, sample texts of several lost languages of Earth never before deciphered. Tragically, all copies of these tablets were destroyed on that terrible night.”

  “But the original Venus tablets still exist?” Blake asked.

  “Yes, buried where we left them on the surface, and I certainly intend to return to excavate them”—Forster hesitated—“someday. When the necessary funds can be raised. But meanwhile I’ve made a more pressing discovery.” His bright eyes and pursed lips expressed a curious mixture of emotions. The little boy in him craved approval, the professor in him demanded it. “I’ve translated the Martian plaque!”

  “Congratulations,” said Blake, trying to sound sincere. In his business, purported translations of untranslatable old manuscripts were almost as common as plans for perpetual motion machines at the patent office.

  “If you’ll bear with me just a moment,” said the professor, fiddling with the holo unit.

  Beneath the floating sculptural signs there appeared other signs, plain Roman letters and world-standard linguistic marks.

  “These are the sounds of the signs.” He touched the pad, and the signs, paired with their phonetic equivalents, briefly glowed one after the other as the speaker in the unit emitted disembodied phonemes: “KH … WH … AH … SH…”

  When the machine had gone through the list, Forster said, “The Martian plaque contains many of the same signs—none of the signs borrowed from human languages, of course—and lacking only the three least frequent occurrences in the Venusian tablets.” He glanced at Blake. “Because I had memorized it, I was able to reconstruct it during the period when it was missing and all records of its existence had been destroyed. Lying in a bed in the Port Hesperus clinic—amusing myself by thinking, since I could do nothing else—I established that in contrast to the Venusian tablets, which as I said are translations of texts from ancient Earth, the Martian plaque makes only a glancing reference to Earth. An Earth far too young to have evolved creatures that made intentional sounds, much less spoken languages.”

  He fingered the unit and a full-size image of the Martian plaque appeared, floating above the other signs and marks like a piece of shattered mirror.

  “Does that seem an accurate rendition to you, Mister Redfield? It’s from memory.”

  “I have to say that I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

  Forster took that as a compliment. “As one might guess by looking at it, the plaque is not really a plaque. It is but a fragment of a much longer document, most of which is missing. This is what it says.”

  The speaker spewed forth a broken string of hisses and booms and clicks, reading off the incomplete lines of the plaque in the voice Forster had reconstructed for the long-gone aliens who had inscribed the metal plaque.

  Blake tried to seem fascinated. He snuck a look at the commander, whose stone face conveyed nothing.

  After the hissing stopped, Forster said, “Here it is in English.” This time the voice was sexless and ingratiating, the standard voice of the 21st-century general-purpose computer:

  place on ZH-GO-ZH-AH 134 of WH-AH-SS-CH 9…

  down upon a salt world of EN-WE-SS 9436…

  were designated came humbly and peacefully to do…

  leader. Beneath the shore of the dark salt they…

  one thousand stadia of this place they…

  places of power and their places of production and…

  study and their places of rest. Later generations…

  over all the salt and land of this world, and…

  of WH-AH-SS-CH they did the work assigned to…

  the designates labor on this, the first of the…

  of EN-WE-SS 9436-7815. Their greatest…

  TH-IN-THA. Chariots flowed like a river from the east…

  great encampments. The designates honored…

  accomplishments. The creatures multiplied…

  and diversity. In their many kinds…

  netted together. At the same time other designates…

  second and third salt worlds. Then, finally…

  AH-SS-CH 1095, all those who were…

  salt worlds to await the success-signaling…

  the cloud-dwelling messengers where they live…

  great world. The chariot-riders left this inscription…

  their great work. They await the reawakening…

  of waiting at the great world…

  Then all will be well.

  Blake listened to these broken fragments of odd speech with increasing stupefaction, until the final words startled him from his trance. “All will be well?” he blurted.

  “The untranslated terms are proper names, of course—possibly names of individuals, certainly the names of stars and planets, including, I’m confident, Earth, Venus, Mars, and the sun,” Forster said. “And of course the Bronze Age terms—chariots and stadia and so forth—were the closest equivalents the Venus texts could provide for the original words of the plaque. Their meaning is easy enough to guess.”

  “It really said ‘All will be well’?” Blake repeated.

  But Forster was still happily expounding: “Trains or cars, perhaps even vessels of some sort—but not ships, there were perfectly good words for that—and miles or kilometers, some unit of measurement. That sort of thing.”

  Blake recovered enough to realize the commander was signaling him with a look. Forster doesn’t know.

  “‘Salt world’ isn’t a Bronze Age term, is it?” the commander remarked coolly, inviting Forster to go on.

  “No, but they obviously intended ‘ocean world.’ Dissolved salts may have interested them as much as water. For whatever reason. Histo
rical, perhaps.” Forster had obviously anticipated the question. “Consider that we call galaxies galaxies. If one were to translate that word without the necessary context, one might wonder about the etymology of a term such as ‘milkies.’”

  “Especially if one weren’t a mammal,” Blake said.

  “Hmm, yes.” Forster eyed him from under a gingery brow.

  “And the ‘great world’…?” prompted the commander.

  “Is Jupiter,” Forster said triumphantly.

  Blake tried again. “Your translation renders the last phrase as, ‘Then all will be well.’”

  “Yes?” Forster frowned at Blake, an inquisitive frown.

  “‘All will be well’ is one of the mottos of the people who stole the Martian plaque,” Blake said. “The same people who tried to kill you.”

  Forster looked at the commander, and comprehension dawned. “Ah, this is why you wanted me to meet Mr. Redfield.”

  “Uh, why I wanted Redfield to meet you.” It wasn’t a contradiction, exactly, and since tea arrived at that moment, along with a bottle of Laphroaig, Forster’s favorite, the commander was saved the trouble of explaining himself more fully.

  “Remember the star maps I looked at in the Athanasian Society?” It was twilight. Blake and the commander were walking across the grass toward the white Space Board helicopter that had brought them to Granite Lodge.

  “You mean the one you stole from the Louvre?”

  “There were others; they already had them. What they had in common was a particular planetary alignment.”

  The commander raised a grizzled eyebrow.

  “The common alignments correspond to a date,” Blake said.

  “Yes?”

  “Which seems to correspond to the scheduled rendezvous of Kon-Tiki with Jupiter.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “You already know something’s going to happen on Jupiter?” Blake asked, curious.

  “So we were taught. We prophetae.”

  “What’s between you and Forster?”

  “He’s got a research scheme; I offered to pull what strings I could. No more questions, Redfield, I’m about to shake your hand goodbye for the last time … unless you tell me otherwise.”

  “Where’s Ellen now?” Blake asked.

  “I swear I wish I knew,” said the commander.

  “All right,” Blake said quietly. “I’m with you.”

  13

  As the foothills grew rapidly closer, Holly Singh recovered control from the autopilot of her quick little Dragonfly helicopter and manually guided its swift, silent ascent of the terraced ridges. A macadam road and a shining pair of tracks wound like coiling pythons beneath the open craft. An antique train was tortuously making the same ascent, puffing white steam into the mountain air.

  Singh nodded toward the bright green terraces that fell away below like so many stairsteps. “Tea plantations. Darjeeling grows the world’s best, of its type. So we like to think.”

  The helicopter crested the ridge at 2,500 meters. The Himalayas, hidden behind the ridges until now, sprang forward in the crystal air. Sparta’s breath caught at the sight of the glacier-hung peaks, thrusting like broken glass into the dark blue sky. Katchenjunga, second highest mountain on Earth, dominated all the others; still seventy kilometers away, it nevertheless towered above the darting helicopter, in perspective so starkly carved as to seem close enough to touch.

  Suddenly they were buzzing a town, which clung to the crest of the ridge and spilled down its sides. The helicopter flitted over green lawns and old trees, past stone church towers.

  “The English—including a round dozen of my great-great-grandparents—developed Darjeeling as a retreat from the heat of the plains,” Singh said. “That’s why half the buildings look like they were transplanted from the British Isles. See that one, the one that looks like an Edinburgh church? It was a movie house for a few decades. Half the rest of the town could be in Tibet. A colony of Tibetans settled here after fleeing China in the mid-20th century. What remains, including the marketplace, is pure India. We’ve tried to preserve it pretty much as it was a century ago.”

  The helicopter skimmed along the ridge, past the town.

  Singh noticed the direction of Sparta’s gaze and smiled. “Mountain people spend a lot of time praying, one way and another.” The barren heights were prickled with poles carrying prayer flags, pale banners hanging limp in the still air.

  The helicopter flew on until a broad green lawn opened before it, bordered with massive oaks and chestnut trees. For the merest fragment of a second Sparta searched her eidetic memory: there was something familiar about this wide lawn, these brooding trees, the snowy Himalayas above the cloud-filled valleys beyond.

  “Howard Falcon landed a balloon here,” she said.

  “Indeed, Howard landed here many times,” said Holly Singh. “Howard’s roots in India are almost as deep as mine. Although none of his very proper British ancestors ever went native.” Her mood seemed genuinely cheerful, as if the sharp mountain air had refreshed her. “You must have seen this view in one of the documentaries they made about him. When he was trying to raise money to build the Queen Elizabeth, Howard’s favorite trick for winning friends and influencing people was to take them up in his fusion-powered hot air balloon—they’d leave from Srinagar and stay aloft for several days, drifting the length of the Himalayas and landing here—right where we’re setting down.”

  The helicopter settled gently to the grass. Back among the trees Sparta glimpsed a white house with wide verandas and broad eaves, flanked by enormous flowering rhododendrons—bushes as big as trees, holdovers from the last age of dinosaurs.

  “And whenever Howard touched down we’d invite our neighbors over and wine and dine and flatter his guests.” Singh unstrapped her harness and stepped lightly from the helicopter. Sparta tugged her duffel from behind the seat and followed, her shoes sinking into the springy sod.

  “No party for us tonight, I’m afraid,” said Singh. “Just a quiet dinner at home.”

  On the broad lawn, two peacocks carefully picked their steps, displaying enormous fans of blue and green plumes to the peahens that wandered on the lawn. High in a towering cedar, Sparta saw a plumed white egret. To their left, the snow-clad mountains were turning ruddy in the evening light.

  The two women walked toward the big house, the doctor in her riding outfit, the policewoman in her trim blue uniform. A tall man in puttees and jacket hurried across the lawn toward them, stopping a few meters away and inclining his turbaned head.

  “Good evening, madame.”

  “Good evening, Ran. Will you see to the helicopter, please? And take the inspector’s valise to her room.”

  “At once.”

  Sparta handed the tall Sikh her duffel. His nod was as sharp as a military salute.

  “I’ll take you to your quarters later, Inspector,” said Singh. “There’s something I want to show you before it gets dark.”

  Sparta followed Singh into the cool shadowed aisles beneath the chestnut trees. Through the neat rows of old trees and decorative bushes she saw other white buildings. A few people moved slowly in the courtyard they enclosed, heads down, showing little interest in their surroundings.

  “My mother’s paternal grandfather—his father having made his fortune in tea—established this place as a tuberculosis sanatorium,” said Singh. “Now that tuberculosis is a thing of the past, we treat neurological disorders here … those we can. Despite all the progress I spoke about before, some mysteries are beyond us. Though we do try to provide a good home for the people we can’t help.”

  Singh turned off the gravel path and led the way past tall hedges of fragrant camellia. It did not take Sparta’s specialized senses to anticipate what they were coming to next; the smell of animals grew stronger with each step.

  “My grandfather established this menagerie, which my father agreed to maintain when he married my mother.” She smiled. “Dowry arrangements
could be rather complex in the old days. I have renovated it and added to the professional staff. Now it is used for research purposes.”

  Low masonry barns stood among the trees. Sparta identified the sharp smell of cats coming from one, the ripe odor of ungulates from another, and a dry, autumnal whiff of reptile from a third. In a four-story-high wrought iron cage she saw wings flap as an eagle momentarily silhouetted itself against the darkening sky.

  “Many rare species from the subcontinent are represented here. You are welcome to spend as much time here as you like, tomorrow”—Singh was leading her past the aviary toward another open structure—“but this evening…”

  Monkeys and lemurs leaped and screamed in their segregated cages. Singh led Sparta to the end of the row, to the largest cage.

  The design was simple and familiar: a floor of sloping concrete several feet below ground level, edged with a system of drains for easy flushing, and a hatch in the corner leading to the long stone barn that backed all the primate cages.

  Less familiar were the aluminum struts and spars that crisscrossed the cage, from a couple of meters above the floor all the way to its high roof.

  “Is that from the Queen Elizabeth?” Sparta asked.

  “It’s a piece of the mock-up we used for training the chimps. The training was done at the center in Ramnagar, but I salvaged this bit and had it installed here.”

  Sparta would have asked why, but she had already surmised the answer.

  Singh looked in the direction of the rear hatch and called sharply, “Steg! Holly is here.”

  For a moment nothing happened. The air was filled with the hoots and cries of the other primates. Then a timid face, brown eyes wide and thin lips parted in apprehension, peered out of the shadows.

  “Steg! Holly is here. Holly wants to say hello.”

  The animal hesitated several seconds before slowly emerging from hiding. It swung up onto the nearest of the aluminum spars and sat there, studying Sparta intently.

  Sparta knew the face well—that of the terrified chimp Howard Falcon had met face to face during the Queen’s last moments. Apparently Falcon’s order—“Boss—boss—go!”—had saved this one’s life after all, although not those of the others.