All the children and their teacher, Idris discovered, had integrated well into Minervan culture. Several of them had become involved in scientific projects. Mary Evans, naturally enough, was a specialist in Terran history. Even Alexei Bolkonski held an important post in a new hydroponics project.
Presently, Idris tired of this public encounter. Later, he decided, he would seek out these children—no, he must no longer think of them as children—these people, privately, and try to get behind the masks they apparently displayed for the Minervans. Then, perhaps, he would discover what they really thought and felt.
The interview came to an end. Dr. de Skun seemed relieved. So did Zylonia. So did the Earth children and Mary Evans. In fact, the only person who seemed neither relieved nor satisfied was Idris Hamilton. And he, as he knew, was simply exhausted. The marriage between old brain and new body was a good one. But like all marriages, it needed time to adjust.
17
HE WOULD NOT go back to the simulated master’s cabin of the Dag Hammarskjold. Where else was there for him to go? Answer: to the home of Zylonia de Herrens, the woman with whom he had lived—if only in the spiritual sense—since his resurrection. The woman who had stripped for him, who had shit and peed for him, who had eaten for him and moved gracefully for him when he was nothing more than a sentient thing—a few pounds of cells in a nutrient solution.
The home of Zylonia de Herrens …
A splendid place. A small room, with a minute kitchen, and an even smaller bathroom, all hollowed out from rock twenty metres below the surface of Minerva, along a broad, well-lit corridor grandly designated Eastern Avenue, Talbot City. Apartment Ninety-One.
It was comfortable, at least. Maximum use had been made of available space. There was a service wall with a small push-button control console. It concealed extensible furniture—a bed, a table, extra chairs. It also contained a large tri-di screen, a V-phone, a tape-deck and library and a drinks’ cabinet. The wall opposite the door was apparently a large picture window looking out on to an immense garden where non-existent flowers, shrubs and strange grasses matured, bloomed, withered and died. An electronic illusion, but a pleasing electronic illusion. The kind that was necessary to keep a subterranean race sane.
The wall opposite the service panel was covered by a large curtain. Zylonia touched a button and the curtain rolled back to reveal the glass wall of a fantastic aquarium. It was breathtakingly beautiful. In it were brilliant corals, multi-coloured fish, lobsters, crabs, eels, minute forests of sea-weed and a bed of golden sand.
Idris was astounded, fascinated. He felt he could gaze at it for hours. Here were recognisable creatures of Earth, six billion miles away from their parent planet, swimming about unconcerned in an ideal environment.
“You see,” said Zylonia, “we may live on a frozen world, but we have created for ourselves an environment that fulfils human needs. Would you like a drink?”
“What kind of a drink?” he enquired cautiously.
“Scotch, gin, kafra. White wine or red wine.”
“You produce all these on Minerva?”
“We cannot import them, Idris.”
“Yes, stupid of me. I’m tired. What is kafra?”
“Martian brandy. I thought you would have been familiar with it.”
“No. Evidently it was after my time. But I’ll try it. Brandy is brandy is brandy.”
“That is a strange remark.”
“I paraphrase an ancient Earth writer called Gertrude Stein.”
She poured the drink. “Forgive me. I do not understand the significance.”
“Nor do I, to tell the truth.” He drank and savoured the warmth in his throat. “But brandy still tastes reasonably like brandy … Are you married, Zylonia? Do you have one man only whom you love and with whom you make love? It is one of the questions I should have asked some time ago.”
She smiled. “We do not have permanent one to one relationships. They make for jealousy and possessiveness. At the moment, I am unattached.” She hesitated. “The project has taken too much of my time and energy for me to be able to respond to sexual stimulus.”
“That is a cold way of putting it.”
“I am a scientist. It is an accurate evaluation, I think.”
He emptied his glass. “This kafra is no match for a good French brandy.” He gave a grim laugh. “But I know that I shall drink no more French brandy; and truly I realise, therefore, that I am in a new Dark Age. May I have another?”
Zylonia refilled his glass and poured one for herself. “You make jokes. That is good. A sign of integration … Do you wish to get drunk?”
“Possibly. I am not entirely used to having a new body. Perhaps I should test its limits of endurance—in a scientific way, of course … What kind of toast do you make on Minerva when you drink with a friend?”
“We say: Talbot lives.”
“I have a better toast.”
“What is that?”
“Earth lives.” He held up his glass. “Will you drink to that?”
“Why not? Earth lives.”
They touched glasses and drank.
“What about children?” said Idris abruptly. “You have to have a one to one relationship to rear children. Or am I being quaint?”
She laughed. “You are being splendidly quaint. The nuclear family is prehistoric. Psycho-historically, it provided the roots for tribalism, nationalism, chauvinism, sectarianism—in short it created a violent and unstable society.”
“Jesus Christ!” he exploded. “I have a hell of a lot to learn about you Minervans.”
“Are you a Christian?” she asked. “My researches show that the Christian countries of Earth were very aggressive and brutal.”
“No, I am not a Christian … If the nuclear family, as you call it, is now obsolete what have you Minervans replaced it with?”
“Our mating criterion is based simply on genetic improvement. Every woman who is approved by the Department of Genetics has the right to bear two children by approved male donors. In some cases, women with exceptional genetic qualities may bear three children or allow their fertilized ova to be implanted in a suitable host.”
“May I have another shot of kafra?”
Zylonia said: “So you do intend to get drunk. Help yourself, Idris. It is a pity, but I understand. I think that what I have said shocks you. Is that not so?”
Idris poured himself a large one. A very large one. “I name this drink the Hamilton cup. It is to be taken in one swallow.” He drained the glass and laughed. “Hereafter let all Earthmen who touch down on Minerva take the Hamilton cup as I once took the Gagarin cup.”
“Are you already drunk?”
“No, I am not already drunk … Are we monitored?”
She looked genuinely surprised. “No. Why should we be? This is my home. You are my guest.”
“Good. Then, dear Zylonia, I can tell you that your Minervan culture stinks. It stinks of computers, it stinks of that latter day Jesus, Garfield Talbot, and it stinks of scientific dictatorship.”
“You are drunk.”
He poured himself another. “Correction. I am only beginning to be drunk. Give me a little time.”
Zylonia stood up. “I think I should call Dr. de Skun.”
“Don’t try to call anyone, Zylonia. You have seen me in action. I am not yet that drunk.”
“You would threaten me?” There was anger in her voice. “I have been trying very hard to believe that you are not a violent man.”
He gave a great sigh. “I am sorry. I apologise. Call Dr. de Skun if you want to … I just wish you wouldn’t, that’s all.”
“Very well, I will not call him yet. Now listen to me carefully, Idris. I have some imagination, and I have considerable knowledge of you. I know, for example, how you feel about Suzy and the other members of your crew. I know something of your childhood, and I even know about the significance of the Gagarin cup, and the pride you take in the fact that it was offered to you by a great Earth
hero. It is all in your psycho-history … So I have some idea of the feelings of isolation and loneliness you feel, and of the suspicions and anxieties you entertain. But please proceed very cautiously, for your sake and for ours.”
He made as if to speak, but she silenced him with a gesture. “No, hear me out, please. Then I will listen to what you have to say. That is fair, is it not?”
“That is fair,” he agreed. “May I have one last shot of this kafra? It’s not bad once you stop trying to compare it with a real brandy.”
She shrugged. “Help yourself. If you choose to use alcohol as a barrier against unpleasant realities, I am sad. But I will not stop you. However, before you become incapable of thinking, there are some things I must tell you. You know that we have worked very hard—Dr. de Skun especially—to restore you to full life. You know also that, because of the success we have achieved, the prospect of immortality, or, at least, a greatly extended life span, seems within the grasp of ordinary Minervan citizens. With the cloning technique and brain transplant, there seems to be no theoretical reason why a person should not live as long as his brain is capable of accepting and storing data, of making rational decisions, of carrying out motor responses, and of maintaining the body he occupies. What you do not know, I think, is that this project is a matter of controversy. That is why, now that the technique has been proved to be physically possible, your subsequent behaviour is of the utmost importance.”
“I don’t see why. Whatever I do now cannot affect Dr. de Skun’s achievement.”
She sighed. “It can. Believe me it can. There are many Minervans who would dearly wish to have you declared insane.”
“What purpose would that serve?”
“It would block the project. They would be able to claim that the trauma of a brain transplant unhinges the reason. There are people who believe that it is unnatural and immoral to extend life beyond the limits imposed by nature.”
Idris laughed. “I do not see that you have much of a problem. Presumably, if your purists get cancer or heart disease or even appendicitis, they will not accept surgery and so they will die off.”
“It is not as simple as that. Approved surgical techniques—that is techniques established before Garfield Talbot led the exodus from Mars—are acceptable to the purists, as you call them. But the Triple-T party view with suspicion anything that has been developed since.”
“What does Triple-T stand for?”
“True to Talbot … These people believe that our life on Minerva was meant as a form of expiation for the sins of mankind. Among the non-scientific sections of society they have strong support. The problem is made more acute by the fact that our life-expectancy is declining sharply. When Garfield Talbot colonised Minerva, the average person could expect to live about fifty M-years. Now the expectation has fallen to thirty-five M-years. Projections show that it will continue to shorten.”
“Surely then, everyone should be happy about the success of brain transplant?”
Zylonia shook her head. “Not the Triple-T. They see the shortening of individual life as a form of punishment. They believe that only when we have discovered the correct way of life will the life-span increase. And then, they believe, immortality will develop naturally.”
Idris was vastly amused. “So, after five thousand years, the human race—what is left of it—is still bedevilled by nut cases. Plus ça change … May I live with you, Zylonia? For a time, at least. I am not going back to that beautifully rigged mausoleum of the master’s cabin on the Dag.”
“You may live with me—for a time—if you behave yourself. But I shall have to report on your behaviour, you understand.”
“That went without saying … May I also make love to you?”
“Is it important that you should?”
“I think so.”
She gave a faint smile. “Then, in the interests of scientific research, I have no objection.”
“You will report my responses, naturally.”
She gave him an impish look. “That, surely, is at the discretion of the investigator.”
“Very fair … Shall we go to bed?”
“Were you always so direct?”
“Never. It is a new experience. I like it.”
“Very well, Idris. We have already made love to each other in our minds, as you know. Perhaps it will be therapeutic for you if we accomplish it physically.”
“Most therapeutic,” he assured her. “Which damn button do I press to get the bed out of the wall?”
She showed him. When he turned to look at her again, she was already naked.
“This I like.”
“This I think I will like also,” she said. “But, afterwards, whether we are good or bad together, there is something I want you to do for me.”
“What is it?”
“You will read a book. It is called Talbot’s Creed. You promise to do this?”
“I promise.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. She felt wonderful. She felt like a woman it was worth waiting five thousand years for.
18
ZYLONIA DE HERRENS was strange and fascinating. It was not until he had held her close to him physically as well as mentally that he realised quite how strange and how fascinating. He realised then that no man could ever hope to know what a woman was like unless he had been fully intimate with her. Not intimate just in the sense of taking her to bed; but intimate in the sense of exploring the range of implications and emotions involved in taking her to bed.
The first time he made love to her it was a kind of rape. He knew it, and so did she. The love play was brutal, insistent, direct, fierce. Idris was surprised at his own ruthlessness, at his apparent disregard when she protested, pleaded, struggled. He held her roughly, taking pleasure in hearing the moans and outraged grunts as he thrust into her repeatedly, as if she alone should be punished, as if she alone were responsible for all that he had endured.
“I haven’t made love for five thousand years!” he shouted at her wildly. “You clever ones have brought a primitive savage back from the dead. So you can’t complain if his manners are a little different from those of the antiseptic lads on Minerva.”
Then he held her breast tightly with one hand until she groaned in pain and anger, until he felt her whole body become tense upon the brink of orgasm. Then he stared at her eyes, as if looking for some kind of message, and let the semen pulse out of his body and into hers in slow excruciating surges that seemed as if they would never end.
“Earth lives!” he shouted, gloating upon the now glazed look in her eyes, the slack open mouth, the tongue that protruded almost as if Zylonia were being strangled.
“Earth lives!” he shouted.
Her body stiffened. She cried aloud in pain, wonderment, acceptance, ecstasy. Then all her flesh became soft, relaxed, and she uttered a deep sigh. Idris let himself lie upon her very lightly. With great tenderness, he kissed her lips and her forehead. Then, tenderly, he began to stroke her hair.
For a time there was silence. For a time there was nothing to say. The sweat of their bodies mingled. There was the sweet, subtle odour of fulfilment about them.
At length, Zylonia said: “No man has ever done such things to me before.” She said it not by way of complaint or reproach, but in sheer amazement.
Idris laughed. “You were not a virgin.”
“No. I have made love with a number of men.”
“And none of them did to you what I have done … Therefore I should not be jealous, because I am the first.”
“You are a strange person, Idris. You behaved like an animal.”
“I am an animal. I am an animal first, and an Earth man second, and a civilised human being third … Anyway, how would you know how an animal behaves?”
She smiled. “You have much to learn about Minerva. We have farms. Ducks, geese, chickens, cows, bulls. I know how animals behave. I worked on a farm during my first year in psychology.”
Idris could not restrain his laughter
. “Farms! For you a farm is a large man-made cave. I can remember farms that stretched for hundreds of kilometres north and west under the open sky. I can remember rain-drenched sheep grazing on wet grass. I can even remember rare times of sunlight and starlight. What do you know about farms?”
“Our farms,” she said, “are in perfect ecological balance under perfect climatic conditions—which is more, I think—than your farms were. They produce exactly what is required. There is never a surplus, never a deficit. Which is more than can be said for the farms of Earth.” She laughed. “So, primitive Earth man, prehistoric animal that you are, do not feel too superior … Well, you have at least demonstrated that you can make love in a violent and possessive fashion. What would you like to do next? Do you want—”
“Did you like it, the love-making?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know. It was shattering and painful. I don’t know. My reactions are confused. Psychologically, that is interesting.”
Idris kissed her. “The hell with psychology. Let’s have the playback.”
19
TALBOT’S CREED WAS a strange, intense book. Written three thousand Earth years ago, it embodied the idea and ideals of the strange, intense man who had written it. As he read, Idris began to comprehend some of the pressures under which scientists like Manfrius de Skun worked.
Garfield Talbot had been a man of extremes—a living paradox. He had been an autocrat who gave lip-service to democracy, a pacifist who could ruthlessly blast out of space a vessel whose captain refused to colonise Minerva, a religious fanatic who was also a kind of Utopian communist, a man who hated the very science that enabled him to colonise a frozen planet six billion miles from the sun.
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