“You would want me to do that?” she demanded fiercely.
“If you could … If you would … Can you understand, Mary?” He took her hands. “I don’t want to go topside knowing that the last hope for Earth goes with me … You can carry another child—legitimate and Minervan, by Minervan standards—but it would be a true Earth child, and you could ensure that it remained a true Earth child. So long as the blood continues, there is a chance.”
She said nothing, because there seemed nothing to say. Instead she took off her clothes and told herself that it did not matter that there were men with anaesthetising guns outside. Compulsively, idiotically, as they made love, she tried to will his semen to penetrate every cell of her body. So that Idris Hamilton, man of Earth, would remain alive in her flesh.
The visit from Damaris de Gaulle was brief.
She brought him a bunch of flowers—strange, fragrant Minervan flowers that looked like some kind of combination of terrestrial rose and carnation, which, quite possibly, they were.
“To get these, I had to promise to time-pair with a man at Brandt Hydro,” she said lightly. “They are quite long-lasting. I hope you like them.”
“I like them very much.” The fragrance was sweet, but not overpowering.
“They were bred from Martian flowers. But, of course, all the flowers of Mars came from the gardens of Earth … Will you do something for me, dear Jesus Freak? Will you take one bloom with you when you are exiled.”
“If it will please you.”
“It will please me very much. There is a legend, you see. According to the legend, when one of these flowers dies another instantly blooms.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Now you will regard me as just a stupid Minervan girl who wants to salve her conscience with an empty myth.”
Idris smiled. “Wrong again … I never was your Jesus Freak, Damaris.” He kissed her on the forehead. “But the flower legend is a good one. I like it.”
Her attempt at calmness disintegrated. “If it were not for me,” she sobbed, “you would not now be under sentence of exile. Forgive me, Idris Hamilton. Forgive me for asking you to meet the Friends of the Ways. Forgive us all for being ineffectual children. We want to change things, but we are afraid of paying the price. We have caused your destruction.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I was already routed for destruction. You must know that. Because I am what I am, I was already on a collision course with Minervan values … It would have happened anyway, sooner or later. What I regret most of all is that Manfrius de Skun gave the best part of his life to bringing me back from the dead. He was ill rewarded … Yes, I like your flower legend. I believe it. I may die but, somehow, Earth will live.”
“Goodbye,” said Damaris. “I must go now. I am sorry. I am a coward.”
“Goodbye, Damaris.” He glanced at the flowers. “I will take the red one. It reminds me of an English rose. And when it dies, I will believe that another will instantly bloom.”
The encounter with Zylonia was no less harrowing.
“Greetings, Idris.”
“Greetings to you, Zylonia. How is Sirius? I hope he bears me no ill will.”
“He is unhappy for you. He asks your forgiveness.”
Idris raised an eyebrow. “But there is nothing to forgive. It was I who injured him.”
“He asks your forgiveness,” said Zylonia, “because he did not fully understand …” she faltered. “Because he did not fully understand how an Earth man would feel about a woman he had possessed—in Earth fashion.”
Idris gave a deep sigh. “You remember when I asked you to take off your clothes? It seems a long time ago.”
“I remember. And it is not very long ago.”
Idris shrugged. “It is—in subjective terms. I fell in love with you then.”
“Do you still love me?”
“Yes. But not as I did. Dreams die, Zylonia. New dreams are born. Now I regard myself as married—in the Earth sense—to Mary Evans. She is a good woman, and she is an Earth woman. Between me and her there exists something that could never have existed between me and you. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Well, then. Look me in the eyes, Zylonia, whom I loved and still love. Look me in the eyes and swear that you will do everything possible to stop Mary having her baby—the last Earth child—aborted.”
Zylonia could not look him in the eyes. She covered her face with her hands. “I will do all that I can, Idris. I can promise nothing. But I will do all that I can.”
“That is enough,” he said tranquilly. “I no longer expect miracles. But I hold you to your word … I am sorry about your father. Plainly, he wasted himself upon me. For that I am truly sorry … Tell Sirius Bourne that my ghost will haunt him if he does not make you happy.”
“Farewell, Idris.”
“Farewell, my love. And thank you.”
The last visitor of all was Mary. She gave herself to Idris, freely, desperately, joyously. She tried to distract him from watching the clock.
She succeeded.
When the man with the anaesthetising gun opened the door and pointed his weapon, Idris barely had time to realise that time—his time—had come to an end.
32
IDRIS AWOKE TO find himself lying on a trolley, such as might be used in a hospital. He was in a plain, unfurnished room whose walls were of metal. There was a module with a V-screen, a clock, a communicator, a pressure meter and a control panel, fixed on one wall. There was also a space suit hanging from a hook with two life-support packs lying close by it. A single red flower lay on one of the packs.
Idris sat up and waited for his head to clear. He already knew the kind of room he was in. He had used them many times before. He was in an air-lock.
He pulled himself together and stood up. As he did so, the V-screen came alive, and the face of Harlen Zebrov appeared.
So he had been under observation and they had been waiting for him to regain consciousness.
“Captain Hamilton,” said Zebrov, “it is my duty to inform you that, in accordance with the orders of the Grand Council of Minerva, the sentence of exile is now being carried out. You are in the air-lock of Talbot Tower. In one hour from now—or less time upon your request—the air will be evacuated from this chamber and the door leading to the surface of Minerva will be opened. You may, if you require, demand one extra hour for the purpose of preparation. If you require this extra time, you must make your demand known within the next half-hour. If you have any other lawful and reasonable requests, please make them known as soon as possible. If you are unfamiliar with the equipment with which you have been provided, a technician is available to answer any questions. Both life-support packs are good for ten hours. Do you read me?”
“I read you, loud and clear. I am sorry about your son, Zebrov.”
“Thank you. The prerogative of mercy does not lie in my power, Captain Hamilton.”
Idris became angry. “I am not asking for mercy. I got my sentence from a hanging tribunal. I know better than to ask for a playback.”
“Please, I do not understand you.”
“No matter. I am sorry about your son, that is all. I hope you will believe that.”
“I will try to believe it, Captain Hamilton. Now, are there any requests you wish to make?”
Idris thought for a moment or two. Then he said: “Will you give my thanks to Damaris de Gaulle? Tell her that the flower and the legend are greatly appreciated.”
“Request granted.”
“Will you also tell my wife that I think of her with deep affection and that I am sorry I have caused her such unhappiness? Tell her, too, that I believe that Earth will endure and that once again mankind will flourish upon its fertile lands.”
“You have no wife under Minervan law, Captain Hamilton. But, of course, I know the person to whom you refer. Request granted.”
“And will you assure me that no harm will come to Mary because of me? She was not in any way responsible fo
r my actions.”
“No action will be taken against Mary Evans, though, as you will recall, she was legally responsible for your good behaviour. The Grand Council feels that your sentence of exile is in itself sufficient punishment. Have you any further requests?”
Idris managed the ghost of a smile. “I would like to borrow your space-ship to exile myself to Earth.”
“Permission denied,” said Harlen Zebrov without a flicker of expression. “I will now break contact. Unless you open communication once more within the next forty-five minutes, the air-lock will be evacuated. Goodbye, Captain Hamilton.”
“Goodbye, Zebrov. Who knows—one of these days you may wake up and realise what you and your Triple-T friends have done to mankind.”
The screen darkened. Idris, with the method of years of discipline, began his inspection of the space-suit and the life-support packs. Technology had developed greatly in the five thousand years since his first death. The equipment was vastly superior to anything he had ever known.
Damn these Minervans! They had immense talent and refused to make proper use of it. They could have done so much but they preferred to sit in their underground cities like troglodytes. Though their science was immensely sophisticated, they had allowed themselves to regress to a primitive condition. They had become afraid of everything, including themselves.
For a short time, Idris was tempted not to put on the space suit. When the air-lock was evacuated and the door opened, death would come very quickly. Perhaps it was better to end that way than to wander about on the surface, counting the hours and then the minutes until the life-support systems failed. Would he have the guts to pull the plug before that happened, or would he want to go to the last gasp of fetid air? He did not know. How could a man ever really know?
But he realised that, in his last hours, he wanted to look at the stars once more. The stars, to an experienced spaceman, were almost personal friends. Beacons of the night that gave him a sense of location. Far, lonely torches, reminding him that he was not alone, that other sentient races existed—with problems as great or greater than those which confronted him personally and his people as a whole.
Yes, the stars were personal friends. By their very distance and remoteness they would remind him that, despite the interval of five thousand years and despite the fact that the Minervans were descendants of refugees from Mars, they were of the same blood as Idris Hamilton. Earth blood, For what is a mere five thousand years in star time?
So he checked both life-support packs, familiarised himself with the connection mechanisms, clipped one pack on the back of the suit, tested the seals, got into the suit and made ready to go out on to the surface of Minerva.
It would be interesting—very interesting—to take a walk on the surface of the tenth planet, he hold himself.
When he had got himself ready and checked once more that his equipment was in order, he sat on the trolley and waited patiently for the external door to open. The door that would open to eventual oblivion.
33
THE FIVE ATOMIC lamps, each on top of a pylon three hundred metres high close to a city tower, shone brilliantly like fixed miniature suns.
Idris smiled to himself and peered rapturously through his visor at the bleak glory of the surface of the tenth planet.
Hans Andersen, he thought. The Ice Queen’s Palace. Complete with diamonds as big as the Ritz. Where did that phrase come from? Ah, yes. Scott Fitzgerald. A twentieth century American writer …
Only the diamonds were not crystalline carbon. They were crystalline forms of oxygen and nitrogen. They caught the light from the atomic lamps and flashed as if they, too, were generating fire. It was like Guy Fawkes night, the Fourth of July, Bastille Day. With every step he took the crystalline rocks glittered and flashed in icy splendour, for kilometre upon kilometre. It was as if the entire planet were laying on an immense fireworks display—the greatest ever seen—to mark the passing of the last Earth man.
The atomic lamps had been turned on the moment Idris had stepped out of Talbot air-lock. Perhaps the Minervans thought he would be more afraid to die in the dark. They were not spacemen. They could not know that darkness and a skyful of stars were home to a spaceman. They could not know that, apart from the sun and the terrestrial moon, the stars were the oldest friends of man … Anyway, it was a nice gesture. The troglodytes meant well.
Far to the planetary north, there was another glow in the sky. It shouldn’t be there, he thought hazily. It shouldn’t bloody be there. There ought to be nothing but stars and cars and damned noisy bars thataways. Ooops!
Experienced spaceman that he was, he realised that he was getting rapidly drunk. “Only one iddy-biddy reason for that!” he said thickly to himself. “Oxygen bloody narcosis!”
The oxygen feed control and the meter were on the left arm of his space suit. He peered at it and saw that his oxynitro mix was far too rich. It was almost in reverse ratio. Perhaps he had absent-mindedly set it at that himself. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the bloody Minervans were trying to be kind. He turned the oxygen down. Goddammit, a man doesn’t want to get pissed when he’s about to die. Or does he?
Answer: No. Thought was still important. It was no good sinking into a state of euphoria while there were still several hours of life left in the tank. Besides, he still carried the spare pack. It felt damned heavy; but he wasn’t going to jettison it. At least not yet. Not until he got tired of gazing at stars and sitting on rocks in the Snow Queen’s Palace.
He wondered if he were under observation from any of the tower domes. Probably. Even though it was impossible for him to get back through an air-lock, the Minervans would not trust him to die docilely as required. It had been made abundantly clear at the trial that though, by Minervan standards, he was regarded as sub-human, he was also regarded as a very dangerous and unpredictable animal.
They had driven the tiger out, but they would not rest easy until they knew it was dead.
Well, he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him die. They would have to come out and search for the body if they wanted proof. In any case, even then he could frustrate them. He could always throw himself into a hydrogen lake when he was ready to pull the plug. The weight of the suit and support pack should be enough to take him to the bottom, where he would lie, perfectly preserved for all eternity—or until the sun blew its fuses and destroyed the entire solar system.
Now that the oxygen and nitrogen mixture was back to normal, he was able to think clearly once more. He was able to consider his options. He had about eighteen hours of air left, he supposed.
So what were the options?
One: he could pull the plug here and now—to the immense relief of any watching Minervans. Two: he could take himself away from the illuminated areas, amuse himself for a while by exploring the extraordinary conditions on the surface of a planet whose temperature was only about sixteen or seventeen degrees above absolute zero, then pop into the nearest hydro-lake and perhaps leave behind him the legend of an immortal Earth man. Three: he could do something constructive.
But what the hell could be constructive in a situation like this?
The answer came almost as soon as he had formulated the question. He could head for Talbot Field. There were ferry rockets at Talbot Field, and the Amazonia. He knew that the space-ship was rarely used, and the ferry rockets only very infrequently. Therefore, there would only be a small duty staff. But, naturally, they would be alert to the fact that an Earth man was wandering about. So the chances of being able to pull a rabbit out of the hat were like those of the proverbial snowball in hell.
But the third option was better than nothing. Better than strolling about in ever decreasing circles until …
Besides, it would be good to see a space-ship again.
He switched on his head lamp and started to march—away from the atomic lamps, away from the planetary north where the glow in the sky marked the location of Talbot Field. No point in telegraphing his intentions. He
would get out of visual range of the tower domes before he headed for the space-port. It occurred to him that the Minervans might have planted a radio beacon in his suit. Or they might simply track his movements by the atomic micropile that powered his heating circuit and lighted his head lamp. No matter. At least, now, he had a purpose. He would give them a run for their money.
His progress was slow. The ground was very uneven and some of the rocks—possibly igneous in origin—were razor sharp. If he tripped and his vizor hit one of those, all his problems would be over.
It took him the best part of two hours to get clear of the illuminated area.
He floundered through shallow puddles of liquid hydrogen and was amazed that the vacuum cells in the fabric of his space suit and the heating circuits protected him so efficiently from the external cold. The kind of space suits that were standard equipment on the Dag Hammarskjold would not have withstood such treatment. His legs would have frozen solid the moment he tried to wade through liquid hydrogen.
It was a fine clear night. A fine clear eternal night. There were a few fleecy hydrogen clouds in the clear helium sky. But, for the time being, there did not seem to be any prospect of rain or snow. Idris dreaded both. There were heating elements in his vizor, but he did not know if they were able to cope with a blizzard of hydro-snow. To be blinded at this stage would be damned near lethal.
He laughed aloud at the thought. Lethal, indeed! He was already a dead man, living on a few borrowed hours.
He looked at the stars, and was glad that they were still his friends. He picked out Polaris and silently sent it greetings. The greetings of a doomed Earth man.
To the north, the light in the sky was brighter. Goddammit, he would have to get over a range of hills.
A small range; but not cushioned by soil or grass like the hills of Earth. These, he knew, would be nothing but sharp rock with ice-caps of hydrogen and hydro-glaciers and outcrops of oxygen and nitrogen. The crystalline gases would be just as hazardous as the rocks themselves. One heavy fall and his problems would be over.
The Tenth Planet Page 16
