by Bob Shaw
“It’s what he’s going to do when the red moon appears that bothers me.” Surgenor made another futile attempt to loosen his bonds. “How long do you think we’ve got?”
“Who knows? Maybe a couple of hours.”
A dark coldness gathered inside Surgenor as he considered the idea that all of Earth’s vaunted technology was powerless to save them from death at the hands of a pitiful group of primitives. “Hear these words, Aesop,” he said bitterly, addressing himself via his communicorder button to the computer on board his ship. “Where are you? What are you doing up there?”
“There’s nothing Aesop can do,” Targett said, with a gloomy fatalism. “It may be days before he can get the Sarafand down through that screen of satellites, and by that time it will be all over.”
“He must have told the other modules to change course and get here.”
“Yes, but that won’t make any difference either. Even the nearest modules couldn’t possibly reach us until…” Targett’s words were lost in a sudden hubbub of excitement from the crowd.
Surgenor turned his head and saw that the robed figure of Garadan had appeared at the entrance of his palace. Still carrying his carved and bejewelled box, Garadan walked slowly towards the altar and the villagers parted to make way for him. In the flickering light of the torches his face was immobile and inhuman as he reached the edge of the flat rock and stepped up on to it. He raised one hand imperiously and an expectant silence descended over the crowd.
“The Blood Moon answers my command,” Garadan proclaimed in ringing tones. “Soon it will appear above you—to oversee and sanctify the execution of the devil creatures.”
“You won’t get away with this, Garadan,” Surgenor said fiercely, struggling with his bonds. “We’re not alone on this world. Our friends are on their way to us right now…with powerful weapons…”
“The devils are trying even more of their lies and trickery,” Garadan said, glancing down into his box. “But nothing can save them because…” He raised his right hand and pointed upwards at the eastern edge of the strip of sky. “I command the Blood Moon to appear…NOW!”
A dreadful fascination drew Surgenor’s gaze to the rim of the valley. His heart began a frenzied pounding as he waited for the emergence of the first sliver of crimson brightness which would herald the end of his life. And in the midst of all his fears and regrets was one persistent, pounding question: Why had Aesop not even tried to help them?
The silence overhanging the strange scene was absolute. Every eye was fixed on the designated portion of the sky.
Surgenor had endured the suspense for perhaps twenty seconds, perhaps thirty—time had ceased to have any meaning for him—when he began to realise that Garadan’s computer had been slightly out in its prediction. The red satellite was taking longer to show up than expected. The watching villagers must have thought the delay unusual because they began to stir a little.
Garadan put his hand into the carved box, obviously interrogating the computer inside. “The Blood Moon will appear,” he shouted, but now there was an edge of panic in his voice. “I, King Garadan, have ordered it so.”
More drawn-out seconds dragged by as the sky remained dark, and there was an increasingly restless murmuring from the crowd. Surgenor began to feel a flickering of hope. Something had definitely gone wrong with the computer prediction, and therein lay his and Targett’s chance of salvation.
“The Blood Moon refuses to appear,” he called out. “The gods have turned against Garadan! It is a sign they want us set free.”
“Be silent!” Garadan snarled. “All of you, be silent! I am your king and I command you to…”
“He’s just an ordinary man,” Surgenor cut in, raising his voice against the growing clamour among the watchers. “One who has been tricking you into serving him while your children go cold and hungry. Don’t be fooled any longer. This is your chance to…”
Surgenor’s voice faded as Garadan, with a growl of hatred, dropped his box and ran to the trestle which supported the ceremonial sword. Garadan snatched up the weapon, turned to Surgenor and raised the gleaming blade above his head. The blade had begun its downward sweep when there was a sudden movement near the edge of the altar. A hunting spear swished through the air and hit Garadan full on the chest. He fell backwards, twitched spasmodically, and then was still.
Surgenor recognised Harld’s coppery hair as the hunter leaped up on to the flat rock and held up his hands to quieten the circle of villagers.
“Listen to me,” Harld called out. “I have slain Garadan, and the gods did nothing to save him, which proves he was just an ordinary man—exactly as the strangers said. I believe that they too are ordinary men—not devils—and I also believe they can do much good for all of us.
“Let us at least hear what they have to say. And if, when they have done, you are not satisfied that they speak the truth—then you can put them, and me, to the sword.”
During the silence that followed, Surgenor became aware of Mike Targett squirming closer to him. “You always liked to hear yourself talk, big man,” Targett said, his voice quavering with relief. “Now’s your chance—the stage is all yours.”
Early on the following morning, having said a temporary goodbye to the villagers, Surgenor and Targett began the long climb to the rim of the valley. They wanted to wait in their own vehicle for the arrival of the other survey modules, and for the eventual landing of the Sarafand. That would be the first step in the long job of rehabilitating and educating the lost colony of humans, and ultimately of returning them to Earth.
“That was the luckiest escape we’re ever likely to have,” Targett said. “Do you realise that if Garadan’s computer hadn’t gone wrong just when it did we would be dead men?”
“I don’t need to be reminded of that fact,” Surgenor replied soberly. “And a fat lot of good Aesop was to us! When I get back to the ship I might take a hammer and put a few dents in his memory banks.”
“I advise you not to damage official property, David.” The voice issuing from Surgenor’s communicorder button was unmistakably that of Aesop.
“So you’re still functioning, Aesop,” Surgenor said. “I was beginning to think you had developed a short circuit.”
“My circuits are immune to that kind of malfunction,” Aesop said pedantically. “I could not communicate with you while you were within earshot of the people in the village. As you surmised, it would have been too disturbing for them.”
Surgenor snorted to show his displeasure. “We got a bit disturbed ourselves, you know. If Garadan’s computer hadn’t fouled up…”
“His computer was working perfectly,” Aesop cut in. “It is a TCM 84C—a type which was widely used in colonisation ships in the last century and which is noted for great reliability. I might also add that Garadan had programmed it extremely well—he must have had a natural talent in that respect.”
“But…” Surgenor struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. “What went wrong with his prediction about the red moon?”
“It was a simple lack of input data,” Aesop said emotionless as ever. “Garadan had no way of knowing that I had decided to discredit him in the eyes of his followers in order to preserve your life and that of Michael.”
“Discredit him? How?”
“By intercepting the red moon while it was still at a distant point in its orbit and detonating my entire arsenal of anti-meteor weapons on its northern hemisphere.” Aesop continued speaking in matter-of-fact tones, as though discussing a minor adjustment to a coffee machine. “The deviation in the moon’s path was slight, of course, but it was cumulative and sufficient to prevent it being seen from the bottom of the valley.”
“Holy…!” Targett halted, his jaw sagging with surprise.
“So what you’re telling us,” Surgenor went on, “is that you calmly knocked the moon out of its orbit!”
Shocked by the magnitude of the concept, Surgenor was once again reminded of the gulf which exis
ted between his own human mentality and that of Aesop. To a human being there was something blasphemous in changing the appearance of the very heavens to suit the needs of presumptuous men—but Aesop worked as a pure intellect, unhampered by any emotion. To Aesop a problem was simply an exercise in logic; nothing more, nothing less.
“The direct approach to a problem is often the most effective,” Aesop said. “Don’t you agree, David?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Surgenor replied airily, striving to regain his composure. There had been a dry quality to Aesop’s voice, one he had noticed on previous occasions and which had led him to wonder if Aesop could be poking fun at him. Was it possible for a computer to have a sense of humour?
Surgenor considered the notion for a moment, then he shook his head and continued climbing towards the snowfields which gleamed in the sunshine far above.
* Ship Of Strangers, Gollancz 1978
DEFLATION 2001
Having to pay ten dollars for a cup of coffee shook Lester Perry.
The price had been stabilised at eight dollars for almost a month, and he had begun to entertain an irrational hope that it would stay there. He stared sadly at the vending machine as the dark liquid gurgled into a plastic cup. His expression of gloom became more pronounced when he raised the cup to his lips.
“Ten dollars,” he said. “And when you get it, it’s cold!”
His pilot, Boyd Dunhill, shrugged and then examined the gold braid of his uniform in case he had marred its splendour with the unaccustomed movement of his shoulders. “What do you expect?” he replied indifferently. “The airport authorities refused the Coffee Machine Maintenance Workers’ pay claim last week, so the union told its members to work to rule and that has forced up the costs.”
“But they got a hundred per cent four weeks ago! That’s when coffee went up to eight dollars.”
“The union’s original claim was for two hundred per cent.”
“But how could the airport pay two hundred per cent, for God’s sake?”
“The Chocolate Machine Workers got it,” Dunhill commented.
“Did they?” Perry shook his head in bewilderment. “Was that on television?”
“There hasn’t been any television for three months,” the pilot reminded him. “The technicians’ claim for a basic two million a year is still being disputed.”
Perry drained his coffee cup and threw it in the bin. “Is my plane ready? Can we go now?”
“It’s been ready for four hours.”
“Then why are we hanging around here?”
“The Light Aircraft Engineers’ productivity agreement—there’s a statutory minimum of eight hours allowed for all maintenance jobs.”
“Eight hours to replace a wiper blade!” Perry laughed shakily. “And that’s a productivity deal?”
“It has doubled the number of man-hours logged at this field.”
“Of course it has, if they’re putting down eight hours for half-hour jobs. But that’s a completely false…” Perry stopped speaking as he saw the growing coldness on his pilot’s face. He remembered, just in time, that there was a current pay dispute between the Flying Employers Association and the Low-wing Twin-engined Private Airplane Pilots Union. The employers were offering 75% and the pilots were holding out for 150%, plus a mileage bonus. “Can you get a porter to carry my bag?”
Dunhill shook his head. “You’ll have to carry it yourself. They’re on strike since last Friday.”
“Why?”
“Too many people were carrying their own bags.”
“Oh!” Perry lifted his case and took it out across the tarmac to the waiting aircraft. He strapped himself into one of the five passenger seats, reached for a magazine to read during the flight to Denver, then recalled that there had been no newspapers or magazines for over two weeks. The preliminaries of getting airborne took an unusually long time—suggesting the air traffic controllers were engaged in some kind of collective bargaining—and finally Perry drifted into an uneasy sleep.
He was shocked into wakefulness by a sound of rushing air which told him the door of the aircraft had been opened in flight. Physically and mentally chilled, he opened his eyes and saw Dunhill standing at the yawning door. His expensive uniform was pulled into peculiar shapes by the harness of a parachute.
“What…What is this?” Perry said. “Are we on fire?”
“No.” Dunhill was using his best official voice. “I’m on strike.”
“You’re kidding!”
“You think so? I just got word on the radio—the employers have turned down the very reasonable demands of the Low-wing Twin-engined Private Airplane Pilots Union and walked out on the negotiations. We’ve got the backing of our friends in the Low-wing Single-engines and in the High-wing Twin-engines Unions, consequently all our members are withdrawing their labour at midnight, which is about thirty seconds from now.”
“But, Boyd! I’ve no chute—what’ll happen to me?”
A look of sullen determination appeared on the pilot’s face. “Why should I worry about you? You weren’t very concerned about me when I was trying to get along on a bare three million a year.”
“I was selfish. I see that now, and I’m sorry.” Perry unstrapped himself and stood up. “Don’t jump, Boyd—I’ll double your salary.”
“That,” Dunhill said impatiently, “is less than our union is claiming.”
“Oh! Well, I’ll triple it then. Three times your present salary, Boyd.”
“Sorry. No piecemeal settlements. They weaken union solidarity.” He turned away and dived into the roaring blackness beyond the doorway.
Perry stared after him for a moment, then wrestled the door shut and went forward to the cockpit. The aircraft was flying steadily on autopilot. Perry sat down in the left-hand seat and gripped the control column, casting his mind back several decades to his days as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. Landing the aircraft himself would get him in serious trouble with the unions for strike-breaking, but he was not prepared to die just yet. He disengaged the autopilot and began to get in some much-needed flying practice.
Some thousands of feet below the aircraft Boyd Dunhill pulled the ripcord and waited for his chute to open. The jolt, when it came, was less severe than he had expected and a few seconds later he was falling at the same speed as before. He looked upwards and saw—instead of a taut canopy—a fluttering bunch of unconnected nylon segments.
And, too late, he remembered the threat of the Parachute Stitchers and Packers Union to carry out disruptive action in support of their demand for longer vacations.
“Communists!” he screamed. “You lousy Red anarchist ba…”
SHADOW OF WINGS
There was once a magician named Dardash, who—at the relatively young age of 103—decided he had done with the world.
Accordingly, he selected an islet a short distance off the coast of Koldana and built upon it a small but comfortable house which resembled a wind-carved spire of rock. He equipped the dwelling with life’s few necessities and moved into it with all his possessions—the most prized of which were twelve massive scrolls in air-tight cylinders of oiled leather bound with silver wire. He surrounded his new home with certain magical defences and, as a final touch which was intended to complete his isolation, he rendered the entire island invisible.
As has already been stated, Dardash had decided he was finished with the world.
But the world was far from being finished with him…
It was a flawless morning in early summer, one on which the universe seemed to have been created anew. The land to the east shimmered like freshly smelted gold, deckled with white fire where the sun’s rays grazed slopes of sand; and on all other sides the flat blue immensity of the sea challenged Dardash’s knowledge of history with its sheer ringing emptiness. It was as though Minoa and Egypt and Sumer had never existed, or had vanished as completely as the ancient magic-based civilisations which had preceded them. The very air sang a song of new beginnings.
Being a magician, he retained a long-muscled and sinewy physique which—except for its lack of scars—resembled that of a superbly conditioned warrior, but his mind was growing old, corrupted by doubt. When the twelve scrolls had first come into his possession, and he had realised they contained spells written in the mana-rich, dawn-time of magic, he had known with a fierce certainty that he was destined to become the greatest warlock that had ever lived. But that had been almost two-score years ago, and he was no longer so confident. In truth, although he rarely admitted it to himself, he had begun to despair—and all because of a single, maddening, insuperable problem.
He reached the north-eastern tip of the islet, moody and abstracted in spite of the vitality all around him, and was turning southwards when his attention was caught by a flickering whiteness at the far side of the strip of water separating him from the mainland. The coast of Koldana was rocky in that area, a good feeding ground for gulls, but the object he had noticed was too large to be a bird. It was possibly a man in white garments, although travellers were rare in that region. Dardash stared at the brilliant speck for a moment, trying to bring it into sharp focus, but even his keen eyesight was defeated by the slight blurring effect caused by the islet’s invisibility screen.
He shrugged and continued his morning walk, returning his thoughts to more weighty considerations. As a man who had travelled the length and breadth of the known world, he could speak every major language and was familiar with the written forms where they existed. The fact that the spells of the twelve scrolls were couched in the Old Language had at first seemed a minor inconvenience, especially for one who was accustomed to deciphering all manner of strange inscriptions. A few months, possibly even a few years, of study would surely reveal the secrets of the old manuscripts—thus enabling him to fulfil his every dream, to become immortal, to assume all the fantastic powers of the dream-time sorcerers.
