"You're saying the planets came closer to Earth and to each other at one time," Kyal said. "Close enough to interact. The Terrans could seem them clearly."
Casselo's beard bobbed up and down behind his helmet visor. "Yes."
"Some people that Lorili and I met at Moscow talked about that. They said Venus could have been one of them—when it was a white-hot protoplanet."
Casselo straightened up from resting. Kyal climbed into the buggy's open cab and slid onto the bench seat spanning it. Yorim got in from the other side, as on the outward trip taking the driver's position, which was in the center. "The early Terrans lived under a different sky. They saw the planets as apparitions in the heavens, bringing death and terror and devastation," Casselo said as he followed Yorim. "With arc discharges going on between them, and all kinds of plasma effects. Volcanoes, earthquakes, storms of meteorites coming down. The whole climate in chaos. But being at a pre-technical stage, they were unable to understand what they were witnessing. They interpreted it as wars between celestial gods. The devastations on Earth itself became retribution on the inhabitants for transgressions of their laws." The buggy moved away, throwing up a small shower of dust which fell back promptly with no lingering cloud. Casselo went on, "The terrors handed down from those times were ritualized into religions fixated on obeying and appeasing wrathful deities. Later, when the planets receded and sorted themselves out into remote, nonthreatening orbits, the memories of what had started it all were repressed."
Yorim was looking more thoughtful now as he navigated them back across the gray wilderness of dust and rubble. "So what are you saying? That the same thing happened that you get with individuals sometimes after something traumatic? A kind of collective amnesia. The literal meanings were forgotten."
"Something like that," Casselo agreed. "Although I'm not so sure there's any collective mechanism that could produce actual amnesia. More an unconscious cultural consensus would be my guess. You know the kind of thing. If you all don't talk and don't think about something that's too painful, it ceases to exist."
"Somebody who was on the Melther Jorg with us was into all this," Kyal said. "Emur Frazin. He's done a lot of work on Terran mythology."
"I know," Casselo said. "He was the one I got all this from."
Kyal smiled faintly and nodded. "And so the ancient accounts were dismissed as myth and fable. Which would make sense of why they would be obvious to us. We'd never been through it."
"Exactly," Casselo said. .
"What about Froile?" Yorim queried.
"Yes, our own miniature version, maybe," Casselo agreed. "But from what I've been able to make out, it would have been a pretty tame affair compared to what happened on Earth. Sherven has a theory that it might help explain this big difference in time scales—why the Terrans appear to have fabricated huge epochs that never existed."
"How?" Kyal asked, turning his head to look across. "What's the connection?"
"The evidence for massive catastrophes in their past was there all around them. But seeing it would be to accept what had happened, which would mean acknowledging that it could happen again. That was something that the shocked Terran unconsciousness was unable to face. So they persuaded themselves that slow, gradual change, working over immense spans of time, could account for everything that they saw in the world. They created an illusion of a safe, secure place in the universe, where everything was stable and predictable, always had been, and always would be. All that was violent and threatening was banished to remoteness, either light-years away from them in space, or billions of years back in time."
They arrived at the main base area, and Yorim parked by the other vehicles in front of the huts. The entry lock to the hut they used as the mess room could only take two suited figures at a time. Casselo and Yorim went ahead. While Kyal was waiting for the pumps to complete the cycle, he turned and stared out again across the stillness, replaying in his mind the scenes of conflict that had taken place here on this very landscape long ago.
Finally, maybe, he was beginning to understand the strange inner conflicts that had made the Terrans what they were. As often happens with an individual who is in denial, the trauma and terrors they had experienced found release in other ways. The brutality and carnage of Terran wars re-enacted mass-extinctions they had suffered, and represented symbolic human sacrifice to their bloodthirsty gods. Their obsessive pursuit of ever-more-powerful weapons echoed the violence on a cosmic scale that they had seen in their sky. And what else were their entire political and economic systems but expressions of the craving for the dominance that would bring security? All were manifestations of a bewildered psyche struggling to face a future that it feared and distrusted. For the first time, Kyal found himself moved by something akin to compassion for them.
He thought back to the side of the Terrans that Lorili had seen, and he looked up again at the stars. The Terrans had talked about going to there. Some Venusians were of the opinion that they could have done it. Yes, it was true: Much that was disturbed and had gone wrong was eradicated from the universe when the last Terran eyes gazed sightlessly up at the skies they would never conquer.
But something extraordinary that had come into being, and tried for a while against hopeless odds to grow and become what it could and flourish, was lost too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was springtime in Maryland. In a walled estate situated twenty miles from New Washington, crocuses were coming into bloom on the grassy slope leading down to willows by the lake. Sandra Perrin-McLeod sat at a wicker table on the patio outside the open French windows from the summer house, watching a pair of mocking birds hopping among the branches of the large elm and chattering noisily as they teased a squirrel. The peaceful hours that she had spent here alone on fine days, confiding her thoughts to her journal, were among her most pleasant memories. Soon now, she would be seeing it all for the last time.
It was an island of tranquility among the storm clouds that were gathering to engulf the world. The American-led western alignment had emerged victorious but battered from the war with China that had culminated from beginnings around Taiwan and in the Middle East. Schooled and bred to the tradition of loyalty to her social class, she would utter no aspersions regarding her country's publicly stated position: Having saved its friends and been betrayed by them, America would defend its honor. But she knew enough to despise it inwardly and deplore the fraudulent history that was being taught in the schools and presented through the popular culture. There was no honor nor virtue nor glory to any of it. By definition, war was the business of mass-killing, destruction, lies, and deception. All the victors proved was that they were the more ruthless and better at it.
The Euro-Russian monolith that had consolidated while America recovered had aligned with the Muslim bloc to expel American influence from the Asian continent. Ironically, the new China, rebuilding itself from the ruins, was turning now to America for security and defense. All the familiar mechanisms for manipulating public perceptions, from the demonizing of the future enemies by means of stereotyped images in the mass entertainments, to slanted news reporting, silencing of dissent, and the hand-picking of approved appointments in academia, were in evidence again. As always, the weapons had grown more fearsome, with near-space dominated by the military and outposts on the Moon. Alexander said it would be much worse this time. And he should have known, if anyone did. Universally hailed scientific genius, master-level chess player at high school, an architect of the alliance's defense strategy, with a seat on the Inner Security Council; and she the daughter of one of the leading financier families. Their position should have gained them the world. Instead, its only tangible worth would be to get them out of it.
She shook the thought away and returned her attention to the journal. After reading over the last paragraph she had written, she appended:
Humanity has invented much and learned nothing. There seems to be something deep in the subconscious of our kind that compels nations to org
ies of violence and mutual annihilation. . . .
The sounds of scampering mixed with children's voices came through the open windows from the house. Moments later, Allan, who was ten, and Marie, eight, appeared on their way to the stable, dressed for riding. Sandra rested her pen on the book and forced a smile. "All ready to go, I see. You have a perfect day for it."
"What are you doing out here all by yourself?" Marie asked.
"Oh, writing down my thoughts. It's better to be alone when you want to do things like that. The quiet helps."
"Why do you have to write them down? You already know what they are."
Sandra smiled again, wider and this time genuinely. "To remind me a long time from now what they were. When I'm older and probably won't remember what I was thinking today."
"I didn't think grown-ups forgot things. You always have to remind us when we forget. How can you, if you forget them too?"
"There's Maggie," Allan said. "She's waiting for us."
Their riding instructor came out from the stable below and called up toward the house. "Marie. Allan. We're ready to go. You can come down and bring them out yourselves. I'm not the groom here, you know."
"There." Sandra nodded at them. "Quite right too."
"We've got to go," Allan said. "Can you come too?"
"Not today. I need to finish this. Anyway, I'm not dressed for it. I'll see you both at dinner. Run along, and have fun."
"Will our dad be here for dinner?" Marie asked plaintively as Allan went on ahead. "Is he back yet?"
"No, I'm afraid not, Flower."
"When will he be back?"
"It will be a while yet. Go on now. Don't get Maggie cross."
Sandra watched them mount up an depart at a slow canter toward the trail leading to the wood. Then she lifted her pen again and resumed.
The children miss their father already. I dread to think how much we will miss our home, our whole way of life, possibly forever. In his last letter, Alex talked about getting us out via a launch base somewhere on the West Coast in the next week or two. I'm not really sure why I bother to write this and keep the journal up to date. I won't be taking it with us to Terminus. Oxstead, before he left to follow after Alex, warned me that it wouldn't be wise to bring any evidence of our discussing things that are this sensitive. I really would have preferred not knowing that Robert and Vera are not on the list. The thought of never seeing them again is harrowing . . . and of what might become of them.
I know now how foolish I was to have talked about any of this to Gorman. But the man is so persistent. I will leave this account with family things, where it belongs. More foolishness, perhaps? But it gives a certain sense of completeness to life, knowing one's affairs were left finished and in order. I wonder if anyone . . .
. . . will ever read it.
Casselo set down the copy of the translation. The image of the original document, fragile and faded, restored by a delicate treatment with infra-red and dyes, showed on the screen next to him. It had been discovered among a carefully packed and preserved collection of picture albums, letters, and cards in a family burial vault in the eastern part of northern America. The search being run for references to Terminus had pulled it up, and the details transmitted up from Earth via Explorer 6.
"Launch base somewhere on the West Coast," Casselo read again to Kyal and Brysek, who were with him in one of the lab huts. "Which we've seen mention of before. And it's a 'sensitive' subject. People being moved out to a secret location. Sounds like this place, doesn't it? It all fits."
"The whole planet would have had to have been threatened," Brysek muttered.
"Who are these other people that it talks about?" Kyal asked, leaning forward to peer at the translation again. "This Oxtead. . . . And then there's Robert & Vera . . . and Gorman. Do we have any idea who they were?
"I've put all the names through for another search," Casselo replied. "But don't hold out too high hopes of much turning up. The linguists tell me that Robert and Vera were both popular given names that could have referred to just about anyone. And Gorman was a fairly common family name. They're giving it a try. But as I said, don't expect too much to come out of it."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jenyn sat at his work station in the Linguistics offices of the ISA laboratory complex at Rhombus, contemplating a screen showing the translation of a Terran political tract that he had worked on during the time he had spent in the Americas. It was the President of that region's exhortation before the final war that had followed the Central Asian War. The words were stirring, a call to unite a nation that had inspired millions to courage and duty and sacrifice. Their cadences reverberated in his mind, bringing visions of huge armies mobilizing and moving to their positions, formations of aircraft sweeping across the skies, ships putting to sea. "We will defend our freedoms and our honor to the last one of us that is left to stand. We will never surrender." How could such passions and determination be instilled into dull Venusian minds? he asked himself. There had to be a way. His being thirsted and cried out for it. He felt the natural instinct for power in his veins. The great Terran leaders had faced the same challenge and risen to it.
It needed organizing and direction. As with the cutting edge of a tool, or the combined work of the swing of a hammer and the point of a nail, the secret lay in concentrating all effort on the place where effect was to be achieved. Every distraction and diversion of a resource was to the same degree to detract from the plan and render attainment of the goal that much less likely. It really was as simple as that. The pusillanimous Venusian reluctance to resort to force would have to be overcome. His shock troops would be the disaffected and envious, who, once they were awakened, could always be spurred to demand as rights what the traditional anarchic ways of undirected individuals muddling through had failed to confer. The scattering of loosely affiliated Progressive initiatives behind the labor strikes and student demonstrations that the news channels were reporting from Venus were groping around the right idea, but in their implicit expectation that they themselves only partly recognized, that energy and direction would somehow emerge under its own dynamic, they were adopting the same assumptions as the system they criticized. It needed a Leader, who would make it happen. In some ways, the time he had been obliged to spend out here at Earth while the fuss at The Commentator cooled down had not been a bad thing. It had given him time to reflect and to plan. Like a general from a distance, had been able to see the full scheme of the battlefield with all its strongholds, weaknesses, and openings for opportunity. By rallying the young and adventurous, undulled minds that he had found here, far from home, he could light a flame that would ignite the world when he brought it back to Venus.
But first there was Gaster Lornod to think about. While Jenyn was on the far side of the planet, Lornod had come to the fore in Rhombus and among the professional cadre up on Explorer 6 as the prime contender for coordinating the Progressive groups on Earth. He called himself a Progressive Moderate, taking the position that the traditional system had grown complacent in some ways over the years, and perhaps some looking to itself to put its house in order would not be a bad thing. The pure meritocracy upon which it was based was a fine thing in theory, he conceded, but it left many ways whereby deserving people were being left behind through no fault or failing of their own, creating needless personal distress and a loss of their services to society as a whole, which society had within its power to put right. It was a soft line which, while possibly effective in attracting initial support, missed the whole point of power by mistaking the means for the ends. Even the name "Progressive Moderate" was a contradiction of terms. But it was getting attention, not only from intellectualoid invertebrates who would never show strong Progressive mettle, but now also among the younger contingent, eroding what Jenyn had looked to as his potential recruitment base. Even Sherven was on record as remarking that the Moderates might have some valid points.
Yes, he would have to do something about Lornod.
Elundi Kasseg, who worked in the same room, in his own niche on the far side of a large, shared table covered with papers, file folders, and references, interrupted Jenyn's thoughts. "Got a second, Jenyn?"
"What?"
Elundi gestured at the screen that he was using. "This latest that's come through from E6. I need an opinion."
Jenyn copied the text to one of his own screens. It was another search request from the group at Triagon on lunar Farside. "Okay," he said.
"The name Oxstead is rare enough, but there aren't any hits. Robert & Vera are too vague. We can forget them. But it's some up with a number of Gormans."
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