The Space Trilogy

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “Did you see that?” exclaimed Gibson. “He understands what I’m saying.”

  “Well, so can a dog when it hears a command. It may simply be a question of habit again—you’ve been taking him out this time every day and he’s got used to it. Can you bring him back inside half an hour? We’re fixing up the encephalograph to get some EEG records of his brain.”

  These afternoon walks were a way of reconciling Squeak to his fate and at the same time salving Gibson’s conscience. He sometimes felt rather like a baby-snatcher who had abandoned his victim immediately after stealing it. But it was all in the cause of science, and the biologists had sworn they wouldn’t hurt Squeak in any way.

  The inhabitants of Port Lowell were now used to seeing this strangely assorted pair taking their daily stroll along the streets, and crowds no longer gathered to watch them pass. When it was outside school hours Squeak usually collected a retinue of young admirers who wanted to play with him, but it was now early afternoon and the juvenile population was still in durance vile. There was no one in sight when Gibson and his companion swung into Broadway, but presently a familiar figure appeared in the distance. Hadfield was carrying out his daily tour of inspection, and as usual he was accompanied by his pets.

  It was the first time that Topaz and Turquoise had met Squeak, and their aristocratic calm was seriously disturbed, though they did their best to conceal the fact. They tugged on their leads and tried to shelter unobtrusively behind Hadfield, while Squeak took not the slightest notice of them at all.

  “Quite a menagerie!” laughed Hadfield. “I don’t think Topaz and Turquoise appreciate having a rival—they’ve had the place to themselves so long that they think they own it.”

  “Any news from Earth yet?” asked Gibson, anxiously.

  “Oh, about your application? Good heavens, I only sent it off two days ago! You know just how quickly things move down there. It will be at least a week before we get an answer.”

  The Earth was always “down,” the outer planets “up,” so Gibson had discovered. The terms gave him a curious mental picture of a great slope leading down to the Sun, with the planets lying on it at varying heights.

  “I don’t really see what it’s got to do with Earth,” Gibson continued. “After all, it’s not as if there’s any question of allocating shipping space. I’m here already—in fact it’ll save trouble if I don’t go back!”

  “You surely don’t imagine that such commonsense arguments carry much weight with the policy-makers back on Earth!” retorted Hadfield. “Oh, dear no! Everything has to go through the Proper Channels.”

  Gibson was fairly sure that Hadfield did not usually talk about his superiors in this light-hearted fashion, and he felt that peculiar glow of satisfaction that comes when one is permitted to share a deliberate indiscretion. It was another sign that the C.E. trusted him and considered that he was on his side. Dare he mention the two other matters that were occupying his mind—Project Dawn and Irene? As far as Irene was concerned, he had made his promise and would have to keep it sooner or later. But first he really ought to have a talk with Irene herself—yes, that was a perfectly good excuse for putting it off.

  He put it off so long that the matter was taken right out of his hands. Irene herself made the plunge, no doubt egged on by Jimmy, from whom Gibson had a full report the next day. It was easy to tell from Jimmy’s face what the result had been.

  Irene’s suggestion must have been a considerable shock to Hadfield, who no doubt believed that he had given his daughter everything she needed, and thus shared a delusion common among parents. Yet he had taken it calmly and there had been no scenes. Hadfield was too intelligent a man to adopt the attitude of the deeply wounded father. He had merely given lucid and compelling reasons why Irene couldn’t possibly go to Earth until she was twenty-one, when he planned to return for a long holiday during which they could see the world together. And that was only three years away.

  “Three years!” lamented Jimmy. “It might just as well be three lifetimes!”

  Gibson deeply sympathized, but tried to look on the bright side of things.

  “It’s not so long, really. You’ll be fully qualified then and earning a lot more money than most young men at that age. And it’s surprising how quickly the time goes.”

  This Job’s comforting produced no alleviation of Jimmy’s gloom. Gibson felt like adding the comment that it was just as well that ages on Mars were still reckoned by Earth time, and not according to the Martian year of 687 days. However, he thought better of it and remarked instead: “What does Hadfield think about all this, anyway? Has he discussed you with Irene?”

  “I don’t think he knows anything about it.”

  “You can bet your life he does! You know, I really think it would be a good idea to go and have it out with him.”

  “I’ve thought of that, once or twice,” said Jimmy. “But I guess I’m scared.”

  “You’ll have to get over that some time if he’s going to be your father-in-law!” retorted Gibson. “Besides, what harm could it do?”

  “He might stop Irene seeing me in the time we’ve still got.”

  “Hadfield isn’t that sort of man, and if he was he’d have done it long ago.”

  Jimmy thought this over and was unable to refute it. To some extent Gibson could understand his feelings, for he remembered his own nervousness at his first meeting with Hadfield. In this he had had much less excuse than Jimmy, for experience had long ago taught him that few great men remain great when one gets up close to them. But to Jimmy, Hadfield was still the aloof and unapproachable master of Mars.

  “If I do go and see him,” said Jimmy at last, “what do you think I ought to say?”

  “What’s wrong with the plain, unvarnished truth? It’s been known to work wonders on such occasions.”

  Jimmy shot him a slightly hurt look; he was never quite sure whether Gibson was laughing with him or at him. It was Gibson’s own fault, and was the chief obstacle to their complete understanding.

  “Look,” said Gibson. “Come along with me to the Chief’s house tonight, and have it out with him. After all, look at it from his point of view. For all he can tell, it may be just an ordinary flirtation with neither side taking it very seriously. But if you go and tell him you want to get engaged—then it’s a different matter.”

  He was much relieved when Jimmy agreed with no more argument. After all, if the boy had anything in him he should make these decisions himself, without any prompting. Gibson was sensible enough to realize that, in his anxiety to be helpful, he must not run the risk of destroying Jimmy’s self-reliance.

  It was one of Hadfield’s virtues that one always knew where to find him at any given time—though woe betide anyone who bothered him with routine official matters during the few hours when he considered himself off duty. This matter was neither routine nor official; and it was not, as Gibson had guessed, entirely unexpected either, for Hadfield had shown no surprise at all when he saw whom Gibson had brought with him. There was no sign of Irene, she had thoughtfully effaced herself. As soon as possible, Gibson did the same.

  He was waiting in the library, running through Hadfield’s books and wondering how many of them the Chief had actually had time to read, when Jimmy came in.

  “Mr. Hadfield would like to see you,” he said.

  “How did you get on?”

  “I don’t know yet, but it wasn’t so bad as I’d expected.”

  “It never is. And don’t worry. I’ll give you the best reference I can without actual perjury.”

  When Gibson entered the study, he found Hadfield sunk in one of the armchairs, staring at the carpet as though he had never seen it before in his life. He motioned his visitor to take the other chair.

  “How long have you known Spencer?” he asked.

  “Only since leaving Earth. I’d never met him before boarding the Ares.”

  “And do you think that’s long enough to form a clear opinion of his character
?”

  “Is a lifetime long enough to do that?” countered Gibson.

  Hadfield smiled, and looked up for the first time.

  “Don’t evade the issue,” he said, though without irritation.

  “What do you really think about him? Would you be willing to accept him as a son-in-law?”

  “Yes,” said Gibson, without hesitation. “I’d be glad to.”

  It was just as well that Jimmy could not overhear their conversation in the next ten minutes—though in other ways, perhaps, it was rather a pity, for it would have given him much more insight into Gibson’s feelings. In his carefully probing cross-examination, Hadfield was trying to learn all he could about Jimmy, but he was testing Gibson as well. This was something that Gibson should have anticipated; the fact that he had overlooked it in serving Jimmy’s interests was no small matter to his credit. When Hadfield’s interrogation suddenly switched its point of attack, he was totally unprepared for it.

  “Tell me, Gibson,” said Hadfield abruptly. “Why are you taking all this trouble for young Spencer? You say you only met him five months ago.”

  “That’s perfectly true. But when we were a few weeks out I discovered that I’d known both his parents very well—we were all at college together.”

  It had slipped out before he could stop it. Hadfield’s eyebrows went up slightly; no doubt he was wondering why Gibson had never taken his degree. But he was far too tactful to pursue this subject, and merely asked a few casual questions about Jimmy’s parents, and when he had known them.

  At least, they seemed casual questions—just the kind Hadfield might have been expected to ask, and Gibson answered them innocently enough. He had forgotten that he was dealing with one of the keenest minds in the Solar System, one at least as good as his own at analyzing the springs and motives of human conduct. When he realized what had happened, it was already too late.

  “I’m sorry,” said Hadfield, with deceptive smoothness, “but this whole story of yours simply lacks conviction. I don’t say that what you’ve told me isn’t the truth. It’s perfectly possible that you might take such an interest in Spencer because you knew his parents very well twenty years ago. But you’ve tried to explain away too much, and it’s quite obvious that the whole affair touches you at an altogether deeper level.” He leaned forward suddenly and stabbed at Gibson with his finger.

  “I’m not a fool, Gibson, and men’s minds are my business. You’ve no need to answer this if you don’t want to, but I think you owe it to me now. Jimmy Spencer is your son, isn’t he?”

  The bomb had dropped—the explosion was over. And in the silence that followed Gibson’s only emotion was one of overwhelming relief.

  “Yes,” he said. “He is my son. How did you guess?”

  Hadfield smiled; he looked somewhat pleased with himself, as if he had just settled a question that had been bothering him for some time.

  “It’s extraordinary how blind men can be to the effects of their own actions—and how easily they assume that no one else has any powers of observation. There’s a slight but distinct likeness between you and Spencer; when I first met you together I wondered if you were related and was quite surprised when I heard you weren’t.”

  “It’s very curious,” interjected Gibson, “that we were together in the Ares for three months, and no one noticed it there.”

  “Is it so curious? Spencer’s crewmates thought they knew his background, and it never occurred to them to associate it with you. That probably blinded them to the resemblance which I—who hadn’t any preconceived ideas—spotted at once. But I’d have dismissed it as pure coincidence if you hadn’t told me your story. That provided the missing clues. Tell me—does Spencer know this?”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t even suspect it.”

  “Why are you so sure? And why haven’t you told him?”

  The cross-examination was ruthless, but Gibson did not resent it. No one had a better right than Hadfield to ask these questions. And Gibson needed someone in whom to confide—just as Jimmy had needed him, back in the Ares when this uncovering of the past had first begun. To think that he had started it all himself. He had certainly never dreamed where it would lead…

  “I think I’d better go back to the beginning,” said Gibson, shifting uneasily in his chair. “When I left college I had a complete breakdown and was in hospital for over a year. After I came out I’d lost all contact with my Cambridge friends; though a few tried to keep in touch with me, I didn’t want to be reminded of the past. Eventually, of course, I ran into some of them again, but it wasn’t until several years later that I heard what had happened to Kathleen—to Jimmy’s mother. By then, she was already dead.”

  He paused, still remembering, across all these years, the puzzled wonder he had felt because the news had brought him so little emotion.

  “I heard there was a son, and thought little of it. We’d always been—well, careful, or so we believed—and I just assumed that the boy was Gerald’s. You see, I didn’t know when they were married, or when Jimmy was born. I just wanted to forget the whole business, and pushed it out of my mind. I can’t even remember now if it even occurred to me that the boy might be mine. You may find it hard to believe this, but it’s the truth.

  “And then I met Jimmy, and that brought it all back again. I felt sorry for him at first, and then began to get fond of him. But I never guessed who he was. I even found myself trying to trace his resemblance to Gerald—though I can hardly remember him now.”

  Poor Gerald! He, of course, had known the truth well enough, but he had loved Kathleen and had been glad to marry her on any terms he could. Perhaps he was to be pitied as much as she, but that was something that now would never be known.

  “And when,” persisted Hadfield, “did you discover the truth?”

  “Only a few weeks ago, when Jimmy asked me to witness some official document he had to fill in—it was his application to start work here, in fact. That was when I first learned his date of birth.”

  “I see,” said Hadfield thoughtfully. “But even that doesn’t give absolute proof, does it?”

  “I’m perfectly sure,” Gibson replied with such obvious pique that Hadfield could not help smiling, “that there was no one else. Even if I’d had any doubts left, you’ve dispelled them yourself.”

  “And Spencer?” asked Hadfield, going back to his original question. “You’ve not told me why you’re so confident he knows nothing. Why shouldn’t he have checked a few dates? His parents’ wedding day, for example? Surely what you’ve told him must have roused his suspicions?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gibson slowly, choosing his words with the delicate precision of a cat walking over a wet roadway. “You see, he rather idealizes his mother, and though he may guess I haven’t told him everything, I don’t believe he’s jumped to the right conclusion. He’s not the sort who could have kept quiet about it if he had. And besides, he’d still have no proof even if he knows when his parents were married—which is more than most people do. No, I’m sure Jimmy doesn’t know, and I’m afraid it will be rather a shock to him when he finds out.”

  Hadfield was silent; Gibson could not even guess what he was thinking. It was not a very creditable story, but at least he had shown the virtue of frankness.

  Then Hadfield shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that seemed to hold a lifetime’s study of human nature.

  “He likes you,” he said. “He’ll get over it all right.”

  Gibson relaxed with a sigh of relief. He knew that the worst was past.

  “Gosh, you’ve been a long time,” said Jimmy. “I thought you were never going to finish; what happened?”

  Gibson took him by the arm.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s quite all right. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

  He hoped and believed he was telling the truth. Hadfield had been sensible, which was more than some fathers would have been even in this day and age.

  “I�
��m not particularly concerned,” he had said, “who Spencer’s parents were or were not. This isn’t the Victorian era. I’m only interested in the fellow himself, and I must say I’m favourably impressed. I’ve also had quite a chat about him with Captain Norden, by the way, so I’m not relying merely on tonight’s interview. Oh yes, I saw all this coming a long time ago! There was even a certain inevitability about it, since there are very few youngsters of Spencer’s age on Mars.”

  He had spread his hands in front of him—in a habit which Gibson had noticed before—and stared intently at his fingers as if seeing them for the first time in his life.

  “The engagement can be announced tomorrow,” he’d said softly. “And now—what about your side of the affair?” He’d stared keenly at Gibson, who returned his gaze without flinching.

  “I want to do whatever is best for Jimmy,” he had said. “Just as soon as I can decide what that is.”

  “And you still want to stay on Mars?” asked Hadfield.

  “I’d thought of that aspect of it too,” Gibson had said. “But if I went back to Earth, what good would that do? Jimmy’ll never be there more than a few months at a time—in fact, from now on I’ll see a lot more of him if I stay on Mars!”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true enough,” Hadfield had said, smiling. “How Irene’s going to enjoy having a husband who spends half his life in space remains to be seen—but then, sailors’ wives have managed to put up with this sort of thing for quite a long time.” He paused abruptly.

  “Do you know what I think you ought to do?” he said.

  “I’d be very glad of your views,” Gibson had replied with feeling.

  “Do nothing until the engagement’s over and the whole thing’s settled. If you revealed your identity now I don’t see what good it would do, and it might conceivably cause harm. Later, though, you must tell Jimmy who you are—or who he is, whichever way you like to look at it. But I don’t think the right moment will come for quite a while.”

  It was the first time that Hadfield had referred to Spencer by his Christian name. He was probably not even conscious of it, but to Gibson it was a clear and unmistakable sign that he was already thinking of Jimmy as his son-in-law. The knowledge brought him a sudden sense of kinship and sympathy towards Hadfield. They were united in selfless dedication towards the same purpose—the happiness of the two children in whom they saw their own youth reborn.