Six people, tormented by anxiety, were left aboard the Gloria Mundi. At the end of the fifteenth day of planetfall, a rescue team consisting of the three remaining women set out. They, too, carried nitro-pistols and grenade throwers.
The fact that it was the women who went and not the men was not fortuitous. Of the men who remained, two were vital to the running of the ship (assuming no success in rescue) if it was ever to return to Earth; and the third, Paul Marlowe, was suffering from a form of acute dysentry.
He said goodbye to Dr Ann Victoria Marlowe, née Watkins, without emotion. He was too ill to care: she was too clinical to be involved. After she had gone, he lay back on his bed, tried to forget his own exhausting symptoms and the world of Altair Five and to lose himself in a microfilm of one of the novels of Charles Dickens.
The rescue team maintained radio contact for no more than seven hours. Then it, too, became silent.
After four days, Paul Marlowe was over the worst of his dysentery; and he and his two companions were in a state of extreme depression.
They considered waiting in the citadel of the Gloria Mundi indefinitely; they considered pulling back into orbit; they even considered heading out of the system and back to Sol Three. For clearly there was something badly wrong on Altair Five.
In the end they did none of those things. In the end they decided to become a death-or-glory squad.
It was Paul Marlowe, the psychiatrist, who worked the problem out logically. Three people were necessary to manage the ship. Therefore there was no point in sending one or two men out if he or they failed to return. For the vessel would still be grounded. So they must either all go or all stay. If they stayed in the Gloria Mundi and eventually returned to Sol Three, they would lose their self-respect – in much the same manner as mountaineers who have been forced to cut the rope. If, on the other hand, they formed themselves into a second search party and failed, they would have betrayed the trust vested in them by all the people of the United States of Europe.
But the United States of Europe was sixteen light-years away and under the present circumstances, their duty to such a remote concept was itself a remote abstraction. What mattered more were the people with whom they had shared danger and monotony and triumph – and now disaster.
So, really, there was no choice. They had to go.
By this time the ship’s armoury was sadly depleted; but there were still enough weapons left for the three men to give a respectable account of themselves if they were challenged by a visible enemy. On the twentieth day of planetfall they emerged from the womb-like security of the Gloria Mundi to be born again – as Paul Marlowe saw it imaginatively – into an unknown but thoroughly hostile environment.
The designers of the Gloria Mundi had tried to foresee every possible emergency that could occur – including the death, disappearance, defection or defeat of the entire crew. If by any remote possibility, it was argued, such types of catastrophe occurred on a planet with sophisticated inhabitants, it would theoretically be possible for the said inhabitants to take over the ship, check the star maps, track back on the log and the computer programmes and – defying all laws of probability, but subscribing to the more obtuse laws of absurdity – return the Gloria Mundi to Earth.
That, in itself, might be a good and charitable act. Or, depending on the nature, the potential and the intentions of the aliens who accomplished it, it might by some remote chance be the worst thing that could possibly happen to the human race. Whatever the result of such highly theoretical speculations could turn out to be, the designers, were of the opinion – wholeheartedly endorsed by their respective governments – that they could not afford to take chances.
Consequently the Gloria Mundi had been programmed to destroy herself on the thirty-fifth day of her abandonment – if that disastrous event ever took place. Thirty-five days, it was argued ought to be long enough to resolve whatever crisis confronted the crew. If it wasn’t, then the Gloria Mundi and all who travelled in her would have to be a write-off.
The designers were very logical people. Some had argued for a twenty-day limit and some had argued for a ninety-day limit. Absorbed as they were in abstractions, few of them had paid much attention to the human element, and none of them could have foreseen the situation on Altair Five.
By the evening of the twentieth day of planetfall, the three remaining crew members had covered about seven kilometres of their search through the barely penetrable forests and had found not the slightest trace of their companions. They had just set up a circle of small but powerful electric lamps and an inner perimeter of electrified alarm wire behind which they proposed to bivouac for the night when Paul Marlowe felt a stinging sensation in his knee.
He turned to speak to his two companions, but before he could do so he fell unconscious to the ground.
Later he woke up in what was, though he did not then know it, one of the donjons of Baya Nor.
Much later, in fact thirty-three days later, the Gloria Mundi turned into a high and briefly terrible mushroom of flame and radiant energy.
SIX
It was mid-morning; and Poul Mer Lo, surrounded by small dancing rainbows, drenched by a fine water mist, was kneeling with his arms tied behind his back. Behind him stood two Bayani warriors, each armed with a short trident, each trident poised above his neck for a finishing stroke. Before him lay the sad heap of his personal possessions: one electronic wrist-watch, one miniature transceiver, one vest, one shirt, one pair of shorts, one plastic visor, a set of body armour, a pair of boots and an automatic sweeper rifle.
Poul Mer Lo was naked. The mist formed into refreshing droplets on his body, the droplets ran down his face and chest and back. The Bayani warriors stood motionless. There was nothing to be heard but the hypnotic sound of the fountains. There was nothing to do but wait patiently for his audience with the god-king.
He looked at the sweeper rifle and smiled. It was a formidable weapon. With it – and providing he could choose his ground – he could annihilate a thousand Bayani armed with tridents. But he had not been able to choose his ground. And here he was – at the mercy of two small brown men, awaiting the pleasure of the god-king of Baya Nor.
He wanted to laugh. He badly wanted to laugh. But he repressed the laughter because his motivation might have been misunderstood. The two sombre guards could hardly be expected to appreciate the irony of the situation. To them he was simply a stranger, a captive. That he could be an emissary from a technological civilization on another world would be utterly beyond their comprehension.
In the country of the blind, thought Poul Mer Lo, recalling a legend that belonged to another time and space, the one-eyed man is king.
Again he wanted to laugh. For, as in the legend, the blind man – with all their obvious limitations – had turned out to be more formidable than the man with one eye.
‘You are smiling,’ said an oddly immature voice. ‘There are not many who dare to smile in the presence. Nor are there many who do not even notice the presence.’
Poul Mer Lo blinked the droplets from his eyes and looked up. At first he thought he saw a great bird, covered in brilliant plumage, with iridescent feathers of blue and red and green and gold; and with brilliant yellow eyes and a hooked black beak. But the feathers clothed a man, and the great bird’s head was set like a helmet above a recognizable face. The face of Enka Ne, god-king of Baya Nor.
It was also the face of a boy – or of a very young man.
‘Lord,’ said Poul Mer Lo, struggling now with the language that had seemed so easy when he practised it with the noia, ‘I ask pardon. My thoughts were far away.’
‘Riding, perhaps, on the wings of a silver bird,’ suggested Enka Ne, ‘to a land beyond the sky … Yes, I have spoken with the noia. You have told her a strange story … It is the truth?’
‘Yes, Lord, it is the truth.’
Enka Ne smiled. ‘Here we have a story about a beast called a tlamyn. It is supposed to be a beast of the night, living
in caves and dark places, never showing itself by day. It is said that once long ago six of our wise men ventured into the lair of a tlamyn – not, indeed, knowing of the presence or even the existence of such a creature. One of the wise men chanced upon the tlamyn’s face. It was tusked and hard and hairy like the dongoir that we hunt for sport. Therefore, feeling it in the darkness, he concluded that he had encountered a dongoir. Another touched the soft underbelly. It had two enormous breasts. Therefore, he concluded that he had come upon a great sleeping woman. A third touched the beast’s legs. They had scales and claws. Naturally, he thought he had found a nesting bird. A fourth touched the tlamyn’s tail. It was long and muscular and cold. So he decided that he had stumbled across a great serpent. A fifth found a pair of soft ears and deduced that he was lucky enough to discover one of the domasi whose meat we prize. And the sixth, sniffing the scent of the tlamyn, thought that he must be in the Temple of Gaiety. Each of the wise men made his discovery known to his comrades. Each insisted that his interpretation was the truth. The noise of their disputation, which was prolonged and energetic, eventually woke the sleeping tlamyn. And it, being very hungry, promptly ate them all … I should add that none of my people have ever seen a tlamyn and lived.’
Poul Mer Lo looked at the god-king, surprised by his intelligence. ‘Lord, that was a good story. There is one like it, concerning a creature called an elephant, that is told in my own country.’
‘In the land beyond the sky?’
‘In the land beyond the sky.’
Enka Ne laughed. ‘What is truth?’ he demanded. ‘Beyond the world in which we live there is nothing but Oruri. And even I am but a passing shadow in his endless dreams.’
Poul Mer Lo decided to take a gamble. ‘Yet who can say what and what does not belong to the dreams of Oruri. Might not Oruri dream of a strange country wherein there are such things as silver birds?’
Enka Ne was silent. He folded his arms, and gazed thoughtfully down at his prisoner. The feathers rustled. Water ran from them and made little pools on the stone floor.
At last the god-king spoke. ‘The oracle has said that you are a teacher – a great teacher. Is that so?’
‘Lord, I have skills that were prized among my own people. I have a little of the knowledge of my people. I do not know if I am a great teacher. I do not yet know what I can teach.’
The answer seemed to please Enka Ne. ‘Perhaps you speak honestly … Why did your comrades die?’
Until then, Poul Mer Lo had not known that he was the last survivor. He felt an intense desolation. He felt a sense of loneliness that made him cry out, as in pain.
‘You suffer?’ enquired the god-king. He looked puzzled.
Poul Mer Lo spoke with difficulty. ‘I did not know that my comrades were dead.’
Again there was a silence. Enka Ne gazed disconcertingly at the pale giant kneeling before him. He moved from side to side as if inspecting the phenomenon from all possible angles. The feathers rustled. The noise of the fountains became loud, like thunder.
Eventually, the god-king seemed to have made up his mind.
‘What would you do,’ asked Enka Ne, ‘if I were to grant you freedom?’
‘I should have to find somewhere to stay.’
‘What would you do, then, if you found somewhere to stay?’
‘I should have to find someone to cook for me. I do not even know what is good and what is not good to eat.’
‘And having found a home and a woman, what then?’
‘Then, Lord, I should have to decide how I could repay the people of Baya Nor who have given me these things.’
Enka Ne stretched out a hand. ‘Live,’ he said simply.
Poul Mer Lo felt a sharp jerk. Then his arms were free. The two silent Bayani warriors lifted him to his feet. He fell down because, having kneeled so long, the blood was not flowing in his legs.
Again they lifted him and supported him.
Enka Ne gazed at him without expression. Then he turned and walked away. After three or four paces he stopped and turned again.
He glanced at Poul Mer Lo and spoke to the guards. ‘This man has too many fingers,’ he said. ‘It is offensive to Oruri. Strike one from each hand.’
SEVEN
Poul Mer Lo was given a small thatched house that stood on short stilts just outside the sacred city, the noia with whom he had spent his imprisonment, and sixty-four copper rings. He did not know the value of the ring money; but Mylai Tui calculated that if he did not receive any further benefits from the god-king he could still live for nearly three hundred days without having to hunt or work for himself.
Poul Mer Lo thought the god-king had been more than generous, for he had provided the stranger with enough money to last his own lifetime. Wisely, perhaps, Enka Ne had not shown too much favour. He had made sure that Enka Ne the 610th would not be embarrassed by the munificence of his predecessor.
The little finger on each hand had been struck off expertly, the scars had healed and the only pain that remained was from tiny fragments of bone working their way slowly to the surface. Sometimes, when the weather was heavy, Poul Mer Lo was conscious of a throbbing. But, for the most part he had adjusted to the loss very well. It was quite remarkable how easily one could perform with only four fingers the tasks that had formerly required five.
For many days after he had received what amounted to the royal pardon, Poul Mer Lo spent his time doing nothing but learning. He walked abroad in the streets of Baya Nor and was surprised to find that he was, for the most part, ignored by the ordinary citizens. When he engaged them in conversation, his questions were answered politely; but none asked questions in return. The fate of a pygmy in the streets of London, he reflected, would very likely have been somewhat different. The fate of an extraterrestrial in the streets of any terrestrial city would have been markedly different. Police would have been required to control the crowds – and, perhaps, disperse the lynch mobs. The more he learned, the more, he realized, he had to learn.
The population of Baya Nor, a city set in the midst of the forest, consisted of less than twenty thousand people. Of these nearly a third were farmers and craftsmen and rather more than a third were hunters and soldiers. Of the remainder, about five thousand priests maintained the temples and the waterways and about one thousand priest/lawyer/civil servants ran the city’s administration. The god-king, Enka Ne, supported by a city council and an hereditary female oracle, reigned with all the powers of a despot for one year of four hundred days – at the end of which time he was sacrificed in the Temple of the Weeping Sun while the new god-king was simultaneously ordained.
Baya Nor itself was a city of water and stone – like a great Gothic lido, thought Poul Mer Lo, dropped crazily in the middle of the wilderness. The Bayani worshipped water, perhaps because water was the very fluid of life. There were reservoirs, pools and fountains everywhere. The main thoroughfares were broad waterways, so broad that they must have taken generations to construct. In each of the four main reservoirs, temples shaped curiously like pyramids rose hazily behind a wall of fountains to the blue sky. The temples, too, were not such as could have been raised by a population of twenty thousand in less than a century. They looked very old, and they looked also as if they would endure longer than the race that built them.
In a literal and a symbolic sense Baya Nor was two cities – one within the other. The sacred city occupied a large island in the lake that was called the Mirror of Oruri. It was connected to the outer city by four narrow causeways, on each side of which were identical carvings representing all the god-kings since time immemorial.
If Baya Nor was not strong in science, it was certainly strong in art; for the generations of sculptors and masons who had carved the city out of dark warm sandstone had left behind them monuments of grandeur and classic line. Disdaining a written language, they had composed their common testament eloquently in a language of form and composition. They had married water to stone and had produced a living mobi
le poetry of fountains and sunlight and shadow and sandstone that was a song of joy to the greater glory of Oruri.
Poul Mer Lo knew little of the religion of the Bayani. But as he surveyed its outward forms, he could feel himself coming under its spell, could sense the mystery that bound a people together in the undoubted knowledge that their ideas, their philosophy and their way of life were the most perfect expression of the mystery of existence.
At times, Poul Mer Lo was frightened; knowing that if he were to live and remain sane he would have to assume to some extent the role of serpent in this sophisticated yet oddly static Eden. He would have to be himself – no longer an Earth man, and not a man of Baya Nor. But a man poised dreadfully between two worlds. A man chastened by light-years, whipped by memories, haunted by knowledge. A man pinned by circumstances to a speck of cosmic dust from that other speck he had once called home. A man who, above all, needed to talk, to make confession. A man with a dual purpose – to create and to destroy.
At times he revelled in his purpose. At times he was ashamed. At times, also, he remembered someone who had once been called Paul Marlowe. He remembered the prejudices and convictions and compulsions that this strange person had held. He remembered his arrogance and his certainty – his burning ambition to journey out to the stars.
Paul Marlowe had fulfilled that ambition, but in fulfilling it he had died. Alas for Paul Marlowe, who had never realized that it was possible to pay a greater price for private luxuries than either death or pain.
Paul Marlowe, native of Earth, had accomplished more than Eric the Red, Marco Polo, Columbus or even Darwin. But it was Poul Mer Lo, grace and favour subject of Enka Ne, who paid the price for his achievement.
And the price was absolute loneliness.
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