The Final Planet

by Andrew M. Greeley

  The locker-room conversation afterward was a shock. All five of his fellow exercisers had made love to one another’s wives and all felt free to discuss it. Their collaborative description of Sammy in advanced stages of passion revolted him. They made her sound like a sow, a grunting, howling, disgusting animal.

  There was locker-room humor on the Iona, too, heaven knows. And Seamus was not above engaging in it, all the time wondering what the conversation was like in the women’s locker room—and never of course having the nerve to ask. It became pretty clinical and explicit at times, but while it treated women like things (something a Taran male would do in the real world only at peril to his limb and life), it was not deliberately cruel and it would certainly never be done in the presence of a woman’s husband.

  The Tarans, in their own bumbling, incompetent, shy, and often prudish way, liked women, enjoyed them, feared them, worshiped them, and more or less respected them.

  The Zylongi men seemed to hate them with a pent-up rage and frustration which suggested that sex was messed up more on this planet than even among the Tarans, where it was, Seamus thought, notably messed up.

  One of the Zylongi, with an uncharacteristic bluntness, asked for details of his conquests. O’Neill told him they were far more relaxed about sex on Tara than on Zylong. “I can make love only a hundred forty times in twenty-four hours, so you can see my romantic life is quite undistinguished.”

  He saw a flicker of amusement on Ernie’s melancholy face. You don’t like this custom either, but it’s too strong for you to fight.

  Later he and his host were sitting at a sidewalk café eating the wafers that were supposed to be lunch. Ornigon began somewhat hesitantly. “I am very sad, Honored Guest, that our conversation this morning upset you. If I had known, I would never have permitted it. Surely you understand that in every society there are traditional ways of expression that hide as much as they reveal. It would be a mistake to take those ways of expression as literal truth.”

  “Ah, it’s a powerful passion, sex is,” Seamus agreed tentatively. “It’s lots of fun, but it can get out of hand, if you take my meaning.”

  “That is why,” Ornigon replied evenly, “sex is limited to the Planting and Harvest Festivals. If it happened at other times, it would destroy us completely. It is difficult even then. We have special energies during the Festival; even so, the business is greatly wearing.”

  Seamus held on to the table. His head was spinning. Glory be to God, he couldn’t have said what I just think he said, could he?

  “You limit sex to two months a year—at the most?” he asked, his voice tight with the effort to keep it under control. Ah, that would be worse than being a monk. Altogether.

  “It is our way. Obviously, it has its limitations and … uh … frustrations.” The man gestured nervously with his thin expressive hands. “The Guardians thought it was the proper method for maintaining the ideals of our society. Our fertility should come only to celebrate the planting and after the harvest is reaped. There are ways of relieving some of the consequent strains, as one of your acuteness has doubtless noticed.”

  When the ancestors of the Zylongi came here from Earth, they were utopian communitarians, firmly opposed to marriage, pledged to “complete sexual accessibility.” However, in the pioneer years of clearing the jungle, fighting the hordi, planting the crop, building the earliest city, permanent pairing began to reemerge. It was convenient on the scattered pioneer farms and outposts. There was evidence that such tendencies began to develop on the space flight that brought them here. “Logistically and emotionally it seems to create less strain,” Ornigon said, his voice tinged with its frequent melancholy. “Women are reputed to favor it more than the men at first; later, men came to find it more convenient to be concerned with only one woman.

  “To maintain the illusion that the ideology was still being honored—and ideology has always been important to us—” Ornigon emphasized, “there was a period at planting time and another one at harvesttime when our ancestors returned to a more communitarian style of sexuality. One-month periods for the release of tension—something like the Carnival or the Oktoberfest on ancient Earth. Also it likely served a superstitious function of blessing the fertility of the fields. However, with the passage of years, the Festivals became quite tame until the time of Reorganization.

  “The Guardians were faced with a dilemma. The primitive practice of universal sexual accessibility had to be honored, yet the disruptive social impact of random coupling was intolerable. Since they were also committed to genetic engineering, they couldn’t allow unplanned pregnancies. They limited the expression of sexuality to the two months of Festival—just after planting and just after harvest each year. For the first fifteen days of each period, coupling is indiscriminate; the second fifteen days are limited to couplings of mates. Pregnancies, to be ‘valid,’ must occur during the second period. For the rest of the year, the irrationality of sexuality is not permitted to interfere with the running of an orderly society. No one is sexually available to anybody except during the Festival, and then only until after the mating ceremony. Some cheating is possible, but offenders are punished severely.”

  “Those Festivals must be something else.” O’Neill shook his head in wonderment.

  “They are, Honored Poet, very unusual times. Some look forward to them with great longing.” His face now a tragic mask, he shook his head sadly. “It is a period when many energies that are pent up are released. In that release there is satisfaction and pleasure; often it is violent and irrational. We exhaust ourselves physically and morally. Few are sorry to see the Festival end. The Festivals vary from year to year—sometimes they are especially terrifying. In recent years they have gotten worse; it is as though we are demons. I think something else besides sexual hunger takes possession of us. There are those who understand such things who contend it has something to do with the physical effects of harvest. A biological reaction to which we have become sensitized either by evolution or by repeated exposure.”

  “And no one cheats?”

  He considered O’Neill very carefully.

  “What do you think?”

  O’Neill thought of the two overwrought women the night before. Of course people cheat. “Well, you said that you are severely punished if you’re caught.”

  “To my knowledge no one has been caught in my lifetime.”

  “Ah. Then I’d say there are ways around the rules.”

  “Dedicated citizens like my wife would tell you—officially, I assure you—that no one breaks the rules. The cultural controls are strong enough that no one talks about it. The pretense is maintained. Perhaps it always was merely pretense. Yet it is a powerful conviction in our society. So it is necessary, even if there is cheating, that we maintain the facade of obedience. As to how much occurs, I cannot say.”

  An elaborate nonanswer worthy of a Taran, worthy indeed of an Abbot. He had said that he and Sammy didn’t cheat. No, he didn’t quite say that either. How could you live with a woman like that and not …

  Still, the norms of a society, he had learned in the monastery school, can impose almost any kind of behavior.

  “I suppose that in recent years there has been more cheating?” O’Neill asked cautiously, thinking of those who were listening up on Iona, now probably with open mouths and incredulous faces. The Tarans might be messed up on sex and they might not know quite how best to do it, but they certainly did it a lot.

  “Everyone says that our society is deteriorating. I suspect that it is said always. I am not skilled enough to understand these matters. I direct music, as you no doubt have perceived, somewhat woodenly. I do know that when the Research Director and I were promised but not publicly mated, it would have been unthinkable for any of our group to think of sex with our promised. Today, I understand, such practices are widespread. The juices are strong, I am told, though they were strong in our time too. I am convinced that Horor and Carina have performed the act together.
For my wife it is impossible even to consider such a possibility.”

  You got all that down up there? You should have sent a monk here instead of a twenty-five-year-old bachelor with a wild imagination and a horny body. Your Ladyship can take me out now.

  He didn’t expect a reaction and sure enough there wasn’t one.

  That evening the three of them were sitting quietly, listening to a new Bach recording made by Ernie’s orchestra. O’Neill was deep in thought. Enough of the pieces were fitting together. Repression, license, then repression again. Strong social bonds, weak personal freedom. Yet the individual personalities were sharply etched. Ernie, Sammy, the handsome and enigmatic Marjetta were not merely cogs in a vast social wheel, nor docile ants in an ant hill.

  Your Blessed and Holy Eminence, I haven’t found out anything yet that you couldn’t have figured out with our dirty-minded computer. There must be something else that I’ve missed. Still, how do you like the part-time celibacy? Wouldn’t work at all among us, now, would it? Besides, they’re still shadowing me, if I’m to believe the twitching in my neck.

  “Were you pleased with Officer Marjetta?” Samaritha interrupted O’Neill’s thoughts.

  “Yes, indeed. She seems to be a very competent and intelligent soldier,” O’Neill said noncommittally.

  Speaking of celibacy, was I? And herself brings that one up.

  “She is very independent,” added Ornigon. “Too independent for many. Her delay of the mating ceremony with Captain Pojoon has upset many people. Captain Pojoon could seek destruction of the agreement, and that would be very bad for Lieutenant Marjetta. Ways can always be found for the aggrieved party to find another mate, but the offending party will not be allowed to mate. Such people often leave the society altogether rather than suffer such disgrace. They are no longer with us.”

  A whole new category of people, and Ornigon had no intention of telling him any more. “Doesn’t she … is not the Captain pleasing to her?” he asked, trying to sound innocent but his heartbeat picking up.

  “She says he is very pleasing,” Samaritha answered disapprovingly, “but that she is not yet ready to mate. He cannot be expected to wait until his career is terminated.” Her frown suggested some deep unease. They listened in silence to what Seamus thought was a very dull Second Brandenburg.

  As the last strains of the music died away, Samaritha stirred restlessly on her couch. “Is it now permissible to ask him the question, Honored Mate?”

  “If you wish,” said Ornigon, somewhat nervously, turning off the switch on their sound system.

  “If it gives offense, Honored Visitor, we will talk of other things. My Honored Mate and I have noticed that sometimes you call us by strange names. For instance, though my name is ‘Samaritha,’ sometimes you call me ‘Sammy.’ Ornigon says you have called him ‘Ernie.’ You even addressed the excellent Marjetta as—I believe the term was ‘Marj’?”

  “Margie.”

  “We are curious as to why you do this.”

  “Ah, well, but they’re nothing but little nicknames. Why was that so difficult a question to ask? It’s a short name we Tarans use with our friends—a sign of friendship and affection. Sure it means no harm at all.”

  Strange to see, Samaritha was weeping. “Poet O’Neill, how is it possible for you to consider us friends? You hardly know us.” She sat up on her couch, leaning forward so that the tops of her breasts were distinctly visible. She was intensely interested in his words.

  “Maybe we mean different things by ‘friendship.’ I mean … well, someone you can trust when the lights go out is a friend.” He was stumbling, trying to figure out what kind of deep waters he had blundered into.

  The barroom reference was no help. Both husband and wife seemed baffled. Seamus tried again. “A friend is someone you can be yourself with, someone from whom you don’t have to hide and who won’t let you hide when you try.”

  Sure, it’s nothing more than a cliché I learned in school.

  “Extraordinary,” murmured Ornigon. “It means much the same to us, I think, although we would not put it so well. My mate and I are overwhelmed that you think of us this way. We were mates for many years before we became friends … it was not an easy struggle.…”

  “How can you see all the anger, ambition, and selfishness which makes me such a vile person and still want me for a friend?” Sammy demanded, tears streaming down her face.

  The situation was getting out of hand. Dear God in heaven, and I wondered whether these two loved each other. Now what do I do and say?

  Running on pure instinct, O’Neill rose from his couch, his fists shoved together to keep his own emotions under control. “Damn it, Sammy, where I come from,” he said gruffly, “if a beautiful woman speaks that kind of nonsense, you take her in your arms and hug and kiss her until she laughs it all away.”

  She lifted her head slightly and looked at him with liquid brown eyes.

  “If I may,” said Ornigon, deeply moved himself, “we have an approved, though perhaps not so satisfactory a sign as the ‘nickname’ or ‘hugging’ or ‘kissing.’ One extends one’s fingers like this.” Ornigon reached out toward Samaritha, who extended her hand toward his. “The friends touch like this.” Ornigon and Samaritha gently touched fingertips, then intertwined them slowly. It was a painfully beautiful moment. They then extended their free hands toward him, forming a circle of friendship.

  Later, as he tried to sleep, O’Neill wondered what he had gotten himself into. His neck twitched. There was no one at the door.

  Damn, I hope you folks up there are protecting me. Hey, are you responsible for that girl being on the bank when I drifted by? That was a nice thought. But what am I going to do about these two?

  Sammy and Ernie’s literal-mindedness led them to treat his casual use of the word “friend” as something of immense importance. There was so little friendship here on Zylong that it was a desperately serious thing. They were now deeply involved with him. He was systematically deceiving them about who and what he was. On both Zylong and Tara, you were not supposed to deceive your friends.

  7

  Slowly, with dignified and solemn rhythm, like a Corpus Christi procession, the crowd moved down the narrow old street. Hundreds of portable lanterns in the hands of devout worshipers cast an eerie light in the predawn darkness. A hell of a way to go to church. What am I doing here with all these heathens?

  It was not like a procession in the monastery, however. There was no center to it, no Blessed Sacrament to be carried, no Abbot or Prior walking at the end, no acolytes or thurifer in front. The crowd simply formed and processed on its own, as though it were animated by a single soul.

  They loved processions and Holy Days on the Iona. Festivals broke the often monotonous routine of the space pilgrimage. But Tarans were quite incapable of spontaneously forming themselves into a procession or a festival celebration. Someone, normally the Ceremonialist, had to make plans and give orders. Even then, and even with the cool eye of the Captain Abbess watching every move, the processions were likely to be ragged, chaotic affairs. When Tarans were having fun, they were quite incapable of self-disciplined ritual dignity.

  So Seamus thought that the early morning ceremonies in the great City were just a little bit creepy. No, more than that, they were creepy altogether.

  It was Zylongday—the first day of the ten-day Zylong week. There were three weeks, he had learned, to the month, ten months to a year, so you multiplied by 0.8 to get an Earth estimate of Zylong age. Sammy had said it would be thought “strange” if they failed to honor another day of worship. There was, she said, no obligation, but people were expected to go to religious service at least several times a year. Since she and her mate had major responsibilities in the society, it was their custom to go to the “Worship Plaza” just behind the Central Plaza rather more often. O’Neill understood. It was expedient not to break longstanding patterns. The Committee tended to “notice” such things.

  Whoever the
Committee were.

  Approaching the main Worship Plaza (other smaller ones were scattered throughout the City), O’Neill saw that the square was elevated five or six steps off the ground. In the center of it was a large translucent globe that emitted a soft glowing light. In front of the globe and behind a raised platform was a big opening from which a few wisps of smoke could be seen. It was into that pit that people “went to the god” at Festival times. Probably some kind of natural underground thermal activity beneath parts of the City caused the smoke. Perhaps the pit contained quicksand. Sacrificial victims sufficiently tranquilized would go into the mud without protest. Since the god was equated with the planet—as well as the society—sinking into the earth could quite literally be thought of as “going to the god.” Those who died of natural causes before their careers were terminated were thrown into the hole at a private funeral.

  As the Worship Plaza filled with people, the light from the lanterns shone against the plain white worship togas worn by the assembled congregants. Each person held a little cup of something that looked like wine.

  A deep chime rang out once just as the first light appeared in the sky. Complete silence fell on the crowd. Lights began to flicker and swirl within the globe; a line of hooded figures clad in exuberant red and gold togas approached the globe from one side of the plaza. They moved slowly, murmuring a chant that increased in volume as the worshipers began to respond. This antiphony of “priests” and “congregation” grew louder and louder, gaining in intensity of rhythm and emotion.

  No, I don’t like this at all, at all, Seamus told himself. Her Ladyship would be profoundly offended at what they’ve done with the memories of our liturgy.

  After each verse they sipped at the little cups of liquid. Seamus managed to spill most of his. In the darkness, no one noticed.

  The light in the globe changed colors rapidly. The singing, the lights, the swaying motion of priests and crowd were hypnotic. O’Neill struggled to maintain his equilibrium. The strange liquid, even in small amounts, seemed to be more of a liquor than a wine—sweet and soft. It had a powerful and immediate effect. Ugly images raced across his mind; he was hard put to control the terror they evoked in him.