Orbitsville Trilogy

by Bob Shaw

  'It's a welcoming party, all right,' he said as the unknown planes became visible to the naked eye, 'and we've no weapons. What do we do if they attack us?'

  'We have to assume they're friendly, or at least not hostile.' Garamond adjusted the fine focus on the binoculars. 'Besides – I know I'm judging them by our standards again – but that doesn't look like an air force to me. The planes are all different colours.'

  'Like ancient knights going out to do battle.'

  'Could be, but I don't think so. The planes seem to be pretty small, and all different types.' A stray thought crossed Garamond's mind. He turned his attention back to the city from which the planes had arisen, and was still scanning it with growing puzzlement when the two fleets of aircraft met and coalesced.

  A green-and-yellow low-wing monoplane took up station beside Garamond's ship and wiggled its wings in what, thanks to the strictures of aerial dynamics, had to be the universal greeting of airmen. The alien craft had a small blister-type canopy through which could be seen a humanoid form. Braunek, now at the controls, laughed delightedly and repeated the signal. The tiny plane near their wingtip followed suit, as did a blue biplane beyond it.

  'Communication!' Braunek shouted. 'They aren't like the Clowns, Vance – we'll be able to talk to these people.'

  'Good. See if you can get their permission to land,' Garamond said drily.

  'Right.' Braunek, unaware of the irony, became absorbed in making an elaborate series of gestures while Garamond twisted around in his seat to observe as many of the alien ships as he could. He had noted earlier that no two were painted alike; now he was able to confirm that they all differed radically in design. Most were propeller-driven, but at least two were powered by gas turbines and one racy-looking job had the appearance of a home-made rocket ship. In general the alien planes were of conventional/universal cruciform configuration, although he glimpsed at least one canard and a twin-fuselage craft.

  'A bit of a mixture,' Ralston commented, and added with a note of disappointment in his voice. 'I see a lot of internal combustion engines out there. If that's the level they're at they won't be much use to us.'

  'How about supplies of fossil fuel?'

  'There could be some about – depends on the age of Orbitsville.' Ralston surveyed the ground below with professional disgust. 'My training isn't worth a damn out here. The ordinary rules don't apply.'

  'I think it's okay to go down,' Braunek said. 'Our friend has dipped his nose a couple of times.'

  'Right. Pass the word along.'

  As the fringes of the alien settlement began to slide below the nose of the aircraft Braunek sat higher in his seat and turned his head rapidly from side to side. 'I can't see their airfield. We'll have to circle around.'

  Garamond tapped the pilot's shoulder. 'I think you'll find they haven't got a centralized airfield.'

  The aircraft banked into a turn, giving a good view of the ground. The city wheeling below the wing was at least twenty kilometres across but had no distinguishable roads, factories or other buildings larger than average-sized dwellings. Garamond's impression was of thousands of hunting lodges scattered in an area of woodland. Here and there, randomly distributed, were irregular cleared areas about the size of football pitches. The brightly coloured alien planes dispersed towards these, crossing flight paths at low altitude in an uncontrolled manner which brought audible gasps from Braunek. They landed unceremoniously, one to a field, leaving the humans' ships still aloft in the circuit.

  'This is crazy – I'm not going to try putting us down in somebody's back yard,' Braunek announced.

  'Find a good strip outside of town and we'll land in sequence the way we'd already planned,' Garamond told him. He sat back in his seat and buckled his safety straps. The plane lost altitude, completed two low-level orbits and landed, with a short jolting run on its skids, in an expanse of meadow. Braunek steered it off to one side and they watched as the six other ships of the fleet touched down on the same tracks and formed an untidy line. Their propellers gradually stopped turning and canopies were pushed upwards like the wing casings of insects.

  Green-scented air flooded in around Garamond and he relaxed for a moment, enjoying the sensation of being at rest. The luxuriousness of his body's response to the silence awakened memories of what it had been like arriving home for a brief spell after a long mission. Ecstasy-living was a phenomenon well known to S.E.A. personnel, as were its attendant dangers. Rigid self-control was always required during home leave, to prevent the ecstasy getting out of control and causing a fierce negative reaction at the beginning of the next mission. But in this instance, as he breathed the cool heavy air, Garamond realized he had been tricked into lowering his guard…

  I can't possibly take another two years of flying night and day, the thought came. Nobody could.

  'Come on, Vance – stretch the legs,' Braunek called as he leapt down on to the grass. He was followed in close succession by Delia Liggett, Ralston and Pierre Tarque, the young medic who completed the crew of No 1. Garamond waved to them and made himself busy with his straps.

  Two whole years to go – at least! – and what would it achieve?

  The sound of laughter and cheerful voices came from outside as the crews of the seven aircraft met and mingled. He could hear friendly punches being swapped, and derisive whoops which probably signified an overlong kiss being exchanged.

  Even if I get near enough to the President to hill her, which is most unlikely, what would that achieve? It's too late to do anything for Aileen and Chris. Would they want me to get myself executed?

  Garamond stood up, filled with guilty excitement, and climbed out of the glasshouse. From the slight elevation, the alien settlement looked like a dreamy garden village. He glanced around, taking in all the lime-green immensities, and dropped to the ground where Cliff Napier and Denise Serra were waiting for him. Denise greeted him with a warm, direct gaze. She was wearing regulation-issue black trousers, but topped with a tangerine blouse in place of a tunic, and he suddenly appreciated that she was beautiful. They were joined almost at once by O'Hagan and Sammy Yamoto, both of whom looked greyer and older than Garamond had expected. O'Hagan wasted no time on pleasantries.

  "We're at a big decision point, Vance,' he began. "Five of our ships have sub-standard propeller bearings and if we can't get them upgraded there's no point in continuing with the flight.' He tilted his head and assumed the set expression with which he always heard arguments.

  "I have to agree.' Garamond nodded, rediscovering the fact that looking at Denise produced a genuine sensation of pleasure in his eyes.

  O'Hagan twitched his brows in surprise. 'All right, then. The first thing we have to do when we meet these aliens is to assess their engineering capabilities.'

  'They can't be at the level of gyromagnetic power or magnetic bearings – you saw their aircraft.'

  'That's true, but I think I'm right in saying a magnelube bearing can be considerably upgraded by enclosing it within another bearing, even one as primitive as a ball race. All we would have to do is commission the aliens to manufacture twenty or so large conventional bearings which we can wrap around our magnelubes.'

  'They'd need to be of a standard size.'

  O'Hagan sniffed loudly. 'That goes without saying.'

  'I think you'll find…' Garamond broke off as an abrupt silence fell over the assembled crews. He turned and saw a fantastic cavalcade approaching the aircraft from the direction of the city. The aliens were humanoid – from a distance surprisingly so – and shared the human predilection for covering their bodies with clothes. Predominant hues were yellows and browns which toned in with sand-coloured skin, making it difficult to determine precise details of their anatomies. Some of the aliens were on foot, some on bicycles, some on tricycles, some on motor-cycles, some in a variety of open cars and saloons including a two-wheeled gyro car, some were perched on the outside of an erratic air-cushion vehicle. They approached to within twenty metres of the parked
aircraft and came to a halt. As the heterogenous mixture of engines associated with their transport coughed, clanked and spluttered into silence, Garamond became aware that the aliens were producing a soft humming noise of their own. It was a blend of many different notes, continuously inflecting, and he tentatively concluded that it was their mode of speech.

  Seen up close, the aliens were hairless but had identifiable equivalents of eyes, ears and mouths agreeably positioned on their heads. Garamond was unable to decide what anatomical features their flimsy garments were meant to cover, or to see any evidence of sexual differentiation. He felt curiously indifferent to the aliens in spite of the fact that this first contact looked infinitely more propitious than the wordless futility of his encounter with the Clowns. No adventure in the outside universe held much significance compared to the voyage of discovery he was making within himself.

  'Do you want to try speaking with them?' O'Hagan said.

  Garamond shook his head. 'It's your turn to get your name in the history books, Dennis. Be my guest.'

  O'Hagan looked gratified. 'If it's to be done, then 'twere well it were done scientifically.' He advanced on the nearest of the aliens, who seemed to regard him with interest, and the movement of his shoulders showed he was trying to communicate with his hands.

  'There's no need,' Garamond said in a low voice.

  Yamoto turned his head. 'What did you say?'

  'Nothings Sammy. I was talking to myself.'

  'You should be careful who you're seen speaking to.'

  Garamond nodded abstractedly. The thing Dennis O'Hagan doesn't realize about these people is that they'll never do what he wants. He has missed all the signs.

  All right – assuming we can't get them to make the bearings, is there any point in continuing with the flight? Answer: no. This isn't just a personal reaction. The computers agreed that two airplanes of the type available would not constitute a sufficiently flexible and resourceful transport system. Therefore, I simply can't get back to Beachhead City. It's as clear-cut as that. It always was too late to do anything for Aileen and Chris, and now there's nothing I can even attempt to do.

  I've been born again.

  The aliens stayed for more than an hour and then, gradually but without stragglers, moved away in the direction of their city. They reminded Garamond of children who had been enjoying an afternoon at a funfair and had become so hungry they could not bear to miss the meal waiting at home. When the last brightly painted vehicle disappeared behind the trees there was a moment of utter silence in the meadow, followed by an explosive release of tension among the plane crews. Bottles of synthetic liqueur were produced and a party set off to swim in a nearby lake.

  'That was weird,' Joe Braunek said, shaking his head. 'We stood in two lines and looked at each other like farm boys and girls at a village dance on Terranova.'

  'It went all right,' Garamond assured him. 'There's no protocol – what are you supposed to do?'

  'It still was weird.'

  'I know, but just think what it would have been like if there'd been any diplomats or military around. We met them, and stared at them, and they stared at us, and nobody tried to take anything that belonged to the others, and nobody got hurt. Things could have been worse, believe me.'

  'I guess so. Did you see the way they kept counting our ships?'

  'I did notice that.' Garamond recalled the repeated gesture among the onlookers, long golden fingers indicating, stepping their way along the line of aircraft.

  'Seemed important to them, somehow. It was as if they'd never seen…'

  'We've made genuine progress, Vance.' O'Hagan approached with a sheaf of hand-written notes and a recorder. 'I've identified at least six nouns or noun-sounds in their speech and I believe I'd have done better if I'd had musical training.'

  'Can't you get somebody to help?'

  'I have. I'm taking Paskuda and Shelley and going into the city. We won't stay long.'

  'Take as long as you need,' Garamond said casually.

  'All right, Vance.' O'Hagan gave him a searching stare. 'I want to see something of their machine capability as soon as possible. I think that would be a good idea, don't you?'

  'Excellent.' Garamond had seen a flash of tangerine further down the line of aircraft and was unable to take his eyes away from it. He quickly disengaged from O'Hagan, walked towards Denise Serra but hesitated on seeing that she was involved in a discussion with the six other women of the flight crews. He was turning away when she noticed him and signalled that he was to wait. A minute later she came to him, looking warm, competent, desirable and everything else he expected a woman to be. The thought of lying with her caused a painful stab in his lower abdomen as glandular mechanisms, too long suppressed, found themselves reactivated. Denise glanced around her, frowned at the proximity of other people, and led the way towards an unspoiled area of tall grass. The quasi-intimacy of her actions pleased Garamond.

  'It's good to see you again,' he said.

  'It's good to see you, Vance. How do you feel now?'

  'Better. I'm coming to life again.'

  'I'm glad.' Denise gave him a speculative look. 'That was an official meeting of Orbitsville Women's League, detached chapter.'

  'Oh? Carry on. Sister Denise.'

  She smiled briefly. 'Vance, they've voted to drop out of the flight.'

  'Unanimously?'

  'Yes. Five airplanes are going to have to give up eventually, and we might as well pick the spot. The Hummers seem friendly and making a study of their culture will give us something to do. Apart from bringing up babies, that is.'

  'Do you know how many men will want to stay?'

  'Most of them. I'm sorry, Vance.'

  'Nobody has to apologize for the operation of simple logic.'

  'But that leaves you only two aircraft, and it isn't enough.'

  'It's all right.' Garamond wondered how long he could go on with the role of martyr before telling Denise he had already come to terms with himself.

  She caught his hand. 'I know how disappointed you must be.'

  'You're making it easy to take,' he said. Denise released his hand on the instant and he knew he had said something wrong. He waited impassively.

  'Has Cliff not told you I'm having a baby?' Denise's eyes were intent on his. 'His baby?'

  Garamond forced himself to compose a suitable reply. 'He didn't need to.'

  'You mean he hasn't? Just wait till I get my hands on the big…'

  'I'm not completely blind, Denise.' Garamond produced a smile for her. 'I knew as soon as I saw both of you together this morning. I just haven't got around to congratulating him yet.'

  'Thanks, Vance. Out here we'll need all the godfathers we can get.'

  'Can't help you there, I'm afraid – I'll be a few million kilometres east of here by that time.'

  'Oh!' Denise looked away from him. 'I thought…'

  'That I was quitting? Not until I'm forced – and you know better than I do that the computers didn't say two aircraft couldn't reach Beachhead City. It's just a question of odds, isn't it?'

  'So is Russian Roulette.'

  'I'll see you around, Denise.' Garamond turned away, but she caught his arm.

  'I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.'

  'Please forget it.' He squeezed her hand before removing it from his arm. 'I really am glad that you and Cliff have got something good. Now, please excuse me – I have a lot of work to do.'

  Garamond had been occupied for several hours on the load distribution plans for his two remaining aircraft when darkness came. He switched on the fuselage interior lights and continued working with cold concentration, ignoring the sounds of revelry which drifted into the cabin on the evening breeze. His fingers moved continually over the calculator keyboard as he laboured through dozens of load permutations, striving to decide the best uses for his payload capability. The brief penumbral twilight had fled when he felt vibrations which told him someone was coming on board. He looked up and saw
O'Hagan squeezing his way towards the small chart-covered table.

  'I've just discovered how much I used to rely on computers,' Garamond said.

  O'Hagan shook his head impatiently. 'I've just spent the most fantastic day of my life, and I need a drink to get over it. Where's the supply?' He sat quietly while Garamond found a plastic bottle and handed it to him, then he took a short careful swallow. 'This stuff hasn't been aged much.'

  'The man who made it has.'

  'Like the rest of us.' O'Hagan took another drink and apparently decided he had devoted too much time to preamble. 'We haven't got a hope in hell of getting the bearings we need from these people. Know why?'

  'Because they've no machine tools?'

  'Because they make everything by hand. You knew?'

  'I guessed. They've got some airplanes, but no airplane factory or airport. They've got some cars, but no car factory or roads.'

  'Good work, Vance-you were way ahead on that one.'

  O'Hagan drummed his fingers on the table, the sound filling the narrow confines of the cabin, and his voice lost some of its usual incisiveness. 'They picked an entirely different road to ours. No specialization of labour, no mass production, no standardization. Anybody who wants a car or a cake-mixer builds it from scratch, if he has the time and the talent. You noticed their planes and cars were all different?'

  'Yes. I noticed them counting our ships, too.'

  'So did I, but I didn't know what was going on in their minds. They must have been astonished at seeing seven identical models.'

  'Not astonished,' Garamond said. 'Mildly surprised, perhaps. I've a feeling these people haven't much curiosity in their make-up. If you allow only one alien per house that city out there must have a population of twenty thousand or more, but I doubt if as many as two hundred came out to look at us today – and practically all those who came had their own transport.'