by Bob Shaw
Delia Liggett, who was at the controls, raised her face to him. “Is there any chance that… ?”
“It isn’t Beachhead City,” Garamond said. “Let’s get that clear.”
“I thought there might have been a mistake over distances.” “Sorry, Delia. We’re working on a very rough estimate of how far the Bissendorf travelled, but not that rough. You can start looking out for Beachhead City in earnest a couple of years from now.” There was silence in the cockpit except for the insistent rush of air against the sides of the ship.
“Then what is that?”
Garamond perversely refused to admit excitement. “It looks like sky reflections on a lake.”
“Wrong colour,” Braunek said, handing Garamond a pair of binoculars. “Try these.”
“It has to be an alien settlement,” Garamond admitted as the glasses revealed the beaded brightness of a distant city. “And it’s so far from the entrance to the sphere.”
At that moment Cliff Napier’s voice came through on the lightphone. “Number Two speaking — is that Vance I can see in the cockpit?”
“I hear you, Cliff.”
“Have you seen what we’ve seen?”
“Yeah — and are you wondering what I’m wondering?”
Napier hesitated. “You mean, what’s an alien city doing way out here? I guess they got to Orbitsville a very long time before we did. It might have taken them hundreds or thousands of years to drift out this far.”
“But why did they bother? You’ve seen what Orbitsville’s like — one part is as good as another.”
“To us, Vance. Aliens could see things a different way.”
“I don’t know,” Garamond said dubiously. “You always say things like that.” He dropped into one of the supernumerary seats and fixed his eyes on the horizon, waiting for the wall of daylight to rush towards him from the east. When it came, about an hour later, sweeping over the ground with thought-paralysing speed, the alien settlement abruptly became an even less noticeable feature of the landscape. Although it was now within a hundred kilometres, the ‘city’ was reduced in the binoculars to a mere dusting of variegated dots almost lost in greenery. During the lightphone conversations between the aircraft there had been voiced the idea that it might be possible to obtain new propeller bearings or have the existing ones modified. Garamond, without expressing any quick opinions on a subject so important to him, had been quietly hopeful about the aliens’ level of technology — but his optimism began to fade. The community which hovered beyond the prow of his ship reminded him of a Nineteenth Century town in the American West.
“Looks pretty rustic to me.” Ralston, the telegeologist, had borrowed the glasses and was peering through them.
“Mark Twain land?”
“That’s it.”
Garamond nodded. “This is completely illogical, of course. We can’t measure other cultures with our own yardstick, but I have a feeling that that’s a low-technology agricultural community up there. Maybe it’s because I believe that any race which settles on Orbitsville will turn into farmers. There’s no need for them to do anything else.” “Hold on a minute, Vance.” Ralston’s voice was taut. “Maybe you’re going to get those bearings, after all. I think I see an airplane.”
Numb with surprise, Garamond took the offered binoculars and aimed them where Ralston directed. After a moment’s search he found a complicated white speck hanging purposefully in the lower levels of the air. The absence of any lateral movement suggested the other plane was flying directly away from or directly towards his own, and his intuition told him the latter was the case. He kept watching through the powerful, gyro-stabilized glasses and presently saw other motes of coloured brightness rising, swarming uncertainly, and then settling into the apparently motionless state which meant they were flying to meet him head-on. Ralston gave the alert to the six other ships of the fleet.
“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 kill 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. 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 were done when ’tis 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?”
“Nothing, 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 t
o 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.”
