The Winds of Altair

by Ben Bova

  They talked and joked and laughed until the overhead loudspeakers droned, "SUNRISE WORSHIP. ALL FAITHFUL TO THE TABERNACLE. SUNRISE WORSHIP."

  The students cleared their tables and brought their breakfast trays to the disposal slots set into the cafeteria walls. Then they streamed toward the Tabernacle, off in its own dome.

  Jeff offered his arm to Laura, who took it with obvious pleasure, and they walked along the greenpath toward the Tabernacle with happy grins on their faces.

  "I really appreciate what you did for me last night," he told her.

  "It was nothing."

  "No it wasn't. It was very important—to me. If I didn't know that Crown was alive and able to take care of himself, I'd go crazy."

  "I'll look after him for you," Laura said. "Amanda and I will make sure he's all right."

  "You're the one who's all right," he replied. "You're pretty wonderful, Laura."

  Her smile widened and she lowered her eyes for a moment. Then, "I'm sorry they took you off the contact work. I'll ask Amanda to let you back as quickly as she can."

  Nodding, he said, "I'm going to talk to Dr. Carbo about it. They can't keep me away for long."

  In the Tabernacle, Jeff knelt beside Laura and tried to feel the religious warmth that he knew she did. But it was like his father's lack of feeling, compared to his mother's. Hundreds of heads were bowed in prayer, the Globe of Nirvan glowed brightly above them, yet Jeff felt no Presence, no awe, no deep stirring of his soul.

  Then, from somewhere deep in his mind, came a memory of a Sunday School lesson: Faith is a gift, said Nirvan. God grants that gift to many, but withholds it from others, for inscrutable reasons of His own. Yet even a man who has not been granted the gift of Faith may show his devotion to God and Nirvan by his good works.

  By my good works, Jeff thought. And all the burdens that had been lifted from his shoulders since he had seen that Crown was still alive, returned with a crushing new heaviness. The snake had not killed Crown, but we humans are killing him, and all the other creatures of Windsong. But if we don't kill them, the colonists coming from Earth will surely die.

  By the time sunrise worship ended, Jeff's high spirits had evaporated. The tension, the pain had returned.

  He did his best to keep it from Laura as she and the other students headed off for their day's work. They streamed out of the Tabernacle and into the greenpaths that led to the other parts of the Village. In the midst of that chattering, smiling, purposeful crowd, Laura stood up on tiptoes and gave Jeff a peck of a kiss, directly on his lips. Then she quickly turned and headed off, leaving him standing there with the other students swirling around him, grinning at him.

  "See?" he heard Laura telling the young woman walking next to her. "He isn't a stuck-up snob at all. The people who've been saying that, are just plain jealous of him, that's all."

  The Tabernacle emptied quickly and the students strode with determined vigor toward their morning jobs. Within a few minutes, Jeff was left standing all alone outside the Tabernacle's main doors. In the sudden heavy silence, he felt the cold hand of guilt pressing on him. They were all working while he stood idle.

  But not for long. Jeff walked swiftly to his dorm room and phoned Dr. Carbo.

  "We'll get this thing straightened out right now," he muttered to himself as the phone computer searched for the scientist. "I don't need a rest, I'm as ready for I was the first day here."

  But the phone screen printed, DR. CARBO UNAVAILABLE AT PRESENT. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR MESSAGE AND HE WILL CALL BACK.

  "Where is he?" Jeff asked aloud.

  LOADING DOCK C.

  He must be going down to the surface with today's landing team, Jeff realized. That means he won't be able to talk with me until this evening, at the earliest. Maybe he'll be down there for several days. Blast!

  "Tell him it's Jeffrey Holman calling. And tell him it's urgent."

  The phone screen printed JEFFREY HOLMAN. URGENT. It added the date and time. Jeff pressed the button that okayed the message. The letters faded from the screen, to be entered on Dr. Carbo's message list. There was nothing more that Jeff could do.

  All that day, Jeff felt like a prisoner, an exile. He was free to roam anywhere in the Village he wanted to go, except for the contact lab—which was the only place he wanted to be. He hiked along the greenpaths, went up to the Village's observatory and gazed at the luminous blank face of cloud-wrapped Windsong, then pulled himself away and walked aimlessly for hours.

  Finally he headed back to his own room, plopped himself on his bunk and started watching history tapes from the Village's library on his video screen. He examined the history of Earth, overcrowded, overpolluted, dangerous, dirty Earth. The teeming cities, the dying rivers and lakes, the oceans covered with algae farms and man-made islands and huge floating platforms that drank in the energy beamed from the Solar Power Satellites up in synchronous orbit.

  He saw the human race, spread across the inner reaches of the solar system. and for the first time he realized how enormous was the difference between the rich and the poor, between those who lived in the vast luxurious colonies that floated serenely at the L-4 and L-5 points between the Earth and the Moon, and those squalid billions who lived in unending poverty down on the Earth's surface. He saw other space colonies drifting majestically out among the asteroids, beyond the orbit of Mars, where they mined the rocks and metals of the minor planets, turning those natural resources into enormous wealth.

  For themselves. Very little of that wealth reached the hungry masses of Earth. The human race had split into two groups, early in the Twenty-First Century: those who lived in space, and grew richer every year; and those who remained on the home world, and grew constantly poorer.

  Jeff remembered a twisted parody of the words of Jesus of Nazareth: The meek shall inherit the Earth; the rest of us are going to the stars.

  To the stars.

  He breathed out a long, weary sigh of frustration and despair. Here we are at the stars, working our hardest to create a clean new world for the Earth's poorest people. But at what cost?

  Jeff spent hours staring at the history tapes. At the violence and hatred and fear and death that marked human existence. Even with the knowledge to end disease, to build artificial worlds in empty space, to tap the energies of the stars themselves, most of the human race still wallowed in murder and war, in poverty and ignorance. A few million lived in splendor in their space colonies. The seventeen billions on Earth lived in the mud.

  He asked himself what he could do about it. As the past five decades of human achievement flickered by his eyes on the viewscreen, Jeff tried to figure out what he should do. He knew that behind the thirty-two thousand approaching colonists, millions more would soon be heading for Altair VI. And no matter how many of them were fitted out with neuro probes, they were all carrying a full cargo of anger and hatred within their minds. Inside of a few years, a few decades at best, they would turn Altair VI into another Earth—full of violence and conflict.

  Is this what we're killing Crown for? Jeff asked himself. There must be a better way. But he could think of nothing better.

  Nothing.

  The matter was out of his hands. He had helped them to use Crown, to start the inevitable death of the world called Windsong. He had been tricked into betraying a whole world.

  "No," he muttered to himself. "Don't blame the others. You tricked yourself."

  It startled him to hear a knock at his door. Flicking off the history tapes, he got off the bunk and crossed his room in three strides.

  It was Laura, smiling at him hopefully.

  "I just wanted to let you know," she said, "that I was with Crown today."

  "Is he okay?" Jeff asked eagerly.

  "Yes. His leg's pretty stiff, but otherwise he's all right"

  "What about food?"

  Instead of answering, she said, "We're all going to sunset worship. Want to come along?"

  "Sure." He stepped out into the busy corridor and clos
ed the door behind him.

  As they started toward the Tabernacle, Jeff asked again, "Are the animals getting any food?"

  "Well, some of the apes have been going into the ocean surf and digging up shellfish, but the wolfcats won't touch those."

  "There's nothing else in the woods to eat," Jeff said.

  Laura replied, "Crown went up there this morning and dug up a couple of animals that were down inside burrows. Dr. Peterson thinks they were hibernating for the winter."

  "They can't be very big."

  "They're not, but they're better than nothing. We'll have all the wolfcats doing that until the first supplies of synthetics are landed on the beach."

  Jeff shook his head. "I don't think the wolfcats will eat synthetics."

  "We'll see," Laura said. "It will all work out, one way or the other."

  "One way or the other," he repeated.

  For the next few days Jeff's only source of news was the students. Dr. Carbo never returned his call, and he found that he couldn't even reach Amanda by phone.

  "They're busy," Jeff told himself. "And they know that I just want to pester them into taking me back."

  More and more of the students clustered around Jeff each day. He ate breakfast and dinner with them, listened to their problems, suggested solutions.

  One evening he sat back in his chair, his stomach filled with the tasteless but nourishing food, and let the other students chatter around him. The cafeteria was bustling with noise. All the table were filled. Hundreds of conversations babbled through the big, echoing room; hundreds of aromas drifted through the air.

  Crown would go crazy in here, Jeff thought. Then he grinned inwardly at the thought of the wolfcat suddenly appearing among all these students.

  Even Petrocelli seemed to have acquired a newfound respect for Jeff. He sat next to Jeff that evening, his usually-smirking face utterly unsmiling, sober. There were hollows in his cheeks that hadn't been there a week earlier, Jeff saw. The contact work was taking its toll on him. On all of them.

  "How's it going, Dom?" Jeff asked.

  Petrocelli shook his head. "Slow, man. Very slow. The apes are getting sicker every day."

  "And the wolfcats?" Jeff wanted to ask specifically about Crown, but he still felt wary of Petrocelli's sarcastic tongue.

  "They're in trouble too. They're starving."

  "I thought we were shipping synthetic food down to them," Jeff said.

  "We are," replied another student, a lanky sandy-haired youth with a surprisingly deep basso voice. "But they aren't eating it."

  Laura explained, "The biochemists have produced synthetics that look and taste just like real meat—at least, to me."

  "You tasted it?"

  She grinned and nodded.

  "Raw?" Petrocelli asked, incredulous.

  "It's like raw hamburger," Laura said. "What do they call that in restaurants?"

  "Steak tartare," said one of the other students.

  "But the animals won't eat it?" Jeff got them back on the subject.

  Petrocelli made a sour face. "They land these reentry capsules full of food right down on the beach, okay? The things come in like a big bomb: ca-boom! The blasted apes jump out of their skins and run in the other direction. Even the wolfcats get scared. None of them will go near the capsules, and the stuff rots away."

  Jeff leaned back in his chair. "Why don't they land the capsules farther down the beach, out of sight? Then they can send the wolfcats out to get the food and bring it back to the camp—just like they did with the antelope."

  Laura's eyes lit up. "Why didn't we think of that?"

  Because you're not a wolfcat, Jeff thought. No matter how many times you've been in contact with the beast, you haven't really been Crown.

  "I'm gonna tell Dr. Peterson about that," Petrocelli said, an honest smile spreading across his face. "I think that'll work."

  CHAPTER 20

  Jeff's exile ended after five days. Amanda simply phoned him that evening, after dinner.

  "Are you ready to stop loafing and get back to work?" she asked, a bright smile on her face.

  "Yes!" he said eagerly.

  "Good. Report to the contact lab at 0600 hours. All is forgiven."

  "Okay, Amanda. Thanks."

  Her smile shrank. "We need you, Jeff. We need all the help we can get."

  It felt strange at first.

  Crown was . . . different. Hungry, as always. But more than that. He was tense, weary, tight-strung.

  The camp was bigger than ever, dominated by the large angular shapes of the oxygen conversion factory which hummed and rumbled and poured out noxious fumes. Other buildings and bubble-shaped tents dotted the beach. Out in the sloshing surf, four re-entry capsules sat half-imbedded in the sand; the stench from the rotting synthetics inside them almost overpowered the evil scent of the human machines.

  The apes were clearly on the verge of insanity. Every instinct in their makeup was telling them to flee, to head south, get away from this land of cold and strange, killing machines. But they were under the control of the orbiting Village, and under the snarling guardianship of the wolfcats who, like them, were forced to stay at the camp on the beach. Stay and work. Stay and work and freeze and die.

  The wolfcats bedded down each night as far from the camp as their human controllers would allow them, far down the beach. They only went close to the alien buildings when there was absolutely no way to avoid it.

  That morning Crown trotted away from the other wolfcats—all of them noticeably leaner and edgier than Jeff remembered them—and headed southward.

  The food capsule landed okay. All he has to do is find it.

  It took less than half an hour. The capsule was resting in shallow high-tide surf, half under water. Fortunately the hatch, which had popped open automatically upon landing, was above the waterline. But the waves were splashing up dangerously close to it, their breaking foam spraying into the hatch and dripping inside.

  Crown sloshed through the surf, growling at the cold and wet. The midleg that the snake had bitten was still stiff, but he could use it now, put weight on it. He stretched up on his hindlegs and stuck his massive muzzle into the open hatch. With one forepaw he scooped out a quivering blob of synthetic meat. Crown sniffed at it, licked at it. Hardly any taste, strange odor, no blood or warmth to it.

  Awkwardly he carried the oblong chunk of artificial meat in his forepaws and splashed through the surf to the dry sand above the high-water mark. He dropped it on the sand, sniffed at it again, then bit into it. It felt like meat, despite its faint taste. Crown ate it, all of it. It helped to fill his stomach, but that's all it did.

  He went back to the capsule, took out another chunk of the stuff, and carried it back in his jaws to the other wolfcats.

  They were prowling around the beach on the southward side of the camp like a band of sullen policemen waiting for trouble to start. Crown dropped the artificial food on the sand, then trotted away and stretched out on a rock that was warmed somewhat by the feeble sun. He watched as, one by one, the other wolfcats edged up to the synthetic meat and sniffed at it. The last to approach it was the biggest male, Sharpclaw, who had been the leader of a large family before the humans had drugged him and implanted him with a neuro probe. He growled at the synthetic, pawed it, slashed it once with his claws. Then he settled down to eating it. The other wolfcats stayed a respectful distance away while Sharpclaw devoured the entire chunk of meat.

  Then, one by one, the wolfcats approached Crown, grunting and snuffling, as if to ask where he had the food. Without getting up from his comfortable bed, Crown turned his head toward the south and made a long, low rumble deep in his chest. Down there, he was saying. The food came from down the beach.

  The wolfcats started down the beach. All but Sharpclaw.

  By the time the day had ended, all the wolfcats had eaten and had brought back enough food to allow the apes to eat, as well. The animals seemed to feel much better and more peaceful with their bel
lies full.

  Just like people.

  Frank Carbo absently drummed his fingers on the tabletop as Dr. Peterson presented his figures on the rate at which Altair VI's atmosphere was being converted to a breathable oxygen/nitrogen mixture.

  Each Monday morning the heads of each scientific department met together to report on progress, identify problems, discuss solutions. The meetings invariably depressed Carbo. No matter how much progress they made, there was always so much more to do.

  "The first oxygen conversion plant is now working well," Peterson said, "at long last. The four others have been built here in orbit and tested. Now the crews are disassembling them so that they can be carried to the planet's surface in sections, and then re-assembled on the ground."

  Bishop Foy never attended these meetings, although he reviewed the tapes of them. Still, Carbo felt the Bishop's gloomy presence hovering over them.

  Peterson pointed to the slide that was projected on the conference room wall.

  "Now that we have actual performance figures from the first plant," the craggy-faced anthropologist was saying, "we can get some idea of how quickly we can convert the planet's atmosphere into breathable air."

  Jan Polchek, the zoologist, asked, "Is the abscissa of that graph numbered in months or years?"

  "Or centuries?" somebody else joked.

  Peterson grinned. "Months, thank God. With all five oxygen plants working at full capacity, we'll have a completely Earthlike atmosphere on Altair VI inside of thirty-six months."

  "Three years," Lana Polchek murmured. As head of medical staff, she and her zoologist husband comprised the only married pair at these meetings.

  "And the colony ship has already shown up at the edge of this system," said Higgins, of engineering. "They'll be here in another month."

  "We're all going to have to live in orbit for at least three more years," Peterson said. "We might as well face that fact."

  "Can we do it? Three years?"

  "We have enough supplies, providing the recycling systems don't break down."