Glory Planet

by A Bertram Chandler

  It was a long way up. I was more than a little surprised when I was seized by two pairs of strong hands, dragged up and into a small, metal-walled compartment. Before I had time to look around me I heard Bean curse, turned to see him unceremoniously bundled into the little room and dumped beside me. After I had regained my breath I got unsteadily to my feet, took stock of our surroundings.

  We were, as I have said, in a little, metal-walled room. Pointing out of its round doorway was the flaring muzzled affair that we had taken for a weapon. From it ran wires, and at the end of one of the wires was a small disc into which a uniformed woman was speaking.

  "You will make no hostile move," she was saying. "We have your leaders, and they will be treated as hostages. Your leaders will be treated as hostages."

  Were there no men in this ship? Three more women stood watching us, their hands on the grips of what could only be weapons at their belts. Like us, I noticed, they wore a uniform of shorts and shirts, but of some pale blue material. The shoulders of the speaker and of two of the others were plain; the third woman wore on hers epaulettes of black and silver, black epaulettes upon which shone three silver stars. She had something that Adelie, standing beside her, lacked—an honesty, a frankness. She was small, her head coming to just above the Saint's shoulder, but well made. Her dark hair and complexion made an attractive contrast to the blonde pallor of the other woman.

  "Take us to your Captain," said Adelie haughtily.

  "To the Commandante," said the officer.

  "I don't care what you call him. I, Madam, am Adelie Dale, daughter of the Bishop of Beulah Land, a Senior Saint of the Salvation and, until orders to the contrary arrive—and I do not think that they will— representative of my father here at Wyndham's Landing . . ."

  "We are honored," said the other woman. "Your father is the ruler of this world? On his death or retirement will you succeed?"

  "No. Surely you must realize that a woman can never become Bishop. Or, perhaps, you order things differently in the Martian Colony."

  "Could be," replied the other. "And these men?"

  "This is Clement Whitley," said Adelie, "Mate of the steamer Richmond Queen. And a Lieutenant . . . Bean, did you say?"

  "Bean I said," replied the Lieutenant. "Lieutenant Bean, of the Albany Marines, at present attached to the battleship Duke of Albany. And you, Madam?"

  She hesitated. Then, "Claire King," she said. "Junior Commandante—or," and she flashed a brief smile at me, "Mate, if you like, of the Interplanetary Ship Eve Curie ..."

  "Of Mars," said Adelie. It was a statement rather than a question. "But we would speak with your . . . Commandante."

  "But surely. Will you follow me?" She snapped orders to her women. "You, Cabot, stand guard in the airlock. You, Dee, and Fowler follow behind the . . . hostages."

  The woman officer went first, Adelie followed her. Bean and I followed them, the two ratings fell in astern of us. The alleyways through which we were led were just wide enough to take two abreast—and bare they were, and featureless, metal floored and walled and ceilinged, lit with bright glowing glass tubes that must be, I decided, that legendary "electric light" used by men before The Burning. To the right we turned, and to the right again, and then found ourselves at a shaft around the walls of which ran a spiral staircase.

  We were led up this, round and round and up, and at last the Junior Commandante conducted us into another alleyway, one running at right angles to the vertical well up which we had climbed. She halted before a metal door, a door which bore a neat plaque with the word Commandante on it in gold letters. She rapped on this, smartly, and a pleasant voice inside called, "Come in!"

  I suppose that I was expecting to meet a gray-haired veteran of the space ways. The sight of the small woman seated behind the big desk was—shocking. Small she was, and plump, her face framed by soft brown hair. Her gray eyes behind the rimless spectacles were mild, her expression that of an indulgent school teacher. The thin lips I remembered later —at the time I hardly noticed them.

  She said, "Yes, Claire?"

  "The colonists, Madam. The lady is Adelie Dale, seemingly a person of some consequence. The man in the white uniform is Mate of one of the two river steamers. The man in the blue and red uniform claims to be a lieutenant of the Albany Marines."

  "Indeed? A chair for Miss Dale."

  One of the ratings pushed forward an armchair, well upholstered, covered with a gaudy, flowered material that matched the hangings of the cabin.

  "Please be seated, Miss Dale. Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Willis, Carrie Nation Willis, Senior Commandante of the Imperial Space Navy, Officer Commanding this expedition. I am sure that you will be able to be of great help to us."

  "That could be so," replied Adelie cautiously.

  "I am sure of it, my dear. Frankly, we expected to find that the original colony had died out long since, and the sight of the village, and that big stone monument, and the two river steamers was rather . . . disturbing. But when I watched you come ashore, even though you had all those men with you, I thought—At least they'll be able to talk our language."

  "I was afraid that you'd be talking Russian," said Adelie.

  For a moment the Commandante looked puzzled. Then, "Oh, I see what you mean. But I was forgetting that you'll know nothing of recent history. As a matter of fact language, or the choice of language, is the only cause for disagreement with our Russian sisters that exists these days. As far as the Recolonization Project is concerned, they are happy to let us handle affairs in towards the Sun as long as they have a free hand outwards."

  "Recolonization?" asked Adelie. "Outwards? You mean, Commandante, that they are considering the . . . the Asteroids, the satellites of Jupiter and Saturn?"

  "For a dweller on a perpetually cloud-covered planet you display a remarkable knowledge of astronomy."

  "I have access to the sacred books," said Adelie. "I know that it would be impossible for men to live on Jupiter or Saturn, but life on the satellites could be made almost tolerable."

  "It could, I suppose. But we shan't be getting round to that for one or two generations. But I am forgetting my duties as hostess." She pressed a button on top of her desk, and I heard a bell ringing somewhere within the ship. There was a brief silence until a girl entered carrying a tray, which she set down before the Commandante. On it was a steaming, spouted pot, two jugs, a plate piled high with sickly looking pastries, a bowl of sugar and two cups, each standing within a funny little, deep plate. "Sugar and milk, my dear?" asked the Commandante.

  "I'm sorry. I don't know . . . What is this?"

  "Oh, you poor girl! Fancy, Claire, she's never had tea!"

  The Junior Commandante smiled sympathetically.

  "Men, of course," said Commandante Willis. "I doubt if they even remembered to bring any plants with them when they first colonized."

  "We make excellent rum here, Madam," said Bean coldly. "And were you being entertained aboard my ship I am sure that my captain would give you the opportunity of at least trying it."

  "Oh, the men" said Commandante Willis. "I had quite forgotten them—and of course, they're bound to have different customs here. Claire, dear, take them down to the Officers' Mess and see that they're fed and entertained."

  I addressed Adelie, "Captain Beynon told me that I was responsible for your safety."

  The Bishop's daughter half turned in her chair.

  "Don't be silly, Clem. I'm as safe here as I ever was aboard Richmond Queen." A half smile flickered over her lips. "Safer. Run along with Miss . . . King. I'll see you later."

  "The Duchy of Albany is a sovereign state," said Bean stiffly.

  "This isn't Albany," replied Adelie. "I told you that you had no right here. You'd better do as the ladies say."

  "Yes," said Claire King quietly.

  I saw that the two ratings had drawn their weapons, were handling them with ease and assurance. "Come on, Bean," I said.

  "All right," he rep
lied.

  He turned, for the last time, to face the woman behind the big desk. "Commandante Willis, I protest. As representative of the Duchy of Albany, I protest. You have come here, uninvited, to Venus, and the least you can do is to try to observe our laws and customs, just as we should do if we landed on Mars . . ."

  "Mars?" asked the Commandante. "What has Mars to do with it?"

  "That is your home."

  "There seems to be a misapprehension," said the woman. "We come from Earth."

  The Officers' Mess, to which Claire King led us, was a large compartment, circular in shape, with the central well of the ship a sort of thick pillar in the middle of its floor. There were no ports or windows, but the place was brightly lit by the glowing tubes. Furnishings, fittings and decoration had a fussy femininity that was rather irritating, but it was comfortable enough. Part of the room seemed to be in use as a lounge rather than as an eating place, and it was here that Bean and I were told to seat ourselves, on a low, well sprung settee with a small table in front of us. The Junior Commandante sat in an armchair, facing us across the table. When the tray, with its pot and its jugs and its cups, was brought she said, smiling brightly, "I'll be mother."

  "When?" inquired Bean politely.

  She looked puzzled for a second or so, then blushed.

  "It's an expression we use on Earth," she explained. "It just means that I will pour the tea." She paused briefly, then asked, "Milk? Sugar?"

  "The same as you have it," I said.

  "Good. Milk and sugar."

  She handed me one of the cups, balanced on its little, deep plate. I sipped from it cautiously and was disappointed. Oh, it was refreshing—but I still can't see why, if history is to be believed, it was worth fighting the Battle of Boston over.

  "I'd sooner have rum," said Bean honestly.

  "So you have rum here," said the girl. "Yes. It fits

  in. You have sugar, and you don't like tea. Well—I suppose it is rather an acquired taste. Mr. Whitley, would you mind pressing that button on the bulkhead just behind you?"

  I did so, heard a little bell ringing somewhere.

  The stewardess came in, stood to attention.

  "Jenny, give the Surgeon my compliments, ask her if I can have a bottle of brandy. Bring three glasses and iced water."

  "Very good, Madam."

  "What is brandy?" asked Bean.

  "Don't you have it? But I don't suppose you have wine, do you?"

  "We have wine," I said. "We make it from beet, and from the buds of trembleweed flowers, and from the berries of the barb bush—barberries, we call 'em . . ."

  "But you have no grapes," she said. "You can't make wine without grapes, and you can't make brandy without wine. Ah, here we are . . ." She pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle, held the bottle poised over one of the glasses. "Say when." She started to pour.

  "When," I said hastily. This stuff would be at least as strong as rum. I caught Bean's eye, gave him a warning glance, which he ignored. The girl, I noticed, helped herself to a bare one finger, topped it up with iced water from the jug.

  "Down the hatch," she said.

  The Marine gulped most of the contents of his glass in one swallow. I sipped cautiously. It was good—but I feared its tongue-loosening effects.

  "What do you think of it?" she asked.

  "Have you brought a cargo of the stuff?" asked Bean. "I'd sell you the whole of Beulah Land for a dozen bottles."

  "Be careful you don't sell Albany too," I told him.

  That led into explanations of which side was which, and the girl's observation that, with two rival powers in one small colony, the Earth expedition was needed. We'd slid all the way back to the early days of steam power, while Earth was in the age of spaceships and atomic engines.

  "It must be quite a place, this Earth of yours," said Bean belligerently. "We thought that it had been wiped out in an Atomic War. It may be rather a pity that it wasn't."

  "Yes, it may be," she snapped, "from your point of view." She was angry now, and suddenly she seemed very attractive—and, I sensed, dangerous.

  "Miss King," I said, "this is all rather foolish. After all, we're members of the same family, even though we do seem to have grown apart. What if we have? That's no reason for us all to fly at each other's throats. You know something about us—you've heard a little about Beulah Land and Albany, and the Bishop and the Duke and the Saints of the Salvation. All that we know is that two ships have dropped down through the overcast from a world that we have believed to have been bare of all life for generations. What has been happening? Bring us up to date with all the family gossip."

  She smiled. "You're supposed to be telling me things. That's my job just now—to pump you— although the Commandante is probably doing much better with that tall, blonde friend of yours. There's

  not much I can tell you, without breaking orders. And that I have no intention of doing." ^

  "I'd let no woman order me around, said Bean. "You would on Earth," said the girl. "It should be obvious to you by now that the women rule. We seized power shortly after the colonies on Mars and

  Venus had been established."

  "After the Atomic War?" I asked.

  "No. Before. Before the Atomic War that never happened

  "Never happened? Then why did you abandon the

  colonies?"

  "We—had to. It was all part of stopping the war." "How?"

  "I'm sorry. I can't tell you. But we did the right thing. You must believe that."

  "I doubt if you'd have convinced the people of Wyndham's time. Why are you here now?"

  "To help," she said. "To make up for the wrong

  that we did you."

  "And . . • ?" I prompted. "That's all," she said. I didn't believe her. She laid her hand on mine. "Your people," she asked, "what about them? You must have a story, a great story, one to be proud of .

  "If you're from Albany, said Bean. "There's little cause for pride in Beulah Land. Science-hating, book burning sons of Bishops!"

  I ignored him. "You know, ot course, that a colony was established here, and that Wyndham was . . ."

  "Let's have none of the Holy Joe propaganda,"

  interrupted Bean.

  "There's not going to be any—and, anyhow, you're

  at liberty to tell your side of things. As I was saying, there was a colony established here, on the one, big, Southern continent. It was called New Australia, as you know. Plants and livestock were brought out— some failed to gain a foothold, some flourished. Machines were brought out, and more machines were manufactured locally. The native population, the Phibians, were, if not actively friendly, happy to leave us alone as long as we left them alone. The captain of the first rocket ever to land on Venus, Wyndham, became one of the first colonists, became leader of the colony. He was still leader of the colony when communications with Earth broke down. It was after no less than ten years of waiting for the rockets that never came that Wyndham, a deeply religious man, told his people what must have happened . . ."

  "And that was . . . ?" asked the Junior Commandante.

  "War," I said. "Atomic War. Earth wiped clean of life or, even, flarine into a blazine, miniature sun. The colonies on Beulah Land and Mars, on the Moon, left to sink or swim ..."

  "Beulah Land," she whispered. "A strange name . . . I don't quite understand . . ."

  "From the hymn," I told her. "Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land. The shining, Glory Shore . . . You must understand that with Wyndham's revelation, a great religious revival swept the colony. The Church of the Saints of the Salvation was formed, with Wyndham as its first Bishop."

  "And he burned the books," said Bean, bitterly, "and he smashed the machines, and he murdered the technicians . . . And then he realized that life with no machines at all was just a little too hard, and so he permitted the use of the steam engine. The Locks, too, weren't included in the smashing up party. After all, the Bishop and his Saints had to be able to travel up and down
the river in comfort."

  "And what of Albany?" asked Claire King.

  "Albany!" said Bean, raising his glass as though drinking a toast. "Albany! The citadel of knowledge, the last bastion of science! It's at Albany you should have landed, woman, not among the Holy Joes!"

  "We might yet. But—what is Albany?"

  "I just told you."

  "Tell the lady how you got that way," I suggested.

  He glared at me with bloodshot eyes. He said, speaking with slow deliberation, "Not all of the technicians were murdered, not all of the books were burned. There was Wesley, who had been Wyndham's Engineer in the rocket ship Ad Astra. He, with his friends and helpers, managed to fortify the town of Albany, managed to make weapons—and, until then, there had been no need of them on Venus —powerful enough to fight off the ignorant, blood-crazed mobs ..."

  "He was Wyndham's friend," I said. "Wyndham saved him."

  "Rubbish. He was strong enough to beat off the Bishop's rabble, strong enough to force a treaty upon him, the Treaty of Baton Rouge."

  "Ay . . . And what sort of treaty? A treaty that clipped his wings, a treaty that limited his armament for all time to the steam cannon and the powder rockets that barely enabled him to hold off the

  Bishop's armies. Thus far—no farther. That was what it amounted to."

  "You forget," almost shouted Bean, "that freedom of the river was granted in Bishop Judd's time—and granted after our first rockets had fallen in New Orleans!"

  Bean's none-too-great supply of tact was dissolving rapidly, and the girl was egging him on, but Claire King could get nothing out of him about Albany's current weapons. As for me, I couldn't tell what I didn't know.

  She turned to the question of systems of government and was more shocked by the fact that women played virtually no role in running Albany and what she considered to be an inferior role in Beulah Land. No woman could become a Bishop, or even Under-Bishop, or Preacher.