The Shores of Death Page 2

  In spite of the effort he was making to emulate the musical tones of the Earth people, Calax’s voice seemed harsh to Fastina. He was speaking urgently and bluntly.

  “I’m not ignoring the facts. I know all the arguments against making more flights. I know what they say happens to the crews and I agree that what happens is disgusting. But it doesn’t matter.” He paused to judge the effect of his words, he looked around at the polite, composed faces. He wiped his sweating forehead and breathed in heavily. His words seemed to have had no effect. He continued:

  “In two hundred years—maybe fifty more at the most —the whole race will be dead. Surely it’s better that we send something of ourselves out there—something that is going to be found, something alive that might breed on a new planet in a new galaxy, that might start the race again? Let’s keep trying. We haven’t tried everything, have we? New discoveries are made daily. I know all our conditioning and training is failing to date, but we’ve got to go on trying.” He paused again. “It’s a valuable human trait to go on trying...” Calax wiped his forehead and waited for the response. None came. “That’s all.” He went to his seat, obviously aware that the only response he had awakened was one of slight uneasiness.

  Narvo Velusi got up and looked at the mediator who sat slightly to one side of the dais. The mediator was a fair-haired young man who stroked his moustache continuously. He nodded and Velusi walked on to the dais.

  “I think we all sympathise with Barre Calax’s sentiments,” he said slowly. “But most of us feel that the degeneration of mind and body that comes to inter-galactic astronauts is so gross that it would be a crime even to continue asking for volunteers. Secondly, we feel that if there is an intelligent race in another galaxy we should not want it to see the—-contents of one of our intergalactic ships.” He sighed. “Thirdly, as Barre Calax knows, we rarely get one crew-member back alive. They commit suicide almost before they’re out of the galaxy. I agree that we should leave something behind, though nothing physical can survive the cataclysm. I have an idea which I shall publish soon for your approval. Tomorrow the last ship we sent out arrives back here. We have already gained some idea of what we shall find inside—our laser-screens gave us a hint before transmission ceased. Three men and three women went out. If there is anything alive now it will not be what we should like to think of as human. Barre Calax is now the only dissenter. If there are others, let them speak. If there are not, then we shall have to regard the project as closed. Although I and my colleagues are no longer officially members of the Direction Committee, it will be our duty to tidy up the final details of the project we encouraged and, perhaps, organise work on the new project which I have in mind. Are there any other dissenters?”

  There were none. Someone spoke, and the silvery phonoplates hanging in the air around the auditorium picked up the words and amplified them to the others.

  “May we hear Clovis Marca on the subject?”

  Velusi glanced at Marca. Marca said: “I can add nothing more to what Narvo Velusi has said. I am sorry —there is little consolation. The invading galaxy is already approaching the speed of light and when it exceeds that speed it will convert to energy—converting us with it. The end of both galaxies. There is nothing we can do but live our lives to the full in as civilised a manner as possible. Many of us will be—many of us will be dead before that time. We have agreed that no more children shall be born. Those still alive will be old and ready for death, I hope. Our only destiny now is to die. Let us do it well.”

  There was silence. Fastina felt overwhelmed by Marca’s reminder. She felt miserable and she felt proud. The human race hadn’t been going all that long, she thought, but it had grown up quickly. What a thing it could have been, given the chance. There had been a certain amount of mild panic the year before, when the government had first released the facts, the explanation of what the new stars in the sky signified. A whole galaxy swinging off course towards our own, its speed increasing at a fantastic rate. A tremendous conception that many still could not quite accept. Death. The death of everything. Yet, in reality, merely a transformation, a metamorphosis of matter from one state to another. The human race was merely a small piece of that matter on a slightly larger piece, ready to be transformed along with the rest. At length, perhaps, new galaxies would form, new suns and planets would arise—and perhaps a new race similar to humanity—but even Earth’s most enthusiastic scientists could not completely convince themselves of the relative unimportance of their race, for after all it did seem to be the only intelligent one in the galaxy. But was intelligence important, she wondered. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked herself that question, and it wasn’t the first time she’d been unable to answer.

  Nobody was leaving the auditorium yet, people were talking quietly amongst themselves. Marca, Velusi and Calax were deep in conversation.

  Perhaps centuries ago, she thought, when there were religions and the promise of some sort of super-physical after-life, we should have accepted this end as the work of a god. Yet people had resisted death then, so maybe in their hearts they hadn’t really believed in their religions. Now there was only the code of decent behaviour, of personal control and civilised demeanour. It was a nice way of life, but it didn’t offer any hope.

  Nothing offered that any more.

  She saw that Clovis Marca was standing up, probably preparing to leave. He was pointing into the air, towards a black carriage hovering above him. Barre Calax was nodding. Automatically, she restrained her impulse to go to the carriage. Then she thought, No, it could be now or never, and without saying anything to Andros, she squeezed her arm against the gravstrap and began to rise into the air, guiding herself gently towards the black carriage.

  Andros shouted after her. Then he saw where she was going and shrugged. He moved aloft towards his own carriage, shouting something to her which she didn’t catch.

  She reached the black carriage before Marca and his friends. She drifted over the side and sat down on one of the deep blue couches, waiting for him.

  As he, Velusi and Calax came into view, she noted his quickly-controlled look of surprise and then the amused smile. He hovered beside the carriage. “Do you want a lift?” he said lightly. He moved upwards and then drifted down beside her and switched off his gravstrap. She had never been close to him before and his presence was so vital that she almost backed away from him.

  Calax and Velusi were talking, seating themselves on the opposite couch. They nodded to her and continued their conversation.

  “I think you know me,” she said. “Fastina Cahmin.”

  “Aha—my female nemesis—not so odd as the male. You’ve caught up with me at last.” He was looking at her with curiosity. “Do you know a pale man who wears dark clothes and holds his head in a peculiar way?”

  “I don’t think so,” she frowned. What does he think of me? she thought. She had to make a good impression. Perhaps she had been wrong to do this. She smiled. “I wanted to make you a proposal. I want to know if you’ll marry me?”

  He seemed relieved. “I had an idea it was something of the sort. But you must know my reputation—I like women very much, but I’ve never found one I’ve wanted to marry. What can you offer me?”

  “Very little besides myself. Can I share your company for a few days—see what comes of it?”

  “It would be impolite to refuse—but you know that I’m involved in something very important to me. Something much more important than sex, or even love. I am a happy man, Fastina. There is only one thing that mars my happiness, and I’m afraid that it is becoming the dominant factor of my life.”

  “Will you tell me what it is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, are you going to be impolite? Refuse me my chance?”

  He smiled. “No. I am staying at Narvo’s house for the time being. You can come and stay with me there if you wish—though I’ll be busy most of the time.”

  She felt elated and she felt confident. Withou
t realising it, she had sensed a weakness in him—a weakness that she could employ to keep him.

  The car was moving away from the Flower Forest, passing over the occasional house or village. There were no social centres, now, no conurbations, simply the vast underground computer network and the villages or houses surrounded by gardens, mountains, lakes and forests, where a man and his friends or family could land their buildings in the scenery they preferred. Calax’s house was situated at the moment close to Lake Tanganyika in what had once been known as the continent of Africa.

  Soon she could see the lake ahead, a sheet of bright steel flanked by hills and forests, the sun hot and the air still as the car drifted down to land on the mosaic roof of the tall house.

  Clovis helped her out—gentle, civilised, but with an odd look in his eyes that did not seem at all civilised, as if he stared into some secret part of her that she did not know existed, some organ that she possessed which, if inspected, would tell of her real ambitions and her future. She thought of him, at that moment, as an ancient, sombre shaman in his dark clothes, who might cut the organ from her, steaming in the still air, to make some unholy divination. He smiled a quiet smile as he gestured for her to precede him into the gravishute which gaped in the centre of the roof. Dropping into it, she felt as if she were condemning herself to an irrevocable destiny, and she savoured the idea until they were standing on the balcony of Narvo’s main room, drinking cocktails and admiring the view over the lake.

  Clovis was saying: “Well, Barre, you’re as adamant as ever, ah? You colonials are of tougher stuff than us.” Though Barre spoke good-humouredly, his voice had something of the timbre of the machines he had lived with and by all his life. “Not tougher, Clovis—perhaps more realistic. Certainly less romantic. I might even say that you Earth people are in love with the idea of your own extinction—it’s still remote enough.”

  Clovis smiled. “It may be true of many, but not of me. Death, decay of any kind horrifies me.”

  Barre laughed. “Oh, horrified, are you? I sometimes think that the self-control that you folk pride yourselves on has resulted in the atrophy of your emotions. You are so civilised. You might not be human at all in any real sense.”

  “The emotion’s there, Barre—we don’t let it cloud our minds or spoil our behaviour. We still have our artists, you know, to prove it.”

  “I have my suspicions of most of them—they don’t do anything for me.”

  “Not even Alodios?”

  “Alodios is good, yes—but didn’t he disappear some time ago? They said he left Earth. Now he is a giant. Born out of his time for most of you. Too rich, judging by some of the recent criticisms I’ve seen.”

  “And too romantic? You can’t have it both ways.” Fastina, also an admirer of Alodios, whose composite ‘ novels ’ of music, prose, poetry, paintings and mobiles dominated the art world, said: “Did you ever meet him, Clovis? I’ve always liked his early stuff—like Cheerless Ben Evazah and Seasons By Request—but I’ve found his later stuff difficult—obscure—nothing to help you key-in to what he’s thinking.”

  “I never met him. I sent several invitations; asking if I could visit him when those failed, but he keeps himself to himself. I wonder where he is now.”

  Narvo was looking out over the lake. He said: “I stand on the shores of death, where there is no ocean—Only an eternal dropping away.” He turned. “That’s Alodios, I think. Something from one of his early pieces.”

  The setting sun seemed to deepen the lines on his face and Fastina suddenly felt sorry for him, realising for the first time the full implications of the Earth’s impending fate.

  Velusi’s dining room was not large. Its walls were ornamented by abstract frescoes, reminiscent of Mayan art. A somewhat ornate room, not to Fastina’s taste. Beyond the now-transparent walls, she could see the dark glitter of the lake, with a huge moon hanging over it. It was very peaceful.

  They ate and talked of many things—of the meeting, of the issues and personalities involved, and they talked of old problems solved, as they hoped to solve this one. But though they spoke a great deal, Fastina felt a little uncomfortable, as if she were an intruder. Secondly, she could not easily forget the sense of anticipation that dominated her, and she began to resent the presence of Velusi and Calax, wishing that she and Clovis could be alone.

  At length Clovis got up. As yet he hadn’t told Narvo that Fastina wished to stay, but now he said: “ Narvo —you’ve no objection if Fastina spends a few days here?” The old man smiled. “Of course not. You’re welcome.” But she felt again that she’d intruded, that her being here lessened the time that Velusi could spend with his friend. Yet, she told herself fatalistically, there was nothing she could do about it.

  Narvo and Barre Calax had rooms near to the ground, but Clovis had chosen a room near the top of the building, so they took their leave of one another in the dining room.

  After Narvo and Barre Calax had dropped down the gravishute, Clovis and Fastina went up it. The shute opened directly on to Clovis’s room, but as he drew level with the entrance, Clovis frowned.

  “The lights are out,” he said. “Surely Narvo hasn’t removed the lamps without telling me ... ”

  Fastina thought that she heard a note of tension in his voice. He caught the grip by the side of the entrance, clasping her arm with his other hand. They entered his room.

  Surprised, she saw the silhouette of a man against the transparent wall. A man who held his head in a peculiar way.

  In a world without crime, locks and alarms did not exist so that the man could have entered the room when and how he chose. And he was guilty of a crime—an invasion of privacy at very least.

  This wasn’t what shocked Marca so much as his recognition of the man. He paused by the gravishute entrance, still gripping Fastina’s arm.

  “What do you want here?” he said.

  The figure didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  For the first time in his adult life, Clovis Marca let his emotions get the better of him. Anger and fear shook his body as he released his hold on Fastina’s arm and plunged across the room towards the dark figure.

  “This time I’m getting my explanation,” he said, reaching out to grasp the man.

  The intruder moved just before Clovis’s hands touched him. He moved rapidly*—faster than it should have been possible for a man to move—towards the gravishute. But Fastina blocked the entrance with her body. He veered aside and stood stock still again. Then he spoke, his voice melodious and deep.

  “You will never be able to touch me, Clovis Marca. Let me leave here. I mean you no harm, I hope.”

  “No harm—you’re driving me insane with this pursuit. Who are you—what do you want from me?”

  “ My name, so far as it matters, is Take.”

  “Take—a good name for a thief.”

  “I did not come here to steal anything from you. I merely wished to confirm something.”

  “What?”

  “To confirm what I guessed you are looking for.”

  “Be quiet! ” Clovis looked at Fastina.

  “You are ashamed?” asked Take.

  “No, but it doesn’t suit me to reveal what I’m looking for—and I’m not sure you know.”

  “I know.”

  Then Take had leapt to where Fastina stood, pushed her gently aside and jumped into the gravishute, so swiftly that it was impossible to follow his movements.

  Clovis ran across the room and followed him into the gravishute. Above him he heard Take’s voice calling a warning.

  “You are a fool, Marca—what you seek is not worth the finding!”

  Reaching the roof, Clovis saw a small carriage taking off. He ran towards Narvo’s car before he realised that Narvo had the only subsonic key. He had left his own craft at the spacefield when Narvo had picked him up. He watched the car disappear over the mountains and he breathed rapidly, deliberately relaxing his body and regaining control of himself.

  Fast
ina now came on to the roof and stood beside him.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him. He moved too quickly. Have you ever seen a man move as fast as that? How does he do it? You’ve seen him before? I have, too—on several of the planets you were on. Is that what you meant when you mentioned your male nemesis?”

  He nodded. “I must find out where he comes from —where he’s staying on Earth. There’s still some organisation left. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “He isn’t from Earth, is he? There’s something about him....”

  Clovis knew what she meant.

  She smiled. “He couldn’t be in love with you, too, could he?”

  Then Clovis knew there was only one means of forgetting the enigmatic Take, for a while at least— only one means of relaxing. He turned and grasped Fastina, pulling her towards him, bending her head back to kiss her. pushing his hands over her body, feeling her arms circle him and her nails dig into his back as she gasped:

  “Oh, Clovis! Oh, you stallion! ”

  three Memento Mori

  The ship came silently down. It landed on the deserted field in the cool dawn. It was a big, complex ship of a golden plastic alloy that was turned to deep red by the rising sun. It landed in a faint whisper of sound, a murmur of apology, as if aware that its presence was unwelcome.

  Three figures started forward over the yielding surface of the spacefield. In the distance, to their right, were the abandoned hangars and control rooms of the field, slim buildings of pale yellow and blue.

  The voice in Clovis’s ear-bead said: “Shall we open up?”

  “You might as well,” he said.

  As they reached the circular ship, the lock began to open, twenty feet above them. They paused, listening —listening for a familiar sound, a sick sound they didn’t want to hear.

  They didn’t hear it.

  Drifting up on their gravstraps, they paused at the open airlock. Clovis looked at Fastina. “We know what to expect—you don’t. Are you sure—?”