Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (73 page)

One thing was sure, because of the intrusion of a stranger who had risen to absolute power the civilization of Baya Nor could never again be static. It must go forward – or back.

So, in order to give his one-man renaissance the best possible chance of flourishing, Paul felt that he would have to leave human sacrifice alone. After all, it did not affect more than twenty people a year – most of them young girls – and the victims were not only willing to accept martyrdom, but competitively willing. It was a great distinction. For they, after all, were the beloved of Oruri.

There was, of course, one potential victim who did not have such a comforting philosophy. And that was Paul himself. He wondered how he would feel about the situation in another thirty-seven days. He hoped – he hoped very much – that he would be able to accept his fate as tranquilly as Shah Shan had done. For, in the Bayani philosophy, it was necessary that one who knew how to live should also know how to die.

As he sat by the bank of the Canal of Life, reviewing the happenings of the last few months, Paul Marlowe was filled with a deep satisfaction. A start had been made. The Bayani were beginning their long and painful march from the twilight world of medieval orthodoxy towards an intellectual and an emotional sunrise. A man’s life was not such a high price for the shaping of a new society …

Paul sat by the Canal of Life for a long time. It was on such an evening as this, when the nine small moons of Altair Five swarmed gaily across the sky, that he had been wont to sit upon the verandah steps drinking cooled kappa spirit and philosophizing in words that Mylai Tui could not understand.

He thought of her now with pleasurable sadness, remembering the baffling, almost dog-like devotion of the tiny woman who had once been a temple prostitute, who had taught him the Bayani language and who had
become to all intents and purposes his wife. He thought of her and wished that she could have lived to bear the child of whose conception she had been so proud. He wished that she could have known also that Poul Mer Lo, her lord, was destined to become the god-king. Poor Mylai Tui, she would have exploded with self-importance – and love …

Then he thought of Ann, who was already becoming shadowy again in his mind. Dear, remote, elusive Ann – who had once been a familiar stranger. Also, his wife … It was nearly a quarter of a century since they had left Earth together in the
Gloria Mundi
… He had, he supposed, aged physically not much more than about six years in all that time. But already he felt very old, very tired. Perhaps you could not cheat Nature after all, and there was some delayed aftereffect to all the years of suspended animation. Or maybe there was a simpler explanation. Perhaps he had merely travelled too far, seen too much and been too much alone.

The night was suddenly crowded with ghosts. Ann … Mylai Tui … An unborn child … Shah Shan … And a woman with whom he had once danced the Emperor Waltz on the other side of the sky …

He looked up now at this alien sky whose constellations had become more familiar to him than those other constellations of long ago.

He looked up and watched the nine moons of Altair Five swinging purposefully against the dusty backcloth of stars.

And his heart began to beat in his chest like a mad thing.

He counted the moons carefully, while his heart pumped wildly and his arms trembled and his eyes smarted.

He took a deep breath and counted them again.

There were now ten tiny moons – not nine. Surely that could only mean one thing …

Dazed and shaking, he began to run back to the sacred city – back to the private room where he still kept his battered, and so far useless, transceiver.

He stood on the small, high balcony of the Temple of the Weeping Sun. His eyes were fixed on the cluster of moons already approaching the horizon. There were still ten.

The transceiver was in his hand, its telescopic aerial extended.

He was still shaking, and sweat made his fingers slip on the tiny studs of the transceiver as he set it for transmission at five hundred metres on the medium wave band. If the tenth moon of Altair Five was indeed a star ship – and what an unlikely
if
that was! – orbiting the planet, surely an automatic continuous watch would be kept on all wave bands. But if it was a star ship, how the devil could it be a terrestrial vessel? It had arrived at Altair Five less than three years after the
Gloria Mundi
. Yet, when the
Gloria Mundi
had left Earth, apart from the American and Russian vessels, no other star ships – so far as Paul knew – had even left the drawing board. On the other hand, if it wasn’t a terrestrial vessel, what else could it be? A large meteor that had wandered in from deep space and found an orbital path? A star ship from another system altogether?

Paul’s head was a turmoil of possibilities, impossibilities and plain crazy hopes.

‘Please, God, let it be a ship from Earth,’ he prayed as he pressed the transmit stud on the transceiver. ‘Please, God, let it be a ship from Earth – and let this bloody box work!’

Then he said, in as calm a voice as he could manage: ‘Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Over … Over to you.’

He switched to receive and waited, his eyes fixed hypnotically on the ten small moons. There was nothing – nothing but the sound of a light breeze that rippled the surface of the Mirror of Oruri. Nothing but the stupid, agitated beating of his heart.

He switched to transmit again. ‘Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Over to you.’

Still nothing. Presently the moons would be over the horizon, and that would be that. Maybe they were already out of range of the small transceiver. Maybe the damn thing wasn’t working, anyway. Maybe it was an extraterrestrial ship and the occupants didn’t bother to keep a radio watch because they were
all little green men with built-in telepathic antennae. Maybe it was just a bloody great lump of rock – a cold, dead piece of space debris … Maybe … Maybe …

At least the receiving circuits were working. He could now hear the hiss and crackle of static – an inane message, announcing only the presence of an electrical storm somewhere in the atmosphere.

‘Say something, you bastard,’ he raged. ‘Don’t just hook yourself on to a flock of moons and go skipping gaily by … I’m alone, do you hear? Alone … Alone with a bloody great family of children, and no one to talk to … Say something, you stupid, tantalizing bastard!’

And then it came.

The miracle.

The voice of man reaching out to man across the black barrier of space.

‘This is the
Cristobal Colon
called Altair Five.’ The static was getting worse. But the words – the blessed, beautiful words – were unmistakable. ‘This is the
Cristobal Colon
calling Altair Five … Greetings from Earth … Identify yourself, please. Over.’

For a dreadful moment or two he couldn’t speak. There was a tightness in his chest, and his heart seemed ready to burst. He opened his mouth, and at first there was only a harsh gurgling. Instantly – and curiously – he was ashamed. He clenched his fist until the nails dug into his palms, and then he forced out the words.

‘I’m Paul Marlowe,’ he managed to say. ‘The only survivor—’ his voice broke and he had to start again. ‘The only survivor of the
Gloria Mundi
… When – when did you leave Earth?’

There was no answer. With a curse, he realized that he had forgotten to switch to receive. He hit the button savagely, and came in on mid-sentence from a different voice.

‘—name is Konrad Jurgens, commander of the
Cristobal Colon,’
said the accented voice slowly in English. ‘We left Earth under faster than light drive in twenty twenty-nine, four subjective years ago … We are so glad to discover that you are still alive – one of the great pioneers of star flight. What has happened to the
Gloria Mundi
and your companions? We have seen the canals but have not yet made detailed studies. What are the creatures of this planet like. Are they hostile? How shall we find you?’

Paul’s eyes were on the moons, now very low in the sky. Somehow, he managed to keep his head.

‘Sorry, no time for much explanation,’ he answered hurriedly. ‘You will soon be passing over my horizon, and I think we’ll lose contact. So I’ll concentrate on vital information. If you take telephoto detail surveys of the area round the canals, you will see where the
Gloria Mundi
touched down … We burned a swathe through the forest – about ten kilometres long. It’s probably
visible even to the naked eye from a low orbit … You’ll see also the crater where the
Gloria Mundi
programmed its own destruction after being abandoned. Touch down as near to it as possible. I’ll send people out to meet you – you’ll recognize them. But don’t – repeat don’t – leave the star ship until they come. There are also people in these parts who are not too friendly … I’ll get the reception committee to meet you about two days from now … They are small, dark and quite human.’ He laughed, thinking of what he had learned from the
Aru Re
. ‘In fact, I think you are going to be amazed at how very human they are. Over to you.’

‘Message received. We will follow your instructions. Are you in good health? Over.’

Paul, drunk with excitement, laughed somewhat hysterically and said: ‘I’ve never felt better in my life.’

There was a short silence. Then he heard: ‘
Cristobal Colon
to Paul Marlowe. We have received your message and will follow your instructions. Are you in good health? Over.’

Paul saw the ten moons disappearing one by one over the horizon. He tried to reach the
Cristobal Colon
again, and failed. He switched back to receive.

‘Cristobal Colon
to Paul Marlowe. We will follow your instructions. We no longer hear you. We will follow your instructions. We no longer hear you …
Cristobal Colon
to Paul Marlowe. We will follow—’

He switched off the transceiver and gave a great sigh.

The impossible seemed oddly inevitable, somehow – after it had happened.

He stood on the balcony of the Temple of the Weeping Sun for a long time, gazing at the night sky, trying not to be swamped by the torrents of thoughts and emotions that stormed inside him.

Faster than light drive … That was what they had said … Faster than light drive … Four subjective years of star flight … The
Cristobal Colon
must have left Earth seventeen years after the
Gloria Mundi
… And now here it was, orbiting Altair Five less than three years after the
Gloria Mundi
had touched down … Probably half the crew of this new ship were still at school when he was spending years in suspended animation on the long leap between stars … No wonder they regarded him as one of the pioneers of star flight …
Cristobal Colon
– a good name for a ship that, like Columbus, had opened up a new route for the voyagings of man … Soon, soon he would be speaking to men who could remember clearly what spring was like in London, or Paris or Rome. Men who still savoured the taste of beer or lager, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding or Frutti del Mare. Men – and, perhaps women – whose very looks and way of speaking would bring back so much to him of all that he had left behind – all that he had missed – on the other side of the sky …

Suddenly, the tumult in his head spent itself. He was desperately tired, exhausted by hope and excitement. He wanted only to sleep.

Enka Ne sat pensively on his couch. The single Bayani warrior on guard stared fixedly at the ceiling. The
Cristobal Colon
had touched down successfully and its occupants had been met by a troop of the god-king’s personal escort. Besides their tridents they had carried banners bearing the legend:
Bienvenu, Wilkommen, Benvenuto, Welcome
. The troop had been led by a hunter, a boy and a crippled child. It must, thought the god-king, have been quite a carnival … And now men from Earth walked in Baya Nor …

Yurui Sa, general of the Order of the Blind Ones, entered the room and gazed upon the presence, although the god-king wore only his samu.

‘Lord, it is as you have commanded. The strangers wait in the place of many fountains … They are tall and powerful, these men, taller even than –’ Yurui Sa stopped.

‘Taller even,’ said the god-king with a faint smile, ‘than one who waited in the place of many fountains a long, long time ago.’

During the past months, Yurui Sa and the god-king had developed something approaching friendship – but only in private, and when the plumage had been set aside. They were men of two worlds who had grown to respect each other.

‘Lord,’ went on Yurui Sa, ‘I have seen the silver bird. It is truly a thing of much wonder, and very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ said the god-king, ‘I do not doubt that it is very beautiful.’

There was a short silence. Yurui Sa allowed his gaze to drift through the archway to the small balcony and the open sky. Soon the light would die and it would be evening.

‘I think,’ said Yurui Sa tentatively, ‘that it would be very wonderful to journey in the silver bird to a land beyond the sky … Especially if one has already known that land, and if the heart has known much pain.’

‘Yurui Sa,’ said the god-king, ‘it seems that you are asking me a question.’

‘Forgive me, lord,’ answered Yurui Sa humbly, ‘I am indeed asking you a question – although the god-king is beyond the judgement of men.’

The god-king sighed. Yurui Sa was asking Enka Ne what, until now, Paul Marlowe had dared not ask himself.

He stood up and walked through the archway, out on to the little balcony. The sun was low and large and red in the sky. It did not look much different
from the sun that rose and set on an English landscape sixteen light-years away … And yet … And yet … It was different. Still beautiful. But different.