From the Ocean from teh Stars (40 page)

(For the past five minutes I've been wondering what's happening to
Nairobi; now I realize that they are putting on a mammoth fireworks
display. Chemically fueled rockets may be obsolete out here—but they're
still using lots of them down on Earth tonight.)

The end of a century—and the end of a millennium. What will the
hundred years that begin with two and zero bring? The planets, of
course; floating there in space, only a mile away, are the ships of the first
Martian expedition. For two years I have watched them grow, assembled piece by piece, as the space station itself was built by the men I worked
with a generation ago.

Those ten ships are ready now, with all their crews aboard, waiting
for the final instrument check and the signal for departure. Before the
first day of the new century has passed its noon, they will be tearing free
from the reins of Earth, to head out toward the strange world that may
one day be man's second home.

As I look at the brave little fleet that is now preparing to challenge
infinity, my mind goes back forty years, to the days when the first satellites
were launched and the moon still seemed very far away. And I remem
ber—indeed, I have never forgotten—my father's fight to keep me down
on Earth.

There were not many weapons he had failed to use. Ridicule had been the first: "Of course they can do it," he had sneered, "but what's
the point? Who wants to go out into space while there's so much to be
done here on Earth? There's not a single planet in the solar system where
men can live. The moon's a burnt-out slag heap, and everywhere else is
even worse.
This
is where we were meant to live."

Even then (I must have been eighteen or so at the time) I could
tangle him up in points of logic. I can remember answering, "How do
you know where we were meant to live, Dad? After all, we were in the
sea for about a billion years before we decided to tackle the land. Now
we're making the next big jump: I don't know where it will lead—nor did that first fish when it crawled up on the beach, and started to sniff
the air."

So when he couldn't outargue me, he had tried subtler pressures. He
was always talking about the dangers of space travel, and the short work
ing life of anyone foolish enough to get involved in rocketry. At that
time, people were still scared of meteors and cosmic rays; like the "Here
Be Dragons" of the old map makers, they were the mythical monsters
on the still-blank celestial charts. But they didn't worry me; if anything,
they added the spice of danger to my dreams.

While I was going through college, Father was comparatively quiet.

My training would be valuable whatever profession I took up in later
life, so he could not complain—though he occasionally grumbled about the money I wasted buying all the books and magazines on astronautics that I could find. My college record was good, which naturally pleased
him; perhaps he did not realize that it would also help me to get my way.

All through my final year I had avoided talking of my plans. I had
even given the impression (though I am sorry for that now) that I had abandoned my dream of going into space. Without saying anything to
him, I put in my application to Astrotech, and was accepted as soon as
I had graduated.

The storm broke when that long blue envelope with the embossed
heading "Institute of Astronautical Technology" dropped into the mailbox. I was accused of deceit and ingratitude, and I do not think I ever
forgave my father for destroying the pleasure I should have felt at being
chosen for the most exclusive—and most glamorous—apprenticeship the
world has ever known.

The vacations were an ordeal; had it not been for Mother's sake, I do
not think I would have gone home more than once a year, and I always
left again as quickly as I could. I had hoped that Father would mellow
as my training progressed and as he accepted the inevitable, but he never
did.

Then had come that stiff and awkward parting at the spaceport,
with the rain streaming down from leaden skies and beating against the
smooth walls of the ship that seemed so eagerly waiting to climb into
the eternal sunlight beyond the reach of storms. I know now what it cost my father to watch the machine he hated swallow up his only son: for I
understand many things today that were hidden from me then.

He knew, even as we parted at the ship, that he would never see me again. Yet his old, stubborn pride kept him from saying the only words that might have held me back. I knew that he was ill, but how ill, he had
told no one. That was the only weapon he had not used against me, and
I respect him for it.

Would I have stayed had I known? It is even more futile to speculate
about the unchangeable past than the unforeseeable future; all I can say
now is that I am glad I never had to make the choice. At the end he let
me go; he gave up his fight against my ambition, and a Uttle while later
his fight with Death.

So I said good-by to Earth, and to the father who loved me but knew
no way to say it. He lies down there on the planet I can cover with my
hand; how strange it is to think that of the countless billion human beings

whose blood runs in my veins, I was the very first to leave his native
world. . . .

The new day is breaking over Asia; a hairline of fire is rimming the
eastern edge of Earth. Soon it will grow into a burning crescent as the sun
comes up out of the Pacific—yet Europe is preparing for sleep, except
for those revelers who will stay up to greet the dawn.

And now, over there by the flagship, the ferry rocket is coming back
for the last visitors from the station. Here comes the message I have been waiting for:
captain stevens presents his compliments to

THE STATION COMMANDER. BLAST-OFF WILL BE IN NINETY MINUTES; HE WILL BE GLAD TO SEE YOU ABOARD NOW.

Well, Father, now I know how you felt: time has gone full circle. Yet I hope that I have learned from the mistakes we both made, long ago. I
shall remember you when I go over there to the flagship
Starfire
and say
good-by to the grandson you never knew.

☆
TEE WALL OF DARKNESS

M
any and strange are the universes that drift like
bubbles in the foam upon the River of Time. Some—a very few—move
against or athwart its current; and fewer still are those that lie forever beyond its reach, knowing nothing of the future or the past. Shervane's
tiny cosmos was not one of these: its strangeness was of a different order. It held one world only—the planet of Shervane's race—and a single star,
the great sun Trilorne that brought it life and light.

Shervane knew nothing of night, for Trilorne was always high above
the horizon, dipping near it only in the long months of winter. Beyond
the borders of the Shadow Land, it was true, there came a season when Trilorne disappeared below the edge of the world, and a darkness fell in
which nothing could live. But even then the darkness was not absolute,
though there were no stars to relieve it.

Alone in its little cosmos, turning the same face always toward its solitary sun, Shervane's world was the last and the strangest jest of the
Maker of the Stars.

Yet as he looked across his father's lands, the thoughts that filled
Shervane's mind were those that any human child might have known.
He felt awe, and curiosity, and a little fear, and above all a longing to go
out into the great world before him. These things he was still too young to
do, but the ancient house was on the highest ground for many miles and he
could look far out over the land that would one day be his. When he
turned to the north, with Trilorne shining full upon his face, he could see
many miles away the long line of mountains that curved around to the
right, rising higher and higher, until they disappeared behind him in the
direction of the Shadow Land. One day, when he was older, he would
go through those mountains along the pass that led to the great lands of
the east.

On his left was the ocean, only a few miles away, and sometimes

Shervane could hear the thunder of the waves as they fought and tumbled on the gently sloping sands. No one knew how far the ocean reached. Ships had set out across it, sailing northward while Trilorne rose higher and higher in the sky and the heat of its rays grew ever more intense. Long before the great sun had reached the zenith, they had been forced to return. If the mythical Fire Lands did indeed exist, no man could ever hope to reach their burning shores—unless the legends were really true. Once, it was said, there had been swift metal ships that could cross the ocean despite the heat of Trilorne, and so come to the lands on the other side of the world. Now these countries could be reached only by a tedious journey over land and sea, which could be shortened no more than a little by traveling as far north as one dared.

All the inhabited countries of Shervane's world lay in the narrow belt between burning heat and insufferable cold. In every land, the far north was an unapproachable region smitten by the fury of Trilorne. And to the south of all countries lay the vast and gloomy Shadow Land, where Trilorne was never more than a pale disk on the horizon, and often was not visible at all.

These things Shervane learned in the years of his childhood, and in those years he had no wish to leave the wide lands between the mountains and the sea. Since the dawn of time his ancestors and the races before them had toiled to make these lands the fairest in the world; if they had failed, it was by a narrow margin. There were gardens bright with strange flowers, there were streams that trickled gently between moss-grown rocks to be lost in the pure waters of the tideless sea. There were fields of grain that rustled continually in the wind, as if the generations of seeds yet unborn were talking one to the other. In the wide meadows and beneath the trees the friendly cattle wandered aimlessly with foolish cries. And there was the great house, with its enormous rooms and its endless corridors, vast enough in reality but huger still to the mind of a child. This was the world in which Shervane had passed his years, the world he knew and loved. As yet, what lay beyond its borders had not concerned his mind.

But Shervane's universe was not one of those free from the domination of time. The harvest ripened and was gathered into the granaries; Trilorne rocked slowly through its little arc of sky, and with the passing seasons Shervane's mind and body grew. His land seemed smaller now: the mountains were nearer and the sea was only a brief walk from the great house. He began to learn of the world in which he lived, and to be made ready for the part he must play in its shaping.

Some of these things he learned from his father, Sherval, but most he was taught by Grayle, who had come across the mountains in the days of

his father's father, and had now been tutor to three generations of
Shervane's family He was fond of Grayle, though the old man taught him many things he had no wish to learn, and the years of his boyhood passed
pleasantly enough until the time came for him to go through the moun
tains into the lands beyond. Ages ago his family had come from the great
countries of the east, and in every generation since, the eldest son had
made that pilgrimage again to spend a year of his youth among his cousins. It was a wise custom, for beyond the mountains much of the knowl
edge of the past still lingered, and there one could meet men from other
lands and study their ways.

In the last spring before his son's departure, Sherval collected three of his servants and certain animals it is convenient to call horses, and
took Shervane to see those parts of the land he had never visited before. They rode west to the sea, and followed it for many days, until Trilorne was noticeably nearer the horizon. Still they went south, their shadows lengthening before them, turning again to the east only when the rays of
the sun seemed to have lost all their power. They were now well within
the limits of the Shadow Land, and it would not be wise to go farther
south until the summer was at its height.

Shervane was riding beside his father, watching the changing land
scape with all the eager curiosity of a boy seeing a new country for the
first time. His father was talking about the soil, describing the crops that could be grown here and those that would fail if the attempt were made.
But Shervane's attention was elsewhere: he was staring out across the desolate Shadow Land, wondering how far it stretched and what mys
teries it held.

"Father," he said presently, "if you went south in a straight line, right
across the Shadow Land, would you reach the other side of the world?"

His father smiled.

"Men have asked that question for centuries," he said, "but there are
two reasons why they will never know the answer."

"What are they?"

"The first, of course, is the darkness and the cold. Even here, nothing
can live during the winter months. But there is a better reason, though I
see that Grayle has not spoken of it."

"I don't think he has: at least, I do not remember."

For a moment Sherval did not reply. He stood up in his stirrups and
surveyed the land to the south.

"Once I knew this place well," he said to Shervane. "Come—I have
something to show you."

They turned away from the path they had been following, and for