Robert Silverberg - To Open the Sky

“Let’s give him a farewell party,” the deputy said.

“You’ve made your point,” said Martell. “I’m closing the chapel Do you need to attack me, too? What are you afraid of? Are ideas that dangerous to you?”

A fist crashed into the pit of his stomach. Martell swayed. caught his breath, forced himself to remain cool. The edge of a hand chopped at his throat. Martell slapped at it, deflected it, and seized the wrist. There was a momentary exchange of ions and the deputy fell back, cursing.

“Look out! He’s electric!”

“I mean no harm,” said Martell mildly. “Let me go in peace.

Hands went to daggers. Martell waited. Then, slowly, the tension ebbed. The Venusians moved away, apparently willing to let the matter end here. They had, after all, succeeded in throttling the Vorster mission, and now they appeared to have qualms about dealing with the defeated missionary.

“Get yourself out of town, Earthman,” the police chief grumbled. “Go where you belong. Don’t come mucking around here with your phony religion. We aren’t buying any. Go!”

There was no blackness quite like the black of the night sky of Venus, Martell thought. It was like a layer of wool swathing the vault of the heavens. Not a hint of a star, not a flicker of a moon-beam cut through that arch of darkness overhead. Yet there was light, occasional and intermittent: great predatory birds, hellishly luminous, skewered the darkness at unpredictable moments. Standing on the rear veranda of the Harmonist chapel, Martell watched a glowing creature soar past, no higher than a hundred feet up, near enough for Martell to see the row of hooked claws that studded the leading edges of the curved, back-swept wings.

“Our birds have teeth as well,” said Christopher Mondschein.

“And the frogs have horns,” Martell remarked. “Why is this planet so vicious?”

Mondachein chuckled. “Ask Darwin, my friend. It just happened that way. You’ve met our frogs, then? Deadly little beasts. And you’ve seen a Wheel. We have amusing fish, too. And carnivorous fauna. But we are without insects. Can you imagine that? No land arthropods at all. Of course, there are some delightful ones in the sea—a kind of scorpion bigger than a man, a son of lobster with disturbingly large claws—but no one goes into the sea here.”

“I understand why,” Martell said. Another luminescent bird swooped down, skimmed the trees, and rocketed away. From its flat head jutted a glowing fleshy organ the size of a melon, wobbling on a thick stem.

Mondschein said, “You wish to join us, after all?”

“That’s right.”

“Infiltrating, Martell? Spying?”

Color came to Martell’s checks. The surgeons had left him with the flush reaction, although he turned a dull gray when affected now. “Why do you accuse me?” he asked.

“Why else would you want to join us? You were haughty about it last week.”

“That was last week. My chapel is closed. I saw a boy who trusted me killed before my eyes. I have no wish to see more such murders.”

“So you admit that you were guilty in his death?”

“I admit that I allowed him to jeopardize his life,” Martell said.

“We warned you of it.”

“But I had no idea of the cruelty of the forces that would strike at me. Now I do. I can’t stand alone. Let me join you, Mondschein.”

“Too transparent, Martell. You came here bristling with the urge to be a martyr. You gave up too soon. Obviously you want to spy on our movement. Conversions are never that simple, and you’re not an easily swayed man. I suspect you, Brother.”

“Are you esping me?”

“Me? I don’t have a shred of ability. Not a shred. But I have common sense. I know a bit about spying, too. You’re here to sniff.”

Martell studied a gleaming bird high against the dark backdrop. “You refuse to accept me, then?”

“You can have shelter for the night. In the morning you’ll have to go. Sorry, Martell.”

No amount of persuasion would alter the Harmonist’s decision. Martell was not surprised, nor greatly distressed; joining the Harmonists had been a strategy of doubtful success, and he had more than half expected Mondschein to reject him. Perhaps if he had waited six months before applying, the response would have been different.

He remained aloof while the little group of Harmonists performed evening vespers. They were not called “vespers,” of course, but Martell could not avoid identifying the heretics with the older religion. Three altered Earthmen were stationed at the mission, and the voices of the two subordinates joined with Mondschein’s in hymns that seemed offensive in their religiosity and yet faintly moving at the same time. Seven low-caste Venusians took part in the service. Afterward Martell shared a dinner of unknown meat and acrid wine with the three Harmonists. They seemed comfortable enough in his presence, almost smug. One, Bradlaugh, was slim and fragile-looking, with elongated arms and comically blunt features. The other, Lazarus, was robust and athletic, his eyes oddly blank, his skin stretched mask-tight over his broad face. He was the one who had visited Martell’s ill-fated chapel. Martell suspected that Lazarus was an esper. His last name aroused the missionary’s curiosity.

“Are you related to the Lazarus?” Martell asked.

“His grandnephew. I never knew the man.”

“No one seems to have known him,” said Martell. “It often occurs to me that the esteemed founder of your heresy may have been a myth.”

Faces stiffened around the table. Mondschein said, “I met someone who knew him once. An impressive man, they say he was tall and commanding, with an air of majesty.”

“Like Vorst,” Martell said.

“Very much like Vorst. Natural leaders, both of them,” said Mondschein. He rose. “Brothers, good night.”

Martell was left alone with Bradlaugh and Lazarus. An uncomfortable silence followed; after a while Bradlaugh rose and said coolly, “I’ll show you to your room.”

The room was small, with a simple cot. Martell was content. Fewer religious symbols decorated the room than there might have been, and it was a place to sleep. He took care of his devotions quickly and closed his eyes. After a while sleep came—a thin crust of slumber over an abyss of turmoil.

The crust was pierced.

There came the sound of laughter, booming and harsh. Something thumped against the chapel walls. Martell struggled to wakefulness in time to hear a thick voice cry, “Give us the Vorster!”

He sat up. Someone entered his room: Mondschein, he realized. “They’re drunk,” the Harmonist whispered. “They’ve been roistering all over the countryside all night, and now they’re here to make trouble.”

“The Vorster!” came a roar from outside.

Martell peered through his window. At first he saw nothing; then, by the gleam of the light-cells studding the chapel’s outer walls, he picked out seven or eight titanic figures, striding unsteadily back and forth in the courtyard.

“High-casters!” Martell gasped.

“One of our espers brought the word an hour ago,” said Mondschein. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. I’ll go out and calm them.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“It’s not me they’re after,” said Mondschein, and left.

Martell saw him emerge from the building. He was dwarfed by the ring of drunken Venusians, and from the way they closed in on him, Martell was certain that they would do him some harm. But they hesitated. Mondschein faced them squarely. At this distance Martell could not hear what they were saying. A parley of some sort, perhaps. The big men were armed and reeling. Some glowing creature shot past the knot of figures, giving Martell a sudden glimpse of the faces of the high-caste men: alien, distorted, terrifying. Their cheekbones were like knifeblades; their eyes mere silts. Mondschein, his back to the window now, was gesticulating, no doubt talking rapidly and earnestly.