Edmund Cooper: Seahorse in the Sky

“Anna Markova. Journalist… Russian… What are your politics, Mr. Grahame?”

“Do they matter?”

“They might.”

“Very well. I am a socialist—of a kind.”

Anna Markova shrugged. “It could be worse.” Somebody clapped.

“Well, in answer to your question, Miss Markova, I think we should split into groups. I think that one group should explore the hotel and allocate accommodation—which I am betting will be needed. I think another group should explore our environs—the town and the immediate area surrounding it. I think a third group should endeavour to secure food supplies. And I think a fourth group ought to try to make some sense out of our predicament, besides helping with the efforts of the rest.”

A tall slender man of about Grahame’s own age—or perhaps a little younger—stood up. “I am Robert Hyman, civil servant, British. I think there is a great deal of sense in what Mr. Grahame says.”

Another man spoke. He was blond and heavily built. “Gunnar Rudefors, teacher, Swedish… Mr. Grahame is right. We must do something.”

A girl spoke. She looked about nineteen, and she was sharing a table with two other girls. She was very nervous, and she could hardly be heard. “My name is Andrea Small. I’m a British student. Honestly, I’m just plain scared. Scared stiff. So are my friends… We need somebody to tell us what to do.”

“I’ll go along with that—as I imagine most of us will.” A large sandy-haired man was speaking. An attractively plump blonde woman was sitting by his side. He went on: “My name is Paul Redman. I am an American literary agent.” He glanced at his companion. “This is my wife, Marion. Since Mr. Grahame is the first of us to try to get something constructive off the ground, we feel that to begin with, at least, he should direct operations.”

Tore Norstedt raised his glass to Grahame. “I think, sir, you have talked yourself into it.” He glanced at the others. “Oh, I am Tore Norstedt, ship’s radio officer. Swedish.”

Grahame drank some more whisky. “Before I confess that I may be foolish enough to accept the responsibility, does anyone object? Or, alternatively, does anyone suggest another name?” There was a silence.

Grahame smiled. “Very well, then. On your own heads be it… But it is my experience that one cannot get things done if there is too much argument. Therefore, I would like to introduce simple safeguards for me and all of you. One: I must have absolute authority. Two: if four people or more challenge that authority, someone else can take over… May we have a show of hands?”

It was, thought Grahame as he surveyed his companions, the first and only time he had ever received a unanimous vote. The bombshell came a few moments later. A rather small, ineffectual looking man stood up. “My name is John Howard and I am a British teacher.” He indicated the woman who sat next to him, nervously playing with her whisky and water. “This is my wife, Mary. We both teach physics, and I think we have noticed something that may have escaped the rest of you.” He hesitated. “It’s rather startling… Perhaps it is something I should discuss with Mr. Grahame privately.”

Grahame shook his head. “I am not in favour of secrecy, Mr. Howard. I think I follow your reasoning. What you have to say may be alarming. But our predicament is already alarming, and I think we are all entitled to any information that can be obtained. So you had better tell us.”

John Howard smiled apologetically. “It’s rather negative, I’m afraid… When you began to talk to us, someone suggested lightheartedly that we might be in South America or Hollywood. Regretfully, I’m afraid we must rule both those possibilities out.”

“You know where we are, then?” asked Grahame hopefully.

“No. I only know where we are not.”

“Which is?”

“We are not on earth,” said Howard sadly. His disclosure was greeted with complete silence. All faces turned towards him.

Grahame licked his lips. “How do you know that?” “I jumped—when we got out of the—er—boxes. I jumped. Inadvertently at first. Then, when I’d pulled myself together, I experimented.”

He grinned. “So did Mary, when she stopped crying.”

“You jumped?” repeated Grahame, uncomprehendingly. “Yes. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it already. You should have felt it. We are at less than one G. The gravity force on this planet seems to be about two-thirds that of Earth… Test it if you like—but be careful you don’t bang your head on the ceiling,”

Solemnly, half a dozen people began to test jump. They soared three, four, five and six feet into the air. They seemed to come down rather slowly.

Faces became white and strained. Nobody fainted. But one man and three women began to cry.

Russell Grahame poured himself a large whisky, and decided that he had better begin talking again.

Very fast.

THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON—for they were able to determine that it was indeed afternoon by the position and movement of the sun—was a chiaroscuro of dramatic tension and sheer absurdity. The sun itself, though no one could look at it directly, seemed no different from the sun they had been accustomed to all their lives. Except that it appeared to move a little more rapidly down the sky.

Everyone had started their watches going again—apart from the electric one, which needed a new battery—and rough calculations indicated that this alien day would be about twenty earth hours long.

Before Grahame organized his groups and tried to create some semblance of order out of chaos, he took a roll-call of what he described with grim humour as his foreign legion. For the time being, he simply wrote down their names, ages, nationalities and occupations so that he would have some rough idea of who to assign to do what. Later, he could get more details and perhaps discover any useful aptitudes.

But for the present, he realized, he simply needed to get them all doing something quickly—if only to generate the illusion, however brief it might be, that they were not entirely helpless in this utterly bizarre situation.

No one could remember how many people had been on the jet from Stockholm to London, but the entire complement would certainly have been much more than sixteen. There would be time later to wonder what had happened to the pilots, the stewards and the rest. For the moment, it was wiser to concentrate on endeavouring to assess their present position and to make it as secure as possible under such abnormal circumstances.

The British contingent amounted to exactly half of Grahame’s foreign legion. This, he reflected, would not be an unusual ratio on a flight from Stockholm to London towards the end of the tourist season.

He had meticulously recorded his own name at the head of his list and had followed it with the rest of the British displaced persons. After them came two Americans, two Swedes, an Indian, a Russian, a Frenchwoman and a West Indian girl.

He studied the list carefully before forming his groups. It read:

Russell Grahame, 39, British, Member of Parliament.

Robert Hyman, 39, British, civil servant.

Andrew Payne, 28, British, television actor, John Howard, 31, British, teacher.

Mary Howard, 27, British, teacher.

Janice Blake, 20, British, domestic science student.

Andrea Small, 20, British, domestic science student.

Marina Jessop, 20, British, domestic science student.

Paul Redman, 40, American, literary agent.

Marion Redman, 32, American, no profession.

Gunnar Rudefors, 35, Swedish, teacher.

Tore Norstedt, 25, Swedish, ship’s radio officer.

Mohan das Gupta, 28, Indian, public relations officer (oil company).