Edmund Cooper - Seahorse in the Sky

“I am assuming that what has been done to us has been done for serious and not frivolous reasons.

So far as can be ascertained, we have all been abducted from an international jet flight, we have all been subjected to some kind of operation, and we now find ourselves on a strange world that must be an unimaginable distance from earth. It seems to me that the entire operation—outrageous as it is—could only have been carried out by people or creatures with a science and a technology as much in advance of ours as ours is in advance of the Stone Age.” He paused again, noted the misery on all faces, and added facetiously: “I refer, of course, to the terrestrial Stone Age. This planet, if we are to believe Mr. Redman, might well have a more picturesque prehistory.”

He was hoping for at least a smile but he did not get one. He went on hurriedly. “The effort and the resources that must have been put into this project defy our twentieth-century minds. Colossal is a word that is not big enough. Therefore, I submit, ladies and gentlemen, that we must have been brought here for a very serious purpose indeed. And I think that purpose is to find out what we of Earth—” he was oddly conscious of pronouncing the capital letter—“are like. Whether we shall ultimately be returned or not, I cannot possibly guess. But I am convinced that while we are here, our welfare will be considered.”

“What about the fairies?” asked someone.

“What about the knight?” asked someone else.

Grahame shrugged. “There is so much that cannot yet be answered. So much that may never be answered. One can only do one’s best and guess… And I am guessing, ladies and gentlemen, that we are regarded as zoological specimens. If there really are fairies and knights in existence, then I submit that they are probably collected specimens also. I have not the slightest idea where they may have come from. They may even be indigenous to this planet. But, clearly, they or their kind cannot have been responsible for our predicament.

“It seems to me that there are two immediate necessities. We must endeavour to find out as much as possible about the world to which we have been brought and—short of antagonizing them—we must do our best to establish direct contact with the people who have brought us here. No doubt, compared to them we may seem like idiots or—animals. But if their ethical progress bears any relation to their technological progress, we should be able to persuade them— perhaps after a suitable period of study—to send us home.”

The discussion that followed Grahame’s speech was generally abortive. No one could suggest a better or a more credible explanation and, in fact, they were all too traumatized to think clearly. Eventually, in ones and twos, they went to bed.

Sexual liaisons were already evident, Grahame noted. And although there were only four married people in the group, it was perfectly clear that at least another four people had already assumed temporary married status. He did not regard this as a bad sign. If anybody could derive any comfort from sex or companionship, good luck to them. It would probably ensure that they would stay sane a little longer.

Marina Jessop had a room of her own. Her two friends shared a room and had suggested that she should come in with them. But Marina had always been a rather solitary creature, and placed a premium upon privacy.

She went up to her room and wrote a short letter. Then she went to take a bath. She was not discovered until next morning. A portable electric radiator—apparently deliberately pushed into her bath—had solved all her problems.

The letter she wrote was addressed to Grahame personally.

Dear Mr. Grahame,

I am letting you down, and I am sorry. I am such a coward that I can’t bear any more of this.

Andrea and Janice will tell you that I have always been a timid person. I am afraid of darkness. I am even afraid of shadows. What has happened to us is the biggest shadow I have ever seen. It terrifies me so much that I can no longer go on pretending to be normal.

You must forgive me. You really must. Three days ago I was on my way home to my family after a lovely holiday in Sweden. I was even looking forward to the new term at college. But I know—as you must know—that none of us will ever get home. The thought petrifies me. I can’t be a heroine. I haven’t the strength to be a prisoner far from all that I love. And I should hate to go crazy and give you all a lot of trouble. So please understand and please forgive me. If you ever do get back, talk to my parents. They live at 71 Eden Street, Stockport, Cheshire. Please tell them I had an accident. I have a cat called Snowy, but I don’t suppose you can tell him I had an accident.

Believe me when I say I would be no good to you or anyone.

Grahame cried when he read the letter. He waited until he was alone, and then he cried. Marina Jessop had a white— terribly white—face, he remembered. She had Ion straight black hair and a far look, and she had reminded him of someone out of a Hans Andersen story.

She was the first casualty. He wondered how many more there would be.

But life—such as it was—had to go on. Marina was buried before midday in a little patch of fairly clear ground behind the hotel and about fifty metres from it.

Anna Markova, a professed atheist with a beautiful contralto voice, sang the twenty-third psalm for her. And Mohan das Gupta, by birth a Hindu, made her a cross.

And life went on.

In the afternoon, Grahame called upon his companions to produce an inventory of their possessions, excluding clothes and toilet things. He thought it a good idea to find out what resources were available.

For the most part, the list consisted of the usual tourist equipment—cameras, small souvenirs of Sweden such as glass and steel ware, and a sprinkling of transistor radios and books. But there were also some very useful items, including a compass—which demonstrated that the planet possessed magnetic poles—a pair of binoculars, two very good first aid kits, an assortment of pills and even a couple of portable typewriters.

Partly in order to distract people from Marina’s death, and partly because he thought it was necessary, Grahame planned a relatively ambitious exploration project. This time the exploration party was to travel south. They were to set out at dawn on the following day and were to return by dusk on the day after. In this way, Grahame calculated, the party would be able to go south for a full day’s march— perhaps twenty-five or thirty kilometres—before camping for the night and then returning.

The prospect of spending a night in the open was possibly hazardous, but some risks would clearly have to be taken if they were to learn anything of value about their surroundings. He asked for volunteers for the project.

John Howard, who had led the previous expedition, volunteered. So did his wife. Gunnar Rudeforstjffered to go again, and the fourth volunteer was Simone Michel, the French girl.

At first, Grahame was dubious about letting women participate in such an undertaking. But then he realized that old-fashioned prejudices and inhibitions were not going to be of much help. Besides, as Anna Markova pointed out, women had different but certainly not inferior endurance characteristics than men.

And it might well be that their presence would prove a stabilizing influence. Certainly, it would prevent the men from taking any unnecessary risks.

Accordingly, the volunteers were despatched to rest themselves while the rest of the party set about making the necessary preparations. Four people, including the two remaining British students, were detailed to manufacture a tent and ground sheet from bed linen and plastic mats. Robert Hyman, the civil servant, revealed a hidden but useful talent. He was an amateur archer of some prowess. He offered to make a couple of long bows and a dozen arrows and to instruct the men in their use.