Arthur Clarke - The Songs of Distant Earth

“Call the — atischoo! — doctor,” the chief executive answered. “Ours — and the one up in the ship. I don’t believe there’s a damn thing they can do, but I want to give them — atischoo — a piece of my mind. And I hope you haven’t caught it as well.”

The president’s lady started to reassure him, but was interrupted by a sneeze.

They both sat up in bed and looked at each other unhappily.

“I believe it took seven days to get over it,” sniffed the president. “But perhaps medical science has advanced in the last few centuries.”

His hope was fulfilled, though barely. By heroic efforts, and with no loss of life, the epidemic was stamped out — in six miserable days.

It was not an auspicious beginning for the first contact between star-sundered cousins in almost a thousand years.

We’ve been here two weeks, Evelyn — though it doesn’t seem like it as that’s only eleven of Thalassa’s days. Sooner or later we’ll have to abandon the old calendar, but my heart will always beat to the ancient rhythms of Earth.

It’s been a busy time, and on the whole a pleasant one. The only real problem was medical; despite all precautions, we broke quarantine too soon, and about twenty per cent of the Lassans caught some kind of virus. To make us feel even guiltier, none of ms developed any symptoms whatsoever. Luckily no one died, though I’m afraid we can’t give the local doctors too much credit for that. Medical science is definitely backward here; they’ve grown to rely on automated systems so much that they can’t handle anything out of the ordinary.

But we’ve been forgiven; the Lassans are very good-natured, easygoing people. They have been incredibly lucky — perhaps too lucky! — with their planet; it makes the contrast with Sagan 2 even bleaker.

Their only real handicap is lack of land, and they’ve been wise enough to hold the population well below the sustainable maximum. If they’re ever tempted to exceed it, they have the records of Earth’s city-slums as a terrible warning.

Because they’re such beautiful and charming people, it’s a great temptation to help them instead of letting them develop their own culture in their own way. In a sense, they’re our children — and all parents find it hard to accept that, sooner or later, they must cease to interfere.

To some extent, of course, we can’t help interfering; our very presence does that. We’re unexpected — though luckily not unwelcome — guests on their planet. And they can never forget that Magellan is orbiting just above the atmosphere, the last emissary from the world of their own ancestors.

I’ve revisited First Landing — their birthplace — and gone on the tour that every Lassan makes at least once in his life. It’s a combination of museum and shrine, the only place on the whole planet to which the word ‘sacred’ is remotely applicable. Nothing has changed in seven hundred years. The seedship, though it is now an empty husk, looks as if it has only just landed. All around it are the silent machines — the excavators and constructors and chemical processing plants with their robot attendants. And, of course, the nurseries and schools of Generation One.

There are almost no records of those first decades — perhaps deliberately. Despite all the skills and precautions of the planners, there must have been biological accidents, ruthlessly eliminated by the overriding program. And the time when those who had no organic parents gave way to those who did, must have been full of psychological traumas.

But the tragedy and sadness of the Genesis Decades is now centuries in the past. Like the graves of all pioneers, it has been forgotten by the builders of the new society.

I would be happy to spend the rest of my life here; there’s material on Thalassa for a whole army of anthropologists and psychologists and social scientists. Above all, how I wish I could meet some of my long-dead colleagues and let them know how many of our endless arguments have been finally resolved!

It is possible to build a rational and humane culture completely free from the threat of supernatural restraints. Though in principle I don’t approve of censorship, it seems that those who prepared the archives for the Thalassan colony succeeded in an almost-impossible task. They purged the history and literature of ten thousand years, and the result has justified their efforts. We must be very cautious before replacing anything that was lost — however beautiful, however moving a work of art.

The Thalassans were never poisoned by the decay products of dead religions, and in seven hundred years no prophet has arisen here to preach a new faith. The very word ‘God’ has almost vanished from their language, and they’re quite surprised — or amused — when we happen to use it.

My scientist friends are fond of saying that one sample makes very poor statistics, so I wonder if the total lack of religion in this society really proves anything. We know that the Thalassans were also very carefully selected genetically to eliminate as many undesirable social traits as possible. Yes, yes — I know that only about fifteen per cent of human behaviour is determined by the genes — but that fraction is very important! The Lassans certainly seem remarkably free from such unpleasant traits as envy, intolerance, jealousy, anger. Is this entirely the result of cultural conditioning?

How I would love to know what happened to the seedships that were sent out by those religious groups in the twenty-sixth century! The Mormons’ Ark of the Covenant, the Sword of the Prophet — there were half a dozen of them. I wonder if any of them succeeded, and if so what part religion played in their success or their failure. Perhaps one day, when the local communications grid is established, we’ll find what happened to those early pioneers.

One result of Thalassa’s total atheism is a serious shortage of expletives. When a Lassan drops something on his toe, he’s at a loss for words. Even the usual references to bodily functions aren’t much help because they’re all taken for granted. About the only general-purpose exclamation is ‘Krakan!” and that’s badly overworked. But it does show what an impression Mount Krakan made when it erupted four hundred years ago; I hope I’ll have a chance of visiting it before we leave.

That’s still many months ahead, yet already I fear it. Not for the possible danger — if anything happens to the ship, I’ll never know. But because it will mean that another link with Earth has been broken — and, my dearest, with you.

“The president’s not going to like this,” Mayor Waldron said with relish. “He’s set his heart on getting you to North Island.”

“I know,” Deputy Captain Malina answered. “And we’ll be sorry to disappoint him — he’s been very helpful. But North Island’s far too rocky; the only suitable coastal areas are already developed. Yet there’s a completely deserted bay, with a gently sloping beach, only nine kilometres from Tarna — it will be perfect.”

“Sounds too good to be true. Why is it deserted, Brant?”

“That was the Mangrove Project. All the trees died — we still don’t know why — and no one’s had the heart to tidy up the mess. It looks terrible, and smells worse.”

“So it’s already an ecological disaster area — you’re welcome, Captain! You can only improve matters.”

“I can assure you that our plant will be very handsome and won’t damage the environment in the slightest. And of course it will all be dismantled when we leave. Unless you want to keep it.”