Arthur Clarke - The Songs of Distant Earth

So Loren Lorenson died for the second time, in the warm shallows of the Thalassan sea. He had not learned from experience; the first death had been much easier, two hundred years ago.

Though Captain Sirdar Bey would have denied that he had a milligram of superstition in his body, he always started to worry when things went well. So far, Thalassa had been almost too good to be true; everything had gone according to the most optimistic plan. The shield was being constructed right on schedule, and there had been absolutely no problems worth talking about.

But now, all within the space of twenty-four hours…

Of course, it could have been much worse. Lieutenant Commander Lorenson had been very, very lucky — thanks to that kid (they’d have to do something for him…) According to the medics, it had been extremely close. Another few minutes and brain damage would have been irreversible.

Annoyed at letting his attention stray from the immediate problem, the captain reread the message he now knew by heart:

SHIPNET: NO DATE NO TIME TO: CAPTAIN FROM: ANON

Sir: A number of us wish to make the following proposal, which we put forward for your most serious consideration. We suggest that our mission be terminated here at Thalassa.

All its objectives will be realized, without the additional risks involved in proceeding to Sagan 2. We fully recognize that this will involve problems with the existing population, but we believe they can be solved with the technology we possess — specifically, the use of tectonic engineering to increase the available land area.

As per Regulations, Section 14, Para 24 (a), we respectfully request that a Ship’s Council be held to discuss this matter as soon as possible.

“Well, Captain Malina? Ambassador Kaldor? Any comments?”

The two guests in the spacious but simply furnished captain’s quarters looked at each other simultaneously. Then Kaldor gave an almost imperceptible nod to the deputy captain, and confirmed his relinquishment of priority by taking another slow, deliberate sip of the excellent Thalassan wine their hosts had provided.

Deputy Captain Malina, who was rather more at ease with machines than with people, looked at the printout unhappily.

“At least it’s very polite.”

“So I should hope,” Captain Bey said impatiently. “Have you any idea who could have sent it?”

“None whatsoever. Excluding the three of us, I’m afraid we have 158 suspects.”

“157,” Kaldor interjected. “Lieutenant Commander Lorenson has an excellent alibi. He was dead at the time.”

“That doesn’t narrow the field much,” the Captain said, managing a bleak smile. “Have you any theories, Doctor?”

Indeed I have, Kaldor thought. I lived on Mars for two of its long years; my money would be on the Sabras. But that’s only a hunch, and I may be wrong…

“Not yet, Captain. But I’ll keep my eyes open. If I find anything, I’ll inform you — as far as possible.”

The two officers understood him perfectly. In his role as counsellor, Moses Kaldor was not even responsible to the captain. He was the nearest thing aboard Magellan to a father confessor.

“I assume, Dr Kaldor, that you’ll certainly let me know — if you uncover information that could endanger this mission.”

Kaldor hesitated, then nodded briefly. He hoped he would not find himself in the traditional dilemma of the priest who received the confession of a murderer — who was still planning his crime.

I’m not getting much help, the captain thought sourly. But I have absolute trust in these two men, and need someone to confide in. Even though the final decision must be mine.

“The first question is should I answer this message or ignore it? Either move could be risky. If it’s only a casual suggestion — perhaps from a single individual in a moment of psychological disturbance — I might be unwise to take it too seriously. But if it’s from a determined group, then perhaps a dialogue may help. It could defuse the situation. It could also identify those concerned.’ And what would you do then? the captain asked himself. Clap them in irons?

“I think you should talk to them,” Kaldor said. “Problems seldom go away if they’re ignored.”

“I agree,” said Deputy Captain Malina. “But I’m sure it’s not any of the Drive or Power crews. I’ve known all of them since they graduated — or before.”

You could be surprised, Kaldor thought. Who ever really knows anyone?

“Very well,” the captain said, rising to his feet. “That’s what I’d already decided. And, just in case, I think I’d better reread some history. I recall that Magellan had a little trouble with his crew.”

“Indeed he did,” Kaldor answered. “But I trust you won’t have to maroon anyone.”

Or hang one of your commanders, he added to himself; it would have been very tactless to mention that particular piece of history.

And it would be even worse to remind Captain Bey — though surely he could not have forgotten! — that the great navigator had been killed before he could complete his mission.

This time, the way back to life had not been prepared so carefully in advance. Loren Lorenson’s second awakening was not as comfortable as his first; indeed, it was so unpleasant that he sometimes wished he had been left to sink into oblivion.

When he regained semiconsciousness, he quickly regretted it. There were tubes down his throat, and wires attached to his arms and legs. Wires! He felt a sudden panic at the memory of that deadly, downward tugging, then brought his emotions under control.

Now there was something else to worry about. He did not seem to be breathing; he could detect no movement of his diaphragm. How very odd — oh, I suppose they’ve by-passed my lungs —

A nurse must have been alerted by his monitors, for suddenly there was a soft voice in his ear, and he sensed a shadow falling across eyelids that he was still too tired to open.

“You’re doing very well, Mister Lorenson. There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll be up in a few days — No, don’t try to talk.”

I’d no intention of it, Loren thought. I know exactly what’s happened —

Then there was the faint hiss of a hypodermic jet, a brief freezing coldness on his arm, and, once more, blessed oblivion.

The next time, to his great relief, everything was quite different. The tubes and wires were gone. Though he felt very weak, he was in no discomfort. And he was breathing again in a steady, normal rhythm.

“Hello,” said a deep male voice from a few metres away. “Welcome back.”

Loren rolled his head towards the sound, and had a blurred glimpse of a bandaged figure in an adjacent bed.

“I guess you won’t recognize me, Mister Lorenson. Lieutenant Bill Horton, communications engineer — and ex-surfboard rider.”

“Oh, hello, Bill — what have you been doing — ‘ whispered Loren. But then the nurse arrived and ended that conversation with another well-placed hypodermic.

Now he was perfectly fit and only wanted to be allowed to get up. Surgeon-Commander Newton believed that, on the whole, it was best to let her patients know what was happening to them, and why. Even if they didn’t understand, it helped to keep them quiet so that their annoying presence did not interfere too much with the smooth running of the medical establishment.

“You may feel all right, Loren,” she said, “but your lungs are still repairing themselves, and you must avoid exertion until they’re back to full capacity. If Thalassa’s ocean was like Earth’s, there would have been no problem. But it’s much less saline — it’s drinkable, remember, and you drank about a litre of it. And as your body fluids are saltier than the sea, the isotonic balance was all wrong. So there was a good deal of membrane damage through osmotic pressure. We had to do a lot of high-speed research in Ship’s Archives before we could handle you. After all, drowning is not a normal space hazard.”