Arthur Clarke - The Songs of Distant Earth

“You know, I feel rather the same way about Brant.”

Kumar laughed.

“Don’t worry. He’s got a girl on North Island.”

“Oh. Does Mirissa know?”

“Of course.”

“And she doesn’t mind?”

“Why should she? Bran— loves her — and he always comes back.”

Loren processed this information, though rather slowly. It occurred to him that he was a new variable in an already complex equation. Did Mirissa have any other lovers? Did he really want to know? Should he ask?

“Anyway,” Kumar continued as he refilled both their glasses, “all that really matters is that their gene maps have been approved, and they’ve been registered for a son. When he’s born, it will be different. Then they’ll only need each other. Wasn’t it the same on Earth?”

“Sometimes,” Loren said. So Kumar doesn’t know; the secret was still between the two of them.

At least I will see my son, Loren thought, if only for a few months. And then…

To his horror, he felt tears trickling down his cheeks. When had he last cried? Two hundred years ago, looking back on the burning Earth…

“What’s the matter?” Kumar asked. “Are you thinking about your wife?” His concern was so genuine that Loren found it impossible to take offence at his bluntness — or at his reference to a subject that by mutual consent, was seldom mentioned, because it had nothing to do with the here and now. Two hundred years ago on Earth and three hundred years hence on Sagan 2 were too far from Thalassa for his emotions to grasp, especially in his present somewhat bemused condition.

“No, Kumar, I was not thinking of— my wife — ”

“Will you… ever… tell her… about Mirissa?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I really don’t know. I feel very sleepy. Did we drink the whole bottle? Kumar? Kumar!”

The nurse came in during the night, and suppressing her giggles, tucked in the sheets so that they would not fall out.

Loren woke first. After the initial shock of recognition, he started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Kumar said, heaving himself rather blearily out of bed.

“If you really want to know — I was wondering if Mirissa would be jealous.”

Kumar grinned wryly.

“I may have been a little drunk,” he said, “but I’m quite sure that nothing happened.”

“So am I.”

Yet he realized that he loved Kumar — not because he had saved his life or even because he was Mirissa’s brother — but simply because he was Kumar. Sex had absolutely nothing to do with it; the very idea would have filled them not with embarrassment but hilarity. That was just as well. Life on Tarna was already sufficiently complicated.

“And you were right,” Loren added, “about the Krakan Special. I don’t have a hangover. In fact, I feel wonderful. Can you send a few bottles up to the ship? Better still — a few hundred litres.”

It was a simple question, but it did not have a simple answer: What would happen to discipline aboard Magellan if the very purpose of the ship’s mission was put to the vote?

Of course, any result would not be binding, and he could override it if necessary. He would have to, if a majority decided to stay (not that for a moment he imagined…) But such an outcome would be psychologically devastating. The crew would be divided into two factions, and that could lead to situations he preferred not to contemplate.

And yet — a commander had to be firm but not pig-headed. There was a good deal of sense in the proposal and it had many attractions. After all, he had enjoyed the benefits of presidential hospitality himself and had every intention of meeting that lady decathlon champion again. This was a beautiful world; perhaps they could speed up the slow process of continent building so that there was room for the extra millions. It would be infinitely easier than colonizing Sagan 2…

For that matter, they might never reach Sagan 2. Although the ship’s operational reliability was still estimated to be ninety-eight per cent, there were external hazards which no one could predict. Only a few of his most trusted officers knew about the section of the ice-shield that had been lost somewhere around light-year 48. If that interstellar meteoroid, or whatever it was, had been just a few metres closer…

Someone had suggested that the thing could have been an ancient space-probe from Earth. The odds against this were literally astronomical, and of course such an ironic hypothesis could never be proved.

And now his unknown petitioners were calling themselves the New Thalassans. Did that mean, Captain Bey wondered, that there were many of them and they were getting organized into a political movement? If so, perhaps the best thing would be to get them out into the open as soon as possible.

Yes, it was time to call Ship’s Council.

Moses Kaldor’s rejection had been swift and courteous.

“No, Captain; I can’t get involved in the debate — pro or con. If I did, the crew would no longer trust my impartiality. But I’m willing to act as chairman, or moderator — whatever you like to call it.”

“Agreed,” Captain Bey said promptly; this was as much as he had really hoped for. “And who will present the motions? We can’t expect the New Thalassans to come out into the open and plead their case.”

“I wish we could have a straight vote without any arguments and discussions,” Deputy Captain Malina had lamented.

Privately, Captain Bey agreed. But this was a democratic society of responsible, highly educated men, and Ship’s Orders recognized that fact. The New Thalassans had asked for a Council to air their views; if he refused, he would be disobeying his own letters of appointment and violating the trust given him on Earth two hundred years ago.

It had not been easy to arrange the Council. Since everyone, without exception, had to be given a chance of voting, schedules and duty rosters had to be reorganized and sleep periods disrupted. The fact that half the crew was down on Thalassa presented another problem that had never arisen before — that of security. Whatever its outcome might be, it was highly undesirable that the Lassans overhear the debate…

And so Loren Lorenson was alone, with the door of his Tarna office locked for the first time he could recall, when the Council began. Once again he was wearing full-view goggles; but this time he was not drifting through a submarine forest. He was aboard Magellan, in the familiar assembly room, looking at the faces of colleagues, and whenever he switched his viewpoint, at the screen on which their comments and their verdict would be displayed. At the moment it bore one brief message:

RESOLVED: That the Starship Magellan terminate its mission at Thalassa as all its prime objectives can be achieved here.

So Moses is up on the ship, Loren thought, as he scanned the audience; I wondered why I’d not seen him lately. He looks tired — and so does the captain. Maybe this is more serious than I’d imagined…

Kaldor rapped briskly for attention.

“Captain, officers, fellow crewmembers — although this is our first Council, you all know the rules of procedure. If you wish to speak, hold up your hand to be recognized. If you wish to make a written statement, use your keypad; the addresses have been scrambled to ensure anonymity. In either case, please be as brief as possible.

“If there are no questions, we will open with Item 001.”

The New Thalassans had added a few arguments, but essentially 001 was still the memorandum that had jolted Captain Bey two weeks ago — a period in which he had made no progress at all in discovering its authorship.

Perhaps the most telling additional point was the suggestion that it was their duty to stay here; Lassa needed them, technically, culturally, genetically. I wonder, Loren thought, tempted though he was to agree. In any event, we should ask their opinion first. We’re not old-style imperialists — or are we?