Каарон Уоррен - The Lowest Heaven

We returned to our old lives on Earth and Moon. Once a year we met. We talked about Saga, speculated as to her whereabouts. We did not believe she was dead. We were not sure if she had gone mad.

Every few years there was a new rumour or sighting. Her ship had been spied upon Dione. The wreckage of her ship had been found in the asteroid belt, and a human spacesuit was drifting through the skies. But no, Saga herself had been witnessed in the embassy on Europa. We examined these theories, shared our musings late into the nights.

The years passed.

Now we are sept-and-octogenarians, unavoidably middle-aged. We have partnered, we have separated, some of us have children, some of us have money. We have weathered breakdowns and crises. We have dreamed.

We are wiser, enough to know that what we know is nothing. We can seek but we may not find.

We decided to return to Ceres. The colony is fully established now, an independent civilisation. Its population increases steadily. There is provision for tourists.

This time we take a shuttle down to the planet surface. Still a little wobbly with the after-effects of hibernation, we support one another, steadying elbows, watching our steps. We are amused by the low gravity, find ourselves acting like children. Even Per wishes to see how high he can jump. After a night to acclimatize, we are taken on a tour of the capital, before we suit up and board a surface transport out to the mining station. The constructions loom as we approach. The machinery is colossal. Our guide, a tall young man with thin, bird-like arms, is deferential and eager to please. He knows our mother’s name, of course. He shows us the plaque. The letters are glittering minerals which he tells us are from the mines. He says, proudly, that Ceres is the largest supplier of fuel in the solar system.

The plaque says:

This marks the last known flight of Saga Wärmedal.

We ask him for some time alone. He nods respectfully. We stand around the plaque. We suppose this is what we have come to see. We remember her ship, streaking away like a comet. This is the last place that she was seen. We think that she was never really seen.

There is a place on Earth beneath the Siberian permafrost, where those who died in the gulags of the twentieth century are said to be buried. With every winter, a new layer of ice crystals hardens over the tundra, fusing and compacting upon what lies below, sealing the mass graves forever. It is said that their descendants still search for bones. There are women who go out day after day with ice picks and radars, their boots crunching on the new fallen snow with that particular sound, heard only on Earth.

They are looking for something. They are prepared to spend a lifetime looking.

“Mr. Cravelli,” the Cynocephali says, “I think you’ll find this offer irresistible.”

It sits back in my office chair, reaches for a highball glass filled with gin sling and enough ice to sink a White Star liner and watches me through glittering eyes. I’m told the damn thing doesn’t need to have a dog’s head but likes the way it makes us jumpy. You’d think after twenty years in this game, with a break for that business with Germany, I’d be over feeling nervous as a teen boy walking towards the school bully on a darkened street. But this thing was delivered to my office by the Secret Service and I’ve been told to handle it with extreme care, commit to nothing and report back as soon as the meeting is done.

It waits for me to reply and I offer silence.

The thing shrugs, looks amused and reaches for its glass. It’s hard to drink a gin sling with the jaw of a dog, but the Cynocephali manages a sip and shuts its eyes as if savouring juniper berries. There is, of course, a chance that this entire coming from another world thing is a hoax. A whole bunch of creeps at Langley think the Soviets are behind it and mention a Russian novelist, and a book called Heart of a Dog , as proof Moscow have been planning this for years.

If it demands we give up the bomb I’m to push a button newly fixed under my desk, and someone responsible will come by. Cracks me up. My guess is if I push that button we can both kiss the world goodbye. That’s why, in my opinion, they’ve cleared this bit of Tenderloin and ‘plumbers’ turned up yesterday to work on the boiler in the basement.

Luckily, President Truman recognises the CIA for the fools they are. The FBI also tried to muscle in. According to one of Truman’s men the dope is they’ve losing clout since the White House found a photograph of a certain fat fruit in a pink tutu. He said I might not want to repeat that. Anyway, the President agreed to the Cynocephali’s demands to meet me. I mean, when a dog-headed thing in a silver suit turns up in the Oval Office, and Secret Service bullets bounce off it, and it says, Chill, all I want to do it talk to this guy in California… I don’t doubt the Feds will be crawling all over my life once this thing is done.

“Before we talk,” I say.

“ Why me? ” The Cynocephali does a passable imitation of my voice. “The obvious answer is, ‘Why not?’ ” It shrugs, heavy shouldered, and I’m sure it’s mocking me. It was bad enough it turned up in a belted trench. Had it worn a trilby I’d have known it for sure. “But that would be unkind. So let me say you were chosen. Very carefully.”

I run through my resumé in my head while it sips the highball and spins on my swivel chair, grinning all the while. Ex SFPD, half decent war, functioning PI? Nothing there to attract the attention of the White House, never mind my visitor. The skills I bring to the table are few. I make a decent omelette; I can find a lost dog or a missing kid. I can tell you if your wife is having an affair, if you’re too fat-headed to work that out for yourself; or your husband is paying too much attention to his secretary, whether she wants it or not. They’re not unique skills. In the Tenderloin they’re not even rare. You’d have a harder time finding a decent cook than a licensed PI.

“For my skills?”

“Skills?” It says, voice light. “No. For your absolute averageness.”

It ticks off my charms. Human, white, male, middle-aged, divorced once, unimpressive job record, near alcoholic, too sick of both political parties to bother to vote, no kids, my ex wife returns my letters unopened… I’ve been chosen, it tells me, because I’m paradigmatic of my planet’s dominant culture◦– that is, early Fifties America◦– to such an extent I’ll probably want to ask what “paradigmatic” means and waste time picking over the answer. “Instead,” it says. “We should get on.”

“With what?”

“With this irresistible offer of mine.”

I sit back in the chair usually used by my clients. Weeping widows, unhappy mobsters, crooked insurance agents, you know the types. I’m doing my best to look like someone used to cutting deals with dog-headed negotiators. I’d light a cigar, but it’s already said, almost apologetically, that it really hates smoke. A side effect of the dog stuff. And I haven’t reached a point where I want to light up simply to be rude. “The floor’s all yours,” I say.