Edmund Cooper: A Far Sunset

By the beginning of the twenty-first century, suspended animation had become an integral part of the way of life of every civilized community. Not only the seriously ill and the seriously mad were frozen. Criminals were frozen, suspended animation sentences ranging from one to fifty years, depending on the seriousness of the crime. And rich citizens, who had lived most of their lives and exhausted all the conventional rejuvenation techniques would go voluntarily into indefinite suspended animation in the sublime hope that one day somebody would discover the secret of immortality. Even the dead, if they were important enough and if they could be obtained soon after the point of clinical death, were frozen—on the theory that a few more decades would bring great advances in resurrection techniques.

But whatever the value of suspended animation was for those who hoped to cheat death, the asylum, the executioner or the normal laws of existence, it was certainly the ideal form of travelling for those who were destined to venture into deep space.

It was estimated that the Gloria Mundi could not possibly reach Altair in less than twenty years of subjective time. Therefore a programme of rotational suspended animation had been worked out for the crew. For the first three months of the voyage all crew members would be live and operational. For the rest of the voyage, with the exception of the last three months, each pair would, in turn, remain live for one month (terrestrial time) and then be suspended for five. In case of an emergency all five frozen pairs (or any individual whose special skill was required) could be de-frozen in ten hours.

During the course of the long and uneventful voyage to Altair, Paul Marlowe spent a total of nearly four working years in the company of his ‘wife’. He never got to know her. As a psychiatrist, he would have thought that the absolute isolation of a long space voyage would have been bound to bring two people intimately together. But he never got to know her.

She had dark hair, an attractive face and a pleasant enough body. They made love quite a lot of times during their waking months. They shared jokes, they discussed books, they watched old films together. But somehow she was too dedicated, too remote. And he never really got to know her.

That, perhaps, was why he could summon no tears, could feel no personal sense of loss when she finally disappeared on Altair Five.

Morning sunlight poured through four of the sixteen small glassless windows of the donjon. Poul Mer Lo was sleeping. The noia did not waken him. Clearly he had been touched by Oruri. He needed to sleep.

As always she marvelled at the stature and appearance of the outlander. He was half as high again as Mylai Tui, who was reckoned exceedingly tall—and therefore ugly—by her own people. His skin was interestingly pale, whereas hers was brown and almost, indeed, the prized black of the Bayani of ancient lineage. His eyes, when they were open, were light blue—a wondrous colour, since all Bayani eyes were either brown or ochre. The muscles in his arms and legs were like the muscles of a powerful animal. Which was strange since, though he was clearly a barbarian, he was a man of some sensibility. He was also very much a man; for she, who had experienced many vigorous Bayani as a priestess in the Temple of Gaiety, had found to her surprise that she could only accommodate his thanu with difficulty. The effort was at times painful: but also, at times, it produced joy greater even than the condescension of Oruri.

She shrank back from the mental blasphemy, shutting it out. Nevertheless she took joy in the remembered frenzies of Poul Mer Lo. Apart from the facts that his nose was rather sharp and his ears seemed to be imperfecdy joined to his head his only serious malformation was that he had too many fingers.

Poul Mer Lo stirred and yawned. Then he opened his eyes.

‘Greetings, my lord,’ said Mylai Tui formally. ‘Oruri has bestowed upon us the blessing of another day.’

‘Greetings, Mylai Tui.’ He was getting familiar with the customs as well as with the language. ‘The blessing is ill deserved.’ But the words were mechanical and the look in his eyes was blank. Or far away. Far, far away…

‘Soon we shall eat and drink,’ she went on, hoping to bring him back to reality. ‘Soon we shall walk in the garden.’

‘Yes.’ Poul Mer Lo did not move. He lay on his back despondently, staring at the ceiling.

‘My lord,’ said Mylai Tui desperately, ‘tell me again the story of the silver bird. It is one that is most beautiful to hear.’

‘You already know the story of the silver bird.’ He did not look at her, but laughed bitterly. ‘You probably know it better than I do.’

‘Nevertheless, I would hear it once more … If my ears are still worthy.’

Poul Mer Lo sighed and raised himself on one arm, but still he did not look at her.

‘There is a land beyond the sky,’ he began. ‘It is a land filled with many people who are skilled in the working of metal. It is a land where men do not know the laws of Oruri. It is a land where people may talk to each other and see each other at a great distance. It is truly a land of miracles. Among the people of this land there are some who are very wise and also very skilled and very ambitious. They have looked at the night sky and said to themselves: “Truly the stars are far from us, yet they tempt us. Shall we not seek ways of reaching them so that we may know what they are like?” ’

Mylai Tui shivered and, as always at this point, interrupted. ‘Such men,’ she pronounced, ‘must not only be brave and mad. They must also be most eager to accept the embrace of Oruri.’

‘They do not know the laws of Oruri,’ pointed out Poul Mer Lo patiently. ‘They hunger only for knowledge and power … So it was that they dreamed of building a flock of silver birds whereon their young men and women might ride out to the stars.’

‘It was the old ones who should have made the journey, for their time was near.’

‘Nevertheless, it was the young ones who were chosen. For it was known that the stars were far away and that the flight of the silver birds would last many seasons.’

‘Then the young ones would grow old on the journey.’

‘No. The young ones did not grow old. For the wise men had found ways of making them sleep for the greater part of the journey.’

‘My lord,’ said Mylai Tui, ‘those who sleep too much also starve.’

‘These did not starve,’ retorted Poul Mer Lo, ‘for their sleep was deeper than any living sleep that is known in Baya Nor … You have asked for the story, noia, so let me tell it; otherwise neither of us will be content.’

Mylai Tui was saddened. He only addressed her as noia— knowing that it was incorrect—when he was angry.

‘I am reproved by Poul Mer Lo,’ she said gravely. ‘It is just.’

‘Well, then. Three silver birds left the land beyond the sky, each of them bound upon a different journey. I and eleven companions were chosen to ride the last and smallest of the birds. We were bound for the star that you know as the sun of Baya Nor. The wise men told us that the flight would take twenty or more cool seasons … We journeyed, most of us sleeping, but some always watching. As we came near to this star we saw that it shone brightly on a fair world, the world of Baya Nor. To us who had ridden upon the silver bird through a great darkness for so many seasons, the land of Baya Nor seemed very beautiful. We directed the bird to set us down so that we might see what manner of people lived here. Nine of our party set out to wander through your forests and did not return. After many days, we who were left decided to look for them. We did not find them. We found only the darts of your hunters and the donjons of Baya Nor … Because no one returned to set the bird upon its homeward journey, it destroyed itself by fire.’ Poul Mer Lo suddenly looked at her and smiled. ‘And so, Mylai Tui, I am here and you are here; and together we must make the best of it.’