Edmund Cooper - A Far Sunset

‘Why?’

‘Finagle’s Second Law.’

‘And what, pray, is that?’

Ann was incredulous. ‘You mean to say you’ve never heard of Finagle’s Second Law?’

‘I haven’t even heard of the first.’

Ann hiccupped. ‘Pardon me. That’s the point. There is no first. There is no third, either. Only a second.’

‘All right, I get the message. I won’t even ask who Finagle was. But what the hell is his Second Law?’

‘It states that if in any given circumstances anything can possibly go wrong, it invariably will.’

‘So you think we’ll either score three lemons or come unstuck?’

‘It’s safer to think that,’ said Ann darkly. ‘Nobody in their right mind would tangle with Finagle. The great trick, the ultimate discipline, is always to expect the worst. Then whatever else happens, you’re bound to be pleasantly surprised.’ Paul was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: ‘I think I’ll go right out on a limb and set myself up as a clairvoyant.’

Ann turned to the paraplex window and gazed sombrely at Altair. ‘Well, there’s your crystal, gypsy mine. What do you see?’

Paul followed her gaze, staring at Altair intently. ‘I see the jackpot. We shall find an earth-type life-bearing planet. There might even be intelligent beings on it.’

‘Christ, you’re pushing the odds, aren’t you?’

‘To blazes with the odds,’ said Paul. ‘Yes, I’ll go all the way. We shall find intelligent beings on it … And I rather think we shall keep that appointment in Samara.’

Ann smiled. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘You mean to say you’ve never heard of an appointment in Samara?’

‘Touche. Prosit. Griiss Gott … That champagne was terrific.’

‘It’s an oriental tale,’ said Paul, ‘And the story goes that the servant of a rich man in Baghdad or Basra, or some place like that, went out to do a day’s shopping. But in the market place he met Death, who gave him a strange sort of look … Well the servant chased off home and said to his master: “Lord, in the market place I met Death, who looked as if he were about to claim me. Lend me your fastest horse that I may ride to Samara, which I can reach before night-fall, and so escape him.” ’

‘Pretty sensible,’ said Aim. ‘Give the servant eight out of ten for initiative.’

‘Ah,’ said Paul. ‘That’s the point. The servant displayed too much initiative. The rich man lent the servant his horse, and he duly set off for Samara at a great rate of knots. But when he had gone, the rich man thought: “This is a bit of a bore. My servant is a jolly good servant.I shall miss him. Death had no right to give him the twitches. I think I’ll pop down to the market place and give the old fellow a piece of my mind.” ’

‘Noblesse oblige ,’ said Ann. ‘A very fine sentiment.’

‘So the rich man went to the market place and buttonholed Death. “Look here,” he said, or words to that effect, “what do you mean by giving my servant the shakes?” Death was amused. He said: “Lord, I merely looked at the fellow in surprise.” “Why so?” asked the rich man. “He is just an ordinary servant.” “I looked at him in surprise,” explained Death, “because I did not expect to find him here. You see, I have an appointment with him this evening—in Samara.” ’

Ann was silent for a while. ‘Champagne is schizophrenic,’ she said at length. ‘One minute it lifts you up, and then it drops you flat on your face … Anyway, we didn’t see Death in the market place, did we?’

‘Didn’t we?’ asked Paul. ‘Didn’t we see Death when we went up in orbit? Didn’t we see him when we blasted off on the long shot? Don’t we make a rude gesture to him every time we pop ourselves back in the cooler?’

‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ said Ann. ‘I’m only afraid of pain—and of being afraid.’

‘Poor dear,’ said Paul. ‘I’m the spectre at the feast. Dammit, Death just chucked a meteor at us; and it did hardly any damage at all. So he can’t be too interested in us, can he?’

‘I’m cold,’ said Ann, ‘but at the same time just a trifle lascivious. Let’s go to bed.’

Paul stood up, smiling. ‘Lasciviousness is all,’ he said. ‘Thank God we don’t have to keep the house tidy. It’s another ten days, I think, before we have to slide ourselves into the freezer.’

Ann took his hand. ‘That’s the thought that makes me cold. Meanwhile, come and keep me warm.’

There was only one double berth on the Gloria Mundi. The crew called it the honeymoon suite. That was where they went.

But even while Paul Marlowe was engaged in the act of love, even as he reached the climax, he was thinking about an appointment in Samara.

There was still the taste of champagne in his mouth, and in Ann’s.

But for both of them the taste was sour.

He woke up and found that he was trembling. He looked at his surroundings without recognition for a moment, or two, but the disorientation was brief. Over in the comer of the room a string of smoke rippled upwards towards the thatch from the tiny flickering oil lamp set on the miniature phallus of Oruri. One or two flies buzzed lazily. By his side, the naked brown girl slept peacefully with one arm thrown carelessly across his stomach.

He looked at the three stubby fingers and flattened thumb on her small hand. He looked at her face—neat and serene. An alien face, yet perhaps it would have raised no eyebrows in central Africa. Her serenity annoyed him . He shook her into consciousness.

Mylai Tui sat up, bleary-eyed. ‘What is it, my lord? Surely the nine sisters are still flying?’

‘Say it! ’ he commanded. ‘Say my name.’

‘Poul Mer Lo.’

He shook her again. ‘It is not Poul. Say Paul.’

‘Poul.’

‘No. Paul.’

‘Po-el.’ Mylai Tui enunciated the syllables carefully.

He slapped her. ‘Po-el,’ he mimicked. ‘No, not Po-el. Say Paul.’

‘Poel.’

He slapped her again. ‘Paul! Paul! Paul! Say it! ’

‘Pole,’ sobbed Mylai Tui. ‘Pole … My lord, I am trying very hard.’

‘Then you are not trying hard enough, Mylai Tui,’ he snapped brutally. ‘Why should I bother to speak your language when you can’t make a decent sound in mine? Say Paul.’

‘Pol.’

‘That’s better … Paul.’

‘Paul.’

‘That’s good. That’s very good. Now try Paul Marlowe.’

‘Pol Mer Lo.’

Again he hit her. ‘Listen carefully. Paul Marlowe.’

‘Pol Mah Lo.’

‘Paul Marlowe.’

‘Paul Mah Lo.’

‘Paul Marlowe.’

‘Paul … Marlowe.’ By this time Mylai Tui hardly knew what she was saying.

‘You’ve got it!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s it. That’s my name. You are to call me Paul. Understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Yes, Paul.’

‘Yes, Paul,’ repeated Mylai Tui obediently. She wiped the tears from her face.

‘It’s important, you understand,’ he babbled. ‘It’s very important. A man has to keep his own name, does he not?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He raised his hand.

‘Yes, Paul,’ corrected Mylai Tui hastily. Then she added hesitantly: ‘My lord is not afflicted by devils?’

He began to laugh. But the laughter disintegrated. And then tears were streaming down his own face. ‘Yes, Mylai Tui. I am afflicted by devils. It seems that I shall be afflicted by devils as long as I live.’

Mylai Tui nursed his head on her breast, rocking to and fro, rhythmically. ‘There is a great sadness inside you,’ she said at length. ‘O Paul, my lord, it hisses like water over burning stones. Kill me or send me away; but do not let me witness such pain in one to whom I am not destined to bring the first gift of Oruri.’