Bob Shaw - The Ceres Solution

Resolving to confine herself to historical and philosophical generalities, Gretana began to expand Hargate’s mental horizons. Through much of the discourse he lay quite still, his eyes glittering and yet abstracted, like someone who was receiving a prolonged fix with a much-craved narcotic. Only when she reached the central issue was there an adverse reaction.

“You’re laying an awful lot of blame on the poor old Moon,” he said. “I can’t…I mean, it’s hard to accept that these third-order forces you talk about, forces you can’t even feel, could cause so much harm.”

“ You can’t feel them—most non-Terrans would be very much aware of them.”

“But, according to what you say, you’ve been on Earth for years and they haven’t had any ill effect.”

“That’s because I’m an adult human,” Gretana explained again. “The vulnerable stage in an individual’s history is in the days following conception. I’m talking about humans now—there are many other races, differently structured, whose adult members couldn’t think of entering the Earth-Moon system for even a day. Others will risk very brief visits in specially shielded ships.”

“At least it’s an answer to the Fermi paradox—where is everybody?” Hargate frowned at the ceiling. “If two smallish bodies like the Earth and Moon set up all these bad vibes, how about binary stars?”

The point was one which Gretana recalled very clearly from an imprint. “As far as we know, no planet of a multiple star has ever evolved any kind of life.”

“I suppose it all fits. It isn’t even a pun to call us lunatics—the word directly associates the Moon with madness. It’s all so…” Hargate became silent again, his eyes sombre as he considered the history of his own world from a new vantage point.

“Perhaps you should get some sleep.”

“ Sleep! ” A corner of Hargate’s mouth twitched. “You know, some of our philosophers and most of our religious leaders always claimed that we had a special place in the scheme of things—but I don’t think the galactic freak show was what they had in mind.”

“It isn’t like that,” Gretana said, repressing a pang of irrational guilt. She began to outline the doctrinal reasons for Mollanian noninterference with other human worlds, then went on to the work of the Bureau of Wardens. Having started to speak, she found that apparently separate subjects were deeply interconnected. When dealing with recent events it proved difficult to avoid certain areas, and—with some prompting from Hargate—she confessed her belief that it was a Mollanian renegade who had sabotaged the Aristotle space colony. Somewhat to her surprise, Hargate’s interest in the fate of the space habitat was short-lived. He kept returning to the basics of Mollanian science and philosophy, particularly to the principles of non-cursive travel.

“Does that mean that Mollanians don’t use spacecraft at all?” he said.

She shook her head. “We use them, but mainly for bulk transport of raw materials and local travel where there aren’t any convenient nodes. They aren’t suitable for interstellar travel because of the light barrier. When it’s necessary to put a ship into another system, the components are usually skorded there separately and assembled.”

“I see.” In spite of the growing signs of tiredness, Hargate remained fascinated. “Do you think that somebody from Earth—me, for instance—could learn to skord?”

The idea was totally new to Gretana. “It might be possible—your ancestors must have had the ability.”

“What’s it like? How do you feel when you just step from star to star, world to world, and see everything change?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only travelled to Earth.”

“Huh?” Hargate stared at her with incredulous blue eyes. “You mean you could have walked the galaxy and you simply never bothered? My God, woman!”

Gretana was disturbed by an uncanny sense of having taken part in the same conversation at an earlier time, then it came to her that Hargate’s tone was exactly the same as the one Lorrest had used during their single meal together. All at once, it seemed, every man she met—hunted murderer or house-bound Terran—was assuming the right to treat her with open scorn. A surge of indignation sent her back to her chair. She had taken only two paces when she heard a flurry of movement and a low gasp. She turned and saw that Hargate, apparently having attempted to detain her, was lying askew on the bed. He was clutching his side and his eyes, opaque with pain, were locked with hers.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, trying to smile. “I’ll let you beat me at Indian wrestling.”

It dawned on her that Hargate, unaware that she too was under confinement, had assumed he was going to be left alone and the prospect had scared him. She went to the bed and, concealing her dismay at how light and feeble he was, helped him rearrange his limbs in a comfortable position. As a member of a disease-free race, she found it chastening to touch his wasted frame. The little Terran, unprepared and with zero physical resources, had been through experiences which could have reduced others to incoherence—and yet he had dared to criticise her way of life. Gretana gave a grudging smile as she realised that Hargate was quite unrepentant—he had pleaded and joked, but had not actually apologised.

“What’s funny?” he said tiredly, watching her with half-closed eyes.

“Perhaps you are,” she replied, aware that for the first time in their strange relationship she had begun to see him as a human being. “I’ve been answering all your questions—when do I get to hear something about you?”

“Apart from my triple career as a male model, tennis champion and computer designer, there isn’t much to tell.” Hargate allowed himself to be coaxed into an account of his life which grew more and more episodic as the effects of weakness and medication drew him closer to unconsciousness. In between times, Gretana told him something of her own past and hopes for the future, not really sure whether he was awake or asleep, and as she too grew tired it occurred to her that she had been waiting a long time for Vekrynn to arrive.

Perhaps what I’ve done won’t seem all that terrible to him , she thought, drifting into a sleepy euphoria. Perhaps, he’ll understand…

The domed blue ceiling of Vekrynn’s office was like an empty sky, and the sparse furnishings—devoid of individuality—were a reminder that the room’s nominal occupant viewed the material world with an Olympian perspective. There was a lack of warmth which had nothing to do with the air temperature, rather a sense of coldness seeping backwards from the end of time.

Intimidating though the ambience was, Gretana was unable to look anywhere but at Vekrynn tye Orltha himself. Years on Earth had insensibly accustomed her to the proportions of Terran males, with the result that the Warden seemed more than ever like a titanic statue moulded in all the noble metals. The gilt helmet of closely waved hair, the platinum of the embroidered tunic, the brown eyes needled with gold—all had the effect of irradiating the surrounding space. As she approached him she felt a sudden faith that his resources were more than enough to render her problems insignificant.

“Fair seasons, Warden,” she said, with more confidence than she would have thought possible an hour earlier.

“You,” Vekrynn replied, ignoring the greeting, “are even more stupid than you are ugly—and, believe me, that means stupid .”

“Sir, I…” The insult roiled through Gretana’s mind, demoralising her with its crudity, and all at once it was as though she had never been to Earth. She was the Gretana ty Iltha who had lived a sequestered life in a Karlth suburb long ago—pathetic, unlovely and vulnerable.