Bob Shaw - The Ceres Solution

After being abandoned by Vekrynn on the previous evening he had resigned himself to, and had almost been reconciled to, the idea of dying of exposure while the bright ciphers of alien star groupings wheeled overhead. It would have been a more dignified and exotic death than he had ever anticipated, even in his brief sojourn in the Aristotle colony, but the night had remained warm, and at dawn his physical condition had been comparatively good. He guessed that the Mollanian drugs and other therapies were helping sustain him because, during the second day, apart from occasional bouts of double vision and pins-and-needles in his legs, his chief source of discomfort was hunger—and the attentions of the alien quadruped.

By mid-afternoon it seemed to him that the creature—he had dubbed it a bealf—was becoming bolder and more persistent with its approaches, that it would soon have to be deterred by something more concrete than bellowed obscenities. Trying not to lose sight of his adversary while it inched its way through the grass, he took inventory of his resources.

The weakness of his arms precluded the use of club or missile, but there was the possibility that draining some electrolyte from his chair’s batteries would provide the semblance of a useful weapon. A major drawback to the scheme, however, was that he had no suitable lightweight container from which to hurl the acid. He scanned his surroundings and steadied his gaze on the clump of palm-like trees some two hundred metres away. Could their resemblance to terrestrial palms extend as far as the production of large, thin-shelled nuts? He had no idea what the odds might be, but the chance of finding a source of armament and food in one place was something he could not ignore.

At least I don’t want to die any more , he thought, sardonically amused. Vekrynn has made me realise that being dead isn’t everything in life.

Hargate switched on his power circuit and tentatively advanced the drive lever a short distance. The chair stirred itself reluctantly, but by using all his strength on the wheels he got it to lurch forward out of the grooves it had created in the turf. He glanced triumphantly in the direction of the bealf and saw it slowly backing away, eyes intent.

Didn’t think I could move, did you? Well, friend bealf, with any luck that’s nothing to the next surprise you’re going to get . Grinning malevolently at his thoughts, Hargate urged his chair towards the trees, aided by a slight incline.

“Don’t leave,” a man’s voice said from close behind him. “We’ve got things to talk about.”

Gasping for air, Hargate slewed himself around and saw that a very tall, black-haired man had materialised at the spot from which Vekrynn had disappeared. He had his left arm tucked into the front of his slate-grey overcoat and in his right hand was carrying an ordinary plastic shopping bag, garishly decorated, which stood out as totally incongruous in the alien setting. The newcomer looked like a Terran—he did not have the extreme breadth of skull that Hargate had observed in Vekrynn and other Mollanians—but the fact that he could skord was significant, and possibly threatening. Could it be that Vekrynn had sent someone to complete his work for him?

“Maybe I’m too busy to talk,” Hargate said, trying to make his voice hard. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lorrest tye Thralen.”

“That tells me bugger all.”

The stranger’s smile was unexpectedly boyish and amiable. “I’m a friend of Gretana and an enemy of Warden Vekrynn—is that any better?”

“Some.” Hargate saw the tall man’s image become two, realised he was squinting again and fought to bring his eye muscles under control. He had persuaded himself that he was prepared to die in a short time, with an entire alien world for a marker, but now that it no longer seemed necessary he could admit to himself just how much he wanted to stay alive.

“Well, I must say I’m glad to…” Hargate stopped speaking and swallowed as he heard a tremor come into his voice. “Are you just going to stand there and grin?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Lorrest came towards him with exaggerated deference. “I thought you might be dead by this time, but I took a chance and brought some beer and sandwiches. May I presume that you eat such humble food?”

Slightly disconcerted, Hargate watched in silence as Lorrest took off his overcoat, spread it on the grass and emptied the contents of his plastic bag on to it. As well as the cans of beer and wrapped sandwiches there was a packet of chocolate chip cookies.

“That looks good,” Hargate said. “I don’t know how I got so hungry inside a day.”

Lorrest glanced at the sun. “You’ve been here more than a day, chum. An Earth day, I mean—this planet must turn a lot slower.”

“I never thought of that.” Hargate looked around him, freshly reminded that he was far from home, and his gaze fastened on the crouching form of the bealf, which had advanced to within twenty paces. “Say, are you carrying any weapons?”

“No.” Lorrest swivelled his head, taking in the panorama of mountain ranges. “Why?”

“I’m nearly certain that thing wants to eat me.” Hargate pointed at the bealf. “I’d like to put a hole through it.”

Lorrest snorted with amusement. “Gretana said you were a rough-cornered type, and I’m beginning to see what she meant.” He tore off part of a sandwich, squeezed it into a ball and lobbed it towards the attentive animal. The bealf seized the morsel in its jaws, then backed away until it was lost to view in the grass.

“It’s nice having so much food you can afford to throw it away,” Hargate grumbled. “Don’t forget I was dumped here to starve.”

“Okay—let’s talk about that.” Lorrest handed Hargate a can of beer and a sandwich. “Better still, let’s talk about everything.”

The hour that followed was one of the most singular of Hargate’s life. On a personal level, he found he could relax and communicate freely with the Mollanian, in spite of the vast dissimilarities in their backgrounds. Their conversational styles meshed so perfectly that Hargate soon felt a rapport, even though he guessed that Lorrest was using some rehearsed diplomacies, and the feeling was good. Right from the start he was able to drink beer without embarrassment, although its fizziness increased the regurgitation through his nose, quickly soaking his handkerchief. During each bout of Hargate’s coughing Lorrest, neither staring nor pretending to be completely unaware, waited patiently until the talk could continue. And the story he unfolded was a seething white wave in Hargate’s mind, obliterating old concepts, strewing others in startling new patterns.

“I can’t quite take this in,” he said at one stage. “The Moon is another world—I can’t imagine it being destroyed.”

“It’s as good as done,” Lorrest assured him. “Less than two Earth days left toil.”

Hargate considered the incredible statement. “And is there nothing Vekrynn and the Bureau can do to save it?”

“Not a thing, though they won’t realise it until it’s too late.”

“I don’t get you.”

“We have allowed for the fact that they’ll locate Ceres and hit it with enough thruster rays to deflect it,” Lorrest said. “What Vekrynn doesn’t know is that we were lucky enough to find a major node on the surface of the Moon, in the Ocean of Storms. We have aimed Ceres exactly at the node, and we have put a special kind of machine there—a cone field generator—and it will activate itself about five minutes before the impact is due. When that happens Ceres will be snapped back on to its scheduled path, and…bingo!”

Hargate tried to visualise the colossal energies involved in flicking a minor planet around like a marble. “This machine, this cone field generator, is it something like a powerful magnet?”