Bob Shaw - The Ceres Solution

There followed a nightmarish sequence in which the Mollanian, in spite of repeated falls, pursued him in a snaking course throughout the vicinity of the nodal point. A minute and then another minute went by, and Hargate made two unnerving discoveries—that his batteries were growing perceptibly weaker, and that Vekrynn was learning to cope better with the lunar gravity. Instead of simply trying to overtake the wheelchair, he began launching himself at Hargate in a series of sprawling dives which carried him several metres through the air and which at times brought him dangerously close. Hargate had to assist the chair’s slowly fading drive with his hands in order to evade the hurtling giant, and he began to panic as he realised that were he to topple over Vekrynn would be upon him before he could hope to move again.

He was profoundly relieved therefore when the bizarre hunt came to an unexpected end. Vekrynn, his face and clothing caked with grey dust, struggled into a crouching position, but instead of turning towards Hargate he remained doubled over, staring at the sky. Hargate followed the direction of his gaze and quailed as he saw that Ceres, closer now to the horizon, had become an irregular patch of brilliance whose intensity changed every few seconds. The asteroid was tumbling in its course, bearing down on them, winking like a malign eye. As he watched in frozen fascination, a bluish glow sprang into existence off to his left at the site of the buried machine, and he knew that the awesome rendezvous had become inevitable.

Vekrynn gave a tremulous sob, straightened up and—turning his back on Hargate—floundered towards the nodal point with the dragging gait of a man wading in deep water. Hargate rolled after him, getting as close as he dared. On reaching the node Vekrynn stumbled to a halt and raised his right hand. Circling round to the front, Hargate saw that the Mollanian’s eyes were closed and his lips were moving silently.

“It’s no use, Vekrynn!” Hargate grasped the bright shape of the training device in one hand and began running his fingers along its curvatures. “You can’t concentrate. You can’t get away from me. You’re in the middle of a third-order whirlpool and you’re going to stay in it.”

He began to chant the terms of the equation which had brought him to the Ocean of Storms, using them like an incantation which gave him power over Vekrynn’s mind and body. The new phase of the duel between the two men lasted more than a minute, then Vekrynn sagged on to his knees, and covered his face with his hands.

“Why are you doing this?” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “I can’t die, I can’t die, I can’t die.”

“You’re not about to,” Hargate said peacefully. “Provided you do exactly as I say.”

Vekrynn was silent for a moment. “I can’t die.”

“Right. I want you to switch on your communicator—the one you were going to use to call your engineers—and I want you to put it on the ground where it can see and hear us.”

Vekrynn removed a bracelet from his wrist with unsteady fingers and set it in the dust in front of him.

“I want proof it’s working,” Hargate snapped. “I want a response.”

Vekrynn mumbled a few words in Mollanian. There was a brief silence and three or four voices answered simultaneously. By a technology that Hargate could not even visualise, the fidelity of the reproduction was almost perfect.

“That seems good enough,” he said. “I’m sure you know what to do next.”

Vekrynn remained silent, head bowed, face again hidden in his hands.

Hargate numbered off sixty seconds before saying, “Vekrynn, you must tell us what is in the preface to the sixth copy of your book. And I want it in English.”

When there was no response he counted a further sixty seconds and said, “Vekrynn, I think you ought to take another look at Ceres—it’s becoming quite a spectacle.”

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke and was appalled by the gross changes in the asteroid’s appearance. It had swollen sufficiently for its rotation to be visible as a continual alteration of its shape. It appeared to be alive, quivering and bristling with menace, and the knowledge that the colossal energy it contained would atomise the plain on which he was sitting for hundreds of kilometres in every direction filled Hargate with a near-superstitious dread. The amount of overkill was irrelevant—but the sheer magnitude of the impending destruction had a desolating effect on his soul. We’re not much , he thought. We don’t amount to…

“Confession?” Vekrynn suddenly blurted. “Confession! Since when has total dedication to the Preservationist goal been a crime?”

Turning in the direction of the voice, Hargate saw that Vekrynn had risen to his feet. Instinctively he started to roll his chair backwards, but checked himself when he saw that the Mollanian was no longer aware of his existence. Vekrynn had begun to brush the lunar dust from his tunic with slow and uncoordinated movements, and had turned his face to the sky, possibly in the direction of his home world.

“The Government of Mollan can only guide our social evolution by means of one instrument—and that instrument is knowledge. Surely the greatest gift the Bureau of Wardens can bring to the people of Mollan is knowledge . It is my intention, my ambition, to give you sociological data in its ultimate form—the detailed chart of a technological culture from its earliest beginnings to its self-inflicted end.” Vekrynn paused and drew himself up to his full height.

“I am a patriot, and if I am guilty of any wrong it is that of personal pride—I longed to perform the greatest possible service for my people. It is true that when I found the planet Earth in my youth the life expectancy of its inhabitants was close to the human norm, but what is the value of a life spent in that insane chaos? Who could want to endure centuries of such an existence?

“For a culture trying to evolve in that turmoil of third-order forces there could be only one outcome, one inevitable fate. Better by far to accelerate the whole process…to have done with it…and to salvage something of permanent value…” Vekrynn’s tone became uncertain and he lapsed into silence.

“You’re not finished yet,” Hargate prompted. “And time is running out.”

Vekrynn stared briefly at the ominous patch of light which pulsed and pounded low above the horizon. A visible tremor coursed through his body.

“The torpedoes were upper atmosphere coasters of the type used on Mollan during the Second Epoch to seed the biosphere with longevity agents. But in the case of Earth…”

“Go on,” Hargate said, a black chill filtering downwards from his brain, numbing his whole body.

“In the case of Earth they contained a thymosin degrading agent which—over a period of several centuries—had the effect of reducing human life expectancy to…to seven decades.” Vekrynn paused, and when he spoke again his voice was stronger. “My life’s work, my Analytical Notes on the Evolution of One Human Civilisation , will soon be completed and will be of incalculable value to all Mollanians. That is my personal statement, my justification, my boast .”

Hargate gave a deep involuntary sigh which, even to his own ears, sounded like the relinquishment of life. He had expected Vekrynn’s words, the naked confession of a crime that was beyond comprehension, to engulf him in a plasma of hatred and fury—but there was only a melancholic detachment, a sense of resignation. I guess it hardly matters , he thought. It’s just as easy this way, and the end result will be the same.

“I trust you are satisfied,” Vekrynn said loudly and with a hint of manic jubilation. “I am ready now to face my peers, to accept their judgement.”