The Tenth Planet (13 page)

Garfield Talbot disapproved of the development of surface colonies for the very reasons that the project was advocated. He wanted the colonists to be restricted in their activities and in their attitudes. It was all part of his vague notion of racial atonement. Men must be discouraged from physical expansion so that they could concentrate on spiritual development. Basically, he saw the underground colonies as a kind of self-imposed prison settlement from which men would emerge only when they had purified themselves by contemplation and had come to terms with the aggressive instincts that had destroyed the cultures of Earth and Mars.

Nevertheless, the Surface Party had gained strength and some support, even from many who did not wish to go with them. In the end, Talbot had to allow the Surface Party to
proceed with their plans. He made one stipulation: they could take with them enough equipment, fuel and food supplies to sustain them for half an M-year. After that, they must be self-reliant.

It seemed a fair decision. Except that Garfield Talbot instinctively knew that without strong leadership the project was doomed to failure.

He was right. The surface of Minerva was no place to attempt to carry out engineering projects according to democratic processes. The Surface Party, rejoicing in their newfound personal freedom, spent too much precious time and used up too much precious oxygen prospecting for suitable sites and engaging in democratic discussion to get the first accommodation dome and its vital hydroponics unit entirely self-supporting before supplies became critical.

They radioed Talbot City, then the only subterranean city in existence, asking for more fuel, more food, more equipment. Garfield Talbot refused, reminding them of the terms of the agreement and pointing out that the materials they had already used had severely restricted the programme of expansion for Talbot City and the corresponding increase of population.

The condition of the Surface Party became desperate. There were many casualties—chiefly from explosive decompression in worn-out space suits. Finally, they offered to abandon the project entirely if they were allowed to return to the subterranean refuge. Again Talbot refused. He argued that if they were prepared to break the terms of one agreement, they would be capable of breaking the terms of another. There could be no guarantee that, if they returned to Talbot City, once they had recovered themselves they would not again make demands for precious supplies to pursue an impossible project.

Eventually, in desperation, the survivors attempted to force their way back underground. There were, at the time, only four access air-locks for Talbot City. At each of these, several of Garfield Talbot’s most trusted men were stationed. They were equipped with laser rifles. As the remnants of the
Surface Party attacked one of the air-locks with cutting equipment, half a dozen of Talbot’s men emerged from another air-lock and took them in the rear. They were burned ruthlessly. There were no survivors.

As Idris read the
Creed
—a document of almost embarrassing honesty and self-revelation—he became fascinated by the psychological complexity of its author. Although Garfield Talbot was the kind of man who could blast a rebellious space-ship out of existence and mercilessly destroy dissident colonists, he was also the kind of man who could cheerfully go on half-rations—as he had done when a serious fault developed in one of the hydroponics systems—so that babies, pregnant women and children would not be deprived of nutrient.

Without him, Idris realised, the colony on Minerva would never have survived. With him, it had survived to achieve his ideal—-the stable population of ten thousand. But his attitudes and philosophy had, over the centuries, become an inhibiting factor. The ghost of Garfield Talbot held the Minervans in thrall, stopped them from expanding, developing, evolving.

Now, Idris began to understand the courage of Manfrius de Skun and Zylonia. Now he had found a purpose in this, his second life.

The purpose was exorcism. The rigid beliefs of Garfield Talbot had dominated what was left of mankind too long.

D
ESPITE HIS GROWING
involvement with Zylonia, Idris never forgot that she was an officer of the Mental Health Department, a member of the team that, having resuscitated him, were dedicated to studying and analysing his behaviour.

He was not just a man who had been given a new life and a new body. He was now, he realised, an important factor in Minervan politics. Upon his behaviour the success or failure of the immortality project would depend. He already knew that the Triple-T party would like him to be declared insane. They would be looking for any aspect of his behaviour that, according to Minervan standards, could be held to be totally irrational.

Having read
Talbot’s Creed
, he had a very good idea of what was expected of him by orthodox Minervans. He would have to be very careful for a time in what he said and did.

On the other hand, it seemed reasonable to suppose that Zylonia, Manfrius de Skun and persons unknown were—temporarily, at least, on his side. They would probably go to great lengths to safeguard his interests and so preserve their immortality project. But would they be so friendly if they realised his true intentions? Idris doubted it. If they realised that he intended to do his best to break the psychological stranglehold of Minervan tradition they, too, would probably regret that he had been successfully resuscitated.

Therefore he counselled himself to caution and to patience. So far as he knew, the Minervans had one serviceable interplanetary space-ship. The Minervans already knew that he wanted to go back to Earth. That alone, in their eyes, was a heretical or insane desire. What they must not suspect was that, sooner or later, he intended to steal the
Amazonia
. If he could recruit people to help him, so much the better. But if not, then, by God, he would lift off single-handed, somehow, and make the Earth shoot alone.

Earth … After five thousand years some of the crap brought about by mankind’s rape of the planet must have cleared. With no more internal combustion engines, with no more atomic energy plants to supply the insatiable energy demands of the teeming millions, with no more chemicals poured lethally over the fertile soil, something must have survived. Earth was too old, too big, too strong to be totally destroyed by man. Something must have survived. The oceans that gave birth to life could not have entirely died. Nor, indeed, could all land life have been wiped out. Life was infinitely persistent, infinitely adaptable.

Having destroyed their own environment as did the dinosaurs millions of years before them, the big civilisations must have gone down into darkness. But perhaps somewhere—somewhere in some dying tropical rain forest, perhaps—there could have been a few tough, primitive people who could live on grubs, worms, snails, anything from green slime to fungus that would give them the food they needed to buy the time to adapt. The more Idris thought about it, the more he convinced himself that somehow terrestrial man—even if only a small tribe of savages—would find a way to endure. It was a crazy notion, of course. A fantasy. A wish fulfilment. But it was strong enough to enable him to endure or accept anything so long as there remained the chance that he would one day lift off for Earth.

Meanwhile, he determined to learn as much about Minerva as possible, to make himself acceptable to the Triple-T party if he could, and to appear to co-operate fully with Manfrius
de Skun.

After he had slept, Zylonia took him back to the project centre for a medical check-up. Dr. de Skun seemed more than satisfied with the results.

Brain rhythms normal, pulse slightly fast, blood pressure normal, motor responses normal, temperature normal, eyesight normal. Almost a text-book example of a man in perfect health.

“Despite having terminated your recovery programme in such a dramatic fashion,” said Dr. de Skun, “you are in remarkably good condition. There will be further check-ups, of course, but my work has ended. The technique of brain transplant into a cloned body has been triumphantly demonstrated.” His face clouded. “On the physical level, at least. But there is still much work to be done before the process can be used for the benefit of all Minervans … You are a very intelligent man, Captain Hamilton.” He smiled. “Perhaps a shade too intelligent for comfort. You have talked much—among other things—with Zylonia de Herrens … She is my daughter, by the way … Also you have read the
Creed
. So you will appreciate some of our difficulties. You see, although we have demonstrated physically that the technique is successful, we have yet to satisfy a large number of suspicious people—notably the Triple-T party—that it is psychologically successful. They need to be assured that you have an integrated personality.”

“In other words,” said Idris, “if I conform to Minervan standards and do not make any trouble, your immortality project will be accepted.”

“Precisely.” Manfrius de Skun sighed. “I could have wished that you were less intelligent, perhaps. It would have made matters easier … Actually, Captain Hamilton, I could have ensured that you were less intelligent. Over the years, we have made a very careful and detailed study of your brain. Certain areas—the areas associated with critical appraisal and decision-making, for example—could have been modified.”

“I am grateful that you did not modify them.”

“Ethically, I did not have the right. But it would have been so easy. So very easy.”

“I am grateful to you, sir. And I admire your integrity.”

Manfrius de Skun laughed grimly. “I may yet regret it. Already the Triple-T party regard you as a sort of cultural time-bomb.”

Idris was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “Dr. de Skun, I owe you much. No, that is a bloody understatement. I owe you all—my life, in fact. You really should have burned those nasty little areas of my brain when you had the chance. But I am conscious of my debt. I will do my best to behave as a model Minervan citizen for a time.”

“How long is ‘for a time’?”

“For as long as it takes you to get the necessary authority to proceed with your immortality process.”

“And then?”

“And then,” said Idris, throwing discretion aside, “I am going to find a crew for the
Amazonia
and blast off for Earth.”

“You
are
mad.”

“Don’t worry too much, Dr. de Skun. It is a controlled madness.”

“I could inform the Grand Council of your intentions.”

“But you won’t. It would only serve to show that I am not integrated. Therefore the end of the immortality process, and, on the present decline in Minervan life-span, the end of life on the tenth planet in the not-too-distant future … Incidentally, Zylonia has a surname different from yours. Why did you say she was your daughter?”

“We do not have marriage, Captain Hamilton. Therefore we use matrilinear descent. It is convenient.”

“Stupid of me. I should have known.” Idris grinned. “Maybe you did burn bits of my brain, after all.”

T
HE LIFT CAME
noiselessly to a halt. The doors opened. Idris stepped out into the tower dome, which was illuminated by concealed strip lighting that ran in a slender ring round its transparent walls. He peered through the vacuum separated triple walls of plastiglass and could see nothing. He was bitterly disappointed.

Zylonia was shivering and seemed afraid.

“Are you cold?”

“Psychologically cold. Few Minervans are at ease up here. Down below is the world we have created—a world of warmth and security. Up here, though we cannot feel it, we are reminded of the deadness that lies outside.”

“I can see nothing.”

“You will.” She touched a stud by the lift door, and the dome darkened.

When his eyesight had adjusted Idris looked up and saw the timeless unwinking brilliance of the stars. The sight made him feel elated. It was a long time since he had seen the stars. Fifty centuries. He tore his gaze from them reluctantly, stepped close to the wall of the tower dome and peered down. Presently, by starlight, he could make out a few dim shapes—rocks, evidently. Some quite big, but most of them small. He thought he could see the reflection of stars in what looked like a pool of water. But, of course, he had to be mistaken. Looking up again, he thought he
could see clouds obliterating some of the star patterns. But, again, he had to be mistaken. Probably some kind of fogging in the dome.

Idris gave a nervous laugh. “I’m having delusions. I think I can see clouds and water … I wish there were more light.”

“Then, let there be light,” said Zylonia. She touched another stud.

Suddenly, the terrain around the tower, for perhaps a radius of one kilometre, was brilliantly illuminated. Idris gazed out, fascinated, at a strange, stark wonderland. There were indeed clouds—large, fleecy, fluffy, like the clouds of Earth—drifting serenely through a black sky. There were indeed pools—one or two large enough to be called lakes, most small enough to be no more than puddles. And there were beautiful, crystalline rocks, glittering like massive diamonds.

Idris looked upwards, and was momentarily blinded by the light from what seemed to be an artificial sun.

“It’s incredible,” he said softly. “Quite incredible … The light—what is it?”

“An atomic lamp. It is on low intensity. It is set on a pylon three hundred metres high. At its present power, we can safely stay in the dome for about an hour. I can increase the level of illumination, but if I do our safety margin decreases proportionally. Would you like more light?”

“No, thank you. Not yet. Already there is so much to see … It’s all so incredibly beautiful and amazing. I had anticipated a kind of lunar landscape—nothing but rocks and dust plains and mountains and craters. Instead, clouds, lakes. Astound me some more. Tell me that you also get snow and rain.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, Idris, we do get snow and rain. Blizzards also. The atmosphere is helium. The clouds are hydrogen. They fall as hydrogen rain or hydrogen snow, depending upon slight variations in pressure and temperature.”