12 Heritage We’ve been here two weeks, Evelyn – though it doesn’t seem like it as that’s only eleven of Thalassa’s days. Sooner or later we’ll have to abandon the old calendar, but my heart will always beat to the ancient rhythms of Earth. It’s been a busy time, and on the whole a pleasant one. The only real problem was medical; despite all precautions, we broke quarantine too soon, and about twenty per cent of the Lassans caught some kind of virus. To make us feel even guiltier, none of ms developed any symptoms whatsoever. Luckily no one died, though I’m afraid we can’t give the local doctors too much credit for that. Medical science is definitely backward here; they’ve grown to rely on automated systems so much that they can’t handle anything out of the ordinary. But we’ve been forgiven; the Lassans are very good-natured, easygoing people. They have been incredibly lucky – perhaps too lucky! – with their planet; it makes the contrast with Sagan 2 even bleaker. Their only real handicap is lack of land, and they’ve been wise enough to hold the population well below the sustainable maximum. If they’re ever tempted to exceed it, they have the records of Earth’s city-slums as a terrible warning. Because they’re such beautiful and charming people, it’s a great temptation to help them instead of letting them develop their own culture in their own way. In a sense, they’re our children – and all parents find it hard to accept that, sooner or later, they must cease to interfere. To some extent, of course, we can’t help interfering; our very presence does that. We’re unexpected – though luckily not unwelcome – guests on their planet. And they can never forget that Magellan is orbiting just above the atmosphere, the last emissary from the world of their own ancestors. I’ve revisited First Landing – their birthplace – and gone on the tour that every Lassan makes at least once in his life. It’s a combination of museum and shrine, the only place on the whole planet to which the word ‘sacred’ is remotely applicable. Nothing has changed in seven hundred years. The seedship, though it is now an empty husk, looks as if it has only just landed. All around it are the silent machines – the excavators and constructors and chemical processing plants with their robot attendants. And, of course, the nurseries and schools of Generation One. There are almost no records of those first decades – perhaps deliberately. Despite all the skills and precautions of the planners, there must have been biological accidents, ruthlessly eliminated by the overriding program. And the time when those who had no organic parents gave way to those who did, must have been full of psychological traumas. But the tragedy and sadness of the Genesis Decades is now centuries in the past. Like the graves of all pioneers, it has been forgotten by the builders of the new society. I would be happy to spend the rest of my life here; there’s material on Thalassa for a whole army of anthropologists and psychologists and social scientists. Above all, how I wish I could meet some of my long-dead colleagues and let them know how many of our endless arguments have been finally resolved! It is possible to build a rational and humane culture completely free from the threat of supernatural restraints. Though in principle I don’t approve of censorship, it seems that those who prepared the archives for the Thalassan colony succeeded in an almost-impossible task. They purged the history and literature of ten thousand years, and the result has justified their efforts. We must be very cautious before replacing anything that was lost -however beautiful, however moving a work of art. The Thalassans were never poisoned by the decay products of dead religions, and in seven hundred years no prophet has arisen here to preach a new faith. The very word ‘God’ has almost vanished from their language, and they’re quite surprised – or amused – when we happen to use it. My scientist friends are fond of saying that one sample makes very poor statistics, so I wonder if the total lack of religion in this society really proves anything. We know that the Thalassans were also very carefully selected genetically to eliminate as many undesirable social traits as possible. Yes, yes – I know that only about fifteen per cent of human behaviour is determined by the genes – but that fraction is very important! The Lassans certainly seem remarkably free from such unpleasant traits as envy, intolerance, jealousy, anger. Is this entirely the result of cultural conditioning? How I would love to know what happened to the seedships that were sent out by those religious groups in the twenty-sixth century! The Mormons’ Ark of the Covenant, the Sword of the Prophet – there were half a dozen of them. I wonder if any of them succeeded, and if so what part religion played in their success or their failure. Perhaps one day, when the local communications grid is established, we’ll find what happened to those early pioneers. One result of Thalassa’s total atheism is a serious shortage of expletives. When a Lassan drops something on his toe, he’s at a loss for words. Even the usual references to bodily functions aren’t much help because they’re all taken for granted. About the only general-purpose exclamation is ‘Krakan!’ and that’s badly overworked. But it does show what an impression Mount Krakan made when it erupted four hundred years ago; I hope I’ll have a chance of visiting it before we leave. That’s still many months ahead, yet already I fear it. Not for the possible danger – if anything happens to the ship, I’ll never know. But because it will mean that another link with Earth has been broken – and, my dearest, with you.
13 Task Force ‘The president’s not going to like this,’ Mayor Waldron said with relish. ‘He’s set his heart on getting you to North Island.’ ‘I know,’ Deputy Captain Malina answered. ‘And we’ll be sorry to disappoint him – he’s been very helpful. But North Island’s far too rocky; the only suitable coastal areas are already developed. Yet there’s a completely deserted bay, with a gently sloping beach, only nine kilometres from Tarna – it will be perfect.’ ‘Sounds too good to be true. Why is it deserted, Brant?’ ‘That was the Mangrove Project. All the trees died – we still don’t know why – and no one’s had the heart to tidy up the mess. It looks terrible, and smells worse.’ ‘So it’s already an ecological disaster area – you’re welcome, Captain! You can only improve matters.’ ‘I can assure you that our plant will be very handsome and won’t damage the environment in the slightest. And of course it will all be dismantled when we leave. Unless you want to keep it.’ ‘Thank you – but I doubt if we’d have much use for several hundred tons of ice a day. Meanwhile, what facilities can Tarna offer – accommodation, catering, transport? – we’ll be happy to oblige. I assume that quite a number of you will be coming down to work here.’ ‘Probably about a hundred, and we appreciate your offer of hospitality. But I’m” afraid we’d be terrible guests: we’ll be having conferences with the ship at all hours of the day and night. So we have to stick together – and as soon as we’ve assembled our little prefabricated village, we’ll move into it with all our equipment. I’m sorry if this seems ungracious – but any other arrangement simply wouldn’t be practical.’ ‘I suppose you’re right,’ the mayor sighed. She had been wondering how she could bend protocol and offer what passed for the hospitality suite to the spectacular Lieutenant Commander Lorenson instead of to Deputy Captain Malina. The problem had appeared insoluble; now, alas, it would not even arise. She felt so discouraged that she was almost tempted to call North Island and invite her last official consort back for a vacation. But the wretch would probably turn her down again, and she simply couldn’t face that.
14 Mirissa Even when she was a very old woman, Mirissa Leonidas could still remember the exact moment when she first set eyes on Loren. There was no one else – not even Brant – of which this was true. Novelty had nothing to do with it; she had already met several of the Earthmen before encountering Loren, and they had made no unusual impression on her. Most of them could have passed as Lassans if they had been left out in the sun for a few days. But not Loren; his skin never tanned, and his startling hair became, if anything, even more silvery. That was certainly what had first drawn her notice as he was emerging from Mayor Waldron’s office with two of his colleagues – all of them bearing that slightly frustrated look which was the usual outcome of a session with Tarna’s lethargic and well-entrenched bureaucracy. Their eyes had met, but for a moment only. Mirissa took a few more paces; then, without any conscious volition, she came to a dead halt and looked back over her shoulder – to see that the visitor was staring at her. Already, they both knew that their lives had been irrevocably changed. Later that night, after they had made love, she asked Brant, ‘Have they said how long they’re staying?’ ‘You do choose the worst times,’ he grumbled sleepily. ‘At least a year. Maybe two. Goodnight – again.’ She knew better than to ask any more questions even though she still felt wide awake. For a long time she lay open-eyed, watching the swift shadows of the inner moon sweep across the floor while the cherished body beside her sank gently into sleep. She had known not a few men before Brant, but since they had been together she had been utterly indifferent to anyone else. Then why this sudden interest – she still pretended it was no stronger than that – in a man she had glimpsed only for a few seconds and whose very name she did not even know? (Though that would certainly be one of tomorrow’s first priorities.) Mirissa prided herself on being honest and clear-sighted; she looked down on women – or men – who let themselves be ruled by their emotions. Part of the attraction, she was quite sure, was the element of novelty, the glamour of vast new horizons. To be able to speak to someone who had actually walked through the cities of Earth – had witnessed the last hours of the solar system -and was now on the way to new suns was a wonder beyond her wildest dreams. It made her once more aware of that underlying dissatisfaction with the placid tempo of Thalassan life despite her happiness with Brant. Or was it merely contentment and not true happiness? What did she really want? Whether she could find it with these strangers from the stars she did not know, but before they left Thalassa forever, she meant to try. That same morning, Brant had also visited Mayor Waldron, who greeted him with slightly less than her usual warmth when he dumped the fragments of his fish-trap on her desk. ‘I know you’ve been busy with more important matters,’ he said, ‘but what are we going to do about this?’ The mayor looked without enthusiasm at the tangled mess of cables. It was hard to focus on the day-to-day routine after the heady excitements of interstellar politics. ‘What do you think happened?’ she asked. ‘It’s obviously deliberate – see how this wire was twisted until it broke. Not only was the grid damaged, but sections have been taken away. I’m sure no one on South Island would do such a thing. What motive would they have? And I’d be bound to find out, sooner or later …’ Brant’s pregnant pause left no doubt as to what would happen then. ‘Who do you suspect?’ ‘Ever since I started experimenting with electric trapping, I’ve been fighting not only the Conservers but those crazy people who believe that all food should be synthetic because it’s wicked to eat living creatures, like animals – or even plants.’ ‘The Conservers, at least, may have a point. If your trap is as efficient as you claim, it could upset the ecological balance they’re always talking about.’ ‘The regular reef census would tell us if that was happening, and we’d just switch off for a while. Anyway, it’s the pelagics I’m really after; my field seems to attract them from up to three or four kilometres away. And even if everyone on the Three Islands ate nothing but fish, we couldn’t make a dent in the oceanic population.’ ‘I’m sure you’re right – as far as the indigenous pseudofish are concerned. And much good that does, since most of them are too poisonous to be worth processing. Are you sure that the Terran stock has established itself securely? You might be the last straw, as the old saying goes.’ Brant looked at the mayor with respect; she was continually surprising him with shrewd questions like this. It never occurred to him that she would not have held her position for so long if there was not a great deal more in her than met the eye. ‘I’m afraid the tuna aren’t going to survive; it will be a few billion years before the oceans are salty enough for them. But the trout and salmon are doing very well.’ ‘And they’re certainly delicious; they might even overcome the moral scruples of the Synthesists. Not that I really accept your interesting theory. Those people may talk, but they don’t do anything.’ ‘They released a whole herd of cattle from that experimental farm a couple of years ago.’ ‘You mean they tried to – the cows walked straight home again. Everyone laughed so much that they called off any further demonstrations. I simply can’t imagine that they’d go to all this trouble.’ She gestured towards the broken grid. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult – a small boat at night, a couple of divers – the water’s only twenty metres deep.’ ‘Well, I’ll make some inquiries. Meanwhile, I want you to do two things.’ ‘What?’ Brant said, trying not to sound suspicious and failing completely. ‘Repair the grid – Tech Stores will give you anything you need. And stop making any more accusations until you’re one hundred per cent certain. If you’re wrong, you’ll look foolish and may have to apologize. If you’re right, you may scare the perpetrators away before we can catch them. Understand?’ Brant’s jaw dropped slightly: he had never seen the mayor in so incisive a mood. He gathered up Exhibit A and made a somewhat chastened departure. He might have been even more chastened – or perhaps merely amused – to know that Mayor Waldron was no longer quite so enamoured of him. Assistant Chief Engineer Loren Lorenson had impressed more than one of Tarna’s citizens that morning.