A Far Sunset

NINE

There had been many discussions aboard the Gloria Mundi about the possibility, probability and variety of extra-terrestrial life. During the first three months of the voyage, before any of the twelve crew members had been suspended, the discussions tended to take place on the mess deck after dinner, or in the library. During the last three months of the voyage they tended to take place in the astrodome. But during more than nineteen years of star-flight, when only one pair was operational at a time, the favourite place for discussion was the navigation deck. It was there that the ship’s log was kept up to date. It was there that diaries were written and letters ‘posted’ for successive pairs so that the month-long vigil would not be too lonely.

It was there that in the seventeenth year of star time, Paul and Ann Marlowe held a champagne and chicken supper to celebrate their successful triumph over the first meteor perforation of the entire voyage. It had not been a very big meteor —less than an inch in diameter—but it had passed with a musical ping clean through the hold of the Gloria Mundi, leaving what looked like two neat large calibre bullet holes on each side of the ship’s hull.

As soon as the air pressure dropped the alram bells began to ring. Paul and Ann, mindful of basic training, immediately dashed to the nearest pressure suits and were fully encased long before they were in any danger of explosive decompression. It took them barely five minutes to trace the leaks and another fifteen minutes to process the self-sealer strips and make a chemical weld. Then Paul covered the emergency plugs with two slabs of half-inch titanium, and the crisis was over. It had not been a big crisis really, but it was a good excuse to open one of the bottles of champagne. After he had made a brief statement in the log, Paul scribbled a note to the French pair, who were next on watch. It read: Since we saved you from a fate worse than freezing, we feel entitled to broach a bottle of the Moet et Chandon ’ll. I believe it was a very fine year … Don’t be too envious. We really had to work for it. Paul.

And so it came about that he and Ann were sitting at table on the navigation deck with the Moet et Chandon in a makeshift ice bucket and Altair on the other side of the paraplex window, more than two light years away and looking like a fiery marble.

‘Suppose,’ said Paul, after his second glass, ‘we came upon a world that was nothing but water. Not a bit of land anywhere. What the hell would we do?’

Ann shook her dark hair and giggled. She had never been much given to alcohol, and the champagne had gone to her head. She hiccupped gravely. ‘That’s easy. Go into low orbit and drop a couple of skin divers complete with aqualungs to look for intelligent sponges.’

There was a brief silence. Then Paul said tangentially: ‘It’s an odd thing, but I’ve never been quite sure whether or not I believe in God.’

‘What is God?’ demanded Ann. ‘What is God but an extension of the ego—a sort of megalomania by proxy?’

Paul laughed. ‘Don’t mix it with me, dear, in the field of psychological jargon. You’re only a gifted amateur. I’m a hardened professional.’

‘Well, what the hell has God got to do with intelligent sponges?’ demanded Ann belligerently.

‘Nothing at all … Except that if God exists he might just possibly have a sense of humour far more subtle than we bargain for. He might have created intelligent sponges, moronic supermen, parthenogenetic pygmies, immortal sloths or sex-crazed centipedes just for kicks—or just to see what them crazy mixed-up human beings would do when they encountered them.’

Ann giggled once more. ‘If there is a God, and I don’t think there is, I’ll bet that human beings are His piece de godlike resistance. They are so damn complicated He would have got Himself confused if He’d tried to dream up anything more complicated … Anyway, if Altair has inhabitable planets, my money is on sex-crazed centipedes … At least it would be amusing. Just think what they could do with all those legs.’

Paul filled their champagne glasses again and in doing so emptied the bottle. He gazed at it regretfully. ‘There are further complications … Predestination. Kismet. What if our little venture is not a shot in the dark? What if the whole thing is fully programmed? What if we are all just shoving back the light-years to keep an appointment in Samara.’

‘You talk a lot of twaddle,’ said Ann. ‘Causation is quite nice and cosy—if you don’t let it get out of hand. An infinitely variable universe must be filled with infinitely variable possibilities … But if you want to know what I think, I think we’re going to find no planets at all—or else a stack of bloody burnt out cinders. The one thing we are not going to find is intelligent life.’

‘Why?’

‘Finagle’s Second Law.’

‘And what, pray, is that?’

Ann was incredulous. ‘You mean to say you’ve never heard of Finagle’s Second Law?’

‘I haven’t even heard of the first.’

Ann hiccupped. ‘Pardon me. That’s the point. There is no first. There is no third, either. Only a second.’

‘All right, I get the message. I won’t even ask who Finagle was. But what the hell is his Second Law?’

‘It states that if in any given circumstances anything can possibly go wrong, it invariably will.’

‘So you think we’ll either score three lemons or come unstuck?’

‘It’s safer to think that,’ said Ann darkly. ‘Nobody in their right mind would tangle with Finagle. The great trick, the ultimate discipline, is always to expect the worst. Then whatever else happens, you’re bound to be pleasantly surprised.’ Paul was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: ‘I think I’ll go right out on a limb and set myself up as a clairvoyant.’

Ann turned to the paraplex window and gazed sombrely at Altair. ‘Well, there’s your crystal, gypsy mine. What do you see?’

Paul followed her gaze, staring at Altair intently. ‘I see the jackpot. We shall find an earth-type life-bearing planet. There might even be intelligent beings on it.’

‘Christ, you’re pushing the odds, aren’t you?’

‘To blazes with the odds,’ said Paul. ‘Yes, I’ll go all the way. We shall find intelligent beings on it … And I rather think we shall keep that appointment in Samara.’

Ann smiled. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘You mean to say you’ve never heard of an appointment in Samara?’

‘Touche. Prosit. Griiss Gott … That champagne was terrific.’

‘It’s an oriental tale,’ said Paul, ‘And the story goes that the servant of a rich man in Baghdad or Basra, or some place like that, went out to do a day’s shopping. But in the market place he met Death, who gave him a strange sort of look … Well the servant chased off home and said to his master: “Lord, in the market place I met Death, who looked as if he were about to claim me. Lend me your fastest horse that I may ride to Samara, which I can reach before night-fall, and so escape him.” ’

‘Pretty sensible,’ said Aim. ‘Give the servant eight out of ten for initiative.’

‘Ah,’ said Paul. ‘That’s the point. The servant displayed too much initiative. The rich man lent the servant his horse, and he duly set off for Samara at a great rate of knots. But when he had gone, the rich man thought: “This is a bit of a bore. My servant is a jolly good servant.I shall miss him. Death had no right to give him the twitches. I think I’ll pop down to the market place and give the old fellow a piece of my mind.” ’

‘Noblesse oblige,’ said Ann. ‘A very fine sentiment.’

‘So the rich man went to the market place and buttonholed Death. “Look here,” he said, or words to that effect, “what do you mean by giving my servant the shakes?” Death was amused. He said: “Lord, I merely looked at the fellow in surprise.” “Why so?” asked the rich man. “He is just an ordinary servant.” “I looked at him in surprise,” explained Death, “because I did not expect to find him here. You see, I have an appointment with him this evening—in Samara.” ’

Ann was silent for a while. ‘Champagne is schizophrenic,’ she said at length. ‘One minute it lifts you up, and then it drops you flat on your face … Anyway, we didn’t see Death in the market place, did we?’

‘Didn’t we?’ asked Paul. ‘Didn’t we see Death when we went up in orbit? Didn’t we see him when we blasted off on the long shot? Don’t we make a rude gesture to him every time we pop ourselves back in the cooler?’

‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ said Ann. ‘I’m only afraid of pain—and of being afraid.’

‘Poor dear,’ said Paul. ‘I’m the spectre at the feast. Dammit, Death just chucked a meteor at us; and it did hardly any damage at all. So he can’t be too interested in us, can he?’

‘I’m cold,’ said Ann, ‘but at the same time just a trifle lascivious. Let’s go to bed.’

Paul stood up, smiling. ‘Lasciviousness is all,’ he said. ‘Thank God we don’t have to keep the house tidy. It’s another ten days, I think, before we have to slide ourselves into the freezer.’

Ann took his hand. ‘That’s the thought that makes me cold. Meanwhile, come and keep me warm.’

There was only one double berth on the Gloria Mundi. The crew called it the honeymoon suite. That was where they went.

But even while Paul Marlowe was engaged in the act of love, even as he reached the climax, he was thinking about an appointment in Samara.

There was still the taste of champagne in his mouth, and in Ann’s.

But for both of them the taste was sour.