A Far Sunset

FORTY

He stood on the small, high balcony of the Temple of the Weeping Sun. His eyes were fixed on the cluster of moons already approaching the horizon. There were still ten.

The transceiver was in his hand, its telescopic aerial extended.

He was still shaking, and sweat made his fingers slip on the tiny studs of the transceiver as he set it for transmission at five hundred metres on the medium wave band. If the tenth moon of Altair Five was indeed a star ship—and what an unlikely if that was! —orbiting the planet, surely an automatic continuous watch would be kept on all wave bands. But if it was a star ship, how the devil could it be a terrestrial vessel? It had arrived at Altair Five less than three years after the Gloria Mundi. Yet, when the Gloria Mundi had left Earth, apart from the American and Russian vessels, no other star ships— so far as Paul knew—had even left the drawing board. On the other hand, if it wasn’t a terrestrial vessel, what else could it be? A large meteor that had wandered in from deep space and ' found an orbital path? A star ship from another system altogether?

Paul’s head was a turmoil of possibilities, impossibilities and plain crazy hopes.

‘Please, God, let it be a ship from Earth,’ he prayed as he pressed the transmit stud on the transceiver. ‘Please, God, let it be a ship from Earth—and let this bloody box work! ’

Then he said, in as calm a voice as he could manage: ‘Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Over … Over to you.’

He switched to receive and waited, his eyes fixed hypnotically on the ten small moons. There was nothing—nothing but the sound of a light breeze that rippled the surface of the Mirror of Oruri. Nothing but the stupid, agitated beating of his heart.

He switched to transmit again. ‘Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Altair Five calling orbiting vessel. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Come in, please, on five hundred metres. Over to you.’

Still nothing. Presently the moons would be over the horizon, and that would be that. Maybe they were already out of range of the small transceiver. Maybe the damn thing wasn’t working, anyway. Maybe it was an extra-terrestrial ship and the occupants didn’t bother to keep a radio watch because they were all little green men with built-in telepathic antennae. Maybe it was just a bloody great lump of rock—a cold, dead piece of space debris … Maybe … Maybe…

At least the receiving circuits were working. He could now hear the hiss and crackle of static—an inane message, announcing only the presence of an electrical storm somewhere in the atmosphere.

‘Say something, you bastard,’ he raged. ‘Don’t just hook yourself on to a flock of moons and go skipping gaily by … I’m alone, do you hear? Alone … Alone with a bloody great family of children, and no one to talk to … Say something, you stupid, tantalizing bastard! ’

And then it came.

The miracle.

The voice of man reaching out to man across the black barrier of space.

‘This is the Cristobal Colon called Altair Five.’ The static was getting worse. But the words—the blessed, beautiful words—were unmistakable. ‘This is the Cristobal Colon calling Altair Five … Greetings from Earth … Identify yourself, please. Over.’

For a dreadful moment or two he couldn’t speak. There was a tightness in his chest, and his heart seemed ready to burst. He opened his mouth, and at first there was only a harsh gurgling. Instantly—and curiously—he was ashamed. He clenched his fist until the nails dug into his palms, and then he forced out the words.

‘I’m Paul Marlowe,’ he managed to say. ‘The only survivor ’ his voice broke and he had to start again. ‘The only survivor of the Gloria Mundi… When—when did you leave Earth?’

There was no answer. With a curse, he realized that he had forgotten to switch to receive. He hit the button savagely, and came in on mid-sentence from a different voice.

‘—name is Konrad Jurgens, commander of the Cristobal Colon,’ said the accented voice slowly in English. ‘We left Earth under faster than light drive in twenty twenty-nine, four subjective years ago … We are so glad to discover that you are still alive—one of the great pioneers of star flight. What has happened to the Gloria Mundi and your companions? We have seen the canals but have not yet made detailed studies. What are the creatures of this planet like. Are they hostile? How shall we find you?’

Paul’s eyes were on the moons, now very low in the sky. Somehow, he managed to keep his head.

‘Sorry, no time for much explanation,’ he answered hurriedly. ‘You will soon be passing over my horizon, and I think we’ll lose contact. So I’ll concentrate on vital information. If you take telephoto detail surveys of the area round the canals, you will see where the Gloria Mundi touched down … We burned a swathe through the forest—about ten kilometres long. It’s probably visible even to the naked eye from a low orbit … You’ll see also the crater where the Gloria Mundi programmed its own destruction after being abandoned. Touch down as near to it as possible. I’ll send people out to meet you—you’ll recognize them. But don’t—repeat don’t— leave the star ship until they come. There are also people in these parts who are not too friendly … I’ll get the reception committee to meet you about two days from now … They are small, dark and quite human.’ He laughed, thinking of what he had learned from the Aru Re. ‘In fact, I think you are going to be amazed at how very human they are. Over to you.’

‘Message received. We will follow your instructions. Are you in good health? Over.’

Paul, drunk with excitement, laughed somewhat hysterically and said: ‘I’ve never felt better in my life.’

There was a short silence. Then he heard: ‘Cristobal Colon to Paul Marlowe. We have received your message and will follow your instructions. Are you in good health? Over.’

Paul saw the ten moons disappearing one by one over the horizon. He tried to reach the Cristobal Colon again, and failed. He switched back to receive.

‘Cristobal Colon to Paul Marlowe. We will follow your instructions. We no longer hear you. We will follow your instructions. We no longer hear you … Cristobal Colon to Paul Marlowe. We will follow ’

He switched off the transceiver and gave a great sigh.

The impossible seemed oddly inevitable, somehow—after it had happened.

He stood on the balcony of the Temple of the Weeping Sun for a long time, gazing at the night sky, trying not to be swamped by the torrents of thoughts and emotions that stormed inside him.

Faster than light drive … That was what they had said … Faster than light drive … Four subjective years of star flight … The Cristobal Colon must have left Earth seventeen years after the Gloria Mundi … And now here it was, orbiting Altair Five less than three years after the Gloria Mundi had touched down … Probably half the crew of this new ship were still at school when he was spending years in suspended animation on the long leap between stars … No wonder they regarded him as one of the pioneers of star flight… Cristobal Colon—a good name for a ship that, like Columbus, had opened up a new route for the voyagings of man … Soon, soon he would be speaking to men who could remember clearly what spring was like in London, or Paris or Rome. Men who still savoured the taste of beer or lager, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding or Frutti del Mare. Men—and, perhaps women —whose very looks and way of speaking would bring back so much to him of all that he had left behind—all that he had missed—on the other side of the sky…

Suddenly, the tumult in his head spent itself. He was desperately tired, exhausted by hope and excitement. He wanted only to sleep.