Apes and Angels Read online

  “Hello, Drrm,” Brad called as he approached.

  “Hello, Brrd.”

  Standing beside the village chief, Brad asked, “Is everyone working in the fields today?”

  Drrm replied, “Everyone. Death time coming.”

  Brad tried to think of a diplomatic way of broaching the subject, but after several moments he simply asked, “Can you tell me about the death time?”

  “Monsters from Beta kill everyone.”

  “Except the Rememberer,” Brad prompted.

  Drrm seemed to sigh. “Sometimes even the Rememberer is killed. Then the new Folk must learn for themselves how to live.”

  “And new Folk arise from the farm fields?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Drrm fell silent. He’s thinking it over, Brad thought. He’s trying to figure out how much he should tell me.

  At last Drrm said, “You are not one of the Folk. You are a Stranger.”

  “I come from a different village, that’s true.”

  “Only the Folk may see the seedlings. It is forbidden to Strangers.”

  Brad made a mental connection. “Then Strangers come to this village?”

  “Now and then.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell us of their villages. To share food. To trade tools.”

  “Are the Strangers also killed in the death time?”

  “Of course. How can there be enough food for the new Strangers if the old Strangers do not die?”

  “And the Folk, here in this village, they die to make room for the new Folk?”

  “Yes.”

  Brad waved his arm in the direction of the hills he had come from. “But this world is almost empty! There’s plenty of room for new Folk, new Strangers, new villages.”

  Drrm’s tone of voice changed. “That is not our way.”

  Is he shocked? Brad wondered. Angered? Have I committed blasphemy?

  Nevertheless, Brad pushed on. “But you don’t have to die. You can live—”

  “No, Brrd. We die so that new Folk can live.”

  Brad fell silent. I’m treading on ground that’s sacred to them, he realized.

  Drrm said, “Even if we wished to live, the monsters from Beta would find us and kill us. That is the way the world is.”

  Remembering the big cats he had seen on Beta, Brad realized that the Gammans had no weapons to protect themselves, beyond simple hunting sticks and scythes. They don’t even seem to have the concept of self-defense. They are ready to be killed. So that their next generation might live. To be slaughtered when the next death time comes.

  “Once, long ages ago,” Drrm said wistfully, “the Folk and Strangers covered this world with villages. Mighty villages, with buildings that reached toward the sky. There were many of us then, more than can be counted.”

  More mythology? Brad wondered. Or am I getting a history lesson?

  Drrm continued, “The Sky Masters became angry. They destroyed the villages and killed almost everyone. They made the long winters and sent the monsters from Beta that kill those who live today.”

  “The Sky Masters? Who are they?”

  “Masters of us all. They rule the world.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “But I’ve never seen them.”

  “Neither have I. They are invisible, of course. But they see us. They watch us. They allow us to live, but only if we obey their rules. If we try to break their rules, they will destroy us forever.”

  Brad closed his eyes for a moment. That’s some religion you’ve got. But as he stared at Drrm, standing beside him, he thought the Gamman looked forlorn, utterly sad, defeated.

  * * *

  That evening, back in his shelter, Brad called Kosoff and Littlejohn. As usual, they were in Kosoff’s office, waiting for Brad’s call.

  “You heard my conversation with Drrm?” he asked.

  As he waited for their response, Brad picked up the laser pistol. The thermionic nuclear power pack in its grip was good for several hundred shots, depending on what power level he used. That ought to give me some chance against those cats, he told himself.

  “Interesting mythology,” Littlejohn replied at last. Smiling tolerantly, he added, “It always astounds me how complex and detailed mythological tales can be.”

  “That’s because they don’t have to deal with facts,” Kosoff said.

  “No,” Brad answered, even before he realized he had spoken. “Mythologies deal with facts. They’re attempts to understand the facts of the world that the myth-makers live in. Attempts to make some sense out of conditions that are beyond the scope of the culture’s knowledge. When they run out of facts, they make up stories that fill in the blanks of their understanding.”

  As he waited for their reply, Brad began to wonder if there was some way to help the Gammans, some way to show them that they didn’t have to die.

  At last Littlejohn said, “Good for you, Brad. You’ve grasped the essence of mythological storytelling.”

  Kosoff interjected, “But that doesn’t mean those aliens’ tale about their death time is scientifically valid.”

  Doesn’t it? Brad asked himself.

  ARGUMENT

  “Some of the time I’m so sure I’m right that I could scream at Kosoff and Littlejohn for being so blind,” Brad was telling Felicia. “Then I wonder if I’m the one who’s blind … or at least pigheaded.”

  It was late at night. Brad was squatting in his shelter talking with his wife while the wind outside gusted fitfully.

  At last Felicia answered, “I’ve spoken with Captain Desai. He says it would be possible for you to leave Gamma and get to us at Alpha in the shuttlecraft. But you’ll have to leave in the next day or so, before the atmosphere becomes too turbulent for the shuttlecraft to fly through it safely.”

  “I’m not leaving.” Brad’s own words surprised him. Something deep inside him wanted to leave, to get away, to return to Felicia and safety.

  But another emotion, deeper, stronger, was making him stay. I’m not going to leave them alone, to die, to be wiped out. I’m not going to repeat Tithonium, he told himself.

  Once she heard his words, Felicia’s eyes widened with fright. “Brad, you’ve got to get away. You’ve got to! You can’t stay there and die!”

  “I’ll be all right,” he insisted, trying to put on a smile. Holding up his pistol, he said, “I can defend myself.”

  They argued for nearly an hour, a strange kind of quarrel, with three-minute gaps punctuating their interchanges. For once, Brad was grateful for the time lag: it gave him a chance to calm down, to control his rising temper, to deal with his fears.

  He saw that Felicia was terrified. “Brad,” she begged, “for me. For my sake. Leave the damned planet and come back to me.”

  “I can’t, Fil,” he replied, practically begging. “I just can’t run away. Can’t you see that?”

  In the three-some minutes before her next message, Felicia seemed to change. As if she’d taken a deep breath and decided that further attempts to convince him would be fruitless, barren.

  “All right,” she said at last, flatly, coldly. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “That’s the way it’s got to be,” Brad said.

  “Good night, then.” It almost sounded like good-bye.

  “Wait!” he called. “You haven’t told me what you’re doing. How’s everything going with your study of the octopods?”

  Again he waited, wondering if she would answer him at all.

  “Oh, that’s going along pretty well. We’ve established that Emcee’s estimation of how they survive Mithra’s flares is pretty accurate. But unless we shield the planet, they won’t be able to survive the death wave by diving deeper into the ocean.”

  It’s as if she’s delivering a lecture, Brad thought. To a stranger.

  Felicia went on without hesitating. “According to our calculations, the octopods can go deep enough
to avoid being killed by the gamma radiation. But the fish and other sea creatures that they feed on can’t. When the octopods return to their normal levels, they’ll find a desert waste. No food. They’ll starve to death. All of them.”

  “Unless we provide the shielding to protect the planet,” Brad said.

  Slightly more than three minutes later, Felicia nodded, poker-faced. “Yes, unless we provide the necessary shielding.”

  “Which will also protect them from having the atmosphere and ocean boiled away.”

  “Yes,” said Felicia, as flatly as one of Emcee’s responses.

  “Fil, I’ve got to stay here,” he blurted. “You can see that, can’t you?”

  At last she replied, “I can see that you need to stay, more than you need to return to me.”

  Brad stared at the display screen, stunned by her answer. Abruptly, the screen went blank.

  She’s cut the connection! Brad realized. She’s cut me off. It never occurred to him that she might have cut the connection because she didn’t want him to see her crying.

  * * *

  Brad couldn’t sleep. He tossed fitfully in his bedroll, his mind filled with his last glimpse of Felicia’s face. She looked hard, angered, disappointed, cold.

  I’ve hurt her, he realized. She’s hurt because I need to stay here more than I want to return to her.

  I’ve hurt her, he told himself over and over again. Maybe I’ve lost her.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force himself to sleep. No use. Sitting up, he realized it was probably a good thing. Sleep brings dreams and he didn’t want to face the dream again. Not tonight. I wouldn’t be able to deal with it.

  Is that why I’m staying? he wondered. Am I trying to atone for Tithonium? Trying to prove that I’m not a coward?

  With a shake of his head he told himself, No. There’s more to it than that. I’m going to help Mnnx and the others, help them get through their death time, show them how to survive.

  Outside his shelter the wind suddenly rose to a piercing shriek. In the darkness, Brad felt the shelter shake. Something flashed out there, a bright streak of lightning. A heartbeat later thunder exploded, like a bomb going off.

  Brad heard rain pelting down on his shelter, hard, insistent. It’s okay, he told himself. This shelter can withstand hurricane-force winds. That’s what the manual said.

  But he felt the shelter shaking, trembling under the lashing of the rain like a man being pummeled by a giant.

  It’ll be okay, he told himself. The shelter’s hurricane-proof.

  And then he laughed out loud. I couldn’t get to the shuttlecraft in this storm, he realized. I couldn’t start back to Felicia even if I wanted to.

  And he wanted to. At this particular moment, battered by the lashing rain, terrified by the shrieking wind, he wanted to be safe and warm in Felicia’s arms.

  Something thumped in the darkness. Must be the lamp, Brad thought. It’s fallen over. I ought to find it, turn it on. It’s stupid to sit here in the dark.

  But before he could get to his knees the whole shelter lurched and swayed. Brad heard water gurgling outside its thin walls. The shelter moved, like an aircar gliding across the sands of Mars.

  Brad toppled sideways in the darkness while the shelter slid downhill like a canoe careening along a raging stream.

  STARSHIP ODYSSEUS

  Felicia woke the next morning, dry-eyed and mournful. He’s left me, she thought. Then she said aloud, “No. He’s staying on Gamma to deal with his own demons. He’s fighting a battle that I can’t help him with. There’s nothing I can do to help him.”

  And despite herself, she broke into tears.

  At the bio lab that morning Felicia tried to bury herself in the latest observations of the octopods. They were swimming through Alpha’s planet-wide ocean, totally oblivious to the death that was hurtling toward them with the speed of light, blissfully unaware that their world was about to be devastated.

  Unless we help them. Unless we sink a half-dozen generators into their ocean to produce the energy screen that will shield their world from the death wave.

  And the stupid octopods won’t even know that we’ve helped them, saved them from obliteration. They’ll just keep on cruising through their ocean as if nothing has happened.

  Apes and angels, she thought. Which are they? Too stupid to understand what’s approaching them, or too lofty to care? Maybe they sense, somehow, that we’ll take care of them, protect them, save them.

  And who’s going to take care of Brad? Protect him? Save him?

  She wanted to tell herself that Brad was committing suicide, deliberately letting himself die on a strange world, preferring to die alone down there with the aliens instead of coming to safety, coming to me.

  Brad’s inner demons are killing him and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  She held back the tears. Not here, not in the lab where everybody can see me. I’ve got to be strong, even if there’s nothing I can do to save him.

  * * *

  Although she had no appetite, Felicia forced herself to go to the cafeteria at lunchtime. Don’t stay alone, she told herself. Be with others. Try to be normal.

  She took a tray and picked a meager salad and a glass of iced tea, then scanned the busy, noisy cafeteria for a table. Gregory Nyerere was sitting alone at a table for four. Felicia headed there.

  The muscular linguist looked up from his bowl of stew and smiled at her as Felicia placed her tray on the table.

  “How are you?” he asked in his high-pitched voice. “I don’t see much of you these days.”

  “I’m pretty busy,” Felicia replied. “Studying the octopods, you know.”

  “Anything new from them?”

  She shook her head. “Same old same old.”

  Nyerere took a spoonful of stew. Then, “How’s Brad doing? I hear conditions on Gamma are getting pretty hairy.”

  “Yes,” Felicia said. “Pretty hairy.”

  Nyerere studied her for a long moment. “Well, if you need a shoulder to cry on, I’m here for you.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “You look wound pretty tight.”

  “He’s all alone out there,” Felicia burst. “There’s nobody to help him!”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  “He’s going to get himself killed.”

  “Why doesn’t he come back? Won’t his shuttlecraft make it back here?”

  “He could if he wanted to.”

  “And he doesn’t want to?” Nyerere asked, his expression incredulous.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Doesn’t want to come back to you? By god, I would.”

  Felicia tried to smile, failed.

  Nyerere reached out and touched her shoulder. “It must be awful, being all alone.”

  “He’s with the Gammans.”

  “Not him. You.”

  Felicia stammered, “I … it’s not … I’m all right, Greg.”

  His grip on her shoulder tightened slightly. “No, you’re not all right. You’re in pain. I can feel it.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  They looked up. Felicia saw James Littlejohn, holding a loaded lunch tray in both hands.

  Before Nyerere could reply, Felicia said, “Yes, please, sit down.”

  The Aborigine put his tray down and pulled out a chair. “I just heard from Brad,” he said, almost cheerfully. “The weather’s picking up on Gamma. His shelter slid down the hillside he was camped on. Rainwater turned the ground into a minor river.”

  Felicia gasped. “Is he hurt?”

  “No, no,” Littlejohn answered. “Just shaken up a little. He’s fine.”

  Nyerere said, “Conditions on Gamma are going to get worse before they get better.”

  With a careless grin Littlejohn assured them, “Brad will be fine. His equipment is all in working order. Video contact is spotty, though. Electrical storms in the atmosphere out there.”

  Felicia asked, “How l
ong will the storms last?”

  Littlejohn’s thick brows knit. “You should ask the planetologists about that. A few more days, I should think.”

  “But he’s all right.”

  “Yes.”

  Nyerere pushed his chair back from the table. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. We’re making real progress on the Gammans’ language.”

  Thanks to Brad, Felicia thought. But she remained silent as Nyerere picked up his emptied tray and walked off.

  Littlejohn followed him with his eyes, then turned back to Felicia. “It seemed to me that he was coming on to you.”

  She blushed. “Well … maybe a little.”

  “You looked uncomfortable.”

  Felicia nodded. And she remembered that her relationship with Brad had started when he saved her from Kosoff’s unwanted advances. Must I always be the princess in distress, saved by a gallant knight?

  Then she realized that Littlejohn was smiling tenderly at her. Does he intend to be a gallant knight? Felicia asked herself.

  MONSTERS FROM BETA

  For once, Brad was glad to be in the biosuit. Standing outside his shelter in the pelting rain, he felt dry and warm inside its protective covering. The wind was still gusting, and in the distance he could hear rumbles of thunder.

  The shelter had slid downhill several hundred meters and was now sitting askew, heavily slanted to one side, atop the muddy, soggy ground. Brad could see the trail it had left when it skidded down the hillside before finally thumping to a stop against a house-sized boulder.

  The worst of the storm seemed to be over; the rain was easing off. Streams of water were still gushing down the hillside, but the gray clouds overhead were breaking up and beyond them the sky was brightening. It would be dawn soon.

  “Emcee,” he called, “how’s the village?”

  While he waited for the master computer’s reply, Brad started cautiously up the hillside, trying to avoid the streamlets flowing past. His boots sank nearly ankle deep into the mud; it took an effort to pull them free and take another step.

  They should have built servomotors into the suit, Brad told himself. Then he realized that a mechanical exoskeleton would have undoubtedly spooked the Gammans. So he slogged ahead, bent halfway over as he toiled up the hillside.