Big Planet

1 Sabotage

Arthur Hidders, he called himself. He wore Earth-style clothes, and, except for the length of his hair and his mustache rings, he looked the complete Earthman— which, in a sense, he was. His age was indeterminate; the exact panel of races which had gone into his make-up was a secret six hundred years gone. He stood an easy five foot six; he was light, with delicate features centered rather too closely in a large round head, which obviously held many brains.

Turning away from the porthole out on space, he fixed old Pianza with a gaze of almost child-like ingenuousness. “That’s all very interesting—but doesn’t it seem, well, futile?”

“Futile?” Pianza said with great dignity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

Hidders made a careless gesture, taking few pains to hide his opinion of Pianza: a well-meaning man, perhaps a trifle dense. “Earth-Central has sent commissions to Big Planet once a generation for the last five hundred years. Sometimes the commission returns alive, more often not. In either case nothing is accomplished. A few investigators lose their lives, much money is spent, Big Planet tempers—forgive me—are ruffled, and things go on, regrettably, as before.”

Pianza, certainly well-meaning, not at all dense, reflected that Hidders’ air of naivete comported poorly with his professed occupation of fur-trading. Also, thought Pianza, how could a Big Planet fur-trader—a naive fur-trader—accumulate the exchange necessary to buy passage to Earth? He answered gravely. “What you say is true, but this time perhaps events will turn out differently.”

Hidders raised his eyebrows, spread out his hands. “Has Big Planet changed? Has Earth-Central changed?”

Pianza looked uneasily around the lounge—empty except for the nun who sat statue-quiet, the visible section of her thin white face rapt in meditation. Big Planet lay close ahead; the Bajarnum of Beaujolais could not possibly know of their approach. Pianza committed an indiscretion.

“Conditions are different,” he admitted. “A great deal different. The former commissions were sent out to—well, let us say, to soothe Earth consciences. We knew there was murder, torture, terror on Big Planet; we knew something had to be done.” He smiled sadly. “The easiest gesture was to send out commissions. The commissions invariably made the same report: nothing could be done that was not being done already at the Enclave—unless Earth-Central wanted to expand, to take full responsibility for Big Planet.”

“Interesting,” said Hidders. “You have the gift of expressing complicated ideas in simple language. And now?”

Pianza eyed him doubtfully. The butter had become a little thick. “Now there’s something new on Big Planet: the Bajarnum of Beaujolais.”

“Yes, yes—I’ve frequently traveled through his realms.”

“Well, on Big Planet there are probably hundreds of rulers no less cruel, arrogant, arbitrary—but the Bajarnum, as you certainly must be aware, is expanding his empire, his range of activities, and not only on Big Planet but elsewhere.”

“Ah,” said Hidders. “So you come to investigate Charley Lysidder, Bajarnum of Beaujolais.”

“Yes,” muttered Pianza. “You might say so. And this time we have the authority to act.”

“If he learns of your plans, he will no doubt react with rancor and violence.”

“We realize that,” stammered Pianza, wishing now that he could disavow the conversation. “But I’m sure he won’t learn until we’re ready.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Hidders gravely. “Let us hope so.”

A dark-skinned man of medium height came into the lounge. His muscles lay close under his skin; he moved quickly, with sharp definite motions. This was Claude Glystra, Executive Chairman of the commission.

Glystra looked swiftly around the lounge, ice-colored glances, hard, searching, just short of suspicious. He joined Hidders and Pianza at the porthole, pointed to a flaming yellow sun close ahead. “There’s Phaedra, we’ll be on Big Planet in a few hours.”

A gong rang. “Lunch,” said Pianza, rising with a feeling of relief. The purpose of the commission was hardly a secret to anyone aboard the ship; however, he had been uncomfortably explicit in his talk with Hidders. He was glad to push the whole matter to the back of his mind.

Glystra led the way from the saloon, pausing at the door to let the nun sweep ahead in a billow of black vestments.

“Peculiar creature,” muttered Pianza.

Glystra laughed. “There’s no one on Big Planet but peculiar people; that’s why they’re there. If she wants to convert them to her own private peculiarity, that’s her privilege.”

Hidders nodded with lively emphasis. “Perfect democracy on Big Planet, eh Mr Glystra?”

Pianza watched expectantly; Glystra was nothing if not outspoken. Glystra did not fail him.

“Perfect anarchy, Mr Hidders.”

In silence they descended the spiral to the dining saloon, took their places. One by one the other members of the commission entered. First was Cloyville, big, booming, florid; then Ketch, dark, drawn and saturnine, like the “Before” in a laxative advertisement. Next came Bishop, the youngest man on the commission, sheep-faced and seal-smooth, with a brain full of erudition and a tendency toward hypochondria. He satisfied the one with a portable microfilm library, the other with a portable medicine-chest. Behind him, and last, was Darrot, erect and military with carrot-colored hair, lips compressed as if against an imminent outburst of temper.

The meal was placid, but over-hung with a sense of excitement, almost tension, which persisted, grew stronger all afternoon as the bulk of Big Planet spread across the field of vision. Horizons belled out, blotted Phaedra from the sky, and the space-ship settled into the darkness.

There was a shock, a lurch, a perceptible change of direction. Glystra spun away from the window. The lights flickered, died, then glowed weakly. Glystra ran up the spiral toward the bridge. At the top landing stood a squat man in ship’s uniform—Abbigens, the radio operator and purser. Lank blond hair hung down his forehead. He watched Glystra’s approach with narrow eyes set far apart.

“What’s the trouble?” Glystra demanded sharply. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know, Mr Glystra. I tried to get in myself; I found the door locked.”

“The ship feels out of control, as if we’re going to crash!”

“Don’t worry your head about that, Mr Glystra. We’ve got emergency landing gear to set us down—automatic stuff. There may be a bit of a thump, but if we sit quiet in the saloon we’re safe enough.”

Gently he took Glystra’s arm. Glystra shook him off, returned to the door. Solid as a section of the wall.

He ran back down the steps, railing at himself for not taking precautions against just such a chance. To land anywhere on Big Planet except Earth Enclave meant tragedy, debacle, cataclysm. He stood in the saloon doorway; there was a babble of voices, white faces turned to him. Cloyville, Darrot, Pianza, Bishop, Ketch, Hidders and the nun. All there. He ran to the engine room; the door opened under his hands. Corbus, the easygoing chief engineer, pushed him back.

“We’ve got to get to the life-boats,” barked Glystra.

“No more life-boats.”

“No more life-boats! What’s happened to them?” Glystra demanded.

“They’ve been ejected. It’s stick by the ship, there’s nothing else to do.”

“But the captain, the mate—”

“They don’t answer the telephone.”

“But what on Earth happened?”

Gorbus’ reply was drowned by a siren which filled the air, already made mad by the flickering light, with clangor.

Abbigens came into the saloon. He looked around with an air of triumph, nodded toward someone. Who? Glystra twisted his head. Too late. White faces, open mouths. And now—a picture he would never forget: the door swung open, the mate staggered in, his hand held as if he were rubbing his throat. His face was the colour of raw potato; ghastly dark ribbons striped the front of his juniper. He pointed a terrible trembling finger at Abbigens. Blood rasped in his lungs, his knees folded, he fell to the deck. His hand slipped to show a second mouth under his chin.

Glystra stared at the squat man with the blond hair falling thickly down his forehead.

Dark shadows rushed up past the saloon ports. A monstrous splintered instant: the floor of the saloon struck up. The lights went out; there was a hoarse crying.

Glystra crawled up the floor. He sensed walls toppling; he saw a sudden dark motion, heard jarring thunder, and then felt an instant of pain…

Glystra rose toward consciousness like a waterlogged timber. He opened his eyes; vision reached his brain.

He lay on a low bed at the rear of a plank-walled cottage. With a feverish movement he half-raised on the cot, propped himself on an elbow, stared out the open door, and it seemed that he was seeing the most wonderful sight of his life.

He looked out on a green slope, spangled with yellow and red flowers, which rose to a forest. The gables of a village showed through the foliage, quaint gables of carved dark-brown timber. The entire landscape was drenched in a tingling golden-white radiance; every color shone with jewel-like clarity.

Three girls in peasant dress moved across the field of his vision; they were dancing a merry jig which flung their belled blue and red skirts back and forth, side to side. Glystra could hear music, the drone of a concertina, tinkle of mandolin and guitar.

He slumped back to the cot, closed his eyes. A picture from the golden ages. A beautiful dream.

The thud of footsteps roused him. Watching under half-cracked eyelids he saw Pianza and Cloyville enter the cottage: the one tidy, gray, quiet; the other puffing, red-faced, effusive. Behind came a fresh-faced girl with blonde pigtails, carrying a tray.

Glystra struggled up on his elbows again. Pianza said soothingly, “Relax, Claude. You’re a sick man.”

Glystra demanded, “Was anyone killed?” He was surprised to find his voice so weak.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Well? Who got it?”

“The stewards. They had gone to hide in the shell. And the nun. Apparently she went into her cabin just before the crash. It’s twenty feet underground now. Of course the captain and the mate, both with their throats cut.”

Glystra closed his eyes. “How long has it been?”

“About four days.”

He lay passive a few seconds, thinking. “What’s been happening?”

“The ship’s a total loss,” said Cloyville. He pulled out a chair, seated himself. “Broken in three pieces. A wonder any of us came out alive.”

The girl laid the tray on the bed, knelt, prepared to feed Glystra with a horn spoon.

Glystra looked up ruefully. “Is this what’s been going on?”

“You had to be taken care of,” said Pianza. He patted the girl’s head. “This is Natilien-Thilssa. Nancy for short. She’s an excellent nurse.”

Cloyville winked slyly. “Lucky dog.”

Glystra moved back from the spoon. “I can feed myself,” he said shortly. He looked up at Pianza. “Where are we?”

Pianza frowned slightly, as if he had hoped to avoid serious discussion. “The village of Jubilith—somewhere near the northeastern tip of Beaujolais.”

Glystra pressed his lips together. “It could hardly be worse. Naturally they planned to drop us closer to Grosgarth, right into the Bajarnum’s lap.” He struggled up on his elbow. “I’m astonished we haven’t been taken up already.”

Pianza looked out the door. “We’re rather isolated, and naturally there are no communications… We’ve been nervous, I’ll admit.”

The last terrible scene in the saloon rose before Glystra’s mind. “Where’s Abbigens?”

“Abbigens? Oh, he’s gone. Disappeared.”

Glystra groaned under his breath. Pianza looked uneasily at Cloyville, who frowned.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Glystra moaned.

All Pianza could do was shake his head. Cloyville said, “He got away.”

“There was someone else too,” said Glystra weakly.

Pianza leaned forward, his eyes sharp and gray. “Someone else? Who?”

“I don’t know. Abbigcns slaughtered the captain and the mate, the other sabotaged the motors, discharged the life-boats.” He heaved restlessly on the couch. The girl put a cool hand on his forehead. “I’ve been unconscious four days. Extraordinary.”

“You’ve been sedated,” said Pianza, “to keep you resting. For a while you were out of your head, climbing out of bed, fighting, yelling.”