Fire Pattern

CHAPTER 11

The Earth, as seen from the Quicksilver’s observation ports, was more vast than Jerome could have anticipated.

It curved away from him on all sides in rolling blue-white vistas which occupied almost half the sky, its hugeness emphasized by the incredible amount of detail on show. Individual clouds could be seen like grains of powder which had been stirred into spirals on a blue ceramic platter, and where land masses were visible the mind supplied a million fractals for even the smallest feature. The outline of the North American continent, with all its school atlas associations, held Jerome’s attention for hours at a time as he went on imaginary drives from one well-remembered region to another.

His homesickness had increased steadily during the three months of the return journey, and now that the Quicksilver was actually in Earth orbit he had an addict’s craving to regain the life he had known. Intellectually he knew it was impossible—the change in his appearance alone was enough to guarantee that—but the heart is more stubborn than the mind. In dreams and daydreams he browsed in Whiteford’s bookshops, strolled the familiar streets, replanted his lawn with the best imported dwarf grass, took time for art classes in the ivy-clad Methodist College…

And when wide awake he found it hard to believe he was in the final hours of the flight from Mercury to Earth.

Looking back over the three months he had spent locked in a small cabin with two other men he was able to identify the factors which had made the journey bearable. Foremost among them was the friendship he had developed with Buxton and Teinert, although the relationship—naturally enough—could hardly have had a less promising start.

Some of the initial friction might have been avoided had he been able to help in the burial of the man they knew as Charles Baumanis. It had taken more than two hours for the astronauts to get their radioed reports accepted by anybody in the Spacex Corporation’s operational HQ in Florida, and they had been caught in a personal dilemma by the first clear instruction regarding Baumanis: Discard the body and proceed with your mission.

The mission controllers, secure in their bounteous home environment, had failed to understand the psychology of remoteness, of men whose ties with the rest of humanity had been stretched invisibly thin. A dead comrade had to be buried, and with all due honour. There was no other way.

Jerome understood that better than Buxton and Teinert knew, but by then he had been running out of oxygen and compelled to take refuge in the ship. At that point the astronauts had been faced with another problem which was connected with the ungovernable fears of the space traveller. They had solved it by placing Jerome in the dead man’s seat and securely tying his hands and feet. Even with that safeguard they kept glancing at the ship all the while they were gathering stones and raising a cairn over Baumanis’s body, and Jerome knew what was going through their minds. It was virtually impossible for him to get free of his bonds, even more impossible for him to fly the Quicksilver alone, but he was in the ship and they were out of it, and Earth was very far away, and space always kills when it can.

The pure symbolism of his assisting in the burial would have been significant. Large and versatile though the Quicksilver was compared to the Moon landers of thirty years earlier, it could not have taken four men back to Earth. As Buxton and Teinert saw it, for logic has no place in such matters, their friend’s life had been traded for that of a stranger, and some innermost part of them would have been mollified if he could have been seen to pay his last respects by the grave. In the rich social matrix of the home world the consideration would have scarcely arisen, but at the far point of a billion-kilometre round trip it was important.

Other difficulties had arisen from his snap decision to claim to be a Soviet cosmonaut. It had not been so much a question of ideology and national stances—the remoteness of Earth had been a bonus in that respect—but the restraint on his natural honesty. Having told the basic lie, he had been forced to use it as the cornerstone of a complex structure of lies about his boyhood on the shores of the Sea of Okhotsk, his family and friends, and his military career. An excellent memory for detail had enabled him to maintain the deception. Buxton was from Tulsa and Teinert from a small town in Idaho, and they liked to tell rambling yarns about their early lives to pass the long watches of the mid-voyage. The communions had formed a vital part of the three-cornered friendship, and Jerome’s sense of guilt had increased every time he invented a good embellishment or a specially convincing detail for his own fictional past.

Gazing down on the convex panoramas of Earth, he wondered if he would ever have the chance to speak truthfully to the two spacemen and dispel some of the mysteries which otherwise were going to haunt them till they died. They had, for example, spent many hours trying to work out an explanation for what had happened with Baumanis. There had been no physical symptoms of illness, but in the late stages of the flight Baumanis had grown more and more listless and withdrawn. Just before touchdown at Mercury’s north pole he had appeared to be delirious, though with no fever, and had uttered some fragmented sentences, apparently vowing to hang on to life for the extra minutes it would take to reach “home’. They had been shocked to realize the extent of his mental deterioration and had decided to put him under sedation, but Baumanis had pleaded with such sudden intensity that they had chosen to let him do exactly as he wished during what were to be his last few minutes.

Jerome—keeper of many secrets—had consoled himself with the reflection that, even if he had been free to speak, the truth about Baumanis would have received as little credence as the truth about the opal ring he wore on his left hand.

He had quite expected the Thabbren’s pebble-like container to be difficult and perhaps impossible for him to open, but it had split readily along an invisible seam on the first application of tension. It had then occurred to him that the container might be a good example of Dorrinian mind-to-matter engineering. Had he not been accepted as an instrument of the Guardians the pebble might have remained as obdurate as the real thing, protecting its contents from profane eyes for a further thousand years if necessary. And in spite of his desire that things should be otherwise, there had been a strong element of the quasi-religious in the awe Jerome had experienced on actually seeing and touching the Thabbren itself.

Floating in the dimness of the Quicksilver’s cabin, while the two astronauts drowsed in their restraint nets, Jerome had been numbed and humbled by the sight of the lenticular opal into which had been concentrated the past and future of an entire race. The varicoloured motes within it seemed to shine with a light of their own, and to move and change even when the ring itself was being held steady. For a moment he had surrendered to the notion that those were the kalds of the Four Thousand, continuing their lives in the microminiature cosmos of the jewel, then had come the understanding that the opal itself was a container. At its heart would be a core of unique molecules forming a crystal which might be smaller than a grain of sugar, and it was there that the Four Thousand lay icily dormant, awaiting resurrection on another world.

He had stared at the ring for many minutes in reverence and fear before daring to remove it from its carved niche and slip it on to his finger. The third finger of the left hand had been an instinctive choice. The platinum band had slid over the joints with ease, but on reaching the base of his finger the metal had stirred for an instant, coiling on his flesh and locking itself in place. There was no undue feeling of pressure, but Jerome knew better than to try removing the ring. He had become truly wedded, entered on a strange contract which was beyond his power to break.

In a way he had surrendered his status as a Terran, and yet did not regard himself as a traitor to his kind. As Conforden had once pointed out, the Dorrinian people were as one with the people of Earth, and it was unthinkable that they should be doomed to slow extinction under the surface of Mercury. There were also many people like Birkett, Thwaite and Starzynski who deserved the chance to return home. Jerome still had reservations about the method chosen for establishing a Dorrinian nation on Earth, but he acknowledged that a fait accompli could be the only practicable way.

It was ironic, Jerome thought, that his conscience should give him few qualms on such a vast and contentious issue, while at the same time he felt so guilty over lying to Buxton and Teinert about comparative trivia. They both had a fondness for jokes and wordplay, and were easy to make laugh, especially when they thought he had revealed a comic misunderstanding of all things American. It was something he had used more than once to divert a conversation away from a sensitive area…

“How come,” Buxton had said on one early occasion, “we didn’t know that Russia had a four-man ship with interplanetary capability?”

“It was a matter of national security. The ZR-12 had many military applications. No country advertises these things.”

Buxton had been dissatisfied. “Why was a military ship sent chasing off to Mercury?”

“What else could we have sent? Besides, if the object on Mercury really was the product of an advanced interstellar civilization the knowledge to be gained from it could have been useful in many spheres—including defence.”

Buxton had scowled and said, “I thought Krypton was only in the funny papers.”

“You have comics about rare gases?”

And at another time Buxton had turned away from the communications panel with an expression which hinted that something had revived his early antagonism towards Jerome.

“That was Allbright calling from the Cape,” he had said. “He told me the Soviets have issued a statement denying all knowledge of an interplanetary ship which was sent to Mercury.”

“It is an embarrassment,” Jerome had replied. “The first reaction is always to deny everything.”

“They also deny all knowledge of you.”

“How could they acknowledge my presence on Mercury after having disallowed my means of getting there? The statements will change. A story will evolve.”

“You know,” Teinert had come in, you speak really good English.”

“You are very kind.”

“Your accent doesn’t even sound Russian to me.”

Jerome had produced a rueful smile. “When you come from a place as remote as Okhotsk your Russian doesn’t even sound Russian.”

Once when they were discussing the riddle of the decoy Buxton had said, “Pavel, when you were hanging around waiting for us to show up, did you take a close look at that chunk of metal?”

“Not really,” Jerome had said. “I was too worried about dying.”

“It looked sort of…unused, and it was really soft. We were able to saw bits off like it was cardboard. It’s hard to imagine a thing like that being part of an operational ship.”

“It’s all very puzzling.”

“You’re telling me,” Buxton had said gloomily. “What do you think it is?”

“That’s outside my field of expertise. “

“What is your field of expertise?”

“I’m sorry,” Jerome had replied, lost for an answer he would be able to back up in a technical discussion. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

That was a formula he had used time after time when his knowledge of Russian geography, current affairs or space science had proved inadequate to deal with a question. As the journey had progressed and the Soviet news agency had persisted with the absolute denials of Jerome’s claims, he had feared that his attitude might cause stresses, but to his relief the two astronauts chose to make a joke of it.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” became a stock reply to queries about sexual attitudes, the time of day or the whereabouts of a pencil.

Other sources of amusement to Buxton and Teinert were Jerome’s height and his physical weakness on the exercise machines. When first starting to move around in the Precinct he had judged himself to be a few centimetres taller than in his previous incarnation. In the absence of any comparative measures, and while surrounded by slender Dorrinians, that had seemed a reasonable estimate. It was, however, part of the astronauts’ duties to check their own height regularly and chart the increase caused by zero gravity, and they had quickly brought it to Jerome’s notice that he was more than two metres tall.

“You must have been out here a hell of a long time, Pavel,” Teinert had said. “Did you lose your way?”

Jerome had taken the ribbing with good humour, responding with stories about having been a midget when he began astronaut training, but his lack of strength was a matter for genuine concern to him. His Dorrinian frame was the product of a gravity only four-tenths that of Earth, which meant that its natural weight would be more than doubled when Jerome set foot on his home world. How difficult was it going to be to walk, or even stand up? What about his heart? Would he ever adapt to the higher gravity?

The questions added to the already impenetrable screen which hid the near future. Throughout his life he had always been able to make a reasonable guess at what he would be doing in the following week, and even though events had sometimes proved him wrong it had not happened often enough to destroy the comforting illusion of control, of being able to steer a chosen course. But at this juncture he could see only a matter of hours ahead and the path was quickly lost in a fog of uncertainties.

In addition to all his old misgivings about world reaction to what might be seen as a Dorrinian invasion, he had acquired a new set of worries when he had decided to transport the Thabbren to its destination—and most of them were centred around the menacing figure of Belzor.

Assuming that Belzor had successfully evaded the Dorrinian agents in the Antarctic—and a deep instinct told him that was the case—what would the wayward superman do next? The news stories about the Quicksilver having rescued a stranded Russian cosmonaut would not have deceived him for a second. He would have understood at once that the passenger was either a true Dorrinian or a Terran transplant escaping to Earth, and he would certainly have considered the possibility of the Thabbren being on the returning ship. Jerome understood Belzor well enough to know that he would unhesitatingly slay everybody on the Quicksilver just as a precaution. It was perhaps surprising that there had been no telepathic attack such as the one which had killed Marmorc, but there were many aspects of telepathy which Jerome did not understand.

In retrospect, having felt the stunning power of a supertelepath’s mind, he had realized that the Guardians in the terminal chamber could have prevented his escape without even raising a finger. Chastening though it was to do so, he had to presume that the Guardians had leaped far ahead of him in their thinking and might even have known what he was going to do before the awareness had reached his own consciousness. But there was some comfort in the thought that they must also have analysed Belzor’s possible responses and would not have permitted Jerome to take the Thabbren into the ship unless they were confident it would reach Earth in safety. Perhaps—strange thought—it was only supertelepaths who were vulnerable to psychic attack from an interplanetary distance. Perhaps Belzor, like a poisonous insect which can sting only once, had sacrificed some vital constituent of his being in that transcendentally lethal onslaught and could not repeat it. Or, to apply plain Terran-style pragmatism, it might be that Belzor saw no point in taking a long shot at a target which was winging its way towards him…

“I can see a shuttle,” Teinert called from the opposite side of the cabin. “They’re coming up to get you, Pavel baby. How does it feel?”

“Great.” Jerome shifted his position so that he could see the gleaming wedge-shaped speck which was almost lost in the rolling immensities of Earth. What he could not see was the NASA space station, Reagan I, which was slipping along just ahead of the Quicksilver in an identical orbit, like a bead on the same invisible wire.

There had been a great deal of high-level activity in the past few days, and as the outcome of unknown numbers of political and military exchanges it had been decided that Jerome’s necessary visit to the station should be kept as brief as possible. Buxton and Teinert were scheduled to spend several days there as part of their debriefing programme, but the controversial Russian/non-Russian castaway—the stateless astronaut—was to be whisked through in a matter of minutes, presumably for security reasons. The station, though supposedly a civilian research establishment, was known to be of strategic importance to the military.

“It looks like you’ll soon be home,” Hal Buxton said, studiedly casual.

“Yes.” Jerome knew him well enough to pick up the faint emphasis on the last word. It was an indirect reference to the fact that the Soviet Union was still categorically denying all knowledge of Jerome. As part of the relationship tacitly agreed upon by the three men, the question of Jerome’s origins was no longer discussed. That was the working arrangement, devised to suit the psychological needs of men in a near-impossible situation. He accepted their unprovable tales about marathon drinking and sexual exploits and the landing of giant fish—and they accepted his unprovable claim to have been born in a place more remote from their everyday experience than fabulous Samarkand. But the long journey was ending, and the transient need to believe was being ground away by the obdurate need to know.

“Perhaps you’ll send us a picture postcard,” Teinert said. “If they have those things in Okhotsk.”

Jerome could feel the barriers dropping into place. “Look,” he said desperately, “there are times when you have to go against yourself.”

Buxton grinned. “I know—and there’s information you’re not at liberty to divulge.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Buxton said with what might have been genuine sincerity. “What do you think is going to happen when you get down there?”

“That’s a good question,” Jerome replied, his gaze fixed on the silent-climbing shuttle. “A very good question.”