Unwillingly to Earth (v1.0), page 14
To Hell with Education.
Part Three:
FATAL STATISTICS
I wish somebody would tell me what the hell is going on.
Seeing the one and only reason why Cutty Sark 527 has gone into orbit around Figueroa is to land me so I can start on my Field Work, and Seeing M’Clare arranged it through Influence with the Directors of the Frontier Line and it adds 2 days to the journey and Captain Maddock is fit to be tied, and Seeing I was instructed a couple of hours ago to get my bags packed and my goodbyes said ready to jump into the Lander the minute we returned to phase,
Why am I still sitting here, although this Superannuated space scow dropped out of hyperspace fifty minutes ago?
The Captain is not maneuvering for landing, because Cutty Sark has been in synchronous orbit over the Space Field since five minutes after dropout. I can see the Field on the repeater screen they have given me; a plain whitish ragged-edged patch like they all are except on the half-dozen oldest planets of Civilization …
This reminds me that three out of the five Reports on Figueroa which formed the main part of my briefing started off something like Figueroa’s current problems are illustrated even before landing by the first view of the Space Field-, I don’t see what they mean by that, it looks pretty much like the Field at Home.
Then I remember that my home planet Excenus 23 has Pop. 3,500 or thereabouts, whereas the last best guess at Figueroa’s was 3,500,000; not yet self-sufficient for anything except basic foods, they must have at least ten times as much traffic; Where does it all go?
I am distracted from this question by the observation that the Captain is getting some sort of Bad News over the Intercom, complicated by Custard Dawes who is acting out his Anxiety Complex into the other ear.
I spend perhaps thirty seconds wondering what Custard is Disturbed about this time and then go back to the Repeater screen.
The controls on this cannot change what the big scope in Cutty Sark’s belly is actually looking at, of course, but I can call up some magnification; I enlarge the view of the Space Field until it starts to fuzz up and begin looking for Clues.
Now I can just see a regular pattern of Marks which must be the Landing-and-Launching pylons and their shadows … There are twelve in the pattern, four sideways by three down; (Excenus Field has two rows of five) … There seems to be bare ground around the Field, very dark … Then suddenly a Pattern jumps out at me; not a new one but the pattern of the pylons, the same spacing exactly continued on into the Dark. Shadows do not show on this ground, but there are the pylons themselves like little straight silvery dashes, rows and files of them extending practically forever … well, nearly up to the top of the screen at this magnification … and up at the very top are big sharp-edged shapes, oblongs and Ls with something rounded in the middle …
I call to mind a picture of the Space Gate, Figueroa, from the earliest of the Reports, which still had a good deal in it about This rapidly developing new member of the Community of Planets -, Yes it could be: Yes it certainly is, I remember the Rotunda in the middle … The Dark stuff is almost up to those buildings; What the hell has been happening to this planet?
Not an outflow of lava, I don’t think, the pylons would have Melted … anyway it would not have stopped like this at a square Perimeter with the Space Field or part of it untouched in the middle … but something has certainly engulfed a lot of the landscape—
“If I may have your attention, Miss Lee—!”
Great Godalmighty … I hurriedly haul myself back into my Skin and give my attention to the Captain; he evidently reverts to being an Authority Figure when Disturbed, seeing he started calling me Lizzie more than two weeks ago.
He says “Did you come across any mention of Figueroa’s Ionosphere while you were doing your homework, Miss Lee?”
This is Not what I expected; after a second or two for adjustment I come up with a possible answer: “Hyperactive, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” says the Captain, and gets stuck.
I say “Are you having trouble getting in touch with my friends down there?”
Which Ought not to be the case; I now remember that Figueroa’s Space Gate has an extra-heavy-duty transmitter punching signals through the Ionized layer and a Relay satellite beyond to unscramble Interference.
The Captain says “Trouble!” and pushes his hand through his hair to Illustrate; then he remembers this is not Captain-like behavior and hurriedly smooths it down again.
“Look, Lizzie—” I think the change in approach is Diplomacy not Forgetting—“something’s wrong down there. Very wrong. Old Sparks has been trying to get an answer from the Gate ever since we came out of phase, but not a whisper. Not even a carrier beam, the transmitter’s dead.”
I think carefully how to put it and then say “Did you have any luck on Laydon’s call number?”
Captain Maddock does something funny to his Mouth, not exactly a snarl or even a Pout …
“We tried that, of course … In fact Sparks put out a call on automatic repeat. He did get something, once. Solar wind let up for a minute or two, a few words came through. Pretty garbled, at that.”
I say “But Laydon’s still on the planet?”
“Someone answered on that wavelength, yes.”
So at least my friend B Laydon’s elder brother has not been Swallowed up without a trace … I say “So how soon can I get down?”
The Captain heaves a great Sigh and drops on to the seat opposite.
“Look, Miss Lee … Lizzie. We don’t know what’s happened on Figueroa. The latest news I have of the place is nine months old. Place was no worse than usual then. But something’s wrong now—badly wrong … Planet’s been going downhill for years, looks as though it’s gone … Better come on with us to New Peru and fix up a passage back to Terra from there.”
And spend God knows how long planet-hopping—no shipmaster goes straight from the Outer Reaches to Terra-while Pedagogue lands on Figueroa 4 weeks from now and picks up Douglas Laydon and the others and takes them back to Russett College to report No Lizzie Lee …
Like Hell I will.
The Captain says persuasively “We can get a message to Laydon—our transmitter punches through the ionosphere clean as a laser. It’s just that his transmitter hasn’t enough power when it comes to replying. He’ll tell your Professor what happened when he gets picked up.”
I tell M’Clare I came out here, five weeks’ travel, and then hadn’t the guts to do my Field Work after all? No way!
Everything went wrong with my Field Work right from the start—or before it; two days before I was due to take ship, I broke my wrist. I could have perfectly well finished the Forceheal treatment on board ship, but M’Clare said No; the first twenty-four hours of any voyage are spent in Free fall while getting far enough away from the Solar system to go out of phase; Bones need Gravity to knit properly and I am not going to return you to your Father with a crooked arm, nor do I propose to let you waste time next semester going back to the Hospital to have it broken and re-set, Stop arguing with me, Lizzie! and try telling me how you really came to break it, instead.
I did it Fooling about on antigrav, which is strictly forbidden and I ought to have had more sense. I changed the Subject; but I was still not allowed to go.
So Pedagogue, which was taking the Field Study party to Figueroa, went without me and I had to proceed by Commercial carriers with two changes on the way, arriving nearly a month after everybody else.
I spent most of the time en route studying up on Figueroa but it looks as though my Information is out of date.
Not that I expected to find the place in good shape. It has notoriously been going downhill for years, but fairly slowly; so far the Sponsoring planets have always been able to claim there was Light around the comer, Immigration/Emigration about to stop being too fast/too slow and Production becoming greater/more varied/better balanced, nobody really believed that sort of thing but it would have been a worse sign if it had Stopped.
Something has definitely Stopped now.
However if Douglas Laydon can survive down there sufficiently to answer radio calls, then So can I; Captain Maddock finally gives up arguing and accepts that this is the case.
I then discover why Custard Dawes is in more than his customary State of perturbation; it is his turn to operate the Lander and the Captain refuses to let him off.
Poor Custard confides in me on the way down that he could have got someone else to do it for a quite trifling sum, if he had been allowed to. Actually this rule was made in the first place because taking down the Lander is one of the jobs the crew usually want to do; it is a bit ironic that Custard is Stuck with it now. He spends the first half of the descent trying to convince me we had better both turn Back to the ship.
He spends the second half grumbling, while I alternate between trying to raise Doug Laydon personally and keeping an eye on the screen. I don’t have any luck with the radio but Cutty Sark’s Communications Officer is putting out a continuous message telling Doug where and when to pick me up—Talking of which, Custard is making for the whitish area not engulfed in whatever has overrun the rest of the Space Field and I remind him that Captain Maddock said we should land North of the Space Gate, off the Field itself, because the dark stuff has covered the access roads and if it is something Impassable Doug may not be able to bring his Transport to pick me up.
Custard does not like this reminder. Custard does not like anything about this trip, but if he has any reasonable reason for objecting to the chosen spot he is not going to explain it; I insist on sticking to Plan.
During the last half-kilometer of the Descent I discover what the dark stuff is on the Space Field.
Huts. Or, seen from space, roofs; thousands and thousands of them, made of sheet-plastic and sheet-metal and old doors and planks nailed side by side. They are mostly dark, but as we get lower I can see light-colored bits here and there, also assorted Shadowed interiors where the roofs have fallen in.
No people in sight, whoever put the huts there have Gone.
Custard finally consents to land in the place Captain Maddock told him to, which is presumably where Doug Laydon will come to find me. I am not going to tell him, but the sight of those acres of empty huts has Shaken me quite a bit and I wish very much I could call Doug to confirm that he is coming, but all I get out of the radio is Noise.
I request Custard to Open up so I can get out and take a look around.
His reply is something like as follows: “Look, Lizzie, I mean Miss Lee, I mean, this place is bad news, that’s what it is, why don’t you just sit where you are and let me lift you back to the ship?”
I have learned over the last three weeks that it is absolutely No use getting cross with Custard, but I do. The fact is, this Landscape is getting on my nerves and for one craven moment I was tempted to follow his suggestion and go back to the ship.
So Custard’s feelings get hurt and when he finally operates the switch to open the door he is gazing Straight ahead so as Not to have to pick me up if I catch my foot in the doorsill and fall on my nose, I suppose this also avoids Disappointment when I don’t.
Outside, it is nearly noon of a really beautiful day. I have stepped out onto well-shaved bright green lawn edged with flower beds; was all that Desolation seen from orbit some kind of Delusion? then Common sense comes back and I turn my head.
Getting out of the Lander I was facing behind it; when I look towards its nose there are the Ruin and Desolation as before.
Worse, because now I can Smell it as well.
I got taken to see the remains of a Forest fire once, part of my Orientation; it had been put out by rain (one of the things for which Terrans do use Weather satellites) and smelled just like this.
Figueroa has large forests, it says in the Reports; for a moment I think one of them must have Burned, then I remember that they have been Extensively cut down for building; in fact, what I am smelling is burned Hut.
So that is what made the Dark patch.
Just as I grasp this, Custard lets out a Yell.
“Lizzie! Get back in here! Lizzie! Now!”
I look quickly into the Lander but nothing is Biting him that I can see; I take a couple of steps toward the rear of the Lander, meaning to see What if anything is on the other side, and something hits me in the small of the back and knocks me flat. Then there is the whoosh! of the doors closing, and when I roll over the Lander is six feet up and retreating rapidly into the sky.
In the Course of my life I have learned a number of Words for situations like this and people like Custard but none of them seems adequate. I just sit up, feeling a bit dizzy, and look to see what Hit me.
It was my baggage. I expected to be six months on this trip and therefore brought nearly 7kg of clothes and stuff; it is now Lying on the grass at my feet.
Thank goodness my Reading machine was fastened to my belt instead. Then I look further and see what frightened Custard into hysterics.
* * *
People. Just people, about six of them … No, more bob up out of the flower beds or somewhere; ten. Or twelve. Probably sixteen … To hell with counting. They are various shades of Dark, some as black as my friend Likofo Komom’baraze, others more like Maui Smith.
Anyway they all look perfectly harmless. Only a bit odd. They are dressed mostly in bits of cloth wrapped round them and tied; and not much above the waist, except one old lady who is wearing what looks like a Uniform jacket six sizes too big.
Then I see that Two or three of the Recent arrivals have long shafts with metal bits at the top, and one has a knife about two feet long.
On the other hand at least half of them are half-size or less; two of them on all fours. And the one with the knife has been chopping down bushes; there is a pile of them on a flower bed nearby—
One of them steps forward; the old lady. She only comes a couple of paces, then calls to me “Young lady! You take that radio, tell that man make he come back here! This planet is a bad place to be!”
That was what Custard said.
The rest are all making sounds and Signs of agreement; the ones with the long sticks thump them on the ground. The small ones look solemn … I do not think I am going to make any impression on Custard even if my Wrist radio can get through, but the advice seems well-meant and I do not wish to be Uncooperative, so I set it to the Lander’s call frequency and try.
After six tries and Silence except for static I try Doug Laydon instead; this time I think I get an answer, at least the interference noises at one point sound rather like Lizzie, but I can’t be sure.
By this time the people have come closer and I decide to stand up. It is Odd to find myself looking down on half a dozen heads; being 5 ft. 1 in. I don’t think I ever before found myself partly surrounded by People shorter than me.
The old lady addresses me again. “That man is a bad man!” she says.
The rest shake their heads and agree. I know Custard is not really a bad man, but so tar as the present situation goes he might just as well be; I shake my head too.
The old lady says, practically, “What you go do?”
I explain that I have some friends on the planet who are going to pick me up any minute now; evidently they are all Doubtful of this, but polite.
I say “What has Happened to this place?”
They all look round, rather as though they never saw it before.
I look round too. At second glance, the big buildings of the Space Gate are showing signs of battery as well as wear. Several of the big windows are starred here and there and one has a crack right across. There are gaping holes where the doors used to be; through them I can see stumps where the counters in the foyer have been broken off, and if there were chairs, they have gone.
The grass is probably taken care of by some sort of automaton; but not the flower beds, I now see that the ones that still have flowers also have Weeds. The nearer ones have been dug up and planted with Green things in orderly rows, like crops.
I am about to ask whether they all Live on this spot and if so, why, when my radio suddenly springs to life.
“Get ready to jump, Lizzie! Here we come!”
This is said in my Earpiece; I guess the old lady has one too, relayed to by a broad-tuner somewhere, because she Jumps and says something startled to the others and they start to back away from me. Which is Just as well, because a few seconds later there is a suddenly-approaching Whizzz! and here comes a Floater a lot faster than is safe in these surroundings. It seems to be heading straight for me, then swings sideways at the last minute as someone leans over the side and makes a Grab for my hand.
I Jump as instructed and get hauled aboard, landing on the floor of its tray-like back end, in an Undignified Huddle with the Astral Cad.
A. C. Van Hatton is not a person I would choose to be Tangled with if my Preference had been consulted; I Sort myself out with more Haste than Care and lean over the side to wave Goodbye to my recent acquaintances. Some of the grownups look as though they are in two minds about Shaking their fists, but several of the children wave back.
The Vehicle is swinging round in a half-controlled halfcircle that brushes its underside against the remains of several Huts. It then starts streaking down a broad highway between Trees, most of which have had branches untidily lopped off. I cling to the side and yell “Why the hell did you do that?”
The Astral Cad raises a long thin hand, hooks it over the side of the Tray and languidly hauls himself sitting up.
“Lizzie, my sweet,” he replies, “why the hell didn’t you do as you were told?”
I reply that I was Told to come to Figueroa to do my Fieldwork and that’s what I have done.
“I am referring, my poppet, as you very well know, to the message sent by Our Gallant Leader to Cutty Sark, telling you not on any account to land.”
