A Scatter of Stardust

  A Scatter of Stardust

  E. C. Tubb

  Copyright © The estate of E. C. Tubb 2016

  The right of E. C. Tubb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom variously from 1955-1966.

  This expanded edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To Terry

  Table of Contents

  The Bells of Acheron

  Anne

  Return Visit

  The Shrine

  Survival Demands!

  Little Girl Lost

  The Eyes of Silence

  Enchanter’s Encounter

  Jackpot

  Thirty-Seven Times

  Acknowledgements

  The Bells of Acheron

  Every planet has an atmosphere, a sense of magic unique unto itself, but some have more than others. Kalturia with its soaring mountains lashed by tumultuous seas, the towering escarpments naked and bare, reflecting the ruby light of a sullen sun in a sky so heavy and brooding that, standing there, you feel like a fly on the face of creation. Lokrush, soft and gentle with its woods and rolling hills, its flowers nodding in scented breezes, the red and green light of its twin suns merging and blending in an eternal kaleidoscope of shimmering wonder. Ragnarok with its snow and ice and incessant electrical storms and, at night, the flaming beauty of the aureoles filling the sky with sheets and curtains of colored fire. Acheron with its Singing Bells.

  We covered them all on the Grand Tour, dropping down to spend a day or two while the passengers stared and marveled, then up again, the grav drive humming as it lifted us into space, the twisting wrench as the warp jumped us from star to star, then planetfall again and more natural wonders to dazzle the eye and numb the mind. It could have become routine but it was never that. The universe is too big, the worlds too many to ever allow of boredom. So that the crew rivaled the passengers in their eagerness to make planetfall, their reluctance to leave once landed and, having left, their impatience to land again somewhere new and strange.

  Most of us had our favorite worlds. The captain, I knew, loved Almuri with its living crystals; the chief engineer had always to be watched when we reached Homeline with its fantastic seas and equally fantastic fish; and for me nothing could equal Acheron with its Singing Bells.

  Holman was talking about them when I entered the lounge. It was his habit to discuss the next world we were to visit, to explain the natural phenomena in scientific terms and, in this way, to prepare the passengers for the wonders to come. It wasn’t his job but he had made it so. Accidents were few, sickness rare and the warp jump often took as long as several days. Time, for the doctor as for all of us, tended to drag between the stars.

  I moved softly about the lounge, collecting empty glasses, cleaning ashtrays, arranging scattered books and magazines, doing all that a steward had to do. I didn’t dislike the job. Menial though it was, the pay was sufficient, the tips sometimes generous and the work was not arduous. It served to pass the time and as long as we visited Acheron I was content.

  “A strange world,” Holman was saying. “For some reason animal life never evolved on Acheron and the flora is ascendant. There aren’t even any insects.”

  “No insects?” Klienman frowned. He was a small, balding, aggressive man who had read much but knew little. “Then how about pollination?”

  “The planets are bisexual,” explained the doctor. “They are self-pollinating. The winds, of course, scatter the seeds.”

  “The Bells,” said Klienman. “What of those?”

  “The famous Bells.” Holman paused and looked at his audience. They were all in the lounge, the thirty passengers we carried this trip. Old, mostly, for the Grand Tour is not cheap. A couple of young lovers on their honeymoon held hands and whispered to each other. A fat matron, her bulging throat ringed with diamonds, glared at her son, a gangling, vacuous youngster who stared with puppy eyes at an attractive ash blonde. She ignored his devotion. Laura Amhurst was a silent, self-contained woman who spoke little and smiled less.

  “The Singing Bells of Acheron,” continued Holman, and I edged a little closer. “They aren’t bells at all, not really. Just a freak of evolution. The dominant plant form is a bush about twice the height of a man when fully grown. It has a continuous seed cycle and is usually covered with seed pods in various stages of ripeness. The pods are oblate spheroids, from about an inch in diameter to almost a foot, and each pod contains a half-dozen seeds.”

  “How disappointing!” A faded socialite pouted in a manner which had been fashionable when I was born. “I had imagined them to be real bells.”

  “Seed pods.” Klienman snorted his disgust. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.” Holman glanced toward me. “Just a freak of nature.” He smiled at the others. “But they are rather special at that. You see. there is a high silicon content in the soil of Acheron. So high, in fact, that no Terrestrial plant could survive.”

  “Nothing wonderful about that,” said Klienman loudly. He seemed determined to make himself unpleasant. “Lots of worlds can’t support earth type vegetation.”

  “True.” Holman paused and I knew what he was trying to hide his annoyance. Men who knew little and thought they knew all were anathema to him. “The point,” he continued evenly, “is that the seed pods, because of the absorbed silicon, are in effect fragile balls of glass. The seeds within them are loose, and when ruffled by the winds, they strike against their containers.”

  “Like a Japanese lantern,” said Laura Amhurst suddenly. “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” said Holman, and again he glanced toward me. “Exactly like a Japanese lantern. There is absolutely nothing supernatural about the Singing Bells.”

  *

  There was more, much more, a running cross fire of question and answer with Klienman trying to show off his book learning and belittle the doctor. Holman was patient. He was, after all, a member of the crew and he refrained from revealing Klienman as the fool he was. Only Laura Amhurst remained silent, her ash blonde beauty accentuating her pallor. Later, when the passengers had retired and the ship had settled down for the night, Holman sent for me.

  “Sit down, John.” He gestured to a chair in his small dispensary. “What do you think of the passengers?”

  “As usual.”

  “Meaning not much, is that it?” He didn’t really expect an answer and he was not disappointed. “What do you think of the blonde?”

  “Laura Amhurst?”

  “That’s the one.” He scowled at a cabinet of instruments. “She’s a widow, John. Recent too. I don’t like it.”

  I knew what he meant but made no comment. Some arguments remain evergreen while others pall after the first discussion. To me Acheron was something not to be discussed. I made a point of glancing at my watch and Holman took the hint.

  “So you won’t talk about it,” he said, and his voice held defeat. “Well, I’ve done what I could and must now hope for the best. But she’s a widow and I’ve been watching her.” He shook his head with irritation. “Damn those rumors! Why can’t people accept the real explanation?”

  “Maybe she will.” I rose and stepped toward the door. “You sounded very convincing.”

  “But not convincing enough, eh, John?” He looked hard at me from beneath his eyebrows. “I thought not.” He sighed. “Well, tomorrow will tell. Good night, John”

  “Good night, doctor.”

  A steward is always polite.

  *

  Acheron loomed before us the next morning and the shrill hum of the grav drive made a singing accompaniment to breakfast. The meal ended as we dropped i
nto the atmosphere. The tables were all cleared before we grounded; the passengers ready to leave as the air locks opened. Holman, acting for the captain, gave his usual warning.

  “There is nothing harmful on this planet,” he said. “But there is one great danger. We land at the same spot each trip and you will find well-beaten trails. Do not leave them.”

  “Why not?” Klienman, as usual, was being awkward. “If there’s nothing to hurt us, then where’s the harm?”

  “You may get lost,” said Holman patiently. “The bushes are high and it is easy to lose your way. Remain on the beaten paths and you will avoid that danger.” He smiled. “I can assure you that you will miss nothing by doing as you are asked.”

  There was more but he could have saved his breath. They took the warning as they always did, carelessly, indifferently, intent on having their own way. Holman watched them file through the air lock, the escorting crewmen following after a discreet interval. He must have seen my expression, for he came toward me, his eyes serious.

  “Why don’t you give it a miss this trip?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You could if you wanted to,” he snapped, then spoke more softly. “What’s the point, John? What good does it do?”

  “Excuse me.” I stepped away, not wanting to argue. “I have work to do.”

  The work didn’t take long, I saw to that. I hurried through it as I always did when on Acheron, my thoughts elsewhere. Holman was busy when I’d finished. Three men, Klienman among them, had returned to the ship with badly cut hands. I heard the doctor’s voice as he dressed their wounds.

  “I warned you,” he said. “Silicone is glass and glass is both hard and brittle. What happened?”

  “I wanted some of the pods,” said Klienman. “I tried to tear off a bunch.” He swore, probably from the sting of the antiseptic. “It was like grabbing a handful of knives.”

  Holman’s voice faded to a murmur as I hurried toward the air lock. A crewman turned, recognized me, then faced the acres of bushes surrounding the ship. A faint wind was blowing, scarcely more than a breath, but even across the clearing I could hear the Bells.

  The sound increased as I ran toward the valley.

  It was olf the beaten trails but l knew the way. I slipped carefully between the tall bushes and halted only when I had reached the old, familiar spot. Before me the ground fell away into a deep valley every inch of which was covered with bushes, heavy and glistening with their pods. I waited, breathless with anticipation then. As the wind freshened, it came.

  *

  There are no words to describe the music of the Bells. Others have tried and failed, and I am no poet. It is something which has to be experienced to be understood and once experienced is never forgotten. The valley, with its thousands of bushes each bearing its hundreds of pods, acted like a sounding board. From it music rose like a cloud, a multitude of notes ranging all over the aural spectrum, singly and in combination, blending and weaving into an infinity of patterns. A medley which held all the sounds there ever were or ever could be.

  A hand fell on my shoulder and I opened my eyes. Holman stared at me.

  “John!”

  “Leave me!” I struggled against his hand. “Why do you interfere?”

  “It’s late,” he said. “I grew worried.” He glanced down into the valley and I knew what he meant. “Let’s return to the ship.”

  “No. Now leave me alone.”

  “You fool!” Anger roughened his voice. “How often must I tell you that it’s all an illusion?”

  “Does it matter?” I looked over the valley, hating the sound of his voice. “To me it is real enough. He lives down there, somewhere. I can hear his voice.”

  “Illusion,” Holman repeated. “A dream.”

  “Yes,” I said heavily. “A dream.” I turned and my eyes met his. “Don’t worry, doctor. I believe you.”

  “For how long?” He swore, savagely, bitterly. “Damn it, John, stop hurting yourself. Your son has been dead five years now, your ex-wife has remarried. Isn’t it time that you stopped wasting yourself and got back to work?”

  “Yes.” I turned back to the path leading to the ship. “Work. I’ll be missed.”

  “Not that work, your real work. Not acting as a nursemaid to a bunch of tourists but doing what you were trained to do.” He gripped my shoulders and stared into my eyes. “One day you’re going to forget that all this is an illusion. You’re going to think it real. Do I have to tell you what will happen then?”

  “No.” I looked down into the valley. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Then get some sense, John,” he said flatly. “Go back where you belong. What good are you doing here?”

  It was an old argument and one, which I’d heard so often, but how could I go back to research? If I did I would lose the opportunity to visit Acheron and the Valley of the Singing Bells and listen to the familiar voice which waited so patiently for my return.

  *

  The Grand Tour was scheduled for a two-day stop at Acheron and with good reason. The Bells were at their best only at sunset and dawn when the morning and evening winds stirred them to vibrant life. A change came over the passengers as the hours slipped past. They became quieter, more thoughtful, less inclined to argue. After the first exploration no one tried to collect souvenirs. It wasn’t fear of cuts from the glasslike fronds which stopped them, that could be overcome; rather it was a reluctance to despoil the planet of even a little of that which gave rise to such wondrous music.

  The second night came and passed all too quickly. Dawn flooded the horizon with flaring streamers of red and gold and, as usual, the morning wind stirred the Bells and filled the air with their incredible beauty. Everyone listened to them. Every member of the crew and every passenger stood in the light of the rising sun and filled their hearts and minds with the beauty of Acheron.

  Afterward, when the ship was readying for take-off, Laura Amhurst was missing. Holman brought me the news, his eyes wide with anxiety.

  “A widow,” he said. “The Bells. Damn it, John, you should have been more careful.”

  “I’m not responsible for the passengers once they’re outside the ship,” I reminded. “Anyway, she — ”

  “The valley!” He cut me short. “I met her once heading in that direction. John! The valley!”

  I raced from the ship, across the clearing and through the bushes, careless of the fronds which slashed my clothing, heedless of the music rising about me, the music created by the wind of my own passage. Haste was essential and by the time I arrived my body was lacerated and my clothing in rags. But I was in time. Laura Amhurst, eyes closed, arms extended was walking directly toward the rim of the valley.

  “Laura!” I chased after her, caught her, slapped her face. Her eyes opened and shock twisted her mouth. I talked fast and loud, trying to drown the rising music, fighting the desire to concentrate and listen.

  “It isn’t real. It’s an illusion, all of it.’’ I held her close to me, tightly so as to prevent any sudden movement. “Your husband?”

  “You know?” Her eyes searched my face. “You do know. The rumors are true. The dead do live here. You can hear their voices.”

  “No.” I searched for words to destroy her dream. I had heard them all a dozen times and more from Holman and others, but still they came hard. “It’s a trick of the wind. You come here and you listen to all the sounds that ever were and from them you pick the ones you want most to hear. The prattle of a dead child, a husband’s voice, the laughter and tears of those who are gone. The mind is a peculiar thing, Laura. It can take sounds and twist them into words and make them seem different than what they really are.”

  “I spoke to him,” she insisted. “And he answered me. He is here, I know it.”

  “He is not here.” I gripped her tighter as she tried to move, knowing that one false step and we would both topple into the valley. “You close your eyes and you concentrate and you hear the voice you want
to hear. You speak and it answers but all the time you are talking to yourself. You speak and your brain answers, picking words and tones from the sounds of the Bells. It is an illusion, less real than a photograph or a recording. The words you hear are from your own memory.”

  “It was my husband. He was calling to me. I must go to him.”

  “You can’t!” I sweated at the thought of what would happen if she broke away. “Listen to me. You heard his voice or thought that you did and with your eyes closed you walked toward the sound. But the sound came from the bushes.” I shook her. “Do you understand? The bushes!”

  She didn’t understand.

  “Silicone,” I said. “Leaves like razors. The valley is covered with them and the ground falls sharply away. Two more steps and you would have fallen among them.” I gripped her shoulders and turned her so as to face the valley. “There is a good reason why this place is out of bounds. Too many people act as you acted, believe as you believed.” I pointed to where something white gleamed among the pale green vegetation. “We call this place the Valley of the Singing Bells. A better name would be the Valley of Death.”

  *

  For a long moment she stared at the bleached bones. The wind had died and only a faint chiming rose from the valley, and when she spoke, her voice seemed very loud.

  “You come here,” she said. “Why?”

  “For the sake of a dream.” I gave her my reasons. “But now I know that I have wasted five years. Don’t do the same, Laura. Don’t live in the past. Live for the present and the future. Don’t try to keep memory awake and hurting. Let the dead rest in peace.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll follow my own advice.”

  I stared for one last time over the glistening expanse of the valley and, for perhaps the first time, saw it as it really was. Not, as rumor had it, the resting place of the departed, the one spot in the universe where they would return and speak in the old, remembered voices to those who had known them, but as Holman had emphasized again and again. The Bells were a natural wonder, no more. They were a freak of evolution utterly devoid of the supernatural, as obvious and as normal as a Japanese lantern.