The Wonderful Day Page 7

  They were men, Melinda could tell that much, but never before had she seen such grotesque deviations from her accepted idea of masculine beauty. They weren’t freaks, not really, merely unfortunate, but to a person reared in an atmosphere of perfection they grated like a squealing pencil on the nerves.

  “Most of them have lost one or more limbs,” said Fromach quietly. “Many are wearing wigs to cover the results of extensive trepanning operations. All carry the scars of major surgery and, even though we have used plastic surgery many are still repulsive to the modern viewpoint.”

  “Where is John?” Melinda swallowed as she scanned the dozen or so occupants of the room.

  “He is sitting by the video player, the one next to the bar.”

  Melinda nodded. She had seen the man before but even now, knowing who he was, she couldn’t fit the thin, wasted features with those she remembered. And yet it was John and her heart went out to him. He was her husband, the man she had loved. Still loved, she reminded herself savagely. He was her husband and her place was by his side.

  “I must go to him,” she said. “He needs me.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Melinda stared at the doctor. “What do you mean? John is my husband and I have a right to be with him.”

  “Please.” Fromach rested his hand on her arm. “I was replying to your statement that he needed you. He doesn’t.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Look at them.” Fromach gestured towards the window. “There aren’t many, thank God, but one would be too many. They should be dead, they would be better dead, but medical science being what it is and doctors being what they are they live. But despite our cruelty, and to keep men alive who should be dead is cruelty, we try to be kind. We know that they are freaks, monsters according to the modern standards of physical perfection. And so we give them an environment in which they are able to regard themselves as normal.”

  “You have no right,” said Melinda. “No right at all to treat them that way.”

  “I disagree.” Fromach turned from the window. “They are expendable, unmarried, without children. They took a risk and they lost but they took that risk for themselves alone. If we turned them loose who would look after them, tolerate them, call them friends? They would be worse than strangers and every moment of every day they would curse their luck that they are still alive. Inevitably they would turn into misanthropes, or turn against society, or commit suicide. And who could blame them? You? Others like you, the decent, pretty, desirable women who would shudder at their touch? Us, the men who saved their lives and gave them a living hell in exchange for the peace of death?”

  “You’re wrong,” said Melinda. “It wouldn’t be like that at all.”

  “No?” Fromach turned to the window. “Look at them. Would you marry one? Allow one to kiss you? Of course you wouldn’t. No normal woman would. And yet you tell me that you want to spend the rest of your life caring for your husband, that man in the chair who you didn’t recognise when you saw him. You’d have to help him in ways you can’t imagine. You’d have to nurse him twenty-four hours a day, bath him, dress him, sooth his mind. How long would it be before you hated the very sight and thought of him?”

  “John!” whispered Melinda, but the John she was thinking of had died, for her, two years ago.

  “They’re isolated,” said Fromach quietly. “No pin-ups, no unwanted stimuli, nothing to disturb their minds. We’ve given each of them hypnotic treatment to wipe out the past. For John you don’t exist, never have existed, never will exist. But you are his wife and you have certain rights in law. I beg you not to exercise those rights. To think of yourself as a sacrifice on the altar of love is perhaps a beautiful thought. You think of your duty to the man you married, think that he needs you, that you must; be with him. And yet I tell you that would be the cruelest thing you could do.”

  “I wouldn’t leave him,” said Melinda. “Never.”

  “I’m not thinking of you,” said Fromach. “I’m thinking of John. How do you think he would feel among normal people? How long do you think he could be happy when all the time he knows that he is a burden, a thing of pity?” Fromach shook his head. “The sacrifice you think of would be his, not yours. Have you the heart to demand that he make it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Melinda, and began to tremble. “I just don’t know.”

  “I wasn’t being cynical when I spoke of divorce,” said Fromach. “I was thinking of you both.” He took her arm and led her from the room towards the stairs leading downstairs, to the main doors, to the world outside. “It can be easily arranged, I’ll send you the papers tomorrow.” He held out his hand. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mrs. Purlis, but I hope that I never see you again.”

  She touched his hand and fled, knowing that she was going to sign the papers, knowing that her dreams were over and the ideal gone. John was dead, he had died two years ago, she must think of that and nothing else.

  But her eyes were filled with tears as she stepped from the space terminal out into the warm spring sunshine outside.

  It could have been such a wonderful day.

  RELUCTANT FARMER

  It was going to be another restless night. Kenton could tell it from the way he had begun to twitch, the muscle high on one cheek, his legs, the nervous movement of his hands. Irritably he threw down his book and lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs and letting it from trickle from his nostrils.

  It wasn’t new, this feeling. He had had it before and he knew exactly what to expect. Going to bed would be a waste of time; he would lie in the darkness and try for sleep only to find his mind more active than ever. He would lie for hours while his thoughts bubbled like the released gas in a bottle of mineral water. Then he would rise and smoke and maybe drink a little. He would take a shower and pace his rooms until, physically exhausted, he would tall into a parody of sleep only to wake depressed and emotionally unstable.

  Knowing what caused the unrest didn’t cure it. If anything it only made it worse. Like it or not, he was stuck five hundred light years from Earth and, like it or not, here he had to stay until he did something about it. Doing something about it, however, wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

  Irritably he drew at the cigarette and scowled around his living quarters. They were comfortable enough, even he had to admit that, but they were poor compensation for the real thing. A row of well-read books, some magazines now long out of date and almost alien in the products they advertised. A video and music player, deep chairs, soft lighting, a radio, all the usual appurtenances of civilisation.

  To Kenton they represented nothing better than the padding of his cell.

  Impatiently he jerked to his feet and crossed the room towards the broad windows. His apartment was at the top of the tower as befitted the Controller and, from the windows, he could see most of the hydroponic farm below.

  It was night but the two moons of Lubridgida had risen and, in their light, the glass roofs and concrete walls of the building shone like the waters of a frozen sea. Kenton stared down at them, the red tip of his cigarette reflected together with his own thin, almost aesthetic, features in the window before him.

  He frowned as he saw a warm, yellow light shining from one of the buildings. Night work wasn’t unusual but it was odd to see lights in the tank buildings after dark. Irregular illumination was discouraged because of the upsetting of the plant-growth cycle. Most after-dark work was done in the sorting sheds and packaging and processing plants. His hand was touching the phone when it hummed its attention signal.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that you, Dan?” It was Jelkson, the botanist, and Kelton felt his irritation increase at the sound of the carefully educated voice.

  “Speaking. What is it?”

  “Sorry to have woken you, but we’ve nm into a little trouble.”

  “I wasn’t asleep. What’s wrong with number seven?”

  “Number seven?” Jelkson’s voice held a mom
entary surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Never mind that. What is the trouble?”

  “You must have seen the lights,” mused Jelkson. He had the sort of mind that insisted on the logical explanation of trivia. It was an attribute that had made him an expert in his field, but which now grated on Kenton’s nerves.

  “That isn’t important,” he snapped into the phone. “Get to the point. What is wrong with number seven?”

  “Susan spotted what she thought was rust on some of the plants. She reported it to me earlier this evening. It isn’t rust. The crop will have to be destroyed and the building sterilised.”

  “What!” Anger mingled with sickness so that Kenton felt his muscles jerk beneath his skin. The sickness was caused by the prospect of losing the crop, the anger at the calm assumption that his opinion was either needed or necessary. “Who is in charge of number seven?”

  “Perchon.”

  “Is he with you now?”

  “No. I’m alone with Susan. Why?”

  “I’m coming down. Remain until I arrive. In the meantime send out a call for Perchon to join us in number seven. We’ll decide what is be done after the inquiry.”

  “Decide?” Jelkson’s voice held the subtle contempt of the expert for the amateur. “What can there be to decide? The crop is diseased and there is only one thing to do.”

  “Sterilise and burn,” snapped Kenton impatiently. “You don’t have to tell me my job, Jelkson. But that crop is almost ready for harvest and we can’t afford to throw it away. Now get moving and find Perchon.”

  “As you wish,” said Jelkson casually. “Naturally, you accept full responsibility?”

  “Responsibility for what?”

  “For whatever you may decide.”

  “You,” said Kenton bitterly, “are talking like a fool. I....”

  The click was unmistakable. Kenton slammed down the receiver and stood shaking with rage at Jelkson for having hung up on him. Savagely he dragged at his cigarette. It had gone out while he was talking and he relit it, inhaling with such force that his throat burned from the hot smoke.

  He was acting like a fool and he knew it but the knowledge only made him worse. Temper was useless when dealing with a man like Jelkson.

  Impatiently Kenton snatched up the phone.

  * * * *

  Doctor Thorpe, small, wizened, mellowed with age and canny with understanding, sat engrossed over a problem in chess. He had set up a board on the operating table and the little red and white pieces seemed strangely out of place among the sterile glitter and soft green of the dispensary. He looked up as Kenton entered the room, nodded, moved a piece on the board, looked at it, frowned, then moved it back again

  “The trouble with chess,” he commented, “is that it’s too logical. A man needs a mind like a computer to play the game, that is if he wants to be any good at it Me, I’m a poker player myself.”

  “Then why waste time with chess?”

  “I’m ambitious. First I want to beat Jelkson and then, when I’m ready, I want to tackle our blue-skinned friends. It doesn’t seem right that we should be beaten by a bunch of aliens at our own game.”

  “The Denebians are logical,” said Kenton absently. “As far as I know, Jelkson is the only one on this planet who can hold his own with them.” He looked around the room. “Where is it?”

  “That dope you ordered?” Thorpe shrugged. “It’s ready if you want it. A couple of pills and you’ll feel as if you’re riding on a cloud. No nerves, tense muscles, irritation. Nothing but peace.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic,” snapped Kenton. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Naturally. Well, what will it be this time? Opium? Morphine? Something new to numb your survival instincts and fog your brain? Name it and you’ve got it.”

  “All right, so you don’t believe in sedatives,” said Kenton tiredly. “But this is special. I’m as jumpy as hell and ready to fly off the handle. Jelkson’s getting ready to ride me and I don’t trust myself with the little swine. Give me a pill and save the lecture.”

  “Jelkson?” Thorpe nodded as if he understood. “Got under your skin; has he? Well, I’m not surprised. It isn’t human for a man to be always right.” He rose and took a phial from a cabinet “Here. Take a couple of these and give them five minutes to take effect.”

  “Thank you.” Kenton opened the container, swallowed a couple of pills, and handed the phial back to Thorpe.

  He felt calmer already though he knew that the drug could not possibly have acted so fast. He looked around the little dispensary, with its machines and instruments for curing human ills. Physical ills, that was, nothing had yet been discovered or invented to cure the basic unrest of the human race. He turned to leave the room.

  “Hold it, Dan,” said Thorpe quietly. “Five minutes, remember?”

  “Jelkson’s waiting for me.”

  “Let him wait. Start running about now and you will be sorry for it later.” Thorpe waited until Kenton had reluctantly sat down and then produced a pipe. He filled it, lit it, then sat down and puffed with evident enjoyment. Looking at him Kenton envied his calm.

  “How long have you been here, Doc?”

  “Ten years, perhaps. Why?”

  “Just wondering. When did you see Earth last?”

  “A long time ago. Say forty years and you wouldn’t be far short. I took the first ship out after I graduated and I’ve never been back.” Thorpe took the pipe from his mouth and stared at it. “Always been too busy to think about it, I suppose. Now you, you’re different. You think of nothing else.

  “I’m a doctor, Dan, and I know what makes men tick. Jelkson, now, he’s almost happy out here. If he had your job be would be happier still. He likes his work and what it means. You, all you want is to break your contract and run back home.”

  It was true but, hearing the old man say it, put it into a new light. It made it sound almost as if it were something to be ashamed of and Kenton reacted in instinctive defence.

  “There’s nothing wrong in a man wanting to go home,” he said. “I’m not really needed here, Jelkson could do my job with his eyes shut.” Kenton scowled down at his hands. “They made me Controller with a twenty year contract and I was fool enough to jump at the offer. I’ve served five years of my time and now I want out. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. It’s natural for some men to want to go home just as it’s natural for children to cling to their mother’s apron strings.” Thorpe examined his pipe again/ “I said it was natural but that doesn’t mean that it’s a good thing. Man is an animal and every animal has to grow up and leave home some day. The trouble is that some mea don’t grow up.”

  “More lectures.” Kenton wasn’t annoyed at what the doctor had said. He had thought it all out for himself a dozen times and, though he knew the answers, he couldn’t help the way he felt. He had no affinity with Lubridgida. He was an Earthman, pure and simple, and it had been the biggest mistake of his life ever to leave the planet of his birth.

  A mistake he looked like paying for with the rest of his life.

  Jelkson was waiting for him outside the inlet of hydroponic building number seven. The small, waspish botanist was talking to his assistant when Kenton arrived. Susan Blake was a natural blonde, tall, slim, utterly feminine beneath her one-piece working overall. Even with flat heels she was taller than Jelkson though not as tall as Kenton himself. The couple fell silent as he joined them and they followed him through the outer door and into the mist-spray. Ten seconds later they left the hot-air blast and entered the building.

  It was warm with a sticky humidity that did nothing to reduce Kenton’s discomfort. Impatiently he unzipped the front of his coverall.

  “I thought that I asked you to wait inside the building,” he snapped. “I found you both outside. Why?”

  “You were rather a long time,” said Jelkson evenly. “Neither of us are dressed for extreme heat. Susan began to feel a little faint and I esco
rted her outside. Satisfied?”

  “Has Perchon arrived yet?”

  “No. Are there any more questions?”

  “A lot of them. Susan, you stay here. Jelkson, please follow me.” Kenton led the way down the aisle between the tanks, halting when he was sure that they were out of earshot.

  “You hung up on me, Jelkson. Why?”

  “I do not have to listen to personal insults,” said the botanist stiffly. “You had called me a fool and were about to say more. I decided that it would be best to terminate the conversation.”

  “I see.” Kenton stared at the little man and was pleased to find that he remained calm. His normal dislike for the precise botanist still remained but his frustrated temper was now under control.

  “Let’s get to business,” he said abruptly. “You say that this crop has to be destroyed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Kenton led the way back to where Susan was waiting. “Jelkson tells me that you first discovered something wrong in here. Will you please show me what it was you found.”

  “Certainly.” She led the way down one of the aisles towards a group of marked plants. Kenton followed her, trying not to notice the motion of her hips. He was acutely conscious of Jelkson close behind.

  “Here.” Susan pointed to the underside of a thick leaf. “At first I took it for rust, but Mr. Jelkson says that it is a virus disease.”

  “A pity,” said Kenton dryly. “I would have liked you to have run an independent test without being swayed by Jelkson’s undoubtedly expert opinion.” Stooping he examined the underside of the leaves. The fleshy greenness was marred by pin-point areas of blackness. He straightened and looked at the botanist. “Does Perchon know about this?”

  “The infection or the results?”

  “Both.”

  “He might have spotted the infection,” said Jelkson slowly. “Central said that he went to town early this afternoon, before Susan spotted it herself. He couldn’t know of my results.”