“But it isn’t your true home,” Malenfant said gently. “Nor mine. It’s not even from the right universe. Just as it isn’t home for these Hams, is it?”
McCann eyed him sharply. “You’ve been talking to the fragrant Julia — their legend of the Grey Earth, the place in the sky from which they stumbled. Yes?” He laughed. “Well, it might even be true. Perhaps a party of bar-bars did fall through a shining portal, just as you say your wife did. But it was a blooming long time ago, Malenfant.
“Listen. Once upon a time old Crawford got it into his head that there might be something of value in the ground here — gold, diamonds, even hidden treasure of obscure origin, perhaps laid down by some race of supermen. And he went digging — especially in the hearths and caves of the bar-bars. He had to turf out a few of them to do that, for they will cling to their domiciles. He found no treasure. But what he did find was more bar-bars, or anyhow traces of them, their buried bones mixed in with those peculiar knobkerries and assegais they favour in the wild. There was layer upon layer of bone, said old Crawford, in every place he dug.
“Well, the meaning is obvious. These bar-bars have endured a long stretch on this exotic little world: they must surely have been here for hundreds of generations, thousands of years, or more. And in all that time they have clung to their dreams of home.” He considered Malenfant. “You may think I am harsh with the bar-bars, Malenfant, or uncaring. I am not. Inferior they may be. But what memory lies buried in those deep skulls of theirs! — don’t you think?”
The country began to rise. The little party grew strung out. The grass grew thinner, the underlying crimson soil more densely packed.
They reached the crest of a ridge and took a break. The ground was hard-packed here, covered thinly by bracken and little bushes like hazels. The party, drinking water from a pannikin handed around by a Ham, was surrounded by a thin, subsiding cloud of red dust.
Malenfant stepped forward. The ground fell away before him, and he saw that this ridge curved around, making a neat circle. It was a bowl of greenery. A few improbably tall trees sprouted, but much of the basin was covered by grass that was littered with colour, the yellow and white of marigolds and lilies. Pools glistened on the uneven floor, ringed by lush primeval-looking ferns.
It was a crater, a classic impact formation a couple of miles across. Standing here, Malenfant heard distant calls and hoots. They were the cries of hominids, cousins to mankind, patrolling this forested crater. It was a startling, uplifting, utterly alien prospect.
McCann was standing beside him. “Here we stand, men born on different worlds, confronting a third. Do you know your Plutarch, Malenfant? Alexander wept when he heard from Anaxarchus that there was an infinite number of worlds… ‘Do you not think it lamentable that with such a vast multitude of worlds, we have not yet conquered one?’” He pointed with imperious confidence into the bowl of the crater. “There lies our Redoubtable — or at least her corpse. Come, you men.”
Brushing a walking stick before him, he strode off down the flank of the crater. Malenfant and Nemoto, and the Hams with their litter, hurried to follow.
Malenfant came first on a rib of metal, heavily corroded, that arched into the air above him. Its smooth circular shape was a startling contrast to the fractal profusion of the greenery all around. He stepped under the rib, onto twisted and rusted metallic remnants that groaned under his weight. He found he was in a long cylindrical chamber, its walls extensively broken and corroded, open to the sky. When it was intact this tank must have been six or seven yards in diameter.
Thorn bushes pushed through the base of the cylinder, and creepers.curled over its sides; above, a thick canopy turned the light dim, moist and green. The ship had been a long time dead, and the vegetation had grown over and through it, concealing its remains.
McCann walked in alongside him, followed by Nemoto. The Hams lingered on the fringe of the deeper forest, leaning on the litter and sipping water. Thomas kept an eye on McCann, but his gaze slid over the lines of the ship, as if it were a thing of mists and shadows, not really there.
“This was the propellant tank,” McCann said. He pointed with his stick. “You can see the bulkheads to either end, or what’s left of “em.” McCann pushed on through mazes of piping and cables. Malenfant and Nemoto followed more cautiously, taking care of the sharp edges of twisted metal under their feet.
McCann’s figure was stocky and competent, and swathed in his treated animal skins he looked somehow right against the background of the fallen, smashed-open ship; Malenfant wondered how often he visited this relic of home.
They passed through a ripped-open dome into another cylindrical tank. “Here we stored oxidants. Though of course much of the oxidant was drawn from the air.”
“A ramjet,” Malenfant said to Nemoto.
McCann came to a tangle of what looked like crude electrical equipment, valves and relays, so badly corroded it was an inseparable mass. “Control gear,” he said. “For the pumps and valves and so forth.” They passed through a more solid bulkhead, supported by heavy ribs, and arrived in what appeared to have been habitable quarters. There had been several decks, separated by two or three yards — but now tipped over, so the floors and ceilings had become walls. A fireman’s pole ran along the length of this section, passing neatly through holes in the floors, horizontal now.
McCann pointed out highlights with his stick. “Stores.” Malenfant saw the crumpled remnants of bulky machines, perhaps recycling and cleansing devices for air and water, and refrigerated stores for food, but damaged by fire and gutted; they lay in the dark of the rocket’s hull like foetuses in unhatched dinosaur eggs. “Infirmary, galley, sleeping quarters and such.” Little was left here save a bare frame that might have held bunk beds, a heavy table bolted to the tilted over floor and fitted with leather restraints, perhaps intended for surgery, and the nubs of pipes and flues showed where galley equipment had been ripped out or salvaged.
“And the bridge.” At the nub of the ship, this had been lined with polished oak panels, now scuffed, broken and covered by lichen and moss. Brass portholes bore only fragments of the thick glass that had once lined them. There were heavy couch frames bolted to the floor, long since stripped of their soft coverings. Malenfant could make little of what must once have been instrument panels; now they were just rectangular hollows in the fascia, though he glimpsed tangles of wires behind.
McCann saw him looking. “Once we realized the old lady wasn’t serviceable we stripped out what we could. We built a succession of radio transmitters and heliographs. We got replies, of course, as long as the Earth — I mean, my Earth — still hovered in the sky. That, and promises of rescue, which assurances I have no doubt would have been fulfilled. We kept on trying even after Earth had gone, until the last generator seized up. Powered by a bicycling Runner, incidentally.”
“I’m sorry,” Malenfant said. “She must have been a beautiful ship.”
“Oh, she was. Help me.” Leaning on Malenfant’s arm, he clambered stiffly up the hull wall, using gaping porthole sockets as hand and footholds.
Malenfant followed him. Soon the two of them stood side by side on the outer hull of the habitable section, surrounded by gashes and treacherous-looking rents. But McCann was confident in his step.