Forester shook his head. ‘I’ll go along with you, this planet is alive. It’s a race unto itself. But it needs us to show off to, to appreciate its beauty. What’s the use of a stage full of miracles if there’s no audience?’
But Chatterton was busy. He was bent over, being sick.
‘I’m poisoned! Poisoned!’
They held his shoulders until the sickness passed. They gave him water. The others were feeling fine.
‘Better eat nothing but ship’s food from now on,’ advised Forester. ‘It’d be safer.’
‘We’re starting work right now.’ Chatterton swayed, wiping his mouth. ‘We’ve wasted a whole day. I’ll work alone if I have to. I’ll show this damned thing.’
He staggered away towards the rocket.
‘He doesn’t know when he’s well off,’ murmured Driscoll. ‘Can’t we stop him, Captain?’
‘He practically owns the expedition. We don’t have to help him; there’s a clause in our contract that guarantees refusal to work under dangerous conditions. So … do unto this Picnic Ground as you would have it do unto you. No initial-cutting on the trees. Replace the turf on the greens. Clean up your banana-peels after you.’
Now, below, in the ship there was an immense humming. From the storage port rolled the great shining Drill. Chatterton followed it, called directions to its robot radio. ‘This way, here!’
‘The fool.’
‘Now!’ cried Chatterton.
The Drill plunged its long screw-bore into the green grass.
Chatterton waved up at the other men. ‘I’ll show it!’
The sky trembled.
The Drill stood in the centre of a little sea of grass. For a moment it plunged away, bringing up moist corks of sod which it spat unceremoniously into a shaking analysis bin.
Now the Drill gave a wrenched, metallic squeal like a monster interrupted at its feed. From the soil beneath it, slow, bluish liquids bubbled up.
Chatterton shouted, ‘Get back, you fool!’
The Drill lumbered in a prehistoric dance. It shrieked like a mighty train turning on a sharp curve, throwing out red sparks. It was sinking. The black slime gave under it in a dark pool.
With a coughing sigh, a series of pants and churnings, the Drill sank into a black scum like an elephant shot and dying, trumpeting, like a mammoth at the end of an Age, vanishing limb by ponderous limb into the pit.
‘My God,’ said Forester under his breath, fascinated with the scene. ‘You know what that is, Driscoll? It’s tar. The damn fool machine hit a tar-pit!’
‘Listen, listen!’ cried Chatterton at the Drill, running about on the edge of the oily lake. ‘This way, over here!’
But like the old tyrants of the earth, the dinosaurs with their tubed and screaming necks, the Drill was plunging and thrashing in the one lake from where there was no returning to bask on the firm and understandable shore.
Chatterton turned to the other men far away. ‘Do something, someone!’
The Drill was gone.
The tar-pit bubbled and gloated, sucking the hidden monster bones. The surface of the pool was silent. A huge bubble, the last, rose, expelled a scent of ancient petroleum, and fell apart.
The men came down and stood on the edge of the little black sea.
Chatterton stopped yelling.
After a long minute of staring into the silent tar-pool, Chatterton turned and looked at the hills, blindly, at the green rolling lawns. The distant trees were growing fruit now and dropping it, softly, to the ground.
‘I’ll show it,’ he said quietly.
‘Take it easy, Chatterton.’
‘I’ll fix it,’ he said.
‘Sit down, have a drink.’
‘I’ll fix it good, I’ll show it it can’t do this to me.’
Chatterton started off back to the ship.
‘Wait a minute, now,’ said Forester.
Chatterton ran. ‘I know what to do, I know how to fix it!’
‘Stop him!’ said Forester. He ran, then remembered he could fly. ‘The A-Bomb’s on the ship, if he should get to that….’
The other men had thought of that and were in the air. A small grove of trees stood between the rocket and Chatterton as he ran on the ground, forgetting that he could fly, or afraid to fly, or not allowed to fly, yelling. The crew headed for the rocket to wait for him, the Captain with them. They arrived, formed a line, and shut the rocket port. The last they saw of Chatterton he was plunging through the edge of the tiny forest.
The crew stood waiting.
‘That fool, that crazy guy.’
Chatterton did not come out on the other side of the small woodland.
‘He’s turned back, waiting for us to relax our guard.’
‘Go bring him in,’ said Forester.
Two men flew off.
Now, softly, a great and gentle rain fell upon the green world.
‘The final touch,’ said Driscoll. ‘We’d never have to build houses here. Notice it’s not raining on us. It’s raining all around, ahead, behind us. What a world!’
They stood dry in the middle of the blue, cool rain. The sun was setting. The moon, a large one the colour of ice, rose over the freshened hills.
‘There’s only one more thing this world needs.’
‘Yes,’ said everyone, thoughtfully, slowly.
‘We’ll have to go looking,’ said Driscoll. ‘It’s logical. The wind flies us, the trees and streams feed us, everything is alive. Perhaps if we asked for companionship …’
‘I’ve thought a long time, today and other days,’ said Koestler. ‘We’re all bachelors, been travelling for years, and tired of it. Wouldn’t it be nice to settle down somewhere. Here, maybe. On Earth you work like hell just to save enough to buy a house, pay taxes; the cities stink. Here, you won’t even need a house, with this weather. If it gets monotonous you can ask for rain, clouds, snow, changes. You don’t have to work here for anything.’
‘It’d be boring. We’d go crazy.’
‘No,’ Koestler said, smiling. ‘If life got too soft, all we’d have to do is repeat a few times what Chatterton said: “Here there be tygers.” Listen!’
Far away, wasn’t there the faintest roar of a giant cat, hidden in the twilight forest?
The men shivered.
‘A versatile world,’ said Koestler dryly. ‘A woman who’ll do anything to please her guests, as long as we’re kind to her. Chatterton wasn’t kind.’
‘Chatterton. What about him?’
As if to answer this, someone cried from a distance. The two men who had flown off to find Chatterton were waving at the edge of the woods.
Forester, Driscoll, and Koestler flew down alone.
‘What’s up?’
The men pointed into the forest. ‘Thought you’d want to see this, Captain. It’s damned eerie.’ One of the men indicated a pathway. ‘Look here, sir.’
The marks of great claws stood on the path, fresh and clear.
‘And over here.’
A few drops of blood.
A heavy smell of some feline animal hung in the air.
‘Chatterton?’
‘I don’t think we’ll ever find him, Captain.’
Faintly, faintly, moving away, now gone in the breathing silence of twilight, came the roar of a tiger.
The men lay on the resilient grass by the rocket and the night was warm. ‘Reminds me of nights when I was a kid,’ said Driscoll. ‘My brother and I waited for the hottest night in July and then we slept on the Court House lawn, counting the stars, talking; it was a great night, the best night of the year, and now, when I think back on it, the best night of my life.’ Then he added, ‘Not counting tonight, of course.’
‘I keep thinking about Chatterton,’ said Koestler.
‘Don’t,’ said Forester. ‘We’ll sleep a few hours and take off. We can’t chance staying here another day. I don’t mean the danger that got Chatterton. No. I mean, if we stayed on we’d get to liking this world too much. We’d never want to leave.’
A soft wind blew over them.
‘I don’t want to leave now.’ Driscoll put his hands behind his head, lying quietly. ‘And it doesn’t want us to leave.’
‘If we go back to Earth and tell everyone what a lovely planet it is, what then, Captain? They’ll come smashing in here and ruin it.’
‘No,’ said Forester, idly. ‘First, this planet wouldn’t put up with a full-scale invasion. I don’t know what it’d do, but it could probably think of some interesting things. Secondly, I like this planet too much; I respect it. We’ll go back to Earth and lie about it. Say it’s hostile. Which it would be to the average man, like Chatterton, jumping in here to hurt it. I guess we won’t be lying after all.’
‘Funny thing,’ said Koestler. ‘I’m not afraid. Chatterton vanishes, is killed most horribly, perhaps, yet we lie here, no one runs, no one trembles. It’s idiotic. Yet it’s right. We trust it, and it trusts us.’
‘Did you notice, after you drank just so much of the wine-water, you didn’t want more? A world of moderation.’
They lay listening to something like the great heart of this earth beating slowly and warmly under their bodies.
Forester thought, I’m thirsty.
A drop of rain splashed on his lips.
He laughed quietly.
I’m lonely, he thought.
Distantly, he heard soft high voices.
He turned his eyes in upon a vision. There was a group of hills from which flowed a clear river, and in the shallows of that river, sending up spray, their faces shimmering, were the beautiful women.
They played like children on the shore. And it came to Forester to know about them and their life. They were nomads, roaming the face of this world as was their desire. There were no highways or cities, there were only hills and plains and winds to carry them like white feathers where they wished.
As Forester shaped the question, some invisible answerer whispered the answers. There were no men. These women, alone, produced their race. The men had vanished fifty thousand years ago. And where were these women now?
