Dark Ararat

Matthew was reluctant to take it for granted that Hope’s dust was a symptom of decay or slovenliness, but when he added the observation to other evidence of unrepaired malfunctions—wall-panels moved to expose bundles of cables; makeshift handles glued to doors that should have been automatic; cracked keypads and taped-over screens—the general picture did seem to be one of lost or forsaken control.

It was only to be expected, Matthew knew, that an ecosphere and mechanisphere as small as Hopewould suffer a continuous erosion of organization. The comet core into which the original metal ship had been inserted had been intended to serve as a source of organic materials as well as providing invaluable momentum for the initial phase of the journey, but Shen would have been extremely fortunate to find an entire wish list of elements in its stonier and ferrous components. On the other hand, Hopehad been in the new system for three years, and if the system contained an Earthlike planet it must also be rich in other supernoval debris. Hope’s drones should have been able to scavenge an abundance of new resources from the outer system while the decelerating ship plotted a course toward its present orbit. The ship’s environments should have undergone a spectacular renaissance by now, unless the deterioration of its machines had become chronic, or its manpower seriously depleted.

It was, eventually, impossible to resist the conclusion that something was seriously rotten in the state of Hope, and in its mission to found a new world. The people on the surface were at odds with the crew, and seemingly with one another, and the crew seemed far from contented in their own little empire.

But what can you expect in a world without TV, Matthew thought. If the only person who ever broadcasts to the whole population is the captain, it’s no wonder that there’s no social adhesive to hold things together, no force of consensus.

It was wishful thinking, of course, but he couldn’t help dallying with the notion that there was nothing amiss here that couldn’t be corrected by the voice of a professional prophet: a man trained not merely to see the bigger picture but to provide it with an appropriate soundtrack.

Seen from another viewpoint, Matthew decided, there was something rather homely about the sight of dust-filmed shelves and broken latches. They could be taken as reminders of Earth’s surface, of the world in which Matthew had grown from infancy to adulthood. Nothing here seemed to be aliento him, except perhaps the purple face of the planet they were circling—and he did not find it at all difficult, as yet, to think of that as an authentic Earth-clone nurtured and educated in a slightly different fashion.

The crewman leading him through Hope’s corridors, by contrast, had presumably never known any environment but the ship; to Riddell and all his fellows, Hopeand Hopealone was home, refuge, and prison.

With what uneasy eyes must the crewpeople regard the kinds of images that Matthew and Vince Solari had been studying? To them, Matthew decided, the new world must be exactly as exotic, and as utterly alien, as Earth.

They passed other crewpeople in the corridors, often having to swing their shoulders in order to pass by without making contact, but the crewpeople did not seem to regard them with any conspicuous curiosity. At first, Matthew put this down to the fact that any novelty value that the reawakened had possessed three years ago must be long gone now. There was, however, something odd in the character of their disinterest, as if it were contrived or pretended. They put him in mind of extras on a TV set, whose function was to fade into the background—but he was too curious about them to accept that kind of bid for invisibility.

The crewpeople varied as much as might be expected of people whose ancestors had been plucked from half a hundred different Earthly nations, but they were all lean of limb, they all moved with a graceful athleticism, and they all had somatically modified feet. They all went seemingly barefoot, the smartsuit overlays on their long-toed feet as transparent as those on their hands, and their gait was peculiar. Living in half-gravity, they had not the same need as Earthpeople for stout, supportive legs. They were still walkers, clinging to a pedestrian way of life in their curving corridors, but many of them would have to spend at least part of their lives closer to Hope’s central axis, where they weighed much less—and even those who did not haveto do so had the option. At the heart of the planetoid legs would be virtually useless—but an extra pair of gripping limbs would not.

Matthew could not help comparing Hope’s “native population” to the lean and lithe mammal-analogues of the as-yet-nameless Ararat at which the ship had recently arrived. Matthew wondered whether his own thick thighs seemed ugly as well as clumsy to the crewpeople, and whether his lightly shod and stub-toed feet seemed lumpen and deformed. The somatic modifications adopted by the crew—and there must be others, he realized, in addition to the long toes—were essentially discreet, but their subtlety did not make them any less unsettling. The surface gravity of the new world was 0.92 of Earth’s, he had been told—but he had also been told that the remaining 8 percent made more difference than one might imagine. In much the same way, the slight alterations to human form that the crew had adopted made more difference than Matthew could have imagined on the basis of his acquaintance with Earthly “cosmetic engineering.” The same principle must apply in reverse; his stouter legs, stubby toes, and sturdier frame must seem alien as well as ugly to the crew.

Solari and I must be stronger by far than they are, Matthew said to himself. We’re still adapted to Earthly gravity, whereas they’re born and bred for half-weight. They may be the gymnasts and long-jumpers of the interplanetary Olympics, but we’re the weightlifters and shot-putters.

Within a moment of framing the thought he pulled back from it, regretting the competitive impulse that had framed it, and wondering whether that same instinct might be partly responsible for the tensions that existed between crew and “cargo.”

He would have followed the line of thought further had he not been interrupted by the sudden clamor of someone shouting his surname. At first, because of the curvature of the corridor, he could not tell from what direction the shout came, but as he looked around he realized that it must have come from a side-branch which he, Riddell, and Solari had just passed. Already, however, the extras on the set had ceased to be mere background and had made a busy crowd of themselves. The space behind him was filled in with remarkable rapidity by passers-by intent on forming a queue—and when he tried to turn around, the queue would not even stop, let alone open its ranks to let him retrace his steps. The crewmen were light, and far from powerful, but they could occupy space as insistently as anyone, and Matthew could not thrust a way through without resorting to actual violence.

“We’re nearly there, Professor Fleury,” Riddell called back to him—but Matthew suspected that the loudness of the call was intended as much to drown out the continued appeals of whoever had tried to speak to him as to give him information.

Matthew overcame his automatic hesitation quickly enough, and tried to thrust a way through the suddenly gathered crowd. Mere rudeness made no impact, and he actually had to throw his weight at the people blocking his way. Had it been a straightforward barging contest he would have won with ease, but they were far too clever for that. They moved so that his arms met empty air—but his clumsy feet had nowhere to go.

In effect, they meekly allowed him to trip over their clever feet—but they were far from careless of the damage he might do to their toes. Even as he stumbled they began a litany of complaint that really did drown out the voice of whoever had called out.