“There is poetry even in death,” said Fander.
“Even so, it remains repulsive.” Skhiva gave a little shiver. “All right. Take the lifeboat. Who am I to question the weird workings of the nontechnical mind?”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“It is nothing. See that you are back by dusk.” Breaking contact, he went to the lock, curled snakishly on its outer rim and brooded, still without bothering to touch the new world. So much attempted, so much done-for so poor reward.
He was still pondering it when the lifeboat soared out of its lock. Expressionlessly, his multifaceted eyes watched the energized grids change angle as the boat swung into a curve and floated away like a little bubble. Skhiva was sensitive to futility.
The crew came back well before darkness. A few hours were enough. Just grass and shrubs and child-trees straining to grow up. One had discovered a grassless oblong that once might have been the site of a dwelling. He brought back a small piece of its foundation, a lump of perished concrete which Skhiva put by for later analysis.
Another had found a small, brown, six-legged insect, but his nerve ends had heard it crying when he picked it up, so hastily he had put it down and let it go free. Small, clumsily moving animals had been seen hopping in the distance, but all had dived down holes in the ground before any Martian could get near. All the crew were agreed upon one thing: the silence and solemnity of a people’s passing was unendurable.
Pander beat the sinking of the sun by half a time-unit. His bubble drifted under a great, black cloud, sank to ship level, came in. The rain started a moment later, roaring down in frenzied torrents while they stood behind the transparent band and marveled at so much water.
After a while, Captain Skhiva told them, “We must accept what we find. We have drawn a blank. The cause of this world’s condition is a mystery to be solved by others with more time and better equipment. It is for us to abandon this graveyard and try the misty planet. We will take off early in the morning.”
None commented, but Pander followed him to his room, made contact with a tentacle-touch.
“One could live here, Captain.”
“I am not so sure of that.” Skhiva coiled on his couch, suspending his tentacles on the various limb-rests. The blue sheen of him was reflected by the back wall. “In some places are rocks emitting alpha sparks. They are dangerous.”
“Of course, Captain. But I can sense them and avoid them.”
”You?” Skhiva stared up at him.
“Yes, Captain. I wish to be left here.”
“What? In this place of appalling repulsiveness?”
“It has an all-pervading air of ugliness and despair,” admitted Poet Pander. “All destruction is ugly. But by accident I have found a little beauty. It heartens me. I would like to seek its source.”
“To what beauty do you refer?” Skhiva demanded.
Pander tried to explain the alien in nonalien terms.
“Draw it for me,” ordered Skhiva.
Pander drew it, gave him the picture, said, “There!”
Gazing at it for a long time, Skhiva handed it back, mused awhile, then spoke along the other’s nerves. “We are individuals with all the rights of individuals. As an individual, I don’t think that picture sufficiently beautiful to be worth the tail-tip of a domestic arlan. I will admit that it is not ugly, even that it is pleasing.”
“But, Captain-“
“As an individual,” Skhiva went on, “you have an equal right to your opinions, strange though they may be. If you really wish to stay I cannot refuse you. I am entitled only to think you a little crazy.” He eyed Pander again. “When do you hope to be picked up?”
“This year, next year, sometime, never.”
“It may well be never,” Skhiva reminded him. “Are you prepared to face that prospect?”
“One must always be prepared to face the consequences of his own actions,” Pander pointed out.
“True.” Skhiva was reluctant to surrender. “But have you given the matter serious thought?”
“I am a nontechnical component. I am not guided by thought.”
“Then by what?”
“By my desires, emotions, instincts. By my inward feelings.”
Skhiva said fervently, “The twin moons preserve us!”
“Captain, sing me a song of home and play me the tinkling harp.”
“Don’t be silly. I have not the ability.”
“Captain, if it required no more than careful thought you would be able to do it?”
“Doubtlessly,” agreed Skhiva, seeing the trap but unable to avoid it.
“There you are!” said Pander pointedly.
“I give up. I cannot argue with someone who casts aside the accepted rules of logic and invents his own. You are governed by notions that defeat me.”
“It is not a matter of logic or illogic,” Pander told him. “It is merely a matter of viewpoint. You see certain angles; I see others.”
“For example?”
“You won’t pin me down that way. I can find examples. For instance, do you remember the formula for determining the phase of a series tuned circuit?”
“Most certainly.”
“I felt sure you would. You are a technician. You have registered it for all tune as a matter of technical utility.” He paused, staring at Skhiva. “I know that formula, too. It was mentioned to me, casually, many years ago. It is of no use to me-yet I have never forgotten it.”
“Why?”
“Because it holds the beauty of rhythm. It is a poem,” Pander explained.
Skhiva sighed and said, “I don’t get it.”
”One upon R into omega L minus one upon omega C,” recited Pander. “A perfect hexameter.” He showed his amusement as the other rocked back.
After a while, Skhiva remarked, “It could be sung. One could dance to it.”
“Same with this.” Pander exhibited his rough sketch. “This holds beauty. Where there is beauty there once was talent-may still be talent for all we know. Where talent abides is also greatness. In the realms of greatness we may find powerful friends. We need such friends.”
“You win.” Skhiva made a gesture of defeat. “We leave you to your self-chosen fate in the morning.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
That same streak of stubbornness which made Skhiva a worthy commander induced him to take one final crack at Pander shortly before departure. Summoning him to his room, he eyed the poet calculatingly.
“You are still of the same mind?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Then does it not occur to you as strange that I should be so content to abandon this planet if indeed it does hold the remnants of greatness?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Skhiva stiffened slightly.
“Captain, I think you are a little afraid because you suspect what I suspect-that there was no natural disaster. They did it themselves, to themselves.”
“We have no proof of it,” said Skhiva uneasily.
“No, Captain.” Pander paused there without desire to add more.
“If this is their- own sad handiwork,” Skhiva commented at length, “what are our chances of finding friends among people so much to be feared?”
“Poor,” admitted Pander. “But that-being the product of cold thought-means little to me. I am animated by warm hopes.”
‘There you go again, blatantly discarding reason in favor of an idle dream. Hoping, hoping, hoping-to achieve the impossible.”
Pander said, “The difficult can be done at once; the impossible takes a little longer.”
“Your thoughts make my orderly mind feel lopsided. Every remark is a flat denial of something that makes sense.” Skhiva transmitted the sensation of a lugubrious chuckle. “Oh, well, we live and learn.” He came forward, moving closer to the other. “All your supplies are assembled outside. Nothing remains but to bid you goodbye.”