As the mood took hold of the settlers even the earliest arrivals, who had staked out their plots of land within the circular hills, became uneasily aware of the incoming hordes at their heels and decided to move onwards and outwards.
In a normal planetary situation the population pressures would not have been concentrated so fiercely on one point, but Earth technology was geared to the Assumption of Mediocrity. During the development of the total transport system of flickerwing ships and shuttles it had never occurred to anyone to make provision for an environment in which, for, example, it would not be possible for a ship to gather its own reaction mass. It would have been completely illogical to do so, in the universe as it was then understood — but in the context of Orbitsville a deadly mistake had been made.
Territories of astronomical dimensions were available, but no means of claiming them quickly enough to satisfy the ambitions of men who had crossed space like gods and then found themselves reduced to wheeled transportation. Given time to build or import fleets of wing-borne aircraft, the difficulties could have been lessened but not removed completely. Each family unit or commune had to become self-supporting in the shortest possible time and, even with advanced farming methods and the use of iron cows, this meant claiming possession of large areas without delay.
It was a situation which, classically, had always resulted in man fighting man. Garamond was not surprised therefore when reports began to reach him that the outermost settlers had forced their way through the Clown city in a number of places and were pouring into the prairie beyond. He did not try to visit any of the trouble spots in person, but had no difficulty in visualizing the course of events at each. Still haunted by the sense of having lost his purpose, he devoted most of his time to his family, making only occasional visits to the Bissendorf in his capacity of chief executive. He deliberately avoided watching the newscasts which were piped into his home along the landlines, but other channels were open.
One morning, while he was sleeping off the effects of a prolonged drinking session, he was awakened by the sound of a child’s scream. The sound triggered off a synergistic vision of Harald Lindstrom falling away from the blind face of a statue and, almost in the same instant, came the crushing awareness that he had not been sufficiently on his guard against Elizabeth. Garamond sat up in bed, gasping for air, and lurched to the living-room. Aileen had got there before him and was kneeling with her arms around Christopher. The boy was now sobbing gently, his face buried in her shoulder.
“What happened?” Garamond’s fear was subsiding but his heart was pounding unevenly.
“It was the projector,” Aileen said. “One of those things appeared on it. I turned it off.”
“What things?” Garamond glanced at the projection area of the solid-image television where the faint ghost of a tutor in one of the educational programmes was still dissolving into the air.
Christopher raised a streaked, solemn face. “It was a Crown.”
“He means a Clown.” Aileen’s eyes were slaty with anger.
“A Clown? But… I told you to keep the images fairly diffuse when Chris is watching so that he won’t get confused between what’s real and what isn’t.”
“The image was diffused. The thing still scared him, that’s all.”
Garamond stared helplessly at his wife. “I don’t get it. Why should he be afraid of a Clown?” He turned his attention to Christopher. “What’s the matter, son? Why were you afraid?”
“I thought the Crown was coming to get me too.”
“That was a silly thing to think — they never harmed anybody.”
The boy’s gaze was steady and reproachful. “What about all the people they froze? All the dead people?”
Garamond was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t confuse him,” Aileen said quietly. “You know perfectly well what’s been in the newscasts for the last couple of days.”
“But I don’t! What did they say?”
“About the outer planet. When they built Lindstromland they shut off all the light and heat to the outer planet and froze it over.”
“They? Who were they?”
“The Clowns, of course.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Garamond began to smile. “The Clowns created Orbitsville!”
“Their ancestors.”
“I see. And there were people on the outer planet? People who got frozen to death?”
“They showed photographs of them.” A stubborn note had crept into Aileen’s voice. “Where did they get these photographs?”
“A Starflight ship must have gone there, of course.”
“But, honey, if the planet is frozen over how could anybody take photographs of its surface or anything on it? Just try thinking it over for a while.”
“I don’t know how they did it — I’m only telling you what Chris and I and everybody else have seen.”
Garamond sighed and walked to the communicator and called Cliff Napier on board the Bissendorf. The familiar head appeared almost immediately at the projection focus and nodded a greeting.
“Cliff, I need some information about ship movements within the Pengelly’s Star system.” Garamond spoke quickly, without preamble. “Has there been an expedition to the outer planet?”
“No.”
“You’re positive?”
Napier glanced downwards, looking at an information display. “Absolutely.”
“Thanks, Cliff. That’s all.” Garamond broke the connection and Napier’s apparently solid features faded into the air just as an expression of puzzlement was appearing on them. “There you are, Aileen — a direct, clear statement of fact. Now, where are the photographs supposed to have come from?”
“Well, perhaps they weren’t actual photographs. They might have been…”
“Artists’ impressions? Reconstructions?”
“What difference does it make? They were shown…”
“What difference?” Garamond gave a shaky laugh as the mental chasm opened between himself and his wife, but he felt no annoyance with her. Their marriage had always been simple and harmonious, and he knew it was based on deeper attachments than could be achieved through mere similarity in interests or outlook. One of the first things he had learned to accept was the certainty of lasting incompleteness on some levels of their relationship, and usually he knew how to accommodate it.
“It makes all the difference in the world,” he said softly, almost as if speaking to a child. “Don’t you see how your attitude towards the Clowns has been affected by what you’ve seen or think you’ve seen on the viewers? That’s the way people are manipulated. It used to be more difficult, or at least they had to be more subtle when literacy was considered vital to education…” Even to his own ears the words sounded dry and irrelevant, and he stopped speaking as he noticed Aileen’s predictable loss of interest. His wife absorbed most of her information semi-instinctively, through images, and he had no picture to show her. Garamond felt an obscure sadness.