‘They are really very nice,’ I told him with great sincerity, though it was probably no longer true.
‘Hum.’
‘And,’ I said, ‘they know of love.’
‘Ah,’ he said mistily sighing again. ‘Love. Tell me, monsieur. Tell me of love on Aldebaran.’
‘They live on a planet,’ I misstated somewhat. ‘Aldebaran is the star itself. But I will tell you what you ask, M. Duplessin. It is thus: When a young Triop, for so they call themselves, comes of age, he swims far out into the wide sea, far from his crystal city out into the pellucid water where giant fan-tailed fish of rainbow colours swim endlessly above, tinting the pale sunlight that filters through the water and their scales. Tiny bright fish give off star-like flashes from patterned luminescent spots on their scales.’
‘It sounds most beautiful, monsieur,’ Duplessin said with politeness.
‘It is most beautiful. And the young Triop swims until he sees - Her.’
‘Ah, monsieur.’ He was more than polite, I considered, he was interested.
‘They speak not a word,’ I added, ‘for the water is all around and they wear masks, otherwise they could not breathe. They cannot speak, no, and one cannot see the other’s eyes. They approach in silence and in mystery.’
He sighed and sipped his cassis.
‘They,’ I said, ‘they know, although there is no way that they can know. But they do. They swim about each other searchingly, tenderly, sadly. Yes. Sadly - is beauty not always in some way sad? A moment. And then they are one.’
‘They do not speak?’
I shook my head.
‘Ever?’
‘Never until all is over, and they meet elsewhere again.’
‘Ah, monsieur!’ He stared into his small glass of tincture. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘may one hope - that is, is it possible - oh, monsieur! Might one go there, soon?’
I said with all my cunning: ‘All the things are possible, M. Duplessin, if the Triops can be saved from destruction. Consider for yourself, if you please, that to turn such a people over to the brutes with the Red Star - or these with the forty-nine white stars - what difference? - is to destroy them.’
‘Never, my friend, never!’ he cried strongly. ‘Let them come! Let them entrust themselves to France! France will protect them, my friend, or France will die!’
It was all very simple after that, I was free within an hour after lunch and, certainly, z-z-z-z-zit.
My spaceship deposited me in this desert, Mojave, I think. Or almost Mojave, in its essential Americanness. Yes. It was in America, for what other place would do? I had accomplished much, but there was yet a cosmetic touch or two before I could say I had accomplished all.
I scanned the scene, everything was well, there was no one. Distantly planes howled, but of no importance: stratosphere jets, what would they know of one man on the sand four miles below? I worked.
Five round trips, carrying what was needed between this desert place and my bigger ship. And where was that? Ah. Safe. It hurled swinging around Mars: yes, quite safe. Astronomers might one day map it, but on that day it would not matter, no. Oh, it would not matter at all.
Since there was time, on my first trip I reassumed my shape and ate, it was greatly restful. Seven useful arms and ample feet, it became easy; quickly I carried one ton of materials, two thousand pounds, from my armchair ferry to the small shelter in which I constructed my cosmetic appliance. Shelter? Why a shelter, you may ask? Oh, I say, for artistic reasons, and in the remote chance that some low-flying plane might blundersomely pass, though it would not. But it might. Let’s see, I said, let me think, uranium and steel, strontium and cobalt, a touch of sodium for yellow, have I everything? Yes. I have everything, I said, everything, and I assembled the cosmetic bomb and set the fuse. Good-bye, bomb, I said with affection and, z-z-z-z-zit, armchair and Plinglot were back aboard my ship circling Mars. Nearly done, nearly done!
There, quickly I assembled the necessary data for the Aldebaranian rocket, my penultimate - or Next to Closing - task.
Now. This penultimate task, it was not a difficult one, no but it demanded some concentration. I had a ship. No fake, no crude imitation! It was an authentic rocket ship of the Aldebaranians, designed to travel to their six moons, with vent baffles for underwater takeoff due to certain exigencies (e.g., inimical animals ashore) of their culture. Yes. It was real. I had brought it on purpose all the way.
Now - I say once more - now, I did what I had necessarily to do; which was to make a course for this small ship. There was no crew. (Not anywhere.) The course was easy to compute, I did it rather well; but there was setting of instruments, automation of controls - oh, it took time, took time - but I did it. It was my way, I am workmanlike and reliable, ask Mother. The human race would not know an authentic Aldebaranian rocket from a lenticular Cetan shrimp, but they might, hey? The Aldebaranians had kindly developed rockets and it was no great trouble to bring, as well as more authentic. I brought. And having completed all this, and somewhat pleased. I stood to look around.
But I was not alone.
This was not a fortunate thing, it meant trouble.
I at once realized what my companion, however unseen, must be, since it could not be human, nor was it another child. Aldebaranian. It could be nothing else.
I stood absolutely motionless and looked, looked. As you have in almost certain probability never observed the interior of an Aldebaranian rocket, I shall describe: Green metal in cruciform shapes (‘chairs’), sparkling mosaics of coloured light (‘maps’), ferrous alloys in tortured cuprous-glassy conjunction (‘instruments’). All motionless. But something moved. I saw! An Aldebaranian ! One of the Triops, a foothigh manikin, looking up at me out of three terrified blue eyes; yes, I had brought the ship but I had not brought it empty, one of the creatures had stowed away aboard. And there it was.
I lunged towards it savagely. It looked up at me and squeaked like a belclass="underline" ‘Why? Why, Plinglot, why did you kill my people?’
It is so annoying to be held to account for every little thing. But I dissembled.
I said in moderate cunning: ‘Stand quiet, small creature, and let me get hold of you. Why are you not dead?’
It squeaked pathetically - not in English, to be sure! but I make allowances - it squeaked: ‘Plinglot, you came to our planet as a friend from outer space, one who wished to help our people join forces to destroy the great killing land beasts.’
‘That seemed appropriate,’ I conceded.
‘We believed you, Plinglot! All our nations believed you. But you caused dissension. You pitted us one against the other, so that one nation no longer trusted another. We had abandoned war, Plinglot, for more than a hundred years, for we dared not wage war.’
‘That is true,’ I agreed.
‘But you tricked us! War came, Plinglot! And at your hands. As this ship was plucked from its berth with only myself aboard I received radio messages that a great war was breaking out and that the seas were to be boiled. It is the ultimate weapon, Plinglot ! By now my planet is dry and dead. Why did you do it?’
‘Small Triop,’ I lectured, ‘listen to this. You are male, one supposes, and you must know that no female Aldebaranian survives. Very well You are the last of your race. There is no future. You might as well be dead.’