“Damn stuff looks like orangeade in this yellow light,” he said. “Don’t let that fool you—it isn’t. In white light, in the ship, it’s red. In the red time, it’s a beautiful dark ruby. Heart’s blood, we call it. Native brew. Potent. It’ll be the death of me. Cheers.”
Sherret watched him over the rim of his glass.
“Is the ship—” he began, and choked as a fireball exploded in his gullet. Captain Bagshaw guffawed. “You’ll get used to that delayed action in time.”
When Sherret could speak, he tried again, “Is the ship still being run under Reparism?”
“Good lord, no. Repairism is passé—don’t you know?”
There was more than a trace of bitterness in Bagshaw’s tone. He took another gulp of the brew.
“Goffism is the bright new hope of Earth,” he went on. “Don’t believe in it myself. Don’t believe in anything much any more.”
“You don’t have Goffism here, then?”
“We do not. We certainly do not. We don’t have any Kings for a Day kicking us around. We all do as we damn well please.”
“But—”
“Look, son, we’ve had it. The dream days of Reparism are over for us. Oh, it’ll come back. Like the horse. After we’re dead. That won’t do us much good, will it?
I’ve no family, so what the hell does it matter to me? I used to sit here on my then respectable ass waiting for notification from HQ that I’d been given an award for the success of this expedition. I lived for those gongs, stars and ribbons, y’know—the eternal fossilized boy scout. I hoped they’d make me a colonel. But those Goffists back on Earth—why, they don’t even bother themselves to answer our messages. What does the latest jack-in-office care about us stuck out here on Amara? They’re too busy with their private vendettas. Look at what happened to that poor chump Maxton.”
“What, sir?”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Alex. I’m Bob to you. Good old Bob Bagshaw. Maxton? Oh, they hung him. Chief Engineer’s orders—what’s his name?—Mackay. He was sorry afterwards. The Scots get murderous in drink, y’know. They were all blind drunk. Must be a foul native brew in those parts. This stuff isn’t like that. It makes you feel fine, good, benevolent—know what I mean? We Pegasus chaps go like a bomb together here. Happy band of brothers, and all that. The natives worry me, though. The men, that is. The women are a fine-looking lot, comely wenches. You saw them?”
Sherret started. His thoughts were far away. He was thinking about Captain Maxton and his fate, and his own shipmates, and their likely fate.
“Yes, I saw the natives, sir. They seemed to imagine I was a little tin god.”
Bagshaw shook his head. His fat cheeks, wobbled. He tapped the ship’s ladder.
“This is the little tin god—the Pegasus. At least, it’s supposed to be the temple of the god. And we’re the priests of the god, to be respected as such. That’s what the natives made up out of their own little heads when we arrived, and at the time we saw no reason to disillusion them. For they’re a tough crowd. They’d kill you as soon as look at you if you didn’t have some kind of hold over them. I was a fool. I took the easy, ready-made, reach-me-down way. Not like me in those days, either. But there you are. And now it’s going to backfire on me—on all of us.”
“In what way, sir?”
“You’ve seen the slow burn, as they call it?”
“Yes. It’s heading right for the ship,” said Sherret, starting another loaf.
“You’re right, Alex. It’s heading for the village, too. When Pegasus landed smack in its path, the natives assumed a god had descended from Olympus, or thereabouts, to cry, ‘Halt! You shall not pass. I have come to save Na-Abiza.’
Egotistical lot! Swollen-headed mutts! But it’ll burn through poor old Pegasus like a super blow-torch. In anything from ten to fifteen years, I reckon. But it’s unlikely I’ll be around then. Heart’s blood will have taken care of me. But how better to pass the time than in merry wassail? My men like the women here, too. Most of ’em have gone native to some extent. Hang the women, I say. For me—the grape.”
“But, sir—Bob—why don’t you get to hell out of it before the showdown? When the natives see the ship succumb to the slow burn, and their village in danger again, they’ll go hopping mad. If you’re still around here, they’ll probably kill you. Get out while the going’s good. Amara’s plenty big enough to get lost in.”
“Lost? I’m already lost, Alex. Still, I did plan a move from here, long ago. But I’d already lost authority through accepting this priesthood masquerade. The men had become too happy here. They’d never been made such a fuss of in all their lives. Not a man would come with me. Not one. If only one of ’em had crossed to my side of the line… Pity you weren’t drafted to my bunch, Alex. You’d have come with me.”
“Sure I would, Bob.”
Bagshaw sighed. “It means everything to have someone you can count on.”
Sherret thought, You’re too right.
Aloud, he said, “Well, it’s not too late. Come with me now.”
Bagshaw shook his head. “Too out of condition. Amara’s too tough for me now, I can’t take it. I’ve been out there. You can’t rely on a damn thing. You never know what’s going to hit you next, but one thing you can be sure of—it’ll be an unpleasant surprise packet. An unpredictable world. I can’t adapt to it, I’m a product of Reparism. There’s no place for me on this lunatic planet. But if you can take it, then you’re a man, my son. Got a B-stick on you? No, I thought not. Run out of ’em long since. Know what? I wish we hadn’t run right out of fuel when we landed. Wish we had something left in the drive-box, just enough to blast Pegasus out of here—and I wouldn’t care a curse where we crashed. End with a bang, not a whimper. Where’s your glass?”
“Thanks, I’ve had enough. Enough of everything. I’m moving on now, Bob.”
“But you haven’t met any of the boys. Digger, Fritzy, and Doc Lamont—you know them. Doc’s up in the ship. The others are with their lady loves in the village. They’d be glad to see you.”
“Another time, maybe,” said Sherret. But he knew there would never be another time. “Good-bye, Captain.” He grasped Bagshaw’s hand and shook it.
“I’m sorry you’re not staying, Alex. Yet, in another way, I’m glad. You may make out. The rest of us have made a mess of it.”
He insisted that Sherret take a big plastic bag stuffed with food from the heap of offerings, and a full wineskin. He saw him off at the gate, and the natives made obeisance to both of them. Bagshaw indicated them with good-humored contempt.
“If they could read our minds, within the hour we’d be fatting all the region kites. Especially me.” He thumped his paunch.
Sherret climbed up and over the ridge, and never once looked back. There was nothing to look back on. Na-Abiza—the Na-Abiza of his imagination—just wasn’t there.
He recalled that conversation with the Paddy at the outset of the trek. It had seemed sheer nonsense at the time.
“Have you ever been to Na-Abiza?”
“Yes, I have, human, but I didn’t get there.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t there when I got there.”
“But you just said you didn’t get there.”
“Of course I didn’t, human, if it wasn’t there.”
“Well, is it there now?”
“How can I tell? I’m here, not there.”
Yes, he would always be here, but never there. The paradox was that a man just wasn’t here, was nothing, if he weren’t trying to get there. Shakespeare had said it, as he’d said everything. You had “to shine in use, or rust in monumental mockery.”
But one didn’t learn from books, only from one’s own experience. As a youth, he’d read Stevenson’s proclamation that to travel hopefully was a better thing than to arrive. He agreed, but mental subscription wasn’t enough. As a man, he’d have to learn it the hard way.