Brian W. Aldiss - Equator & Segregation

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EQUATOR AND

SEGREGATION

Brian Aldiss

Other books by this author available from New English Library:

SCIENCE FICTION ART! THE FANTASIES OF SF

THE DARK LIGHT YEARS

THE CANOPY OF TIME

SPACE, TIME AND NATHANIEL

EARTHWORKS

THE AIRS OF EARTH

THE INTERPRETER

COMIC INFERNO

EQUATOR

AND

SEGREGATION

Brian Aldiss

NEW ENGLISH LIBRARY

FIRST NEL PAPERBACK EDITION JUNE 1973

Reprinted June 1973 This new edition January 1977

Conditions of sale: This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or

otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any

form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including

this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

NEL Books are published by

New English Library Limited from Barnard’s Inn, Holborn, London EC1N2JR Made and printed in

Great Britain by Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd., Aylesbury, Bucks.

45003041 5

Evening shadows came across the spaceport in long strides. It was the one time of day when you could

almost feel the world rotating. In the rays of the sinking sun, dusty palms round the spaceport looked like

so many varnished cardboard props. By day, these palms seemed metal; by evening, so much papier

mache. In the tropics, nothing was itself, merely fabric stretched over heat, poses over pulses.

The palms bowed stiffly as Scout Ship AX25 blasted up into the sky, peppering them with another spray

of dust.

The three occupants of the ship were rocked back on their acceleration couches for only a few seconds.

Then Allan Cunliffe got up, strolled casually over to the port and gazed out. Nobody would guess from

his composed face that the ship had just embarked on a hazardous mission.

‘At once you begin to love,’ he said, looking down at the world with a kind of pride.

His friend, Tyne Leslie, nodded in an attempt at agreement. It was the best, at the moment, that he could

do. Joining Allan, he too looked out.

Already, he observed wonderingly, the mighty panorama of sunset was only a red stain on a carpet

below them; Sumatra lay across the equator like a roasting fish on a spit. Outside: a starry void. In his

stomach: another starry void.

At once you begin to live. . . . But this was Tyne’s first trip on the spy patrol; living meant extra adrenalin

walloping through his heart valves, the centipede track of prickles over his skin, the starry void in the

lesser intestine.

‘It’s the sort of feeling you don’t get behind an office desk,’ he said. Chalk one up to the office desk, he

thought.

Allan nodded, saying nothing. His silences were always positive. When the rest of the world was talking

as it never had before, Allan Cunliffe remained silent. Certainly he had as many mixed feelings about the

Rosks as anyone else on Earth: but be kept the lid on them. It was that quality as much as any other that

had guaranteed a firm friendship between Allan and Tyne, long before the latter followed his friend’s lead

and joined the space Service.

‘Let’s get forward and see Murray,’ Allan said, clapping Tyne on the back. Undoubtedly he had divined

something of the other’s feelings.

The scout was small, one of the Bristol-Cunard ‘Hynam’ line,, a three-berth job with light armament and

Betson-Watson ‘Medmenham X’ accelerators. The third member of the team, its leader, was Captain

Murray Mumford, one of the first men ever to set eyes on the Rosks, four years ago.

He grinned at the other two as they came into the cabin, set the autopilot, and turned round to face them.

‘Luna in five and a fraction hours,’ he said. Once you had seen Murray, you would never forget him.

Physically he was no more and no less than a superb specimen of broad-shouldered man-hood. Five

minutes with him convinced you that he had that extraordinary persuasive ability which, without a word

being said, could convert potential rivals into admirers. Tyne, always sensitive to the currents of human

feeling, was aware of this magnetic quality of Murray’s; he distrusted it merely because he knew Murray

himself was aware of it and frequently used it to his own advantage.

‘Well, what’s the picture?’ he asked, accepting a mescahale from Allan, trying to appear at ease.

‘With any luck, we’ll have a pretty quiet job for your first live op,’ Murray replied, as they lit their

mescahales. “The target area, as you know, is Luna Area 101. Luna Intelligence reports a new object

outside one of the Roskian domes. It’s small and immobile - so far, at any rate. It’s outside a dome on

the southern perimeter of Area 101, which means it is fairly accessible from Our point of view.’

‘What’s the state of light there now, Murray?’ Allan asked.

‘Sundown in Grimaldi, which contains Area 101, was four hours ago. Intelligence suspect the Rosks

may be planning some-thing under cover of darkness; we have imposed a lot of shipping restrictions on

their Earth-Luna route lately. So our orders are to slip in from the night side and investigate - obviously

without being seen, if possible. Just a quick look over, personal inspection in spacesuits. We should not

be out of the ship for more than twenty minutes. Then we streak for home again, heroes all.’

The starry void blossomed up again in Tyne’s midriff. Action; this was what he feared and what he

wanted. He looked at the lunar map Murray carelessly indicated. One small square of it, low in the third

quadrant covering Grimaldi, had been shaded yellow. This was Area 101. Beside it, in the same yellow

crayon, one word had been written: Rosk.

Tyne noticed Murray studying his face intently, and turned away, ‘World Government made a great

mistake in allowing the Rosks a base away from Earth,’ he said.

‘You were the diplomat when Allan and I were just squaddies in the Space Service,’ Murray said,

smiling. ‘You tell us why Area 101 was conceded to them.’

“The official reason given,’ Allan said, stepping in to back up his friend, ‘was that while we were being

kind to aliens we could not expect a space-travelling race to be pinned to one planet; we were morally

obliged to cede them a part of Grimaldi, so that they could indulge in Earth-Moon flight.’

‘Yes, that was the official face-saver,’ Tyne agreed. ‘Whenever it is beaten on any point of an agenda,

World Government, the United Nations Council, declares itself “morally obliged”. In actual fact, we had

rings made round us. The Rosks are so much better at argument and debate than we are, that at first they

could talk themselves into anything they wanted.”

‘And now the Space Service sorts out the results of the politi-cians’ muddle,’ Murray said. It sounded

slightly like a personal jibe; Tyne could not forget he had once been in politics; and in his present state of

tension, he did not ignore the remark.

‘You’d better ask yourself how fine a job the S.S. is doing, Murray. Human-Roskian relations have

deteriorated to such an extent this last year, that if we get caught in Area 101, we may well precipitate a

war.’

‘Spoken like a diplomat!’ Murray exclaimed sarcastically.

The three of them spent most of the next four and a half hours reading, hardly speaking at all.

‘Better look alert. Put your books away,’ Murray said sud-denly, jumping up and returning to the cabin.

‘Don’t mind Murray; he often behaves like a muscle-bound schoolmaster,’ Allan said laughing.

Not often, Tyne admitted to himself without bothering to contradict his friend aloud. Murray had drunk

with them several times at the Madeka Hotel in Sumatra; his manner then had been far from

schoolmasterly. He thought of Murray knocking back carioka till the early hours, rising later to eat with a

monstrous appetite, while Allan and Tyne beside him pushed away at the large unappetising breakfasts

the hotel provided.

The immediate present eclipsed Tyne’s thoughts as the great black segment of moon slid up at them. It

was like falling into a smile-shaped hole. Radar-guided, the scout became a tiny, moving chip of a ship

again, instead of a little world in its own right.

A few lights gleamed far ahead: Rosk lights, shining up from Area 101.

;’Strap in!’ Murray said, over the intercom.

They were braking. As deceleration increased, it felt as if they were plunging through water, then soup,

then treacle, then wood. Then they weren’t plunging at all. They were featherlight. With a bump, they

stopped. They were down.

‘All change; please have your alien identity cards ready!’ said Allan. Tyne wondered how he was

feeling, even as Allan smiled reassuringly at him.

Murray left the cabin, walking with something like a swagger. He was pleasantly excited. For him, this

was the simple life, with no cares but the present one.

“The radar-baffle’s on,’ he said. ‘No signs of alarm from our friends outside. Let’s get into our suits as

fast as possible.’

They climbed into the spacesuits. The process took half an hour, during which Tyne sweated freely,

wondering all the while if their ship had been sighted by Rosk lookouts. But there was no alternative. The

spacesuit is a tool; a bulky, complex, hazardous, pernicketty tool for surviving where one is not meant to

survive. It needs endless adjustment before it can be trusted. There was not a spacer in the system who

did not hate spacesuits, or envy the Rosks their immeasurably superior variety.

At last they had lashed, strapped, dogged and screwed each other into place. Three monstrous robots

bumbled round slowly in the confined space, nearly filling the ship with their bulk; they made with slow,

underwater gestures for the hatch. Five minutes later, they were all standing on the lunar surface in

complete darkness.

In what were already regarded as the old palmy days, before the Rosks arrived in the system, Tyne had

frequently been up to the moon, on pleasure and business. He was not prepared for how bleakly

uninviting the place appeared now. In the Grade-A darkness, Grimaldi was a desert of frozen soot.

‘We’ve something less than half a mile to the target dome,’ Murray said, his voice a whisper in the

headsets. ‘Let’s move!’ ‘ They saw by infra-red extensions. Murray led them along by the crater edge,

treading round spines of out-cropping debris. The alien domes became visible as black breasts against

sequin-studded silk. Through the little grille of his suit window, Tyne saw the world as a plaster mock-up

of a reality too unreal ever to be true. He himself was a pigmy imprisoned in the iron bowel of a robot

heading for destruction. Fighting off that irrational sensation, he peered ahead for the strange object they

had come to investigate.

Something lay ahead. It was impossible to see what it was. Tyne touched Allan’s arm. The latter swung

round, and then turned in the direction in which Tyne pointed. Murray paused, making a clumsily

impatient gesture to them to come on. Perhaps he feels vulnerable as I do, Tyne thought, sympathetically,

pointing again through the blackness for Murray’s benefit.

Next second, they were bathed in the ashy glare of a search-light, skewered neatly in mid-gesture.

The light came not from the domes ahead, but to one side, from a point by the crater wall. Tyne just

stood there, blinded, knowing they were trapped.

‘Drop!’ Allan shouted.

‘Shoot the light out!’ Murray said. His great metal-claw went down piston-fashion to the service pistol,

came up levelling the cumbrous weapon, jerked with the recoil. Allan and Tyne heard the shots only as

vibrant thuds through Murray’s suit mike.

He got the light. It cut off - but already another beam was striking out from the nearest dome, swerving

and sending an oval across the ash towards them. Probably they were being fired at, Tyne thought

detachedly; you would not know until you were hit. He had his pistol out and was firing too, rather wildly,

but towards where the enemy attack would come from.

‘Here they come! Make for the ship, Tyne!’ Allan bellowed.

As the new searchlight swamped them, Tyne caught a glimpse of moving forms. The Rosks had been

lying in wait for them. Then a hammer blow struck his shoulder, sending illuminated pain like a crazy neon

system all over his body. Gasping, he heard his suit creak with all the abandon of a falling tree. He was

going over . . . and as he went, he had a jigsaw puzzle, upside-down, glimpse of approaching Rosks.

When the Rosks had arrived in the solar system four and a half years before, one unambitious day in

March, 2189, an epoch ended, though comparatively few people realised it at the time, Man’s time of

isolation was over. No longer could he regard himself as the only sentient being in the universe. On his

doorstep stood a race superior to him scientifically if not morally.

The shock of the Roskian arrival was felt most severely in those countries which for several centuries

had been accustomed to regarding themselves as the world’s rulers, or the arbiters of its conduct. They

were now in the position of a school bully, who, looking carefully over his shoulder, finds the headmaster

standing over him.

The Rosks came in one mighty ship, and a quarter of the world’s population quaked in fear; another

quarter cheered with excitement; the wiser half reserved judgement. Some of them, four and a half years

later, were still reserving judgement. The Rosks were no easier to sum up than Earthmen.

Superficially, a Rosk resembled a man. Not a white man but, say, a Malayan. Their appearance varied

from one to another, but most of them had light brown skins, no/bridge to their noses, dark eyes. The

body temperature was 105.1 degrees, a sign of the hotter planet from which they came.

When the Rosks arrived, Tyne Leslie was the youngest second secretary to an under-secretary to the

Under-Secretary of the British Corps of the United Nations Council. He had witnessed the endless

fluttering in ministerial dovecotes that went on all over the world as the realities of the Rosk-Man situation

became apparent. For the true situation emerged only gradually, while language barriers were being

broken down. And the true situa-tion was both complicated and unpleasant.

Man learnt something of the impasse from a yellow-haired Rosk, Tawdell Co Barr, who was one of the

first Roskian spokes-man on the U.N.C

‘Our mother ship,’ he explained, ‘is an interstellar vessel housing four interplanetary craft and something

more than five thousand of our people, male and female. Most of them are colonists, seeking only a

world to live in. We have come from a world you would call Alpha Centauri II; ours is the first

inter-stellar voyage ever made from that beautiful but overcrowded planet. We came to Sol, our nearest

neighbour in the vastness of space, seeking room to live - only to find that its one habitable planet is

already swarming with men. Although we are happy to meet another sentient race, the depth of our

disappointment otherwise cannot be measured: our journey, our long journey, has been in vain.’

‘It’s a civil speech,’ Tyne commented, when he heard it. And other civil speeches followed, each

revealing at least one awkward fact about the Rosk visit.

To begin with, these facts almost passed unnoticed among the general run of humanity.

After the first wave of shock had passed round Earth, a tide of optimism followed. The real difficulties

inherent in the situa-tion only emerged later. Rosks were heroes; most people man-aged successfully to

hide their disappointment at the lack of bug eyes and tentacles in the visitors. Nor did they worry when

Tawdell Co Barr revealed that the Roskian political system was a dictatorship under the supreme Ap II

Dowl.

Civility, in fact - an uneasy civility on Earth’s part - was the order of the day. The big ship circled Earth

inside the lunar orbit, a handful of Rosks came down and fraternised, speaking either to the councillors of

the U.N.C. or over tridee to the multitude; or they visited some of the cities of Earth.

In return for Ms hospitality, they presented men with micro-film books about natural and social life on

Alpha Centauri II, as well as specimens of their literature and art, and preserved samples of their flora.

But no Earthman was allowed to enter their ship. Scientists, politicians, celebrities, newsmen, all were

politely refused admittance, and provided with acceptable explanations.

‘Our ship is as inviting as a charnel house,’ Co Barr admitted gravely. ‘Many of our people died on the

journey here. Many are dying now, from dietary and sunlight deficiencies, or from mental illnesses

brought about by lifelong incarceration. For we have been exiled for two exhausting generations in the

night of space. We can go no further. All we ask, all we beg of you, in your mercy, is a place in which we

may rest and recover from our ordeal.’

A place ... But what place? At first it seemed an almost im-possible question; the U.N.C. convened

practically without a break for weeks on end. For the first time in centuries, all nations were united - in a

determination not to allow the Rosks on to their territory.

In the end, two decisions emerged. First, that the Rosks should be granted an Earth base. Second,

where’ it should be.

Both answers were inevitable. Even Tyne, from his back seat in the debate, saw them coming. In the

human attitude to the Rosks lay both fear and envy; even if mercy should permit it, it was impossible to

demand of the Rosks that they leave the solar system again. Such a move might provoke them to

defiance of man. They might in desperation fight for the land they re-quired. And what weapons they

might possess was unknown; indeed, what gifts their science might yield upon more intimate acquaintance

was a matter for general speculation.

As for the site of the base, it had to be in an equatorial region. Earth’s equatorial belt was about as warm

as Alpha II’s tem-perate zone. A site in the middle of Africa might be too incon-venient; a small island

might prove too self-contained. The increasingly mighty nation of Brazil would tolerate no Rosks near her

borders. After many squawkings, orations, protests and uses of veto, an area of eighty square miles just

south of Padang in Sumatra was finally ceded as a Rosk base.

‘For this small gift our gratitude is immeasurable,’ Ap II Dowl, making one of his rare personal visits,

said. There were many who considered his choice of adjective unfortunate - or deliberate.

So the Rosks landed on Earth in their massive ship. It soon became clear that they never intended to

leave again; they had had enough of space.

Earth was unwilling to play permanent host. The Rosks, multiplying behind a perimeter they had rapidly

fortified, represented a threat no less ominous for being unformulated. Yet how to evict them ? It seemed

to Earth’s statesmen that the only possible line of action was to nag the Rosks into leaving.

Unfortunately, the more they scratched the sore, the more it itched.

Nation after nation sent its representatives into Sumatra, to see what could be seen, and to pick up any

Roskian secrets, if possible. In the big U.N.C. council chambers in Padang, Man and Rosk haggled and

talked, demanded and conceded, bluffed and argued. The situation was at once funny and tragic. That

old hope of profiting other than materially by the contact of two races was quite lost to view.

Except on diplomatic errands. Earthmen were not allowed into Rosk base, Rosks were not allowed

outside it - yet in practice spies on both sides infringed these laws. Padang became full of spies; nation

spying against nation, race against race. The situation became more complex still when, in an attempt to

ingratiate themselves, the U.N.C. ceded the small Lunar Area 101 to the visitors, to allow them to test

out their four inter-planetary ships.

‘This move touches my heart,’ Tawdell Co Barr declared. ‘We came as strangers; you welcome us as

friends. Together, Rosk and man will build a new and lasting civilisation.’

By this time, such fair words rang hollow.

Whether Tawdell meant it or not, the hopes he expressed were the hopes of many men, everywhere.

Unfortunately, this was Tawdell’s last public speech! He disappeared into the Rosk base and was not

heard of again. It was believed in diplomatic circles that the yellow-haired Rosk had been too friendly

towards man for his overlords’ liking. Ap II Dowl’s dictatorship, which had been formed in the harsh

environs of the ship, now took the reins. His henchmen sat at the council tables, and relations between

the two sides slowly deteriorated.

The spy patrol in which Murray, Allan and Tyne served was only one instance of that deterioration.

Something like a lemon. No, a melon. No, it was stretching; a cucumber. No, it was bending; a banana.

No, curling; a slice of melon. No, a melon again. Or was it - it was all distorted - was it a face? It

rippled, solidified. It took on a firm jaw and eyes staring fixedly down. It became Murray Mumford’s

face, seen through a haze of weakness.

‘Oh!’ groaned Tyne. He was in a bunk which still rippled at the edges, staring up at Murray.

‘How is it?’ Murray asked. ‘Feeling better?1

‘Drink of water,’ Tyne said.

He gulped it down when it was brought. His head cleared. He remembered the incident at 101, the

numbing blow on his spacesuit.

‘Where are we, Murray?’ he asked.

‘One hour out from Lunar, unpursued, heading back home,9 Murray told him. ‘I was too quick for the

Rosks. I thought you were never coming round. How do you feel ?’

“This is the best part of me.’ Tyne said ironically, raising his gloved left hand. Beneath the glove were

substitute steel fingers and palm: his real hand had been amputated after an air crash several years ago.

‘I don’t think there’s much more wrong with you,’ Murray said, ‘apart from a few bruises. The Rosks

fired on us. A bullet hit your suit glancingly on the shoulder; luckily no joints split, and shock absorbers

took most of the blow. How do you do it -magic rabbit’s foot?”

‘How did I get here? Didn’t I black out?”

‘You blacked out all right, went down like a felled ox. I part-dragged, part-carried you here,’ Murray

said. ‘Fortunately, as you went down I managed to shoot out the second Rosk search-light.’

‘Thanks, Murray,’ Tyne said, and only then, with a rush of guilt, remembered his friend. ‘Where’s

Allan?’

Murray turned away, drawing his thick brows together as if in pain. ‘I’m afraid Allan didn’t make it,’ he

said quietly.

‘How do you mean, didn’t make it?’

Swinging back to the bunk, as though he had suddenly found the words he wanted, Murray said, ‘Look,

Tyne, this may be difficult for you to take. Things got out of hand back there. It was a nasty spot - you

know that. When you went down, I grabbed you and got you over one shoulder. Allan shouted out to

me to run for it and leave you there. It must have been a moment of panic, I suppose. He wanted to leave

you for the Rosk. I told him to cover my retreat, and the next thing I knew, he was waving his gun in my

face, telling me he’d shoot me if I did not drop you!’

‘Allan!’ Tyne protested. ‘Allan said that?’

‘Have you ever panicked?’ Murray asked. “There are situa-tions when your moorings break loose, and

you don’t know what you are saying or doing. When I saw Allan’s gun in my face, and felt the Rosks

coming up behind, I -I lost control of what I was doing, too.’

He turned his head again, his big body tense in a way Tyne had never seen it before. The man on the

bunk felt his mouth go dry as he asked. ‘What did you do, Murray?’

Space slid by outside, sly, snakey, cold as time at a crisis, ignoring Murray as he said, ‘I shot Allan.

Right in the stomach.’

Tyne was bound down on his bunk. He could only wave his steel fist and his flesh fist, impotently.

‘There was nothing else to do,’ Murray said savagely, clutching one of the waving wrists. ‘Listen to me,

Tyne, should I have left you there, out cold ? We weren’t supposed to be in Area 101 - we had no legal

right. Would you rather have come to with a group of killer Rosks round you ? I did the only thing I

could. Allan Cunliffe mutinied; as captain, I dealt with it on the spot. There’s no more to it than that.’

‘But I know Allan,’ Tyne yelled. ‘How could he - he wouldn’t - he’s not the sort -‘

‘We none of us know each other,’ Murray shouted back. His face was dark, suffused with a feverish

look of excitement. ‘We don’t even know ourselves. In a moment of crisis, something takes over from us

- our id, or something. That’s what happened to Allan. Now shut up, and think things over till you see I

did the only possible thing.’

He strode forward into the cabin, slamming the door behind him, leaving Tyne alone.

Tyne lay where he was, churning the whole thing over in his brain. He could believe neither that his friend

was dead, nor that he had lost control of himself. Yet he could not do other than believe; after all,

submerged rivalry for promotion had always existed between Allan and Murray; perhaps in those

frightening seconds in the dark, it had come to a head.

Once before they landed, Murray returned to the crew room, to look in at Tyne. His manner was still

tense.

‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked.

‘I don’t want to see you,’ Tyne said grimly. ‘I’ll see you at the court of inquiry. Till then, keep out of my

way.’

His face setting into harsh lines, Murray came across to the bunk and put his hand over Tyne’s throat.

‘Watch what you’re saying and who you’re saying it to,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you the facts. I don’t like

them any better than you do. If Allan had not suddenly turned coward, he’d be here with us now.’

Tyne brought his steel left hand over, clasping the other’s wrist, squeezing, squeezing. Letting out a gasp

of pain, Murray pulled his arm away; a bracelet of red flesh encircled it. He allowed Tyne one look of

malice, then went back and shut him-self in the cabin. It was the last Tyne would see of him for a

surprisingly long while.

When they landed, Tyne lay patiently for a time, then bellowed for Murray to come and release him.

Webbed straps, fastening under the bunk, ensured that he could not release himself. No answer came to

his shouts. After twenty minutes, the rear air lock opened, and two Sumatran medical orderlies entered

with a stretcher.

From them, Tyne gathered that he was back at Patrol H.Q. Murray had phoned straight through to the

hospital, telling them to collect him from the scout for examination.

‘I’ll come round for examination later,’ Tyne said, testily. ‘Right now, I have to report to the

Commander.’

‘Don’t worry; the Commander has already been informed about the state of your health,’ one of the

orderlies said.

Despite Tyne’s protests, the man was adamant. From his replies, it seemed as if Murray had cast some

doubts on Tyne’s sanity. So Tyne was carted to the military hospital on a stretcher.

Procedure there was no more rapid than in any other hospital. It took the doctors a long while to decide

that Tyne Leslie was sane but savage, bruised but sound. In between the examinations were periods of

waiting. All this, Tyne thought angrily, smoking his way through a packet of mescahales, was Murray’s

doing: the scout captain had fixed this so that Tyne’s report was delayed. Well, he would fix Murray.

Murray was going to be in trouble.

After two hours, buttoning up his uniform, he hurried over to Squadron Office. There a surprise awaited

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EQUATORANDSEGREGATIONBrianAldiss OtherbooksbythisauthoravailablefromNewEnglishLibrary:SCIENCEFICTIONART!THEFANTASIESOFSFTHEDARKLIGHTYEARSTHECANOPYOFTIMESPACE,TIMEANDNATHANIELEARTHWORKSTHEAIRSOFEARTHTHEINTERPRETERCOMICINFERNO EQUATORANDSEGREGATIONBrianAldissNEWENGLISHLIBRARYFirstpublishedinGrea...

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