Orb (7 page)

“I was about sixty meters from the three San and, lucky for me, two of them were busy at the carcass, knives in hand. Before I could react, the third San grabbed an arrow from his quiver, drew back, aimed, and let loose a shot at me. It got my attention. I distinctly remember the whistling sound of the fletching as a poisoned arrow sailed past my ear. In the next instant I had him squarely in my rifle sight but the foolish bastard underestimated me, or didn’t believe I’d fire. Whatever the miscommunication I’ll never know, but he reached for another arrow and wound up shot dead for it. The other two San quickly disappeared into the bush, never to be seen by me again.

“As you probably have surmised, what you’re looking at is the native bow and remaining arrows, albeit the poison removed for safety. Out of admiration for the native’s skill I learned to use that bow. I also learned something about the San. In the process, there was one thing I was forced to consider. A Cape buffalo may take days to die from poisoned arrows, so it is conceivable the animal was hunted onto the park from adjoining lands—lands where hunting was permitted. I don’t much believe in the mystique of the “noble savage” but, looking from their perspective, the San likely believed they were justified in doing what they knew: Hunting bush meat, maybe getting money for the horns. They may have had families to keep alive, who knows, but I’d be lying if I told you what happened doesn’t still trouble me. I mounted the bow as a reminder of a disappearing way of life; a reminder that there can be a heavy price to protect what you believe in, though the San paid a dearer price by far.”

I told Thompson I appreciated hearing the story. I then asked him if he remembered how we felt months ago when we watched as the Earth, then the Sun, were reduced to pinpoints of light, then were gone. I asked him if the emptiness we felt was, in small measure, similar to what the San and other cultures felt as they watched their world disappear. He seemed to have anticipated the question, for he immediately and emphatically replied he believed so, yes.

My question, and his story, put Thompson in a somber mood. I made an educated guess and figured he wouldn’t be entertaining any more inquiries. What helped tipped me off was being told to
let
the cabin door hit me in the ass on the way out.

Typical Thompson, on the outside coarse as forty-grit sandpaper, ignoring what he felt was the unnecessary encumbrance of verbal niceties. He had an unflagging appetite for dishing out sarcasm and encouraging riposte. It was then (and only then) he deliberately repudiated his status as mission commander. Arguments, you see, when not waged in anger, were great entertainment value to him.

On the inside he was, I had learned, quite a bit smoother. Though he tried to mask it, his concern for each member of the crew was absolute: His cabin door might hit you in the ass on the way out, yet that same door was always wide open if you needed to make your way in.

I thought I saw other contrasts in Thompson. Self-taught in native culture, a hunter, fisherman and geologist; he seemed preoccupied with chipping away at the past. And yet, as mission commander, treading where few, or none, have gone before, he was on the cutting edge of the future. Of these two colliding worlds, I wondered which he was more at home in. Perhaps neither, but if I was to find a common denominator it would be in the pure adventure he sought, and found, excavating the unknown.

He certainly was intelligent enough to confront all the many challenges he set for himself. In his chosen field of geology he was near the top, but unlike Melhaus (and most other scientists for that matter) he didn’t much care for peer recognition. His physical appearance also flew in the face of the stereotypical bespectacled, lanky scientist. He was not overly tall, but broad, heavily muscled in the chest, legs, and forearms—likely due to his dedication to tough field work and the pursuits of bow hunting and sport fishing. Given his physical and mental attributes, if I were in a tight spot, Thompson would be on my A-list to handle it.

At dinner, when everyone was gathered and slightly more receptive to something other than the work they were immersed in, I decided to share the theory I had broached with Thompson; that, in short, leaving Earth behind may have adverse and unrecognized behavioral consequences. Not only was I seeking the crew’s opinion, but I was hoping that verbalizing the idea, especially if it was determined to have some merit, would provide a beneficial effect.

“Help me out with something I’m working on,” I said to no one at particular. “Call it the Sanctuary Theory, if you will.” I explained. “Maybe something in your respective disciplines would be relevant, or perhaps a personal experience. On the other hand, you can diplomatically inform me that the idea isn’t worth shit.”

I was grateful when Thompson, who apparently wanted to give the ensuing conversation some impetus, chimed in first.

“I had the advantage of hearing Kyle’s idea earlier,” he said. “Keep in mind he is singling out a potential source of stress, possibly depression, specifically related to extrasolar spaceflight. I construed this to mean leaving the heliosphere. Two thoughts came to mind. The Sun’s magnetic field extends throughout the solar system and its effect on brain waves is well known. Could the complete absence of this field have a detrimental effect? And what are the effects of exposure to the varying intensities of dark energy? I searched the AI for both these topics and found no completed studies. Anybody aware of any?”

No one had heard of a study dealing with these matters.

“What interests me,” said Diana, “is not being able to see the Sun. I’m not referring to Seasonal Affected Disorder. The steps taken to address sunlight deprivation on spaceflights aren’t exactly a big secret. Let’s go beyond that, to losing all contact with the Sun. There is some research. A few individuals voluntarily living in caves—and to varying degree they succumbed to depression. Animals observed during solar eclipses exhibit behavioral changes that resemble symptoms of stress. I can add a personal note. The day we lost sight of Earth and Sun, I wept. Why, I’m not really sure. I partially attributed it to hormones, but the feeling has been hard to shake. Personally, I think Kyle’s put a name on it.”

“There are additional studies related to my field of expertise,” Paul added, “that go beyond the sunlight component of SAD. They prove human behavior is also affected by barometric pressure, temperature, wind, precipitation, too many days of identical weather, variation to the length of day, season changes and so on. Since this is true, Kyle, I suggest that the absence of all weather should also influence behavior. This, at best, is a contributory factor to the affliction you are trying to describe. It is not a new phenomenon. After all, extrasolar missions have been preceded by three centuries of intrasolar spaceflights.”

“New or not,” Kelly volunteered, “we cannot underestimate the psychological effect of losing every vestige of contact with family and friends. Whatever the cause, physical or psychological, stress levels onboard are likely to increase. I shouldn’t have to chase after
any
of you if you are experiencing a problem in this regard.” The admonition was deliberately phrased to be non-person-specific. Nevertheless, I thought I saw Melhaus’s features stiffen.

“In the near term,” Kelly continued, “I want to see each of you, without exception, for a full exam. And I have a question for you, Larry.” (Now, undoubtedly, Melhaus tensed up, relaxing only after realizing the question posed to him was not to be of a personal nature.) “For the next eight days our exposure to artificial sunlight will be lessened, supplanted by the sunlight available on P5. How does that sunlight compare to Earth’s?”

“Favorably,” Melhaus responded, “P5’s sun radiates a light that is—both in spectrum and intensity—more beneficial to human health. Blue, green, and yellow wavelengths of four hundred seventy to five hundred seventy nanometers predominate. The average intensity of surface sunlight as the planet reaches its perihelion is a relatively bright three hundred ten watts per meter squared.”

“Thank you for that information,” Kelly said.

Melhaus, avoiding what he believed to be useless discourse, failed to acknowledge the gratitude. Instead, he addressed me.

“As to the idea prompting this conversation. First off, Mr. Lorenzo, your proposition should be identified as conjecture, not theory. Never a theory. A theory is formulated after careful observation and measurement. You’ve done no measurements and scant observation.”

“You’re correct, Larry,” I replied, careful to keep any trace of irritation regarding his blunt manner out of my voice. I was grateful he appeared willing to give my non-theory consideration. “I should have been more careful with my choice of words.”

“That being said,” he continued, “a well-designed study would entail submitting human subjects to conditions duplicating extrasolar spaceflight with subsequent administration of psychological tests on these same subjects. Barring that near impossibility, a more logical starting point is examination of those individuals who
have
left the solar system in order to determine if they experienced behavioral problems. A very rudimentary question follows: Excluding this crew, what information, if any, do you have on individuals that have been on extrasolar missions?”

I hesitated a moment. “Not much,” I answered. I was being evasive, not sure if the information Thompson shared with me concerning the previous expedition was for general consumption.

“Earlier today,” Thompson interjected, “I informed Kyle that I had gained the confidence of the prior mission commander. He alerted me to the inordinately high levels of stress, cause unknown, seen within himself and the members of his crew. That disclosure coincided with what I considered to be unusual attempts by the Agency to address stress on our mission.”

“And you were going to notify the rest of the crew of this when?” Melhaus said in an accusatorial tone.

“When I judged the need to know arose,” Thompson responded in an even voice. “Are you questioning that?”

“And what prompted the release of information at this juncture?” Melhaus continued. His anger was building, but for the moment he was avoiding an overt challenge to Thompson’s authority.

“An answer can be found in your recent deportment.”

“I see,” said Melhaus, not at all satisfied. “Carefully phrased in what Kyle here would call a riddle.”

“No, Larry, you’re way too intelligent to say that was a riddle. Intelligent enough to understand that if I have a problem with you, plain and simple, you’ll be the first to know.”

The ship’s eerie silence descended—to which nobody ventured a disturbing word.

“Kyle, I’m not sure you got what you wanted here,” Thompson said after a moment, “but unless you or anybody else has something to add I suggest we go about the pressing business at hand.”

I thanked everyone for their input but failed to keep an expression of dismay from my face. As the crew dispersed to go about their work, I caught a brief look of sympathetic understanding from Kelly.

Despite my best intention, broaching my hypothesis with the crew did not have the positive effect I hoped for. On the contrary, the ensuing conversation culminated with everyone ill at ease. Worse, I may have inadvertently helped widen the divide developing between Thompson and Melhaus.

Several hours had elapsed and
Desio
, now in a lower orbit, was companioning the planet as it entered into night.

What was awaiting us down there? Would the unknown conveniently fit within the realm of human experience or, more likely, would it rise to challenge, perhaps surpass, our imagination? One tantalizing mystery had already presented itself.

Desio
was passing over that portion of the planet which was spinning away from the steel blue sun into blackness. The crew, anxious to see a world without a dense web of artificial light marring its surface, had crowded at the main viewport. But as we transgressed the thin terminator line dividing day from night, instead of total and uninterrupted blackness, there appeared on the planet’s surface countless tiny flecks of colored light. They emerged slowly at first, like early evening fireflies; then with ever greater rapidity as we progressed further into the realm of expected darkness. Diana said there was no evidence to suggest the phenomenon was produced by the plankton-like organisms that were prolific in the planet’s ocean. Paul suggested that the colors were some type of atmospheric disturbances. At the same time he wondered why there were no lights above the steadily shrinking icecaps.

Teloptics further resolved each speck as perfect circles of varying sizes, ostensibly residing on, or very close to, the ocean surface—as seen from our top-down view. None were greater than twenty meters across.

Thompson and Melhaus, after reviewing every scrap of sensor data, could offer no plausible explanation.

In the end, a consensus was reached: A similar phenomenon had never been observed before; that our present altitude rendered it unamenable to explanation. This, truth be told, gave the four scientists secret satisfaction, for they wanted nothing more than a great mystery to unravel.

The others had turned in for the evening and I found myself alone in the darkened mission room, again drawn to the unspoiled world. The inscrutable mystery of the glowing lights, the distant and untouched beauty, the surrounding panoply of stars—these were captivating wonders to behold. Together they conspired to affect in me a singular thought—not of science and solutions, but of fancy, of literature. An ancient compilation of fables,
One Thousand and One Arabian Nights (Alf Laylah Wa Laylah)
came to mind.

The ancient fable is framed around the storytelling ability of a vizier’s daughter, Scheherazade, who marries a Persian king who has an unfortunate history of wedding—and executing the following morning—a succession of virgins so as to exact vengeance for the actions of his unfaithful first wife. Scheherazade, to save herself from the same unjust fate, each night tells the king a fantastical story, only to leave it unfinished, or claim a more imaginative story will follow. By doing so, night after night, for a thousand and one nights, she postpones her own death until she is pardoned.