The Colonists
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THE COLONISTS
By Raymond F. Jones
Illustrated by Paul Orban
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of ScienceFiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _If historical precedent be wrong--what qualities, then, mustman possess to successfully colonize new worlds? Doctor Ashby said:"There is no piece of data you cannot find, provided you can devise theproper experimental procedure for turning it up." Now--about the man andthe procedure...._]
This was the rainy year. Last year had been the dry one, and it wouldcome again. But they wouldn't be here to see it, Captain Louis Carnahanthought. They had seen four dry ones, and now had come the fourth wetone, and soon they would be going home. For them, this was the end ofthe cycle.
At first they had kept track of the days, checking each one off on theircalendars, but the calendars had long since been mingledindistinguishably with the stuff of the planet itself--along with mostof the rest of their equipment. By that time, however, they had learnedthat the cycle of wet and dry seasons was almost precisely equivalent toa pair of their own Terran years, so they had no more need for thecalendars.
But at the beginning of this wet season Carnahan had begun marking offthe days once again with scratches on the post of the hut in which helived. The chronometers were gone, too, but one and three-quarters Earthdays equalled one Serrengian day, and by that he could compute when theships from Earth were due.
He had dug moats about the hut to keep rain water from coming in overhis dirt floor. Only two of the walls were erected, and he didn't knowor much care whether he would get the other two up or not. Most of thematerials had blown away during the last dry period and he doubted verymuch that he would replace them. The two available walls were corneredagainst the prevailing winds. The roof was still in good shape, allowinghim a sufficient space free of leaks to accommodate his cooking and themat which he called a bed.
He picked up a gourd container from the rough bench in the center of theroom and took a swallow of the burning liquid. From the front of the huthe looked out over the rain swept terrain at the circle of huts.Diametrically across from him he could see Bolinger, the littlebiologist, moving energetically about. Bolinger was the only one who hadretained any semblance of scientific interest. He puttered continuallyover his collection, which had grown enormously over the eight yearperiod.
When they got back, Bolinger at least would have some accomplishment toview with pride. The rest of them--?
Carnahan laughed sharply and took another big swallow from the gourd,feeling the fresh surge of hot liquor already crossing the portals ofhis brain, bringing its false sense of wisdom and clarity. He knew itwas false, but it was the only source of wisdom he had left, he toldhimself.
He staggered back to the bed with the gourd. He caught a glimpse of hisimage in the small steel mirror on the little table at the end of thebed. Pausing to stare, he stroked the thick mat of beard and ran hisfingers through the mane of hair that had been very black when he came,and was now a dirty silver grey.
He hadn't looked at himself for a long time, but now he had to. He hadto know what they would see when the ships of Earth came to pick up thepersonnel of the Base and leave another crew. The image made him sick.
At the beginning of this final season of the rains, all his life beforecoming to Serrengia seemed like a dream that had never been real. Now itwas coming back, as if he were measuring the final distance of a circleand approaching once again his starting point. He kept remembering moreand more. Watching his image in the mirror, he remembered what GeneralWinthrop had said on the day of their departure. "The pick of Earth'sfinest," the General said. "We have combed the Earth and you are the menwe have chosen to represent Mankind in the far reaches of the Universe.Remember that wherever you go, there goes the honor of Mankind. Do not,above all, betray that honor."
Carnahan clenched his teeth in bitterness. He wished old fatty Winthrophad come with them. Savagely he upended the gourd and flung it acrossthe room. It meant a trip to Bailey's hut to get it replenished. Baileyhad been the Chief Physicist. Now he was the official distiller, and therotgut he produced was the only thing that made existence bearable.
The Captain stared again at his own image. "Captain Louis Carnahan," hemurmured aloud. "The pick of Earth's finest--!" He smashed a fist at thelittle metal mirror and sent it flying across the room. The tablecrashed over, one feeble leg twisting brokenly. Then Carnahan hunchedover with his face buried against the bed. His fists beat against itwhile his shoulders jerked in familiar, drunken sobs.
After it was over he raised up, sitting on the edge of the bed. His mindburned with devastating clarity. It seemed for once he could remembereverything that had ever happened to him. He remembered it all. Heremembered his childhood under the bright, pleasant sky of Earth. Heremembered his ambition to be a soldier, which meant spaceman, eventhen. He remembered his first flight, a simple training tour of the Mooninstallations. It convinced him that never again could he considerhimself an Earthman in the sense of one who dwells upon the Earth. Hisrealm was the sky and the stars. Not even the short period when he hadallowed himself to be in love had changed his convictions. He hadsacrificed everything his career demanded.
Where had it gone wrong? How could he have allowed himself to forget?For years he had forgotten, he realized in horror. He had forgotten thatEarth existed. He had forgotten how he came to be here, and why. And allthat he was meant to accomplish had gone undone. For years thescientific work of the great base expedition had been ignored. Only thelittle biologist across the way, pecking at his tasks season afterseason, had accomplished anything.
And now the ships were coming to demand an accounting.
He groaned aloud as the vision became more terrible. He thought of thatday when they had arrived at the inhospitable and uninhabited world ofSerrengia. He could close his eyes and see it again--the four tall shipsstanding on the plateau that was scarred by their landing. The men hadbeen so proud of what they had done and would yet do. They could seenothing to defeat them as they unloaded the mountains of equipment andsupplies.
Now that same equipment lay oozing in the muck of leafy decomposition,corroded and useless like the men themselves. And in the dry seasons ithad been alternately buried and blasted by the sands and the winds.
He remembered exactly the day and the hour when they had cracked beyondall recovery. With an iron hand he had held them for three years. Weeklyhe demanded an appearance in full dress uniform, and hard discipline inall their relationships was the rule. Then one day he let the dressreview go. They had come in from a long trek through a jungle that wasrenewing itself after a dry season. Too exhausted in body and spirit,and filled with an increasing sense of futility, he abandoned for themoment the formalities he had held to.
After that it was easy. They fell apart all around him. He tried to holdthem, settling quarrels that verged on mutiny. Then in the sixth monthof the fourth year he had to kill with his own hands the first of hiscrazed and rebellious crew. The scientific work disintegrated and wasabandoned. He remembered he had locked up all their notes andobservations and charts, but where he had hidden the metal chest was oneof the few things he seemed unable to recall.
The more violent of the expedition killed each other off, or wanderedinto the jungle or desert and never came back. On the even dozen whowere left there had settled a kind of monastic hermitage. Each man keptto himself, aware that a hairbreadth trespass against his neighbor wouldmean quick challenge
to the death. Yet they clung to membership in thisdegenerate community as if it represented their last claim to humanness.
This is what they would see though. They would see his personal failure.It _was_ his, there was no question of that. If he had been strong hecould have held the expedition together. He could have maintained thebase in all the strength and honor of military tradition that had beenentrusted to him. He hadn't been strong enough.
The ships would come. The four of them. They might come tomorrow or eventoday. A panic crept through him. The ships could land at any time now,and their men would come marching out to greet him in his failure andcowardice and his dishonor. It must not happen. Old fatty Winthrop hadsaid one thing that made sense: "--there goes the honor of Mankind. Donot, above all, betray that honor."
Fatty was right. The only thing he had left was honor, and in only oneway could he retain it.
With the fiery clarity burning in his brain he struggled from where helay and picked up the