Spiral

By Agustín de Rojas and Nick Caistor

The long-awaited capstone to the landmark trilogy that began with A Legend of the Future and The Year 200 by Agustín de Rojas, “one of Cuba’s greatest science fiction writers” —SF Signal

The winner of Cuba’s prestigious Premio David in 1980, Spiral is another magisterial space opera from the late great science fiction author Agustín de Rojas. Deeply committed to the Revolution, Rojas presents a stunning critique of the Cuban regime under Fidel Castro by inviting the comparison of Spiral’s fictional moral universe, one in which Che Guevara’s principles of socialism are followed to the letter, with the brutal realities of everyday Cuba.

Decades after the devastating Catastrophe, Earth has become a radioactive wasteland sparsely populated by bands of genetically modified humans struggling to survive on limited resources. An expedition of ten explorers from the Aurora planet returns to this desolate landscape to investigate the mysterious causes of its destruction. But when an unexpected guest breaks into their base, the team needs to wield all of its brain power not only to make sense of the helpless planet but also to stay together as a community.

Spiral is a compelling novel concerned with the ethics of scientific exploration and the human relationships caught up in it. Weaving biology, ecology and sociology into this sci-fi narrative, Agustín de Rojas manages to paint a devastating picture of a planet torn apart by two irreconcilable economic powers that so closely resemble the Cold War context in which the story was published.

The novel is very meticulous in its exploration of the professional dilemmas of this crew of scientists and explorers who need to stay true to the utopian values that made the journey possible. Yet it is their emotional responses as human beings that elevate the plot and make Spiral a captivating tale of endurance and curiosity for contemporary readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Restless Books
• Release date: Jul 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781632060716

Agustín de Rojas

Agustín de Rojas (1949-2011) is the patron saint of Cuban science fiction. A professor of the history of theater at the Escuela de Instructores de Arte in Villa Clara, he authored a canonical trilogy of novels consisting of Espiral (Spiral, 1982), for which he was awarded the David Prize; Una leyenda del futuro (A Legend of the Future, 1985); and El año 200 (The Year 200, 1990), all of which are scheduled for publication in English translation by Restless Books. While he was heavily influenced by Ray Bradbury and translated Isaac Asimov into Spanish, de Rojas aligned himself mostly with Soviet writers such as Ivan Yefremov and the brothers Arkady and Boris Strugatsky . After the fall of the Soviet Union, de Rojas stopped writing science fiction. He spent his final years persuaded—and persuading others—that Fidel Castro did not exist. Agustín de Rojas (1949-2011) es el padre de la ciencia ficción cubana. Profesor de historia teatral en la Escuela de Instructores de Arte de Villa Clara, de Rojas es autor de una afamada trilogía que consiste en Espiral (1982), que recibió el Premio David; Una leyenda del futuro (1985); y El año 200 (1990), todas ellas de próxima aparición en traducción al inglés bajo el sello editorial Restless Books. Fuertemente influenciado por Ray Bradbury, de Rojas, que tradujo al español a Isaac Assimov, se sumó a la línea soviética de Ivan Yefremov, los hermanos Arkady y Boris Strugatsky. Luego de la caída de la Unión Soviética, de Rojas dejó de escribir ciencia ficción. Pasó los últimos años de su vida convencido—y convenciendo a los demás—que Fidel Castro no existía.

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Prologue

Seven days earlier

The emptiness dissolves

in dark whirlpools… With the same rhythm as the labored breathing, the wrenching wave from the stomach rises and falls. The hands instinctively reach out toward the heavy weight, to shift it; uncertainly, they feel the emptiness… and lie awkwardly on the naked skin; a painful lightning flash speeds along the nerves, reaches the brain, violently propels Derek out of unconsciousness.

His eyelids are still closed, but a faint light is already visible through them. An effort, the muscles contract, the eyes open; then close again quickly, blinded by the dazzling white light. Among a thousand confused memories, one clear identification: ‘The ceiling… the ceiling of the Physiology Department.’ Attention focuses on the source of the pain still throbbing down below. ‘What am I doing here?’ Bitterly, he confirms the unpleasant lacuna in his memory.

The hands slide up and down, move back, feeling, identifying, limiting the site of the pain: ‘The mouth of the stomach.’ He analyzes the sensations from his body: ‘Is there something else?’ He tries small, careful movements: the suggestion of a turn, a slight bending of the legs, moving his head from side to side, fearfully anticipating the electric lash…

Open your eyes, darling. Luckily it wasn’t anything serious.

‘Alma. That’s Alma.’ Half-opening his eyes, Derek turns his head toward the voice, looking for and finding the young face framed by ashen-colored hair, coming to a halt at the smiling green eyes that show their bewilderment, concern, and doubt when he asks:

What happened to me, Alma? Why am I here?

Three days earlier

The wall gradually fades, letting in a flood of bright light… In the distance, the jagged outline of a mountain range, standing out sharply against the bright blue sky; closer to, the endless green and yellow sea lapping at the edges of the Base, splitting into clumps of low vegetation until it disappears, dying against the circle of bare land. Inside the invisible dome, there is busy activity on the gray rectangle—the landing strip—where the service robots are scurrying around the interplanetary spaceship. Two human figures, one tall and the other short, still wearing their radiation protection suits, are going from one side to the other, supervising, checking, directing the transfer of the cargo to the Central Headquarters.

The last container sets off; behind it the two human figures bring up the rear; one is striding out normally; the other is struggling to keep up, almost running… Sheila moves away from the transparent wall, goes over to the control panel, presses a button. The wall slowly darkens, the living picture disappears. What is left is a room with indistinguishable walls, illuminated by a light that seems to emanate from the air itself. Sheila slowly goes through the tidy piles of gray cards. ‘I won’t have long to wait for him; five minutes at most.’

Do you really remember nothing, Derek? That’s impossible. Make an effort: you were in the daily session of martial arts. You and Igor began to spar…

The image reappears: Derek can see Igor in front of him, bending, straightening, taking up the invulnerable Molot stance; he sees himself, a whirlwind of rapid feints as he searches for the chink he needs; the growing awareness that this time it doesn’t exist, will not exist; the decision: he steps back a little, raises his hands, adopts the Aeolian position… The impenetrable wall of shadows reappears.

I do remember something, Alma. But very little; I don’t know how he could…

Alma’s lower lip appears and disappears under her gleaming white teeth; her brows knit, lines appear on her smooth forehead.

That’s bad, Derek. We need your explanation; we still haven’t been able to understand how it could have happened. I was there when Igor told his story. I can repeat it to you, perhaps that will…

The apparently intact surface of a wall opens in a vertical slit; the slit widens to reveal the tall figure previously seen unloading the spaceship, but now no longer wearing the radiation protection suit.

Come in and sit down, Arne; we have a lot to discuss.

The man enters silently, sits opposite Sheila, his gray, expressionless eyes fixed on her face.

"Let’s begin at the beginning. The day after you and Noreen left for the Altair, Derek was sparring with Igor."

And when you saw that this time Igor wouldn’t allow himself to be fooled, you went into the Cloud stance, which was exactly what he had been anticipating. According to him, for almost a month… more precisely, ever since we came to the Base, he had been practicing a sequence of two movements, I can’t remember their names…

Serp and Tucha?

Exactly… How do you know that? He didn’t have time to use them.

You know my training better than anyone, Alma.

I can see it’s been useful. To continue: you didn’t manage to complete the Cloud stance. Igor says you seemed surprised, astonished even; you slowly lowered your guard. He explained that if it had been Arne or Brenda, or even Wu against him, he would have abandoned his position as well. But as he himself said: ‘Even before Derek became the unbeatable champion on Aurora, his cunning was proverbial.’ I can’t deny that, it’s true…

Derek couldn’t help but return her smile.

Let’s go on. He thought it was one of your tricks. That you wanted to provoke a particular blow…

A Ruka?

Exactly. Do you remember now?

A brief shake of Derek’s head is enough to extinguish the fleeting glint in Alma’s eyes.

It doesn’t matter, it’ll come back to you… Igor decided he would catch you out, employing another technique he had been practicing so that you wouldn’t be able to use your speed to escape. He went straight to the Tucha, leaving out the Serp.

Derek nods thoughtfully. That’s logical; he didn’t need to open a breach in a guard that didn’t exist.

That’s what he said. At the instant he was delivering the blow, you looked away from him; he explained that meant you had no way of softening it, and that it was a mortal blow. He doesn’t know how he found the solution, still less how he managed to apply it: he pulled back the leg he had thrust toward you, and bent the other one, trying to make sure that at least he would not hit you in your solar plexus. When he bent over your body, he was amazed to find you still alive, if unconscious. He told us, and we brought you here at once; you don’t have any internal injuries, just bruises. Igor came out of it much worse; he has pulled muscles in his left hip and thigh as a result of trying to cushion the blow…

Derek is no longer listening; he is trying to catch the elusive shadow flitting across his mind before it is lost in the depths… He relaxes his tense body, a smile of satisfaction lights up his eyes for a second, only for a fresh concern to smother it.

I remember, Alma, I remember…

When he lost his memory suddenly, he had no idea where he was, who he was with, what he was doing; his mental state was a mixture of fear and curiosity. He couldn’t supply any further details: the amnesia lasted no more than five or ten seconds, and was interrupted by Igor’s blow, which knocked him unconscious. When he came around he was back to normal, although at first he couldn’t recall what had happened. Yes, Arne; I know that as a lover of martial arts you’d like to know the details of their combat. You’ll be able to see them later: they’re all here.

Sheila points to the cards on the table. Arne nods.

Imagine my surprise. You know the tests on Aurora were as rigorous as they come; none of us, still less an analyst who is Wu’s deputy can have any suspicion of amnesia. At first I thought it could be the residual effect of the prolonged suspended animation that had affected his nervous system. I carried out the relevant tests… but there is no change in their parameters. They are exactly the same. So it cannot be amnesia. But there is no other cause that could produce this kind of effect… The inevitable conclusion is that nothing can have happened.

A humorous gleam appeared in Arne’s eyes.

"And that’s how everything would have been left, if Derek had not experienced his second ‘absence’ at dawn the next day. That’s what I’ve provisionally called this phenomenon, until we find out exactly what it is. To return to Derek, this time he could be more precise about what he was feeling; according to his subjective estimate, the state lasted for about a minute. The strangeness of what he was experiencing had diminished somewhat, but his fear had noticeably increased. He began with great difficulty to recognize some of the objects around him…

Frowning, Sheila pauses for a moment. ‘Important or not? Better let Arne decide.’

"Derek won’t accept the term ‘recognize’ to describe the process he went through. He prefers to say ‘learn,’ despite the conceptual lack of clarity that involves; if he learned something, who taught him? Anyway, let’s leave that digression aside. The reidentification process takes place suddenly; all at once, everything is back to normal, as it should be. You will understand that this second lapse worried me considerably; since you and Noreen were in the spaceship there were only four analysts left here, and so it was impossible for Derek not to take his watch. I thought that was really difficult… but the real crisis occurred that night, when Wu had his first ‘absence.’

A deliberate pause… ‘Let him realize how great the danger is; the leader of the Expedition and his second-in-command affected by an unknown illness, one that attacks without warning, depriving them of their normal faculties…’ A dark shadow spreads slowly across Arne’s face.

I can reassure you a little; apart from Derek’s first attack, the other absences haven’t taken place at what might be called critical moments. But I don’t know if that will always be the case… In conclusion: Derek is affected every morning, approximately one hour before dawn; and almost every night, after sunset. Wu’s case is less serious: sometimes he is absent every day, at others nothing happens. And Esther had her first absence yesterday.

Almost without realizing it, the slender female hand is raised to her eyes, then presses them an instant. When it drops again, they are even more red-rimmed… Sheila goes on:

Nothing shows up in the tests. Everything normal, absurdly normal. So that’s the situation, Arne.

Two days earlier

‘Let’s see: Derek, Esther, Arne, Wu… where’s Noreen? Where can she have got to? Her guard duty finished five minutes ago.’ Sheila shifts impatiently in her seat.

The gray wall opens, revealing a small figure who steps into the conference room. She sits between Arne and Esther, with a brief smile of apology… Sheila stands up slowly; the whispering stops.

"Everybody here has experienced an extremely curious… and worrying state. Until yesterday, we were completely in the dark as to its origin, but that is no longer the case. As soon as Arne reached the Altair, he met me and we analyzed the cases together…"

Sheila carefully follows the slight alterations in Arne’s expression as he considers the different aspects of the problem… Finally, his thin lips part, and he utters just two words:

A virus?

Sheila breathes out heavily and shakes her head.

I thought it might be that… but then there should have been changes to the psychological profiles. However, I didn’t want to overlook any possibility, including that one; I talked to Esther. She states categorically that no virus could have penetrated our bioprotection dome. I convinced her to examine samples of the nervous tissue of those affected. It was a waste of time, nothing abnormal showed up.

They are all analysts… that’s strange, isn’t it?

Very strange: according to the tests carried out on Aurora and here, analysts are the ones who are most mentally stable, and yet… Sheila does not finish her sentence but shrugs her shoulders suggestively.

Are all the absences the same?

No, there are changes as the days go by. The sensation of strangeness, the number of completely unrecognized objects diminishes… although they have only a superficial recognition of the ones they do identify.

Actions while they are absent?

None, according to their subjective impressions. But we have no actual recording of any ‘absent person.’ We need that; I’m thinking of asking Wu to connect up the recorders in a systematic fashion, at the usual times that… Sheila’s measured voice suddenly falls silent. ‘Can it be… it can, it must be.’ A rapid glance at her watch: ‘19:31.’ She looks again at the subtly changed features of the person she was talking to. ‘Shall I connect the recorders? Esther is on duty, I would have to ask for authorization from Wu, but there’s no time, better just observe him myself, record it closely, it doesn’t last long.’ Sheila holds her breath and leans forward, muscles straining…

Arne’s eyes observe the Neurology Department, touching, feeling, weighing up everything; they pause for a long while on the hypnotherapy module, then continue on until they meet Sheila’s inquisitive gaze. ‘What a strange lack of expression… What if I gave it a try? It’s a unique opportunity.’ She presses the button on the sound recorder, and says slowly and clearly:

I am Sheila. You are Arne. We are the psychologists on Expedition Phoenix…

Arne’s lips tremble slightly; his Adam’s apple rises and falls convulsively… the words emerge with obvious difficulty:

What is… Expedition Phoenix?

Alarm and satisfaction combine simultaneously in Sheila’s mind: ‘I wasn’t mistaken. Go on.’

Have you forgotten? We’re returning to Earth to find out what happened and to help the survivors…

What about Gazel?

Sheila’s eyes reflect her surprise. ‘What’s that got to do with it? Oh yes… I understand.’

His body had undergone too many changes, Arne. The bioprotection dome couldn’t recognize him as a human being; it took us too long to realize that…

The spasmodic contractions of her throat prevent her adding anymore excuses: ‘At any rate, we are to blame. We should have envisaged the possibility and adjusted the system to the new conditions.’

It will never happen again, Arne. Never again.

Something slips away from the face of the absent Arne; the stiff features relax in a weak smile.

Another example, Sheila.

‘Arne and Noreen have just got back. They were in the Altair for five days; Arne didn’t tell me it had happened to them as well… I’d better ask.’

Is this the first time you’ve experienced it, Arne?

The redhead nods in agreement. He says thoughtfully:

A strange experience. Not entirely unpleasant. How long did it last?

I don’t think I managed to record it accurately. It took me some time to realize what was happening to you. It’d be better if you first gave me your subjective impression, I don’t want to falsify it.

A minute and a half; two minutes at maximum.

That coincides: I measured one minute thirty-nine seconds. Now let’s look at your analysis of what you remember. Please, try to give a full account.

Arne smiles and strokes his chin, staring up at the ceiling.

At first, it was the same as for all the others. A sense of disorientation, a vague recognition of some objects but not others. A very interesting dialogue. Difficult to understand your words, an almost unknown language. Great curiosity, a wish to get to know you, to know each other; fear as well. Faced with your explanations, a mixture of doubt and a desire to believe you. When you mentioned our mission, the immediate recollection of the spider-man, but alive. Really curious. A lot of emotion attached to your image; keen resentment, pain. Difficulty over your explanations about his death, but comprehension of the basics; something strictly accidental, not deliberate. Then a feeling of calm… and everything was normal once more.

Hmm… the spider-man. You say you remember him as if he was alive? Could the resentment come from the fact that we were the inadvertent cause of his death? And the calm from knowing it wasn’t something premeditated, intentional?

Arne’s repeated nods increase Sheila’s triumphal expression; her body relaxes and she slumps contentedly in her chair.

I’ve got it, Arne. It’s all so simple…

Sheila places her hands on the oval table, leans her body forward, and closely observes the glint of understanding that begins to illuminate the faces of the attentive faces around her…

"We have to recognize that Gazel’s death has profoundly affected all of us. Yes, even those who have not had any ‘absences.’ But we need to accept there is nothing we can do about it; we can’t bring him back to life. The time for grieving is over; we have to go forward, and we will do so. But within us something is still stirring, whispering over and over: ‘It was your fault Gazel died…’ This goes on until it becomes unbearable; what we would give to be different, unrelated to his death; what we wouldn’t give to forget it… Naturally, we control ourselves; there’s a lot we have to do. So the tension builds up… then all of a sudden, we forget everything: absolutely everything. For a minute or two, we have nothing to do with Gazel’s death. Then our organism reacts: the relief is enough, and the need to get on with our work comes to dominate once more: we wake up.

There is a suspiciously moist gleam in Noreen’s eye; a muscle twitches nervously in Esther’s cheek. ‘I’ve produced the effect I was after.’ Sheila concludes:

Now you know the cause of your absences: they will go away. Not immediately, of course; but they will increasingly fade, what surrounds you will become more familiar, you won’t be frightened, you will be aware of who you are… And the end will come; you’ll be cured, completely cured.

One day earlier

The insistent whisper penetrates her sleeping consciousness: Wake up… wake up… wake… Esther sits upright with a shudder. ‘Why? Oh yes, I remember, I’m on duty.’ Still uncoordinated, she removes the tiny earpiece from her ear… ‘You can stop now, you’ve done your job.’ Trying not to wake the still-sleeping Igor, she gets out of bed, walks over to the nearest wall, gropes until a hole appears; out of it she takes something soft, white, and gentle; she unfolds it and starts to put it on. She glances at her watch: ‘It’s 23:54. I have to hurry, or I’ll be late.’ She quickly adjusts the straps on her suit. ‘Ready.’ She walks silently over to the opposite wall; the door opens, then closes. Igor is left alone in the room.

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Part One

Return to the Old Home

This is your home. The whole Earth is your home. This is the biggest home in the entire world; the whole universe.

Vladimir Kolubaev, The Biggest Home

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Chapter I

Noreen Begins Her Day

Static needles

, some oscillating, twisting now to the right and now to the left: readings; first stable, then changing; figures appearing, disappearing: red lights, white, green, golden, blue, violet, switching on, blinking, switching off… Without meaning to, Esther closes her eyes: ‘Can’t help it… not even one set of analyses to do. Nothing moves on, not even time. The only thing left to wait for is the new watch.’ She stifles an incipient yawn: for the nth time she tries to find a more comfortable position in the swivel chair. She rests her face in her hands, her elbows on the narrow shelf along the edge of the control table. ‘What time was it? Better not to know, just another torture. I should do something, if I don’t I’ll end up asleep… Perhaps put the finishing touches to that poem. Take care, Esther; this is neither the time nor the place. You shouldn’t get distracted… The Lords of the Ruins are silent… I really don’t like that opening: there has to be another combination of words to express such somber despair, the lurking malevolence, waiting to pounce; the baleful, stubborn denial of everything living. All so easy to say and so terribly difficult to get it down… Esther, Esther, remember what’s important; no poetry for now. Let’s see: nothing abnormal, no little red light, everything working perfectly. Some little blip, hidden in the corner of the screen. No, it’s nothing real. More likely something quite normal: nothing more than a small distortion, a ghost image, sinister: nearly bordering on the perverse… Again? You’re incorrigible, Esther.’

Behind her the door opens, then closes; but Esther hasn’t realized she is no longer alone in the Control Center. ‘No doubt about it; it’s not enough to see the images in the Exploration Department. I need to be at the excavations in person, alongside the robots… It wouldn’t be difficult to convince Igor; he’d love to do it. The problem would be persuading Wu—’

Hello…

The greeting whispered next to her ear makes Esther jump. She turns around, peering at the smiling face confronting her. She sighs.

Is that really the best way to say hello, Noreen?

Sorry; you seemed to be so far away I was afraid to greet you out loud… Don’t look at me like that, Esther: and there I was thinking that you’d congratulate me on my punctuality. It’s not worth stressing yourself out so much. Come on, get up: or were you thinking of going on with your guard duty? Just say the word, there’s nothing I’d like more than to get back to sleep.

Stretching her stiff body, her numb legs, Esther stands up; very much in spite of herself she smiles. ‘As ever; I can’t get angry with her, even if she’s deserved it more than once… But it wouldn’t make any difference: she’ll always be like this.’ Noreen installs herself in the abandoned chair; swivels it.

Too high, too far away: I need to adjust this…

Rapidly her hands move across the control panel; gently the chair sinks, moves closer to the controls. Noreen turns her head, offers a little grimace of compassion:

I see your shift hasn’t been, shall we say, very lively…

Esther sighs, her hands continuing their circular kneading of her neck.

‘What’s to be done about it? There’ll only be enough people to cover all four daily guard duties when my grandchildren are grown up. In the meantime, these night guard duties are unbearable. Luckily I had some analyses pending; but they barely took a couple of hours. Then there were four more long hours…’

Noreen nods her head sympathetically.

You’ve made me feel bad: I have to confess I’ve got some analyses that need doing. Not many; enough to fill the annoying gap between now and eight o’clock, when the problems begin piling up for the Magician of the Guard to fix with a wave of her magic wand… And woe betide her if she can’t, if she gets it wrong…

Suddenly, Noreen’s features are transformed: her eyelids close, her lips become thin horizontal lines, wrinkles cross her forehead; there before her Esther sees the exact replica of Wu’s face when someone hits the wrong button. Uncontainable, her laughter erupts, dissolving her imitation; Noreen’s face is now sheer joy.

I did it! I’d begun to think that guard duty had completely drowned your sense of humor; but you seem to be the same Esther as always…

Esther tries to recover her composure; even so, there is a residual laugh in her voice as she warns:

Make sure Wu doesn’t see his double, unless you want to suffer the original, Noreen.

Don’t worry; I keep that just for special occasions. I have no desire to see the original; I will do everything not to blot my copybook.

Anyway, just don’t get cocky. Alright, I have to leave you…

Without completing her sentence, Esther pauses on the threshold; she casts a curious glance over her shoulder:

Noreen, will you have another absence?

Not at all; I’m in perfect working order.

And you really think there’ll be lots to do after eight?

Of course. What are you trying to suggest, Esther…? How could I forget! The seminar…

The door has closed behind Esther. Inside the Control Center, Noreen remains still, absentmindedly rubbing the tip of her nose. ‘To be precise, Alma is going to present the work we did together; unforgivable of me to forget. Now what? Aurora, Aurora, impossible not to miss you; this kind of thing never happened there. Although it must have done; those first settlers must have known empty hours of guard duty like these… Now I admire them even more. In any case, it’s just bad luck being one of such a small handful. But we can’t hang around any longer, 138 years is a long time, too long; we’re only just realizing how much the survivors need us… My mind is wandering: let’s see if there is anything I can do to fill the time.’ Decisively, she turns to the control panel. ‘My analyses will take until eight, no longer. And then what? Watch the meeting via the cameras. No, knowing me, I wouldn’t be able to contain myself, I’ll interrupt, and as a result get to see the original for neglecting my duty. I need to find another task…’ Her gaze wanders randomly across the control panel covering the walls. Suddenly her face lights up: ‘That’s it! The documents from the old Special Investigations Institute; I’ve not seen even the tiniest part of the translations, and there must be so much of interest in the files on genetic engineering and viruses. I’ll have work to occupy me until twelve or even later. Let’s not waste time: quick, to the inspection.’

Her agile fingers run across the controls; the figures appear on-screen, one after another. Automatically, Noreen applies her brain to comparing, evaluating, and extracting conclusions; any anomaly would stand out like an ink stain on a blank sheet of paper. ‘Let’s start with the energy generation system… do the real coordinates of the receptor satellites coincide with the theoretical ones?’

There is plenty of room for associations, memories, for different trains of thought in the working brain; they mingle pleasantly…

The turbulent Sun is menacingly close; despite their ultra-protective body suits its fiery breath still reaches them. Slowly the giant, transparent panels unfold; patiently, she and Arne test its interminable surface; one square kilometer, probed centimeter by centimeter with their ultrasensitive instruments. Everything perfect: Arne adjusts the rheostat, the receptor plate turns opaque. At once the indicators come to life, picking up the increase in energy input; they reach saturation. The flare erupts, brighter than the Sun itself, heading toward the Earth. The needles fall to zero with vertiginous speed; just before they hit zero though, they resume an upward trend, again they reach the maximum, again the discharge of concentrated energy… The fourth receptor satellite is working: Arne smiles.

‘Maximum energy capture rate. It was a good job; the first we’ve done together, Arne and I. It seemed unbelievable that it had been such a risky task… the geo-stationary satellite parameters, normal… The old law of the cosmos; jobs that carry the risk of death to those undertaking them must be done in pairs, husband and wife together… Transmission to the principal energy satellite, perfect… The modern version of till death do us part, united in life and death. And what a beautiful life.’ A new image begins to come into focus…

Their faces glued to the thick glass, Arne and Noreen contemplate space from the observation deck aboard the Altair. Born directly out of the black vacuum, brilliant lightning bolts cross in front of them, converging on the invisible principal energy satellite. Dimmer and steadier, the thin thread of the column of light connecting it to the dark Earth; the umbilical cord that nourishes the Base… Arne’s self-absorbed features, alternately in shadow or lit up, in time with the rhythmic sequence of discharge—darkness—discharge.

‘Column of light; normal. Energy systems test complete. Now for the other life-support systems; let’s see, water. Supply pressure… Normal. Salt concentrations… within permitted limits. Contamination: zero.’ Her thoughts are far away; seventeen light-years away.

Surprised, perplexed looks; murmurs, comments. The humorous interpretation emerges: opposites attract; no competition. But why would this matter to Noreen? The Auroran Bion has approved her union with Arne. They parade their newly wed bliss in the recently inaugurated Third Base, Arne’s arm resting on her shoulder as if she were his buttress… And this is exactly how the diminutive and slender Noreen appears with the corpulent Arne at her side: but what does it matter? They are in love.

Nutritional Cultures Complex, oxygenation… normal. The supply of primary resources is being fulfilled… The hoped-for increase in biomass is present… Harmful mutations are absent. A sensation of disgust expands with agonizing slowness from her stomach to permeate every fiber of her body. ‘I mustn’t think about food… that we’ve only been able to bring this tiny complex; barely ten flavors, and what flavors they are; just thinking about them makes me nauseous… But you liked them before, Noreen. Blame this here…’

She lowers her hand and gently, lightly rubs her as yet taut abdomen; inside, still imperceptible, the pulsing of a new life.

‘Little one, little one, how I long to see you… Yes, I can imagine you: a rosy, screaming, defenseless bundle… But Mummy will be there…’ In an instant her eyes are drawn to the empty screens; her smile evaporates, her hands become busy on the control table… ‘Until later, little one; you see, because of you I have interrupted my inspection; you mustn’t distract Mummy while she’s working! The synthetics production unit; let’s see the program for today… constructing modules for the mineral extraction and processing centers.’ Automatically her gaze is drawn to the metal deposits indicator: each day it is heading dangerously nearer to the red line… ‘Not good, not good; we’ll soon be drawing on our emergency reserves. Luckily Igor has finished his site surveys. This afternoon he must begin setting up. Time too short; the project vital… and resources so limited: only two universal robots. They needed many more to construct all the materials supply centers; but in order to start a production line for the robots, the centers are indispensable. A real vicious circle and one we’ll take some time getting out of… But to have been able to leave with everything we needed would have delayed the Expedition by another hundred years; it’s not so easy to synthesize the necessary amount of fuel… It wasn’t even an option.’

On screen the monotonous stream of figures showing the output from the synthetics production unit has stopped: ‘Now to the atmospheric regulation system… temperature, twenty-five degrees; relative humidity, 75%; air ionization levels, normal. Let’s look at the accident-prevention system.’

She presses a few controls; reassuring green lights blink in succession. ‘Perfect; now the turn of the exterior monitoring system. We’ll get started with the atmospheric probes.’ Attentively she watches the data flashing across the screen; she smiles. ‘Same as yesterday; a magnificent day, clear and sunny.’ A half-forgotten memory surfaces; clear in every detail…

The eternally clear sky of Aurora, illuminated by the implacable brilliance of Altair. The arid planes extend to the horizon; beyond the horizon. In the distance and in the foreground dust clouds rise occasionally then settle slowly. Then once more the placid sky, the dazzling eye, almost immobile; the planetship continues its flight toward the cosmodrome.

‘You can get rid of that image, Noreen; nineteen years have passed back there, its skies won’t be so empty now; no doubt the first clouds will have appeared. Our task is with Mother Earth; by now, they will be concentrating on saturating our parched Aurora with water.

‘But it takes some imagining; there, here, nineteen years; although in the spaceship barely seven… And taking into account the effect of prolonged biostasis, we’ve not aged by more than two years… My beloved Kathleen must be a mature woman now, proud of her grown-up children. Yet when I said goodbye to her in the cosmodrome she was just sixteen.’

In her memory she reproduces, in minute detail, the half childish, half adult features of her favorite sister: the tear-drenched smile the last time she saw her… New faces emerge, come closer and sharpen; the unambiguous expression of fondness: ‘Mum.’ They parade past, embalmed images from across the impassable chasm of twenty years; father, sisters, brothers…

She passes a hand across her eyes, removing the teary mist, allowing her vision to focus on the screen again. ‘Pay attention, Noreen; here we go with the seismic probes…’ Noreen leans forward slightly. ‘They can only predict distant tremors.’

Quickly, her fingers press long rows of buttons; tiny spheres burst into life. ‘Geological, submarine and biological probes… all ready.’ Noreen removes a strand of coppery hair from in front of her eyes. ‘We’re nearly done: the only thing left is to check the bioprotection system.’ More figures, now describing the Dome, invisible and intangible—but still invulnerable—that shelters the entire Base. New images bubble up from the past…

The majestic scene is unforgettable; from the nearby desert to the south the yellow cloud advances slowly… It enlarges, grows, obscures the horizon. It seems as if nothing can stand in its way, that the Base will inevitably become buried under a thick layer of sand… The cloud arrives, it is already grazing the Dome; suddenly