Finches of Mars. Brian Aldiss

unresolved stillbirth problem …’

      ‘Yet to be on that silent planet, Adrien … Isn’t that a wonderful success? Applied science … It’s a dream that has been pondered for some centuries and is now more than just a dream – a waking dream which–’

      ‘Oh, of course for over two centuries there have been stories – as there have been ghost stories – what you may call the science fiction – but they are made for superficial adventure, as the often uninspired writing indicates–’

      ‘Ah, so you are not only a medico but a critic of literature!’ Mangalian, with a curl of his lip, stared into the distance as he spoke.

      ‘No, no, no, but such tales had no true deliberation, only conveying thrills of conquest or doom. A shallow fiction …’

      Mangalian would not let such a sweeping generalisation pass. ‘Well, sir, as a mere boy on San Salvador, I happened on a story by a Mr Wells. Later in life, I heard he was celebrated and respected, although he wrote of things that did not exist in reality. This particular book that caught my fancy was called The War of the Worlds, although I found it was rather “The War against Woking”, of which I had never heard until then. That story denigrates mankind. It is a chastisement, a real fiction, an analogy. There is no hero – or if there is a hero, then it is a bacillus.’

      Amboise stared up at the sky, as if in the hope that his impatience might steam off to the troposphere. ‘But H.G. Wells was an exception. A chastisement, as you put it. It does not prove the rule. Immediately after Mr Wells’s book appeared, an American journalist wrote a sequel in which a fleet of ships led by a Professor Edison went to Mars and knocked – what is your phrase? – yes, knocked hell from them … You see, no morality, just violence. The irony of Wells is lost amid all the aggression.’

      Mangalian did not answer, merely sighing. Silence fell.

      Amboise feared he had offended the visitor.

      ‘I do not object to fantasy, please understand me. Indeed, in my boyhood I read a story called The Sword of Rhiannon, set on an imaginary Mars. It was a romance pure and simple, aiming only at a pretty tale. In my memory the simple prose held no subordinate clauses, not one. I am no snob. I loved that story.’

      Mangalian became stony-faced. ‘Have you another subject in mind to discuss?’

       7

       The Care of a Child

      ‘Excuse me,’ said Amboise. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, indicating that he was only partially regretful for his remarks. ‘I wished to make the point that any idea of mankind – including the ladies of whom you and I are so fond – actually living on this Planet Rouge is meretricious. Not only will humanity there slowly die out, but there is a more serious aspect.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘I may phrase it briefly,’ said Amboise. ‘You UU people, if I may so call you, m’sieu, have a selection procedure whereby intelligent and balanced personalities are accepted to fly away and be lost to this world – which badly requires them. We need precisely such people here, m’sieu. There is a shortage of the grave and the good.’

      A tabby cat jumped off the nearby wall. It sat upright, front paws together, watching the two men as if sitting in judgement upon them.

      ‘I see your point,’ said Mangalian, ‘but the universities of Bordeaux and Toulouse evidently do not, since they have already joined the UU.’

      Amboise swept away both Bordeaux and Toulouse with a gesture of his hand. ‘We require those fine personalities here because we need hope in the world. Such personalities represent a saner future. No more missile systems but systems of civilised living. Such is my hope.’

      ‘Hope? But it is hope that overcomes all difficulties and takes us to Mars. The colony has now been working for – what? Almost ten years. No living child born as yet, malheureusement, but … You are hoping against hope because you can see this world of ours, this worn old world, is still without sanity or balance, despite all the wise and well-intentioned personalities there have ever been, of both sexes, over the centuries.’

      Amboise sighed. ‘Yes, and also those millions who live quiet lives. Who perform minor good works for the unfortunate – the feeding of the infirm, let’s say, the reading of stories to illiterates – in their squares and streets and possibly homes. But perhaps they did not disturb themselves with hope and had to live for the day.’

      ‘That’s a waste of resources, sir. A vegetable existence. It’s better to be pessimistic, to worry about the world, to reach out for a new thing, a new chance, to be never satisfied.’ Mangalian paused, remembering. So he had let Rosemary go; she was now but a name. ‘I grew up among brothers and sisters. We were happy but mischievous. We regretted we lived confined to such a small island as San Salvador. Excellent swimmers, yes, but poor thinkers. Perhaps that may be what prompts me as an adult to regret we live on such a small planet.’

      ‘… and Mars is even smaller,’ said Amboise, smiling falsely.

      ‘You’ll find that its land area is the equal in extent to Earth’s.’

      With his hands in his pockets, Amboise strolled about in a circle, thinking, his shadow forming a confused pattern at his feet. The cat moved cautiously away from him. ‘We are not getting far, Mr Mangalian. Albert Einstein was quoted as saying, “Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.” My hope is also for tomorrow, that you can retain your useful scheme of UU, but you do not send into exile people who are our “hope for tomorrow”.’

      Impatiently, Mangalian said, ‘There is a conflict of hope. You do not, I believe, hope at all. You fear. If I agree with that quote from what’s-his-name, I do truly hope for tomorrow, hope for, strive for, a new and better existence on our neighbouring world.’

      Amboise gave a strained laugh. ‘As a keen horseman, I have no wish to be ever on Mars. I understand that the planet suffers from permanent grass shortage.’

      Mangalian shrugged. ‘Maybe, in time, our descendants will discover existences far beyond the modest world of Mars. Human beings will always struggle for greater understanding. We know conditions will be harsh initially, but we shall triumph.’

      ‘Conditions will not be harsh. They will be impossible.’

      ‘You see, you have no hope! In any case, I cannot halt what already has momentum beyond my control. You should voice your fears elsewhere. Come to a UU meeting. I must go. I have another appointment.’

      He nodded curtly to the Professor of Medical Studies, rose, and walked out of the courtyard. The cat followed him as far as the gate.

      An armed guard, Yat, awaited him outside the premises. He cared for Mangalian as if he were his child.

      And Mangalian, when he was a small boy, long before he was big enough to think of chasing women, had certainly loved his father.

      San Salvador was not a large island. It grew sugar cane. Mangalian’s father had been a sharecropper – cast off by his employers without pension as was the custom at the age of sixty. He walked with the aid of a staff taller than himself, painted white. He walked slowly, so that his son could easily keep up with him.

      His father liked to stroll by the sea. They would walk along the front, past the row of thatched-roof shops until they came to the last shop, a small café.

      There they sat, under a large sun umbrella. Father would order Coke. Sometimes they would talk. Father liked to spout old country sayings. ‘Just because you’re an idiot don’t mean to say you’re sillier than me.’ ‘You can be ready for anything, but that don’t say you ain’t good for nothin’.’

      Father kept a hold of his staff as they listened to the