The City And The Stars - Arthur C. Clarke [101]
Alvin brought the ship low over the surface of the satellite; he needed no warning from the complex mechanisms which protected him to know that there was no atmosphere here. All shadows had a sharp, clean edge, and there were no gradations between night and day. It was the first world on which he had seen something approaching night, for only one of the more distant suns was above the horizon in the area where they made first contact. The landscape was bathed in a dull red light, as though it had been dipped in blood.
For many miles they flew low above the mountains that were still as jagged and sharp as in the distant ages of their birth. This was a world that had never known change or decay, had never been scoured by winds and rains. No eternity circuits were needed here to preserve objects in their pristine freshness.
But if there was no air, then there could have been no life—or could there have been?
‘Of course,’ said Hilvar, when Alvin put the question to him. ‘There’s nothing biologically absurd in the idea. Life can’t originate in airless space—but it can evolve forms that will survive in it. It must have happened millions of times, whenever an inhabited planet lost its atmosphere.’
‘But would you expect intelligent life forms to exist in a vacuum? Wouldn’t they have protected themselves against the loss of their air?’
‘Probably, if it occurred after they achieved enough intelligence to stop it happening. But if the atmosphere went while they were still in the primitive state, they would have to adapt or perish. After they had adapted, they might then develop a very high intelligence. In fact, they probably would—the incentive would be so great.’
The argument, decided Alvin, was a purely theoretical one, as far as this planet was concerned. Nowhere was there any sign that it had ever borne life, intelligent or otherwise. But in that case, what was the purpose of this world? The entire multiple system of the Seven Suns, he was now certain, was artificial, and this world must be part of its grand design.
It could, conceivably, be intended purely for ornament—to provide a moon in the sky of its giant companion. Even in that case, however, it seemed likely that it would be put to some use.
‘Look,’ said Hilvar, pointing to the screen. ‘Over there, on the right.’
Alvin changed the ship’s course, and the landscape tilted around them. The red-lit rocks blurred with the speed of their motion; then the image stabilised, and sweeping below was the unmistakable evidence of life.
Unmistakable—yet also baffling. It took the form of a wide-spaced row of slender columns, each a hundred feet from its neighbour and twice as high. They stretched into the distance, dwindling in hypnotic perspective, until the far horizon swallowed them up.
Alvin swung the ship to the right, and began to race along the line of columns, wondering as he did so what purpose they could ever have served. They were absolutely uniform, marching in an unbroken file over hills and down into valleys. There was no sign that they had ever supported anything; they were smooth and featureless, tapering very slightly towards the top.
Quite abruptly, the line changed its course, turning sharply through a right-angle. Alvin overshot by several miles before he reacted and was able to swing the ship round in the new direction.
The columns continued with the same unbroken stride across the landscape, their spacing perfectly regular. Then, fifty miles from the last change of course, they turned abruptly through another right-angle. At this rate, thought Alvin, we will soon be back where we started.
The endless sequence of columns had so mesmerised them that when it was broken they were miles past the discontinuity before Hilvar cried out and made Alvin—who had noticed nothing—turn the ship back. They descended slowly, and as they circled above what Hilvar had found, a fantastic suspicion began to dawn in their minds—though at first neither dared mention it to the other.
Two of the columns had been