The Inheritors - A. Bertram Chandler [27]
"A machine brought you—your ancestors—here," pointed out Grimes.
"If that machine had worked properly we should not be here," said Maya. She smiled. "The breaking down of the machine was our good luck."
"Mphm." But this was a good world. It could be improved—and what planet could not? But would the reintroduction of machinery improve it? The reintroduction not only of machinery but of the servants of the machine, that peculiar breed of men who have sold their souls to false gods of steam and steel, of metal and burning oil, who tend, more and more, to degrade humanity to the status of slaves, to elevate the mindless automata to the status of masters.
Even so . . . what was that quotation he had used in a recent conversation with Maggie? "Transportation is civilization."
More efficient transportation, communications in general, would improve Morrowvia. He said as much. He argued, "Suppose there's some sort of natural catastrophe . . . a hurricane, say, or a fire, or a flood . . . . If you had radio again, or efficient aircraft, the survivors could call for help, almost at once, and the help would not be long in reaching them."
"But why?" Maya asked. "But why? Why should they call for help, and why should we answer? Or why should we call for help, and why should they answer? We—how shall I put it? We go our ways, all of us, with neither help or hindrance, from anybody. We . . . cope. If disaster strikes, it is our disaster. We should not wish any interference from outsiders."
"A passion for privacy," remarked Maggie, "carried to extremes."
"Privacy is our way of life," Maya told her. "It is a good way of life."
Grimes had been wondering how soon it would be before the pair of them clashed; now the clash had come. They glared at each other, the two handsome women, one naked, the other in her too-skimpy uniform, somehow alike—and yet very unlike each other. Claws were being unsheathed.
And then young Billard called out from the forward compartment. "Land on the radar, sir! Looks like the coastline, at four hundred kilometers!"
Rather thankfully Grimes got up and went into the pilot's cabin. He looked into the screen of the radarscope, then studied the chart that had been made from the original survey data and from Maggie's photographs of that quite accurate wall map in Maya's "palace." Yes, that looked like Port Phillip Bay, with the mighty Yarra flowing into it from the north. He thought, North Australia, here we come! Then, with an affection of the Terran Australian accent, Norstrylia, here we come!
That corruption of words rang a faint but disturbing bell in his mind—but he had, as and from now, more important things to think about.
He said to the navigator, "A very nice landfall, Mr. Pitcher," and to Billard, "Better put her back on manual. And keep her as she's going."
Maya was by his side, looking with pleased wonderment at the glowing picture in the radar screen. Grimes thought, I wish she wouldn't rub up against me so much. Not in front of Pitcher and Billard, anyhow. And not in front of Maggie, especially.
14
It was summer in the northern hemisphere, and when the pinnace arrived over Melbourne, having followed the winding course of the Yarra to the foothills of the Dandenongs, there were still half a dozen hours of daylight left. The town, as were all the towns, was a small one; Grimes estimated that its population would run to about four thousand people. As they made the approach he studied it through powerful binoculars. It was neatly laid out, and the houses seemed to be of wooden construction, with thatched roofs. Beyond the town, on a conveniently sited patch of level, tree-free ground, towered the unmistakable metal steeple of a starship. There was only one ship that