The Disestablishment of Paradise (69 page)

She was missing for three hours, and none of us knew.

It was only when the adventurers returned that Tania asked me where Cathleen was and I replied with the fatal words that no parent ever wants to hear: ‘But I thought she was with
you.’

There was no panic. Thank God for the basic RISC training. Within minutes we were organized into search parties. Tania and I elected to stay with the rest of the children, and we gathered them
close, I can tell you. We all had our PSRs, so we could keep in contact with the parties who spread out. Some went down into the valleys; others headed for higher ground, where there was a small
stand of trancers. We thought she might have gone up there as she has lovely long strawberry-blonde hair and there are none of those trees near the Lysaghts’ patch. But no luck.

It was just after I had put the PSR back down after contacting the other teams when I heard Tania cry out. She was pointing. Not up the headland but across the dark ravines, where the forest
bush was thick. And when I turned and looked, I saw it too. Rising above the dark green bush was something like a golden bugle but which drooped as it ascended, as though it was heavy. And then
others joined it, each on its own stalk. Behind them I saw a spike rise high, and then another and another, and all of them opened into the most beautiful jade-green and pepper-red and
cornflower-blue flowers resembling starbursts, like the lovely agapanthus I used to have in my back border.

Tania’s cry was a cry of horror and I understood, for we both recognized the terrible signals of the Michelangelo. (They call it that to try to stop people worrying, but we knew, and the
people who were here before us knew too, and we all called it the Reaper.) I was on the phone in an instant to Tom, who had headed in that direction, and his reply when he came in was a whisper.
I’ve given the transcript of this, but I can remember every word.

Sean Lysaght had led a party exploring the cliff tops beyond the headland.

It was an open line, so everyone heard this. They would all be turning back by now. The next moments were terrible. Tom had his radio on and we could hear him pushing through
the bush and swearing under his breath. He, of course, like the rest of us, had never seen a live Michelangelo, so he did not know exactly what to expect. For a few moments there wasn’t a
sound. Then very softly and quietly we heard this:

And that was it.

As they left the forest we saw the giant flowers and trumpets droop and retreat and finally disappear below the level of the canopy.

Cathleen, of course, never knew what all the fuss was about.

Back at the Rokka farmstead she seemed none the worse for her ordeal. When we asked what she had been doing, she put her head on one side and her tongue between her teeth – the perfect
image of the perplexed five-year-old – and then she said, ‘There aren’t any words for it.’ And she’s probably right. When she was tucked up in bed she said, ‘We
were sort of drawing in the sand. I’d draw something and then she’d draw something, and then I’d change what she’d drawn and she’d change what I’d drawn. And
sometimes we drew things together.’

But we never found out any more.

End

•

COMMENT: A pretty story, but it’s not quite complete. That same night the colonists had a meeting about what they should do. The Rokkas were very clear that they
didn’t want a Reaper anywhere near their homestead – in fact they wanted to destroy it. The Newtons and the Pears sided with them. The Lermontovs sympathized, but pointed out that the
Reaper was not exactly on their doorstep and that the plants were not wanderers like the Dendron, and so on balance they thought it should be left alone. The Tattersalls were adamant that the
Reaper should not be touched but left to get on with its own life. The Lysaghts had had such a scare that they had gone to bed and little Cathy was sleeping in their room.

At the height of the argument Mayday Newton suggested that perhaps Tom Tattersall had sniffed too much of the scent of the Reaper and his judgement was unbalanced. Tom T took offence and pointed
out that he was actually the only one (apart from Cathy) who had actually been close to the Reaper, and was therefore aware of its presence, and that presence was not hostile.

They did not take a vote, but next morning at dawn Mayday Newton, Tewfic Rokka, John Pears and Estragon Lermontov took the cutter up the coast. Estragon had agreed to steer and take charge of
the boat.

Shortly after dawn the Michelangelo was set on fire using homemade petrol bombs ignited by a domestic fire lighter. Its burning took just twenty minutes and they were able to return home in time
for breakfast.

It may not be significant, but this is the last recorded sighting of a fully active mature Michelangelo.

‘The Pity of It’ by Wendy Tattersall,
News on Paradise 28

In this brief article Wendy Tattersall reveals her feelings of outrage in response to the killing of the Michelangelo. This article marked a distinct split within the ranks of
the original agricultural colonists – aggies, as they were known. The killing she is referring to is printed as Document 9, ‘Child Spared Grim Fate’, also written by Wendy
Tattersall.

•

Two months ago something terrible happened on Paradise of which we must all be ashamed. A creature of this world, an inhabitant of much longer standing than any of us and which
bears two contrasting names of our giving, the Reaper and the Michelangelo, was burned to death for no reason at all.

It had done nothing except give vent to its feeling for beauty with a display unparalleled in my experience, and it had given an afternoon of pleasure, a ‘drawing lesson’ let us say,
to a little girl.

Now I, as much as any of you, know the reputation of the Reaper. We have all been fed the garbled stories told by drunken men in the MINADEC days, detailing how the Reaper would ‘suck out
your juices and spit out your corpse’. We have also heard the fantasies of men and women who lived in a deprived relationship with nature on this world of ours, and talked about a creature
that made tapestries of your spirit.

But how many of us have looked with open and un-shuttered eyes upon the Michelangelo? Why do we have this knee-jerk reaction as soon as we encounter something we do not understand? Must we have
a ‘devil’ on Paradise?

If so, it is a devil of our own making, and one that we have carried here in our own minds.

I call on you all now, let us redefine Paradise in our own terms. Let us look with kind eyes. Let us celebrate beauty as a manifestation of goodness. Let us disregard the folklore of old Earth,
with its goblins and witches which lurk in the forests, and move on. As a wise man said once, long ago and with different intent, we have nothing to lose but our chains – and those chains are
of our own forging.

I await your comments.

‘Buster’, by Professor Israel Shapiro

Hera Melhuish believes the main part of the following essay was composed sometime after Israel Shapiro’s work had been attacked for its ‘mystical’ content. If
so, its tone is far from defensive. It is a refreshing article, lacking the mordant voice of some of Professor Shapiro’s other essays. In this we see glimpses of the humour of the man. He
would perhaps be amused that the most recent research on the fractal tends to corroborate his intuitive understanding.

Buster

Among the many stunts attempted during the MINADEC days, one of the most spectacularly unsuccessful was the introduction of guard dogs on Paradise. The dogs usually died within
three weeks of arrival. The vets could find nothing wrong with them, but the dogs were unimpressed by this and remained obstinately dead.

Most were burned on Scarlatti. Some who had been special pets were given decent burial and a few even had small tombstones erected above them. One such was called Buster, and I have him with me
now.

In his prime he would have been all snarl and slaver, but now he is nicely enamelled. This creature, which was once a great biter of felons, is now as harmless as a hearthrug. He couldn’t
hurt a flea, even if he could find one.

I have had him for ten years, ever since he was lifted, rump first, from the potting mix. He is therefore considerably older than me. Originally he was placed in a metre-long coffin, paws
crooked and tail brushed, but since they had made his coffin from woven hybla stalks it would have deliquesced within weeks, as is so often the case on this planet.

And that is the first point I want to make. That which is of Paradise deliquesces when it dies; that which is of Earth does not. As regards Paradise, this rule holds with a few notable
exceptions: the Dendron body fibres harden to something like flaky quartz, the tuyau turn to a kind of organic stone, and a few others achieve a certain carvable permanence. Not so the bio-forms of
Earth. They do not rot or turn to rock. The natural agents of decay so familiar to us on Earth, and evidently durable enough to travel with us, yea through the fractal, do not function down here.
If you die up on the shuttle platform you rot, if you die on the surface of Paradise you are coated with brown enamel. The logical experiment of killing something at each moment of descent and
observing exactly when the enamelling begins has not so far been conducted, though Dr Melhuish and I did achieve something similar with a dead dog, as I will explain.

It would seem that the change from mortification to mummification occurs at exactly the moment we experience the planet directly. There is a slight philosophical conundrum here linked to the
word experience. I suspect that personal attributes are involved in the experiencing of Paradise. To some humans the Paradise experience may even be sensed while on Earth. To others, Paradise may
be experienced as they emerge from the fractal platform Alpha-over-Paradise. But for most bio-forms of Earth the experience is most fully realized as they slip below the very Earth-determined
environment of the shuttle platform and enter the green and milky-blue atmosphere of Paradise itself.

The rule would seem to be this. While you are alive on Paradise your normal functions continue within you, but they are contained within an invisible membrane. If you sneeze, any viruses die
within inches of your nose. If you scratch, then the fine particles from your skin are contained and neutralized and wrapped by this fine patina which we have described as lacquer or enamel. I
experimented on myself once. I combed my hair – this was some years ago – and immediately studied the particles under the microscope. They were enamelled.

It is as if everything organic of Earth is entrapped within this fine semi-permeable membrane, which filters and then neutralizes it. Nothing physical of a non-Paradise bio-form actually enters
the life cycle of Paradise. And, at the moment of death, Paradise rushes in and takes you over completely. The semi-permeable becomes impermeable.