The Belts of Acheron

Every planet has an atmosphere, not the one you breathe but the one you feel. Kalturia with its soaring mountains lashed by tumultuous seas, the towering escarpments naked and bare, reflecting the ruby light of a sullen sun in a sky so heavy and brood­ing that, standing there, you feel like a fly on the face of creation. Lokrush, soft and gentle with its woods and rolling hills, its flowers nodding in scented breezes, the red and green light of its twin suns merging and blending in an eternal kaleidoscope of shimmering wonder. Ragnarok with its snow and ice and incessant electrical storms and, at night, the flaming beauty of the aureoles filling the sky with sheets and curtains of colored fire. Acheron with its Singing Bells.

We covered them all on the Grand Tour, dropping down to spend a day or two days while the passengers stared and marveled, then up again, the grav-drive humming as it lifted us into space, the twisting wrench as the warp jumped us from star to star, then planetfall again and more natural wonders to dazzle the eye and numb the mind. It could have become routine but it was never that. The universe is too big, the worlds too many to ever allow of boredom. So that the crew rivaled the passengers in their eagerness to make planetfall, their reluctance to leave once landed, and.

having left, their impatience to land again somewhere new and strange.

Most of us had our favorite worlds. The captain, I knew, loved Almuri with its living crystals; the chief engineer always had to be watched when we reached Homeline with its fantastic seas and equally fantastic fish, and for me nothing could equal Acheron with its Singing Bells.

Holman was talking about them when I entered the lounge. It was his habit to discuss the next world we were to visit, to explain the natural phenomena in scientific terms and to prepare the passengers, in a way, for the wonders to come. It wasn't his job but he had made it so. Accidents were few, sickness rare, and the warp-jump often took as long as several days. Time, for the doctor as for all of us, tended to drag between the stars.

I moved softly about the lounge, collecting empty glasses, cleaning ashtrays, arranging the scattered books and magazines, acting, as always, the perfect steward. I didn't dislike the job, menial though it was. The pay was sufficient, the tips sometimes generous, and the work was not arduous. It served to pass the time and, as long as we visited Acheron, I was content.

"A strange world," Holman was saying. "For some reason animal life never evolved on Acheron and the flora are ascendant. There aren't even any insects."

"No insects?" Klienman frowned. He was a small, balding man who had read much but knew little. "Then how about pollination?"

"The plants are bisexual," explained the doctor. "They are self-pollinating. The winds, of course, scat­ter the seeds."

"The Bells," said Klienman. "What of those?"

"The famous Bells." Holman paused and looked at his audience. They were all in the lounge, the thirty passengers we carried this trip. Old, mostly, for the Grand Tour is not cheap. A couple of young lovers on their honeymoon held hands and whispered to each other. A fat matron, her bulging throat ringed with diamonds, glared at her son, a gangling, vacuous young­ster who stared with puppy eyes at an attractive ash-blonde. I knew her, Laura Amhurst, a silent, self-contained woman who spoke little and smiled

less.

"The Singing Bells of Acheron," continued Holman, and I edged a little closer. "They aren't bells at all, not really. Just a freak of evolution. The dominant plant form is a bush about twice the height of a man when fully grown. It has a continuous seed-cycle and is usually covered with seed pods in various stages of ripeness. The pods are spherical, about an inch in diameter, and each contains a half-dozen seeds."

"How disappointing!" A faded socialite pouted in a manner that had been fashionable when I was bom. "I had imagined them to be real bells."

"Seed pods," Klienman snorted in his disgust. "Is

that all?"

"That's all." Holman glanced toward me. "Just a freak of nature." He smiled at the others. "But they are rather special at that. You see, there is a high silicon content in the soil of Acheron. So high in fact that no terrestrial plant could survive there."

"Nothing wonderful about that." Klienman seemed determined to make himself unpleasant. "Lots of worlds can't support earth-type vegetation."

"Like a Japanese lantern," said Laura Amhurst sud­denly. "Is that it?"

"Yes," said Holman, and again he glanced toward me. "Exactly like a Japanese lantern. There is abso­lutely nothing supernatural about the Singing Bells at all."

There was more, much more, a running cross-fire of question and answer with Klienman trying to show off his book-learning and belittle the doctor. Holman was patient. He was, after all, a member of the crew and he refrained from revealing Klienman as the fool he was. Only Laura Amhurst remained silent, her ash-blond beauty accentuating her pallor. Later, when the passengers had retired and the ship had settled down for the night, Holman sent for me.

"Sit down, John." He gestured to a chair in his crowded dispensary. "What do you think of the pas­sengers?"

"As usual."

"Meaning not much, is that it?" He didn't really expect a reply and he was not disappointed. "What do you think of the blonde?"

"Laura Amhurst?"

"That's the one." He scowled at a cabinet of instru­ments. "She's a widow, John, recent too. I don't like it."

I knew what he meant but made no comment.

Some arguments remain evergreen while others pall after the first discussion. To me Acheron was some­thing not to be discussed. I made a point of glancing at my watch and Holman took the hint.

"So you won't talk about it," he said, and his voice held defeat. "Well, I've done what I could and now must hope for the best. But she's a widow, and I've been watching her." He shook his head. "Those damn rumors! Why can't people accept the real expla­nation?"

"Maybe she will." I rose and stepped towards the door. "You sounded very convincing."

"But not convincing enough, eh, John?" He looked at me from beneath his eyebrows. "I thought not." He sighed. "Well, tomorrow will tell. Good night, John."