Fantastic Planet by Stefan Wul

Author:Stefan Wul [Wul, Stefan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781902197319
Google: UmxISAAACAAJ
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 8040093
Publisher: Creation Oneiros
Published: 1957-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

5

Beneath a topaz sky darkened by the sunset, a vast sea tinted like fresh blood was gently moving back and forth across the horizon. Currents filled with plankton drifted haphazardly with the winds.

Lost dots in a great poem, three vessels were obstinately following their course. They were sailing in an ocean of colours, impervious to the nonchalant charms and languid enchantment of the waves gleaming with a thousand facets as they strutted about in their splendour.

Heading east, the Oms were carrying all the hopes of a race that had broken free from its chains. They formed a triangle, the first two vessels towing the other, its hull teeming with roped up Oms.

Whipped by the spray, their sweat washed off by the rosy foam, the Oms were weighing in clusters on the last ship's glistening hull. Muscles taut with effort, like flesh sprawled tightly on a metal vice, they kept in place giant bolts on the last plate's lips. The ship was being finished as it travelled.

The Oms had left behind all personal worries. Individual suffering did not count anymore. They were one soul striving for one goal only. Occasionally, knocked out by a wave's splendid slap, some lost consciousness, the others hardly taking notice. Having lost their balance, others were hanging strangled by their rope, like trinkets around the sides of the hull. The whims of the roll finished them off as it soaked them sporadically. The ship dragged in its wake at least twenty inert puppets skimming on the ocean's muscular back.

Inside, others were labouring symmetrically and suffocating beneath the iron sheets as the animal scent of effort mingled with the smell of heated metal. Strong backs were bleeding, pressing up for hours beneath a screwdriver operated by countless arms.

The water periodically filtered through the slits, harshly spraying the wounds caused by the exertion. Other workers were pumping relentlessly, throwing back in the sea the brine of oxides and urea which rolled around their legs. All this in the shadowy and sticky false light of vapours and in a great murmur of swearing and effort giving rhythm to the screeching of the grating thread; an insane symphony punctuated by the sea striking the vessel like cymbals.

***

When all was finished, the night had long drowned the sunset's splendours.

Exhausted, the outside teams went through the hatch one by one. The workers were relieved as engineers started to fit the last reactor. The worst was over.

The foreman informed the quartermaster who immediately announced the good news to Terr. This was done thanks to a telecable stretched between the two ships.

'Excellent', said Terr. 'How long will it take?'

The quartermaster hesitated:

it's hard to tell precisely, Aedile. Between ten and fifteen hours, according to the foreman. Drying the coils will take time, not to mention the trouble caused by the swell. If we had to do it again...'

'Yes, I know', said Terr. We should have fitted the coils before leaving. Drying will last longer than the time saved fitting them. Improvising is bound to lead to errors.

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