Free The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 by Doris Lessing Page B

for I could not hide then what I felt.
    We went into the shed. It was a long low place, with openings along one wall that led into the runs of the animals where food could be pushed in. Sacks of springy tough plants from the tundra were piled up and the smell from them was sharp and pleasant. I sat on one, enjoying the freshness, and Johor sat near. He brought out from his pockets some small red fruits, which I had not seen, and he held them out towards me on his palm. My hands went out to them as if I was going to grab and snatch, and, seeing my hands do this, I could not help shuddering at myself, and turning my face away. That gesture, which I could not help, said clearly enough what we all were now, what we had come to, and of course Johor had taken in its meaning.
    Now he pushed back the hood from his head, and I saw him clearly. He had not changed. I enjoyed looking at the healthy gleam of the brown skin, the quick alertness of healthy eyes. I knew my eyes were feeding on the sight: I understood what those words meant, to feed on sight. And I pushed my head back and loosened my heavy coat, and his eyes took in what there was to be gathered from my face.
    He nodded, and sighed.
    I said: ‘If you have no fleet of Space Travellers, then there are no supplies of fresh food.’
    And he slightly shook his head.
    â€˜And yet we are not to be taken off from here at once?’
    I knew I leaned forward to search his face, and he remained still, letting me look into his face and his eyes.
    â€˜We are not to be taken off,’ I said at last, and I heard my words ring out in the cold silence, and each word seemed to sink through the air, as if the air itself rejected them: the substance of my words was being refused by the air, and what I felt was this: If my words are true, then
what
is rejecting them?
    â€˜What has happened?’ I said at last, and my voice was wild and angry.
    He began to speak, and failed.
    I said: ‘There is a paradise somewhere, we see it when we look up out of this sordid place, we see it shining in our cold skies, or rather we see its mother, a fruitful star. Rohanda will be our home, Rohanda the generous one, Rohanda the planet where everything thrives, and where a race of people are being grown like particularly promising plants, grown by Canopus, to act one day as hosts for us, for the poor inhabitants of Planet 8, who also have been nurtured by Canopus, made and grown and fed by Canopus, so that they and we may come together in a match, and make of Rohanda a planet that Canopus itself will wonder over and admire. On that lovely planet wait for us even now warm oceans, and sunny fields and pleasant forests full of fruit and hillsides where grain is gold and white and rippling green as the soft winds move. On Rohanda there are storehouses full of the soft light clothes that will cover us and the fresh light food we will eat and everything, everything, everything we will look at will be coloured, we will live again among the colours of living things, we will see the infinite shades of green, and yellow and red – our eyes will again be fed with scarlet and gold and purple, and when we look up into the deeps of the skies our eyes will fill with blue, blue, blue, so that when we look into each other’s eyes we will no longer see a crazed glare of white where colour has been bled out by whiteness, white, white, always white or grey or brown … yes, Canopus? Is that what you have come to tell us?’
    â€˜No,’ he said at last.
    â€˜Well then? How is Rohanda? Have you planned that another species, another of your genetic creations is to enjoy Rohanda?’
    â€˜Canopus keeps its word,’ he said, though his voice sounded strange enough.
    â€˜When it can?’ I said.
    â€˜When it can.’
    â€˜Well then?’
    â€˜Rohanda has … suffered the same fate as Planet 8, though not as terribly and suddenly.’
    â€˜Rohanda is no longer lovely and