“A movable outdoor array of mirrors tracks the movement of the sun throughout the day and redirects the rays. Parabolic mirrors concentrate the light and pipe it down the shafts. The sunbeams pass through ducts coated with a highly reflective material. The bottom of those ducts is made of prismatic films, which diffuse and even out the sunlight coming in.” She looked up pointedly. “Even when the sunshine is at its brightest, the lighting is agreeable, without a discomforting glare.”
He glanced around, curious. “What is this place?”
“Our marketplace, of sort.” She gestured at the few dozen giant woven baskets on the stone floor. “All our harvested produce is funneled down here. I guess both figuratively and literally.” From a hook on the wall, she took a canvas backpack and collected some vegetables.
With David by her side, Leandra moved on to another chamber within the spacious cavern.
He noted the diminutive water canals and natural-looking pools that abounded with fish. “About eight tons worth of fish each year,” she told him. “Along with quinoa, ostrich eggs, and hemp seeds, they fulfill most of our protein needs.”
Leandra caught a good-sized fish with a long-handled net, and David examined it wide-eyed. “How in blazes do you have mahi-mahi hundreds of miles away from the nearest sea?”
“Hundreds of miles, hundreds of yards—doesn't matter; there are too many people in the world for fishing.”
“What is the human population on this planet?” he asked in a neutral voice.
“Large. Probably over five million humans.” She shook her head, disbelief mixed with wry amusement. “The biggest city in the world has seventy-thousand people. Not quite sure how it all adds up, but this is what I’ve been told.” She looked at him. “We don’t catch fish, David; we grow them right here. This is a self-contained saltwater system.”
He considered. “What about the build-up of fecal matter?”
“It is metabolized and rendered harmless with bio-filters.” She noted the lingering question in his eyes. “Those filters contain specialized bacteria that break down the nitrogen and carbon compounds in fish waste and convert it into gases, which are discharged into the air.”
“I still don’t get it. Marine fish do not reproduce without environmental triggers.”
“True.” She nodded. “We have developed a pellet that mimics the hormone necessary to spur the fish’s natural reproduction process. Once administered, it induces spawning year-round.”
“Clever.” He smiled in appreciation. “What do they feed on?”
“Grain, animal byproducts, yeast, and bacteria,” Leandra said. “It is a completely controlled environment. We have motors that recirculate the water in the tanks and operate blowers and fans that aerate the water. Gear motors turn drum filters. Other motors operate high-pressure pumps to backwash the filters. We occasionally also use ultraviolet irradiation for disinfecting the water.”
With a small wood mallet, Leandra stunned the fish she had caught with a blow to the head, rendering it insensible. She then proceeded to slaughter it.
“And the source of the electric power?”
“The sun of course. We have applied a translucent, protective glaze to the outer walls in all our buildings. The glazes and paints contain suspended photovoltaic particles. During the day, the sun generates electricity, and its excess is converted to potential energy in the form of hyper-compressed air in storage cylinders. These in turn power pneumatic motors starting at sunset.”
“If you can grow saltwater fish in the middle of the desert, you can grow—”
“Anything, really,” she cut in, “under a controlled environment. Yet, we strive to operate within the broader ecosystem of the region. So this is the exception to the rule. The same principle applies to automation, which could have done the work of men. There is joy in doing things with our hands, notably for those who are less intellectually inclined.”
“I gather you are familiar with all the town’s operations, huh?”
“I am one of the aldermen,” she said simply. “At any rate, this is our home and our survival is linked to these operations. All are acquainted with what stands between us and death. The next human settlement is—well, there isn’t one within reach. We are it. About once every year or two, a caravan may visit. And we obtain items we do not produce.”
A bit later, David finally reached the heart of the residential area. He walked, dumbfounded. Hands down, it was the most attractive town he had ever seen. The meandering alleyways were covered with translucent arched roofs, letting in diffused sunlight that illuminated glazed walls with myriad hues of amber. These were dotted with round doors painted violet. There was a whimsical if not downright surreal quality to some of the door placements. Some were set on roofs and had ladders or spiral staircases leading to them; some were abutting each other.
The stone-paved alleyway was just wide enough for the two of them to walk comfortably side by side.
All alleys sported solar chimneys. This was something Leandra had explained to him. The heat created an updraft of air, which formed a partial vacuum. In turn, this drew fresh air from pipes coiling deep underground, which served to cool the air before it emerged through vents in the ground. “We also have backup fans that kick in to intensify air suction,” Leandra had told him. David could feel the constant, almost imperceptible breeze through the enclosed alleyway.
“Same setup inside the buildings?” David queried.
“Yes, except there it is additionally humidified and further chilled by a moist, porous membrane at the entry point to the house. Speaking of which.…” Leandra opened a door and beckoned, inviting him into her home.
A short flight of stairs led downward. The reason was not hard to deduce: by being partially underground, less of the house was exposed to the hot desert sun.
He noted that the walls gently curved before meeting the aged tiled floor. Area rugs and pillows were strewn about. David accepted her invitation and sat with a contented sigh on a hanging hammock chair. “Beautiful. Simply beautiful,” he murmured. Then, “How do you keep your homes warm when it’s chilly?”
She came back, holding two mugs. “Aratta warned me you would have a lot of technical questions.” Her eyes glinted mischievously.
Gratefully, he took one of the mugs. “Milk?”
“Camel milk,” she said and took a sip.
He tried. It was different all right. Richly flavored and with a salty undertone.
“You wanted to know how we keep our dwellings warm in the cold season? We shut the thermal chimney and button up the houses.” She rose, walked over, then rapped on a window. “Triple pane, vacuum-insulated windows.” She turned to him. “The ultra-tight envelope structure means that cooking, the sun, and the body heat of occupants suffice to keep our houses warm.”
David was impressed, but then he frowned. “There is a need for incoming fresh air. Surely the air exchange with the outside would be nil.”
“We use energy recovery ventilators. Changed a few times a day, the indoor air stays utterly fresh. To prevent cooling the house interior, the relatively warm, stale air leaves the house through a heat exchanger and warms up the incoming cold air: the duct of the cooler incoming air is nested inside a wider duct of the outgoing warmer air.”
He nodded, acknowledging the merits of the setup.
“Let’s move over to the kitchen.” Leandra held out her hands. “You can keep me company while I cook for us.”
A spiral staircase at one corner of the kitchen led upward.
“What’s up there?”
“You’ll see. Here.” Leandra handed David a bowl with some cut vegetables. “Help me to carry this up.”
There was a hatch at the top of the stairs. She pushed it open and, once they entered the small chamber, shut it behind them. David looked around. It was a small room containing nothing but po
ts and pans and two swivel tables on wheels. He examined the objects laid atop each.
“On the left is an oven. The other is a cooker,” Leandra told him.
“What’s their source of heat?”
She burst out laughing and pointed up. She proceeded to slide open a few panels, and the heat of the desert came rushing in. Leandra closed some panels and opened others, until the rays of sun lit the small tables, leaving the rest of the alcove in relative shade.
“Parabolic reflectors concentrate the sun beams onto the cylinder here.” She touched the smooth, gleaming surface of the little tabletop oven. “It’s glass, cool to the touch.” She made him feel it. “The middle layer is an insulated vacuum, allowing light to pass through. The inside of the tube has a coating that traps infrared radiation.” She opened the petite oven, took out the trough-shaped tray, and in short order had it filled with dough.
Leandra swiveled the table until the parabolic mirrors faced the sun. “This is also how I boil water or make soup.”
The solar cooker on the next turntable had a larger parabolic reflector, shaped like a radio dish. Grabbing hold of a long handle, Leandra adjusted the mechanism and directed the sun’s rays, focalized by the reflector dish, on to the metal rack suspended in mid-air. She then laid down a cast-iron frying pan. Soon, she had eggplants, green peppers, and tomatoes sizzling along with the mahi-mahi. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the stove.
About half an hour later, they sat amid pillows and rugs by a low table. Alongside slices of the dark bread they had just baked, Leandra placed a plate of hummus with olive oil, paprika, and chickpea beans. David eyed the food with delight.
“You know,” Leandra told him after they’d had their fill and cleaned the dishes, “during summer nights, we may retract the canopy in the community dining halls and sit there, with the desert breeze on our faces under the silver light of millions of stars. You can clearly make out the Milky Way. In fact, one of our dining halls is set up as an overhanging balcony, giving diners the illusion there is nothing but the night sky around them.” She looked at David. “But I will do one better yet. It will be my pleasure to show you the night sky through the eye of a telescope.”
“A telescope?”
She leaned in. “We are predominantly a community of stargazers, David. A few miles out of town, we have a large optical telescope. The primary mirror is composed of one thousand and forty-six hexagonal segments—that’s a forty-five-meter diameter.” She winked. “I will take you one night on a trip to the galaxy around us.”
A single deep chime of a gong came from afar.
Leandra’s face split into a wide grin and she bounded to her feet. “But that’s later. Let’s go out, and I’ll introduce you to other people in town.”
Chapter 25
The Foothills of Organ Mountains, New Mexico, Earth
As the sun set, guests started arriving, most wearing exotic costumes. About one hour later, the party was in full swing. Dance music was blaring in the basement, where dozens of mostly graduate students were drinking, talking loudly, and swaying to the rhythm of Electro House beat.
It was the last party Lee was going to throw on Earth. She did not plan on staying around that much longer.
Guests milled about at the ground level, while two waitresses walked about with cheese platters and trays bearing drinks and canapés. From across the Japanese rock garden wafted the smell of steaks being grilled.
A handful of those who wanted to escape the clamor congregated in the stately drawing room on the second floor.
Predictably, Gary had showed up. He was a local man in his late twenties, with a sandy hair pulled back in a man bun. He had the start of beer belly and an infectious grin. Gary was a devout bachelor who never missed an opportunity—if he could help it—to attend one of Lee’s lavish parties. There were always new people to meet and rub elbows with. More than once, he scored with some of the female guests and ended up rubbing more than elbows before the night was over.
From the window, he spotted Heather down by the outdoor grill chatting animatedly and laughing with a small group of her colleagues.
“Is Heather married?” inquired Gary.
“Are you kidding?” Standing next to him, Susan was amused. Along with Galecki and Lee, she chose not to wear an exotic attire. She stuck by her cream pantsuit. “Heather is only 26,” Susan added, “in college and starting on her doctoral dissertation. She told me she doesn’t plan to settle down for years to come.”
Gary checked out her lithe figure again. Wearing a French maid costume and over-the-knee boots, Heather was attractive all right, albeit opinionated.
His attention turned back. “Hey, did you guys know that about half of the people in America ages 18 to 34 don’t have a steady partner? How things have changed from back in the day.” Gary shook his head, bemused. “In the modern era, hitting on a 26-year-old is squarely within the realm of the reasonable. In ancient times, hitting on someone that age was plain stupid—in fact, improper, as even a 20-year-old was likely to have been long married with two kids in tow.” He shrugged matter-of-factly. “Throughout most of human history, what recently has been re-branded ‘teenage girls’ were but young women: courted, bonded, and mated.”
“The average marriage age sure has changed,” said Lee dryly. “And thanks to higher standards of living, women’s prime years extend much further.”
There were some appreciative chuckles around the drawing room.
“Up to a point,” offered Brandon from the armchair. He crossed his ankles. “Even the middle class, skin-pampered, drudge-free environment can stave off aging only so far. Past the early thirties, the sheer body allure of women begins to go south. And not long after that, fertility goes into a free fall.”
Lee coughed pointedly.
The young man was undeterred. “As a woman advances in years, the sexual appeal is augmented with evolving mental maturity, humor, and personality; while at the same time, the declining body allure is propped by bras, makeup, and clothing. But what if you were to strip these away?”
“Oh?”
Brandon took a swig from the bottle, warming up to the topic. “Take a few thousand women of different ages without any attempt to make them appear younger than they are or otherwise stem the natural changes of the body. So, no plastic surgery, makeup, or Botox. No shaving of body hair, severe diet, or living at the gym. Now, parade them in nothing but thongs, high heels, with some decorative body paint and videotape it without providing their age. In anonymity, umpteen guys check them out online and give each a hotness score. What do you reckon the peak-hotness age range is going to be?”
He had come across a recent study comparing dating preference of nearly two-hundred thousand Americans. It had ascertained that, on the aggregate, the men found the prospect of a date with eighteen-year old women the most desirable—and the hotness score of the prospective dates declined in tandem with the women’s age. No data existed for any younger women, which made sense: eighteen may have been the peak age of desirability for the would-be male daters, but it was also the earliest age of women in the modern Western world.
Brandon glanced about, but there were no takers.
Gary finally put his beer down. “I’ll see your experiment and raise you women in traditional societies,” he called. “Dial up the life toll a notch with outdoor labor and prolonged exposure to the elements. Combine this with almost continuous breastfeeding, pregnancy, and childbirth cycles. Now, imagine you parade topless in G-strings thousands of these women and note the peak age range for physical hotness.” He let it sink in for a moment. “It shouldn’t be surprising that among primitive societies, the physique of women in their mid to late teens have not only held sexual appeal for men; it was the prime age bracket that did,” he said.
“Aratta.” Lee turned to him. “Is that really so?”
He pursed his
lips in thought.
“Well,” he said after a while, “it does seem that way. The Warraus Schomburgk in Guyana used to say that when a woman has reached her twentieth year, the flower of her life is gone.” He fiddled with his silvery cuff links, reflecting. “The Mandans in the Upper Missouri River regarded the beauty of a woman in her teens to vanish soon after marriage. And in the area of central Sudan, a woman in her mid-twenties was considered passé.” Tonight, Aratta cut a memorable figure, wearing a three-piece suit of mute, slightly brushed textured black tweed with almost imperceptible dark-gray flecks. Underneath it, he had an immaculate white dress-shirt with starched-stiff standing collar whose tips bent and flared outward. A big-knot silk necktie with intricate, shimmering silver and gold patterns transformed his otherwise austere attire to one of striking elegance.
From across the room, Puddeck nodded in agreement. “Among the Wolofs in Senegal and Gambia, the nubile girls were known for their soft and brown glowing skin. But when the first jet of youth had passed, the skin became sallow and wrinkled and the breasts shriveled up like bladders that have burst.”
“Crass,” put in Aratta, “yet it describes the local sentiment and perception when the two of us visited the place a couple of centuries ago. It had been one of the attractions polygamy held for men. Among the Batwa in northeastern Zimbabwe, after the first wife had given birth to a few children and became worn, the husband procured a woman in her teens, and when she was also past her prime, he took on a third.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Brandon laughed softly.
Aratta looked at him questioningly.
“You said, ‘visited the place a couple of centuries ago.’”
Aratta made a dismissive gesture. “I must have meant the author of a travelogue who described this.” In a matter of hours, the truth was going to come out about his identity. And Aratta was feeling reckless and enjoying the sensation. It was not every century he could let himself slip like that and be indiscreet.
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