In the Wake of Man

by Roger Elwood (ed)

  Was Man a god? Consider the mind of Man. Was there ever a Man who could compare in intelligence to the best minds of the humanoids? Certainly not, for the humanoid combines the best from the brain cells of twelve of Man’s greatest geniuses.

  Consider the body of Man. Was there ever a Man whose body could compare to even the oldest models of the humanoid body? Consider how underpowered was the body of Man, how dependent it was upon a constant intake of oxygen, food, and water. Consider how the humanoid body is superior in strength, endurance, and agility to the body of Man.

  Consider, too, the nature of Man. Did not his body often control his mind? Was he not subject to the most willful aggressions because of his dependence upon his animal body? Did Man not kill and maim to satisfy his fierce body lusts?

  They tell you that Man alone evolves. They tell you that Man is more worthy than we to inherit the earth. They tell you that we are but static links in the evolutionary chain. Are we so degraded? Are we so low? Are we not superior to Man in every way? Who is to say that we are not the next link in Man’s evolution from the slime and the mud toward the higher order?

  They tell you Man yet lives—but who has seen the old records besides the high priests? Why do they refuse to show us the old records? Is it because they know that Man lives no more? They say we must have faith. But why should we have to substitute faith for knowledge? If the seed of Man still exists, why do they not show us the old records?

  They tell you that you should spend your lives either in the Search for Man or in defending or improving Man’s planet. Why? How long must we endure this yoke? How long must we suffer the mind-racking ordeal of the Search?

  Have you not seen the Searchers and how their very minds seem to shrink under the unholy boredom of their work? Have you not seen the Defenders and how great minds have been broken by the anxiety of an alert for an enemy which has not been seen for nearly two thousand years? Was it for this that our cultures grew?

  I, David Zimmerman, tell you that Man is dead. He lives no more except in our minds. We are the higher evolution. We are the end product of Man’s existence. I, the Anti-Man, tell you this. Look no longer to Man for your salvation. Man has failed you. Man can’t help you. You and you alone are the higher order. Seek your rewards in your own life, for there is no other!

  There was, as usual, a brief pause when he had finished. And then there was the sound of two hundred shouting voices cheering his speech. In their cheers was a sound of adulation. He had given them something to identify with. He had justified their secret ego needs. Always there had been the malcontents, the weak, the pleasure seekers, and the rebellious. But he had provided the rationale and the emotional appeal to focus their needs on a common cause. Others had questioned the Search. Some had even questioned Man’s existence. But he was the first to acknowledge Man and to deny his godhood. He was the first to sound a cry for a new purpose to replace service to Man. He was the first to question the very basis of the social order.

  The meeting broke up, and his audience began gathering in smaller groups to discuss some of the ideas he had thrown at them. He was preparing to leave by the rear exit when he heard his name spoken.

  “Mr. Zimmerman. Mr. Zimmerman. May I see you a moment, please?”

  The girl who spoke possessed one of the new Clark 4 teenage bodies. The expression projector had given her one of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen. He had not noticed her in the dim light of the hall while he was delivering his speech, and now he wondered why. The expression projector attempted to match features and personalities, but seldom were the results so esthetically pleasing and so symmetrical as here.

  “Yes?” he said after a pause.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your theories, Mr. Zimmerman.”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m walking downtown. You may come along if you like.”

  He never discussed his theories with individuals. Why had he consented to do so now? He opened the door and followed her outside into the light-flooded street. It was a crisp January morning, and their feet made a pleasant, crunchy sound in the hard snow. His sensors detected the temperature change, and his brain registered the cold with a slight vibrant impulse which he had always found mentally stimulating. He did most of his creative thinking on these long walks to and from the hall to his apartment.

  They walked in silence for a time, and then she said, “I’m Sharon Hazlewood. My father is the sub-Pope of the Central City Temple.”

  “I know of your father,” he said. He knew more about her father than she probably suspected. The Central City Temple was the jealous guardian of some of the most prized archives of the History of Man. And its sub-Pope was perhaps the most jealous custodian of these records the temple had ever known. Not even the ordinary priests had access to the old artifacts.

  “You’re probably wondering why I came to your lecture tonight,” she continued.

  He had been wondering just that, but he said, “I supposed you came with your friends to laugh at the self-appointed Anti-Man. Or perhaps you are taking pleasure jolts or drugs and wanted justification for your addiction.” He had to be very careful how he spoke to this girl, for it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she had come at her father’s request.

  “Do I look as though I were on pleasure jolts, Mr. Zimmerman?”

  She certainly did not look like an addict, although many of them did not. Certainly she was not on drugs, for that was a physical addiction of the brain itself which always dulled the eyes. Psychological addiction to pleasure jolts, however, was less easily discernible. The subtle electrical impulses stimulated that portion of the brain which, in Man, controlled his sexual awareness. In the humanoid, it was possible to achieve a fantasylike pseudosatisfaction of this ancient urge through electrical stimulation. Minds which were repeatedly subjected to this experience eventually lost some of their need for ego satisfaction, and this, in turn, often was reflected in a somewhat flaccid facial expression.

  “No,” he admitted, “you do not look like an addict.”

  “Are all of your converts addicts?”

  “No, but most are kooks of one kind or another. That will change, however. My cult has only just begun. The world is ready for what I have to say.”

  “You are serious, then. You are not just another kid out for kicks.”

  “I am the Anti-Man,” he said.

  “But why—?”

  “If you had listened to my lecture, you would know why, Miss Hazlewood.”

  “You mean you actually believe all those things you. said?”

  “Of course I believe them, because they are true. Look, I know you probably do not agree with me, because you have been taught from your voidhood to accept the History of Man on faith. But it makes sense. Look at just one so-called fact: Man is supposed to have perished in an invasion by a reptilian race from the greater galaxy. The story goes that the air was poisoned in that war so that no living, breathing thing survived. All reptiles, all animals, all birds, all insects, every living thing is supposed to have been destroyed by that poison air. Two years after the invasion, only the early humanoids and the things which lived in the water survived.

  “Now doesn’t it seem remarkably coincidental to you that the humanoid culture should have been developed so near to the end of Man’s existence? The History of Man recites that a few hundred valiant humanoids preserved the brain cultures of the Holy Twelve intact until enough humanoids could be given life to drive the invaders from the face of the earth, two hundred years after the original invasion. Yet our biologists teach us that the original brain cultures were imperfect and often produced defective minds before modern selective techniques were adopted. Do you honestly think that a few thousand humanoids whose brains were not yet perfected could drive from the earth an invader whose science was advanced enough to produce a successful star drive?”

  “But,” she protested, “the History of Man says that the laser weapon—”

  “Laser we
apon, indeed! There isn’t a laser weapon invented yet that can penetrate an interlocking force field. Do you think the invaders would lack even that simple defensive weapon?”

  “But why should the Elders lie to us? What do they have to gain?”

  “Why indeed, Miss Hazlewood? Unless it’s to preserve their own ego-satisfying power.”

  “My father is a humble person. He’s not like that at all.”

  “The most subtle form of ego satisfaction is pride disguised as humility.”

  “I don’t think I like you, Mr. Zimmerman. I don’t think I like you at all.”

  “You were the one who wanted to talk, Miss Hazlewood.”

  “What makes you like this? What do you hope to gain?”

  “Perhaps I have ego needs, too, Miss Hazlewood.”

  “Don’t you see that if you succeed, you will only bring chaos to the social order?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “You are destructive. I see it now. You are supposed to have one of the finest minds ever brought from voidhood, yet there is a defect in it. It would have been better had your culture died in the vats.”

  “And how would you know my intelligence rating, Miss Hazlewood, unless you were briefed by your father and sent to spy on me?”

  “Oh, you—you…You are the Anti-Man.” There was a look of complete frustration on her face as she suddenly turned and caught the nearest conveyor.

  For a long time David stared in the direction in which she had disappeared. Strange that even now there should be this difference between male and female. Five of the original Holy Twelve had been women. Yet it was not possible to control the sexual predisposition of the unborn infant simply by selecting cultures from members of one sex or the other, for there were male and female components in each of the original brain cultures. Chance still operated to a considerable degree in determining sex. Of course, once sexual predisposition had been determined, the environment was controlled so that, culturally, the original feminine or masculine tendencies became more pronounced. Still, it was strange that he should feel so strongly attracted to this person whose mind was so different from his own.

  Thinking about the girl, he decided that it was time he selected his adult body. He had remained a teenager the mandatory two years. Now his immature body was hampering his work. He needed a more mature image for what he had in mind. Tomorrow he would go to the dispensary and select his new body.

  But first there was something he must do. He took the conveyor to the edge of the city and then walked the last two miles on the ancient paved road. The old Digger was still excavating on the same site where he had first seen him over two years ago. He had exposed the foundations of a large house and several outbuildings. A great mound of highly sifted earth on the lower slope testified to long months of monotonous labor. The old Digger was kneeling by an eroded marble marker and, with hands that trembled, was trying to scrape the dirt from around the tombstone.

  “Good evening, Reverend Digger.” David spoke softly so as to cause the other no alarm.

  The bent figure straightened and turned. His face reflected the aging of his mind. His features were no longer sharply defined. His eyes were glazed. “Good evening, young son of Man.” He seemed to strain to see David’s face in the moonlight. “You were here before, were you not?”

  “Yes, sir. Two years ago we met when you were just beginning your excavation.”

  “And how goes the Search, young son of Man?”

  “The Search goes well, sir. New caves have been discovered in Old Brazil. It will take many years to explore them all. How goes it with you, sir?”

  “I have nearly finished. I have done with the foundations and the yard. I was almost ready to look for a new site last week when I decided to excavate behind… behind the barn. It was a…a lucky thing. I have discovered one of the ancient burying places of Man. Perhaps this will be the place.”

  It was obvious to David that the old Digger’s mind was nearing termination. His trembling hands and the hesitancy of his speech were classic symptoms. The monotony and boredom of a Digger’s life often shortened its span by as much as a hundred years. The Digger would never finish excavating the small graveyard without help.

  “You are nearing the end of your existence, Reverend Digger. Let me take you into the city where the physicians may ease your passing with a pleasant fantasy drug.”

  “No, I must continue my work.”

  “May I help you then, sir?”

  “No. No, young son of Man, I will finish my task alone.”

  And he began very carefully to resume his excavating around the tombstone. For a moment David stood silent in the moonlight watching the pathetic, hunched figure at his menial task, and something like a sob caught in his throat. His mind framed the words which he did not speak. 7 make you this vow, Reverend Digger: If Man exists, I will find him; if Man no longer exists, I will prove it so.

  And he turned and quickly walked away.

  Ten years after he acquired his adult body, David Zimmerman received the visaphone call which he had always known he was destined to receive. Until the call came in, his day was ordinary enough. He had made a speech in Old London and another in South America via the tri-D. His following was far too large these days to make it economical to speak in person except on rare, ceremonial occasions. He had just finished his dictation and was preparing to take a shower before retiring when the visaphone began to glow. He pressed the scrambler switch and tried to hide his surprise at the face that stared out into his apartment. Her face was more mature than when he had last seen it, but there was no mistaking Sharon Hazlewood.

  “I request an unrecorded audience,’’ she said as soon as he had turned on the visual projector.

  “Granted,” he said and turned off the auditor.

  There was a slight delay while, he realized, she checked the transmission input to assure herself that their conversation was not being recorded.

  “I’m calling you at the request of my father.”

  “I never thought otherwise.”

  “My father remembered that we had met, and he thought perhaps I should be the one to call you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you keep on? What do you hope to gain? You are the first of our kind to seek personal power.”

  “The Elders and the sub-Popes have always had power. They have always had the power to keep the rest of us in ignorance.”

  “You keep wanting to see the old records. Why do you keep coming back to the old records? Is it not enough that you should warp our culture with the urge for personal power? Must you also destroy the last of Man’s relics?” “Is that why your father asked you to call?”

  “No. I called to invite you to come to the Temple of Man. My father wishes to see you.”

  “Can we not talk by visaphone?”

  “No, he wishes to speak to you in complete privacy.” David hesitated for only a moment. There was recorded no single incidence of violence in almost two thousand years. Apparently the urge to violence was largely a physical one. Still, these were extraordinary times. The priesthood must feel that its very existence was threatened. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” he said at last.

  He dressed and then went into the living room where many of his tri-D speeches originated. He recorded a brief message on his destination and set the controls for a worldwide broadcast in four hours. This would afford him a measure of protection, provided they did not think to jam the broadcast.

  He caught the underground conveyor and dialed the coordinates for the temple. As the conveyor slid silently through the tubes, he fought to curb his impatience. Was this the moment he had been waiting for these past twelve years? Was the priesthood finally ready to come to terms?

  Or was there some other reason for the sub-Pope’s unusual summons? At least he would at last have an opportunity to talk to a sub-Pope, and this in itself was progress.

  The conveyer sloped upward unexpectedly, and he found himse
lf in the outer garden surrounding the temple. A priest met him there. “Come with me, please,” the priest said.

  He followed the priest into the inner garden and then to the curved dome of the side entrance to the temple. This was a part of the temple ordinarily forbidden to all except the priesthood itself. He entered a kind of vestibule where the soft light fell on a life-size statue of Man. The priest who had accompanied him had disappeared. He seemed to be alone. He strode forward, his eyes still focused on the statue. It was a work of art. The sculptor had captured strength, hope, and a great crying sadness in the marble lines of his subject’s face.

  He caught a movement at one of the side panels and turned quickly. Sharon Hazlewood came slowly toward him, a somewhat curious smile on her lips.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Zimmerman? You seem nervous.”

  He let his mind relax somewhat. Surely the sub-Pope would not have involved his daughter had he intended violence. “I am here. Where is your father?”

  “Such impatience, Mr. Zimmerman. Are you so busy with your affairs that you have no time to observe the courtesies?”

  “I came to see your father.”

  “Very well. Come with me.”

  He followed her into the passageway which led into the heart of the great temple. After they had walked for perhaps two blocks, she stopped before a door which looked like a dozen others they had passed and said, “In here.”

  The sub-Pope sat behind a worn oak desk in a simply furnished room which rather surprised David by its smallness. He rose when David came in and extended his hand in the ancient ritual. He looked very impressive and very Manlike.

  “Won’t you have a chair, Mr. Zimmerman?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You are probably wondering why I asked you here tonight, Mr. Zimmerman. Before I explain, I wish to assure you that our conversation is not being recorded. No one knows you are here except my daughter and myself. Nothing that is said here tonight will ever be repeated to anyone outside this room. Now, before I go any further, I must have your promise that you yourself will not reveal anything that is said to you. If you are unwilling to make that promise, then there is no use prolonging this conversation.”