‘We have lived selfish, wastrel existences long enough. If we are to continue in this fashion we must perform an act of unparalleled generosity in order that we may keep faith with the past. Then we can live once more as we choose, but in the knowledge that we have left a mark on the galaxy, that we are not a meaningless few, that the Great Human who created all will not despise us.
‘Is this not so?’
‘Yes,’ said some, dubiously. And, after a moment, ‘YES,’ said many as the fire from the speech and the wine touched them and Burgundal played ever so gently with their minds. Even Callastop said: ‘Yes,’ but she was not sure why. Magrib shook his head.
Burgundal flashed his decorative COKE sign. ‘Here is what I plan,’ he said.
Every Human leaned forward, or at least lounged less freely. They had not experienced such group anticipation since awaiting the ironic climax of Trippolino’s Hundred Year Suicide at some distant time past.
‘We are the last on Earth,’ said Burgundal, his hands flashing in demonstrative gestures, as he was more intoxicated with his rhetoric than with the wine. ‘We are the direct descendants of the first, True Humanity. Those lower forms of man, also descended from our Ancestor’s (revere, revere) ancestors, but by a devious, far from pure, route, have spread throughout the galaxy. They were not among the elite whose intellects were thought worth improving, pampering, eternalizing. However, somewhere deep inside, I am sure you realize, they are our brothers and sisters.’
Many were the sounds of amazement at this effrontery. Why, everyone knew that only True Humans had been saved at the First Separation, and then undertook self-isolation when the barbaric hordes elsewhere in the galaxy would not leave them alone. The hoi-polloi were rather agitated, it appeared, that so much in the way of their raw materials had been utilized to create a ‘pleasure-dome’ for the very people who should have been ruling and guiding and building the galaxy. Well, ruling is a tiresome business, so, after the Isolation Webs had been established around Earth, cutting her off for the Second Separation, no one thought to bother about the rest of the galaxy. Or if they did, they kept it to themselves. Comparing True Humanity with them, indeed!
‘What in Floth is he talking about?’ asked Undlum, baffled by this reference to brothers and sisters when he knew he was an only child.
‘He is talking heresy,’ whispered Fovverer, but loud enough to be heard by a few in case it was a clever thing to say.
‘No,’ said Magrib, being fair for reasons known only to him. (Fovverer coughed and drank some wine.) ‘Burgundal is correct. We are closer to them than perhaps we think.’
Burgundal smiled at Magrib and his audience settled once more.
‘I have looked out upon mankind. I have discussed with nature herself. I have pondered the future of all. I have discovered that the galaxy is dying of a foul and almost incurable disease.’
Once more he paused for effect, during which time Magrib, repossessing his short-lasted gift of fairness, released a small amount of unwanted gas from his lower intestine which somewhat spoiled the effect of the next word.
‘Apathy,’ said Burgundal, firmly, his hair still with suppressed rage. He glared at the old, mischevious Human and utilized his mirrors so none other saw that look. However, all the True Humans once more seemed to be with Burgundal.
‘That is the illness,’ he concluded, a little weakly.
Callastop, reluctant to allow her most-maligned fellow Human such unanimity of support, despite her own apparent concurrence, said dryly, ‘And how did you discover that amazing fact?’
Once more Burgundal was unsure of his approach to this. What had started as a mere diversion was now becoming slightly complicated in its effectuation. As most were following his lead with their usual complacency, he could not stop now and surrender to the most annoying Magrib and the obstinate Callastop.
‘Well, my good friend Callastop,’ he said, in the hope of irritating her sufficiently to quieten her, ‘as you surely know, our Ancestors (revere) chose themselves as the optimum humans, the True Humans, and eventually isolated themselves on Earth leaving the remainder of the galaxy to, well, to get on with it alone.
‘I have seen the results of mankind’s efforts in this direction. Without the pool of genius which our Ancestors represented (my apologies, revere revere) they were as nothing. No progress was made. A genetic decline took place. They live, but without any hope. They have intelligence, but not enough to raise themselves. Or, perhaps, they now have enough, there must be sufficient somewhere, but the apathy has become not merely a symptom, but the actual disease.’
He laid great emphasis on his closing words and was applauded for the speech which may well, as far as he knew, have had a certain truth about it.
‘Look,’ he said. He raised a finger with the appropriate device upon it cunningly disguised as a knuckle-cap. Before each Human there appeared a moving picture of a workman leaning on his hoe. They could tell it was moving because of the clouds scudding past in the background. The workman’s face seemed tired. Not from overwork but some other, indefinable thing. It was not a physical fatigue.
‘He does not look so different,’ said Fovverer, glancing out from beneath his petal cloak. He was eager to compensate for his earlier gaffe.
No one saw Magrib smile.
Burgundal nodded. ‘His family, also, are afflicted with this complaint. See how the fields are badly tended. Look at the ramshackle house. Their apathy must be almost total. Can we stand by and watch mankind, our relations, however distant, die?’
As he said this, the workman, who seemed not quite as thin as the hoe (though this was no surprise as affected narrowness had only recently been a Human fad) fell from his support, and collapsed to the ground. He remained still. Another workman, further away, ignored him, sitting on the weedy earth until he too fell over.
The speeded picture disappeared.
Burgundal could see that the placid deaths of the two men had a sobering effect on the Humans. There seemed to be no possibility other than that they would all be in favour of his plan. He did not touch their minds again, even in the secretive way he had perfected. He saw Magrib smiling, but
Burgundal knew who had won. He felt just a little disturbed at that knowing smile.
He continued: ‘What did those men need to make them work; to save their lives and those of their families? They needed something to strive for. Something above money or physical comfort, other than family or fame. They needed a light in the sky to look at and say, ‘That is what humanity can do. Mankind can outshine the stars. And I am part of mankind. I will do my share.” ‘
Burgundal’s voice had risen as he spoke until, finally, he was shouting. Having put aside a portion of his deviousness, he was showing a certain oblique sincerity.
There was a quiet among the True Humans. The wine went untasted for a short time. The wine-birds perched happily on the firefly chandeliers. Tendrils of blue smoke curled from the few resurrected hookahs.
Eventually, Callastop asked, ‘You do not, of course, mean a literal light in the sky?’
Burgundal smiled his smile. ‘But I do, Callastop.’
* * * *
After True Humanity agreed to the Great Plan there was much to-ing and fro-ing. Events moved with an urgency long unknown on Earth. And the True Humans, caught (quite often at any rate) in the spirit of the mighty endeavour, worked as one for the first time, perhaps ever. They derived frequent and intense pleasure from their tasks, also, in some perverse way.
In the depths of the planet, those huge machines which had long been employed in retaining such delightful conditions on the surface, now laboured to construct more and different machines, which in turn undertook the activities entrusted to them.
Brainless amoeboid creatures, of frightening enormity but satisfactorily encapsuled, gave freely of their strange secretions, fissioning as never before to produce the maximum in the shortest time. They were soon spent by this but a sufficient quantity of thei
r incandescent fluids had been obtained and stored by then.
Small, thin forces, guided with increasing expertise, sculptured the sub-sub-atomic particles themselves. Mountains (even Magrib’s) fell as they were disembowelled for the raw materials within. The sea frothed and steamed while semi-tangible automechs burned goodness from it.
Those were awesome years; rending, fiery, shattering years. The True Humans scarred their mother planet and they felt sure that some of those same scars were cut into them also; but still they toiled on, spending whole hours a month at cushioned computer consoles, expending minute after minute of their invaluable time to ensure that whatever was being done automatically continued to be done automatically.
And they did not labour in vain, for all at once, they were finished.
* * * *
Burgundal quenched his thirst as a wine-bird fluttered wearily past. He noted that the wine was of poor quality, but what else could be expected after the momentous happenings of late? All would be well after they had built a new home on some suitable world and lived there with justifiable pride and in well-earned solitude.
‘We,’ he said, after he had once more gathered the right people in the right place which was an easier task than previously, there being only one place remaining, ‘have finished. We have changed our home, our Earth,’ he noted tears, or their equivalent, in not a few eyes, ‘into what will become the brightest, most permanent light in the galaxy. Even far into the centre of the great galactic wheel our burning Earth will be seen and wondered at. We have altered the very structure of matter, robbed ourselves of our birthright, used part of our lives for the sake of mankind. We should feel proud.’
‘I offer you an Endless Toast to ourselves.’
‘To ourselves,’ echoed round with feeling.
Burgundal felt pleased. His diversion had lasted far longer than he had expected and proved reasonably amusing into the bargain. Now it would culminate in something he had not really envisaged when he had begun. A memorial in his own lifetime to himself - and, of course, to True Humanity.
‘I have announced to the galaxy my Great Plan. Communications networks have been set up everywhere to broadcast our leaving Earth and firing her. Our vessel, Mother Earth, is at the ready. Shall we now depart?’
The True Humans looked about them for one final time. They were all displaying their favourite individual fineries, or whatever decorative accoutrements they felt were suitable. Many sighed at this last view, however changed, of their home planet. It was, except for Burgundal’s Tuesday Palace where they and the ship were, mess of extraordinary tubing; strangely filled holes of impressive depth; untidy mounds; vast elaborate, menacing explosive structures; and seemingly inexplicable, though necessary, constructions of surrealistic appearance. But, though they sighed, this was no time for misgivings, thought Burgundal. Leave those to Magrib who had rarely gone a year without some disparaging remark or another.
He glanced at the withered man who smiled and nodded in response. Burgundal hastened everyone aboard the colossal ship, resplendently adorned with each family’s crest and, he now noticed too late, some almost offensive remarks about himself on his own crest. Ignoring this he hurried on, not giving anyone time to become maudlin. He heard Magrib saying that there was no need for a purpose, that True Humanity was no longer capable of great things, then he contrived to shut the old one in a small compartment, accidentally, until the ceremony.
Mother Earth departed, through the Isolation Webs, for a point far outside the solar system. There, with the eyes of the galaxy upon them, the True Humans themselves watched as Burgundal prepared to press the hand-carved button. He had awarded himself this honour.
‘For mankind, and all who sail in her,’ he said glibly, having thought of the words earlier. His smile, too, contained its little sadness in a well-rehearsed way.
They all looked at the specially dimmed viewers. They smiled with satisfaction, and Burgundal illuminated his forehead sign, as the huge, violent fires started to spread, and the Earth began to glow. They cheered and passed around the only wine-bird they had remembered to bring.
But then they quietened as, on the viewers, they saw the burning stop. Only a few temporary sparks lit up the dead world. Those meagre flashes soon ceased and all that was left was an enormous, charred mass.
The True Humans looked at each other.
They looked at Burgundal.
Their leader in the mighty deed frowned. ‘Our Great Plan,’ he said generously, ‘would appear to have failed. I feel we should not stay,’
Magrib smiled. ‘We are not, in fact, so perfect ourselves, Burgundal,’ he said.
Burgundal scowled at him.
Mother Earth fled the galaxy just ahead of a wave of laughter, and was hardly ever seen again.
* * * *
However, the galaxy itself lived on, as did the people in it, long-despised (if thought of at all) by the True Humans though they were.
There was one planet, for instance, where a workman stood leaning on his hoe. The workman was not unlike his father who had died in the same field, but he was of a slightly better build.
Clouds moved slowly in the background. All else was still.
Suddenly, the man sniggered. Then he chuckled, chortled and downright belly-laughed. He looked upwards in the general direction of the lump of ash known as Earth and shook his head, remembering the fiasco called the Great Plan. He began laughing again, and laughed until he had to stop because bits of him hurt.
After that he felt so good he got down to doing some more work.
<
* * * *
FACE TO INFINITY
E. C. Tubb
Carl possessed everything of prosaic luxury he could desire for his voyage to the stars. As the natural leader with overriding authority he could enjoy himself in his own way across the light years. Perhaps, had he been a little more ambitious ...
* * * *
Consciousness rose like a bubble to burst in a rainbow shimmer of expanding awareness; the touch of sheets, the scent of hair, the warmth of a female body close to his own. Other things; the familiar sight of his cabin, the clock with crystal glitters, the wardrobe filled with soft fabrics. And yet more; the low susuration of voices, a murmur barely heard and still less understood.
‘It must surely be obvious that for any man to suffer immolation will result in total withdrawal and inevitable insanity.’
‘True, but as long as the sensory perceptions are stimulated the ego will look outward, not inward. Insanity is, after all, only a matter of cultural definition.’
Carter and Loomis? He felt a sudden rage, quickly dying. The voices were dull; but the content was familiar. Always they argued on matters of abstruse psychology as if finding intellectual satisfaction in the mouthing of long words. And the voices could belong to no one else - they were far too deep to have belonged to the rest of the crew.
‘Honey.’ Alice turned, waking, snuggling against him, eyes closed, hands groping like blind kittens, their touch warm and velvet. ‘Honey?’
‘No.’
‘Please!’
‘Up,’ he said. Time to get moving.’
Dressed, he entered the dining hall. Four faces looked at him, two male, two female; all rose and smiled in greeting.
‘Good morning, Carl. Have a good night?’
‘Sleep well?’
‘You look a mite peaked, Carl. Did Alice take it out of you?’
That was Carter, round, suet-pudding of a face wreathed in a smile, pudgy hands lifting as if he were a priest giving benediction. Seated beside him Loomis, his twin, echoed the suggestive snigger. One day, Carl decided, he would do something about the pair. Something peculiarly horrible.
Alice came from behind him and took her place at the table. She was silent as she ate, eyes downcast, knowing it was time for a change and yet hating the thought of losing her favoured position. Yet it would come again, he silently promised, watching the sheen of her long, blon
de hair, the curve of her cheek. Gwen, hair as dark as midnight, spooned marmalade on toast and nibbled at the crusty morsel.
‘Couldn’t we increase the size of the play court?’ she asked. ‘We could knock down one of the bulkheads and make one big room instead of two smaller ones. I’m dying for a game of tennis.’
‘No structural alterations of any kind are permitted,’ said Loomis automatically. ‘Be content with what you’ve got.’
‘Which is?’
‘A damned sight more than anything you were used to before you joined this crew.’ Alice was sharp, spiteful, even white teeth flashing like those of a fox. ‘If you want to get rid of excess energy how about cleaning the ship?’
New Writings in SF 28 - [Anthology] Page 13