The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  Raccoona, as she took her place in court, was ugly.

  In an earlier age she would have been considered cute and pretty, with short dark hair and bright brown eyes, a tip-tilted nose and a neat, very feminine figure. But in the year of her trial she was considered sharp-featured and thin. Public sentiment was strongly against her, and the trial was only a formality.

  “You are accused of the murder of the singer La Rialta,” said the judge. “Let the trial begin.” Below the dais, a datachimp tapped mindlessly at his keyboard, feeding details of the trial into the corner of the Rainbow that served as jury. Behind the judge, a mighty screen played awesome colors.

  Raccoona trembled, and her gaze sought out the elderly man who sat with counsel for the defense. “Oh, Daddy,” she whispered, a plea which he could not hear. “Help me to be strong.”

  Soon the prosecution said, “I call Professor Mordecai Whirst.”

  The elderly man, avoiding Raccoona’s eyes, stepped up to the stand and sat down. He, too, was thin by the standards of the day, somberly dressed and dominated by a sadness that everybody could feel.

  “You are Professor Mordecai N. Whirst?”

  “I am.”

  “What does the N stand for?” asked the judge curiously.

  “Nothing.”

  The judge showed a flash of irritation, wondering if he was being made a fool of. “You mean Nothing, with a capital N? Or just nothing?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a letter. I don’t know how in hell it got on my ID. It’s always been there. Computer error, I suppose.” His voice was flat and despondent. He wanted to get it over with. “I got tired of correcting it, so in the end I let it stand.”

  “So Raccoona Three is a Specialist,” said the prosecution in due course. “You created her in the laboratory, is that right?”

  “No. She is third generation,” said Whirst.

  “What is she for?”

  “For?”

  “What is her purpose?” The prosecution indicated the datachimp. “There is an example of a useful Specialist. I am sure that this court, despite its prime objective today, would be the first to admit that a limited selection of Specialists can take much of the drudgery out of life, despite the misgivings we may have concerning the circumstances of their creation. However, the court is a little puzzled as to the usefulness of the accused. You are not in the habit of creating young women whose only qualities are their femininity and animal nature, are you, Professor?”

  “Objection!”

  “I will rephrase that. What is the accused’s occupation?”

  “She is the daughter of my personal secretary. She lives at the institute. Damn it, she’s only a kid!”

  “And you are...” the prosecutor consulted his notes, “two hundred and three years old. Well, well... Tell me, Professor—why a raccoon?”

  “There’s more to the creation of Specialists than the simple permutation of human and animal genes,” said Whirst irritably. “There has to be a degree of compatibility—a consideration that must outweigh the usefulness factor in the early stages. A number of different combinations were tried out before we came up with the datachimp, for instance. As I recall it, we had a gibbon-man, a baboon-rhesus-man, a lemur-man—all of which could have done the job, but none of which possessed the necessary physical stamina and resistance to disease.”

  “So what happened to these... failures?” The prosecution’s tone was deliberately ominous.

  “They were allowed to live out a natural life span. We are not barbarians. And as for raccoons... Fifty years ago we were experimenting with a number of different species, of which raccoons were one. Generally they were a great success. They were hardy, intelligent, friendly...” The last word was out before he could stop it. “We are allowing them to run through a planned series of generations. At this stage it’s too early to talk about their use.”

  “Do you ever get weighed down by the responsibility of playing God, Professor?”

  “Objection!”

  And so it went on. In the end Whirst was allowed to resume his place. An expert took the stand and was quizzed on the animal psychology of Specialists.

  The defense counsel’s name was Abel Schot. He was a dull, good man, and Mordecai Whirst had hired him for that reason—because he would lose the case.

  Whirst wanted Raccoona to die. He actually wanted his creation, whom he loved like a daughter, to be found guilty of the murder that she had undoubtedly committed, to be taken from this place and executed in accordance with Universal Law.

  The strain was almost unbearable.

  “They were rough on you today,” said Schot. The bar was full. The courtroom was just across the way and the case had attracted great attention. It was the trial of the year, of the decade. Hate groups with placards sat at tables. They were all against Raccoona. The placards read PUT THE ANIMAL DOWN and similar legends. Music played: an aria sung by La Rialta.

  “They can have their fun,” said Whirst.

  “Listen to me, Mordecai. The opposition have no case, don’t you realize that? Murder can only be committed by a human. It’s defined in the Earth Branch of Universal Law like this: ‘The unlawful, malicious and intentional killing of one human being by another.’ That’s clear enough, isn’t it? And Raccoona isn’t human. She has animal genes in her make-up—you could testify to that yourself. She’s a Specialist, Mordecai, so she must be innocent!” Schot was desperate. He couldn’t afford to lose a case this big.

  “I wouldn’t try that line if I were you.” Counsel for the prosecution, arriving, had overheard and now sat down at their table. “This trial is taking place because the people want it. A beloved public figure has been murdered—brutally murdered—by your client. If you make so much as one attempt to get it dismissed on a technicality, then I’ll tramp all over you. And so will the judge, and so will the public. Remember that, Schot.”

  “But the computer...”

  “The Rainbow decides on the rights and wrongs of the case put before it. If Mankind wants a trial, then by God the Rainbow won’t stand in its way. The Rainbow is our servant, Schot. It is the jury, not the judge.”

  Mordecai Whirst said flatly, “The trial will go through to the bitter end. I’ll see to that.”

  Abel Schot groaned.

  “I believe you mean it,” said the prosecutor. “You’re a strange man, Whirst.” A nearby placard read: WE DEMAND THE WORST FOR WHIRST. “You realize you’re on trial too—and every one of your creations?”

  “I know that,” said Whirst.

  Cities had come and gone, nature had come and gone and come again. The Mordecai N. Whirst Institute stood alone on the clifftop with a view of wind-sculpted trees, gray waves, spray-drenched rock. It covered five hectares and contained laboratories, living accommodations and paddocks...

  Whirst was home. Raccoona Two passed him in the corridor and they exchanged a glance of mutual commiseration, but neither spoke. He went to his study. After a decent interval, Vixena came in and kissed his forehead as he sat in his favorite chair.

  “Bad day, Dads?” She sat opposite him in her accustomed place, crossing her legs and flashing him a mischievous grin. She was a beautiful woman, all quick movement and tossing russet hair. The prosecution would enjoy getting her on the stand.

  “We’re throwing Raccoona to the wolves, aren’t we? Isn’t that bad enough?” For once, her brazen sexuality grated on Whirst.

  “I’m sorry. I feel the same as you, Dads, but I’m not good at showing it. You have nobody to blame but yourself.”

  He regarded her, remembering a remark of the prosecutor’s. Am I playing at God? he wondered. But that’s ridiculous. Those are only words designed to appeal to the simple masses. Human beings have been evolving for millennia. One of the results of this evolution is me, a person with the capability to accelerate that evolution. It’s no different from using a computer to design a computer. There is no God; there never was. I must try to bring that out in court. Why do I have t
o go through this nonsense? In the end the facts will win, because we have the Rainbow. Public sentiment is powerless if it is wrong-headed. What I’m doing at the institute is neither right nor wrong, neither good nor evil. It is expedient. And if in the process it results in a little more excitement and beauty around this dull old Earth, what’s wrong with that?

  “I couldn’t do without you, Vix,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t be here without you. And I’d like you to know just how much we all appreciate what you and Raccoona are doing, Dads. If it gets too much, you can stop it at any time. Nobody will blame you.”

  “We’re going through with it. Even if I wanted to stop now, Raccoona wouldn’t agree. You’ve no idea how determined she is.” There was a touch of pride in his voice. They were all his children. “She’s going to be a heroine, in years to come. It’s... it’s unfair that she won’t be alive to enjoy it.”

  Raccoona was frightened. Anyone would be frightened, sitting there unable to run while the hunters closed in. In time the Specialists would speak of her bravery, of how she sat there proudly staring her captors in the eye—and of how the prosecutor was unable to meet her gaze. And of her steady hands and calm voice. And even, in the end, of the way she walked steadily to her death, scorning the sedative. Raccoona the Martyr was the stuff of which such legends are built.

  But Raccoona the girl was terrified as she sat there and shook and cried and lied, and her gaze darted this way and that as though seeking escape, and she had to be escorted to the toilet frequently. Such details as these do not find their way into legends. Raccoona the girl became a trapped animal and looked like one—a fact the media were quick to point out.

  “So after all this,” said the prosecutor, “after all these lies and evasions and histrionics, we are left with the following inescapable facts: The victim, the opera singer known as La Rialta, visited the Whirst Institute on the evening of February ninth. She was admitted by Raccoona Two, the accused’s mother, and shown to the study of Professor Whirst for the purpose of a business discussion, so we are told. She may or may not have been seen in there by one Vixena—but that creature’s evidence cannot, I think, be relied upon. La Rialta was certainly seen ten minutes later by her chauffeur, running from the build-ing—insofar as a woman of her build could run—pursued by the accused. She never made it to the vehicle. She was attacked by the accused and most foully done to death with a knife. The police were radioed instantly by the chauffeur, who also apprehended the accused. When the police arrived, the accused was found to be drenched in blood and her prints were on the knife. It is an open-and-shut case.” The prosecutor gazed around the court. “I have nothing more to say.”

  “Let’s stop this farce, right now,” whispered Schot to Whirst.

  “Only if you can disprove their case,” said Whirst. “I will not have it dismissed on a technicality.”

  “There’s something else—new evidence. I found out last night.” He regarded Whirst expressionlessly. “You knew all the time, of course. You must have known.”

  “Known what?” Was there a trace of alarm in Whirst’s voice?

  Abel Schot leaned across and whispered something in Whirst’s ear. Video recordings showed him doing this, and attempts were made to lip-read the words, but unsuccessfully. It remained one of the big mysteries of a somewhat mystifying trial. At a later date, in possession of all the evidence, the Rainbow was able to piece together a probable approximation of the eight syllables recorded on video, but they were never made public.

  Meanwhile, Mordecai N. Whirst was known to reply, “I can only instruct you to keep your mouth shut—and I am Raccoona’s legal guardian and therefore your legal client.”

  It was at that moment that the Great Datachimp Scandal blew up.

  A satisfactory scandal must have an image on which the public can hang its imagination. The trial was being watched in every barroom on Earth, so the suitable and spectacular image that was provided was seen by a large proportion of the population and discussed knowledgeably for years afterward. It didn’t do the Specialists any good at all.

  Because suddenly the Rainbow scowled.

  Thunderclouds passed across the huge screen behind the judge. Counsel for the prosecution stopped in mid-sentence. The judge swung round, following everybody’s gaze. The Rainbow rumbled. The screen flickered. The onlookers were puzzled and not a little alarmed. Then the Rainbow spoke. Words flashed across the screen.

  It appeared that a discrepancy lay between the audio pickup and the keyboard input. The audio pickup was only a safeguard, a rough check on input data, but inaccurate because of the difficulty of translating all types of speech precisely into computer language. So the audio was only an approximation of what was said, but enough to alert the Rainbow.

  The keyboard input was being faked.

  It took only a moment to establish that. Guards descended, wielding weapons. A growing roar of outrage shook the Earth.

  And a sniveling, gibbering datachimp was led away. This was the image that was burned into the public mind, this small animal-man who had betrayed his trust to try to save one of his own kind. A tiny, strange, dangerous thing between two huge human guards with ordinary flat faces and disgusted expressions. A little creature with a wise old-man’s face who had the temerity to show imagination and to try to cheat human law. Like Raccoona, he had lost some of his humanness, and the ape in him was very pronounced as he struggled and yelped and darted trapped little glances around him from under heavy brows.

  It was a telling image.

  Years afterward, Vixena’s daughter asked the aging, ailing Whirst about the Great Datachimp Scandal.

  “It nearly lost us everything,” he said. “The datachimp thought he was doing the right thing in trying to protect Raccoona. He didn’t know she was already doomed—somehow or other he had failed to grasp the implications of the trial. He saw it in simple terms. A Specialist’s life was at stake and he had the power, by subtly altering the evidence fed into the Rainbow, to save her. But the Rainbow was too clever for him.”

  “What happened to him?” asked the little girl.

  “Funny... that’s a thing not many people ask. The datachimp had proved to the satisfaction of the public that Specialists are not to be trusted. It was what the public wanted to hear, and the public was duly outraged. But Raccoona was the scapegoat—somehow this new crime got transferred to her. The datachimp became immaterial.”

  “So?” said the child, impatient, just like any other human child. “You still haven’t told me what happened to the datachimp.”

  “He was put down.”

  “Found guilty and executed?”

  “No. He was put down. Painlessly destroyed, like an animal.”

  “But that’s murder!”

  “Exactly. That’s what the whole thing was about.” He smiled at her outrage. It was all a long time ago, and it didn’t excite him anymore.

  Tradition dies hard. Humans love a show. When the Rainbow gave its verdict, it didn’t flash it on the screen. It spat out a little plastic card, which the judge picked up. He paused while the suspense grew.

  Whirst said unsteadily, “Raccoona, my darling. Please be strong.” He stood beside her now. After all, hadn’t they said he was on trial as well? But his role was easy. He was not going to die.

  “Oh, Daddy, I’m so frightened.”

  And Whirst said, “If you want, I’ll stop it right now. I still can.” This is no myth. Whirst actually said that; the words are on record, and the video caught the tears.

  Raccoona said, “No.”

  The judge said, “Raccoona Three. The Rainbow, representing the total of human knowledge and being completely impartial, finds you guilty as charged. Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”

  Raccoona said, “No,” very quickly, very quietly.

  “Then I must sentence you to death in accordance with human law.”

  Whirst whispered, “Thank you, Raccoona darling. The Specialists wi
ll never forget you. Neither will I.”

  And the judge was saying, “I would be failing my duty if I did not express my concern—and the concern of all Mankind—at the implications of this case. Raccoona Three has been found guilty, and deservedly so, and she will die. This is her punishment for the brutal slaying of a beloved public figure. But she is not the real villain of the trial. She is simply a tool, a creation of a man who must be feeling just as guilty as she, if he possesses any humanity at all. Mordecai Whirst—do you know what you are doing? When I see you standing there with your creation I am reminded irresistibly of the legendary Frankenstein. He failed to control his monster, just as you have failed. It is an apt comparison, don’t you think?”

  Quickly Whirst began to answer. The fool had to be stopped. The case was over and the datachimp was dead, and Raccoona would soon die too—but that should be the end of it. The world was listening to these words. The situation was in balance. No human judge, secure in his office and loving the sound of his own sanctimonious words, should be allowed to prejudice the great issue.

  “Blame me if you like,” Whirst said, and the world heard, “but don’t blame the Specialists, and don’t ever call them monsters. They have served

  Mankind for over a hundred years now and they have served us well, while our machines broke down around us and we slowly lost the ability to repair them. The Specialists do all the things we lack the ability or the inclination to do, and they do them without complaint. Don’t blame them because of one crime.

  “And as for me, you asked if I know what I’m doing. Perhaps I can answer that question best by telling you what I believe—what makes me tick and why I have devoted my life to the creation of the Specialists.

  “I believe that we have wasted our abilities and the resources of Earth for forty thousand years. Has nobody ever heard of the Consumer Wars of the fifty-fourth millennium? Won’t we ever learn that minerals are finite, whereas life is infinite?

  “I believe that when we evolved on this planet we inherited a trust. The trust was not Earth itself, with the riches that lay underground and in the oceans. Neither was the trust the stars that we plundered for their wealth after we had emptied Earth. No—the trust was Life. The cells, the chromosomes, the genes. They were given to us to use wisely. And did we do this?” He paused, and the world waited. “No, we did not. In our conceit we arbitrarily stuck our finger into the stream of history and said: That is what a man is. That is the supreme life form, that, and no other. Even though the Second Species of Mankind was already beginning to evolve into something else! Even though the idiocy of what we said was right there in our mirrors! We had the vanity to consider ourselves perfect.