by John Varley
And they left. They left the jumper, which was nice of them, since they could have taken it and rendered us helpless to wait for their return.
I thought about it, and talked it over with Halo. Several times we were ready to give up and go back. After all, we hadn’t really set out to run away from home. We had only been defying authority, and it had never entered my head that we would stay as long as we had. But now that we were here we found it hard to go back. The trip to Nearside had acquired an inertia of its own, and we didn’t have the strength to stop it.
In the end we went to the other extreme. We decided to stay on Nearside forever. I think we were giddy with the sense of power a decision like that made us feel. So we covered up our doubts with backslapping encouragement, a lot of giggling, and inflated notions of what we and old Lester would do at Archimedes.
We wrote a note—which proved we still felt responsible to someone—and taped it to the ladder of the jumper; then Halo went in and turned on the outside lights and pointed them straight up. We retired to a hiding place and waited.
Sure enough, another ship returned in two hours. They had been watching from close orbit and landed on the next pass when they noticed the change. One person got out of the ship and read the note. It was a crazy note, saying not to worry, we were all right. It went on to say we intended to stay, and some more things I’d rather not remember. It also said she should take the jumper. I was regretting that even as she read it. We must have been crazy.
I could see her slump even from so far away. She looked all around her, then began signaling in semaphore language.
“Do what you have to,” she signaled. “I don’t understand you, but I love you. I’m leaving the jumper in case you change your mind.”
Well. I gulped, and was halfway up on my way out to her when, to my great surprise, Halo pulled me down. I had thought she was only going along with me to avoid having to point out how wrong I was. This hadn’t been her idea; she had not been in her right mind when I hustled her over here. But she had settled down from all that lunes ago and was now as level-headed as ever. And was more taken with our adventure than I was.
“Dope!” she hissed, touching helmets. “I thought you’d do something like that. Think it through. Do you want to give up so easy? We haven’t even tried this yet.”
Her face wasn’t as certain as her words, but I was in no shape to argue her out of it. Then Carnival was gone, and I felt better. It was true that we had an out if it turned sour. Pretty soon we were intrepid pioneers, and I didn’t think of Carnival or the Farside until things did start to go sour.
For a long time, almost a lunation, we were happy. We worked hard every day with old Lester. I learned that in his kind of life the work was never done; there was always an air duct to repair, flowers to pollinate, machinery to regulate. It was primitive, and I could usually see ways to improve the methods but never thought of suggesting them. It wouldn’t have fit with our crazy pioneer ideas. Things had to be hard to feel right.
We built a grass lean-to like one we had seen in a movie and moved in. It was across the chamber from old Lester, which was silly, but it meant we could visit each other. And I learned an interesting thing about sin.
Old Lester would watch us make love in our raggedy shack, a grin across his leathery face. Then one day he implied that lovemaking should be a private act. It was a sin to do it in front of others, and a sin to watch. But he still watched.
So I asked Halo about it.
“He needs a little sin, Fox.”
“Huh?”
“I know it isn’t logical, but you must have seen by now that his religion is mixed up.”
“That’s for sure. But I still don’t get it.”
“Well, I don’t either, but I try to respect. He thinks drinking is sinful, and until we came along it was the only sin he could practice. Now he can do the sin of lust, too. I think he needs to be forgiven for things, and he can’t be forgiven until he does them.”
“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. But even crazier, if lust is a sin to him, why doesn’t he go all the way and make love with you? I’ve been dead sure he wants to, but as far as I know, he’s never done it. Has he?”
She looked at me pityingly. “You don’t know, do you?”
“You mean he has?”
“No. I don’t mean that. We haven’t. And not because I haven’t tried. And not because he doesn’t want to. He looks, looks, looks; he never takes his eyes off me. And it isn’t because he thinks it’s a sin. He knows it’s a sin, but he’d do it if he could.”
“I still don’t understand, then.”
“What do you mean? I just told you. He can’t. He’s too old. His equipment won’t function anymore.”
“That’s terrible!” I was almost sick. I knew there was a word for his condition, but I had to look it up a long time afterward. The word is crippled. It means some part of your body doesn’t work right. Old Lester had been sexually crippled for over a century.
I seriously considered going home then. I was not at all sure he was the kind of person I wanted to be around. The lies were getting more galling every day, and now this.
But things got much worse, and still I stayed.
He was ill. I don’t mean the way we think of ill; some petty malfunction to be cleared up by a ten-minute visit to the bioengineers. He was wearing out.
It was partly our fault. Even that first morning he was not very quick out of bed. Each lune—after a long night of drinking and general hell-raising—he was a little slower to get up. It got to where Halo was spending an hour each morning just massaging him into shape to stand erect. I thought at first he was just cannily malingering because he liked the massage and Halo’s intimacy when she worked him over. That was not the case. When he did get up, he hobbled, bent over from pains in his belly. He would forget things. He would stumble, fall, and get up very slowly.
“I’m dying,” he said one night. I gasped; Halo blinked rapidly. I tried to cover my embarrassment by pretending he hadn’t said it.
“I know it’s a bad word now, and I’m sorry if I offended you. But I ain’t lived this long without being able to look it in the eye. I’m dying, all right, and I’ll be dead pretty soon. I didn’t think it’d come so sudden. Everything seems to be quit-tin’ on me.”
We tried to convince him that he was wrong and, when that didn’t work, to convince him that he should take a short hop to Farside and get straightened out. But we couldn’t get through his superstition. He was awfully afraid of the engineers on Farside. We would try to show him that periodic repairs still left the mind—he called it the “soul”—unchanged, but he’d get philosophical.
The next day he didn’t get up at all. Halo rubbed his old limbs until she was stiff. It was no good. His breathing became irregular, and his pulse was hard to find.
So we were faced with the toughest decision ever. Should we allow him to die, or carry him to the jumper and rush him to a repair shop? We sweated over it all lune. Neither course felt right, but I found myself arguing to take him back, and Halo said we shouldn’t. He could not hear us except for brief periods when he’d rouse himself and try to sit up. Then he’d ask us questions or say things that seemed totally random. His brain must have been pretty well scrambled by then.
“You kids aren’t really twenty, are you?” he said once.
“How did you know?”
He cackled, weakly.
“Old Lester ain’t no dummy. You said that to cover up what I caught you doin’ so’s I wouldn’t tell your folks. But I won’t tell. That’s your business. Just wanted you to know you didn’t fool me, not for a minute.” He lapsed into labored breathing.
We never did settle the argument, unless by default. What I wanted to do took some action, and in the end I didn’t have it in me to get up and do it. I wasn’t sure enough of myself. So we sat there on his bed, waiting for him to die and talking to him when he needed it. Halo held his hand.
I we
nt through hell. I cursed him for a vacuum-skulled, mentally defective, prehistoric poop, and almost decided to help him out in his pea-brained search for death. Then I went the other way; loving him almost like he loved his crazy God. I imagined he was the mother that Carnival had never really been to me and that my world would have no purpose when he was dead. Both those reactions were crazy, of course; old Lester was just a person. He was a little crazy and a little saintly, and hardly a person you should either love or hate. It was Death that had me going in circles: the creepy black-robed skeletal figure old Lester had told us about, straight out of his superstition.
He opened one bleary eye after hours of no movement.
“Don’t ever,” he said. “You shouldn’t ever. You, I mean. Halo. Don’t ever get a Change. You always been a girl, you always should be. The Lord intended it that way.”
Halo shot a quick glance at me. She was crying, and her eyes told me: Don’t breathe a word. Let him believe it. She needn’t have worried.
Then he started coughing. Blood came from his lips, and as soon as I saw it, I passed out. I thought he would literally fall apart and rot into some awful green slime, slime that I could never wash off.
Halo wouldn’t let me stay out. She slapped me until my ears were ringing, and when I was awake, we gave up. We couldn’t make a meaningful decision in the face of this. We had to give it to someone else.
So twenty-five minutes later I was over the pole, just coming into range of the CC’s outer transmitters.
“Well, the black sheep return,” the CC began in a superior tone. “I must say you outlasted the usual Nearside stay, in fact . . .”
“Shut up!” I bawled. “You shut up and listen to me. I want to contact Carnival, and I want her now, crash priority, emergency status. Get on it!”
The CC was all business, dropping the in loco parentis program and operating with the astonishing speed it’s capable of in an emergency. Carnival was on the line in three seconds.
“Fox,” she said, “I don’t want to start this off on a bad footing; so, first of all, I thank you for giving me a chance to settle this with you face-to-face. I’ve retained a family arbiter, and I’d like for us to present our separate cases to him on this Change you want, and I’ll agree to abide by his decision. Is that fair for a beginning?” She sounded anxious. I knew there was anger beneath it—there always is—but she was sincere.
“We can talk about that later, Mom,” I sobbed. “Right now you’ve got to get to the field, as quick as you can.”
“Fox, is Halo with you? Is she all right?”
“She’s all right.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
It was too late, of course. Old Lester had died shortly after I lifted off, and Halo had been there with a dead body for almost two hours.
She was calm about it. She held Carnival and me together while she explained what had to be done, and even got us to help her. We buried him, as he had wanted, on the surface, in a spot that would always be in the light of Old Earth.
Carnival never would tell me what she would have done if he had been alive when we got there. It was an ethical question, and both of us are usually very opinionated on ethical matters. But I suspect we agreed for once. The will of the individual must be respected, and if I face it again, I’ll know what to do. I think.
I got my Change without family arbitration. Credit me with a little sense; if our case had ever come up before a family arbiter, I’m sure he would have recommended divorce. And that would have been tough, because difficult as Carnival is, I love her, and I need her for at least a few more years. I’m not as grownup as I thought I was.
It didn’t really surprise me that Carnival was right about the Change, either. In another lunation I was male again, then female, male; back and forth for a year. There’s no sense in that. I’m female now, and I think I’ll stick with it for a few years and see what it’s about. I was born female, you know, but only lasted two hours in that sex because Carnival wanted a boy.
And Halo’s a male, which makes it perfect. We’ve found that we do better as opposites than we did as boyfriends. I’m thinking about having my child in a few years, with Halo as the father. Carnival says wait, but I think I’m right this time. I still believe most of our troubles come from her inability to remember the swiftly moving present a child lives in. Then Halo can have her child—I’d be flattered if she chose me to father it—and . . .
We’re moving to Nearside. Halo and me, that is, and Carnival and Chord are thinking about it, and they’ll go, I think. If only to shut up Adagio.
Why are we going? I’ve thought about it a long time. Not because of old Lester. I hate to speak unkindly of him, but he was inarguably a fool. A fool with dignity, and the strength of his convictions; a likable old fool, but a fool all the same. It would be silly to talk of “carrying on his dream” or some of the things I think Halo has in mind.
But, coincidentally, his dream and mine are pretty close, though for different reasons. He couldn’t bear to see the Nearside abandoned out of fear, and he feared the new human society. So he became a hermit. I want to go there simply because the fear is gone for my generation, and it’s a lot of beautiful real estate. And we won’t be alone. We’ll be the vanguard, but the days of clustering in the Farside warrens and ignoring Old Earth are over. The human race came from Earth, and it was ours until it was taken from us. To tell the truth, I’ve been wondering if the aliens are really as invincible as the old stories say.
It sure is a pretty planet. I wonder if we could go back?
INTRODUCTION TO “Overdrawn at the Memory Bank”
First stories by writers you admire can be an embarrassment. Isaac Asimov’s first was not very good. Theodore Sturgeon’s was okay, and hinted of greatness to come. But often the best thing you can say about them is that they show promise. Rarely does someone come along like Robert Heinlein, whose first story, “Lifeline,” seems the work of a fully formed professional. I am not ashamed of the story you just read, but when I look at it now I see hundreds of things I wish I could do over. I think it is significant that no one has ever wanted to reprint it in an anthology.
I already mentioned that my first attempt at a novel, Gas Giant, was a disaster. That’s okay; I just read Heinlein’s unpublished first novel, soon to be in print, and it was even worse than mine. My chief regret is that Gas Giant was the basis for many of my stories to come. It told the tale of how alien beings from a giant planet like Jupiter invaded our solar system. Their purposes were mostly incomprehensible to us, but the one thing we did get was that these invaders viewed aquatic mammals like dolphins and whales as the only intelligent species on the third planet. Humans were despoiling their environment, thus it became necessary to evict and/or exterminate us. They killed billions, but couldn’t be bothered to completely wipe us out, so humanity survived and eventually thrived on the junk planets like Mercury, Venus, Luna, and Mars.
At the outset I had very little idea that Gas Giant would become the basis for the stories I would eventually call “The Eight Worlds.”
I had always been a compulsive reader, and I read mostly science fiction. I still am a compulsive reader, but during my hippie years I was not. I’m not sure why. Part of it was that I was sometimes too high to deal with words on paper, but I was not a steady or heavy drug user. We didn’t watch TV, either. Didn’t even own one for many years. I completely missed Star Trek, and have never regretted it. I read some of the standard texts by the gurus of the sixties, found them to be mostly dreck. My main artistic pursuit at the time was making films on an old Bolex 8 mm camera. The rest of my time was divided between scrambling for a living, dodging the draft, attending the occasional protest march in Berkeley (and always leaving when the tear gas started to fly), and just having fun. Being a hippie, somehow, was a full-time job.
Then one day while I was casting around for a means of livelihood that didn’t involve holding my hand out to strangers, I found a secondhand
copy of a book called Ringworld, by Larry Niven. It blew me away. There had been some exciting changes in science fiction since I graduated high school in the Nederland, Texas, Class of ’65.
I had been aware of the New Wave in SF, enough to know that some of it was a pretentious waste of paper and some of it was very, very good. But I didn’t think I could write that way. I found other books by Larry, and saw that he was following in a tradition I had first encountered in junior high: the “Future History” stories of Heinlein. Niven called his future history “Known Space,” and it was populated with strange and inventive aliens, a history reaching back billions of years, and marvelous technological advances. It seemed wonderfully rigorous, and the stories were fun.
That led me to other writers working in the same area. I realized that, since the days of the “Golden Age” writers of the forties and fifties, there had been a blizzard of astronomical discoveries, from neutron stars to quasars to colliding galaxies way, way out there, to fundamental reversals of most of our best guesses right in our own neighborhood. Mercury didn’t always keep one face turned to the sun. Venus was not a swamp planet. Mars had no canals. Jupiter had rings. There were so many exciting possibilities, and Larry Niven was taking advantage of them all to tell good old-fashioned thought-provoking tech stories.
I can’t say that I immediately got to work mapping out a history and milieu for the Eight Worlds as I was reading the Niven stories. I had to get Gas Giant out of my system first . . . so to speak. But when that was done, I began to think about what life might be like for the survivors of the alien invasion. What kind of stories could I write about them? What would life be like for them?
First, I decided to begin about two hundred years after the invasion. The invasion itself I had set in the far, distant future. Say . . . oh, around 2005. The moon, Luna, was the center of civilization, so many stories would be set there. But I decided to write one story on each of the different planets that made up the Eight Worlds. (I haven’t done that yet, haven’t had the time. To make a living one must write novels.) Thus, my Mercury story became “Retrograde Summer,” referring to the fact that on Mercury, the sun will sometimes set and then rise again, before finally setting for the “day,” which is very long. My Venus story was “In the Bowl,” inspired by the fact that the thickness of the atmosphere would distort light like a lens, making it appear that you were standing in a crater wherever you went.