Norstrilia

by Cordwainer Smith

  And sold it for a high, high price.

  Rod McBan walked a little way into the yard. His home lay behind him. It was a log cabin built out of Daimoni beams—beams uncuttable, unchangeable, solid beyond all expectations of solidity. They had been purchased as a matched set thirty-odd planet hops away and brought to Old North Australia by photosails. The cabin was a fort which could withstand even major weapons, but it was still a cabin, simple inside and with a front yard of scuffed dust.

  The last red bit of dawn was whitening into day.

  Rod knew that he could not go far.

  He could hear the women out behind the house, the kinswomen who had come to barber and groom him for the triumph—or the other.

  They never knew how much he knew. Because of his affliction, they had thought around him for years, counting on his telepathic deafness to be constant. Trouble was, it wasn’t; lots of times he heard things which nobody intended him to hear. He even remembered the sad little poem they had about the young people who failed to pass the test for one reason or another and had to go to the Dying House instead of coming forth as Norstrilian citizens and fully recognized subjects of Her-Majesty-the-Queen. (Norstrilians had not had a real queen for some fifteen thousand years, but they were strong on tradition and did not let mere facts boggle them.) How did the little poem run, “This is the house of the long ago …”? In its own gloomy way it was cheerful.

  He erased his own footprint from the dust and suddenly he remembered the whole thing. He chanted it softly to himself.

  This is the house of the long ago,

  Where the old ones murmur an endless woe,

  Where the pain of time is an actual pain,

  And things once known always come again.

  Out in the Garden of Death, our young

  Have tasted the valiant taste of fear.

  With muscular arm and reckless tongue,

  They have won, and lost, and escaped us here.

  This is the house of the long ago.

  Those who die young do not enter here.

  Those living on know that hell is near.

  The old ones who suffer have willed it so.

  Out in the Garden of Death, the old

  Look with awe on the young and bold.

  It was all right to say that they looked with awe at the young and bold, but he hadn’t met a person yet who did not prefer life to death. He’d heard about people who chose death—of course he had; who hadn’t? But the experience was third-hand, fourth-hand, fifth-hand.

  He knew that some people had said of him that he would be better off dead, just because he had never learned to communicate telepathically and had to use old spoken words like outworlders or barbarians.

  Rod himself certainly didn’t think he would be better dead.

  Indeed, he sometimes looked at normal people and wondered how they managed to go through life with the constant silly chatter of other people’s thoughts running through their minds. In the times that his mind lifted, so that he could hier for a while, he knew that hundreds or thousands of minds rattled in on him with unbearable clarity; he could even hier the minds that thought they had their telepathic shields up. Then, in a little while, the merciful cloud of his handicap came down on his mind again and he had a deep unique privacy which everybody on Old North Australia should have envied.

  His computer had said to him once, “The words hier and spiek are corruptions of the words hear and speak. They are always pronounced in the second rising tone of voice, as though you were asking a question under the pressure of amusement and alarm, if you say the words with your voice. They refer only to telepathic communication between persons or between persons and underpeople.”

  “What are underpeople?” he had asked.

  “Animals modified to speak, to understand, and usually to look like men. They differ from cerebrocentered robots in that the robots are built around an actual animal mind, but are mechanical and electronic relays, while underpeople are composed entirely of Earth-derived living tissue.”

  “Why haven’t I ever seen one?”

  “They are not allowed on Norstrilia at all, unless they are in the service of the defense establishments of the Commonwealth.”

  “Why are we called a Commonwealth, when all the other places are called worlds or planets?”

  “Because you people are subjects of the Queen of England.”

  “Who is the Queen of England?”

  “She was an Earth ruler in the Most Ancient Days, more than fifteen thousand years ago.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I said,” the computer had said, “that it was fifteen thousand years ago.”

  “I know it,” Rod had insisted, “but if there hasn’t been any Queen of England for fifteen thousand years, how can we be her subjects?”

  “I know the answer in human words,” the reply had been from the friendly red machine, “but since it makes no sense to me, I shall have to quote it to you as people told it to me. ‘She bloody well might turn up one of these days. Who knows? This is Old North Australia out here among the stars and we can dashed well wait for our own Queen. She might have been off on a trip when Old Old Earth went sour.’” The computer had clucked a few times in its odd ancient voice and had then said hopefully, in its toneless voice, “Could you restate that so that I could program it as part of my memory assembly?”

  “It doesn’t mean much to me. Next time I can hier other minds thinking I’ll try to pick it out of somebody else’s head.”

  That had been about a year ago, and Rod had never run across the answer.

  Last night he had asked the computer a more urgent question:

  “Will I die tomorrow?”

  “Question irrelevant. No answer available.”

  “Computer!” he had shouted. “You know I love you.”

  “You say so.”

  “I started your historical assembly up after repairing you, when that part had been thinkless for hundreds of years.”

  “Correct.”

  “I crawled down into this cave and found the personal controls, where greatl4-grandfather had left them when they became obsolete.”

  “Correct.”

  “I’m going to die tomorrow and you won’t even be sorry.”

  “I did not say that,” said the computer.

  “Don’t you care?”

  “I was not programmed for emotion. Since you yourself repaired me, Rod, you ought to know that I am the only all-mechanical computer functioning in this part of the galaxy. I am sure that if I had emotions I would be very sorry indeed. It is an extreme probability, since you are my only companion. But I do not have emotions. I have numbers, facts, language and memory—that is all.”

  “What is the probability, then, that I will die tomorrow in the Giggle Room?”

  “That is not the right name. It is the Dying House.”

  “All right, then, the Dying House.”

  “The judgment on you will be a contemporary human judgment based upon emotions. Since I do not know the individuals concerned, I cannot make a prediction of any value at all.”

  “What do you think is going to happen to me, computer?”

  “I do not really think, I respond. I have no input on that topic.”

  “Do you know anything at all about my life and death tomorrow? I know I can’t spiek with my mind, but I have to make sounds with my mouth instead. Why should they kill me for that?”

  “I do not know the people concerned and therefore I do not know the reasons,” the computer had replied, “but I know the history of Old North Australia down to your great14-grandfather’s time.”

  “Tell me that, then,” Rod had said. He had squatted in the cave which he had discovered, listening to the forgotten set of computer controls which he had repaired, and had heard again the story of Old North Australia as his great14-grandfather had understood it. Stripped of personal names and actual dates, it was a simple story.

  This morning his life hung on
it.

  Norstrilia had to thin out its people if it were going to keep its Old Old Earth character and be another Australia, out among the stars. Otherwise the fields would fill up, the deserts turn into apartment houses, the sheep die in cellars under endless kennels for crowded and useless people. No Old North Australian wanted that to happen, when he could keep character, immortality, and wealth—in that particular order of importance. It would be contrary to the character of Norstrilia.

  The simple character of Norstrilia was immutable—as immutable as anything out among the stars. This ancient Commonwealth was the only human institution older than the Instrumentality.

  * * *

  The story was simple, the way the computer’s clear long-circuited brain had sorted it out.

  * * *

  Take a farmer culture straight off Old Old Earth—Manhome itself.

  Put the culture on a remote planet.

  Touch it with prosperity and blight it with drought.

  Teach it sickness, deformity, hardihood. Make it learn poverty so bad that men sold one child to buy another child the drink of water which would give it an extra day of life while the drills whirred deep into the dry rock, looking for wetness.

  Teach that culture thrift, medicine, scholarship, pain, survival.

  Give those people the lessons of poverty, war, grief, greed, magnanimity, piety, hope and despair by turn.

  Let the culture survive.

  Survive disease, deformity, despair, desolation, abandonment.

  Then give it the happiest accident in the history of time.

  Out of sheep-sickness came infinite riches, the santaclara drug, or stroon, which prolonged human life indefinitely.

  Prolonged it—but with queer side effects, so that most Norstrilians preferred to die in a thousand years or so.

  Norstrilia was convulsed by the discovery.

  So was every other inhabited world.

  But the drug could not be synthesized, paralleled, duplicated. It was something which could be obtained only from the sick sheep on the Old North Australian plains.

  Robbers and governments tried to steal the drug. Now and then they succeeded, long ago, but they hadn’t made it since the time of Rod’s great19-grandfather.

  They had tried to steal the sick sheep.

  Several had been taken off the planet. (The Fourth Battle of New Alice, in which half the menfolk of Norstrilia had died beating off the Bright Empire, had led to the loss of two of the sick sheep—one female and one male. The Bright Empire thought it had won. It hadn’t. The sheep got well, produced healthy lambs, exuded no more stroon, and died. The Bright Empire had paid four battle fleets for a coldbox full of mutton.) The monopoly remained in Norstrilia.

  The Norstrilians exported the santaclara drug, and they put the export on a systematic basis.

  They achieved almost infinite riches.

  The poorest man on Norstrilia was always richer than the richest man anywhere else, emperors and conquerors included. Every farm hand earned at least a hundred Earth megacredits a day—measured in real money on Old Earth, not in paper which had to travel at a steep arbitrage.

  But the Norstrilians made their choice: the choice—

  To remain themselves.

  They taxed themselves back into simplicity.

  Luxury goods got a tax of twenty million percent. For the price of fifty palaces on Olympia, you could import a handkerchief into Norstrilia. A pair of shoes, landed, cost the price of a hundred yachts in orbit. All machines were prohibited, except for defense and the drug-gathering. Underpeople were never made on Norstrilia, and imported only by the defense authority for top secret reasons. Old North Australia remained simple, pioneer, fierce, open.

  Many families emigrated to enjoy their wealth; they could not return.

  But the population problem remained, even with the taxation and simplicity and hard work.

  Cut back, then—cut back people if you must.

  But how, whom, where? Birth control—beastly. Sterilization—inhuman, unmanly, un-British. (This last was an ancient word meaning very bad indeed.)

  By families, then. Let the families have the children. Let the Commonwealth test them at sixteen. If they ran under the standards, send them to a happy, happy death.

  But what about the families? You can’t wipe a family out, not in a conservative farmer society, when the neighbors are folk who have fought and died beside you for a hundred generations. The Rule of Exceptions came. Any family which reached the end of its line could have the last surviving heir reprocessed—up to four times. If he failed, it was the Dying House, and a designated adopted heir from another family took over the name and the estate.

  Otherwise their survivors would have gone on, in this century a dozen, in that century twenty. Soon Norstrilia would have been divided into two classes, the sound ones and a privileged class of hereditary freaks. This they could not stand, not while the space around them stank of danger, not when men a hundred worlds away dreamed and died while thinking of how to rob the stroon. They had to be fighters and chose not to be soldiers or emperors. Therefore they had to be fit, alert, healthy, clever, simple and moral. They had to be better than any possible enemy or any possible combination of enemies.

  They made it.

  Old North Australia became the toughest, brightest, simplest world in the galaxy. One by one, without weapons, Norstrilians could tour the other worlds and kill almost anything which attacked them. Governments feared them. Ordinary people hated them or worshipped them. Offworld men eyed their women queerly. The Instrumentality left them alone, or defended them without letting the Norstrilians know they had been defended. (As in the case of Raumsog, who brought his whole world to a death of cancer and volcanoes, because the Golden Ship struck once.)

  Norstrilian mothers learned to stand by with dry eyes when their children, unexpectedly drugged if they failed the tests, drooled with pleasure and went giggling away to their deaths.

  The space and subspace around Norstrilia became sticky, sparky with the multiplicity of their defenses. Big outdoorsy men sailed tiny fighting craft around the approaches to Old North Australia. When people met them in outports, they always thought that Norstrilians looked simple; the looks were a snare and a delusion. The Norstrilians had been conditioned by thousands of years of unprovoked attack. They looked as simple as sheep but their minds were as subtle as serpents.

  And now—Rod McBan.

  The last heir, the very last heir, of their proudest old family had been found a half-freak. He was normal enough by Earth standards, but by Norstrilian measure he was inadequate. He was a bad, bad telepath. He could not be counted on to hier. Most of the time other people could not transmit into his mind at all; they could not even read it. All they got was a fiery bubble and a dull fuzz of meaningless sub-sememes, fractions of thought which added up to less than nothing. And on spieking, he was worse. He could not talk with his mind at all. Now and then he transmitted. When he did, the neighbors ran for cover. If it was anger, a bloody screaming roar almost blotted out their consciousnesses with a rage as solid and red as meat hanging in a slaughterhouse. If he was happy, it was worse. His happiness, which he transmitted without knowing it, had the distractiveness of a speed saw cutting into diamond-grained rock. His happiness drilled into people with an initial sense of pleasure, followed rapidly by acute discomfort and the sudden wish that all their own teeth would fall out: the teeth had turned into spinning whorls of raw, unqualified discomfort.

  They did not know his biggest personal secret. They suspected that he could hier now and then without being able to control it. They did not know that when he did hier, he could hier everything for miles around with microscopic detail and telescopic range. His telepathic intake, when it did work, went right through other people’s mind-shields as though they did not exist. (If some of the women in the farms around the Station of Doom knew what he had accidentally peeped out of their minds, they would have blushed the rest of their lives.) As
a result, Rod McBan had a frightful amount of unsorted knowledge which did not quite fit together.

  Previous committees had neither awarded him the Station of Doom nor sent him off to the giggle death. They had appreciated his intelligence, his quick wit, his enormous physical strength. But they remained worried about his telepathic handicap. Three times before he had been judged. Three times.

  And three times judgment had been suspended.

  They had chosen the lesser cruelty and had sent him not to death, but to a new babyhood and a fresh upbringing, hoping that the telepathic capacity of his mind would naturally soar up to the Norstrilian normal.

  They had underestimated him.

  He knew it.

  Thanks to the eavesdropping which he could not control, he understood bits and pieces of what was happening, even though nobody had ever told him the rational whys and hows of the process.

  It was a gloomy but composed big boy who gave the dust of his own front yard one last useless kick, who turned back into the cabin, walking right through the main room to the rear door and the back yard, and who greeted his kinswomen politely enough as they, hiding their aching hearts, prepared to dress him up for his trial. They did not want the child to be upset, even though he was as big as a man and showed more composure than did most adult men. They wanted to hide the fearful truth from him. How could they help it?

  He already knew.

  But he pretended he didn’t.

  Cordially enough, just scared enough but not too much, he said,

  “What ho, auntie! Hello, cousin. Morning, Maribel. Here’s your sheep. Curry him up and trim him for the livestock competition. Do I get a ring in my nose or a bow ribbon around my neck?”

  One or two of the young ones laughed, but his oldest “aunt”—actually a fourth cousin, married into another family—pointed seriously and calmly at a chair in the yard and said:

  “Do sit down, Roderick. This is a serious occasion and we usually do not talk while preparations are going on.”

  She bit her lower lip and then she added, not as though she wanted to frighten him but because she wanted to impress him: