“They’ve been doing this for six thousand years?”
“Longer,” she said. “It’s much easier to be a leader and die, I think. But their wills are strong. Look in the tank, Geneva.”
A light came on behind the cubicle, and I saw the message tank. The murky fluid moved with a continuous swirling flow. The old woman stepped from the cubicle and stood beside me in front of the tank. She held out her finger and wrote something on the glass, which I couldn’t make out.
The tank’s creatures formed two images, one of me and one of her. She was dressed in a simple brown robe, her peppery black hair cropped into short curls. She touched the glass again, and her image changed. The hair lengthened, forming a broad globe around her head. The wrinkles smoothed. The body became slimmer and more muscular, and a smile came to the lips. Then the image was stable.
Except for the hair, it was me.
I took a deep breath. “Every time you’ve gone through a disruption, has the ship picked up more passengers?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “We always lose a few, and every now and then we gain a large number. For the last few centuries our size has been stable, but in time we’ll probably start to grow. We aren’t anywhere near the total yet. When that comes, we might be twice as big as we are now. Then we’ll have had, at one time or another, every scrap of ship, and every person who ever went through a disruption.”
“How big is the ship now?”
“Four hundred kilometers across. Built rather like a volvox, if you know what that is.”
“How do you keep from going back yourself?”
“We have special equipment to keep us from separating. When we started out, we thought it would shield us from a mutata, but it didn’t. This is all it can do now: it can keep us in one piece each time we jump. But not the entire ship.”
I began to understand. The huge bulk of ship I had seen from the window was real. I had never left the grab bag. I was in it now, riding the aggregate, a tiny particle attracted out of solution to the colloidal mass.
Junipero touched the tank, and it returned to its random flow. “It’s a constant shuttle run. Each time we return to the Earth to see who, if any, can find their home there. Then we seek out the ones who have the disrupters, and they attack us— send us away again.”
“Out there—is that my world?”
The old woman shook her head. “No, but it’s home to one group—three of them. The three creatures in the bubble.”
I giggled. “I thought there were a lot more than that.”
“Only three. You’ll learn to see things more accurately as time passes. Maybe you’ll be the one to bring us all home.”
“What if I find my home first?”
“Then you’ll go, and if there’s no one to replace you, one of the crew will command until another comes along. But someone always comes along, eventually. I sometimes think we’re being played with, never finding our home, but always having a Juniper to command us.” She smiled wistfully. “The game isn’t all bitterness and bad tosses, though. You’ll see more things, and do more, and be more, than any normal woman.”
“I’ve never been normal,” I said.
“All the better.”
“If I accept.”
“You have that choice.”
“Junipero,” I breathed. “Geneva.” Then I laughed.
“How do you choose?”
* * * *
The small child, seeing the destruction of its thousand companions with each morning light and the skepticism of the older ones, becomes frightened and wonders if she will go the same way. Someone will raise the shutters and a sunbeam will impale her and she’ll phantomize. Or they’ll tell her they don’t believe she’s real. So she sits in the dark, shaking. The dark becomes fearful. But soon each day becomes a triumph. The ghosts vanish, but she doesn’t, so she forgets the shadows and thinks only of the day. Then she grows older, and the companions are left only in whims and background thoughts. Soon she is whittled away to nothing; her husbands are past, her loves are firm and not potential, and her history stretches away behind her like carvings in crystal. She becomes wrinkled, and soon the daylight haunts her again. Not every day will be a triumph. Soon there will be a final beam of light, slowly piercing her jellied eye, and she’ll join the phantoms.
But not now. Somewhere, far away, but not here. All around, the ghosts have been resurrected for her to see and lead. And she’ll be resurrected, too, always under the shadow of the tree name.
* * * *
“I think,” I said, “that it will be marvelous.” So it was, thirty centuries ago. Sonok is gone, two hundred years past; some of the others have died, too, or gone to their own Earths. The ship is five hundred kilometers across and growing. You haven’t come to replace me yet, but I’m dying, and I leave this behind to guide you, along with the instructions handed down by those before me.
Your name might be Jennifer, or Ginepra, or something else, but you will always be me. Be happy for all of us, darling. We will be forever whole.
<
* * * *
The ecological problems of the late twentieth century have made us all aware of the need for living more in rhythm with nature—”walking lightly on the earth,” as an American Indian saying puts it. In architecture, this ideal combines function with aesthetics: houses should blend into their surroundings and leave the native wildlife undisturbed. But are we sure we know all the forms of life around us?
Charles Ott is a talented new writer who has contributed stories to Analog, Vertex, and other publications. “The Ecologically Correct House” marks his first appearance in Universe.
* * * *
THE ECOLOGICALLY CORRECT HOUSE
Charles Ott
He was trying to wave his arms in a whisper, gesticulating dramatically for the benefit of his wife without attracting the attention of the rest of the party. He was not entirely successful.
“It’s an ugly house!” he hissed comically, sloshing his highball. “How can I say it’s not ugly when it’s ugly? Look around you—ugliness as far as the eye can see, right? It’s just plain ugly!”
“Keep your voice down and your arms in, Hugh!” his wife hissed in return. “It’s not your house and it’s not your party so you just hush up. Anyway, George doesn’t talk about your designs that way, does he?”
“I’ll bet he does, when I’m not around,” Hugh said moodily. “Fundamentally, we’re two different kinds of architect—he’s an idiot and I’m not. Leah, you saw the way this house looks from the outside. Like it was shipwrecked here, am I right? He made a big deal about the landscaping, working around the trees that were here, lots of sodding and bushes and planting and borders and God knows what-all and then he sticks in this horrible hamburger stand made out of concrete and sheet glass. I need another drink.”
“A lot of people like it,” Leah said primly. “Hatterson in the Sunday Press said it had very clean lines. George is a big name architect. I think you’re just jealous.”
Hugh began, “George is a big name . . .” He was interrupted by a hearty voice from the stairwell. “Hugh! Leah! Good to see you! Can I get you a drink? Do you need anything? Sorry not to meet you before, but this party is driving me up the wall. How do you like the house?”
Leah got as far as, “George, it’s just beauti—”
“Sure is ugly, George,” said Hugh cordially. “Whatever possessed you to build such a God-awful gas station? I can see it real clearly, ‘cause I’m drunk. You get drunk, too. You’ll see. Place looks like a post office, or worse.”
“Hugh, old buddy, you and I are old professional colleagues, right?” George said. “Belong to the club together, refer business to each other, all that, right? Nothing you could say could possibly offend me, because I know you mean it as professional criticism.” He sipped at his drink. “However, just a friendly word of advice, old buddy. Someday, somebody is going to cut your loudmouthed heart out.”
“Ha, ha,
you’re a great kidder there, George. Too bad you’re not as good an architect as you are a comedian.”
“Oh, but I am! I built this house just as a gag. Boffo, don’t you think?”
Leah stepped anxiously between the two men. “George, do you suppose you could show us around? I’d love to see what kind of a house you designed for yourself. I’ll bet it’s got all sorts of clever personal touches.”
“Oh, I guess so,” he said. “Try to curb your spouse. In fact, let’s go into the kitchen and get some black coffee for him. I could use some myself.”
They filed down a free-standing spiral stairway and through the living room, Hugh shambling behind. George played the genial host with everyone they passed. Low beach sounds came through the sliding glass wall.
“Some kitchen, eh?” George said. “Everything in that row of metal panels is a different appliance—I had the uniform facings put on myself. The coffee’s in the cupboard and you’ll find hot water in the pot there. Leah, I believe there’s sugar and cream behind you.” The coffee mugs were a complicated stainless steel pattern covered with a decorative shell. Hugh looked at his sullenly, sipped cautiously. The kitchen also had sliding panels facing the beach; they walked out and sat at a table on the balcony deck. Small wavelets rolled in from the lake to make a low rushing noise.
George excused himself shortly to go back to hosting his party. After some time the noise began to fade as the gathering broke up. Hugh was on his third mug of coffee when George returned and sat heavily, puffing and making a show of exhaustion.
“Whew!” What a mob! Leah, don’t get up, I’ll fetch myself something in a minute. That lake breeze sure does feel good. I’m glad I don’t have to get up tomorrow.” Leah stood anyway and went back into the kitchen. George asked softly, “Coming down yet, Hugh?”
“I guess,” Hugh nodded. “Um ... I owe you an apology.”
“No problem. If you’re still feeling all right I’ll show you around after I’ve cooled down. I’ve been planning this house for years and I love to show it off.”
“Actually, Leah and I went through it early this evening,” Hugh said, a little formal with lingering tipsiness. “I’m afraid Leah was just trying to calm us down. You should get married again, George. I don’t know what I’d do without Leah to get me out of trouble.”
George smiled distantly, leaned back in his chair to watch the lake. The moon was just rising. Leah returned with a tray of rolls and mugs of bouillon and at the same time a big-eyed face appeared over the balcony rail, bearing a toothy grin. “George! Did you let everybody go home without telling me? What a bummer.”
“Hello, Susie,” George said without turning. “Been walking along the lake shore?”
“Yeah. Pretty out there tonight.” The girl crossed to the steps and came up on the deck. She was twenty or so, dressed in ostentatious overalls and affected a tomboyish manner to match.
“Susie, this is Hugh and that’s Leah. Hugh’s a colleague of mine. Susie used to be one of my students,” George explained, “when I was teaching Design.” There were polite murmurs all around and Susie went into the kitchen.
“So what do you think of the house, Hugh?” George said, still without turning. “I really would like to know.”
“Well . . . well, hell, George, the fact is that I really don’t care for it. I mean, I’ve got to be honest. Listen, did I tell you I’ve finished building my own place?”
“Why, no,” George said. “I hadn’t heard anything about it. The last I heard it was just a plan.”
Hugh looked abashed. “I haven’t said much about it. I really hate parties and I’d have to give one if people heard. But look, I want you to come around some evening. Tomorrow, if you want. That house is everything I believe about architecture and it’s everything this place isn’t.” Leah looked alarmed.
“Such as?” George asked placidly.
“Well, this promenade deck, for instance. The style is pure Kalifornia Koastline, but that beach is Lake Michigan, not the Pacific, and this is Illinois. It’ll be too cold to use this more than two months out of the year. The whole house is like that: it doesn’t fit in, doesn’t even try. A house ought to blend in, be part of its surroundings. This thing stands out like an appendectomy scar.”
“But if a building’s beautiful by itself,” Leah said, in a devil’s-advocate sort of voice, “isn’t that enough?”
“No! Everything ought to be beautiful together, because everything is together. You have to consider the whole environment, the world-system. It’s all a part of one thing. Do you see what I’m talking about?”
“Bravo!” cried Susie, emerging from the kitchen. “Are you a Libra, Hugh? Libras think in terms of harmony and wholeness.”
“No, I’m a Capricorn. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Oh.” She dimpled. “Did you ever used to be a Libra?” They shared a companionable grin.
“Seriously, George,” Hugh went on, “nature’s bigger than you are—you ought to try to get along, be part of your natural community. There is a biocommunity even on a suburban lake shore, trees and ground cover and animals and waterfront insects and so forth, and I think you’d be happier if you lived with it instead of against it.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Susie said. “You lead an unnatural life, George. I just looked in your cupboard and freezer. TV dinners, mixes, imitations, instants—why don’t you eat some real organic food for a change; No wonder you’re so crabby.”
“You’re ganging up on me,” George protested.
“George, why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow night?” Leah said. “Hugh is just being coy. We just raised the roof tree on the place two weeks ago and we’re dying to show it off. Susie, you’re invited too if you want.”
“Thanks,” Susie said.
George leaned forward. “You used that phrase ‘raised the roof tree.’ I’ll bet you literally did just that, didn’t you?”
“Um, yes, we did. Hugh thought it was a nice gesture.”
“What’s all this about?” Susie asked.
Hugh explained, “Oh, it’s an old custom to hang a small tree or wreath from the highest point of a new house. Sort of a good luck charm.”
“More than that,” George said. “It attracts the attention of beneficent spirits. Am I right?”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“Wow,” said Susie. “This is something I’ve got to know more about.”
* * * *
At sunset the next day Hugh sat on a stump not far from his door placidly whittling, jacketed against a summer evening chill. The area around was a scrubby hilltop forest of pin oaks and hickorys, surrounded by farm lands and pastures on all sides. He was overlooking the dirt road that served the house: half a mile away George was gingerly easing his white Cadillac past the ruts. The scraping noises from the tail were clearly audible.
He arrived red-faced and exasperated, Susie sitting meekly quiet in the passenger seat. The bulky Cadillac looked anachronistic against the rustic background.
“Hugh, I thought you said you had your house built. Did you bring me all the way up here to look at your lot?”
“No, of course not. Hullo, Susie. Come on, I’ll show you around.” The three left the road by a lightly worn trail. Hugh pointed to a knoll covered with closely grown vetch. “That’s the garage.” They twisted and ducked around trees, coming shortly to the downward side of a woody overhang. Hugh gestured at the hollowed-out pocket thus formed. “Home sweet home, folks.”
“Mr. Badger’s house!” cried Susie delightedly, clapping her hands. “Is it all warm and snug inside?”
“Absolutely! The door’s around the side,” Hugh said. George squatted down and peered into the hollow, then reached out and rapped his knuckles on an invisible pane a foot or so in. “The window plastic is reflective-treated,” Hugh told him. “Come on in and see how it looks from the other side.”
The door was round-cornered, hidden in a tangle of roots but easily accessible by a
flagstone path. There was a short stair that gave onto a broad, pleasant living room accented by a stone fireplace on one side and the wide, curving window on the other. It was obvious that the seemingly random forest had been groomed in the path of the window; the view soared magnificently through the tree-framed copse and across the fields and distant farmhouses all the way to the unsullied horizon, now gilded with the sunset. In that kindly light the rest of the furnishings seemed to glow, simple chairs and cushions, bright rugs and sturdy hanging kitchenware. The walls appeared to be quarried limestone, rough and friendly-looking.
Leah appeared, bearing a tray with coffee and biscuits. “George, there’s room in the garage for your car,” Hugh said. “Let’s go bring it in. We’ll be back in just a moment.” Hugh led the way down a passageway that ended in an underground carport. Its entrance faced away from the road. “I need my car to get to work,” he explained, a little apologetic, “but I’m going to get an electric just as soon as possible.” They brought in the Cadillac and returned to the living room just as the sun finally vanished.
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