by John Norman
“To be sure,” said Algernon, “it’s a hit or miss business.”
I supposed that the chance of being impacted by a catastrophic meteor in a given year would be very small. But I suspected that the chance of being impacted by one in one of several million years might not be so small.
“Well, it hasn’t happened,” snorted Bill.
“Thank Og,” said someone in the audience. There always seems to be at least one such person in an audience.
“Og would not let it happen,” said another person. I hoped that person was a mundane, one stranded in the hotel, who had wandered in by accident. I was relieved to see that he did not have a convention badge.
“But what if we deserved it?” said his fellow, one also without a badge.
I was not at all sure that Og existed, but if he permitted such a thing to happen I did not think he would be worth his scales. But if there were no first egg, how would the world have hatched?
“One thing,” said Herman, “if it had happened, we wouldn’t be here having this panel.”
This clever remark lightened the atmosphere, and rescued Bill. It, however, plowed few new conceptual furrows since his first witty remark, which it closely resembled. Susan smiled. My assessment of the quality of Herman’s work remained unchanged.
“If we may return to the topic,” said Algernon, “it is legitimate to speculate on the paths which an alternative form of evolution might have taken. Genetic principles, you see, the blind aggression of genes, so to speak, and the laws of physics and chemistry, and the diverse ways in which the environmental lattice may be negotiated, suggest the genuine possibility of developments amongst organic life which might seem to us unfamiliar or strange, but, for all that, would be likely.”
“Likely?” asked Bill.
“Extremely likely,” said Algernon. “Indeed, inevitable.”
“That’s stupid,” said Bill, loudly.
“Not at all,” said Algernon. He still hadn’t caught on to panel etiquette.
“I think there is a short story in this, somewhere,” said Susan. I thought she was right, but did not detect the relevance of the remark at that point.
“You are quite possibly right,” said Algernon , “but you would be a much better judge of that than I.”
Susan blushed, charmingly. I began to hate Algernon.
“Do you mean,” asked Herman, suggesting no one in his right mind could mean any such thing, “that some other form of life might have developed, say, along our lines?”
“Certainly,” said Algernon. “Another form of life might have developed rationality, created a language, learned to master fire, make tools, practice herding and agriculture, institute societies, invent writing, found religions, manufacture things, work out a sophisticated technology, and so on.”
“Then you are claiming,” said Bill, whose grasp of logic did not ascend to the same level as that of his literary talent, “that fish might have invented radios, movies, TV?”
“Not likely,” said Algernon. “It is hard to light a fire under water. That would rule out most metal working, for example.”
“I once wrote a story about a fish who lit fires under water,” said Bill.
“Interesting,” said Algernon. “How did he do it?”
“If you put a refrigerator in a story,” said Bill, “you don’t have to explain how it works.”
“True,” said Algernon.
“It sold,” said Bill.
“Excellent,” said Algernon.
“It would then,” said Herman, “have to be some land animal.”
“Presumably,” said Algernon. “But it might have been amphibious.”
“Then,” said Bill, “it could have set fires—when it was not under water.”
“Precisely,” said Algernon. “And as you doubtless recollect, from your knowledge of general biology, we ourselves have amphibious ancestry.”
“That is only a theory,” came from the audience, from one of the fellows without a badge.
“But assuming it is true,” said Algernon, who had not a mean bone in his rather large body, “another form of life, say, one also with amphibious ancestry, might have evolved, rather as we did.”
“Are there any such life forms?” asked Bill, who sounded authentically interested at this point, and may have been, more or less.
“Several,” said Algernon.
“Have you seen the art show?” asked Susan.
For those of you who might be unacquainted with the cultural anthropology of the science fiction convention I might illuminate Susan’s remark. At such conventions there is often an art show.
“No,” said Algernon. “They would not let me in because I was carrying a briefcase.”
It might be mentioned, in passing, that science fiction art, while of high quality, and often exhibiting a draftsmanship that might have been the envy of Lislak of Fernmarsh, tends to be anachronistic, unprogressive, conservative, and primitive, at least according to avant-garde assessments, as it tends to be representational, that is, it usually, not always, looks like something you can recognize, for example, a sunset on Titan, an armed tiger, a leering cyborg, an alarmed android, a scantily clad robot, often in peril, a disturbed vampire, or such. Its major fault is comprehensibility. In spite of this, some of it is quite good.
“Why did you ask?” asked Algernon.
“I was thinking,” said Susan, “of the cute pictures of the dogs and cats in space suits.”
This was a common theme in many such exhibitions.
“An excellent point,” said Algernon.
I myself had thought it irrelevant.
“It fits in beautifully with my thesis,” said Algernon. “Thank you!”
But surely the remark was irrelevant. Was Algernon trying to make out with Susan, not that that was such a bad idea. I had been counting on Susan for irrelevance, without which a panel may become distressingly linear. It is enough for the Susans of the world to be beautiful. That is their job. Relevance is not. Too, relevance is often distractive. It has ruined many a panel. A good moderator must keep it under control.
“I don’t get it,” said Bill, who clearly didn’t. Nor did I, at the time.
“My thesis,” said Algernon, “obviously implicit in my remarks this wintry morning, and one I have incidentally developed over several years in several book-length studies unlikely to be published, is, metaphorically, that we need not be where we are now, say, in a warm hotel, in a comfortable, well-lit room, sheltered from a storm outside, engaged in intellectual discourse. We might not have evolved as successfully as we have. Indeed, we might have become extinct. And another species might be rather in our current situation, and conversing on similar matters.”
“Such as furry vermin?” asked Bill.
“Precisely,” said Algernon, “as our lovely colleague has brought to our attention, with her timely allusion to speculative art.”
Algernon was not really a science fiction person, or he would have used the approved acronym, SA. It is by such things that one can tell the true fan from the outsider, or pretender. The older term, of course, was Science Art, sometimes spoken of as SA, but SA now, of course, stands for Speculative Art, except when it doesn’t, and stands for Science Art.
So it turned out that Susan’s remark was not only not irrelevant, but was brilliantly relevant, and was merely several hops, skips and jumps ahead of the game. I was somewhat disappointed, but I took this in stride. One must put up with such things in women who are both brilliant and beautiful As spontaneous-order theorists and conservatives never tire of reminding us, trade-offs are always involved.
Incidentally, when Algernon, in his ignorant innocence, had naively used the deplorable term ‘lovely colleague’ to describe Susan, four female members of the audience had appeared offended, and two outraged. None of them, however, a
s least as far as I could tell, was in danger of being insulted personally in so wanton and grievous a fashion. Susan, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased. I report this without comment, as it is politically sensitive.
“Stupid business,” said Bill, “dogs and cats in space suits!”
“Certainly permissible in SA,” said Herman, who was an artistic pluralist.
“Why not frogs and toads?” snorted Bill.
Bill had a much-envied reputation for being a master of hard-core science fiction, of which there are today regrettably so few, not the soft, easy, implausible stuff, but the serious, respectable, tough stuff, relished even by strange radio astronomers and unusual astrophysicists, of which there were several in the audience, the sober, down-to-earth, nuts-and-bolts stuff, bam rays, zurk machines, nik cylinders, kam tubes, zibit devices, and such.
“There were some of those, too,” said Susan.
“Next,” said Bill, “they will have those little, furry bipedalian things in space suits!”
A course of merriment at this outlandish suggestion coursed through the audience. I myself struggled to restrain an involuntary snigger.
He was referring, of course, to mooks.
“I stepped on one the other day,” said Bill.
“They’re nuisances, to be sure,” said Herman. ‘In my neighborhood they keep getting into garbage pails.”
Susan shuddered. I was pleased to see this attestation of femininity. They are different from us, you know. And that may not be all bad.
If I remember I will strike that last line out before submitting this piece to an editor, as such lapses often prelude publication.
“Horrid little creatures,” said one of the ladies in the audience, one with a badge.
“I do not know why Og made them,” said another lady, one without a badge.
“He must have had a reason,” said another.
“Who can fathom the wisdom of Og?” said another.
“Perhaps they are a punishment for our sins,” suggested another.
“That makes sense,” agreed another.
“No,” said another, “Og is good. He would never do such a thing. It would be morally disproportionate to our iniquity, simply incommensurate with our faults, as deserving of severe chastisement as they may be, just too unthinkably cruel.”
That lady, I took it, was a liberal.
“They are awfully smelly,” said a woman.
“Some people keep them as pets,” said another.
“Disgusting,” said another.
“But note,” said Algernon, excitedly, “the tiny, despicable mooks, for I assume you refer to them, so universally and justifiably abhorred, have an upright carriage, prehensile appendages, binocular vision, and clustering habits.”
“So?” asked Bill.
“At one time,” said Algernon, “our own remote ancestors had not come so far.”
“Do not forget they are mammals,” said Herman. This was a good point. There was not much to be expected of mammals. It would be a strange evolution indeed which might consider making use of such an improbable material.
“But what,” asked Algernon, “if the mooks, or, technically, Verminius Olfactoriensis, were not handicapped by tiny brains?”
“They are, of course,” said Bill.
“At one time,” said Algernon, “the brains of our ancestors were not more than thrice the size of those of the present-day mook.”
“Incredible!” breathed an astrophysicist in the audience.
This information had lain outside his domain of expertise.
“They still smell,” said a lady.
“They can’t talk,” said Herman.
“Not as we can talk, of course,” said Algernon, “but suppose they could modulate those strange sequences of sounds which they utter, particularly when shot or poisoned.”
“I see,” said Susan.
“I knew you would,” said Algernon.
Susan blushed charmingly, from her cute little upturned snout to the tip of her fetching tail.
I saw that Algernon had soared, were it possible, even higher in her coveted but in my view too easily bestowed regard than hitherto.
I did not begrudge him his victory, particularly since she had twitched earlier not at me, but at the fellow behind me. I did hear a grunt of dissatisfaction from somewhere behind me, but could not locate its source of origin with precision.
“This is testable, in its way, in theory,” said Algernon, “if one could devolve ourselves and the mooks to our universally acknowledged common ancestry, and begin again. One would need to restore a pristine environmental lattice, of course, mobile continental arrangements with attendant, shifting climates, competitive species, evolutionary arms races, and so on, and see which species managed to punctuate which equilibrium first.”
“You are suggesting,” said Bill, “that mooks might have eventually evolved intelligence?”
“It is almost a certainty,” said Algernon. “And then it might have been them, and not us, who would be sitting here, warm and comfortable, and discussing these matters.”
“Radio, movies, TV?” said Herman.
“Probably,” said Algernon. “One thing leads to another.”
“That’s stupid,” said Bill.
“I don’t think so,” said Algernon.
“But why haven’t they then?” asked Herman.
“I’m not sure,” said Algernon. “It might be that we got here first, and that the mooks had it too easy, and did not have to face enough challenges, and so on. For example, many people, as you know, do not fasten down the lids on their garbage pails.”
“It seems that our time is up,” said Bill. “I am sorry but there won’t be time for questions or contributions from the audience.”
This announcement was met with a groan of dismay, for it seemed that several members of the audience, both with badges and without badges, would have appreciated an opportunity to participate in the discussion.
But Bill was right, for six minutes ago a convention volunteer had stood in the back of the room undetected by most of the rapt audience and desperately, discretely, waved the five-minutes-to-go sign.
Bill then thanked the panelists and the audience, and turned to Susan, but she had already taken her leave with Algernon.
Susans dress up a panel, and she had one of the sexiest tails I had ever seen, outside of the movies.
The discussion was continued vigorously by many, outside, in the hall.
I looked out the large window in the hall, out onto the street outside. I almost felt sorry for anything that might be outside in such weather, even mooks.
Transfiguration
It is odd, how Henry disappeared from the basement. He had not been chained there, or anything, of course, and so, one supposes, except for the one anomaly, that he might have climbed the stairs, pulling himself up, stair by stair, by the hands, and, unnoticed, somehow, between lunch and supper, it is supposed, made his way outdoors. Yet it was hard to think of him outdoors, at that time of day, he so pale and infantile, and legless, born that way, so simple, too, or so we thought. It was hard to think of him up there, beyond the kitchen, out in the yard, and it not even night, when father took him out sometimes, carrying him in his arms, putting him down, letting him play there, in the garden, on his rope, not so much to hold him, really, as to help father know where he was, in the darkness, from the tugs on the rope. We kept the porch light off when Henry played outdoors at night. Very few people knew that he still lived with us. They had supposed he had died, or maybe was still in the institution. But Henry had not died. In his way he was quite tenacious of life, clinging to the little of it he had been given. There was no blood on the stairs, incidentally. He hadn’t been there long, really. Only a few days. That was something the neighbors did not know. He had yowled, and yowle
d, it seems, day in and day out, in that eruptive, squealing, hissing way of his, when he was young, before he became quiet, later, and this must have made it difficult for many of the guests there, except for those who joined him, seeming to understand him, in a way we couldn’t, those in the other guest rooms. We were notified by the institution that Henry could not remain there unless special arrangements were made for him, of a surgical nature. We did not care for that, what they wanted permission to do. Too, we were afraid, even in the brief time that Henry was there, that they had not been kind to him, from the needle marks on his arms, the swellings, the bruises. They swore they had not touched him. Father did not believe them, and they knew that, but they didn’t really care, as long as the reports were filled out properly, and were signed in the right way, in the right places, by the right doctors, and such. So it was all right to hurt Henry, as they had to do it, and, anyway, he had not been hurt. They would not let us have Henry back, until father signed a paper.
We still tried to be kind to Henry in those days, when we thought it mattered, or it was what we were supposed to do, being kind, and such, but later there did not seem much point to going on in that way, not that we were ever cruel, really, especially not father. But what is the point of being kind to someone if they do not know you are being kind to them, it not making any difference to them, and no one else knows about it, so they don’t know how nice you are? I think we stopped caring about Henry, worrying about Henry, that is, all except father, as the years went by, and especially after he had begun to think, not that he could really think, you understand, but he would sit in the basement, on the floor, and seem to go back into himself like walking back into a tunnel, so we thought maybe he was thinking, maybe even wondering who he was, and about us, and the world, and the basement, and how it all came to be, that there was a basement and such. But this is guessing on my part, of course.
I have wondered if the surgery might have made a difference. Henry was very young at that time, maybe seven or eight. Many years have gone by now. Henry, before he left, would have been forty, or still seven or eight, depending on how you look at it. Certainly the rest of us are all older now. But he didn’t yowl in the basement. He seemed happy there. And so the surgery, we supposed, would not have had much point to it.