by Ian Stewart
He had never known such hurt before, and his ordeal had scarcely begun.
So much for Precursor technology.
He knew that he must continue to the south. If he traveled facedown, as he would have preferred, then the heat of the morning would roast his burned flesh. So, as on the previous morning, he rolled onto his back and waited for the suit to reconfigure its caterpillar track. Later, as the sun rose, the configuration would have to be changed.
The polypoid would deal with that when the time came. Right now he had no wish to think too far ahead. Not if he wanted to remain sane. The frozen night had so depleted his strength that he knew he would not survive another. He knew that moving any farther was pointless, but the alternative was to halt—and die. And he wasn’t ready for the Taker, not yet. He had to survive, no matter what the cost. And hope. But hope seemed ever more futile.
The suit’s movements were becoming increasingly erratic, ex-creta were slowly building up in its circulating sheath of fluid, and the golden skin was no longer keeping out the heat. The sailor suit was failing.
The sun was now high in the sky, and the shadows were shrinking rapidly. Soon he would be exposed to the searing noonday furnace of the blue-white star. He could accept the certainty of death: The life of every living thing was given in order to be taken. What terrified him was the form in which the Taker would manifest Itself.
Soon, he would begin to cook.
Through eyes that were clouding over as the heat of the sun baked their soft tissues, Second-Best Sailor noticed a shimmer of light away to his left. There was something familiar about the way the light flickered. The water that still flowed sluggishly between his body and the inner skin of the suit was foul-tasting and low in oxygen. The golden suit’s motility packed up completely, but still he refused to give up. Although every movement brought a haze of pain, the mariner began a lizardlike crawl toward the source of the flickering. His every instinct screamed water, while what was left of his rational mind knew that there could not possibly be open water in this seared wilderness.
Instinct was right. A shallow hollow cupped a small pool, partially hidden by rocks, curiously devoid of surrounding vegetation. If this was an oasis, it was the strangest kind.
Beyond, other pools lay like upturned mirrors amid the dunes, shining like quicksilver, trembling in the heat haze.
Second-Best Sailor had dragged himself to within a few excruciating yards of the pond’s cool, welcoming edge when his senses began to dissolve into fog. The suit’s flow of oxygenated water had given out completely. Those last few yards, across the gritty sand to the cool moisture of the pool, suddenly stretched to infinity. It was no more possible to cross them than to swallow a hurricane.
As the mariner lost consciousness, a chemical memory passed across his mind, a surge of remembered pheromones. And he knew that he would never taste his wife again.
Beneath the bare expanse of sand, a network of algal filaments had sensed the vibrations of Second-best Sailor’s tormented approach. Cell membranes were squeezed by his weight. Signals passed from filament to filament; electrons danced in quantum computations. Special molecules were assembled and passed along the filaments to the branches that ran into the pond.
The pond bided its time. This prey was large, and it was still struggling.
The struggles ceased, and the algal mat registered the fact. Now a suite of cooperative microorganisms began to clamber up the aridity gradient from wet water to dry desert, impelled by chemical waves, propelled by shape-change sequences and beating cilia. They migrated from the cool depths of the pond, following the algal filaments to the now-still target.
The sand supporting Second-Best Sailor’s weight became fluid. It rippled, as concerted waves of viscosity gripped and slipped, gripped and slipped, so that the shiny material of his sailor suit was pulled in the same direction at a million places.
The suit, with Second-Best Sailor’s dying body inside it, began to slide toward the pond.
It did not accelerate; it had nothing that corresponded to momentum. It seemed to float across the top layer of sand. Its motion, though slow, was relentless.
When the heavy body reached the water’s edge, the shore crumbled beneath its weight, forming a smooth ramp. The waves of viscosity pulled Second-Best Sailor down the slope and into the water. There was no splash, scarcely any disturbance of the pond’s wind-rippled surface—he just slipped in, pushing some drifting algal mats aside, and was gone.
The shore solidified; the microorganisms began making their way back to the water. The algal filaments passively readied themselves for the next victim.
On board Talitha, the mood was one of anger.
When it had suddenly become obvious that Aquifer must be inhabited, and that the natives were far from friendly, the ship and its crew had instantly raised themselves to a higher level of awareness. There was no point in regretting their stupidity in assuming that Galactic records, probably many years out of date, were still accurate; some of the crew lacked the capacity for regret in any case. But it was obvious to everyone that Sharp Wit Will Cut blamed himself for the deaths of his colonists. Even his crevit was in a grumpy mood. The more he pointed out that what was done was done, and urged them to refocus, the more everyone else saw his grief and self-blame. It was especially obvious to the other Neanderthals, who also recognized that his anger with himself was becoming so great that he was not thinking straight. For a start, he hadn’t yet realized that they must all be aware of his state of mind.
It was May who finally broached the matter with him.
“Will—we all made the same mistake. Do not blame—”
“I am the captain of this ship,” Will growled. “I must bear the responsibility for all decisions.”
“Responsibility, yes. Blame—no.”
“There is no difference.”
May put a muscular arm across his shoulder. “You know there is. There was no reason to expect an attack. The planet is a wilderness. Its most advanced life forms are pond-dwelling animals of low intelligence. Aquifer is far removed from civilized regions; that is why it was chosen.”
“I should have checked, nonetheless.”
“We should have checked. But there was so much to be done, and so little time.” She sought something to distract him. “How are we going to respond, Will? What are we going to do?”
He grunted noncommittally. “I have put Ship on the alert and notified No-Moon by ansible. The news of this tragedy has been passed on to the reefwives. Perhaps their simulations will provide some explanation of what forces are arrayed against us.” He wiped his heavy brow. “We do not even know where they are on the planet.”
“Could they be Cosmic Unity?” May asked, voicing what was in all their minds.
Will blinked one eye to show mild dissent. “It is possible. But it would be a big coincidence. Too big for credibility, perhaps.”
May had a different view. When several inexplicable events occur together, the probability that they are connected increases. “I am not so certain of that. Who else is annexing worlds at the moment?”
Will shrugged, and the crevit momentarily awoke, its claws digging into his clothing in a reflex as old as some stars.
May persisted. “I have a distinct sense that this attack is related to the coming invasion of No-Moon.”
Will laughed, a short bark with no humor in it. “That is because the polypoids are involved in both. There is no causal connection.”
“I believe there is. But I do not know why. I have learned to trust my hunches, Will. So have you. They have saved us both more than once.”
Will nodded. “You may be right. We will put your hunch to the test.”
“In order to avenge their deaths?”
“No.” He hauled himself to his feet, pulled the crevit off his shoulder, and deposited it in a basket. “Not until we find out who the attackers are. And what strength they have. We have no weapons, and our fighting strength is small. Children
and old folk cannot do much in battle. We have only the crew.”
“So what do you intend to do?”
Will thought about it for a moment. There was only one sensible thing that they could do. “Observe the planet. Not just the place where our friends were slaughtered, but all of it. I will persuade Ship to change orbit. I want to find out exactly what we are up against—however long it takes.”
OI UU VENMORULAMINAN KOSSIP ELZANON-GRULARVVUQ POL TENJ . . .
The strange noises were barely at the threshold of audibility. Second-Best Sailor told himself he must be dead. So there was an afterlife, despite everything he had been taught. Not only did the Maker make and the Taker take: apparently, something survived the process.
. . . MIMBERYLLIAC SAMNOBURL POVVIDENS FOT FOT FOT MEBBE DISL B BETTA MEKKIN CENS NOO . . .
THE PATTERN OF THE WHISPERS CHANGED AND BECAME SEMICOHERENT: Whaaaaat ar uu, hooooo ar uu? Howw came uu to thiiis place?
Second-Best Sailor’s eyes opened, then closed again with shock.
An ugly little amphibian was staring straight at him from a few inches away. He was underwater. It felt cool and soothing.
Was the amphibian talking? Second-Best Sailor opened his eyes again. The noises continued, repeating much the same message. There were no corresponding movements from the strange little beast. But it continued to stare.
UU THINK UUHEAR WORDSS, BUT THAT IS AN ILLUSION IN UUR MIND, said the noises, becoming sharper and better-formed by the moment. MY TRUE MEDIUM OF COMMUNICATION IS MOLECULAR. I AM LEARNING YOUR MENTAL PATHWAYS AND I KNOW THAT YOU CAN UNDERSTAND ME NOW. WHAT ARE YOU, WHO ARE YOU, AND WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?
Second-Best Sailor’s siphons stopped pulsing, so great was his shock. “Er . . . how . . . ?”
SPEAK NORMALLY, WITH YOUR SPEECH-SIPHONS. I WILL DETECT THE CORRESPONDING MOLECULAR CHANGES IN YOUR BRAIN, THE ONES THAT DRIVE YOUR SPEECH, AND INTERPET THEM.
This was like no afterlife Second-Best Sailor had ever heard of. And he didn’t believe in afterlives, anyway. He deduced that he was still alive. That was unexpected and inexplicable. It looked like a small freshwater pond. It tasted like an ocean. It spoke in his mind. “Who the flounce are you?”
I HAVE ALREADY ASKED YOU THAT.
This definitely wasn’t an afterlife. The mariner pulled his scattered wits together. “Uh . . . My name is Second-Best Sailor. I’m a master mariner from, uh, the planet of outstanding natural beauty renowned throughout the Galaxy as No-Moon. And I was sent to Aquifer to found a new colony in the ocean.”
AQUIFER MUST BE YOUR NAME FOR THIS PLACE. I CANNOT UNDERSTAND “NO-MOON.” THE OCEAN? GOOD. THAT IS OF NO CONCERN TO ME. I AM A FRESHWATER BEING.
“But this ain’t freshwater. I can taste the salts.”
I HAVE PROVIDED THE SALTS FOR YOUR BENEFIT, BY MODIFYING THE CHEMISTRY IN YOUR IMMEDIATE VICINITY. I ASKED A QUESTION. WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?
“We were fleein’ from an invasion,” said Second-Best Sailor. “See here . . .” The word “see” made him remember his recent past. “Wait! I was goin’ blind! I died, flounce it! Now I’m alive an’ I can see.” He gave his surroundings a thorough look. “I’m in the pond, ain’t I? Did I make it that far? Did I fall in?”
NO, YOU WERE CONVEYED HERE AS PREY. CARRION FROM THE BEACH.
“Prey?” Second-Best Sailor’s voice disappeared in a shower of bubbles. He was about to make a break for the shore when he realized that he was suitless. “What’ve you done with my suit?”
IT HAS BEEN DISCARDED. REPAIR IS BEYOND MY CAPABILITIES. ITS MOLECULAR STRUCTURE IS TOO UNUSUAL.
Without a suit, Second-Best Sailor was trapped here for the rest of his life. Which, without food, would be short. But there had to be some way to escape, surely. A mariner never gave up. Stuff the suit, what about him? He suddenly realized that his wound had healed. There was no sign that he had ever been burned. Had he dreamed it all? “I was burned. Now there ain’t even a scar. What—”
I AM SUPPLYING THE APPROPRIATE SALTS TO YOUR SKIN AS WE SPEAK—THAT IS WHY YOU TASTE OCEAN. I HAVE REPAIRED YOUR SKIN. BEING MADE FROM ORGANIC MOLECULES, ITS STRUCTURE WAS WITHIN MY POWER TO REPLICATE. SIMILARLY, YOUR OPTICAL TISSUES HAVE BEEN RESTORED TO THEIR PROPER REFRACTIVE INDEX.
Second-Best Sailor was impressed, for all his bravado. “Repaired? Me?”
IT WAS NECESSARY. YOU WERE TERMINALLY DAMAGED. AT FIRST I THOUGHT YOU PREY, BUT THEN I NOTICED YOU WERE COMMUNICATING. YOUR MESSAGES MADE NO SENSE, BUT THE PHENOMENON WAS TOO INRUIGUING NOT TO BE FOLLOWED UP. WITH EFFORT I SOLVED THE PUZZLE OF YOUR MIND. I AM GLAD NOW THAT YOU WERE NOT DIGESTED.
Me, too. “I was unconscious, half dead,” Second-Best Sailor protested. “How could I ’ave been communicating?”
NOT BY WORDS. BY CHEMICAL SIGNALS. YOUR MIND RESPONDS TO MOLECULAR MESSAGES, JUST AS MINE DOES. NO PREY CAN DO THAT. WHY, YOU ALMOST SEEM INTELLIGENT.
Second-Best Sailor decided to ignore the implied insult, which was evidently unintentional, and reflected that it was a good job his species had evolved the ability to generate and interpret molecular signals. Not only did it open up the use of jellyfish for sending messages; it had also saved his life.
“I’m not prey,” he confirmed. “Absolutely not. I’m a polypoid, and I’m not just intelligent—I’m sentient.” Not that the reefwives would always agree with that last bit. He ran a tentacle over his flank, still amazed to be whole again. “That’s a neat trick for a tiny little beast like you.”
TINY LITTLE BEAST?
“Ain’t you that frog-thing what’s floatin’ in front of my face?”
NO. THAT IS A MINDLESS ANIMAL. I HAVE A MIND. I AM A MIND.
“Then—who are you? What are you? Where are you?”
It told him.
He didn’t believe it.
Two hours later, he was still arguing. “I just don’t see how a flouncin’ pond can be a mind.”
YOU CALL ME A POND. I RECOGNIZE THE DESCRIPTION OF MY COMPONENTS, BUT IT IS NOT A DESCRIPTION OF ME. IT IS A DESCRIPTION OF WHAT I AM MADE FROM. WHAT IS YOUR MIND MADE FROM?
“I dunno about my mind,” said Second-Best Sailor. “My brain, now, that’s more straightforward. It’s made from neurobundles, and those’re made from chemicals.”
IS YOUR BRAIN THE SAME AS YOUR MIND?
Second-Best Sailor had never really thought about that. It wasn’t the kind of knowledge that you needed to sail a boat or make a trade. It was reefwife knowledge. They were a mind, weren’t they? The reefmind. When they joined together.
“I don’t think so,” he finally said. “My brain’s physical; my mind’s mental.”
YOUR MIND IS MADE FROM A DIFFERENT KIND OF MATTER THAN YOUR BRAIN?
“No, no, you’re twistin’ my words. . . . I guess my mind is what my brain does. But not what it is.”
SO MIND IS NOT A THING, BUT A PROCESS CARRIED OUT BY A BRAIN?
“Yeah, that’s it.”
DOES IT THEN MATTER WHAT THE BRAIN IS MADE OF, SO LONG AS IT CAN CARRY OUT SUCH A PROCESS?
“Uh—no. Different sentients have different brains. The ’Thal brain is made from quite different stuff than ours.”
The pond was ecstatic. DIFFERENT SENTIENTS? YOU MEAN THERE ARE OTHERS?
“Oh, yeah. The Galaxy’s full of ’em.”
GALAXY? WHAT IS A— NO, FIRST LET US FINISH DISCUSSING MINDS. I WILL LEARN MORE FROM YOU LATER. SO YOU AGREEE THAT A BRAIN CAN BE MADE OF ANYTHING?
“Anything that can carry out the processes of a mind, yeah, I s’pose.”
COULD IT BE MADE OF WATER, ALGAE, CRUSTACEANS? FISH?
“No,” said Second-Best Sailor, without hesitation.
WHY NOT?
“Too simple,” said Second-Best Sailor.
IS A CRUSTACEAN LESS COMPLEX THAN A NEUROBUNDLE?
Second-Best Sailor had to admit that it wasn’t. But he still didn’t see how a pond could be a mind. Nonetheless, he was clearly floating in a pond, talking to a mind, and that mind insisted that it was the pond.
So maybe i
t was time to stop arguing, accept what the pond was telling him—and find a way to get the flounce out of here. He couldn’t stay in the pond forever, and there might still be an ansible waiting for him in No Bar Bay.
If the attackers hadn’t wrecked it.
He couldn’t stop the pond “talking,” and he couldn’t stop his mind responding. He was floating in a batch of chemicals, and the pond was in total control of them.
He wanted to find a way to escape. The pond wanted to discuss natural philosophy. Except when in its motile form, it never went anywhere. It rested in its hollow and thought great thoughts. The discovery that there were more wheres to go to than it had previously thought fascinated it.
The pond was especially intrigued by the concept of a galaxy. It insisted that Second-Best Sailor should tell it everything he knew about space, planets, stars, galaxies. This wasn’t much, but it was enough for the pond to make a huge conceptual breakthrough. Aquifer was not the entire universe; it was not the only place where life could exist.
The pond knew about stars. Its amphibians had eyes—they were its eyes. What its amphibians saw, the pond saw. And it knew about the tiny lights in the night sky. It had studied their patterns for a long, long time. . . .
Can a pond be a mind? Second-Best Sailor was having much more trouble grasping that idea than the pond was having with the notion of an external universe. One reason was that the pond was considerably more intelligent than the mariner. Another was that the pond had been around a lot longer. It had experienced a continuity of existence—a “life”—that spanned 460,000 years.
During that time it had uprooted itself roughly every ten years, packing up its active contents into a walker and finding a new place to set itself up in the business of being a predator. Reproduction occurred when a pond became sufficiently complex—size alone was not enough—to produce more than one walker. The ponds had discovered early in their evolution that it paid to be a nomad; after a while the prey learned to avoid the bare patch of sand that surrounded most ponds, and it was best to move on. One subspecies of pond had developed the trick of permitting vegetation to grow near its edges, but the vegetation competed with its host for water and nutrients, and the trick paid off only in the damper regions of the planet—mostly on the edges of the tundra, in a thin band between permafrost and desert.