And Now the News

by Theodore Sturgeon

  And every bit of it was valid. Every bit of it held out the promise of more, once we had assimilated this incredible cargo.

  When the survey ship Luanae reached the Earth Worlds, they say that the suspicion was thicker than anyone alive today could readily understand. They say they were going to court-martial the skipper for wasting all that time out there making up stories. And they say there was a powerful movement to suppress everything they brought back, out of fear that the new technology might in some way be a Trojan horse.

  But sheer cussed human curiosity got the better of all that and, though they started slowly, it wasn’t too long before the Luanae devices and principles proved themselves out—spectacularly.

  And in a few years, humanity was back again. In force. The main idea was to breach the Barrier—peaceably if possible, but breach it. Most of the ships, most of the men, did not make the attempt, so great was the impact of the Luanae truth and fellow feeling.

  Some did try, though, ramming, bombing, bringing up hyper-magnetic generator ships to try warping the intangible structure of the Barrier. All failed; those who touched it died. Whenever that happened, there was a great soundless cry of mourning from the Luanae, but the Barrier remained.

  When the survey ship discovered them, the Luanae had explained simply and clearly why the Barrier was there and why it stayed. It seemed too simple a story, and buried as it was in such a mass of other data, it was overlooked or disbelieved. Mind you, that was before the Luanae had been recorded, before the human millions could “hear” for themselves what a transmission from them was really like. Probably the Luanae realized this; at any rate, the story of the Barrier was the first Luanae recording to be widely distributed and its impact was huge.

  Such a simple story … a people in some ways like humanity, perhaps a little swifter technologically, perhaps in some ways less demanding … well, they lived a good deal longer, took a good deal less from the land to keep themselves alive.

  They had some things to be proud of—an art that can only be imagined outside the Barrier, and music of a kind. They did “send” some of their literature, as you know … ah.

  They had a number of things to be ashamed of. Some wars, big ones. Three times they all but destroyed themselves, and climbed back up again. Then there was a long flowering, which seemed like something good, something fine. They developed a compassion, a philosophy of respect for the living and harmony with the laws of the Universe—more than a religion, more than simply a way of life and thought. Through it, a good many things became unnecessary to them and they forgot they had hands …

  When they were attacked from space (this happened countless thousands of years ago), they could not defend themselves at all. They had forgotten the largest part of their fabulous technology; their machines were corroded, their skills had died, and worst of all, they had forgotten how to organize, how to be many men under one man’s hand—for the duration.

  So they were enslaved.

  They broke their chains at length—at some thirty thousand years’ length. When they had driven out the invader, and followed him and destroyed him and all his worlds, they were a frightened and sobered people. Their taste of quiet, of personal and individual fulfillment, was a touch of paradise to them and they deeply resented its loss.

  Their return to material power was (in their minds) a descent and a degradation. Yet they had learned a lesson and learned it well. They made up their minds to defend themselves in such a way that never again—positively, absolutely and forever—never again would they be attacked, no matter how long it might be, no matter how deep and distantly they buried their souls in their nameless, nebulous delights.

  So, after due consideration, they decided on the Barrier. They threw their total productivity—enormous, after their last war—and all their ingenuity into a defense to end all defenses. They marked out a segment of the surrounding space, purposely enclosing ten times the volume which their computers specified as the most that they could conceivably ever need for themselves.

  They built a planetoid and stabilized it in an orbit around a dead sun not far from their cultural hub. This control planetoid, in ways as yet far too advanced for humanity to grasp, generated and maintained the Barrier itself. In addition, it gathered up cosmic debris and sucked it in and, with its mammoth automatic machinery, transmuted and smelted and cast and machined flight after flight of missiles—large and small. These were racked and stored by the hundreds of thousands, stationed throughout the Barrier-protected space in a myriad of automatically computed orbits.

  And so it was that anything which penetrated the Barrier, from any quarter, was instantly hunted down and killed.

  There was some alarm at first over the fact that the Barrier, by its nature, must destroy anything leaving, as the missiles destroyed everything entering. But there seemed no valid answer to the question “Why not?” The Luanae weren’t going anywhere. They had space enough, and ten times space enough, for any roaming they chose to do. And they chose to do very little, for their orientation was back toward those golden years of introspection, of contemplative, inward self-realization, and their hunger for it was very great.

  And so they locked the Universe out and themselves in—

  And threw away the key.

  The control planetoid was a machine—automatic, self-repairing, powered by cold fusion of two isotopes of hydrogen, and it could always get hydrogen. It made missiles and used them. When it used them, it gathered up the dust that was left and salvaged it and made more. When any outbound matter was destroyed by the inner surface of the Barrier, it gathered up the radiant energy of the pyre, and the ashes, and brought them in and used them. It was impregnable, inexhaustible, tireless and immortal. It brought safety; it brought peace.

  It brought death to a nomad people, so vastly superior in intellect and in what has been translated from the Luanae “sendings” as “size-of-soul” that the Luanae, by that time steeped again in their unthinkable metaphysics, awoke to watch them approach, awestruck, alive and aware of them. What they were can never now be known. Even the Luanae do not know. They say only that their thirty thousand years of slavery to the creatures who invaded them was but a scratch, a toe-stub, compared to the wound they suffered in the realization that they caused the destruction of these nameless nomads.

  The creatures swept down on the Barrier, unable to detect something unique in the Universe, unwarned and unprepared, and were swallowed up by it.

  It is impossible to describe the impact of this event on the Luanae. Already deeply involved in their ancient philosophy, in tune with the Universe and respecting all natural things—compassionate, life-reverent, humble and kind—they watched the destruction of their infinite superiors with an infinite horror. They realized then the extent of their folly, their crime in the creation of the Barrier.

  Already far gone again away from their technological peak, they again restored it. They surpassed it. They mobilized to pull down what they had put up, driven by guilt and horror at the thing they had done. It was the crucifixion of crucifixions, the murder of murders with the Messiah of Messiahs their irreplaceable victim.

  And they failed. They had built too well. The planetoid destroyed everything that approached it. It was surrounded by miniature versions of the great Barrier, some turned inside out so that the disintegrating surface was encountered first. It picked apart, in a microsecond, everything they threw at it, ate it, digested it, and was nourished.

  The Luanae then undertook a frightening sacrifice, an appalling expense. In an effort to overload the planetoid’s defenses, they flung up thousands of missiles, ships, lumps of rock and debris, hurling it every which way between their stars and planets. Implacably the planetoid located the intrusive matter, compared it with its matrix of stored information on allowable bodies and their permitted circlings, and sought out and destroyed the offending ones, quite uncaring that many of them, tragically many, were manned …

  And, in time, the Lu
anae discovered that that planetoid was producing missiles and energy past its original capacity, consuming more than it had originally been designed to handle, computing more things more quickly. At that, they ceased to attack it, realizing belatedly that they had forced it to enlarge and strengthen itself—the only course open to a self-repairing machine stressed beyond its original endurance.

  They fell back then on the only thing left for them to do, as creatures of efficient conscience. They sent out warnings.

  They devised transmissions which covered the entire spectra of intelligence, transcending language, surpassing even symbolism. They set up automatic beacons to radiate the warning in all directions, each beam overlapping the next. Bitterly, they organized a trade of monitors to watch over the automatic machines, which they never again would trust. The monitors were ritualized like a priesthood, drilled like slave-legions, marinated in the impulses of duty.

  Once that was done and tested past any conceivable fault or failure, they settled to a new level of life, neither blindly mechanical, like that which had produced the planetoid, nor vegetative and contemplative, like that which had left them open to slavery, but a middle ground, based on the ancient convictions of respect for life and its ways in the rigid and marvelous frame of the Universe; and implemented by an untrusting technology.

  So it was that the Luanae were at last in a position to make their greatest and most mature discovery—a thing known to each of them as individuals, but until now unrealized in terms of lifegroups:

  A man cannot exist alone. He must be a member of something, a piece, an integer of some larger whole. Men plus men make cities, which band together to form states, then countries, then worlds, and never can a sole unit exist alone and unsupplied. Communication and intercourse are necessary and vital; without them, the lone unit is a brief accident unnoticed by the Universe and forever forgotten.

  So, behind their gigantic ghastly barricade, the Luanae at last acknowledged membership in a grouping greater than species, and declared themselves belonging to Life and dedicated to the survival of its total membership.

  This, then, was the self-imprisoned people discovered by an Earth scout ship, in the business of locating terrestrial planets for humanity. The Luanae rose with a shout at the sight of them. This was Life—life to aid and life to share. For until Earth came to them, they saw themselves dying like a surrounded city, like a lone traveler, like an amputated limb, like any other life separated from its sustaining body.

  Earth brought life to the Luanae, and the Luanae enlisted themselves in Earth’s search for life.

  A lousy trip. A suicide trip, with a skipper and utility monkey horse-blindered by their duties, three crackpots and an unemployed and unusable CG. And me, Palmer, with what could be the answer.

  I had faith in my solution; I liked its math. I had little or no hope that it would be tried—really tried full-scale, and done right. People don’t know enough. They don’t think really straight. They turn the wrong valves and push the wrong buttons. Palmer should have a thousand hands and the ability to be simultaneously in a thousand places. Then this business of being the wasp-waist in the history of Life and the Lives of the two cultures—this would make more sense.

  I shall be bungled out of history, I told myself as we ground along in the nothingness of subspace—the Luanae subspace, given us by Luanae cold-fusion generators. I’m coming, I’m coming, I told the Luanae silently, but I bring the enemy; I bring bungling; and, my marvels, you’ll succumb to stupidity as will I, for it’s the last and strongest enemy of them all, against which you and I might not prevail.

  I watched Potter pinching away at his nose tip, and I silently bore Donato’s cough, and I gave my approval to big-eared England because he had so little to say to anybody; I tried to remember what exactly it was that made Nils Blum, the utility monkey, funny to me when I saw him first; I hoped to recapture it and laugh again, but I never made it. I swore sometimes at Donato’s eternal helpfulness and I ignored the skipper, because who wants to talk all the screaming time about ship’s business and the business of ships gone by?

  … I said nothing where the CG could hear me, and tightened up in painful empathy when I saw one or another of the ship’s company floundering and defending and doubting when she repeated his words.

  I did nothing about any of these annoyances, except maybe the time I suggested to the skipper that he feed the CG at times other than our mess, so I wouldn’t have to witness her purposeless wreckage of even the little things men believe in. He bought that, and it had a double advantage. We not only were spared the sight of her at meals, but she took to spending her time aft in the “monkey’s cage” among the mops and drums of cleaning aerosol and sewer-line scrapers. If Nils Blum objected, then, monkeylike, he could pass it off by scratching and chewing a straw.

  … I came through there once and saw them sitting across from each other at Blum’s little table, elbows almost touching, not speaking and not looking at each other. And, by the Lord, she was crying, and I must say it did me good. I had a mind to go ask the monkey how he managed it, but I don’t involve myself with the unskilled.

  We got where we were going and snapped out of the nothing into the something. We took a bearing on the Luanae Galaxy and it was quite a sight, a long irregular sausage of an island galaxy, with its unmistakable signpost, the long regular black swatch of the Barrier’s edge where it impinged on, and shut out, the rest of the bodies in the formation. We ducked under again for half an hour and came up again too close to see the swatch, but close enough at last to get the Luanae greeting.

  That I can’t tell you about.

  Captain Steev piped us all into the mess hall in midmorning,which would have annoyed me if I could think of anything I’d rather be doing—but there just wasn’t anything to do, or to want to do, instead. So I shuffled in with the rest of them—Potter, England, Donato. Blum and the CG were back with the mops, I imagine. The captain let us all be seated and stood at the end of the table and knocked on a coffee mug self-consciously.

  He said, “We have arrived at our site of operations. We have, among the four of you, four different specialists with, as I understand it, four attacks on the problem of penetrating the Luanae Barrier. I need not,” he says, and then went right on as if he needed to anyway, “need not tell you of the vital importance of this task. The entire history of humanity might—not might, does—depend on it. If you, or men like you, fail to solve this problem soon, we can expect our entire civilization to explode, like a dying sun, through the internal pressures of its own contracting mass.”

  He coughed to cover up the floridity of his phrasing, and little Donato happily joined in. I saw one of England’s wide flat hands move on the table, to cover the other and hold it down.

  “Now, then,” said the captain. He bent from the waist and removed his hand from his side pocket. In it was a sleek little remote mike. “This is for the record, gentlemen. You first, Mr. Palmer?”

  “Me first what?” I wanted to know.

  “Your plan, sir. Your approach, attack, whatever it pleases you to call it. Your projected method of cracking the Barrier.”

  I looked around at what passed for an audience, coughing, picking, glowering wetly.

  I said, “In the first place, my plan has been fully detailed and filed with the proper authorities—men who are in a position to understand my specialty. I believe that copies of these papers are on file with you. I suggest that you look at them and save us both the trouble.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” said the captain, looking flustered. He gestured at the mike. “This is for the record. I’ve got to have the oral rundown. It’s—it’s—well, for the record.”

  “Then I say to the recording, for the record,” I barked, right into the mike, “that I am not accustomed to being asked to make speeches before a lay audience, which cannot be expected to understand one word in ten of what I have to say. And I refer the recording and its auditors, whoeve
r they may be, to the files in which my detailed report is presented, for proof not only of my project but of the fact that these assembled, and no doubt those listening to this record, would in all likelihood not know what I was talking about. Not at all.”

  I glared up at the skipper. “Does that satisfy the record, Lieutenant?”

  “Captain,” corrected the captain mildly. “Really.”

  “A mistake,” I allowed. “I never make mistakes accidentally, you understand.” I waved at the mike. “Let’s let the record stand with that, do you mind?”

  “Mr. Potter,” said the captain, and I leaned back, pleased with myself.

  Potter removed and immediately replaced his perennial pinch. “Well I don’t bind telling you bine,” he said adenoidally. “I’m in field bechanics, as you dough. I have bade certain calculations which indicate that the stresses present in the barrier skin are subject on bobentary distortion under the stress of sball area, high intenstidty focused bagnetic fields of about one hudred billion gauss per square centimeter at focus. That’s billion,” he amended, “dot billion.”

  I wondered how the record would make out the difference.

  “Very good, Mr. Potter,” said the captain. “Unless I am mistaken, you propose to breach the Barrier momentarily with a high-intensity focused magnetic field. Is that correct?”

  Potter nodded, a gesture which carried through his right wrist.

  “Very well,” said the captain.

  I blew disgustedly through my nostrils, looking at Potter. His business was as disgusting as his hobby of picking at his cuticles. If I knew as little about my specialty as he did about his, I’d never get trapped into talking about it.

  “Mr. Donato?”

  “Yes, Captain Steev, yes, sir!” Donato cried, all blushes and eagerness. “Well, sir, I’m in ballistics. What I propose is a two-part missile aimed to graze the Barrier in such a way that, at the moment of contact, it separates, one segment glancing back outside, the other entering and proceeding inward. This is on the theory that, although the control planetoid reacts instantaneously, its sensors report only one event at one locality at a given moment. I feel I have a fifty-fifty chance, then, of slipping one part through while the other part is reported, grazed and gone. I think a minimum of one hundred thirty shots, fired in four groups and at four slightly different approach angles, would establish whether or not the theory is tenable.”