Stress Pattern
Page 16
No. No, I can't believe that. Thraxil and Sterzet, but a whole world. . . .
Why not? Lowest common denominator, Andrew. Mountains and trees and magnificent scenery are distracting. Disturbing to nonthought.
But, my God!
It didn't happen overnight. They simply wore it away—what there was of it. Along with birds or insects or anything too small to stand up under the racial drive for simplicity. That's the key word here, Andrew. The food and waterbulbs—an unconscious agricultural project nearly a hundred million years old. The noncontroversial answer to nourishment.
A hundred million years. . . !
It's an old world. And nothing happens very quickly, here. How long since your species emerged? Two million years? Three million? Everything here has been much the same as you see it now for more than four hundred million years. The dun creatures developed about then, or a little later.
Any other race in that time. . . .
Would have conquered the stars. I know. I'm afraid there'll be no star-conquerors here.
Well, they built the Alimentary Express. That's something.
Yes. And it only took three hundred thousand years, Andrew, for that idea to develop. It comes as close to a complexity as you'll find here. It's a plain and artless world, and everything upon it is designed to fit the basic pattern of simplicity. A language everyone understands. That's a side effect of my "transmission" capabilities, and the unconscious will toward sameness. The bamboo-flood cycle in Rhamik's village. The life-death pattern of the silvergators. The weather. The march of the Ghroals. And even the pattern of violence in the killers that attacked you and Melisa, Andrew. Violence isn't the norm, here, but it is with them. They were hunters, once—an unusual and progressive strain. But the game they hunted is gone, and it's been gone three million years or so. But the pattern hasn't changed. To change is to become vulnerable. So they hunt each other, now. For them, violence is safety. Conformity to the pattern. A deviation from that would endanger the sanity of the group.
We could have been marooned on better worlds.
That thought has occurred to me, Andrew.
Rhamik. Rhamik was not the same as the others.
He means much to you.
He does. He did a great deal for me. Things I understand and things I don't.
Yes.
I did something to him. I don't know. Melisa knows, but I wouldn't ask her.
When you were sick. After the child.
Yes. And Rhamik— Was that part of the sickness? Rhamik— My father was mixed up in all that and I thought—
Yes. You changed him, Andrew. But he let that happen. Don't you know that? He responded to you, but because of what he is. Maybe there's hope for us here, yet.
Why?
Because you changed him in other ways, too. He saw a need in you and accepted it. He knew what would happen. But Rhamik's a most unusual creature. Not just because he—
He stopped coming after that.
Yes.
Because of what I was doing to him.
Because he didn't want you to know what you were doing to him.
Oh.
And because he couldn't keep coming. If he had— You're the most dangerous beast on this planet, Andrew. Don't you know that? Nothing like your will has ever shown itself here. Melisa—your creation of a fantasy. . . .
The birth of my son.
Yes.
Dangerous beast. You hit it, all right.
Does your son sadden you that much?
You've seen what he's like. My father's goddamn ambitions. Working through me.
Andrew. You changed Rhamik.
So? Now, wait—
You have the power. You just have to learn how to use it.
Christ, I wouldn't dare. I botched the job once!
Unconsciously. Do you really think you'd do that again?
Yes. No, I don't know.
It's already begun, Andrew. You started to change him as soon as he was born.
Maybe you shouldn't have told me that. Maybe I'll. . . .
What, Andrew?
Nothing. Funny, isn't it? We can make people to order. Just one thing we can't make here. . . .
Yes. There is one thing.
Your race built ships. To take you to the stars.
My race, Andrew. Not one individual. We're alike in that. It's a thing for the flow of many minds. I am woven about this world, but I am still alone.
I didn't think. You've had the time—if you could have built a ship, you would have.
Yes. And sent at least a small piece of me from this place.
It's just— I can't get used to the idea of spending the rest of my life here. Maybe my years aren't a spit in the ocean to yours, but they'll sure as hell seem as long!
It doesn't have to be that bad.
No?
There are things I can do, Andrew. I said that I never willingly influenced the lives of these creatures. But I cheated a little with their world. It was a small luxury, and it did no harm. While there were still trees and grasses and I could see what was going to happen here, I decided that I would not let it all disappear. I saved a place—it was a strong place for me, as this is. To the south of here. Quite far. But it's green with plants and trees nearly as old as the world.
I'd like that. Very much.
You'll need a boat.
Melisa will kill me.
She'll be happy when she gets there.
She will. I will, too. Only—
Yes. I know.
I don't think I could do that. Just—stop thinking. Did you? Did you ever give up? In all that time?
No. I've never stopped thinking, Andrew.
Ha! There's a bizarre thought. What do you suppose Melisa would say if I got her pregnant with a spaceship? If my unconscious wanted one badly enough. . . .
Andrew. You are a dangerous beast indeed.
He's right. I am. As all men are, wherever they go. For their nature is to change things. They are not content with their lot, and yearn for other places. The beast has not broken out of his cage. He lives with his woman and his child in the shade of green ferns and mosses as old as the world, and he is not unhappy.
But he has not stopped thinking, either. . . .