* * * *
The sea to the south of Ishtar Terra was a wrinkled gray surface that only occasionally swelled into waves. A patch of dim yellow-white light, all that could be seen of the sun through the open slats of the parasol that still shaded Venus, was reflected by the ocean. Karim could walk along the shoreline without having to fear the crushing atmospheric pressure that had once existed here, but he supposed that any future settlers would have to wear much the same protective clothing as he did. His suit protected him from the heat of the day, because even with the parasol limiting the amount of sunlight that reached the planet, a day that lasted two months meant a steady rise in temperature, while the equally long night resulted in frigid cold. The helmet over his head and the tank on his back were necessary because the atmosphere was still too rich in carbon dioxide to be breathable.
There was life in the Venusian ocean, a stew of microbial life forms, but he wondered how many would ever evolve on the dry and barren land masses. Hundreds of years for this, Karim thought, and vast numbers of lost lives that he would not care to enumerate, and what they had won for themselves was a sterile world, not the new Earth of their dreams.
Venus would change in time, become something else, but not soon enough for the Council, for whom a wait of thousands of years might as well be a million. They had wasted resources and lives in remaking this planet, and now, as if to punish Venus for their failure, they had turned it into a prison. The domes on the plateaus of Ishtar Terra had quickly filled with those who offended the Mukhtars, who were a danger to others, or who were simply inconvenient. If Venus was to be ugly and barren, the Council would make it uglier still, and any people exiled here would never escape.
No, Karim thought, and tore his band from his head.
He was still in the Beverwyck’s sitting room, but found himself standing in front of his chair. He sat down again and thought of the kind of report he might write when he had completed his tour of this Nomarchy. He could write of the Washington functionaries whose lives had shrunk to the management of ever-decreasing resources, the Jersey seawall workers whose labor was largely designed to postpone the inevitable, the New York mayor who looked forward to little, the West Point cadets who would never see glory or true accomplishment, and of the need for a dream that might give all of them some hope and enlarge their universe. Or he could note that the Atlantic Federation was under control, that its people had finally come to see the necessity for being ruled by the Council, that the old hatreds and animosities had finally died in their defeated hearts.
He knew which of those reports his fellow Mukhtars would prefer, and which report was likely to guarantee that his old age would be one of powerlessness and exile.
* * * *
In Poughkeepsie, Karim was scheduled only for a brief meeting with the mayor and a town meeting with a few hundred of the small city’s residents and anyone else who cared to participate on the public channels. Unlike the cadets of West Point, the citizens of Poughkeepsie asked few questions, and most of their inquiries were about practical concerns: renewed efforts to rid the Hudson of the pollutants that had plagued it even before the Resource Wars, insect control and disease prevention, aid for their rapidly failing farmlands. Karim assured them that the Council was already drawing up plans to help them.
His day ended at the riverfront, where, north of an old bridge that spanned the river, the Beverwyck was docked next to several ramshackle boats. A few people were on the decks of their sailboats and cruisers; they stared at Karim and Greta with the same lack of interest they had shown that morning. Out on the Hudson, a sloop with triangular sails glided past, a graceful reminder of an earlier age.
Karim let Greta board first, then followed. Lauren and Zack nodded at them from the stern. “We’ll have our supper after we’re underway again,” Karim said to the couple, “and perhaps my wife and I will dine on deck.” It would be a pleasant way to pass the evening, moving slowly past the forested hills while dining.
“I wouldn’t advise that, sir,” Zack said, glancing heavenward. “It looks like we might get a storm.” Karim looked up and then noticed the thickening clouds. “I’m thinking of waiting here to see how it goes.”
“I’m supposed to be in the town of Hudson tomorrow by noon,” Karim said.
“You needn’t worry about that, Mukhtar Karim. Storm isn’t likely to last all night, and if it was going to be a bad one, they would have put out a warning and told us to get you ashore. We’ll be on our way before dawn with plenty of time to spare.” Zack brushed back a strand of his long blond hair. “Roberto’s below with his brother. It was mighty kind of you to say he could come along.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” He went below, Greta just behind him, to find Roberto in the sitting room with another tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man who strongly resembled him.
The two quickly rose to their feet. “My brother, Pablo Mainz-Aquino,” Roberto said. “This is Mukhtar Karim al-Anwar.” Karim was about to extend his hand when Pablo bowed slightly and touched his fingers to his forehead. “And his wife, Greta Gansevoort-Mehdi.” Pablo nodded in her direction.
“Please sit down,” Karim said. The two men sat down again on the sofa. Karim and Greta seated themselves in two of the chairs.
“I’m grateful you let me come aboard, sir,” Pablo said.
“Your brother is part owner of this craft. I wasn’t about to refuse passage to one of his people as long as there was room. He tells me that you will be working as a mind-tour designer.”
Pablo nodded. His gaze was more direct than his brother’s, the expression on his broad brown face more alert. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, but the only way you can actually train for it, at least now, is by working with a producer and picking up skills along the way.”
“I suppose that’s why you studied engineering,” Karim said, “so that you would have something to fall back on.”
“That’s part of it, sir, but it was mostly because I thought some training in mechatronics and bioengineering might make me a better designer. Any real knowledge a designer can bring to a mind-tour, whether it’s engineering or biology or a background in history, can help him bring more detail and reality to his creations. Most of the mind-tours we’ve got are either adventure scenarios or virtual tours of museums and other sites, and most of them are put together by people who are largely trained in audio and visual arts.”
“There are a number of educational mind-tours,” Karim said.
“I’d call most of them training sessions rather than educational virtuals,” Pablo said, “since they’re designed to take someone through the steps needed to perform certain tasks. And the others, the historical mind-tours and such, are mostly variations on adventure scenarios. All they teach you is how to escape while pretending you’re actually learning something. Serious students don’t spend much time with them.” He paused. “We’re still a long way from what mind-tours might become as an art form.”
“An art form?” Greta asked.
Pablo nodded. “We’ve reached the point where the mind-tourist doesn’t run into as many of the glitches that destroy the illusion of reality, where the experience almost seems as detailed as the actual world. That’s an accomplishment in itself, but there’s still the potential for much more.”
“And what sort of art do you envision?” Karim asked.
“It’s hard to put it into words.” Pablo frowned. “I think what I’m looking for is a way to create a virtual world that doesn’t exist, that never existed, but that we might bring into being someday, that’s actually possible to create. That may sound like I’m just talking about an elaborate sort of modeling process, and that’s part of it, but maybe it would also inspire—”
Roberto was making surreptitious gestures at his brother with his hands. “Excuse me, sir...ma’am,” Pablo murmured. “I’m taking up too much of your time.” Outside, there was the low rumble of thunder. “And I’d better help the others secure the boat be
fore it rains.”
“When would you like your supper served, Mukhtar Karim?” Roberto asked.
“After you’ve finished whatever there is to do,” Karim replied.
“That’ll be about an hour, sir. I’ll bring it to you here.” Roberto went up the steps, his brother at his heels.
* * * *
The storm was upon them by the time Karim and Greta were in bed. The boat rocked under them; the small porthole in the bedroom was suddenly white with light, and then a crack of thunder made his wife start and reach for his hand.
“It’s all right,” Karim said.
“I know.” As a girl, Greta had lived through having her childhood home destroyed by one of the fierce late spring storms that sometimes ravaged New York and Massachusetts; storms had made his wife nervous ever since.
He held her hand until he knew she was sleeping, then lay there listening to the thunder growing more faint. He thought of Pablo and his ambitions for mind-tour designing. The young man was the first person he had met in some days who actually looked beyond what was around him, who seemed hopeful.
Karim slipped from the bed and put on a robe over his long tunic, then went out to the sitting room and up the steps to the deck. The rain had already stopped; the air was still humid, but cooler. Two lanterns were on in the stern, where a man was folding up a tarp. Roberto, Karim thought; and then the man turned and he saw Pablo’s face.
“Salaam, sir,” Pablo said. “I told the others to get some sleep while I took care of this. Zack’ll get up in a couple of hours and have us on our way to Hudson.”
“Good.”
“Is there anything I can get for you? There’s some iced tea in the galley.”
“No, thank you.” Karim sat down in a deck chair while Pablo stowed the tarp in a large chest. “I would like to ask something of you, though.” He was silent for a few moments, choosing his words. “For a few years now, I have spent some of my spare time doing mind-tour designs myself. Not that I was able to do anything that would measure up to the efforts of a professional, needless to say.”
Pablo sat down in a facing chair. “I don’t suppose you can call any of us professionals,” he murmured, “not in the usual sense, with formal courses of study and certificates. It’s not anything anyone can train for except by actually doing the work, at least not yet.”
“In other words,” Karim said, “you serve an apprenticeship.”
“You could put it that way. And then you find out if it’s something you can do well or not, and if you can’t—well, you see why I got my degrees in engineering.” Pablo leaned back in his chair. “What sorts of mind-tours have you been working on?”
“This may strike you as odd,” Karim replied, “but my subject has been the planet of Venus. I began with depictions of Venus as it is now, based largely on data from our probes.”
“Then I assume most of the data is a few decades old, since near space exploration isn’t one of our higher priorities these days.” Pablo smiled. “I took an interest in space exploration at the university, but knew I wouldn’t find any work in that field.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right. Yet I persist in this notion that human beings aren’t at their best, aren’t going to accomplish anything worthwhile and lasting, until they look beyond themselves to something greater. It’s an idea that is somewhat at odds with the prevailing opinion of the other members of the Council of Mukhtars, who grow ever more concerned with more practical matters.”
Pablo nodded. “But why Venus? As the subject of your mind-tours, I mean.”
“There is much we can learn from Venus, and not only by sending more probes, although that is certainly something we should be doing. For some time now, I have been proposing to my fellow Mukhtars that we consider a detailed study of the feasibility of terraforming Venus—in other words, altering its biosphere and geology enough to make it an Earthlike world, God willing, one where our descendants might be able to live.”
The young man let out his breath. “You don’t dream small, sir.”
“I have presented a number of practical arguments for undertaking such an ambitious project, the primary one being that we might, in centuries to come, need the knowledge gained from terraforming to restore Earth to what it was before the greenhouse effect became so troublesome. But I also think that it’s necessary for other reasons, one of them being that need of human beings to look outward. We’ve become so preoccupied with this world, with sustaining its life and trying to keep things from getting any worse, that we’re in danger of forgetting that there’s anything beyond it.”
Karim had meant to tell Pablo only a little about his preoccupation. Instead, he found himself speaking of his growing conviction that a terraforming project might offer rewards that would far outweigh the huge cost in resources and the long-term commitment to an end that even their grandchildren would not live to see, a project that had to be measured in centuries, perhaps even in millennia if the obstacles along the way proved too great.
“I put together a number of mind-tours,” Karim concluded, “because I thought that perhaps they might be useful in presenting my case. At least that’s what I told myself, but I suspect that I was trying to convince myself as much as anyone else. And as it turns out, they’ve become a private pursuit of mine. The scenarios fail at some point—that’s the problem. And I keep thinking—” He paused, having little more to say.
“Sir,” Pablo said after a while, “would you mind if I took your Venusian tours?”
“Definitely not. I was going to ask you if you would take a look at them. I’ve tried to make them as detailed as possible, but they may seem crude to you, and they are personalized, since I tended to use people I know in certain of the roles. They don’t come anywhere close to capturing my vision.”
“Maybe you just need someone to take a fresh look at them.” Pablo folded his arms. “I’ll see if I can come up with any design of my own that might be what you want.”
“I would be most grateful. And now, I had better get some sleep if I am to be ready for my appearances tomorrow.” Karim got to his feet. For the first time in several days, he had no desire to escape into one of his virtuals.
* * * *
In Hudson, Karim was scheduled for a meeting with the town council, a stop at the local train station, a question and answer session with several of the town’s merchants, and an afternoon picnic in a riverside park with schoolchildren. Apparently the people of Hudson were determined to get as much out of his visit as possible, since no Mukhtar had ever traveled there before. He heard much the same kinds of remarks as he had in other places, found himself repeating most of his earlier statements, and saw the same sorts of passive, resigned looks on the faces of the people.
Greta had been at his side throughout the day. The sun was setting behind the mountains to the west as they returned to the Beverwyck; out on the wide river, he saw a lighted riverboat, decks crowded with passengers, gliding past the darkened hills. The pale blue sky was vivid with the streaks of purple and salmon-colored clouds. He did not see anybody aboard his craft, but the Beverwyck’s owners had spent the day in Hudson seeing old friends and had mentioned plans to have dinner with a few of them.
“I’ll go to the galley and make us some supper,” Greta said to Karim.
“Don’t bother, my dear. I ate too much at the picnic. The people of Hudson were too hospitable. I didn’t expect them to serve us so much food.”
“I imagine that was largely for the benefit of the children. It’s probably the best meal most of them have had in a while.”
He followed her down the short staircase into the sitting room. Pablo was there, sitting at the desk, a band around his head and a pocket screen lying on the desk. Karim cleared his throat softly, so as not to startle the young man; but Pablo was still and seemed completely absorbed.
Karim sat down on the sofa, Greta at his side. At last Pablo took off his band and turned away from the desk. “I hope we didn’t disturb y
ou,” Karim said. “I thought you might have gone into Hudson with the others.”
“I looked at your tours. I can come back to Hudson another time.” Pablo rested his arm on the desk. “For someone who calls himself an amateur, Mukhtar Karim, you haven’t done so badly. I’ll have to look at more documents on the subject of terraforming—”
“There aren’t that many,” Karim interrupted.
“Then it shouldn’t take me long to read them. Anyway, I’m beginning to think that your problem here isn’t in your depictions, but in your assumptions. You assume that most of the science and technology required for a project of this magnitude is at least within our grasp now, even if it doesn’t yet exist, that given enough time and resources, we could bring it into being and use it in terraforming Venus. What you haven’t done is anticipated new technologies and new knowledge and allowed for them in your scenarios.”
Karim frowned. “I thought of that, but I don’t see how I could create something at all plausible by factoring in unknowns.”
“And I don’t see how you can’t,” Pablo said. “You have to assume that each stage of any terraforming project is likely to yield something new.”
“Of course.” Perhaps he was too used to thinking of limits and of what could not be accomplished during his years on the Council of Mukhtars.
Dream of Venus and Other Science Fiction Stories Page 4