Visions of the Future

by Brin, David

  He blinked.

  The tickle returned. He hadn’t caught it, then. It was on his forehead now. After pausing there, it walked down across his left cheek, retracing its first approach.

  Out of the corner of his left eye he saw it as it dropped to his shoulder. It was blue-black and too small for him to discern individual details. It definitely looked like an insect.

  It stopped on his shoulder, considering its surroundings.

  Maybe it would be better this way, he thought. It would be faster if the bugs devoured him. When he’d bled enough, he would die. If they started below his head, he might never feel any pain before he passed out.

  Silently, he encouraged the insect. Go on, buddy. Bring back your aunts and uncles and cousins and have yourselves a feast, courtesy of Pearson. It’ll be a blessing.

  “No, we cannot do that.”

  I’m delirious, he mused distantly, adding in reflex, “Why not?”

  “You are a wonderment. We could not eat a wonderment. We are not deserving enough.”

  “I’m no wonder,” he thought insistently. “I’m a wastrel, a failure, a thorough mistake of nature. Not only that,” he concluded, “I am lying here conversing telepathically with a bug.”

  “I am Yirn, one of the People,” the soft thought informed him. “I am not what a bug is. Tell me, wonderment, how can something so huge be alive?”

  So Pearson told him. He told the bug his name, and about mankind, and about his sick, sad existence that was soon to come to an end, and about his paralysis.

  “I am saddened for you,” Yirn of the People finally said. “We can do nothing to help you. We are a poor tribe among many and are not permitted by the Laws to reproduce much. Nor do I begin to understand these strange things you tell me of space and time and size.

  I find it hard enough to believe that this mountain you lie within once moved. Yet you say that is so, and I must believe.”

  Pearson had a sudden, disturbing thought. “Hey, look, Yirn. Don’t get the idea I’m any sort of god or anything. I’m just bigger, that’s all. I’m really less than you. I couldn’t even make a good pimp.”

  “The concept does not translate.” Yirn gave the impression of straining. “You are the most wonderful thing in all creation.”

  “Bullshit. Say… how can I ‘talk’ with you when you’re so much smaller?”

  “Among our People we have a saying that it is the size of the intellect that is important, not the size of the size.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Look, I’m sorry you’ve got such a poor tribe, Yirn; and I appreciate your being sorry for me. No one’s ever been sorry for me before except me. Even a bug’s sympathy’s an improvement.” He lay quietly for a while, regarding the bug, which preened minute antennae.

  “I… I wish I could do something for you and your tribe,” he finally said, “but I can’t even help myself. I’m going to die of hunger soon.”

  “We would help if we could,” came the thought. Pearson had a feeling of sadness all out of proportion to the creature’s size. “But all we could gather would not feed you properly for a day.”

  “Yeah. There’s food in my suit pack, but…” He fell silent. Then, “Yirn, tell me if there are shiny metal coverings on my lower body.”

  Moments passed while the insect made a hike to the promontory of a knuckle and returned. “There are what you describe, Pearson.”

  “How many People in your tribe?”

  “What do you have in your mind, Pearson?”

  Pearson told him and Yirn of the People replied. “Enough.”

  It took days, local days, for the tribe of Yirn to open the catches on the suit packs. When it became apparent the People could digest human food, a great mental rejoicing filled Pearson’s brain; and he was glad.

  It was a truly humble Yirn who later came to communicate with him. “For the first time in many, many generations, my tribe has enough to eat. We can multiply beyond the restrictions the Laws impose upon those bereft of food. One of the great blocks you call concentrates can feed the tribe for a long while. We have not tried the natural foods you say are contained in the greater pack beneath you, but we will.

  “Now we can become a real tribe and not fear those tribes that prey on the poor. All because of you, great Pearson.”

  “Just ‘Pearson,’ you understand? You call me ‘great’ again and I’ll…” He paused. “No. I won’t do anything. Even if I could. I’m finished with threatening. Just plain Pearson, if you will. And I haven’t done a goddamn thing for you. Your people got at the food all by themselves. First time I ever thought anything of concentrates.”

  “We have a surprise for you, Pearson.”

  Something was crawling with infinite slowness up his cheek. It had a little weight, more than the People. He saw it edge into his vision. A small brown block. Dozens of tiny blue-black forms surrounded it. He could hear their effort in his mind.

  The block reached his lips and he opened them. Some of the People were terrified at the nearness of that bottomless dark chasm. They turned and fled. Yirn and other leaders of the tribe took their places.

  The block passed over his lower lip. The People exerted a last, monumental effort. Some of them expired from it. The block fell into the chasm.

  Pearson felt saliva flowing, but hesitated. “I don’t know what good it’ll do in the long run, Yirn, but… thanks. You’d better herd your folks off my face, though. There’s going to be an earthqua… no, a Pearsonquake, in a moment.”

  When they were safely clear, he began to chew.

  It rained the next morning. The raindrops were the size of raindrops on Earth. They posed a terrifying threat to the tribe, if they were caught out in the open. A few drops could kill someone the size of Yirn. But the entire tribe had plenty of shelter beneath the overhang of Pearson’s right arm.

  Many weeks later, Yim sat on Pearson’s nose, staring down into oceanic eyes. “The concentrates will not last forever, and the real foods we’ve found in your ‘pack’ beneath you will last less so.”

  “Never mind that. I don’t want you to eat those. I think there’s a couple of carrots, and on an old sandwich, there should be tomato slices, lettuce, and, I think, mushrooms. Also pocya, a small kind of nut. The meat and bread you can eat, but save some of the bread. Maybe you can eat the mold.”

  “I do not understand, Pearson.”

  “How do you find food, Yirn? You’re gatherers, aren’t you?”

  “That is so.”

  “Then I want you to take the carrots, and the tomato, and the others—I’ll describe them to you—and also samples of every local plant your people eat.”

  “And do what with them, Pearson?”

  “Gather the elders of the tribe. We’ll start with the concept of irrigation…”

  Pearson was no agriculturist. But he knew, in his primitive way, that if you plant and water and weed, certain foods will grow. The People were fast learners. It was the concept of staying in one place and planting that was new to them.

  A catch basin was dug, at the cost of hundreds of tiny lives. But the concentrates gave the People great energy. Tiny rivulets began to snake outward from the basin, away from the protective bulk of Pearson. When it ceased raining, the basin and the thread-thin canals were full, and the minute dams came into good use. Another basin was dug, and then another.

  Some of the human food took and grew, and some of the local foods took and grew. The People prospered. Pearson explained the idea of building permanent structures. The People had never considered it because they could not imagine an artificial construct which would shed rain. Pearson told them about A-frames.

  There came the day when the concentrates ran out. Pearson had been anticipating it and was not dismayed by the news. He’d done far, far more than he’d dreamed of being able to do those first empty days alone on the sand, after the crash. He’d helped, and been rewarded with the first real friendship of his life.

  “It doesn’t matter, Yirn. I’m
just glad I was able to be of some use to you and your people.”

  “Yirn is dead,” said the bug. “I am Yurn, one of his offspring, given the honor of talking to you.”

  “Yirn’s dead? It hadn’t been that long… has it?” Pearson’s sense of time was hazy. But then, the lifespan of the People was far shorter than man’s. “No matter. At least the tribe has enough to eat now.”

  “It does matter, to us,” replied Yurn. “Open your mouth, Pearson.”

  Something was crawling up his cheek. It moved at a fairly rapid pace. Tiny wooden pulleys helped it along, and over the pulleys were slung long cables made from Pearson’s hair. A path for it was cut through his beard by dozens of the People using their sharp jaws.

  It fell into his mouth. It was leafy and vaguely familiar. A piece of spinach.

  “Eat, Pearson. The remnants of your ancient ‘sandwich’ have given birth…”

  Soon after the third harvest, a trio of elders visited Pearson. They sat carefully on the tip of his nose and regarded him somberly.

  “The crops are not doing well,” said one.

  “Describe them to me.” They did so, and he strained the hidden places of his brain for long-unused schoolboy knowledge. “If they’re getting enough water, then it can only be one thing, if they’re all being affected. The soil here is getting worn out. You’ll have to plant elsewhere.”

  “Many are the leagues between here and the farthest farm,” one of the elders told him. “There have been raids. Other tribes are grown jealous of us. Our People are afraid to plant too far from you. Your presence gives them confidence.”

  “Then there’s one other possibility.” He licked his lips. The People had found salt for him. “What have you been doing with the wastes from my body?”

  “They have been steadily removed and buried, as you directed,” said one, “and fresh earth and sand brought constantly to replace the region beneath you, where you dampen the ground.”

  “The soil here is growing tired,” he told them. “It requires the addition of something we call fertilizer. Here is what the People must do…”

  Many years later, a new council came to visit Pearson. This was after the great battle. Several large, powerful tribes had combined to attack the People. They’d driven them back to the fortress mountain of Pearson. As the battle raged around him, the leaders of the three attacking tribes had led a forceful charge to take possession of the living god-mountain, as Pearson had come to be known to the other tribes.

  Straining every remaining functional nerve in his body, Pearson had raised his one good arm and in one blow slain the leaders of the onslaught and all their general staff, and hundreds of others besides. Taking advantage of the confusion this engendered in the enemy’s ranks, the People had counterattacked. The invaders were repulsed with heavy losses, and the land of the People was not troubled after that.

  Many crops were destroyed. But with liberal doses of fertilizer supplied by Pearson, the next crop matured healthier than ever.

  Now the new council sat in the place of honor atop Pearson’s nose and gazed into fathomless, immense eyes. Yeen, eighth son-in-line from Yirn the Legendary, held the center.

  “We have a present for you, Pearson. You had told us months ago of an event you call a ‘birthday,’ and rambled much about its meaning and the customs that surround it. We cast our thoughts for a suitable gift.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t open it if it’s wrapped,” he quipped weakly. “You’ll have to show me. I wish I could offer you one in return. You’ve kept me alive.”

  “You have given us much more than life. Look to your left, Pearson.”

  He moved his eyes. A creaking, grinding noise began, continued as he watched empty sky and waited. The feeling-thoughts of thousands of the People reached him.

  An object slowly rose into view. It was a circle, set atop a perfect girder work of tiny wooden beams. It was old and scratched in places, but still shiny: a hand mirror, gleaned from God knew what section of his backpack or suit pockets. It was inclined at an angle across his chest, and down.

  For the first time in many years he could see the ground. Before he could express his thanks for the wonderful, incredible gift of the mounted old mirror his thoughts were blanked by what he could see.

  Tiny rows of cultivated fields stretched to the horizon. Clusters of small houses dotted the fields, many gathered together into semblances of towns. A suspension bridge made of his hair and threads from his suit crossed a tiny stream in three places. On the other side of the People-sized river were the beginnings of a small city.

  The mirror crew, through an ingenious system of pulleys and cords, turned the reflector. Nearby was the factory where, he was told, wooden beams and articles were manufactured from local plants. Among the tools used to shape the beams were sharp bits of Pearson’s fingernails. Huge tents housed other factories, tents made from the treated skin which peeled regularly off Pearson’s suntanned body. Tools moved smoothly, and pulleys and wheels carried people to and from, lubricated in part with wax taken from Pearson’s ears.

  “Offer us something in return, Pearson?” said Yeen rhetorically. “You have given us the greatest gift of all: yourself. Every day we find new uses for the information you give us. Every day we find new uses for what you produce.

  “Other tribes that once we fought with have joined with us, so that all may benefit from you. We are becoming what you once called a nation.”

  “Watch… watch out,” Pearson mumbled mentally, overcome by Yeen’s words and the sweeping vistas provided by the mirror. “A nation means the onset of politicians.”

  “What is that?” asked one of the council suddenly, pointing downward.

  “A new gift,” came his neighbor’s thought, also staring down the great slope of Pearson’s nose. “What is it good for, Pearson?”

  “Nothin’. I learned a long time ago, friends,” he said, “that tears ain’t good for nothing…”

  Yusec, hundred and twelfth son-in-line from Yirn the Legendary, was resting on Pearson’s chest, enjoying the shade provided by the forest of hair there. Pearson had just finished a bit of a wonderful new fruit the People had grown on a far farm and brought in especially for him. Pearson could see Yusec via one of the many mirrors mounted around his face, all inclined to offer him a different view of his surroundings.

  A party of young was touring his pelvic region and another was making its way around the base of his ear. Others came and went from him on crude escalators or one of the many huge stairways that mounted him on all sides. Groups of archivists stood nearby, ready to record any stray thought Pearson might produce. They even monitored his dreams.

  “Yusec, the new food was very good.” “The farmers of that region will be pleased.” There was a pause before Pearson spoke again. “Yusec, I’m dying.”

  Startled, the insect rose to his feet, stared up at the massif of Pearson’s chin. “What is this? Pearson cannot die.”

  “Bullshit, Yusec. What color is my hair?”

  “White, Pearson. It has been so for many decades.”

  “Are the canyons of my face deep?”

  “Yes, but no deeper than in my great-grandfather’s time.”

  “Then they were deep then. I am dying, Yusec. I don’t know how old I am because I long ago lost track of my time, and I never troubled to compare it to your time. It never mattered. It still doesn’t. But I am dying.

  “I’ll die happier than I once thought I would, though. I’ve done more moving since I’ve been paralyzed than I did when I was mobile. I feel good about that.”

  “You cannot die, Pearson.” Yusec repeated his insistence while sending out an emergency call for the hospital team set up many years ago solely to serve Pearson’s needs.

  “I can and will and am,” came the reply, and a frightened Yusec heard the death coming over Pearson’s thoughts like a shadow. He could not imagine a time without Pearson. “The hospital people are good. They’ve learned a lot about m
e on their own. But there’s nothin’ they can do. I’m gonna die.”

  “But… what shall we do without you?”

  “Everything you do is done without me, Yusec. I’ve only given you advice, but the People have done all the actual work. You won’t miss me.”

  “We will miss you, Pearson.” Yusec was resigning himself to the massive inevitability of Pearson’s passing. “I am saddened.”

  “Yeah, me too. Funny, I was almost coming to enjoy this life. Oh, well.” His thoughts were very weak now, receding like the sun around the world.

  “Just a last idea, Yusec.”

  “Yes, Pearson?”

  “I thought you’d use my body, the skin and bones and organs, after I’d gone. But you’ve gone beyond that. Those last bronzes you showed me were real good. You don’t need the Pearson factory anymore. Silly idea, but…”

  Yusec barely caught the last Pearson thought before his presence left the People forever…

  “They’re people, sir! I know they’re no bigger than an eyelash, but they’ve got roads and farms and factories and schools and I don’t know what else. Our first non-human intelligent race, sir!”

  “Easy, Hanforth,” said the Captain. “I can see that.” He was standing outside the lander. They’d set down in a large lake to avoid smashing the intricate metropolis which appeared to cover the entire planetoid. “Incredible’s the word for it. Anything on that wreck site?”

  “No sir. It’s ancient. Hundreds of years at least. Detectors found only fragments of the original ship.”

  “The native delegation, sir?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They have something they want us to see. They say some of their major roadways are wide enough for us to travel safely, and they’ve cleared all traffic.”

  “I guess we’d better be courteous, though I’d feel safer doing our studies from out here, where we can’t hurt anybody.”

  They walked for several hours. Gradually they reached an area near the site of the crater produced by the impact of an archaic ship. They’d seen the object rise over the sharp horizon, believed in it less as they drew nearer.