Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'Would that suit you?'

  'Professor Polisible, you have no idea how happy that would make me,' responded Renton, with absolute sincerity.

  'Very well, Mr errh… Tenton. Listen carefully. When I gave the centenary address to the Infinite Society's annual convention in '77, my presentation lasted a full three hours. What I will try and do now is condense that into the few minutes that I can be bothered to talk to you. But if another planet's ignorant populace can be enlightened, I suppose it's worth it… So listen very carefully, young man.'

  'I will, oh I really will, I assure you,' grovelled Renton. And how could he not? He might not learn precisely what he was after, but it could be useful - especially if there was any connection with Lysaars. And more important at the moment, there was the implication of impending freedom. And that made the prospect of listening to the promised lecture a very attractive one indeed.

  'I will start at the beginning. I will set the scene.'

  The professor had clearly adopted his talking-down-to voice, but this sat rather oddly on his all-fours position. Renton felt a wave of amusement roll over him despite the other emotions consistent with his present situation.

  The professor continued. 'As even you, I am sure, will know, all sentient humanoids, reptilians and insectals have, as their ancestors, creatures who went about their business on four - or in the case of some insectals - on a number of legs. And to expedite this explanation, let me follow just the case of the humanoid - whose development, of course, mirrors that of his reptilian and insectal cousins.'

  The old academic paused to draw breath and then he resumed his address. 'When the big leap forward occurred, the move from animal to sentient being, that's when the "crime" was committed. The new sentient humanoid made, for whatever reason, a truly gigantic mistake. He stood upright. A creature designed for four-limbed living took on this ridiculous vertical posture - which to this day is still regarded as "normal" by all the trillions of unenlightened inhabitants of our universe. And what is still not accepted is the true extent of the damage wrought by this action.

  'Mr Tenten, as we all know, you, like your fellow humanoids and like all reptilians and insectals, use only a fraction of your brain capacity. It is an accepted fact. Even by the unenlightened. Have you ever stopped to think why? Why have I all this unused brain capacity? Why am I not using it? What should I be using it for? I suspect you haven't. But I have. And it is as clear as it is simple. The 80% of the brain that remains unused was put there to do more than just move creatures from the animal to the sentient. It was put there to allow indefinite sentience.

  'By using all that huge brainpower, a humanoid should be able to control not only his external environment but also his internal metabolism. Correctly applied it should allow him to regenerate his cell structures and generally to repair all the normal "wear and tear" to his body. It should allow him to rejuvenate the very fabric of his body. Indeed it should allow him to maintain the vessel of his being indefinitely. In plain English, Mr Tent, it should allow him to do what he was destined to do from the very start, that is, to become immortal.'

  Renton saw the professor close his eyes, and even though this was all he could see of his face, he sensed his expression was one of pain.

  'But these new wonders! These new immortals! What did they do? They stood up. And they've continued to stand ever since. And what's happened? The brain, of course, has been permanently starved of blood. The heart simply cannot pump enough of that essential liquid to a region of the body now held so far above its intended position. And starved of blood, starved of its vital fuel, the poor old brain has merely spluttered along. It has never ever raised itself to its full potential. Not since that first fatal step, that step into the vertical. Mankind, the reptilian races and all the insectals have discarded 80% of their brainpower, their opportunity to mend themselves indefinitely - and their chance for immortality. And all for the ridiculous vanity of an upright pose. It's mindless! It's auto-vandalism on a grand scale! It's disastrous!'

  Renton had so far been held captivated by this little story, but his concentration was now broken by this loud climax to the professor's tale. And he feared that the professor might well be risking his own obvious mortality if he suffered from any sort of blood pressure problems or the like. He was pretty wound up.

  But then he went on in a calmer voice. 'So you see, Mr… Mr… young man, we are doing our little bit at Eviva Village to make the universe what it was intended to be: a home for immortals. I and my staff are doing what all people in all worlds should be doing - and should have been doing for hundreds and thousands of centuries. We are trying. We are doing what we can. And, I assure you, it is not easy. Even with the corrected blood balance, dragging that 80% of our brains into use is proving very difficult. We've neglected it for so long. Nevertheless, we are making progress. A lot of our work concerns what you might call meditation. Only of course, it's not with the normal "used" 20% of the brain. It's with the other 80%. And that, Mr… errh… is infinitely more difficult.'

  Renton considered just how difficult this might indeed be, if the head of this crazy old institute couldn't even remember people's names - and, if he was to be believed, with the whole of his brain….

  'So, young man, do you think your audience on thingymagig will understand that potted version of our great work? Will they be interested?'

  'Oh yes!' lied Renton as enthusiastically as he could. 'This will certainly be a scoop on Omoria. A veritable bombshell, I'd say. Do you take converts? I'm sure some will want to come.'

  'We are delighted to accept anyone here. Anyone who believes. Indeed Mr…'

  'The name's Renton Tenting,' interjected our hero.

  'Well, of course it is, Mr Tenting. I know. As I was saying, if you yourself now believe, we would be very happy to see you stay.'

  The professor's mood had now slipped into the avuncular. Renton was obliged to continue his lies. 'How could I not believe, Professor? And how could I not want to join you and all your enlightened colleagues? But first I must take this news back to Omoria. It would be criminal if I didn't. I'm sure you understand.'

  'Oh yes, of course. I'm delighted my short exposition has been so fruitful. And, of course, I would like to see our message carried to as many willing souls as possible. I wish you well in your broadcasting of our story. I hope it reaps a rich harvest. And we will all look forward to your return.'

  This was all getting a bit civil, and Renton began to feel guilty in his deceit. But then he reminded himself of why he was here at all, and of what he had found in the goods receiving area of the institute - something that pointed to this old geezer having at least a tenuous connection with some highly nefarious goings on. He judged an open question on the subject to be far too dangerous. And he certainly couldn't ask directly about the whereabouts of Lysaars. No, he would have to chance an oblique question and just hope that this might lead to somewhere useful.

  And he did chance it.

  'Well, I thank you for those kind sentiments, Professor. But just one thing. I'm sure the Omorian populace would be really interested - and especially those of them who might want to come here… well, it's a little indelicate, but I think they'd be very interested to know how you fund Eviva Village. I mean, how you fund your work here.'

  He was OK. The professor answered without resentment. 'Our converts are our disciples, and they bring with them all they have - of course. Sadly this is never enough. But we are blessed with a number of benefactors around the universe, people who know we are right but have not the strength or the ability to join our quest. In fact, we have one benefactor in particular who is extremely generous. He has taken an interest in us only quite recently, but he is very very generous indeed. It has helped us immensely.'

  'He must be a very wonderful man,' said Renton, and under his breath, 'and I bet he's really fat and he chews eggshells'.

  'Oh yes, he is just that, quite wonderful in his generosity.'

  'Does he l
ive here on Iacouvou?'

  'Oh no, Mr Tennant, he lives… he lives in the wilderness, somewhere in that great expanse of our universe, where the blind still can't see the truth.'

  'Anywhere in particular - in that great expanse…?'

  The professor laughed.

  'Mr Tenpin, I think your readers will probably not be too interested in that sort of detail… And I have lots to attend to…'

  Well, that was it. The audience was at an end, and his oblique question had led only into a cul-de-sac. And there was no point in trying another. Better to leave while he still could - with some intelligence - if not anything like the information he'd come for.

  So he approached the professor, holding out his right hand while hopping forward on his left. He hoped handshaking was still included in Village etiquette. 'Thank you, Professor. You've been so patient and so… so helpful. I can't begin to thank you enough. I really can't.'

  The professor took his hand and shook it. Handshakes, it seemed, were still in - even if bear-hugs had gone by the way….

  'You're very welcome. Have a good trip back to… to your planet, and good luck with your broadcasting.'

  So was civility maintained to the end of the exchange, and so Renton made his polite withdrawal from the professor's room and then from Eviva Village.

  He now stood upright outside its large front gate. His knees and his shoulders ached and the 20% of his used brain experienced an unusual mix of emotions. Elation at surviving his sortie unscathed, disappointment at not achieving his prime objective, but also admiration, admiration for a man and his followers, who, he'd decided, might be unbalanced in more ways than one, but were clearly more stable than most…

  Then he walked around the wall of the village until he found the waiting autocab and a very relieved Madeleine.

  41.

  A laser beam played on its surface, a mint-green needle of light scarring the gently curving sheet of niobium. White froth exploded where the needle touched…

  The sheet of metal had once been a section of a Cammel Type-K star-freighter, the SS Tabalau. A small piece of an engineering masterpiece, one that had roamed the galaxies, one that had defied Newton in its flight between the stars. If metal could ever have experienced pride, then this chunk of sceptre-sintered niobium most certainly had. There was no doubt about it. It had been a part of the perfect.

  But now it was scrap. A piece of junk. But as junk it was too large. It needed to be reduced to smaller pieces of junk, small enough for the mince-melt machines, the devices found everywhere on Dumpiter and used to produce the planet's only source of income: crude metal ingots, millions upon millions of them. Only of course the income was never enough…

  The niobium sheet sat in a grimy, oily pit within the filth of Yard 174, its pride now buried in the squalor of its surroundings.

  The beam completed its first traverse of the wall of metal and a heavy strip of the niobium fell to the floor of the pit. The operator of the beam realigned his remote laser cutter and then re-engaged its power. Immediately another mound of white froth erupted from the metal's surface and the beam began its second incision.

  The operator had long ago lost count of how many of these plates he had worked on, how many he'd reduced to just strips - the food for the mince-melt machines. For Narry Zubfraim had been employed in Yard 174 for six years now, and for the last five he had manned the laser cutter. And he hated it. He hated the cutting, he hated the spoil, he hated the squalor, and he hated the degradation - his degradation and the degradation of his fellow Dumpiterians. But he had to endure it. For now, he had to contain his hate and simply press on. Press on with the cutting, press on with the dismal demands of his dismal job - and wait - and hope. There was no other way.

  He aimed and re-aimed his cutter until the niobium plate was finally dismembered. The job done, he walked to the end of the pit and pushed a lever. The pit floor opened and the plate remnants fell to a chain conveyor below, the start of their journey to the mince-melters and another life. Not for the first time Zubfraim felt a bizarre sort of envy for these fragments of metal. Much of a gutted spacecraft was true junk, unusable and fit only to despoil the surface of his planet. And the landscape bore witness to this. It was covered in literally trillions of tons of discarded debris, the unwanted bits and pieces of the countless vessels that had ended their days on Dumpiter. But these slivers of scrap, these splinters of waste, these had a certainty of renewal, another purpose in store, a promised future, a future existence far, far better than their present degradation. In fact just the things he wanted for himself and his people. But they were all out of reach. Of course they were. This was Dumpiter.

  He pulled the lever back and the pit floor closed. Immediately a siren screamed into life, its high-pitched whine soaring to a deafening shriek above the loud metal noises of the yard. Zubfraim stared at the siren. There was surprise in his eyes. For a siren call in this place was an event that was rarer than rare. It meant stop what you are doing - now - and assemble outside the yard - immediately. And work was not stopped for the inconsequential. Zubfraim watched the siren until his mind conceded the obvious: the siren was sounding and that meant he had to go, now, like the rest of his workmates, to the yard gate. He began to muse on what could possibly have caused this exceptional interruption to their daily drudge.

  The siren's wail died away to nothing as Zubfraim joined his fellow workers at the gate. They were standing in a large group by the side of a dusty roadtruck. And on the back of the truck was a nervous looking constable in an equally dusty uniform. He was holding a sheet of plasper in his hands.

  In the cab of the truck there was the profile of someone who was not from this planet. Zubfraim knew immediately that it was one of Lysaars' men. The profile looked through the windscreen of the truck, seemingly unconcerned with the crowd and what might be happening outside.

  After a short time, the constable seemed to have decided that all the four hundred or so workers of Yard 174 were now present and correct. He cleared his throat and began to read from the plasper. 'By the authority vested in me by the Guvner of Dumpiter, His Excellency Lord Langail III, I hereby give you notice that on the nineteenth day of Tidrail, in this Year of Energy…' His nervousness had plainly won its battle with the liquid in his throat, and his shaky announcement dried to just a croak and then to a stop.

  A voice emerged from the crowd. Anonymity gave it courage. 'What's up, mate? Bin licking too much Lys-aars recently?' The anonymous contributor put a heavy drawn-out emphasis on the “aars” part of the penultimate word.

  Zubfraim noticed the profile in the cab take its first interest in the crowd. It became a face through the side-window of the cab.

  The constable looked more nervous than ever, but he'd found some saliva from somewhere and he staggered on - ignoring the questioner in the crowd - '…in this Year of Energy, your presence is required at eventide in the freighter dock at Scorran. A registration check will be made at the freighter dock. And any man failing to attend will earn for himself and his immediate family, the severest punishment. This is an official proclamation.'

  Quite what the constable expected at this point is unknown. What he got was a stunned silence. Then there was a single, hollow laugh from the back of the crowd. Then there was a question. It was the one that must have been on everyone's mind. It came from someone at the front of the crowd. 'What the bloody hell for? That freighter dock ain't been used for years. What have we got to go there for? It's bloody mad.'

  The constable was, of course, not privy to Lysaars' plans, and: 'you will be told that when you get there' was all he could say in response.

  'By who?' retorted the questioner in the crowd.

  'You'll find out when you get there.'

  'Lysaars is behind this, isn't he?'

  The swarthy face in the side window of the truck squinted at the crowd.

  'No more questions,' said the constable. 'You'll all find out what's going on when you get there.'


  Another in the crowd began to pose a further question but his voice was drowned out by a loud grinding noise as the truck's ancient engine was pumped into life. This was the signal for the constable to abandon his makeshift stage and to retreat to the wings. He leapt off the back of the truck and darted into its cab. The vehicle was already moving off and the swarthy character driving the machine had returned to his profile form. He looked through the windscreen and didn't look back - and the truck drew away from the crowd.

  Mumblings emerged in the throng and little groups formed - to begin to debate the meaning of this remarkable announcement. What could possibly be going to happen in the freighter dock at Scorran?

  Zubfraim moved away from the crowd with his own thoughts and with the certain knowledge that he needed to do something - as soon as possible. He needed to talk with some of his friends this very evening. There was no time to lose. No time at all.

  42.

  Renton didn't much take to Stuttfut. This was probably because he knew what it was: one of the grossest examples of parasitic bureaucracy in the entire universe. It was a whole world that stole its very good living from the efforts of others, the trillions of naïve souls throughout the galaxies who applied their ingenuity and their skills to making things or providing real, worthwhile services to their fellow beings. Or to scientific research, or to teaching, or to artistic pursuit, or indeed to any endeavour other than the leech-like existence of the administrators and their hangers-on who occupied the giant office that was Stuttfut.

  These inhabitants of Stuttfut had cornered the universal market in travel and communications. They had not produced a single star-freighter, or a single monoflight, or even a single laserade in their entire history. In fact they had produced what could technically be called bugger-all in any aspect of sentient endeavour. They were best described as a real washout. But, by golly, they knew how to regulate, and they were now past masters in regulating every aspect of space travel, interplanetary communication, planetary communication, planetary-bound travel and indeed anything that concerned the transport of people, freight or information between two points drawn on a map.