The Rediscovery of Man

by Cordwainer Smith

  Minutes passed. They seemed like hours.

  At last the pin lighter spoke.

  “We can see into your midbrain, Captain. At the edge of your paleocortex there is a star pattern which resembles the upper left rear of our present location.”

  The pin lighter laughed nervously.

  “We want to know, can you fly the ship home on your brain?”

  Magno Taliano looked with deep tragic eyes at the inquirer.

  His slow voice came out at them once again since he dared not leave the half-trance which held the entire ship in stasis.

  “Do you mean can I fly the ship on a brain alone? It would burn out my brain and the ship would be lost anyhow …”

  “But we’re lost, lost, lost,” screamed Dolores Oh. Her face was alive with hideous hope, with a hunger for ruin, with a greedy welcome of disaster. She screamed at her husband, “Wake up, my darling, and let us die together. At least we can belong to each other that much, that long, forever!”

  “Why die?” said the pin lighter softly.

  “You tell him, Dita.”

  Said Dita, “Why not try, Sir and Uncle?”

  Slowly Magno Taliano turned his face toward his niece. Again his hollow voice sounded.

  “If I do this I shall be a fool or a child or a dead man, but I will do it for you.”

  Dita had studied the work of the Go-Captains and she knew well enough that if the paleocortex was lost the personality became intellectually sane, but emotionally crazed. With the most ancient part of the brain gone the fundamental controls of hostility, hunger, and sex disappeared. The most ferocious of animals and the most brilliant of men were reduced to a common level a level of infantile friendliness in which lust and playfulness and gentle, unappeasable hunger became the eternity of their days.

  Magno Taliano did not wait.

  He reached out a slow hand and squeezed the hand of Dolores Oh.

  “As I die you shall at last be sure I love you.”

  Once again the women saw nothing. They realized they had been called in simply to give Magno Taliano a last glimpse of his own life.

  A quiet pin lighter thrust a beam-electrode so that it reached square into the paleocortex of Captain Magno Taliano.

  The plano forming room came to life. Strange heavens swirled about them like milk being churned in a bowl.

  Dita realized that her partial capacity of telepathy was functioning even without the aid of a machine. With her mind she could feel the dead wall of the lock sheets She was aware of the rocking of the Wu-Feinstein as it leapt from space to space, as uncertain as a man crossing a river by leaping from one ice covered rock to the other.

  In a strange way she even knew that the paleocortical part of her uncle’s brain was burning out at last and forever, that the star patterns which had been frozen in the lock sheets lived on in the infinitely complex pattern of his own memories, and that with the help of his own telepathic pin lighters he was burning out his brain cell by cell in order for them to find a way to the ship’s destination. This indeed was his last trip.

  Dolores Oh watched her husband with a hungry greed surpassing all expression.

  Little by little his face became relaxed and stupid.

  Dita could see the midbrain being burned blank, as the ship’s controls with the help of the pin lighters searched through the most magnificent intellect of its time for a last course into harbor.

  Suddenly Dolores Oh was on her knees, sobbing by the hand of her husband.

  A pin lighter took Dita by the arm.

  “We have reached destination,” he said.

  “And my uncle?”

  The pin lighter looked at her strangely.

  She realized he was speaking to her without moving his lips speaking mind-to-mind with pure telepathy.

  “Can’t you see it?”

  She shook her head dazedly.

  The pin lighter thought his emphatic statement at her once again.

  “As your uncle burned out his brain, you picked up his skills. Can’t you sense it? You are a Go-Captain yourself and one of the greatest of us.”

  “And he?”

  The pin lighter thought a merciful comment at her.

  Magno Taliano had risen from the chair and was being led from the room by his wife and consort, Dolores Oh. He had the amiable smile of an idiot, and his face for the first time in more than a hundred years trembled with shy and silly love.

  The Crime and the Glory of Commander Suzdal

  Do not read this story; turn the page quickly. The story may upset you. Anyhow, you probably know it already. It is a very disturbing story. Everyone knows it. The glory and the crime of Commander Suzdal have been told in a thousand different ways.

  Don’t let yourself realize that the story is the truth.

  It isn ‘t. Not at all. There’s not a bit of truth to it. There is no such planet as Arachosia, no such people as klopts, no such world as Catland. These are all just imaginary, they didn’t happen, forget about it, go away and read something else.

  The Beginning

  Commander Suzdal was sent forth in a shell-ship to explore the outermost reaches of our galaxy. His ship was called a cruiser, but he was the only man in it. He was equipped with hypnotics and cubes to provide him the semblance of company, a large crowd of friendly people who could be convoked out of his own hallucinations.

  The Instrumentality even offered him some choice in his imaginary companions, each of whom was embodied in a small ceramic cube containing the brain of a small animal but imprinted with the personality of an actual human being.

  Suzdal, a short, stocky man with ajolly smile, was blunt about his needs: “Give me two good security officers. I can manage the ship, but if I’m going into the unknown, I’ll need help in meeting the strange problems which might show up.”

  The loading official smiled at him,

  “I never heard of a cruiser commander who asked for security officers. Most people regard them as an utter nuisance.”

  “That’s all right,” said Suzdal.

  “I don’t.”

  “Don’t you want some chess players?”

  “I can play chess,” said Suzdal, “all I want to, using the spare computers. All I have to do is set the power down and they start losing. On full power, they always beat me.”

  The official then gave Suzdal an odd look. He did not exactly leer, but his expression became both intimate and a little unpleasant.

  “What about other companions?” he asked, with a funny little edge to his voice.

  “I’ve got books,” said Suzdal, “a couple of thousand. I’m going to be gone only a couple of years Earth time.”

  “Local-subjective, it might be several thousand years,” said the official, “though the time will wind back up again as you reapproach Earth. And I wasn’t talking about books,” he repeated, with the same funny, prying lilt to his voice.

  Suzdal shook his head with momentary worry, ran his hand through his sandy hair. His blue eyes were forthright and he looked straightforwardly into the official’s eyes.

  “What do you mean, then, if not books? Navigators? I’ ve got them, not to mention the turtle-men. They’ re good company, if you just talk to them slowly enough and then give them plenty of time to answer. Don’t forget, I’ve been out before .. .”

  The official spat out his offer: “Dancing girls. WOMEN. Concubines. Don’t you want any of those? We could even cube your own wife for you and print her mind on a cube for you. That way she could be with you every week that you were awake.”

  Suzdal looked as though he would spit on the floor in sheer disgust.

  “Alice? You mean, you want me to travel around with a ghost of her? How would the real Alice feel when I came back?"

  Don’t tell me that you’re going to put my wife on a mousebrain.

  You’re just offering me delirium. I’ve got to keep my wits out there with space and time rolling in big waves around me. I’m going to be crazy enough, just as it is
. Don’t forget, I’ve been out there before. Getting back to a real Alice is going to be one of my biggest reality factors. It will help me to get home.”

  At this point, Suzdal’s own voice took on the note of intimate inquiry, as he added, “Don’t tell me that a lot of cruiser commanders ask to go flying around with imaginary wives. That would be pretty nasty, in my opinion. Do many of them do it?”

  “We’re here to get you loaded on board ship, not to discuss what other officers do or do not do. Sometimes we think it good to have a female companion on the ship with the commander, even if she is imaginary. If you ever found anything among the stars which took on female form, you’d be mighty vulnerable to it.”

  “Females, among the stars? Bosh!” said Suzdal.

  “Strange things have happened,” said the official.

  “Not that,” said Suzdal.

  “Pain, craziness, distortion, panic without end, a craze for food yes, those I can look for and face. They will be there. But females, no. There aren’t any. I love my wife. I won’t make females up out of my own mind. After all, I’ll have the turtle people aboard, and they will be bringing up their young. I’ll have plenty of family to watch and to take part in. I can even give Christmas parties for the young ones.”

  “What kind of parties are those?” asked the official.

  “Just a funny little ancient ritual that I heard about from an outer pilot. You give all the young things presents, once every local-subjective year.”

  “It sounds nice,” said the official, his voice growing tired and final.

  “You still refuse to have a cube-woman on board. You wouldn’t have to activate her unless you really needed her.”

  “You haven’t flown, yourself, have you?” asked Suzdal.

  It was the official’s turn to flush.

  “No,” he said, flatly.

  “Anything that’s in that ship, I’m going to think about. I’m a cheerful sort of man, and very friendly. Let me just get along with my turtle-people. They’re not lively, but they are considerate and restful. Two thousand or more years, local-subjective, is a lot of time. Don’t give me additional decisions to make. It’s work enough, running the ship. Just leave me alone with my turtle people I’ve gotten along with them before.”

  “You, Suzdal, are the commander,” said the loading official.

  “We’ll do as you say.”

  “Fine,”smiled Suzdal.

  “You may get a lot of queer types on this run, but I’m not one of them.”

  The two men smiled agreement at one another and the loading of the ship was completed.

  The ship itself was managed by turtle-men, who aged very slowly, so that while Suzdal coursed the outer rim of the galaxy and let the thousands of years local count go past while he slept in his frozen bed, the turtle-men rose generation by generation, trained their young to work the ship, taught the stories of the Earth that they would never see again, and read the computers correctly, to awaken Suzdal only when there was a need for human intervention and for human intelligence. Suzdal awakened from time to time, did his work and then went back.

  He felt that he had been gone from Earth only a few months.

  Months indeed! He had been gone more than a subjective ten thousand years, when he met the siren capsule.

  It looked like an ordinary distress capsule. The kind of thing that was often shot through space to indicate some complication of the destiny of man among the stars. This capsule had apparently been flung across an immense distance, and from the capsule Suzdal got the story of Arachosia.

  The story was false. The brains of a whole planet the wild genius of a malevolent, unhappy race had been dedicated to the problem of ensnaring and attracting a normal pilot from Old Earth. The story which the capsule sang conveyed the rich personality of a wonderful woman with a contralto voice. The story was true, in part. The appeals were real, in part. Suzdal listened to the story and it sank, like a wonderfully orchestrated piece of grand opera, right into the fibers of his brain. It would have been different if he had known the real story.

  Everybody now knows the real story of Arachosia, the bitter terrible story of the planet which was a paradise, which turned into a hell. The story of how people got to be something different from people. The story of what happened way out there in the most dreadful place among the stars.

  He would have fled if he knew the real story. He couldn’t understand what we now know: Mankind could not meet the terrible people of Arachosia without the people of Arachosia following them home and bringing to mankind a grief greater than grief, a craziness worse than mere insanity, a plague surpassing all imaginable plagues.

  The Arachosians had become unpeople, and yet, in their innermost imprinting of their personalities, they remained people.

  They sang songs which exalted their own deformity and which praised themselves for what they had so horribly become, and yet, in their own songs, in their own ballads, the organ tones of the refrain rang out: And I mourn Man!

  They knew what they were and they hated themselves. Hating themselves, they pursued mankind.

  Perhaps they are still pursuing mankind.

  The Instrumentality has by now taken good pains that the Arachosians will never find us again, has flung networks of deception out along the edge of the galaxy to make sure that those lost ruined people cannot find us. The Instrumentality knows and guards our world and all the other worlds of mankind against the deformity which has become Arachosia. We want nothing to do with Arachosia. Let them hunt for us. They won’t find us.

  How could Suzdal know that?

  This was the first time someone had met the Arachosians, and he met them only with a message in which an elfin voice sang the elfin song of ruin, using perfectly clear words in the old common tongue to tell a story so sad, so abominable, that mankind has not forgotten it yet. In its essence the story was very simple. This is what Suzdal heard, and what people have learned ever since then.

  The Arachosians were settlers. Settlers could go out by sail ship trailing behind them the pods. That was the first way.

  Or they could go out by plano form ship, ships piloted by skillful men, who went into Space2 and came out again and found man.

  Or for very long distances indeed, they could go out in the new combination. Individual pods packed into an enormous shell-ship, a gigantic version of Suzdal’s own ship. The sleepers frozen, the machines waking, the ship fired to and beyond the speed of light, flung below space, coming out at random and homing on a suitable target. It was a gamble, but brave men took it. If no target was found, their machines might course space forever, while the bodies, protected by freezing as they were, spoiled bit by bit, and while the dim light of life went out in the individual frozen brains.

  The shell-ships were the answers of mankind to an overpopulation which neither the old planet Earth nor its daughter planets could quite respond to. The shell-ships took the bold, the reckless, the romantic, the willful, sometimes the criminals out among the stars. Mankind lost track of these ships, over and over again. The advance explorers, the organized Instrumentality, would stumble upon human beings, cities and cultures, high or low, tribes or families, where the shell-ships had gone on, far, far beyond the outermost limits of mankind, where the instruments of search had found an Earthlike planet, and the shell-ship, like some great dying insect, had dropped to the planet, awakened its people, broken open, and destroyed itself with its delivery of newly reborn men and women, to settle a world.

  Arachosia looked like a good world to the men and women who came to it. Beautiful beaches, with cliffs like endless rivieras rising above. Two bright big moons in the sky, a sun not too far away. The machines had pretested the atmosphere and sampled the water, had already scattered the forms of Old Earth life into the atmosphere and in the seas so that as the people awakened they heard the singing of Earth birds and they knew that Earth fish had already been adapted to the oceans and flung in, there to multiply. It seemed a good life, a r
ich life. Things went well.

  Things went very, very well for the Arachosians.

  This is the truth.

  This was, thus far, the story told by the capsule.

  But here they diverged.

  The capsule did not tell the dreadful, pitiable truth about Arachosia. It invented a set of plausible lies. The voice which came telepathically out of the capsule was that of a mature, warm happy female some woman of early middle age with a superb speaking contralto.

  Suzdal almost fancied that he talked to it, so real was the personality. How could he know that he was being beguiled, trapped?

  It sounded right, really right.

  “And then,” said the voice, “the Arachosian sickness has been hitting us. Do not land. Stand off. Talk to us. Tell us about medicine. Our young die, without reason. Our farms are rich, and the wheat here is more golden than of Man it was on Earth, the plums more purple, the flowers whiter.