The Rediscovery of Man

by Cordwainer Smith

  The yacht dropped.

  As it dropped, Benjacomin had a hideous moment of confusion and terror.

  He never knew the woman down below but she sensed him plainly as he received the wrath of the much-amplified kit tons

  His conscious mind quivered under the blow. With a prolongation of subjective experience which made one or two seconds seem like months of hurt drunken bewilderment, Benjacomin Bozart swept beneath the tide of his own personality.

  The moon relay threw minkish minds against him. The synapses of his brain re-formed to conjure up might-have-be ens terrible things that never happened to any man. Then his knowing mind whited out in an overload of stress.

  His sub cortical personality lived on a little longer.

  His body fought for several minutes. Mad with lust and hunger, the body arched in the pilot’s seat, the mouth bit deep into his own arm. Driven by lust, the left hand tore at his face, ripping out his left eyeball. He screeched with animal lust as he tried to devour himself… not entirely without success.

  The overwhelming telepathic message of Mother Hitton’s littul kittons ground into his brain.

  The mutated minks were fully awake.

  The relay satellites had poisoned all the space around him with the craziness to which the minks were bred.

  Bozart’s body did not live long. After a few minutes, the arteries were open, the head slumped forward, and the yacht was dropping helplessly toward the warehouses which it had meant to raid. Norstrilian police picked it up.

  The police themselves were ill. All of them were ill. All of them were white-faced. Some of them had vomited. They had gone through the edge of the mink defense. They had passed through the telepathic band at its thinnest and weakest point.

  This was enough to hurt them badly.

  They did not want to know.

  They wanted to forget.

  One of the younger policemen looked at the body and said, “What on earth could do that to a man?”

  “He picked the wrong job,” said the police captain.

  The young policeman said: “What’s the wrong job?”

  “The wrong job is trying to rob us, boy. We are defended, and we don’t want to know how.”

  The young policeman, humiliated and on the verge of anger, looked almost as if he would defy his superior, while keeping his eyes away from the body of Benjacomin Bozart.

  The older man said: “It’s all right. He did not take long to die and this is the man who killed the boy Johnny, not very long ago.”

  “Oh, him? So soon?”

  “We brought him.” The old police officer nodded.

  “We let him find his death. That’s how we live. Tough, isn’t it?”

  The ventilators whispered softly, gently. The animals slept again. A jet of air poured down on Mother Hitton. The telepathic relay was still on. She could feel herself, the sheds, the faceted moon, the little satellites. Of the robber there was no sign.

  She stumbled to her feet. Her raiment was moist with perspiration. She needed a shower and fresh clothes . . .

  Back at Manhome, the Commercial Credit Circuit called shrilly for human attention. A junior subchief of the Instrumentality walked over to the machine and held out his hand.

  The machine dropped a card neatly into his fingers.

  He looked at the card.

  “Debit Viola Siderea credit Earth Contingency sub credit Norstrilian account four hundred million man megayears.”

  Though all alone, he whistled to himself in the empty room.

  “We’ll all be dead, stroon or no stroon, before they finish paying that!” He went off to tell his friends the odd news.

  The machine, not getting its card back, made another one.

  Alpha Ralpha Boulevard

  We were drunk with happiness in those early years.

  Everybody was, especially the young people. These were the first years of the Rediscovery of Man, when the Instrumentality dug deep in the treasury, reconstructing the old cultures, the old languages, and even the old troubles. The nightmare of perfection had taken our forefathers to the edge of suicide. Now under the leadership of the Lord Jestocost and the Lady Alice More, the ancient civilizations were rising like great land masses out of the sea of the past.

  I myself was the first man to put a postage stamp on a letter, after fourteen thousand years. I took Virginia to hear the first piano recital. We watched at the eye-machine when cholera was released in Tasmania, and we saw the Tasmanians dancing in the streets, now that they did not have to be protected any more.

  Everywhere, things became exciting. Everywhere, men and women worked with a wild will to build a more imperfect world.

  I myself went into a hospital and came out French. Of course I remembered my early life; I remembered it, but it did not matter.

  Virginia was French, too, and we had the years of our future lying ahead of us like ripe fruit hanging in an orchard of perpetual summers. We had no idea when we would die. Formerly, I would be able to go to bed and think, “The government has given me four hundred years. Three hundred and seventy-four years from now, they will stop the stroon injections and I will then die.” Now I knew anything could happen. The safety devices had been turned off. The diseases ran free. With luck, and hope, and love, I might live a thousand years. Or I might die tomorrow. I was free.

  We revelled in every moment of the day.

  Virginia and I bought the first French newspaper to appear since the Most Ancient World fell. We found delight in the news, even in the advertisements. Some parts of the culture were hard to reconstruct. It was difficult to talk about foods of which only the names survived, but the homunculi and the machines, working tirelessly in Downdeep-down deep kept the surface of the world filled with enough novelties to fill anyone’s heart with hope. We knew that all of this was make believe and yet it was not. We knew that when the diseases had killed the statistically correct number of people, they would be turned off; when the accident rate rose too high, it would stop without our knowing why. We knew that over us all, the Instrumentality watched. We had confidence that the Lord Jestocost and the Lady Alice More would play with us as friends and not use us as victims of a game.

  Take, for example, Virginia. She had been called Menerima, which represented the coded sounds of her birth number. She was small, verging on chubby; she was compact; her head was covered with tight brown curls; her eyes were a brown so deep and so rich that it took sunlight, with her squinting against it, to bring forth the treasures of her irises. I had known her well, but never known her. I had seen her often, but never seen her with my heart, until we met just outside the hospital, after becoming French.

  I was pleased to see an old friend and started to speak in the Old Common Tongue, but the words jammed, and as I tried to speak it was not Menerima any longer, but someone of ancient beauty, rare and strange someone who had wandered into these latter days from the treasure worlds of time past. All I could do was to stammer: “What do you call yourself now?” And I said it in ancient French.

  She answered in the same language, “Je m’appelle Virginie.”

  Looking at her and falling in love was a single process. There was something strong, something wild in her, wrapped and hidden by the tenderness and youth of her girlish body. It was as though destiny spoke to me out of the certain brown eyes, eyes which questioned me surely and wonderingly, just as we both questioned the fresh new world which lay about us.

  “May I?” said I, offering her my arm, as I had learned in the hours of hypnopedia. She took my arm and we walked away from the hospital.

  I hummed a tune which had come into my mind, along with the ancient French language.

  She tugged gently on my arm, and smiled up at me.

  “What is it,” she asked, “or don’t you know?”

  The words came soft and unbidden to my lips and I sang it very quietly, muting my voice in her curly hair, half-singing half whispering the popular song which had poured into my mind with
all the other things which the Rediscovery of Man had given me: She wasn’t the woman I went to seek. I met her by the merest chance. She did not speak the French of France, But the surded French of Martinique.

  She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t chic. She had a most entrancing glance, And that was all… .

  Suddenly I ran out of words.

  “I seem to have forgotten the rest of it. It’s called

  “Macouba’ and it has something to do with a wonderful island which the ancient French called Martinique.”

  “I know where that is,” she cried. She had been given the same memories that I had.

  “You can see it from Earthport!”

  This was a sudden return to the world we had known.

  Earthport stood on its single pedestal, twelve miles high, at the eastern edge of the small continent. At the top of it, the Lords worked amid machines which had no meaning any more. There the ships whispered their way in from the stars. I had seen pictures of it, but I had never been there. As a matter of fact, I had never known anyone who had actually been up Earthport.

  Why should we have gone? We might not have been welcome, and we could always see it just as well through the pictures on the eye-machine. For Menerima familiar, dully pleasant, dear little Menerima to have gone there was uncanny. It made me think that in the Old Perfect World things had not been as plain or forthright as they seemed.

  Virginia, the new Menerima, tried to speak in the Old Common Tongue, but she gave up and used French instead: “My aunt,” she said, meaning a kindred lady, since no one had had aunts for thousands of years, “was a Believer. She took me to the Abba-dingo. To get holiness and luck.”

  The old me was a little shocked; the French me was disquieted by the fact that this girl had done something unusual even before mankind itself turned to the unusual. The Abbadingo was a long-obsolete computer set part way up the column of Earthport. The homunculi treated it as a god, and occasionally people went to it. To do so was tedious and vulgar.

  Or had been. Till all things became new again.

  Keeping the annoyance out of my voice, I asked her: “What was it like?”

  She laughed lightly, yet there was a trill to her laughter which gave me a shiver. If the old Menerima had had secrets, what might the new Virginia do? I almost hated the fate which made me love her, which made me feel that the touch of her hand on my arm was a link between me and time-forever.

  She smiled at me instead of answering my question. The surface way was under repair; we followed a ramp down to the level of the top underground, where it was legal for true persons and hominids and homunculi to walk.

  I did not like the feeling; I had never gone more than twenty minutes’ trip from my birthplace. This ramp looked safe enough. There were few hominids around these days, men from the stars who (though of true human stock) had been changed to fit the conditions of a thousand worlds. The homunculi were morally repulsive, though many of them looked like very handsome people; bred from animals into the shape of men, they took over the tedious chores of working with machines where no real man would wish to go. It was whispered that some of them had even bred with actual people, and I would not want my Virginia to be exposed to the presence of such a creature.

  She had been holding my arm. When we walked down the ramp to the busy passage, I slipped my arm free and put it over her shoulders, drawing her closer to me. It was light enough, bright enough to be clearer than the daylight which we had left behind, but it was strange and full of danger. In the old days, I would have turned around and gone home rather than expose myself to the presence of such dreadful beings. At this time, in this moment, I could not bear to part from my new-found love, and I was afraid that if I went back to my own apartment in the tower, she might go to hers. Anyhow, being French gave a spice to danger.

  Actually, the people in the traffic looked commonplace enough. There were many busy machines, some in human form and some not. I did not see a single hominid. Other people, whom I knew to be homunculi because they yielded the right of way to us, looked no different from the real human beings on the surface. A brilliantly beautiful girl gave me a look which I did not like saucy, intelligent, provocative beyond all limits of flirtation. I suspected her of being a dog by origin. Among the homunculi, d’persons are the ones most apt to take liberties.

  They even have a dog-man philosopher who once produced a tape arguing that since dogs are the most ancient of men’s allies, they have the right to be closer to man than any other form of life. When I saw the tape, I thought it amusing that a dog should be bred into the form of a Socrates; here, in the top underground, I was not so sure at all. What would I do if one of them became insolent? Kill him? That meant a brush with the law and a talk with the Sub-commissioners of the Instrumentality.

  Virginia noticed none of this.

  She had not answered my question, but was asking me questions about the top underground instead. I had been there only once before, when I was small, but it was flattering to have her wondering, husky voice murmuring in my ear.

  Then it happened.

  At first I thought he was a man, foreshortened by some trick of the underground light. When he came closer, I saw that he was not. He must have been five feet across the shoulders. Ugly red scars on his forehead showed where the horns had been dug out of his skull.

  He was a homunculus, obviously derived from cattle stock.

  Frankly, I had never known that they left them that ill-formed.

  And he was drunk.

  As he came closer I could pick up the buzz of his mind…. they’re not people, they ‘re not hominids, and they ‘re not Us what are they doing here? The words they think confuse me.

  He had never telepathed French before.

  This was bad. For him to talk was common enough, but only a few of the homunculi were telepathic those with special jobs, such as in the Downdeep-down deep where only telepathy could relay instructions.

  Virginia clung to me.

  Thought I, in clear Common Tongue: True men are we. You must let us pass.

  There was no answer but a roar. I do not know where he got drunk, or on what, but he did not get my message.

  I could see his thoughts forming up into panic, helplessness, hate. Then he charged, almost dancing toward us, as though he could crush our bodies.

  My mind focused and I threw the stop order at him.

  It did not work.

  Horror-stricken, I realized that I had thought French at him.

  Virginia screamed.

  The bull-man was upon us.

  At the last moment he swerved, passed us blindly, and let out a roar which filled the enormous passage. He had raced beyond us.

  Still holding Virginia, I turned around to see what had made him pass us.

  What I beheld was odd in the extreme.

  Our figures ran down the corridor away from us my black purple cloak flying in the still air as my image ran, Virginia’s golden dress swimming out behind her as she ran with me. The images were perfect and the bull-man pursued them.

  I stared around in bewilderment. We had been told that the safeguards no longer protected us.

  A girl stood quietly next to the wall. I had almost mistaken her for a statue. Then she spoke, “Come no closer. I am a cat. It was easy enough to fool him.

  You had better get back to the surface.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “thank you. What is your name?”

  “Does it matter?” said the girl.

  “I’m not a person.”

  A little offended, I insisted, “I just wanted to thank you.” As I spoke to her I saw that she was as beautiful and as bright as a flame. Her skin was clear, the color of cream, and her hair finer than any human hair could possibly he was the wild golden orange of a Persian cat.

  “I’m C’mell,” said the girl, “and I work at Earthport.”

  That stopped both Virginia and me. Cat-people were below us, and should be shunned, but Earthport was above us, and had to
be respected. Which was C’mell?

  She smiled, and her smile was better suited for my eyes than for Virginia’s. It spoke a whole world of voluptous knowledge. I knew she wasn’t trying to do anything to me; the rest of her manner showed that. Perhaps it was the only smile she knew.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “about the formalities. You’d better take these steps here. I hear him coming back.”

  I spun around, looking for the drunken bull-man. He was not to be seen.

  “Go up here,” urged C’mell.

  “They are emergency steps and you will be back on the surface. I can keep him from following.

  Was that French you were speaking?”

  “Yes,” said I. “How did you ?”

  “Get along,” she said.

  “Sorry I asked. Hurry!”

  I entered the small door. A spiral staircase went to the surface. It was below our dignity as true people to use steps, but with C’mell urging me, there was nothing else I could do. I nodded goodbye to C’mell and drew Virginia after me up the stairs.

  At the surface we stopped.

  Virginia gasped, “Wasn’t it horrible?”

  “We’re safe now,” said I. “It’s not safety,” she said.

  “It’s the dirtiness of it. Imagine having to talk to her!”

  Virginia meant that C’mell was worse than the drunken bull-man. She sensed my reserve because she said, “The sad thing is, you’ll see her again . . .”

  “What! How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know it,” said Virginia.

  “I guess it. But I guess good, very good. After all, I went to the Abba-dingo.”

  “I asked you, darling, to tell me what happened there.”

  She shook her head mutely and began walking down the street way I had no choice but to follow her. It made me a little irritable.

  I asked again, more crossly, “What was it like?”

  With hurt girlish dignity she said, “Nothing, nothing. It was a long climb. The old woman made me go with her. It turned out that the machine was not talking that day, anyhow, so we got permission to drop down a shaft and to come back on the rolling road. It was just a wasted day.”