Yes—an intriguing idea. Well before the lunar transformation, an exhaustive search had been made, in conjunction with other precise survey work. But only in this one, small spot had there been success. As with the Apollo site, the place had been put under a dome.
Horton had frequently come here. Though his companions had seen photographs, and all other gathered data often enough, this was their first actual viewing. This would add nothing to their knowledge—except the intangible essence of having at last been here. Of course a constant stream of other viewers with similar motives was also present. But Horton's two did not laugh, comment or question, while they looked. Unlike their usual selves, too, they were quiet and solemn.
Actually, there wasn't much to see, under that dome. Unnameable scrabblings and coilings in the unaltered dust. And many trapezoidal indentures. About these first, who really might guess with any accuracy at all? About the second, the simple suggestion was that they were foot-tracks. Utterly, emptily wrong? It was not what was visible here; it was the unimaginable that shadowed it...
Affixed to the dome's flank was a white-enamelled plaque bearing explanatory paragraphs. Included in the information given—much publicized wherever humans had yet ventured—was the familiar statement that, from estimates of the rate of micro-meteorite erosion, these imprintings in the dust had occurred three-to-four million years ago.
Beside the dome was a small display case, stout and well-guarded. It contained the two artifacts that had also been found here: A bit of something like dirty cotton-floss. But silicious. And, perhaps more significant, a ten-centimeter chip or shard, apparently broken from some larger object. There were also illuminated holographs that attempted to show details of the fragment's internal structure. Even under highest magnification, this remained intricately involved and orderly, a multiplied and re-multiplied lattice of cubes, tetrahedra, filaments, and spherical cavities that may have contained some important unknown that had evaporated—rotted away—whatever...?
In this park where the dome was—in the pastel-blue building just beyond the eucalyptus trees—computers continued, after numerous years, to analyze, sort, compare, reassemble variously—and thus extrapolate from—already tentatively pinned-down data. With frequent referrals back to the shard itself... . Progress, but very slow... Purpose of whatever parent-object from which the fragment had been shattered?... Kind of energy, if any, to activate?... What means of manufacture, or growth? Some dim intents almost grasped so far... Design and objective out of different minds and souls. Working with what might have been nothing like hands at all?...
Presently the three were standing a short distance back from the crowd, but with the dome in view, glinting in the sunlight.
Lois totaled the obvious, laconically:
"Somebody, or something, once came from somewhere. Anyhow the message, hoped for from way back—'You are not alone'."
Arnold's mouth curved in his wry, young way.
"Uh-huh," he grunted. "And maybe better expressed than it was, earlier, by those nine minutes and eight seconds of organized radio signals, picked up on that single occasion—when was it?—back in the beginning twenty-hundreds. Not even enough years have passed, yet, for the first of many human attempts at replying to reach any probable source at lagging light-speed. To make just the barest start at finding out very much."
He tugged at his sun-reddened earlobe, then went on:
"As for what was found here, that also said, 'Interstellar travel can be done.' So our smart people devised means. Still, as far as could be learned from very careful lunar exploration, something came to this solar system only once in three million years. Apart from how mass is supposed to become infinite at light-speed, that pretty well proves that star hopping won't ever be swift or easy—which everybody knows."
"But can't truly know—for absolute certain," Lois commented, just a shade less solemnly.
Arnold's grin straightened out somewhat. "Yuh—all right," he conceded. "I could be prejudiced—part glad of what I just stated. Almost wishing it to be so. Not too easy. Out to Rigel in a subjective year? Across the Galaxy in ten? The universe shrunken. The charm of distance gone. Everything cheapened... The guts and effort taken out. Nothing accomplished... I might not like that, Loey. You might not, either."
His smile turned lopsided again. so was he still half jesting?
"About me, Arnie, maybe not so very soon," Lois chuckled back at him. Then her expression became almost grave.
Horton's emotions were also more than one: Surprise, exasperation, and anger at the swaggery viewpoint he had just heard from this boy—with the girl's essential agreement. A down-feeling from that. They hadn't run away, nor asked for his assistance. Nor would they. This was quite clear, from the implications in Arnold's words. Stubborn idiot!... Yet, Horton also had an up-feeling of refreshed approval from a residue of youthful pride and strength left in his own insides. These two would do what was required, and with appreciation of its adventurous magnificence. Anyhow, what choice did they really have—except some almost meaningless delay—between harsh necessity and gentle temptation? So had Arnold talked hard, only to make the best of what must be? While hadn't he, Horton, let sentiment unhinge his clear outlook?... Though was he yet entirely ready to accept this?...
The three were lofted back to the villa. Horton wrinkled his nose at the ticking clock that counted the hours into a progressing display of terrestrial calendar dates. For the two, only tonight, and part of the lunar tomorrow, remained for the pleasures of the garden world—if they wanted to spend a few days on Earth. They could scamper again, up to the crests of the Apennines; they could pluck fresh fruit; they could dive in the Imbrium Sea—and remember.
Haunted by the vision of frost on stilled faces, Horton did speak to them, but not now with any hope that they would be persuaded:
"Look, kids... If you want, you could hide a while in that old underground place. Till I might bend some ears, use what weight I can find, argue, point out facts; perhaps win a special release..."
They were all taking the sun in Horton's roof-garden, then.
From where they sprawled on mats, the two glanced at each other. It was a wordless communication, common between persons who are very close. The girl gave the tiniest nod.
The boy turned his head, to meet Horton's gaze. Did the laughing blue eyes say, Honest Chester, in silent mockery? Yet they had gone kindly, too. A hard hand reached out, clutched Horton's bare shoulder. The gruff voice was appreciative:
"Thanks, Old Lad. This fine world took hold of Loey and me harder than we ever supposed it would. Maybe I joshed you some. But it still does. A person can burn to linger. Yet... Anyhow, we'll keep in mind what you just said—hey?"
Horton chuckled back. Though he felt the rejection, gracefully done. To this, he had a considerate follow-up of his own:
"Sure, Arnie. However—look... Maybe I should say goodbye to you two, now? You might rather go to Earth by yourselves... Oh—it's okay!... And I've arranged... There's that old house—up in an area called Vermont—where I was born. The house is kept as part of the strong Cultural Preservation Program. It's inhabited by friends of mine. But they're away in South America for the cool season. I've asked and they agree. You can have it, through the Winter Solstice Festival. Which, thus, should be a real back-then experience for you both."
The girl bounded up, and rushed at Horton, then, as he had thought she might. He half arose to meet her.
Their embrace was quick, real, and sexless in the common man-woman sense—though it had another.
"Chet!" she burst out in delight. "Oh—that's marvelous!... Chester—don't ever think of not going with us! You've got to! This is perfect!..."
Very soon thereafter, the three of them were making the seven-hour ferry-trip—somewhat crowded, queasy and uncomfortable—to the spaceport near New York. Horton, himself, hadn't been to Earth for a couple of years. Good to look around in again—if you didn't ponder sourly, and turn bitter. Muscles, a
lways kept in good tone by rigorous exercise, soon accommodated to greatly increased body-weight, as ears did to sharpened sounds. A small plastic booster temporarily implanted in the femoral artery helped pump six-times-heavier blood.
See this, visit that... The inhabitants were now cooperating to do the best they could with what there was—on a whole planet that was getting to be pole-to-pole people.
The three didn't go into the Megalopolis, itself; the once-countryside was a sufficient example of how things were: Winter-chill reduced by expanding weather-control. A small cluster of neat houses here and—closely—there. Little gardens, arch-roofed with clear plastic, against possible frost. An acre-or-two patch of post-harvest grain-stubble. In every available spot amid the crowding, a tree or bush or flowers planted. Perhaps two-hundred meters off, a small, new, fumeless factory or shop... As near, a school, playground, cultural center, stores, commissary... On an otherwise useless and rocky hillock, pines and firs growing—a dot of wilderness... All this, in total, a scheme constantly repeated, with variations. Each, a microcosm, with all phases of a civilization—rural and urban—much reduplicated, the different elements within easy walking distance of the others.
Was it the Japanese who, in their small and already overpopulated islands, had begun this way of life long ago? Rather nice, friendly, convenient, broad in scope. Also providing a good environment for the controlled number of children to grow, experiencing the best, without narrowness. Field, street and sky. Here, the folks tried—struggled—to keep and nurture everything that was worthy. Against fearful obstacles and dimculties...
Explorations of this Earth, by Horton and his companions, were not now so very extensive. Not to the still-inhabited, squalid spots. Nor to once-distant places of an opposite hemisphere. Perhaps the massive gravity did inhibit their movements, somewhat. Plus the nearness of their compelling point of interest. Most important, the short and shrinking time.
Only four days from the end, they drove up to that rambling old house. Here, let there be a kind of obsolescent peace and pleasure. For the final interval. A hopefully happy termination of a furlough and a contact.
In this neighborhood, there actually was a light dusting of snow. Inside the house were old objects and smells.
As if by intuition, the girl seemed to know her way around, here. Excitement glowed in her face; it vibrated in her voice:
"... And still real logs!... We've got to light the fireplace!... Let me do it, Arnie!... And there must be decorations! Paper bells, shiny ornaments!... Let's see—the folks who live here ought to have stuff like that stowed someplace! Kept from other Solstices... Or we'll have to go out and buy... Need maybe a fresh pine branch, anyhow!... And groceries... To prepare a real, festive feast! Like they used to have... I'll get to the first jobs as soon as we can bring back the makings!..."
The kitchen in this house was new and robotized; but it could also be used in the by-hand manner. After the three had returned from a sallying-forth for various purchases, this latter-day girl, in her whimsey, interest, and obscured knowledge, somehow duplicated arts of a past era. Through the house crept fragrances. Yes—of baking.
Brought oven-hot samples there in the parlor, where they sat with forgotten books and small talk, Horton met her amused and triumphant brown eyes with his own fond gaze, and burst out—though of course he had known:
"Damn! Cookies?... Honestly? Real cookies?"
The savors he had experienced then were more than those on his tongue, at his first bite of the ancient, spiced crispness. They were more of mind and emotion, of memory, and still silence-guarded and sense-confounding truth. They encompassed these bizarrely-shadowed two, tenderly. In the present setting, mismatched angles of time and observation had begun to seem less eye-and-mind twisting. But if awareness of his own love sharpened with a surge of pleased feeling that rightness was in this moment-and-place, then, by the same means, that darker destiny keened in his head, in vivid contrast: Young death, long lasting at least, and almost immediate...
So, when Lois, somehow humming contentedly to herself, had returned to the kitchen, Horton, in subdued panic, was compelled to make a final, urgent try:
"Arnold—there's enough time. We could get both of you back to the Moon. Then—if nothing else—you could go to Mars. Certainly they'd accept you—considering your background. Also, I could go there again, sometimes, myself. It's not really so far..."
Fleetingly, as he spoke, Horton pictured Mars as it had become: Orbiting reflectors of thin magnesium-foil already mostly in place, to increase surface-sunshine, deficient because of distance. The climate warming considerably, hidden water-ice becoming liquid more than vapor in the moderately-increasing atmospheric density... Most people living there didn't want to change their planet as much as the Moon. In the still-rarified air, pressure-supported coverings of thin plastic would continue to be necessary. Plenty of original desert wilderness would still remain...
Arnold met Horton's words with an indulgent good humor. Though a muffling hand had gone to the monitoring device on his lapel.
"Chester," he said, "I know I told you we'd keep it in mind. But there never was much real doubt... Look—I think I liked your Garden-Moon more than Loey did. Yet even then I felt it would cloy on us—turn too sweet. Being out-fronters—part of the leading edge—a cocky lot... Sure—I suppose Mars would accept us. Loey and I have been through that idea. But what is Mars? Known, not new. Not really wanting us, either—we being second-rounders now, too—thus intentionally infused with increased pioneer spirit. For a movement that has got to start. Even so, in coming time, the means of outward movement might prove much too slow to keep up with even much more restricted population growth, producing disaster in this solar system... Anyhow, here's our position, Loey's and mine—what's got to be, supported by what we really want, risks and all... You know what I think she's after, most? An open world, where she's free to have a few kids, with nobody to tell her not to. Sure, I'm part of that... And of course the whole huge thing comes together—not in mind, maybe, but a bigger kind of scheming—plan—natural law—biology. As certain as how the universe expands physically... So, Chester—that's where we are."
Horton jerked his head, as if, again, to jar loose some nonexistent defect in his aging eyesight. He felt as if he had tried to jolly an innocent—this Arnold—or maybe himself? When neither person quite fitted the definition. The voice that had just spoken now seemed gruffly, kindly wise.
The snort that Horton gave was like an explosive laugh, at some ridiculous anecdote:
"Yuh!—I am aware..."
This included the sharp clarity that he would lose these two. Acceptance. Still not quite peace...
The last days passed agreeably. Horton saw the girl in a flowered apron, which she had found somewhere. Tongues remained compulsively restrained in certain areas.
The three had their private celebration. Dinner-goose, and the rest of the antique formula and customs. As gifts, Horton gave two costly wrist-companions—each an exact chronometer, a radio-communicator and an advisor-computer, all miniaturized as a unit to be worn. Out there and then, they should be useful.
Horton received a brightly-rib-boned packet of homemade sweets. Also, a ridiculous, historic treasure of incalcuable worth. He had seen it often before, in a childhood experience. Of all improbable objects, it was
a dried-out and blackened golfball that one very early Moon-visitor had clubbed away into the lunar scene as a joke... Still hard to grasp how this boy and girl had it to give?... Horton spoke his thanks to both, for all they were, and might yet be.
Old brews and songs took their proper part. With the tumults stilled, it was a fine occasion in most ways. It was the ancient Winter Solstice Celebration, so necessary, once, to cultures that had to pass through a cold, confining season. On Earth, many still called it Christmas.
For these two, New Years wouldn't come. Anyway, not now.
There was a moment when the girl asked mildly:
&
nbsp; "So, Chet—how will things go for you?"
Almost a rhetorical query. Like hers, Horton's words had to lose a little of their inhibition:
"Well—I've got seven more years to complete my allowed first round of a hundred-and-eleven. Then, I suppose, like the others..."
He thought of the most significant advance of this era—among the parallel ones. His body would be immersed in a warm, gelatinous fluid, multi-constituted: Nucleic acids, long-chain molecules which were biotic building blocks. Nutrients. And with guiding factors—hormonal triggerings, controlled ion-flow... Double-helix structures... From the fluid, living filaments would grow, and grope into his flesh... Cell-cloning for restoration... Even the brain cells, dying off gradually, and not replaced during his long life, would be compensated for by an equal number of new... At the end of about seventy terrestrial days he would reemerge, almost as he had been at his early best, but remembering much. Though with some small-designed and chance-personality-differences. Then—denied his home—where? Mars would probably be closed to him by that time. So Ganymede, frozen. Titan?... Or, under hardship conditions, to build a cylinder-planet? Or Venus, at last opened up? Or much farther...
Horton, looking at the two young faces, across the parlor of his own birth-house, exhaled breath from his nose. He felt better. Yet with joy, worry, sorrow, fact and misaligned memory, and magnificences continuing to stir in him...
Next morning, he journeyed with his guests to the Outward Center near Boston. In a waiting-place crowded with young people—many were truly that, having chosen by their own will and lusty drives, the three sat for a little while, not saying very much, like most of the others present. Until the two looked straight at each other.
"Hey!" Arnold chided mildly. "This isn't really an execution."
"I know," she agreed in complaint. "But while you hang around for anything, wondering when, it can feel that way! Some small situations can get more solemn than they deserve."
As if startled by her own remarks, she chuckled. He was drawn into the mood. In a second, they were laughing together. Horton decided that this was part of their enduring unity. He laughed, too.
Then and Now : A Collection of SF Page 33