by Joe Haldeman
“It would take them a couple of minutes to just say yes or no,” Dustin said. “The more complicated responses wouldn’t take much longer, but they apparently had billions of things pre-recorded, so it was just a matter of hitting the right billion switches.”
“A lot of bases to cover,” Lanny said.
“They think a lot faster than we do,” he said. “Faster than we can imagine thinking, Fly-in-Amber said. He was the other Martian with us when we went to meet them. The resident expert on the Others.”
“He knew next to nothing,” Paul said. “As opposed to nothing.”
“That was frustrating,” I said. “Like all the Martians in the yellow family, he was born with an ability to communicate with the Others—”
“Born with the knowledge of their language?”
“Weirder than that. More like being born with a sixth sense, which you’re unaware of until it’s triggered.” I tried to remember how he had described it. “He didn’t make any sense out of the Others’ message himself. He said it was like being able to speak the language perfectly, but only as a mimic. Like a parrot.”
“Are any of the Martians up in Russia in the yellow family?”
“None that we met,” I said, “and no way we can talk to them on Mars.”
I missed what anybody might have said then. My mind went a little haywire, realizing I could see Mars in the evening sky—could see light from the planet where my family and friends lived—and so could talk to them, in theory. But theory wasn’t practice; communications satellites were dust. They would all grow old and die without me.
Or might be dead already, along with all the Martians and other humans in Mars, if the Others had pulled the plug on them.
I should have asked Spy. And then wonder whether to believe his answer.
The white butler came back to refill our coffee, and produced a flask of brandy when Elza asked for something stronger. That led to some chat about living conditions aboard ad Astra, which reminded me to be grateful for gravity, and coffee that came from actual beans, made with water that had never passed through a kidney.
“Coffee may be more valuable than the books,” Lanny said. “I took delivery on two tons of roasted beans on 28 April, the day before they pulled the plug. The basement’s full.”
“Make everyone who buys a cup of coffee buy a book,” Dustin said.
“Paying with what?” Paul said.
Lanny shook his head. “Barter gets complicated fast. Especially with books. I can trade you one poem for another, or two small ones for a big one. But how many for a chicken, and where do I put the chicken?”
“In the first stanza,” Elza said. “Or maybe that’s the egg.”
He ignored that. “We’re pretty much on the barter system now, but it’s money-based. You bring in twenty dollars’ worth of books, and I’ll give you ten dollars’ worth in trade, or five dollars in cash. Phasing out the actual cash, but it’s still a unit of exchange.”
“What about California bucks?” Roz said, smiling.
“Useful for personal hygiene.” The governor of California had authorized the printing of paper money, backed in some arcane way by the state’s natural resources. None of it had made its way to Funny Farm.
Lanny pulled a wad of bills out of his front pocket and sorted through them. “I did take one yesterday; gave him ten cents on the dollar. Here.” It was greener than the others, labeled ONE HUNDRED CALIFORNIA DOLARS. There was a picture of a rugged-looking man in a cowboy hat, identified as Ron Reagan. Small print said it was legal tender anywhere in the universe.
“That will be handy,” Paul said, “once we have this business with the Others straightened out. California oranges in grocery stores all over the galaxy.”
“Governor was a fucking nut-case even before this all happened. Like I have to tell you guys.”
“He used to be the funniest thing on the cube,” Roz said. “He didn’t just want to secede from the States. He wanted to put California into orbit, and declare independence from Earth.”
“Not really?” I said.
“Science wasn’t his strong suit. His handlers said it was metaphor. Everybody knew better.”
We talked for a couple of hours, satisfying Lanny’s curiosity about our flight out to Wolf 25 and meeting with the Others. About half the time we just talked about our remote pasts, growing up in the last half of the twenty-first century.
The Others first made their presence known almost sixty years ago. There aren’t too many people around who remember everyday life as adults back then, without a Sword of Damocles hanging in the sky. Back when there was “everyday life,” uncomplicated by doom.
Lanny said that suicide had been the leading cause of death for as long as he could remember, for children as well as adults. He was born in 2068, right after Gehenna. His Jewish mother killed herself before he was one. He grew up with his father’s fierce atheism and had never been tempted away from it.
He led us around the store with a shopping cart. Roz had a scribbled list of all the titles in Funny Farm’s library.
Some choices were obvious, like medical manuals and a five-volume gold mine, the Foxfire Journals, a twentieth-century compendium of low-technology solutions to the problems of country living, from midwifing to burial. Chicken raising, building a smokehouse, foraging for wild plants, how to make a banjo. That got Namir’s interest. He’d made a balalaika to pass the time on the starship, but left it in orbit, to be sent to Earth later. Pulverized now.
Lanny unlocked a glass case and gave us a fat one-volume Medical Practices from 1889, before antibiotics. Some of the medicine seemed more superstition than science; the surgery, painful butchery.
How long would our anesthetics hold out? Long enough for me to die before needing them?
Paul chose a judicious assortment of books on science and engineering, and Lanny gave him a thing called a “slide rule,” along with a fragile yellowing folder of instructions. It was a foot-long slab of yellow metal with numbers printed all over it. Paul squinted at it and moved the middle bar around and told me the cube root of 100 was 4.64. I supposed that might come in handy some day.
By mutual consent, we all got to choose two books without argument. I got the fat old poetry book that had sustained me the year before my family moved to Mars, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, and a one-volume complete Shakespeare in tiny print. Roz’s list already had a Shakespeare, but Rico said it was a simplified edition for children.
About half the cart was filled with children’s books, a mixture of schoolbooks and play. Raising kids without the cube was going to be a challenge. I had a disturbing vision of myself as an old lady, scaring children with stories around the campfire. Though they wouldn’t be so easy to scare by then.
One priceless find was a thirty-volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica , from 2031. It had been a curiosity, not for sale, but when the cloud evaporated, it would be all we had. A finger-powered paper memory bank. I decided to read through it, five pages a day. That would be eighty-four hundred days, so when I finished I would be twenty-three years older and wiser.
There was a whole section of survival manuals, mostly earnest and useless, either painfully obvious or relying on technology we used to think was basic. There was a Girl Scout manual, Handbook for Girls, that had useful tips about getting along in the woods. For a fun week away from home.
What we really needed was a book about how to rebuild civilization from scratch, but if there was one, it was checked out.
Lanny had a good idea, a practical use for his printing press. Try to boil down everything that made Funny Farm work, and everything they’d done wrong, and print it on a single sheet of paper, both sides. Send copies up and down the coast, and out into the Plains, so that people wouldn’t have to reinvent the wheel.
We sat down and, with Lanny’s help, made a chart covering the benefits civilization provided. He traced it on a three-foot flatscreen, drawing circles around words with his finger while a teen
aged boy drew a copy on a piece of paper with a pencil. It did look odd, but paper was going to be it soon. We’d better be learning how to make the stuff.
After about twenty minutes, we all ran out of ideas and looked at the thing quietly. Something important was missing.
“Where is art?” I said.
Rico looked at me quizzically. “Who?”
“There’s no place there for art . . . or science.”
“Or philosophy,” Dustin said. “All that comes later.”
“She has a point,” Lanny said. “If all you do is plant crops and haul water and keep a roof over your head, and fight off the other savages, what are you?”
“Successful savages,” Namir said. “You’d rather be a cultured corpse?”
“To be realistic,” Roz said, “how much art and science did we get done at the farm?”
“How much did we need?” Rico said. “We aren’t exactly an art colony. And we had the cube to keep up with science.”
“Had,” Roz said. “Maybe art will take care of itself. People do draw and paint and make music. But science and technology . . . what will it be like a hundred years from now? When everybody who ever got a degree in science is dead?”
“I guess you want general textbooks about every discipline,” Lanny said, “and then be selective about advanced texts.”
“Civil engineering,” Dustin said, “which we used to call a contradiction in terms. Buildings, roads, sewers. Chemical engineering rather than pure chemistry. That kind of selectivity.”
“We can take all the time you need,” Lanny said.
“We’re not going to find paper books that are up-to-date on technology,” Paul said. “I didn’t have any when I got my degree back in ’63.”
“Same at the university here,” Lanny said. “If you want to look at a paper book in the library now, you have to go to the reserve room or Special Collections, and wear gloves. The only new paper books I see here are gift items or things that were printed for collectors.
“Library books are how I started this store. The university library was selling off books by the pound when they went paperless, back in ’21.”
“During the big depression,” the butler said.
“Yeah; my dad had made a fortune in real estate. When he died, I got this building and enough money to fill it with books.” He laughed. “It was 2121, and I had just turned forty-two. Not that I’m superstitious.”
I thought the world economy was under central control before 2121. Would there be an economics book printed later than that? A Child’s Garden of Macroeconomics?
Lanny led us around the store with the paper copy of the diagram and helped us choose old academic books that weren’t outdated or too fragile to be of use. There was a debate over electronics and computer science. Justin thought they were about as useful as a “how to wrap a mummy” book. But they compromised on a couple of general texts and a wall chart full of arcane symbols.
I have some sympathy for Paul’s side, the sciences, even though I’m a useless liberal-arts type myself. How could anybody decode all that stuff from scratch? Maybe the electricity would come back in a hundred years.
People might remember how to turn on the lights, or the machines, but who could repair or replace them?
A uniformed soldier came rushing in, and saluted Lanny. “Sir, California has . . . they bombed the border.”
Lanny was incredulous. “The Oregon border?”
“All of it, they said. Hellbombs, all along the state’s borders.”
Hellbombs gave off intense radiation for years, without causing any other damage.
“ ‘California for Californians,’ ” Lanny quoted. “Are they far enough away not to harm us?”
“You could detect it, sir, but just barely. We measured one or two milligrays. Ten times that wouldn’t hurt.”
“He threatened this during the last election,” Alba said, “but we thought it was just isolationist rhetoric.”
“Could he have enough bombs to actually do it?” Justin asked. “He’d need to drop one every five miles or so.”
“Their standard radius of effectiveness is about five miles,” Namir said, “so one every ten miles would do it.”
“You can fly above them?” Rico asked.
“No problem,” Paul said. “Hell, you could drive past one in a car, a mile or two away, if you were going fast enough.”
“And didn’t want to have children,” Namir said. “You’d get quite a sunburn, a mile away.”
“Nobody’s going to walk across the border,” Paul said, “or settle near it. I assume Fruit Farm is far enough away.”
“Unless he tossed one our way,” Rico said.
“Not likely,” Roz said. “He’s crazy, but he’s sort of our crazy. Back to basics and all.”
“With his mansion in Malibu,” Rico said. “I wonder if he bombed the border with the Pacific.”
“He didn’t, sir,” the soldier said. “Just the borders with other states and Mexico.”
“That’s great,” I said. “If the plane doesn’t work, we can hijack a boat.”
Paul was shaking his head. “Shit. What do we have? Roz, how badly do you guys want to go back?”
“You could make a good case for going anywhere else,” she admitted, “but no; it’s our home.” She looked at the other three and got dour nods. “I guess we’re at your mercy.”
“Oh, I’ll give you a ride. But what do the rest of us do? Stay stuck in California for years, or get out while we can?”
“Will the hellbombs still work after Wednesday?” I asked.
“Nothing electrical in them,” Namir said.
There was an awkward pause. “You couldn’t stay here,” Lanny said. “You’d more than double our population.”
“Funny Farm would probably be the best place for you,” Roz said, and pointed to the center of the diagram. “Food, water, and shelter.”
I felt a rising choking panic. Stuck on a few acres of farmland? After having two worlds and parsecs of space to roam in?
Paul gave me a look that I couldn’t read. What did he want—a life of kids and crops and chores?
“I think we ought to go,” he said slowly. “Let’s get these books on the ground, on the other side. Then decide whether to stay or go . . . someplace.”
My mind was spinning, or rather rattling around like a pebble in a can. Even if it was my choice, I wouldn’t know what to do. Return to the farm, stay in Eugene, head for the sea, the hills? Funny Farm was a haven and a trap. Hiding place and target.
Well, we did have to go there, Step One. Maybe then take off and head back east? Rather than stay locked up in a radioactive lunatic asylum.
Lanny helped us pack the books into cloth and plastic bags, with the store’s logo, RESERVED FOR VOLUME CUSTOMERS. We turned on the cube and saw the governor’s ranting speech while we loaded the truck and rolled off to the field.
The watching crowd was bigger. Some of them shouted at us as we slowed to go through the gate. But they weren’t armed, or at least weren’t shooting.
I couldn’t blame them for being resentful. But we weren’t actually escaping. Just hopping from one part of the frying pan into another.
We stacked the bags of books evenly into the overhead racks. The cargo area was pretty full with the weapons, ammunition, food, and water we’d brought. Even if we had carried it from the Farm and back for nothing, it had been reassuring.
When the door eased shut and cut off the crowd noise, I relaxed. The rush of the jet exhaust was comforting. We bumped along the soft ground for half a minute and then floated up into the air.
“Need to get some altitude,” Paul said over the intercom. “Like to be a few miles up when you go over the bombs.” He’d mentioned that on the way out. Hellbombs fall in such a way that their radiation isn’t wasted on the sky; most of it’s reflected to fan out horizontally. But it was still significant a mile or so up; besides, a bomb could land on a slant or tip over.
Paul said we were at fifteen thousand feet, over four kilometers, when we approached the California border.
It was easy to see where the hellbombs had been dropped. A black spot that lightened to a brown circle, then yellow, fading into green.
The governor had given his citizens one hour of warning. Plenty of time to get away at a fast walk, unencumbered by possessions.
A couple of minutes after we crossed the border, the flatscreens on the chair backs blinked into life. Spy appeared, smiling wanly.
