Still Forms On Foxfield

by Joan Slonczewski

  “It will come back,” Allison assured her.

  Kyoko asked, “Would it help to show her the planet close up again?”

  “I don’t think so…”

  Nonetheless, Foxfield’s image reappeared on another screen next to Clifford, who jumped, startled. The image expanded and the dense, shrubby forests appeared, then the fields surrounding Georgeville. At last the town’s two dozen houses appeared, finally so close that Allison could make out the solar panel junctions on a rooftop.

  “How do you watch Georgeville,” Allison asked, “after it has rotated out of view?”

  “It’s all relayed,” Kyoko explained, “from the prime ship plus satellite array.”

  “Satellites?” Allison stared at the slim, viridian-sheathed systems architect. “I’ve never seen any satellites, from the Tech Center.”

  “They’re virtually undetectable. Except for gravity waves.”

  “Oh…”

  Her brother frowned. “Sounds like you’ve already set about cluttering our skies with prying hardware.”

  “Certainly not,” Rissa responded severely. “For safety’s sake, the Board of Adjustors strictly limits our orbiting unit population per cubic kilometer.”

  “Besides,” said Kyoko, “your undeveloped planet won’t pose problems in that regard for the foreseeable future.”

  This remark further perplexed Allison, who considered Foxfield’s population of eight hundred and twenty-seven settlers an impressive “development.”

  “Commencing interlock,” stated a flat, disembodied voice. The apparent gravitational force lightened suddenly.

  Rissa explained, “We’ve reached the prime ship. Our environment is Terran standard, so you’ll find the oxygen a bit low, among other things. For your comfort, then, just set these metabolic regulators behind your necks.” The doctor held out flexible oblong objects in her large dark hands.

  “What’s inside?” Allison demanded. “Microcircuits?”

  “It’s like a pacemaker, for involuntary neural functions.”

  Seth shook his head. “I don’t need mind control.”

  Rissa’s long face showed annoyance.

  “Friend Seth, you misunderstood,” said Kyoko as she clasped her hands. “It is only a homeostatic monitor; it has nothing to do with mental adjustment.”

  Lowell, however, accepted the device. “I appreciate your concern for our welfare,” he said, implicitly reminding the Friends that these citizens deserved the trust of guests on Foxfield. Clifford reluctantly followed suit; Allison resolved to pass hers on to Doc Frances later, just in case.

  “Interlock complete,” the flat voice stated. A wall sector fell away to reveal a bluish corridor which stretched out before them like an ice cavern. Allison guided her steps with care, for she felt as though she might float away.

  Adjustor Silva Maio and Casimir Stroem greeted them in the corridor. “Today,” said the Adjustor, “we hope to acquaint you with the modern lifestyle which our industrious citizens have achieved.”

  But Seth still held back with Ghareshl, engaged in Transac exchange. “World still far away,” she signaled. “Many strange waves.”

  Allison nodded. “She feels a lot of radiowaves around here, right, Seth?” She glanced at Kyoko. “Must be even worse than the Tech Center; it’s as though you had transmitters focused here constantly.”

  Casimir was intrigued. “A radio sense? What function does that serve? I can’t wait to bring that creature up to my lab for observation.”

  “But wait a minute,” said Allison. “She’s upset enough as it is.”

  “There’s no need to rush,” the Adjustor deftly interposed. “Since ‘she’ appears to be related to plants, she might feel more at ease in our Garden of Rest. I would like to show you there in any case, to see the facilities which offer the crew of the UNIS-11 a home away from home…”

  They managed to coax the commensal slowly down the corridor. Occasional frog-suited citizens passed by without comment. Here and there on the walls curious signs were etched, similar to the markings which Allison had observed on the ship through her telescope.

  “Japanese characters,” her brother whispered. “They work sort of like Transac symbols.”

  A sudden burst of light made Allison squeeze her eyes shut. She reopened them cautiously and gazed about the place which had opened before them. Foliage of all sizes and shapes extended over the walkway. The light streamed from above, reflecting brilliantly off the catwalks which crossed the garden on several levels.

  “All for leisure?” Clifford’s lip twisted. “We can scarcely afford leisure on Foxfield.”

  “That will change,” the Adjustor promised.

  Ghareshl actually did seem to perk up a bit. Allison suspected that the rich variety of organic scents attracted her.

  Meanwhile, the biosphere analyst pointed out various specimens. “Asteraceae, Orchidaceae,” said Casimir, “you name it, we’ve got it. Our collection is unusually extensive, for a space cruiser.”

  Allison reached upward to touch an overflowing cascade of petals. Automatically she searched the seeming chaos of undergrowth for signs of order and design, the pruning of a subtle gardener. The scene tantalized her, challenged her as always to seek out the pattern which lay just beyond reach. What use was life without a pattern?

  Clifford asked, “Do you have organisms from other planets? Besides Earth, that is.”

  Kyoko pointed out a flower with tight orange folds at the center, fading to blue at the rim. “These are ‘sunspirals,’” she said, “from Vinlandia, system Epsilon Eridani.” Her voice was strangely sad.

  Adjustor Maio observed, “We have colonized planets in four new star systems, since development of Space Lattice Interactive Transport. SLIT communication unites people everywhere under one government.”

  “A democratic government?” Clifford asked.

  “Yes. All responsible citizens vote regularly on System referenda. If not, they lose System credit.”

  “A fine for failure to vote?”

  “No; credit is not a form of monetary exchange. Credit represents social value; the System generates credit levels in such a way as to maintain social equilibrium.”

  “Government by machine?”

  “But democratic process sets the credit factors.”

  Lowell raised an eyebrow. “By ‘democratic process,’ I assume you mean majority rule.”

  “That’s correct.”

  There was an awkward pause, and Allison stared at her feet. The Friends made all collective decisions by consensus.

  At last Clifford laughed. “That’s great. I can just see us running our Meetings in the Tech Center, Allison.”

  Allison frowned, for her brother’s standard joke about her “machines” was a sore point. “When you need a machine, you need it, that’s all,” she snapped. She glanced uneasily at Seth, who was telling Casimir about commensals. His breathing was labored, and Allison wished that he would try the device Rissa had offered. She understood his aversion, but—they had to start by trusting these people, or how could they get anywhere? She remembered Ed Crain in the Meeting House, speaking through his beard: if our heart opens not to the stranger…

  Allison turned to Kyoko. “I ought to find out more about this ‘System.’ The Meeting will expect a report from me.” She groaned inwardly at the thought of this task.

  “As citizens,” Kyoko said, “all of you will learn to interface the System. For example, you can use it to contact anyone in UNI at any time.”

  “Even on Earth?”

  “Would you like to see Earth, right now?”

  Allison blinked and said nothing. She glanced at the others, who seemed in no hurry to leave. Then she followed the systems architect out of the floral maze, back to the bluish corridor.

  The two of them stood in a hemispherical chamber. The floor was smooth as glass.

  “System call-in,” said Kyoko.

  “Acknowledged,” the ubiquitous System voice repl
ied. “What number?”

  The citizen gave a number, and the room grew dark. Against the blackness a bright globe appeared, mottled brown and blue. Allison stepped back involuntarily, and nearly lost her balance. Then she remembered holography, one of the fabulous inventions known to her Earth-born ancestors. The globe swelled; it looked similar to Foxfield, though paler and browner. She reached out to “touch” it, and the colors streaked her hand.

  “Day three hundred forty-four, year 82 UNI, Terran newsview summary,” the System voice announced. “Tsung Corp stratogeyser explodes over Australia, causing twenty thousand fatalities. African Sector plans to send one hundred thirty thousand emigrants to Vinlandia…”

  Twenty thousand? In one accident? There must have been some mistake, Allison thought.

  “Excavation Europa unveils newly restored work of a major pre-UNI Westerran artist. Archons battle Pleiades for Mars Classic. Request details?”

  “Call-out,” Kyoko said. The chamber lighting returned.

  “Direct from Earth…” Allison mused. What she really wanted to see was Pennsylvania, the home of her ancestors. But that was a desert now, she recalled with a shudder. “Earth doesn’t look quite the same, now, does it?”

  “You’ll have to get used to that.” Kyoko’s eyes shone with something—pity, perhaps; Allison was unsure. The citizen’s Oriental features still unnerved her.

  Suddenly she thought of what Dave would ask when she returned: Do they still have artists on Earth, Mom?

  “That piece of art they dug up,” she said. “Can I see that?”

  Kyoko queried the System.

  An immense metal sculpture appeared which extended in all directions, even meters below their feet where the floor seemed to vanish. Allison froze with vertigo, then collected herself gradually. The tableau overflowed with bronze human figures entangled in impossible contortions: a man, back arched, about to fall headlong from the main ledge; women grimacing, crying out; semiskeletons stumbling across the panel below.

  “Auguste Rodin lived from two-eleven to one-thirty-four years pre-UNI,” the unseen narrator began. “The sculptor’s most complex masterpiece, the bronze cast ‘Gates of Hell,’ was unearthed at the Paris site last year and underwent full restoration and decontamination.

  “For nearly forty years Rodin built the portraits of damned souls into the monumental set of doors which lead to nowhere. From Dante’s Inferno and Michelangelo’s ‘Last Judgment’ he adapted such subjects as the prodigal son, the aged courtesan, and the medieval traitor Ugolino who starved in prison with his sons and insanely devoured their flesh…”

  The portals moved back, and their structure became clear: two door slabs some ten meters tall, beneath a central corniced panel. Three figurines like Fates crowned the cornice and pointed their arms downward.

  “Rodin’s view of torment,” the narrator continued, “was more than a scene from an imaginary afterlife. It represented the ‘hell’ suffered by the living in his time, in particular the lack of communication which he saw among his fellow human beings. For none of his subjects seem to notice one another; intertwined as they are, each is utterly alone.”

  A tone sounded then, and a different voice spoke. “Does this work show that supernatural belief was still a major source of artistic inspiration early in the Age of Uncertainty?”

  “In Rodin’s time,” the narrator replied, “support for Religion was eroding at last as men increasingly sought Reason to order their lives. Rodin’s masterpiece reflects this shift, for the central Judgment Seat in the ‘Gates’ is occupied not by the Christ-god, as in medieval depictions, but by the Thinker.”

  Of course—Allison recognized it now, from the old bookend on her shelf. Here, the figure rested his chin on his hand with incongruous calm amid the riotous display of suffering.

  “Perhaps the ‘Gates’ foreshadowed the times to come, during which Reason ruled ineffectually over human chaos. Today we may yet admire the sculptor’s ability to imbue his still forms with the appearance of living motion. Mobilists should note these details…”

  The doors moved forward and the figures expanded to life size, as though threatening to take her in.

  “Call-out,” Allison ordered.

  “Call-out,” Kyoko repeated.

  The “Gates” whisked away.

  “It startled me, that’s all. I could have told him a thing or two about ‘Religion,’ though,” Allison said.

  “You should try that next time, if the questor load is low. You’ll need a credometer, to make your own calls.” Kyoko handed her a metallic wristband, similar to one which she herself wore.

  “A what?” Allison inspected the object. It was made of fine gray mesh with a thumb-sized display which read, “15,000.”

  “A credometer. It monitors your vital signs, your work performance, your surroundings. The System then determines your credit level up to the minute, and allows you to—”

  “I see. Well, thanks, but—another time, perhaps.”

  “It’s perfectly harmless, Friend Allison. All citizens wear them, even infants.”

  Allison fingered a strand of hair, trying to think quickly.

  “You can always take it off; there’s only a slight credit drain for off time.”

  Warily she slipped the credometer over her hand. “Can I really call Earth with this thing? Say, what’s happening?”

  The number was changing: 20,000, 24,500, 28,200, 31,300.

  “That’s your credit level,” Kyoko said. “See? Already you’re doing very well.”

  “But why? What have I done?”

  “You’re learning all about the System, so that you can reintegrate into UNI. We assign high social value to reintegration.”

  The Foxfielder’s scalp prickled. She felt uneasy, though unsure just why. “Kyoko, I can’t see this. If you folks all want us to ‘reintegrate’ so badly, then why the devil didn’t you contact us a hundred years ago?”

  “But SLIT has been practical for less than forty years.” The citizen looked flustered. “On a routine basis, that is. Besides, SLIT stations are difficult to construct in certain regions; space fold dynamics, you see…do you know anything about elementary particles?”

  “Quarks?”

  “Quarks, composed of rishons, composed of sliptons. Sliptons bear a property designated ‘emptiness.’ A slipton with this property may ‘slip’ through intersecting folds of space and resonate between two loci which may be light-years apart in real-space.”

  “So it emits gravity waves?”

  “Yes, and if enough energy is applied, the locus expands into an ‘empty’ shell through which the particle may slip out altogether. But the shell remains as a gravity well. It’s analogous to an electron, which acts as a well of electrical field, no? The field lines converge at one point and emerge at the complementary point, which contains an antiparticle.”

  “So if the locus expands enough—”

  Just then, Adjustor Maio appeared in front of her, bright as life. “Allison? Your friends are returning to Foxfield now; one feels unwell. You are welcome to stay, of course…”

  Allison stared for a minute at the talking hologram before the message sank in. Some one was sick; it must be Seth, she thought. “Tell them I’m coming, right away.” She turned on her heel and started to run out of the chamber, but she misjudged her weight and lost her footing on the smooth floor.

  The next thing she knew, she was regaining consciousness while the ship doctor’s face loomed above her. “You must have jarred the regulator,” Rissa told her, “since your credometer registered anomalous signals. You’ll be all right; but do stop by for a check-up some time, just in case.”

  Allison and Seth dragged their feet in exhaustion as they hiked up Georgeville Road to the Tech Center Hill. The sun near its zenith beat down without mercy, its heat widening the fissures which scarred the pavement.

  “They’re not people,” Seth said. “They’re all machines.”

  “What?” Allison w
iped her forehead, where streams of sweat stung her eyes. “Don’t be silly. The ‘citizens’ are people, just like us; they breathe and eat.”

  “And sleep? I’ll bet they don’t sleep. Something has to be wrong, you saw that.”

  The System didn’t sleep…Allison sighed. “Seth, you’ve lived long enough with the commensals; when will you learn some patience? If something is wrong, we’d sure as hell better find out what, exactly, before we confront it.”

  Seth’s eyes burned. “I feel they’re wrong, Sonny. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Sh.” She crossed his lips with her finger before opening the door to the house. She did not like her son to hear them argue.

  In the kitchen, Dave’s papers fanned out over the table, where he studied for Clifford’s exams the next west-day. He jumped up immediately. “Hey, Mom, how was the ship? Did you meet any artists? When can we go back to Earth?”

  “Not before bedtime.” Allison glanced at the wurraburra on the floor, sucking the remains out of a cooking pot. “David,” she complained, “you know that Rufus will eat everything in sight, if you let him.”

  “Aw, Mom, what’s the matter now?”

  The room darkened as she drew the dense moss-fiber shades against antinight. “We’ve had a long day,” she said.

  “No, you haven’t,” said Dave. “The ‘day’ isn’t half done yet.”

  V. Belshazzar’s Feast

  By the time they awakened, dense clouds had blown in from the northern shrublands. Allison sipped her tea and stared out the kitchen window at the dismal sky. Her head ached because she had slept poorly, her mind flooded with twisted images and unfamiliar ideas.

  She remembered the commensal. “How is Ghareshl?” she asked Seth.

  He regarded her from across the table. “She survived. She was heading northward, last I saw.”

  “I see.” Allison felt much relieved. “She would know if anything physiological were messed up; commensals always do.”

  “She’ll conjoin soon, though,” Seth pointed out.

  “That’s right. I guess she’s more sensitive than usual.”

  “Also more vulnerable.”

  Allison tightened her lips. She rose from the table and rinsed out her tea mug. She then reached up above the sink for a jar of scent pods, on the shelf between bottles of cooking oil and ginger ale. She removed one of the maroon-husked pods, replaced the jar and left the kitchen. In the hallway she tripped over the curled up wurraburra, who extended an eyefoot or two and groaned drowsily. She stepped out the door and winced at the thick odor of damp ground moss.