A Billion Days of Earth

by Piserchia, Doris

  “Oh, hell, I have such rotten luck these days.”

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “I can’t do my thing.”

  “What is your thing?”

  “It’s difficult to explain.”

  His expression slightly impatient, Blok picked up the ax and attacked the volcanic wall.

  “I’ve an uncanny nature,” said Sheen. “I can’t come into physical contact with a thing unless it grants me permission. You can see that this would be a lonely position for one to be in. I’m a very gregarious person, must have a pal or I go mad.”

  Blok was beginning to perspire. The rock was hard, barely yielding to the sharp blade. “I’ll be your pal,” he said, over his shoulder.

  “What a wonderful thing for you to say. Just for that I’ll do something wonderful in return.” Sheen showed the Professor a picture of perfection.

  Blok dropped the ax. “Good Lord!” he yelped.

  “Ecstatic, eh?”

  “How did you do that? How did you put that picture in my mind?”

  “Does it matter?” said Sheen.

  “Are you a telepath?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea of what goes on in your mind. But I’m wasting my time here. I don’t want to fool around with a superior person. What I need is a dumb one, somebody who can’t discern a guileful remark. I’m afraid you would be too quick for me.”

  Said Blok, “See here, what are you up to? What are you going to do if you find yourself a dumb man?”

  “Invite him to live in that world you see in your mind.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s really and truly all.”

  Blok thought it over. “It’s such an attractive place, you might not be doing him an injustice. What would he have to give as payment?”

  “His ego. That part of him won’t fit in paradise. Botches up the works.”

  “Uncanny. What do you do with his ego?”

  “Preserve it.”

  “Hmm,” said Blok.

  Sheen snorted grumpily. “Give me my picture, I must be off in search of someone who needs blessed peace.”

  “I sort of hate to part with it.”

  “Hand it over. You won’t do. You have too developed a brain to tolerate true pleasure.”

  Blok looked displeased. “The best things in life are appreciated most by the most intelligent.”

  “Pshaw.”

  “The more awareness there is, the more there is to be aware of.”

  Sheen grew a hand on his tare-forearm and scratched his head. “I don’t think so. I think you may be in error.”

  Laughing, Blok said, “For a second there you sounded like old Trop, a colleague of mine.”

  “Trop? Oh, yes, I know the man. Very sound fellow.”

  This time it was the Professor’s turn to doubt. “How can you know him? You didn’t even know I was a man.”

  “Who said that? I never said that.”

  “You did.”

  Again Sheen scratched his head. “Somebody around here is mixed up. But you may take my word for it, Trop is an old acquaintance of mine, and it is my humble opinion that he’s a stout fellow.”

  Blok glared. “He’s a buffoon and you know it. He has the gall to attempt a dissertation on the Effu. I mean, how silly can you get? No one knows a thing about it but me.”

  “I know about it, and Trop will, too, shortly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He and I made a deal. He’s going to give me his ego and in return I’m giving him the lowdown on the Effu. He’ll be famous once he gets that paper finished.”

  “You can’t!” Blok’s face was red. “I’ve been hunting the Effu’s genealogy for ten years. That snake is mine!”

  “How can something extinct for ten thousand years be yours? Don’t be a hog.”

  “But not Trop! He’s insufferable!”

  “You have to admit he has a lot of courage. Imagine someone handing over his ego in exchange for the genealogy of every snake that every lived? And I mean every snake. Trop will be omniscient. But, still, the ego is a very personal thing and shouldn’t be given to everyone who comes along.”

  “Omniscient!” Horror was in every line of Blok’s face.

  “Yes. Incidentally, the Effu didn’t pass away because he ran out of uranium and starved to death.”

  “He did!”

  “He lived too homogenously, dropped the eggs in the same old places. By and by, the area became volcanic and Effu didn’t have sense enough to move.”

  Blok’s jaw was slack but his eyes were hot. “What does that mean?”

  Sheen grew nails on his tare-paws, examined them. “Those eggs had extremely thin shells.”

  “Go on.”

  “Suppose you laid a thin-shelled egg on a slice of shale, and then suppose you hammered gently on its bottom side?”

  “Good God, they cracked! The rumbling broke them!”

  “Elementary.”

  Cried Blok, “Ha, that damned Trop can climb a tree! My paper will beat his into print by at least a week.”

  “Shame on you. But then it doesn’t matter if you cheat. The Effu wasn’t much compared to the Kubu.”

  “The Kubu!” Blok stamped his feet. “You can’t do it. You can’t tell Trop about the Kubu.”

  “That’s more significant than measly old Effu.”

  “Wait, wait, just hold on a goddamn minute.” Blok wiped his dripping brow, groaned and rolled his eyes skyward. “You can’t do it. He’d be a hero.”

  The Professor was his own special kind of fool. After shivering and trembling and giving the situation some thought, he calmed down and even managed to sound casual. “Keep your blamed picture and your paradise. I don’t care if you make Trop famous. I know what he is, and if others don’t realize it, they deserve whatever they get.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” said Sheen.

  “Well, once he gives you his ego he won’t do any more interfering. He’ll be out of my hair. I can relax and indulge myself in interesting hobbies.”

  “You have hobbies?”

  Blok waved a careless arm. His breathing was almost back to normal. “I go in for genealogy of a very personal type. What I really want to do is trace my lineage back four or five hundred years. I’ve made a small contribution to the world. Somewhere back in time were unique people who made me what I am. I want to find proof … well, I just want to know who they were. I take pride in them.”

  Sheen writhed in anticipation. “How will you begin your research?”

  “I already have. I’m a sixth-generation Easterner. My great, great, great-grandfather was one of the pioneers who came over on the Chaos Queen. It was the first train to run out here from the West.”

  “Hmm, yes, I know of the Chaos Queen.”

  Blok smiled. “What a genealogist does is tramp through graveyards and read headstones. Mostly, that’s what he does. There are courthouse records, but too many times you’re told the place burned down with all the records destroyed. The graveyards are the best bet, and they aren’t bad spots. I take my lunch and spend the day.”

  “Sounds like a picnic.”

  “Not exactly. Unfortunately, I’m running out of graveyards. In fact, I’m just marking time. The graves I need are fifteen thousand miles across the desert, and I haven’t a hope of making the trip. I’d need at least two months and I have a job that allows me twenty days off a year.”

  “You don’t need to make the trip. I can show you your genealogy back to Adam.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Mythical father of the human race. Of which you ain’t a member.”

  “Ain’t what? I mean, isn’t? I mean, what are you talking about?”

  “What makes you think you’re human?”

  Blok’s face was a portrait of puzzlement and increasing pique. “What do you think you are, a prophet? Are you trying to say something profound?”

  Sheen laughed in good humor. “I like you,
Doc, I really do. Do you want me to show you your primeval pappy?”

  Alarm flared in Blok’s eyes. He backed away and crouched low with the claw on his metal hands menacing. “Don’t show me anything.”

  “Calm down. I won’t do a thing without your permission. Come here and I’ll tell you about your fourth great-granddaddy who’s buried in Chin.”

  “Chin!”

  “I can see him in my mind right now; tall and fearless, a giant of a fellow in intellect and body. No wonder you’re the man you are.”

  Blok came closer. “Really?”

  “He was a bit of a hell-raiser, though; spent a few nights in jail.”

  The Professor grinned.

  “Womanizer, too.”

  The Professor blushed.

  “As a matter of fact, your ancestress wasn’t his wife.”

  Blok blanched in horror.

  Sheen grinned. “Practically everyone in Osfar is descended from a whore. What kind of women do you think those trailblazers fraternized with? What kind do you think came out here on the Chaos Queen?”

  Blok’s eyes were stark.

  Sheen showed him a picture. “See there. That’s your grandpappy who’s buried in Chin.”

  The disgust in Blok’s expression changed to admiration. “He was big.”

  Sheen showed a second picture. “And there is his father.”

  “Oh, he’s so small.”

  “Not everyone can be a giant. The height came from the females in that case. And here is his father.”

  Blok stood enthralled as Sheen revealed to him the faces and figures of his ancestors, one by one. They flashed through his head like a motion picture. At times he laughed aloud or groaned at the ridiculous poses or modes of dress.

  Then, subtly, the facial expressions of the strangers began to change. Or was it the features themselves that were altering?

  “They’re getting uglier,” he whispered.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.” Sheen continued to show pictures, and it wasn’t long before Blok was on his knees with his paws over his face.

  “No more,” he begged.

  “Heck, they’re still wearing clothes. I thought you were an intellectual. I’m showing you the ascendancy backward, and you’re moaning.”

  Another picture flashed in Blok’s head. There were two figures in this one. He cried out, “What’s that? Oh, my God, what is that?”

  “It’s a man drawing a bead on your grandpappy. Obviously, he missed.”

  “A man?” Blok gasped. “It looks like a God. It is a God! And that other thing! That isn’t my ancestor!”

  “I’m afraid it is. But don’t give up now. The best is yet to come. To the devil with all these in-betweens, I’m going to show you a specimen of your primeval, primeval ancestors. Ready?”

  The picture appeared, and a moment later Blok crumpled to the ground. He lay on his back, staring at the sky, and when Sheen bent over him he saw the surrender in the eyes.

  Poor Blok couldn’t take too much knowledge. Almost hungrily he reached for his savior. “Blank it out,” he pleaded. “Take it from my mind. Take me and make me omniscient but never show me that picture again. It makes me want to vomit. I could never hold up my head again.”

  Sheen took him from the feet upward. “What does it matter if you descended from a rat? Nobody ever began from himself, except me.”

  “It matters,” said Blok, tranquil now and ready for his destiny. “The mind is no good once it rejects itself as I’ve done. It was an instinctive reaction, but I went too far. I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back. I want peace and forgetfulness.”

  Sheen had reached his shoulders. “I’ll be gentle with you,” he said. The silver being experienced a twinge of shame. Blok hadn’t been so bad. The man had some very good sides to his character.

  “I will forget?” said Blok, as he was completely covered.

  “Not exactly. I’m afraid you can’t be omniscient with a memory block.”

  Blok saw and was shaken. “Oh, Sheen, you lied. No, you didn’t lie. I lied to myself. Man is an I-want, an I-value, and an I-will. He is a hunger, a conscience and a power. Now I’m an I-want and an I-value. Too late I see that man’s I-will is his most vital part. With it he puts himself onto the path of mobility, makes it possible for his three parts to coexist. Now I have no peace, nor can I ever have it. The I-want is an appetite that has no boundaries or saturation point. It is a mouth that demands everything in sight. I want, and you provide it for me, but there is no way for me to choose between my wants, no way for me to say, ‘No, not this one,’ ‘Yes, that one.’ Though I know the good and the evil because of my I-value, there is no I-will to state the choice. My I-value can only sit there and judge this hell. A hog of an appetite and a Freudian guilt complex are the best description of what Blok is and will remain. Shame on Sheen. He survives on the agony of others.”

  The silver creature winced. “Be still. I say be silent. Chide me no more. I have consumed it all.”

  Blok was still. Blok was totally imprisoned. Blok was not.

  “How do I do it?” murmured Sheen. “Born in ignorance, I have knowledge unheard of. It is there, a well of it, beneath the surface of my consciousness. A word, phrase or gesture taps that well, and I have all the answers. Nice. But what am I for? Why and who am I?”

  He considered the history of Earth: Homo sapiens disappeared somewhere around the year Two Million. His children, Homo Superior, the Gods, became the dominant species. Sapiens had enjoyed experimenting with the genes of other organisms. So did the Gods. Strange crossbreeds came into being. The sparrow and the honeybee were mated and became a fuzzy little creature that made its home in the rotted trunks of trees. Eventually the Gods crossbred it with the housecat. The zizzy was born: a furred, winged, four-legged animal with a stinger on its tail and a high order of intelligence in its complex brain.

  While the Gods played with the anatomies of many lesser creatures, one of the least of all creatures began a rapid evolution on its own. The rat gained in stature and intellect. The Gods grew interested, watched and waited and soon saw that the rat was assuming human qualities. This amused them. They taught the rats to be like Homo sapiens of old.

  Perhaps evolution always followed the same pattern, or perhaps the interference of the Gods caused the rat species to produce individuals who closely resembled men of olden times. At any rate, it amused the Gods to teach the newly rising species to be men, and when some “rat” reminded the monarchs of a human in their own history, they gave the “rat” the same name. So the rats had their Khans, Lord, Hitler, Freud, et cetera, and never knew the difference.

  Eventually the strength of the Gods increased and they lost interest in ordinary events. They had almost total command over matter. They were telepathic and could even move their bodies through the air.

  In the year Three Million, Sheen came. He didn’t know his destiny. He would when he began to dream. He was an ego. For the present the Gods were above him, while lower organisms would soon be beneath him. He came to accost and his targets were the evolved descendants of rats; new man; Homo sapiens in nearly every aspect.

  Sheen: a creature of conscience and increasing power.

  chapter i: the new men of earth

  Rik was sitting in his living room reading the paper when a racket came at the window. It intensified until Aril threw it open. Into the room came her pet zizzy. As usual, it flew over Rik with its stinger pointed at him.

  “Damn it!” he said, hunching down in the chair. “The next time that thing gets close to me, I’ll hook it with my claw.”

  Aril grabbed the zizzy out of the air and held it close. “It doesn’t mean any harm.”

  Rik eyed the animal warily. One stab of its stinger in his carotid and he would have no troubles left. “Put it in its cage,” he said. He looked away before she kissed it.

  The zizzy nuzzled Aril’s neck with its woolly head and she giggled. She made little crooning sounds and squeezed it s
o hard it should have popped. It buzzed and snorted and tried to hug her with its puny forearms. Aril had found it in the street, half-dead, and brought it home.

  Rik had already tried to get rid of it. Once when Aril was away he drove a hundred miles and dumped it out near an oasis. The zizzy was back home before him, tearing up the new roof gutters and screaming to get in.

  He considered it a good-for-nothing. It wouldn’t even gather nectar like a normal zizzy. Probably it had some brain damage. But it was bright enough to recognize a good situation. It was loose almost every night, chasing female zizzys or stealing desserts from window sills, and it conned Aril into reserving big portions of sweets for it. All day it snored in its cage, and in between times it terrorized the man of the house. It had no use for Rik. If he touched its cage door, it buzzed for Aril at the top of its lungs.

  Zizzys had a three-foot wingspread. A man couldn’t outrun one in flight. They had long sucker-tongues that could drain a tare dry in a matter of minutes, but they generally didn’t eat meat, preferring fruits or nectar.

  Pug was a fair example of his species, except for the intelligence part. He wouldn’t have done a good job of providing for himself. It took cunning to build a pouch in a tree and then weave a handle and fasten it over a limb so that the pouch swung freely. It required brains to compartmentalize the inside of a pouch so that the food and water, the hatching pad and the sleeping quarters didn’t fall in on each other. Pug had no need for a pouch. He ate what Aril fed him, or what he could pilfer, he grounded his females wherever he caught them, he slept in his cage and the tribal calls of his kind didn’t seem to affect him.

  Pug weighed close to thirty pounds. Built in three segments, he was black with wide orange stripes that crisscrossed his body. His face was furry, his eyes green, nose very blunt, mouth almost invisible until he opened it, and then there was the red hole full of sucker. He had a long striped tail that ended in a vicious-looking stinger. His arms and legs were too weak to support his weight for long. He had no feet or paws, just big sharp claws that could close about a tree limb and leave indentations in the bark.

  A little mane of hair grew down Pug’s neck, and whenever he became excited it stood erect. His wings were gray and nearly transparent, with five tough bones in each. They grew just behind his shoulder blades. When he took off from the ground, he tucked his tail under his belly and bent his arms and legs in tight. In repose, his wings lay on him like a double blanket.