The Best of C. L. Moore

by C. L. Moore

  “What is our part to be, Lord?” asked Adam in a small, humbled voice.

  “Earth and water,” said the Voice. “The kingdom of earth for you and the woman and your children after you.”

  “I was Adam’s wife before her,” wailed Lilith jealously. “What of me. . . and mine?”

  The Voice fell silent for a while. Then it said quietly: “Make your own choice, Queen of Air and Darkness.”

  “Let my children and Adam’s haunt hers to their graves, then!” decided Lilith instantly. “Mine are the disinherited—let them take vengeance! Let her and hers beware of my children who wail in the night, and know she deserves their wrath. Let them remind her always that Adam was mine before her!”

  “So be it,” said the Voice. And for an instant there was silence in Eden while the shadow of times to come brooded inscrutably in the mind of God. Lilith caught flashes of it in the glory so bright over Eden that every grass blade had a splendor which hurt the eyes. She saw man loving his birthplace upon earth with a deep-rooted love that made it as dear as his very flesh to him, so that dimly he might remember the hour when all earth was as close to him as his newly created body. She saw man cleaving to one woman as dear as the flesh of his flesh, yet remembering the unattainable and the lost—Lilith, perfect in Eden. She looked down from the hilltop and met Adam’s eyes, and voicelessly between them a long farewell went flashing.

  No one was watching Eve. She was blinking through tears, remembering a twilight hour and a fire-bright beauty that the dust had quenched a moment ago at God’s command. And then . . - then there was the faintest rustling in the air around her, and a cool, clear voice was murmuring:

  “Eva—” against her cheek.

  She stared. There was nothing. But—

  “Eva,” said the voice again. “Give me my vengeance too—upon the Man. Pretty Eva, do you hear me? Call your first child Kayn. . . Eva, will you do as I say? Call him Kayn the Spear of my vengeance, for he shall set murder loose among Adam’s sons. Remember, Eva—”

  And Eve echoed in a small, obedient whisper, “Cain. . . Cain.”

  * * *

  Greater Than Gods

  The desk was glass-clear steel, the mirror above it a window that opened upon distance and sight and sound whenever the televisor buzzer rang. The two crystal cubes on the desk were three-dimensional photographs of a sort undreamed of before the Twenty-third Century dawned. But between them on the desk lay a letter whose message was older that the history of writing itself.

  “My darling—” it began in a man’s strongly slanting handwriting. But there Bill Cory had laid down his pen and run despairing fingers through his hair, looking from one crystal-cubed photograph to the other and swearing a little under his breath. It was fine stuff, he told himself savagely, when a man couldn’t even make up his mind which of two girls he wanted to marry. Biology House of Science City, that trusted so faithfully the keenness and clarity of Dr. William Cory’s decisions, would have shuddered to see him now.

  For the hundredth time that afternoon he looked from one girl’s face to the other, smiling at him from the crystal cubes, and chewed his lip unhappily. On his left, in the translucent block that had captured an immortal moment when dark Marta Mayhew smiled, the three-dimensional picture looked out at him with a flash of violet eyes. Dr. Marta Mayhew of Chemistry House, ivory whiteness and satin blackness. Not at all the sort of picture the mind conjures up of a leading chemist in Science City which houses the greatest scientists in the world.

  Bill Cory wrinkled his forehead and looked at the other girl. Sallie Carlisle dimpled at him out of the crystal, as real as life itself to the last flying tendril of fair curls that seemed to float on a breeze frozen eternally into glass. Bill reached out to turn the cube a little, bringing the delicate line of her profile into view, and it was as if time stood still in the crystalline deeps and pretty Sallie in the breathing flesh paused for an eternal moment with her profile turned away.

  After a long moment Bill Cory sighed and picked up his pen. After the “darling” of the letter he wrote firmly, “Sallie.”

  “Dr. Cory,” hesitated a voice at the door. Bill looked up, frowning. Miss Brown blinked at him nervously behind her glasses. “Dr. Ashley’s—”

  “Don’t announce me, Brownie,” interrupted a languid voice behind her. “I want to catch him loafing. Ah, Bill, writing love letters? May I come in?”

  “Could I stop you?” Bill’s grin erased the frown from his forehead. The tall and tousled young man in the doorway was Charles Ashley, head of Telepathy House, and though their acquaintance had long been on terms of good-natured insult, behind it lay Bill’s deep recognition of a quality of genius in Ashley that few men ever attain. No one could have risen to the leadership of Telepathy House whose mind did not encompass many more levels of infinite understanding than the ordinary mind even recognizes.

  “I’ve worked myself into a stupor,” announced the head of Telepathy House, yawning. “Come on up to the Gardens for a swim, huh?”

  “Can’t.” Bill laid down his pen. “I’ve got to see the pups—”

  “Damn the pups! You think Science City quivers every time those little mutts yap! Let Miss Brown look after ‘em. She knows more than you do about genetics, anyhow. Some clay the Council’s going to find it out and you’ll go back to working for a living.”

  “Shut up,” requested Bill with a grin. “How are the pups, Miss Brown?”

  “Perfectly normal, doctor. I just gave them their three o’clock feeding and they’re asleep now.”

  “Do they seem happy?” inquired Ashley solicitously.

  “That’s right, scoff,” sighed Bill. “Those pups and I will go ringing down the corridors of time, you mark my words.”

  Ashley nodded, half seriously. He knew it might well be true. The pups were the living proof of Bill’s success in prenatal sex determination—six litters of squirming maleness with no female among them. They represented the fruit of long, painstaking experiments in the X-ray bombardment of chromosomes to separate and identify the genes carrying the factors of sex determination, of countless failures and immeasurable patience. If the pups grew into normal dogs—well, it would be one long, sure stride nearer the day when, through Bill’s own handiwork, the world would be perfectly balanced between male and female in exact proportion to the changing need.

  Miss Brown vanished with a shy, self-effacing smile. As the door

  closed behind her, Ashley, who had been regarding the two photograph cubes on Bill’s desk with a lifted eyebrow, arranged his long length on the couch against the wall and was heard to murmur:

  “Eenie-.meenie-minie-mo. Which is it going to be, Wil-yum?”

  They were on terms too intimate for Bill to misunderstand, or pretend to.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted miserably, glancing down in some hesitation at the letter beginning, “My darling Sallie—”

  Ashley yawned again and fumbled for a cigarette. “You know,” he murmured comfortably, “it’s interesting to speculate on your possible futures. With Marta or Sallie, I mean. Maybe some day somebody will find a way to look ahead down the branching paths of the future and deliberately select the turning points that will carry him toward the goal he chooses. Now if you could know beforehand where life with Sallie would lead, or life with Marta, you might alter the whole course of human history. That is, if you’re half as important as you think you are.”

  “Huh-uh,” grunted Bill. “If you predicate a fixed future, then it’s fixed already, isn’t it? And you’d have no real choice.”

  Ashley scratched a match deliberately and set his cigarette aglow before he said: “I think of the future as an infinite reservoir of an infinite number of futures, each of them fixed, yet malleable as clay. Do you see what I mean? At every point along our way we confront crossroads at which we make choices among the many possible things we may do the next moment. Each crossroad leads to a different future, all of them possible, all of them fixed, waiti
ng for our choice to give them reality. Perhaps there’s a—call it a Plane of Probability—where all these possible results of our possible choices exist simultaneously. Blueprints of things to come. When the physical time of matter catches up with, and fills in, any one particular plan, it becomes fixed in the present.

  “But before time has caught up with it, while our choice at the crossroads is still unmade, an infinite number of possible futures must exist as it were in suspension, waiting for us in some unimaginable, dimensionless infinity. Can you imagine what it would be like to open a window upon that Probability Plane, look out into the infinities of the future, trace the consequences of future actions before we make them? We could mold the destiny of mankind! We could do what the gods must do, Bill! We’d be greater than gods! We could look into the Cosmic Mind—the very brain that planned us—and of our own will choose among those plans!”

  “Wake up, Ash,” said Bill softly.

  “You think I’m dreaming? It’s not a new idea, really. The old philosopher, Berkeley, had a glimpse of it when he taught his theories of subjective idealism, that we’re aware of the cosmos only through a greater awareness all around us, an infinite mind— “Listen, Bill. If you vision these. . . these blueprints of possible futures, you’ve got to picture countless generations, finite as ourselves, existing simultaneously and completely in all the circumstances of their entire lives—yet all of them still unborn, still even uncertain of birth if the course of the present is diverted from their particular path. To themselves, they must seem as real as we to each other.

  “Somewhere on the Plane of Probability, Bill, there may be two diverging lines of your descendants, unborn generations whose very existence hinges on your choice here at the crossroads. Projections of yourself, really, their lives and deaths trembling in the balance. Think well before you choose!”

  Bill grinned. “Suppose you go back to the Slum and dope out a way for me to look into the Cosmic Plan,” he suggested.

  Ashley shook his head.

  “Wish I could. Boy, would you eat that word ‘Slum’ then! Telepathy House wouldn’t be the orphan child around the City any longer if I could really open a window onto the Probability Plane. But I wouldn’t bother with you and your pint-sized problems. I’d look ahead into the future of the City. It’s the heart of the world, now. Some day it may rule the world. And we’re biased, you know. We can’t help being. With all the sciences housed here under one citywide roof, wielding powers that kings never dreamed of— No, it may go to our heads. We may overbalance into - . . into. . . well, I’d like to look ahead and prevent it. And if this be treason—” He shrugged and got up. “Sure you won’t join me?”

  “Go on—get out. I’m a busy man.”

  “So I see.” Ashley twitched an eyebrow at the two crystal cubes. “Maybe it’s good you can’t look ahead. The responsibility of choosing might be heavier than you could bear. After all, we aren’t gods and it must be dangerous to usurp a god’s prerogative. Well, see you later.”

  Bill leaned in the doorway watching the lounging figure down the hall toward the landing platform where crystal cars waited to go flashing along the great tubes which artery Science City. Beyond, at the platform’s edge, the great central plaza of the City dropped away in a breath-taking void a hundred stories deep. He stood looking out

  blind-eyed, wondering if Sallie or Marta would walk this hail in years to come.

  Life would be more truly companionship with Marta, perhaps. But did a family need two scientists? A man wanted relaxation at home, and who could make life gayer than pretty Sallie with her genius for entertainment, her bubbling laughter? Yes, let it be Sallie. If there were indeed a Probability Plane where other possible futures hung suspended, halfway between waking and oblivion, let them wink out into nothingness.

  He shut the door with a little slam to wake himself out of the dream, greeting the crystal-shrined girl on his desk with a smile. She was so real—the breeze blowing those curls was a breeze in motion. The lashes should flutter against the soft fullness of her lids— Bill squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear it. There was something wrong—the crystal was clouding— A ringing in his ears grew louder in company with that curious blurring of vision. From infinitely far away, yet strangely in his own ears,

  a tiny voice came crying. A child’s voice calling, “Daddy. . . - daddy!”

  A girl’s voice, coming nearer, “Father—” A woman’s voice saying over

  and over in a smooth, sweet monotone, “Dr. Cory. . . . Dr. William

  Cory—”

  Upon the darkness behind his closed lids a streaked and shifting light moved blurrily. He thought he saw towers in the sun, forests, robed people walking leisurely—and it all seemed to rush away from his closed eyes so bewilderingly—he lifted his lids to stare at— To stare at the cube where Sallie smiled. Only this was not Sallie.

  He gaped with the blankness of a man confronting impossibilities. It was not wholly Sallie now, but there was a look of Sallie upon the lovely, sun-touched features in the cube. All of her sweetness and softness, but with it—something more. Something familiar. What upon this living, lovely face, with its level brown eyes and courageous mouth, reminded Bill of—himself?

  His hands began to shake a little. He thrust them into his pockets and sat down without once taking his eyes from the living stare in the cube. There was amazement in that other stare, too, and a halfincredulous delight that brightened as he gazed.

  Then the sweet curved lips moved—lips with the softness of Sallie’s closing on the firm, strong line of Bill’s. They said distinctly, in a sound that might have come from the cube itself or from somewhere deep within his own brain: “Dr. Cory . . . Dr. Cory, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” he heard himself saying hoarsely, like a man talking in a dream. “But—”

  The face that was Sallie’s and his blended blazed into joyful recognition, dimples denting the smooth cheeks with delicious mirth. “Oh, thank Heaven it is you! I’ve reached through at last. I’ve tried so hard, so long—”

  “But who . - . what—” Bill choked a little on his own amazement and fell silent, marveling at the strange warm tenderness that was flooding up in him as he watched this familiar face he had never seen before. A tenderness more melting and protective and passionately selfless than he had ever imagined a man could feel. Dizzy with complete bewilderment, too confused to wonder if he dreamed, he tried again. “Who are you? What are you doing here? How did—”

  “But I’m not there—not really.” The sweet face smiled again, and Bill’s heart swelled until his throat almost closed with a warmth of pride and tenderness he was too dizzy to analyze now. “I’m here— here at home in Eden, talking to you across the millennium! Look—”

  Somehow, until then he had not seen beyond her. Sallie’s face had smiled out of a mist of tulle, beyond which the cube had been crystal-clear. But behind the face which was no longer wholly Sallie’s, a green hillside filled the cube. And, very strangely, it had no look of smallness. Though the cube’s dimensions confined it, here was no miniature scene he gazed upon. He looked through the cube as through a window, out into a forest glade where upon a bank of green myrtle at the foot of a white garden wall a little group of tanned men and women reclined in a circle with closed eyes, lying almost like corpses on the dark, glossy leaves. But there was no relaxation in them. Tensity more of the spirit than the body knit the group into a whole, focused somehow upon the woman in the circle’s center—this fair-haired woman who leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, chin in hand, staring brown-eyed and tensely into space—into Bill Cory’s eyes. Dimly he realized that his perception had expanded as he stared. Awareness now of a whole countryside beyond her, just over the garden wall, made this cube that had housed Sallie’s careless smile a window indeed, opening upon distance in space and time far outside his imagining.

  He knew he was dreaming. He was sure of it, though the memory of what Ashley had been sa
ying hovered uneasily in the back of his mind, too elusive now to be brought consciously into view. But in this

  impossible dream he clenched his hands hard in his pockets, taking a firm hold upon reality.

  “Just who are you, and what do you want? And how did you—”

  She chose to answer the last question first, breaking into it as if she could read his thoughts as she knelt staring on the myrtle leaves.

  “I speak to you along an unbroken cord between us—father. Thousands of times removed, but—father. A cord that runs back through the lives that have parted us, yet which unite us. With the help of these people around me, their full mental strength supplementing mine, we’ve established contact at last, after so many failures, so much groping in mysteries which even I understand only partly, though my family for generations has been trained in the secrets of heredity and telepathy.”

  “But why—”

  “Isn’t the fact of achievement an end in itself? Success in establishing a two-way contact with the past, in talking to one’s own ancestors—do I need more reason for attempting that than the pure joy of achieving it? You wonder why you were chosen. Is that it? Because you are the last man in a direct line of males to be born into my family before the blessed accident that saved the world from itself.

  “Don’t look so bewildered!” Laughter bubbled from the cube-or was it a sound in his own brain? “You aren’t dreaming! Is it so incredible that along the unbroken cord of memories which links your mind to mine the current might run backward against the time flow?”