The Boat of a Million Years

by Poul Anderson

  Under a one-gee boost, the time between planets was measured in days. He did not have the total freedom of them. Certain regions were lethal, even within his land of shielding, such as the neighborhood of the sun. Certain were forbidden him, and rightly so. While he could pass near enough to the Web to admire its spidery vastness through his optical systems, a close approach could trouble some part of its functioning, garble the information it drank in from the universe. Subtlest, most enigmatic, was the scent of beings somewhere yonder in the galaxy.

  Never mind. He was no passive passenger. Within the broad limits of law and its capability, the ship would do whatever he wanted. Recycling molecules in patterns tried and true or ingeniously new, it provided every necessity, roost comforts, many luxuries. Almost the entire culture of the human race was in its databank, immediately available for his use or pleasure. That included minds for him to summon up when he desired to converse.

  Living bodies, besides his own, he forewent. This was a trial run, the ship well-nigh minimal. He expected his tour of the Solar System would take a year or two, maybe three if he got really fascinated. That was hardly a blink of time.

  Nevertheless, already impatience quivered in him.

  2

  From the height where it nestled, the shop overlooked the Great Valley of the Appalachians. Forest covered the land below, multitudinously green, a-ripple with wind. Slender spearshafts rose from among the trees, hundreds of meters tall, hundreds in number, each bearing a crown. Far down and across, made hazy by remoteness, the woods gave way to an immensity of lawns. There towers and lower buildings stood widely spaced. Iridescence played over their fantastical shapes.

  Tu Shan knew the elven country for an illusion. He had seen the various, always precise forms of those trees close up. They lived not to leaf, flower, and fruit, but to grow materials that no natural plant ever made. The park held— not factories—a technocomplex where another kind of growth went on, atom by atom under the control of giant molecules, tended by machines and overseen by computer, wombs of engines and vessels and other things once made by hands wielding tools. The shafts were rectennas, receiving solar energy beamed as microwaves from collector stations on the moon. He spied it overhead, a wan crescent nearly lost in the blue, and remembered that “overhead” was also an illusion.

  Once men sought enlightenment, escape from the mirage that is the world. Today they held that the phantasm was all there was.

  Tu Shan trudged down the knob of rock where the aircab had found a spot to let him out. The shop was a pleasant sight before him, a house in antique style, timber walls and shake roof. Several pines reared behind it. The wind brought their sun-warmed fragrance to him.

  He knew it wasn’t actually a shop. Bardon usually prepared his electronic displays here because this was where he lived more than anywhere else. However, Express Service took them to his customers, who were scattered across the globe.

  He had seen the cab descend and waited on his porch. “Well, howdy,” he called. “Haven’t heard from you in quite a spell.” After a pause, “Goldurn, five years, I bet. Maybe more. Time sure flies, don’t it?”

  Tu Shan kept still until he reached the other man. He wanted to study him. Bardon had changed. He remained tall and lanky, but he had discarded shirt and trousers hi favor of a fashionable scintillant gown; his hair was dressed into ram’s-horn curves; when he smiled, his mouth glittered. Yes, he too had decided it was unattractive to regrow outworn teeth every century or so, and gotten the celis in his jaws modified to produce diamond.

  His handshake was the same as before. “What’ve you been up to, friend?” A trace of mountaineer drawl lingered. Perhaps he cultivated it. The past kept some small glamour.

  Not respect. How could anyone revere old age when everyone was perpetually young?

  “I tried farming,” Tu Shan said.

  “What? ... Hey, come in, come in, and we’ll have a drink. Man, it is good to see you again.”

  Tu Shan noticed how Bardon avoided noticing the box he carried.

  Most furniture he recognized, but otherwise the interior of the house had become rather stark. It held no trace of wares, nor of a woman. That made for a sense of emptiness, when Anse and June Bardon had been together for as long as he had known them, but Tu Shan felt shy of inquiring.

  He took a chair. His host splashed whiskey into glasses— .that, at least, was a constant—and settled down facing him.

  “You farmed, you say?” Bardon asked. “What do you mean?”

  “I sought... independence.” Tu Shan groped for words. He despised self-pity. “This modern world, I am not at home here. I spent all the basic share I had, together with my savings, and pledged the rest, to buy some hectares in Yunnan that nobody else wanted very much. And animals, and—”

  Bardon stared. “You went clear back to subsistence farmin’?”

  Tu Shan smiled lopsidedly. “Not quite. I knew that was impossible. I meant to trade what I did not eat for things I Deeded and could not make myself. I thought home-grown produce would have a novelty value. But no. It became a hard and bitter existence. And the world crowded in anyhow. At last they wanted my land for a recreation lodge. I did not ask what kind. I was glad, then, to sell for a tiny profit.”

  Bardon shook his head. “You were lucky. You should have talked with me first. I would’ve warned you. If your food fad caught on, nanotech jvould duplicate it exactly and undersell you. But chances were, it couldn’t succeed in the first place. The computers dream up novelties of every kind raster than people can consume them, or even hear about them.”

  “Well, I spent most of my life in a simpler world than yours,” Tu Shan sighed. “I made my mistake, I have learned my lesson. Now I have made more things for you.” He gestured at the box, which rested on his lap. “An elephant, a lotus pattern, and the Eight Immortals, carved in ivory.” Tank-grown ivory, but formed by hand, using traditional tools.

  Bardon winced, tossed off a mouthful of whiskey, braced himself. “I’m sorry. You should have stayed in touch. I dosed down that business three years ago.”

  Tu Shan sat mute.

  “I don’t think anybody else is handUn’ stuff like this any more, either,” Bardon slogged ahead. “The value is gone. Uh, it’s not because they can grow perfect copies. Of course they can. The certification that it’s an original in a historic style, that made the difference. Till people stopped carin’.”

  He hurried on into the silence: “They aren’t oafs. We haven’t turned into a race of featherheads, whatever you may be thinkin’. It’s just that, well, after you’ve got a few such items, do you want to spend the rest of eternity ac-quirin’ more? Especially when the computers keep gener-atin’ whole new concepts of art.”

  “I see,” Tu Shan said. The words fell dull. “We, the Survivors, we have told and done everything that we had in us. ... Well, what do you do these days, Anse?”

  “Different things,” Bardon answered, relieved. “Like you and your friends should.”

  “What are yours?”

  “M-m, well, I’m lookin’ around. Haven’t found any promisin’ line of work yet, but—oh, we’ve got our lives to develop, don’t we? Me, I think I might go into Pioneer Land for a while.” Bardon brightened. “You should try somethin’ like that. An Asian networkin’, maybe. You’d have a lot to contribute, with your background.”

  Tu Shan shook his head. “Thank you, no.”

  “Really, you don’t just lie around in an electronic dream. You give input to the network, to everybody else linked with you. You come out with memories the same as though you’d lived it in the flesh.”

  Illusion twice over, Tu Shan thought.

  “Are you scared you won’t be earnin’ anything meanwhile?” persisted Bardon. “Don’t worry. You told me you recovered your losses on the farm. Basic share will be plenty for you while you’re in retreat. Why, you should come out refreshed, full of ideas for new enterprises.”

  “You may,” Tu Shan mumbled
. “I would not.” He stared down at his hands where they lay on the box, his big useless hands.

  3

  Fiera, who had been Raphael, formed a slow smile. “Oh, yes,” she purred. “I do enjoy being a woman.”

  “Will you always be?” asked Aliyat; and inwardly: Did he always want this, down underneath? Even when we were making love?

  Half a cry: You were such a fine lover, Ray! Strong, sweet, knowing. Did you understand how it hurt when you told me you were going to get yourself remade?

  The beautiful head shook. Tresses, naturally violet, rippled over shoulders. “I think not. Long enough to explore it, however long that may be. Afterward—we’ll see. By then they expect to have nonhuman modifications perfected.” Fiera stroked fingers down her flanks. “Half otter, or dolphin, or snake— But that’s for later, much later. I imagine first I’ll be some kind of man again.”

  “Some kind!” escaped Aliyat.

  Fiera raised her brows. “You are dismayed, are you not? Poor dear, is that why I’ve had no word or sign of you in all this time?”

  “No, I, well—“ Aliyat looked away from the image that seemed wholly solid. “I was—“ She forced herself to meet the golden gaze. “I thought you didn’t care about me any more.”

  “But I told you I did. Believe me, I was sincere. I still care. Why else would I finally have taken the initiative?” Hands reached out. “Aliyat, darling, come to me. Or let me come to you.”

  “For what, ... now?”

  Fiera stiffened the least bit. Some warmth dropped from her tone. “We’ll find out, won’t we? Don’t tell me you’re shocked. Or was I wrong? I thought you were by far the most open-minded of the Survivors.”

  Aliyat swallowed. “It isn’t that. I’m not inhibited. It’s only— No, it isn’t ‘only.’ You’ve changed everything. Nothing could be what it was.”

  “Certainly not. That’s the whole idea.” Fiera laughed. “Suppose you turn male. We should find that interesting. Not unique, but special. Piquant.”

  “No!”

  Fiera sat a minute silent. When she spoke, she had gone earnest. “You’re like the rest of your kind after all. Or perhaps worse. I gather most of them make some effort to cope. You, though, you ... accept. Suddenly I realize that’s what fooled me. You never railed against the world. You agreed it was bound to evolve onward. But under that surface, you’ve stayed what you were, a primitive, a leftover from the age of mortality.”

  Aliyat’s defiance guttered out. She slumped. The sen-suousness of the seat reshaping itself as she did was lost on her. “No doubt you’re right.”

  Fiera smiled anew, this time sweetly. “You aren’t condemned to that, you know. The whole organism is pliable, including the brain. You can have your psyche altered.”

  “Long-drawn. Expensive. Actually, I couldn’t afford a simple sex change.” Simple! flickered through Aliyat. I remember when they faked it with surgery and hormone shots. Today they cause organs, glands, muscles, bones, everything to grow into something else. If I became a genuine man, what would I think like?

  “Haven’t you understood modem economics yet? All goods and most services—all services a machine can give— are as abundant as the air we breathe. Or could be, if there were any reason. Share is simply the easiest means of, oh, keeping track, coordinating what people do. And, yes, allocating resources that are limited; land, for instance. If you genuinely need liberation from your misery, arrangements can be made. I’ll, help you make them.” Again the image extended its arms. “Dearest, let me.”

  Aliyat straightened. The tears that she swallowed burned in her throat. “’Dearest,’ you say. What do you mean by that?”

  Taken aback, Fiera hesitated before replying slowly, “I’m fond of you. I want your company available to me, I want your welfare.”

  Aliyat nodded. “What love amounts to these days. Affection because of enjoyment.”

  Flora bit her lip. “There you are, mired in the past. When the family was the unit for breeding, production, defense, and its members must needs find ways not to feel trapped. You can’t imagine the modern range of emotions; you refuse to try.” She shrugged. “Odd, considering the life you led then. But I suppose you nursed an unconscious longjng for security—what passed for security in those nightmare societies.”

  Aliyat recalled explaining to Raphael what a nightmare was.

  “How selfish were your feelings about me?” Fiera demanded.

  Anger cracked a whip. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Aliyat said. “I’ll admit I was infatuated, but I knew that’d end. I did hope it would turn into something that would last, not exclusive, no, but something real. All right, I’ve learned better.”

  “I had that hope too!” Fiera cried.

  She sank back into her own seat. Once more she fell silent, thoughtful. Aliyat’s gaze went off in search of refuge. She occupied a single room on the fourth sublevel of the Fountains; technology would never synthesize space. It sel—dom felt cramped, when the walls formed facilities on command and otherwise provided any scenes she wanted. Earlier today, rather than a contemporary view, she had raised medieval Constantinople. Maybe that was due a nostalgia she knew was unjustified, maybe it was an attempt at getting back sett-esteem; she’d been a principal consultant to the developers of the simulacrum. Hagia Sophia soared above swarming, jostling humanity. Odors o{ smoke, sweat, dung, roasting food, tar, sea livened the air; it moved, a salt breeze off the Horn. When Fiera’s visicall came, Aliyat had stopped the sound but kept the vision. She could virtually hear wheels, hoofs, feet, raucous voices, snatches of plangent music. Those ghosts were as alive as the ghost that confronted her.

  Finally Fiera said, “I believe I “know what drew you to me— what held you, after the first casual attraction. I was interested in you. I didn’t take you for granted. You eight were a sensation once you came into the open, but by now most people were born later than that. You’re simply here, getting along on share or on what occasional special jobs somebody happens to want done. Fewer and fewer of those, aren’t there? But I—to me you were a bit intriguing. I’m not sure why.”

  Aliyat thought she heard her suppress whatever pain she had permitted before she went on: “I’ll be honest. I used you up. I found nothing further to discover. But then, I’d used myself up. I had to change. It was my escape from boredom and futility. Now we can find freshness in each other again, if you wish. Only for a while, though, a short while, until I’ve become used to perceiving you with a female mind and senses. Unless you change too. How, I can’t tell you. At best, I can offer a suggestion or two. The choice must be yours.

  “If you refuse, if you stay in your narrow existence with your fossil soul, you’ll be more and more isolated, you’ll find less and less meaning in anything, and at last you’ll choose death because it is not that lonely.”

  Aliyat drew the ancient air into her lungs. “I kept going this long,” she said. “I’m not about to give up.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I expected it of you. But think, my dear, think. Meanwhile, best I go.”

  “Yes,” Aliyat said. The image vanished.

  After some minutes Aliyat rose. She stalked the floor. It yielded slightly, deliciously to her feet. Byzantium surged around her. “Blank that scene,” she snapped. Pastel blue succeeded it. “Delivery Service.” A panel came into existence, ready to open an orifice.

  What do I want? A happy pill? Chemistry tailored to me, harmless, instant cheerfulness, head quite clear, probably more clear than it is at this moment. In the bad old days we got drunk or smoked dope, abused our bodies and our brains. Now science has mapped how feelings work, and everybody is sane every hour of the twenty-four.

  Everybody who decides to be.

  Hanno, Wanderer, Shan, Patulcius, where are you? Or— never mind sex, that’s an old-fashioned consolation, isn’t it?—Corinne, Asagao, Svoboda—whatever you’re calling yourselves, a name’s become as changeable as a garment— where are you? Which of you can come
to me, or I to you? We had our fellowship after we got together, we were the only immortals and the middle of each other’s universe whUe time blew by outside like the wind, but since we came forth we’ve drifted apart, we meet by accident and seldom, we say hello and try to talk and feel relieved when it ends. Where are my brothers, my sisters, my loves?

  4

  While he flew, communications verified that Wanderer was the person he claimed to be and had a permit to visit the control reserve. His car landed as directed, in a parking lot outside town, and he emerged suitcase in hand. Many everyday things, such as clothes, were not spot-produced here. He had reached—not exactly a hermit community, not a settlement of eccentrics trying to re-create a past that never was—but a society that went its own way and held much of the world at arm’s length.

  The lot was near the water’s edge. Weather Service maintained the original Pacific Northwest climate as closely as was feasible. Clouds hung heavy. Mist swirled on the bay, making vague the rocks that towered from the waves, mysterious, like a Chinese painting. The conifer forest stood mighty behind the village, its darkness hardly relieved by splashes of bracken. Yet this was all alive, in silver-gray, white, black, greens deep or bright and asparkle with remnant raindrops. Surf boomed and whispered. Seals barked hoarsely, gulls hovered and dipped and mewed. Breath went cool, moist, tangy through nostrils to blood.

  A man waited. Clad in plain shirt and work pants, he was stocky and brown-skinned. Not many whites among his ancestors, Wanderer decided. What had they been, then? Makah, Quinault? No difference. Tribes were hardly even names any more.

  “Hello, Mr. Wanderer.” There was an anachronism for you. The man extended his hand. Wanderer took it, felt calluses and sturdiness. “Welcome. I’m Charlie Davison.” ‘ Wanderer had practiced old-time American English before he left Jalisco. “Glad to meet you. I didn’t expect this. Figured I’d get acquainted on my own.”