Imperial Earth

by Clarke, Arthur C.

  Trees, for example. There were millions of them — but he had expected that. What he had not anticipated was the enormous variety of their shape, size and color. And he had no words for any of them. Indeed, as he realized with shame, he could not have identified the few trees in his own Meridian Park. Here was a whole complex universe, part of everyday life for most of mankind since the beginning of history; and he could not utter one meaningful sentence about it, for lack of a vocabulary. When he searched his mind, he could think of only four words that had anything to do with trees — ‘leaf,’ ‘branch,’ ‘root,’ and ‘stem.’ And all these he had learned in a totally different context.

  Then there were flowers. At first, Duncan had been puzzled by the random patches of color that he glimpsed from time to time. Flowers were not uncommon on Titan — usually as highly prized, isolated specimens, though there were some small groups of a few dozen in the Park. Here they were as countless as the trees, and even more varied. And once again, he had no names for any of them. This world was full of beauties of which he could not speak. Living on Earth was going to have some unanticipated frustrations...

  "What was that? " he suddenly cried. Washington swung around in his seat to get a fix on the tiny object that had just shot across the roadway.

  "A squirrel, I think. Lots of them in these woods — and of course they're always getting run over. That's one problem no one has ever been able to solve." He paused, then added gently: "I suppose you've never seen them before?"

  Duncan laughed, without much humor.

  "I've never seen any animal — except Man."

  "You don't even have a zoo on Titan?"

  "No, We've been arguing about it for years, but the problems are too great. And, to be perfectly frank, I think most people are scared of something going wrong — remember the plague of rats in that Lunar colony. What we're really frightened of, though, are insects. If anyone ever discovered that a fly had slipped through quarantine, there'd be a world-wide hysteria. We've got a nice, sterile environment, and we want to keep it that way."

  "Hm," said Washington. "You're not going to find it easy to adjust to our dirty, infested world. Yet a lot of people here have been complaining for the last century or so that it's too clean and tidy. They're talking nonsense, of course; there's more wilderness now that there has been for a thousand years."

  The car had come to the crest of a low hill, and for the first time Duncan had an extensive view of the surrounding countryside. He could see for at least twenty kilometers, and the effect of all this open space was overwhelming. It was true that he had gazed at much larger — and far more dramatic — vistas on Titan; but the landscapes of his own world were implacably lethal, and when he traveled on its open surface he had to be insulated from the hostile environment by all the resources of modern technology. It was almost impossible to believe that there was nowhere here, from horizon to horizon, where he could not stand unprotected in the open, breathing freely in an atmosphere which would not instantly shrivel his lungs. The knowledge did not give him a sense of freedom, but rather of vertigo.

  It was even worse when he looked up at the sky, so utterly different from the low, crimson overcast of Titan. He had flown halfway across the Solar System, yet never had he received such an impression of space and distance as he did now, when he stared at the solid-looking white clouds, sailing through a blue abyss that seemed to go on forever. It was useless to tell himself that they were only ten kilometers away — the distance a spaceship could travel in a fraction of a second. Not even the starfields of the Milky Way had yielded such glimpses of infinity.

  For the very first time, as he looked at the fields and forests spread out around him under the open sky, Duncan realized the immensity of Planet Earth by the only measure that counted — the scale of the individual human being. And now he understood that cryptic remark Robert Kleinman had made before he left for Saturn: ‘Space is small; only the planets are big.’

  "If you were here three hundred years ago," said his host, with considerable satisfaction, "about eighty percent of this would have been houses and highways. Now the figure's down to ten percent — and this is one of the most heavily built-up areas on the continent. It's take a long time, but we've finally cleaned up the mess the twentieth century left. Most of it, anyway. We've kept some as a reminder. There a couple of steel towns still intact in Pennsylvania; visiting them is an essential experience you won't forget, but won't want to repeat."

  "You said this was a ten percent built-up area. I find it hard to believe even that. Where is everyone?" Duncan queried.

  "There are many more people around than you imagine. I'd hate to think of the activity that's going on within two hundred meters of us, at this very moment. But because this parkway is so well landscaped, you probably haven't noticed the surface exits and feeder roads."

  "Of course — I still have the old-fashioned picture of Terrans as surface dwellers."

  "Oh, we are, essentially. I don't think we'll ever develop the — ah — ‘corridor culture’ you have on the Moon and planets."

  Professor Washington had used that term anthropological cliché with some caution. Obviously he was not quite sure if Duncan approved of it. Nor, for that matter, was Duncan himself; but he had to admit that despite all the debates that had raged about it, the phrase was a accurate description of Titan's social life.

  "One of the chief problems of entertaining off-worlders like yourself," said Washington somewhat ruefully, "is that I find myself explaining at great length things that they know perfectly well, but are too polite to admit. A couple of years ago I took a statistician from Tranquility along this road, and gave him a brilliant lecture on the population changes here in the Washington-Virginia region over the last three hundred years. I thought he'd he interested, and he was. If I'd done my homework properly — which I usually do, but for some reason had neglected in this case — I'd have found that he'd written the standard work on the subject. After he'd left, he sent me a copy, with a very nice inscription."

  Duncan wondered how much ‘homework’ George had done on him; doubtless a good deal.

  "You can assume my total ignorance in these matters. Still, I should have realized that fusor technology would be almost as important on Earth as off it."

  "It's not my field, but you're probably right. When it was cheaper and simpler to melt a home underground than to build it above — and to fit it with viewscreens that were better than any conceivable window — it’s not surprising that the surface lost many of its attractions. Not all, though." He gestured toward the left-hand side of the parkway.

  They were approaching a small access road, which merged gently into the main traffic lane. It led into a wood about a kilometer away, and through the trees Duncan could glimpse at least a dozen houses. They were all of different design, yet had common features so that they formed a harmonious group. Every one had steeply gabled roofs, large windows, gray stone walls — and even chimneys. These were certainly not functional, but many of them served to support complicated structures of metal rods.

  "Fake antique," said Washington with some disapproval. "Mid-twentieth-century TV antennas. Oh well, there's no accounting for tastes."

  The road was plunging downhill now, and was about to pass under a graceful bridge carrying a road much wider than the parkway. It was also carrying considerably more traffic, moving at a leisurely twenty or thirty kilometers an hour.

  "Enjoying the good weather," said Washington. "You only see a few madmen there in the winter. Any you may not believe this, but there was a time when the motorways were the wide roads. They had to be when there was a hundred times as much traffic — and no automatic steering." He shuddered at the thought. "More people were killed on these roads than ever died in warfare — did you know that? And of course they still get killed, up there on the bikeways. No one's ever discovered a way to stop cyclists from wobbling; that's another reason why the road's so wide."

  As they dived under the bridge, a colorful group of young
riders waved down at them, and Washington replied with a cheerful salute.

  "When I was thirty years younger," he said wistfully, "a gang of us set off for California on the Transcontinental Bikeway. No electrocycles allowed, either. Well, we were unlucky — ran into terrible weather in Kansas. Some of us made it, but I wasn't one of them. I've still got a twelve-speed Diamond Special — all carbon fiber and beryllium; you can lift it with one finger. Even now, I could do a hundred klicks on it, if I were fool enough to try."

  The big car was slowing down, its computer brain sensing an exit ahead. Presently it peeled off from the parkway, then speeded up again along a narrow road whose surface rapidly disintegrated into a barely visible grass-covered track. Washington took the steering lever just a second before the END AUTO warning light started to flash on the control panel.

  "I'm taking you to the farm for several reasons," he said. "Life will soon get hectic for both of us, as more visitors start arriving. This may be the last opportunity we have to go through your program in peace and quiet. Also, out-worlders can learn a lot about Earth very quickly in a place like this. But to be honest — the truth is that I'm proud of the place, and like showing it off."

  They were now approaching a high stone wall, running for hundreds of meters in both directions. Duncan tried to calculate how much labor it represented, if all those oddly shaped blocks were assembled by hand — as surely they must have been. The figure was so incredible that he couldn't believe it.

  And that huge gate was made of — genuine wood, for it was unpainted and he could see the grain. As it swung automatically open, Duncan read the nameplate, and turned to the Professor in surprise.

  "But I thought—" he began.

  George Washington looked slightly embarrassed.

  "That's my private joke," he admitted. "The real Mount Vernon is fifty kilometers southeast of here. You mustn't miss it."

  That last phrase, Duncan guessed, was going to become all too familiar in the months ahead — right up to the day when he reembarked for Titan.

  Inside the walls, the road — now firm-packed gravel — ran in a straight line through a checkerboard of small fields. Some of the fields were plowed, and there was a tractor working in one of them — under direct human control, for a man was sitting on the open driving seat. Duncan felt that he had indeed traveled back in time.

  "I suppose there's no need to explain," said the Professor, "that all this doesn't belong to me. It's owned by the Smithsonian. Some people complain that everything within a hundred kilometers of the Capitol is owned by the Smithsonian, but that's a slight exaggeration. I'm just the administrator; you might say it's a kind of full-time hobby. Every year I have to submit a report, and as long as I do my job, and don’t have a fight with the Regents, this is my home. Needless to say, I am careful to keep on excellent terms with at least fifty-one percent of the Regents. By the way, do you recognize any of these crops?"

  "I'm afraid not — though that's grass, isn't it?"

  "Well, technically, almost everything here is. Grass includes all the cereals — barley, rice, maize, wheat, oats... We grow them all except rice."

  "But why — I mean, except for scientific and archaeological interest?"

  "Isn't that sufficient? But I think you'll find there's more to it than that, when you've had a look around."

  At the risk of being impolite, Duncan persisted. He was not trying to be stubborn, but was genuinely interested.

  "What about efficiency? Doesn't it take a square kilometer to feed one man, with this system?"

  "Out around Saturn, perhaps; I'm afraid you've dropped a few zeros. If it had to, this little farm could support fifty people in fair comfort, though their diet would be rather monotonous."

  "I'd no idea — my God, what's that? "

  "You're joking — you don't recognize it?"

  "Oh, I know it's a horse. But it's enormous. I thought..."

  "Well, I can't blame you, though wait until you see an elephant. Charlemagne is probably the largest horse alive today. He's a Percheron, and weights a little over a ton. His ancestors used to carry knights in full armor. Like to meet him?"

  Duncan wanted to say, "Not really," but it was too late. Washington brought the car to a halt, and the gigantic creature ambled toward them.

  Until this moment, the limousine had been closed and they had been traveling in air-conditioned comfort. Now the windows slid down — and Primeval Earth hit Duncan full in the nostrils.

  "What's the matter?" asked Washington anxiously. "Are you all right?"

  Duncan gulped, and took a curious sniff.

  "I think so," he said, without much conviction. "It's just that — the air is rather —" He struggled for words as well as breath, and had almost selected ‘ripe’ when he gratefully switched to ‘rich’ in the nick of time.

  "I'm so sorry," apologized Washington, genuinely contrite. "I'd quite forgotten how strange this must be to you. Let me close the window. Go away, Charlie — sorry, some other time."

  The monster now completely dwarfed the car, and a huge head, half as big as a man, was trying to insert itself through the partially open window on Duncan's side. The air became even thicker, and redolent of more animal secretions than he cared to identify. Two huge, slobbering lips drew back, to disclose a perfectly terrifying set of teeth...

  "Oh, very well," said Professor Washington in a resigned voice. He leaned across his cowering guest, holding out an open palm on which two lumps of sugar had magically appeared. Gently as any maiden's kiss, the lips nuzzled Washington's hand, and the gift vanished as if inhaled. A mild, gentle eye, which from this distance seemed about as large as a fist, looked straight at Duncan, who started to laugh a little hysterically as the apparition withdrew.

  "What's so funny," asked Washington.

  "Look at it from my point of view. I've just met my first Monster from Outer Space. Thank God it was friendly."

  20

  The Taste of Honey

  "I do hope you slept well," said George Washington, as they walked out into the bright summer morning.

  "Quite well, thank you," Duncan answered, stifling a yawn. He only wished that statement were true.

  It had been almost as bad as his first night aboard Sirius. Then, the noises had all been mechanical. This time, they were made by — things.

  Leaving the window open had been a big mistake, but who could have guessed? "We don't need air conditioning this time of year," George had explained. "Which is just as well, because we haven't got it. The Regents weren't too happen even about electric light in at four-hundred-year-old house. If you do get too cold, there are some extra blankets. Primitive, but effective."

  Duncan did not get too cold; the night was pleasantly mild. It was also extremely busy.

  There had been distant thumpings which, he eventually decided, must have been Charlie moving his thousand kilos of muscle around the fields. There had been strange squeakings and rustlings apparently just outside his window, and one high-pitched squeal, suddenly terminated, which could only have been caused by some unfortunate small beast meeting an untimely end.

  But at last he dozed off — only to be wakened, quite suddenly, by the most horrible of all sensations that can be experienced by a man in the utter darkness of an unfamiliar bedchamber. Something was moving around the room.

  It was moving almost silently, yet with amazing speed. There was a kind of whispering rush and, occasionally, a ghostly squeaking so high-pitched that at first Duncan wondered if he was imagining the entire phenomenon. After some minutes he decided, reluctantly, that it was real enough. Whatever the thing might be, it was obviously airborne. But what could possibly move at such speed, in total darkness, without colliding with the fittings and furniture of the bedroom?

  While he considered this problem, Duncan did what any sensible man would do. He burrowed under the bedclothes, and presently, to his vast relief, the whispering phantom, with a few more shrill gibberings, swooped out into the night. When his nerves had f
ully recovered, Duncan hopped out of bed and closed the window; but it seemed hours before his nervous system settled down again.

  In the bright light of morning, his fears seemed as foolish as they doubtless were, and he decided not to ask George any questions about his nocturnal visitor; presumably it was some night bird or large insect. Everyone knew that there were no dangerous animals left on Earth, except in well-guarded reservations...

  Yet the creatures that George now seemed bent on introducing to him looked distinctly menacing. Unlike Charlemagne, they had built-in weapons.

  "I suppose," said George, only half doubtfully, "that you recognize these?"

  "Of course — I do know some Terran zoology. If it has a leg at each corner, and horns, it's not a horse, but a cow."

  "I'll only give you half marks. Not all cows have horns. And for that matter, there used to be horned horses. But they became extinct when there were no more virgins to bridle them."

  Duncan was still trying to decide if this was a joke, and if so what was the point of it, when he had a slight mishap.

  "Sorry!" exclaimed George, "I should have warned you to mind your step. Just rub it off on that tuft of grass."

  "Well, at least it doesn't smell quite as bad as it looks," said Duncan resignedly, determined to make the best of a bad job.

  "That's because cows are herbivores. Though they're not very bright, they're sweet, clean animals. No wonder they used to worship them in India. Hello, Daisy — morning, Ruby — now, Clemence, that was naughty—"

  It seems to Duncan that these bovine endearments were rather one-sided, for their recipients gave no detectable reaction. Then his attention was suddenly diverted; something quite incredible was flying toward them.