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Livingston, Rupert, and Jeffery Grossington sweated it out in the waiting room, in the long tradition of, if not expectant fathers, at least expectant uncles.
Liv and Rupert were up and pacing, but Jeffery seemed not only calm, but actually at ease, and happy. It was more than Livingston could put up with. “Jeffery, why in God’s name aren’t you climbing the walls?” he demanded. “Don’t you know what’s going on in there?”
Dr. Grossington smiled. “I know. I’ve been thinking, that’s all. Maybe we are a lot closer to being beasts or animals than we thought—but we really haven’t done so badly, in spite of that.
“If we are close to the australopithecines, then they are close to us—and look how much the tiny differences have meant. Our kind, our precise species and subspecies, has only been around for about 35,000 years. Perhaps eighteen hundred generations in all. That’s not much time. All the other hominid species had longer than that. Hundreds of thousands, or millions of years. The australopithecines have been on earth for over four million years. None of them even made a start on what we’ve done.
“In all their millions of years, none of them tracked the stars, smelted metal, grew crops in a field, built a city, wrote a history or a song or a poem. None of them invented the wheel, or discovered fire, or created culture. None of them wondered so hard where they came from that they searched the world for their honored ancestors, buried beneath the millennia.
“We did search, and we found a poor relation, an orphan of creation, still with us, to remind us of how much we have done, and with how little.
“It was that difference in us that made us go out and look, to find out how much the same we are. If we find it humbling to be Thursday’s relations, think how humbling it must be for her to be ours. Her kind can claim no more than slavery in the jungle. We have the world, and the stars beckon.
“After all, we’re orphans too. God and Nature left us here to fend for ourselves, without any of the divine intervention we thought we had, and thought we needed. We’ve done all right on our own. Well enough that we can accept our poor relations, even if we don’t know quite where to put them yet.”
Rupert was about to answer when he heard a noise behind him.
It was the door opening. Barbara stepped into the room, and pulled down her surgical mask. “It’s a girl,” she said. “And she’s all right.”
Postscript
She was a very ugly baby. Her skin was not dark enough, and there was not enough fur on her limbs or body. Her nose was not flat enough, her chin was too pointed, and her lips were too wide, with no real muzzle to speak of. She didn’t have a single tooth grown in at birth, and her whole head too big and round.
But she was Thursday’s, and even as she was cataloging her faults, Thursday forgot them, and looked again—at the prettiest baby she had ever seen.
Barbara sat down beside the bed, smiling. “Hold her?” she signed.
“Yes,” Thursday signed, a bit awkwardly with the hand that wasn’t holding the baby. Her stomach hurt a little, from where the doctor had cut her to take the baby out. But that didn’t matter.
“What name for her?” Barbara asked. “You must give baby name.” She took the strangely and wonderfully made babe in her arms and cuddled it.
Thursday thought for a long moment. “Can I give two names?”
“Yes, as many names as you like.”
“Barbara-Thursday. Name Barbara-Thursday. Because she like both us.”
“Yes, yes, she is,” Barbara agreed. “Thank you for name.”
“Grossington—he ask me long-time-back, when just learn good hand talk—he ask what is person, and I not know.” Thursday reached for her daughter, and Barbara carefully handed her back. “Now I know. Will you tell him answer?”
“Yes, I will tell him. What is person, Thursday?”
Thursday stroked the tiny baby’s furry head, her gnarled, hairy, callused, chip-nailed hands infinitely gentle. She pointed to the baby, and looked up at Barbara. “Tell him, this is.”
THE END
Author’s Note
Updated and revised for the FoxAcre Press edition.
There is perhaps no other major science wherein so little is known for certain, or wherein so much thought and study is based on so little evidence, as in paleoanthropology.
In it, we seek to read our history in anonymous scraps of bone, and the wonder is not only that we succeed at all, but that we succeed so well. It has been said that all the bones of our ancestors from a million years on back could fit onto one or two trestle tables. This paucity of evidence is hidden by the mold-maker's skill, affording the illusion that there are enough Lucys or Zinjs or Mrs. Ples’s for every museum to have one. In reality, few curators would dare display an original hominid skull even if they possessed one—and most don't. The “skulls” on display are all but invariably accompanied by a small placard which states, in very fine print, that the skull are reproductions.
The fragility and irreplaceability of our ancestors’ remains make public display far too risky. The accidental jostling of a display case could reduce a cherished old fossil to powder.
The average australopithecine skull is therefore likely to be in an custom-made storage case, with every scrap of bone nestled in its own separate, hand-shaped niche, carved into the chemically neutral foam rubber, the whole case lovingingly packed away in an environmentally controlled, underground, bombproof vault inside the borders of its nation of origin. Few are ever exposed to the common view of the vulgar public. The Smithsonian Institution dares to display the real Hope Diamond—but not any real pre-human hominid skulls.
Except for the exciting and sometimes unnerving results of molecular anthropologists, these fragile, pampered bones are the only physical, tangible evidence we have of our own remote past. The molecular anthropologists and primate researchers have made great contributions, but nearly all of our scanty knowledge of our distant ancestors is based on these few bones. Small wonder that the unknowns are endlessly greater than the certainties.
No rational person, examining the evidence, could doubt the essential fact of human evolution—but no sane person could claim that we have the full story. I have done all I could to conform my story to the known facts, and I believe in large part I have done so. Furthermore, there are, unquestionably, undiscovered species, not only in the inaccessible reaches of Earth’s dense equatorial rain forests, but in every environment of the planet. To the best of my knowledge, there is nothing in taxonomy or the consensus view of humanity’s beginning that would make this tale impossible.
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But, speaking of the impossible, a word about creationism. A few friends have expressed disbelief that creationism and its fraudulent offspring “creation science” are actually forces to be reckoned with. Rest assured that they are. Scratch the surface of any number of otherwise sensible folk, and you will find frightened, threatened people unable to cope with the idea that humankind was not always as it is.
These good people will throw up misquotations from prominent scientists, toss out flatly wrong misstatements, dredge up old and wholly discredited hoaxes and doctored “facts” and evidence, deny the voluminous evidence of paleontology (for many animal types are far better represented in the fossil record than the hominids are), misinterpret evidence to suit themselves—and, at times, out-and-out lie—rather than admit that a beautiful, ancient, poetic, poorly translated, self-contradicting creation myth is not the exact truth and literal word of God. Most of these people are not lying, but genuinely believe what they are saying. On the other hand, someone had to have doctored the quotes and faked the phony evidence they cite. For starters, someone deliberately carved footprints alongside fossil dinosaur footprints to “prove” the two species lived side by side.
There is a large body of creationist “thought” (I use the word advisedly) which at least acknowledges the existence of a complex and self-consistent fossil record in all the strata of Earth�
��s sedimentary rock. Unfortunately, this “theory” (using that term advisedly) actually suggests that God deliberated placed those fraudulent fossils there, as bogus evidence of a nonexistent past (after all, the world was created in 4,004 B.C.). God, it seems, is testing us, seeing if he can trip up our faith in His revealed word by salting the mine, placing forged fossils in the Earth, and generally giving the place that lived-in look, making the 6,000 year-old planet appear to be billions of years old. These good people suggest God is testing our faith—by lying to us. If so, I for one must at least applaud His thoroughness. After all, He not only created fake plant and animal fossils; He also threw together seemingly eroded mountain ranges, bogus extinct volcanoes, huge simulated erosional canyons, and even ersatz coprolites—fossil feces. It was a messy job, I suppose, but it had to be done right if it was going to be done at all.
It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Sheltering behind these and other patently absurd claims, put forward with all earnestness and seriousness by the creationists, is a desperate determination to deny our links to and our oneness with the rest of nature’s wonders, an urgent need to keep from admitting the terrible truth—that humankind is today better than it once was.
But what is so terrible about knowing we are an improved model, that in our brief tenure on this Earth we have accomplished things never before done in four and half billion years? Why is that a source of shame rather than pride? I wish I knew.
But the silly theories, patently phony evidence and trivial misquotations are mere pop-guns, creationism’s lesser defenses. When they need heavy artillery, they wheel up the deadliest weapon of all: ignorance.
All the battles for sanitized biology texts that don’t explain biology, all the suits claiming religious persecution over books that say children should respect other religions, all the flapdoodle rulings that not being religious is a religion and therefore all public schoolbooks that don’t support religion are efforts to establish a State religion (I’m not making any of this up)—all of these are battles for the right to be ignorant.
Misguided parents, teachers, and principals, aided and abetted by lawyers and judges who should know better and probably do, are trying to stamp out ideas. They seem to be afraid that children will pick up strange, foreign ideas that do not coincide with the orthodoxy presented at home. One of those ideas might get lodged in the kid’s head. Next thing you know, she’ll be having ideas herself, God forbid. Then, inevitably, she’ll throw off a lifetime of ethical training and moral guidance to go act like a Godless heathen who smokes rock and roll and plays drugs with the volume up really loud, or something. After all, decent people don’t ever do their own thinking—they just do what they’re told.
What is so threatening about allowing more than one idea into the world? Why must we all think the same way? Why is anything short of a state-imposed orthodoxy considered religious discrimination? If these parents are so concerned, why aren’t they spending an hour a night with the kid in Bible study? Wouldn’t that be some bulwark against outside ideas?
To me, it all suggests the faithful are showing a distressing lack of faith. Is the revealed word of God so weak and fragile a thing that it can’t survive contact with mere human ideas? Can the lifelong care and guidance of a devoted parent who teaches a child decency, kindness, courage, and tolerance be overthrown by mere facts and figures in a book? Is religion so delicate a flower that learning can destroy it? I don’t think so. The people who are so afraid of knowledge seem to have formed an opposite opinion. They’re wrong.
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I should like to thank the people whose collective patience was above and beyond the call of duty during the writing of this book—starting with the original editor, and now long-time friend, Betsy Mitchell. She continued to have faith in me and in this book when there was no objective evidence (or manuscript) upon which to base that faith.
I would also like to thank my mother for egging me on; and my father for vastly improving this book with his editorial skills, and for insisting that I not chicken out on the ending.
I owe a further nod of the head to Shariann Lewitt for loaning me reference books that I kept far too long, Charles Sheffield for pointing me toward a dishearteningly large literature in the field, and to Van and Ellie Seagraves, for their accommodating attitude that gave me the time—and the hardware—to get this book done. Likewise, my thanks to Jim Baen, the book’s first publisher. And, finally, my thanks to Dr. Kathleen Gordon of the Smithsonian Institution, who took the time to give me a behind-the-scenes tour of the anthropology department there. I would like to emphasize that I did not seek and she did not offer any advice or opinion on the subject matter of this book, or on any technical issue. Whatever errors I have committed, I have made without any outside help.
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Addenda to Author’s Note for the FoxAcre Press Edition.
This book was originally published in 1988, to very strong reviews, and very marginal sales. There was exactly one edition, from Baen Books, and, when it went out of print no so very long after publication, it stayed that way. There were British and German editions, but the book vanished from its home market. I have tried from that time to get it re-issued in the United States. The desire to get this one book back in print was the main driving force behind my decision to start FoxAcre Press, and behind FoxAcre’s primary mission: bringing back science fiction and fantasy titles that belong in print.
Things have changed in paleoanthropology since 1988. More fossils have been discovered, and various species of hominid and humanoid have been newly discovered, newly denounced, newly named, and, in some cases, newly withdrawn. The creatures once called Australopithecus, some would now call Paranthropus (literally, near-human). The Black Skull, WT-17000, is called either Australopithecus or Paranthropus aethiopicus these days, though some still call it bosei. The details of humanity’s family have been rewritten countless times over the last decade and a half, as the scientists argue over which species is ancestral, and which is not, and as new evidence, and new dates, come in. We learn more, and understand more—and discover, over and over again, how much there is still to learn. In short, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Several other things remain much as they were when I wrote the book There still just aren’t that many sets of pre-human remains out there. A lot of science, a lot of very good science, is based on a relatively small amount of physical evidence. But the evidence that has accumulated make it more abundantly clear than ever that our ancestral line leads back to Africa. It seems quite likely—indeed, all but certain—that several hominid species shared the continent for millions of years. We are alone today, but we were not always alone. In fact, the present day situation is unusual precisely because there is only one hominid species in the world. We tend to view that circumstance as the normal rule—but it is in fact the exception.
When I first sat down to look over Orphan of Creation for the new edition, I was tempted to update the book, and the science, and recast the book in the year 2000 or thereabouts. However, it soon became plain that an update wouldn’t work very well, wouldn’t accomplish much in terms of getting the science right, and would not improve the story. This story belongs in the time it was written.
I have, however, tidied up a few things here and there in the text, but in this I have acted as a line-editor, not as a rewriting author. The changes I have made are intended to fine-tune the existing writing, to improve some turns of phrase, to make some points more clearly, and to clear up some small patches of pointless muddle. This is essentially the same book as the 1988 version, but with a number of minor errors and bits of poor writing cleaned up.
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This new edition, however, does sport one significant change: the dedication. I want to explain it here, for a very simple reason. When, as a reader, I spot something like an change in a dedication, or a name vanishing or reappearing from an acknowledgement page from one edition to the next, I am enough of a snoop that
I want to know the story. I hate it when writers leave that sort of little mystery dangling out there. I find it deeply annoying when I am told there’s a good story out there, but that I am not permitted to hear it for myself.
Therefore, a brief word of explanation. The 1988 edition was dedicated to Joslyn Read, my girlfriend of the time. Well, as it turns out, Joslyn and I are now happily married—to other people. Joslyn and I are still in touch, and on good terms, but it didn’t seem quite appropriate to leave the previous dedication in place (I can think of two spouses that might object, for starters). But I still wanted to acknowledge the previous dedication, for another very simple reason, and one that is consistent with my objections to the Creationists: I hate it when people try to pretend that events in the past, now rendered slightly awkward, didn’t happen. Therefore, please consider the previous dedication duly noted.
But that left me with another problem. I couldn’t bear the thought of sending a book out into the great wide world without a dedication, and yet it seemed awkward in the extreme to assign a new dedication that, however sincerely felt, might appear to be insincere, to be something merely stuck on to cover up the hole where the first dedication had been. When I dedicate a book, I want it to mean something, and to make it plain that it means something.
I have been thinking about doing this new edition for years, and have been brooding over the problem of an appropriate rededication for nearly as long. Finally, less than a week before I planned to release the FoxAcre edition, the solution, the obvious, utterly appropriate, solution popped into my head: Harry Turtledove. The choice was so obvious that I can’t understand why I didn’t think of it before. There are good and sufficient reasons to dedicate this edition to Harry. And because it is based on things that happened after Orphan of Creation was published, and indeed because it was published, it can’t be construed as being a second-best choice. The book had to be published first before this dedication could happen.
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