The Stars are also Fire - [Harvest the Stars 02]

by Poul Anderson

  "Oh, we're getting remarkable machines, amazing programs. You know from your field trips what the top-chop robots are capable of these days, and better are in the works. Yeah. Including a kind of—what you might call thought, creativity. But that's still basically stochastic, no different in principle from your nanny's kaleidoscope method of plotting new stories. Real thought, consciousness, mind, whatever you dub it— the way I read the accounts and reports that've come to me, we're as far from that as ever."

  "Strange," Dagny mused.

  "Could it be the fundamental approach is mistaken?" Edmond speculated.

  "I suspect those thinkers are right who say it is," Guthrie replied. "You may remember, according to their school of thought, the mind is not completely algorithmic. If that's true, then the ultimate Omega that fellow Xuan has been touting, it'll never come to be. Not by that route, anyhow."

  "Are you sure?" Dagny asked. "You don't believe in a disembodied soul or anything like that."

  Guthrie laughed. "To be exact, I have a bare smidgen more faith in the supernatural than I do in the wisdom and beneficence of governments."

  Dagny frowned, intent. She had long puzzled over this. "Then the mind does have a material basis. In which case, we should be able to produce it artificially."

  "I s'pose. However, the job may be trickier than the algorithm school imagines. For openers, 'material’ is a concept full of weirdities. Read your quantum mechanics."

  "What about downloading?"

  "You mean scanning a brain and mapping its contents into a neural, network designed for the purpose? Well, again judging by what reports I've seen, that does look promising. Though I'm not sure it's a promise I'll like to see kept."

  "Then we would have a machine with consciousness."

  "Sort of, I reckon." Guthrie drank beer while he assembled words. "But you see, if my guess is right, we wouldn't have created that mind ourselves. It'd be something that came from, that was a functioning of, a live body and everything that body ever experienced. The whole critter, not an isolated brain. If we can someday impose its...molecular encoding...on an electronic or photonic matrix, maybe that'll help us figure out what a mind really is, and maybe then we can generate one from scratch. I dunno." He grimaced. "Me, I'd mainly feel sorry for the downloaded personality, what shadow of it there was in the machine. No belly, no balls, no nothing."

  "It would have sensors and effectors," Edmond pointed out. "And it need never grow old."

  “I’ll settle for what nature gave me, thank you."

  "Plus antisenescents, ongoing cellular repairs, and the rest of the medical program," Dagny gibed gently.

  "Okay, I admit I'd rather not spend my last ten or twenty years doddering," Guthrie conceded. "And a download of me might find existence interesting after all. But I think I'd be glad it wasn't me."

  Dagny glanced at her watch. "Not to interrupt—" she began.

  "Do," Guthrie urged. "As Antony said to Cleopatra, I am not prone to argue. I came here to relax for a bit in good company."

  "An intelligent argument, that is among the high pleasures in life," Edmond reminded him.

  "So is a proper meal," Dagny said, "and this will be on the table very shortly."

  "It is her cooking," Edmond told Guthrie. "Let us finish our apéritifs. I state as a Frenchman, you have a treat in store."

  * * * *

  13

  S

  een from the air, Los Angeles was a monstrous wasteland, kilometer after kilometer of ruins sprawling eastward until it scattered itself against summer-brown mountains and dull-hued desert. Things leaped out of the jumble into Kenmuir's notice: hummocks that had been houses, bits of glass agleam, timbers thrusting up parched and warped; snags of larger buildings; others almost whole, but raddled and empty; a freeway interchange, partly collapsed in some past earthquake; a water conduit, choked with rubble, dry as the sources on which the city once battened; overhead, a cloudless sky softening with evening, crossed by the meteor trail of a transoceanic.

  Hitherto he had just glimpsed this on documentary shows, and seldom. The reality shocked him more than he would have expected. He twisted the scan control of his viewscreen, searching for life. It was there, he knew. The slow abandonment had never been total, and eventually, bit by bit, people crept back in, squatters, entrepreneurs, outlandish little groups of the special. Yes, a cleared space, palm trees, grass, ringed by homes mostly built from salvage, not unattractive. And another settlement, in a very different style, its center a pyramid—a religious community? And a third, a single big edifice suggestive of a fortress. And in the offing, fanciful shapes that marked Xibalba. . . . Probably the colonies were as many as the desalinization plant at Santa Monica could supply. Few; but then, the olden population pressure was gone.

  Nevertheless he wondered why no reclamation was under way. Flying down from the north, he had seen a flourishing biome in the Central Valley, suited to its aridity, although habitation was almost as sparse as here. Did nature in these parts not deserve restoration too?

  A matter of cost-benefit and priorities, he supposed. No doubt the regional parliament had once discussed it, in cursory fashion, and accepted the recommendations of the appropriate commissioners. The commissioners in their turn would have relied on the findings of a cyberstudy, conducted by everything from nano-robots permeating the soil to climatological monitors in orbit, and on an analysis of the data conducted by a mind superior to theirs.

  If that mind saw things in a larger context, and found reasons beyond ecology for leaving this area forsaken, would it have explained? Quite possibly no human being could have understood.

  Kenmuir shoved the question aside. His flyer was slanting downward.

  Santa Monica perched neat above the ocean, several hundred three- or four-story viviendas ringing their cloister parks, intermingled with bubblehouses, red-tiled Spanish Revival casas, and occasional eccentrics. He had heard of it as mildly prosperous, a place of small-time entertainers and other professionals, retirees who had accumulated funds to supplement basic credit, and the people who provided them their live services. Now he spied boats at a marina, the sands of Malibu Beach across the Bay and the gardens behind them, a bioinspector's snaky form broaching in a welter of foam. Westward the sea rippled silver and turquoise. Light blazed along it, out of a sun that smoldered as it sank.

  Public transport to these parts had been discontinued since Kenmuir was last on Earth, ground as well as air. One by one, faster and faster, it was happening to minor communities, and some that maybe were not so minor. Insufficient demand, he was told. It was more efficient to use one's own vehicle or engage one or, oftenest, simply communicate. He had wondered whether this would make for community spirit and whether that might be the underlying purpose. On the field below, three volants were parked. They must belong to transients like him, or be hired by them. Those of residents would be in the big garage.

  His set down. He unsnapped, rose, stretched. After the faint noise of the flight, silence rang in his ears.

  Better get going. He'd overlingered a bit on Vancouver Island today, enjoying Guthrie House and its memories, water and woods and Kestrel forever ready to leap back at the stars. Rendezvous at 2100 hours, was the word from Lilisaire's agent in San Francisco Bay Integrate. (The number she had given him revealed that that was the location, but nothing more specific, and the reply from there was pictureless.) He didn't know exactly how long it would take him to get from here to Xibalba.

  Nor did he know the person he would meet there. Or what they would speak of. Or where he would spend the night. He'd better leave his luggage behind.

  Although he was properly clad, in an inconspicuous gray unisuit and soft boots, he felt naked as he stepped forth.

  Nonsense. The air lay soft, barely stirring. He thought he sensed fragrance in it. Jasmine, growing somewhere nearby? His hearing captured a murmur. Gentle waves, gentle traffic, or maintenance machinery at work throughout the town? Sunset gilded field a
nd walls.

  But what was he bound for?

  Why was he?

  He squared his shoulders and marched.

  Had the terminal been of any size, its stillness and emptiness would have ratcheted the tension in him. A single woman was leaving. She cast him a half-curious glance. Unthinkingly, he gave it back. Brown-complexioned caucasoid, middle-aged, well-dressed, doubtless a local person who'd landed a few minutes before he did. To what contentments was she returning? A door made way and she disappeared from. Kenmuir's sight forever.

  He went to the service panel. “A cab, please, uh, por favor," he said, automatically courteous, as if he were addressing an awareness.

  "Where to?" asked the operations robot.

  "Xibalba."

  "Post number five, señor."

  He went out. The designated spot was about four meters to the right. Very soon, a car slid up to the curb. He'd had lengthier waits. Maybe population here was declining rather fast, or maybe the residence had the political energy to get a large fleet assigned them.

  The car was intended for this region, chassis mounted on tracks rather than wheels and with a ground-effect motor in case of major obstacles. It opened itself and extruded a gangway. He got in, sat down, set the informant on his wrist to give an account number and touched it to the debit scan. "Xibalba district," he said. "Uh, the Asilo."

  The car purred into motion. A screen displayed a map, on which a red dot crawled to show his position. "Advisory," said a voice. "The Asilo is a gathering house frequented by metamorphs, numbers of whom live in the vicinity. Unpleasant incidents involving outsiders have occurred. On 3 August last year, a patron of standard genome was badly beaten in a fight before police could arrive. Por favor, think about this."

  Evidently the robot was programmed to refer questionable destinations and the like to a central intelligence. Kenmuir's pulse quickened. Nevertheless, "Thank you, but I should be all right," he said. He wasn't the sort to go looking for trouble—on the contrary—and if it sought him out, well, at worst he had his martial arts to fall back on. In friendly contests he didn't do badly.

  "As you wish, señor."

  Dusk thickened into night. The ride became slow and lumpy, on lightless pavement cracked, potholed, littered with debris. Twice the car lifted above a heap of wreckage. The glow from riding lamps glanced off remnant walls, then dropped them back into shadow. When he passed through a village, shining windows made the dark beyond seem deeper yet.

  It seeped into Kenmuir. What business did he really have here? He had been Lilisaire's emissary to the Rydberg, and gained nothing. What more did he owe her? What had she given him, what would she in future? His career among the planets, yes; but always the stars taunted him, always Alpha Centauri gleamed out of reach. Her presence, yes, embraces like no other woman's whom he had known or imagined or even met in quivira dreams; but he did not delude himself that she loved him, and never could he have a child by her. The salvation of her race? So she said; but did she say rightly, did she say truthfully? And was it a claim on him? If somehow he gave her the means of forbidding the Habitat, might that deny his kind its last chance to get back and abide in the outer universe?

  Guthrie's colony didn't count, he thought. In a few more centuries, Demeter would be shattered. Although transmissions across the light-years swore that folk yonder had not given up hope, neither did they know any means of saving their descendants. Would they ever?

  Lights glared ahead. Buildings clustered together, a longhouse on four arches, an octagon white below an iridescent cupola, a corkscrew spire. A measure of heart came back. He straightened in his seat. Let him at least hear out this Irene Norton who was to meet him.

  The cab stopped. "The Asilo, señor," it said. "Will you want further service at a particular time?"

  "N-no." He got out. The cab departed.

  The street, narrow but clear and clean, had scant traffic, pedestrian or vehicular. The bistro occupied part of the ground floor of a square masonry structure; the rest might be apartments, or might have uses more peculiar. A light sign danced surrealistically above the door. He went in.

  The chamber beyond was broad and long. Tables and chairs filled a splintery wooden floor. At the rear were a bar and cuisinier. The air lay blue-hazed. Among the reeks Kenmuir recognized tobacco and marijuana, guessed at opium and sniph. Customers sat at about half the tables, by themselves or in small groups. Synthesized music, at the moment tinkling not unlike a pi pa, wove beneath a buzz of talk. A live waiter bore a tray of drinks. Kenmuir hadn't seen a dive like this in years. Downright medieval.

  He tapped his informant for the time. 2032. Half an hour to go, if Norton was punctual. He took a place off to one side but not so obscure that she'd have to search for him. The agent in San Francisco would have recorded his eidophone image and played it for her.

  The waiter delivered his order and came over. He was a metamorph himself, a Titan, his shaggy head 250 centimeters up into the smoke, the body and limbs bole-thick to support his weight. Upon such a mass, shabby tunic and trousers were somehow pathetic. One had better not pity him, though, Kenmuir thought; he could pluck an ordinary man apart. Had the management lately engaged him to stop violence, or had he stood by while that fellow was beaten last year? "What's for you?" he rumbled.

  "Uh, beer," Kenmuir said. "Sun Brew, if you have it." Most establishments did, and it was drinkable.

  "Cash."

  "What? Oh, uh, yes," Kenmuir fumbled in his pouch and brought out a ten-ucu note. It had lain there for quite a while, but the fabric still showed startlingly clean against this tabletop. The waiter nodded and went off. The floor creaked to his tread.

  Kenmuir looked around. Although he wasn't the sole standard human here, this certainly was a hangout for metamorphs. Several Tinies chattered shrilly. A party of Drylanders held likewise to themselves. A Chemo talked with two Aquatics, who huddled unhappily in garments that the water tanks on their backs kept moist. Why had they come so far from the sea? Was the Chemo, easily breathing this tainted atmosphere, taking advantage of their discomfort to work some swindle? . . . The impression of poverty was not universal. It was surprising how sumptuously dressed four Chimpos were, and what a meal they were tucking into. Yet they didn't seem joyous either. . , . The saddest sight was perhaps a bulge-headed Intellect, playing a game of heisenberg against a computer. He'd have had to make it employ a low enough level of competence that he stood a chance.

  "Hola, amigo."

  The throaty trill brought Kenmuir's attention around. Another metamorph had come to his table, a female Exotic. Otter-slim save for hips and breasts, attired in a string of beads and her sleek brown fur, she smiled at him with great yellow eyes and sharp teeth. Her plumy tail arched up above the delicate features and tumbling black mane, seductively sinuous. "Are you lonesome?" she murmured. "I am Rrienna."

  "No, thank you," he said clumsily.

  "No-o-o? A handsome man like you shouldn't sit all alone. You must have come here for something."

  "Well, I—"

  "I don't think you'd care to meet a Priapic. It could be arranged if you want, but—" She leaned close. Through the smoke he scented her musk.

  "No! I'm, I'm waiting for somebody."

  She straightened. "Muy bien, I only thought I'd ask."

  "I'm sorry." How lame that sounded. "Good luck."

  She undulated off. He caught a snatch of what she sang under her breath,

  "Gin a body meet a body

  Coming through the rye—”

  and then she was out of earshot, half lost again in the haze.

  Ruination, he was sorry. These poor creatures, living fossils, victims of regimes long since down in the dust with Caligula, Tamerlane, Tchaka, Stalin, Zeyd—genomes modified for purposes of science, industry, war, pleasure—why did they go on, begetting generation after hopeless generation?

  Lunarians were metamorphs too.

  Why did Terrans go on, when sophotects did everything better?
<
br />   Except being human.

  He had wondered if those opposing presences and examples might be the underlying reason why few of his species had ever made radical changes in themselves. Technologically it was quite possible. A person might almost casually shift body form, sex, temperament, anything. But no real demand existed, and therefore the means did not, and whoever did wish for transformation must do without. Could the sheer blind instinct for survival make people, metamorphs included, hold fast to the identities they had? Societies had likewise never become as different from what the past had known as he could imagine them having done. Were they also both driven and bound by a biological heritage that went back to the prehuman?

  The waiter interrupted his reverie by bringing his beer. He paid and gulped it.

  "Buenas tardes, Captain Kenmuir."

  He looked up. The heart thuttered between his ribs.