by Ian Whates
“However,” Grimm continued, “our own word Ich signifies the Self, which must belong within society. The great philosopher Hegel expressed this transindividuality thus: Ich das Wir, und Wir, das Ich ist, I that is a We and We that is an I. Social belonging! Practical engagement within one’s environment! The yielding up of one’s teeth. Ich-theology, Heidi, would be the philosophy of Self and therefore Selfishness, existentialism as opposed to socialism. Perhaps this is a little complicated for you...”
Not for little Bernhard, however, who was very good at English – the second language after compulsory Russian in case Capitalist spies needed to be interrogated, for instance. Up went Bernhard’s hand.
“Selfishness, as opposed to Shellfishness,” the lad proposed with an eager grin.
Grimm inclined his head in approval.
“Yes, there’s a witty link between the two ’ologies. Those who govern on our behalf have a sense of humour. And it’s true that our Democratic Republic does have a need for specialists regarding fish, including shellfish, Bernhard. We boast a fine sea coast as well as many rivers. Also, fish are softer than meat. Likewise most shellfish, after their shells come off. But a couple of hundred experts on cod, or pike and perch, or crabs, suffice for the needs of society. There’s no point in thousands of ichthyologists. Opting for ichthyology is highly unlikely to lead to a job. By the way, don’t confuse Hegel with Haeckel, Darwin’s propagandist – who described and pictured many sea creatures beautifully but who said that politics is basically applied biology. I beg you to bear this all in mind as your birthdays approach.”
THE NEXT MORNING, never-to-be-seen-again Comrade Teacher Grimm had been replaced by bossy large Lady-Comrade Teacher Mrs Ernestine Häcksel, soon to be known as Die Hexe – the Witch – and the blackboard had been very thoroughly washed clean of any trace of Greek Christian fish.
In due course, Hans and Gisela had their teeth pulled; their mouths were sore for a month. Out of all the class, only Magda declined her patriotic duty. Magda confided to Gisela that when she left school she might become a certain kind of masseuse, known in whispers to be favoured by visiting socialist uncles and foreign friends. She was vague about what was involved, but theoretical ichthyology held no more interest for Magda than an imaginary God; and she was very fond of her teeth, although she mostly kept her mouth shut in class. Any show of teeth from Magda generally made The Witch glare. One day, off the cuff, The Witch remarked maliciously that teeth were the worst asset for a masseuse; a fellow pupil must have snitched on Magda.
Of course, a tooth-full mouth offended the prevailing aesthetic of womanly beauty; a pursed and puckered look was prized.
Presently Hans and Gisela learned to kiss and, after ten years of kissing softly and sensuously like snails, both graduated in accountancy, married and soon had twins, Günther and Gabriele.
THE END OF history arrived one Sunday morning while Hans and Gisela were visiting the massive pockmarked Natural History Museum. It was good to be alone together, if that wasn’t an oxymoron; few people visited the museum before noon. Gisela’s widowed mother had been left in the couple’s one-bedroom flat, cooing dotingly over the twins.
Presently Gisela and Hans came to the newly rebuilt east wing of the museum, occupied by the remarkable ‘wet collections’ returned by Uncle Ivan after almost forty years’ protective absence. What a sight those wet collections were! Towering upwards within an outer wall of thick glass, braced with steel, were shelf upon glass shelf – also braced by steel and separated by corridors – of glass jars large and little (276,000, according to a notice) containing dead fishes preserved in 80 tons of ethanol all told. Amongst the predominant fishes were also oddities such as a two-headed piglet and a four-legged chicken. Every single creature was blanched colourless by preservation – apart from the only living resident, which was predominantly grey (not all that much different, then) and which moved slowly around a long tank just inside of the great glass wall: a lungfish, a ‘living fossil, 40 million years old’.
“Imagine being 40 million years old!” sighed Gisela, who had little more interest in ichthyology than Hans, but this place was somewhere to visit, calm, cool, and awesome. “Do you suppose the lungfish gets bored or lonely?”
“Do you think it thinks, my love?” he replied. “Maybe it’s better not to think.”
At that moment a bald-headed comrade curator in a white coat, maybe an authentic ichthyologist, hastened from within the great glass-and-steel internal structure clutching a Sternchen tranny radio, exited by a door close to the couple, rushed to a flight of marble stairs and disappeared down those as though fleeing a horde of wasps. The door to the edifice of glass shelves and 276,000 glass jars stood open, no notice explicitly forbidding entry. It was as if... as if... as if a children’s grassy minipark had subsided all of a sudden, revealing a disused subway station, just as a western train slowed by the dust-coated platform, and opened its doors.
No, it wasn’t like that at all! Because the glass door led inward to confinement.
But even so.
“Shall we...?”
“... just take a look from the inside?”
Tidiness caused Gisela to close the door behind them, producing an ominous clunk. The door had locked itself! Yet this was as nothing when, moments later, muffled by thick stone walls, a howl of sirens reached their ears. Brighter light illuminated their surroundings for a moment, leaving afterimages. A thunderous boom – the whole fabric of the east wing shook, as did the ethanol in the jars. Distant shatterings sounded. All the lights went out, only to flicker on again a few seconds later. Silence fell.
Hans and Gisela gaped at one another toothlessly.
“... an enemy missile...!”
“... of mass destruction...!”
“... our city’s gone...!”
“... except for this wing of the museum, rebuilt to survive the worst...”
“... what about Günther...?”
“... what about Gabi...?”
“... what about Mama...?”
“... at least we’re alive, Gisela...”
“... at least we’re alive, Hans...”
“... oh Günther, oh Gabi...”
“... the wall of teeth failed...”
“... no, it protected us, who gave our teeth – it reflected the worst away from us...”
“... yes, that must be how we’re alive...”
Time passed.
No one came. They stayed near that locked door in case the ichthyologist reappeared, key in his pocket. But the bald man could be dead because...
“... air must be radioactive...”
“... thick glass keeps the bad air out of here – plenty of good air for us to breathe...”
They were both accountants.
“... enough air for how long...?”
“... weeks, I’d say...”
More time passed.
“... I’m thirsty...”
The lungfish was swimming in a big tank of water. Off came the long heavy lid.
“... fresh water, or salty...?”
“... I’m not an ichthyologist... the water smells to me of ammonia... not a lot, just a bit... but not salty...”
“... we shouldn’t drink any ammonia...”
“... maybe the ammonia comes from its pee...”
“... we shouldn’t drink any ammonia...!”
At the rear of the glass-and-steel edifice they spied a laboratory bench. Beakers, test tubes, vials, jars, sinks, taps. To which they now hastened.
A tap yielded water. “... must be an emergency tank somewhere, Gisela...”
They quaffed from beakers, then returned to the door and sat on the floor.
ACCORDING TO HANS’S GUB People’s Watch, ten hours had passed since the attack. They had twice needed to pee in a basin, Hans helping Gisela to mount.
“I’m hungry, Hans...”
“Me too.”
They regarded the lungfish.
“Looks like
an eel, doesn’t it...?”
“Forty million years old... shame to kill it... eat it raw, still almost half alive...”
“Does raw eel require teeth to eat it...?”
“Forty million years old, could be tough...”
Notwithstanding, Hans threw his jacket aside, rolled up his shirt sleeves, plunged his arms into the tank.
“My Grandpa once said something about raw eel blood being poisonous...”
“But this isn’t an eel, it’s a lungfish...”
Try as he might, Hans couldn’t catch the creature which slipped slimily from his grasp the one time he managed to corner it.
He gave up. “We’re being dumbheads! We’re in the biggest fishmonger’s in the world! And all the fishes have been cured!”
Cured and pickled by preservation in ethanol, oh yes. Ethanol was pretty much the same as vodka, wasn’t it? Here were umpteen shelves of fleshy fish soaked in full-strength almost-vodka! A feast for the toothless, finer than any spezial restaurant!
“Maybe we should rinse the fishes we choose in the sink, my love, otherwise we might become drunk...?”
“Maybe a different fish for each of us would be wise...?”
Which two to choose? This plump one, upside-down? This slab of an ichthys, head downwards? All the names were in Latin or Greek, understandable only by ichthyologists.
Gisela chose a big jar containing a sumptuous Pomatomus saltatrix; he, a substantial Micropterus dolomieu with large fins although a small mouth. These, they carried to one of the sinks, uncapped the jars, poured away the almost-vodka, rinsed, then decanted their dinner onto the workbench.
The smell was of nail polish remover as well as of fishiness. Inspired, Hans took from his pocket a treasured box of matches featuring a Robur three-ton truck. May the match be as strong! The first failed to light, the second snapped, but the third bloomed. As Hans drifted the flame across the two fishes, blue haloes of fire wrapped their dinner, dying down after twenty seconds or so. Hans clawed flesh from his slightly charred Micropterus dolomieu and sucked, first tentatively, then more forcefully; the fish wasn’t as soft as he’d expected, but even though stiffish it went down a treat: an unusual tasting treat, indescribable really. Had anyone before sucked a Micropterus dolomieu preserved in ethanol for a period of fifty or a hundred years? Deviatonist Chinese Maoists might relish hundred-year-old eggs, matured in mud mixed with rice-husks, according to Young World, but here was a whole new sensation – no words existed yet to express it.
Gisela was following suit with her Pomatomus saltatrix, sucking and grinning, almost-vodka fish juices running down her chin.
Soon many sucked bones lay on the bench, maybe spelling out a new gastronomic name.
Hans idly played with the bones until suddenly a pattern appeared. He shifted them a little more, and now they spelled ‘Grete’. A small change using fish teeth from a jaw, and the German word for fishbone appeared: ‘Gräte’. Hänsel and Gretel lost in the forest of natural history marking their way with bones instead of breadcrumbs...
After a while:
“... I feel dizzy...”
“... me too...”
Hans and Gisela subsided to sit on the floor. She began humming We Bare Our Teeth at Fascist Capitalism. Fascist became Fishest; presently she began to snore.
“– VANDALISM!”
Blearily, from the floor, Hans regarded a dark-suited, purse-lipped man of gaunt aspect whose hair was silver, as was his neat goatee. Beside Hans, Gisela was stirring.
“– don’t be hard, Comrade Direktor, they may be ill –”
Hand shaking shoulder. “Are you ill? Speak!” ordered that bald ichthyologist. “I want to know if your speech is blurred; whether you’re uncoordinated – can you see me clearly? How many fingers?”
“I see you. Four.” Hans did his best to scramble up, clutching the lab bench. He steadied himself. “So you both survived the enemy attack by sheltering in the basement?”
“What attack? Oh I see...”
“Did many citizens survive?”
“There was no attack,” said the Comrade Direktor. “A meteor came out of the blue and exploded high in the air. Like Tunguska, if that means anything to you.”
“Young World printed a piece about the Tunguska thing last year. With a photo of a million fallen trees.”
“In our case, windows. Most windows facing the blast blew out, or rather in. Many, many injuries, and inevitably deaths – a few buildings collapsed. We’ve only had a chance to enter our wet collections this morning, after a quick glance yesterday to see they survived, not time enough to notice you two lying drunk on the floor at the back. Will you kindly show me your identity cards?”
Scribble, scribble on a scrap of paper.
“A mere formality, not formaldehyde for you two.”
“He means no jail for snacking on State property,” said the bald man.
“Police and emergency services are overloaded – our Uncle Ivan was only able to give us twenty seconds’ warning. However, the enemy in the west of the city has lost even more glass due to its Capitalist skyscrapers!”
“Thanks be for the Wall of Our Teeth!” Gisela had roused; Hans helped her up. “Oh, I have a little headache...”
“Take this aspirin,” said the ichthyologist. “Today may be known as Crystalday, antithesis to the notorious fascist Crystalnight.”
“Not applicable within these walls.” The Direktor fondly assessed his mighty glass-and-steel habitat for a quarter of a million dead fish as well as several freak creatures.
“What did we eat?” Hans asked nervously.
“A bluefish, and a smallmouth bass,” the ichthyologist told him, and for the first time Hans registered that the bald man, unlike the Direktor, had gappy tobacco-stained teeth, unless he wore permanent dentures the colour of tarnished ivory. How disgusting those looked.
“Günther and Gabi may be unharmed!” piped up Gisela. “We have thick net curtains.”
On their way back to the doorway, the four passed the uncovered tank of the lungfish, which swam sluggishly away along one side.
“Pardon me, but I must ask,” asked the ichthyologist, “did you urinate in the tank rather than using a sink?”
“How could we do such a thing?” exclaimed Gisela. “That fish is forty million years old. But please, I do need to go.” Now that the subject was mentioned, bladders began to insist.
“Me too,” admitted Hans.
“You’ll find the restrooms in the basement,” the Direktor told the couple. “Use those stairs. There’s a lift to return by.”
HANS AND GISELA emerged from the museum – shut to visitors as soon as the emergency happened; glass from its front windows crunched underfoot. Invalidenstraße glittered glassily in Sunday morning sunlight. Headscarfed women were getting to work with brooms.
Close by to the west was the vehicle inspection barrier preliminary to the checkpoint just before the bridge over the ship canal. This side of the bridge, interrupted only by the well-guarded gap of the checkpoint itself, the Great Patriotic Wall was as ever, its upper sides and top crusted defiantly with teeth which gleamed like an endless smile. Maybe part of this stretch included the couple’s very own teeth donated almost two decades earlier, though it would be selfishness to ask where exactly your teeth went.
For a few moments they let themselves gaze at enemy skyscrapers in the distance, no longer dazzling now that all their windows had gone.
THING AND SICK
ADAM ROBERTS
Adam Roberts is the author of fourteen SF novels, including the BSFA- and Campbell Award winning Jack Glass (Gollancz 2012) and Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea (with Mahendra Singh; Gollancz 2014). He was born in South London and now lives a few miles west of London, so never let it be said that he’s averse to travel.
IT STARTED WITH the letter. Roy would probably say it started when he solved the Fermi Paradox, when he achieved (his word) clarity. Not clarity, I think: but sick. Sick in the
head. He probably wouldn’t disagree. Not any more. Not with so much professional psychiatric opinion having been brought to bear on the matter. He concedes as much to me, in the many communications he has addressed me from the asylum. He sends various manifestos and communications to the papers too, I understand. In all of them he claims to have finally solved the Fermi Paradox. If he has, then I don’t expect my nightmares to diminish any time soon.
I do have bad dreams, yes. Intense, visceral nightmares from which I wake sweating and weeping. If Roy is wrong, then perhaps they’ll diminish with time.
But really it started with the letter.
I was in Antarctica with Roy Curtius, the two of us hundreds of miles inland, far away from the nearest civilisation. It was 1986, and one (weeks-long) evening and one (months-long) south polar night. Our job was to process the raw astronomical data coming in from Proxima and Alpha Centauri. Which is to say: our job was to look for alien life. There had been certain peculiarities in the radio astronomical flow from that portion of the sky, and we were looking into it. Whilst we were out there we were given some other scientific tasks to keep ourselves busy, but it was the SETI business that was the main event. We maintained the equipment, and sifted the data, passing most of it on for more detailed analysis back in the UK. Since in what follows I am going to say a number of disobliging things about him, I’ll concede right here that Roy was some kind of programming genius – this, remember, back in the late 80s, when “computing” was quite the new thing.
The base was situated as far as possible from light pollution and radio pollution. There was nowhere on the planet further away than where we were.
We did the best we could, with 1980s-grade data processing and a kit-built radio dish flown out to the location in a packing crate, and assembled as best two men could assemble anything when it was too cold for us to take off our gloves.
“The simplest solution to the Fermi thing,” I said once, “would be simply to pick up alien chatter on our clever machines. Where are the aliens? Here they are.”
