New Worlds 4

by Edited By David Garnett

  That name again! At Quentin’s quizzical stare, Blakey smirked briefly.

  ‘Rumour has it that our Beloved Director has a chronic eating disorder; he just can’t quit. It’s become something of an obsession, apparently...’ His lip curled slightly. ‘Not that it would ever affect his judgement, I’m sure.’

  Quentin studied Blakey’s scowling face speculatively. ‘You seem a bit off colour yourself, doctor, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  Dr Blakey’s eyes widened, then he flushed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered at length. ‘I guess I just get teed off with looking after fat people every day.’

  Quentin nodded understandingly. ‘It must be difficult. What made you come to Luna in the first place? I mean, it isn’t exactly welcoming to—’

  ‘To skinnies,’ finished the doctor. ‘I know. No good reason; a whim. I wanted to get away from Earth. But now I can’t wait to get back!’

  ‘You think you’ll be able to go back?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve been looking after my body, keeping in shape. Again, he glanced around at the other partygoers, few of whose bodies revealed the same concern for physical fitness, with a touch of contempt.

  ‘Is it really that hard, living here?’ asked Quentin.

  Blakey shrugged irritably. ‘It’s nothing open - the hostility, I mean. Nothing like you people had to put up with on Earth from skinny bastards like me. But it’s there, all the same; thinly veiled. You want the Moon for yourselves. It’s your Promised Land, and you don’t want to share it with anyone else.’

  Quentin nodded heavily. In some ways, LunaColony was just the latest stage in the process of fragmentation that had hit Earth in the last years of the century; people deciding one day that they could no longer live with one another, demanding their own space. The only reason the fatsos had succeeded in finding a space for themselves was because they were richer and more powerful than any of the other warring factions.

  Before Quentin could pursue the topic, a voice hailed him.

  ‘Quent! Good to see ya! How’s it going?’

  He turned to see Phil. With him was a portly woman, hanging on his arm and smiling.

  Phil winked at Quentin. ‘You know, my first wife left me two years ago. She said, “Either you lose fifty pounds or you lose me.” I worried about losing her so much I ate more. But when she did leave me, I thought, What the hell, I’m better off without her. Then I met Jemma.’

  They beamed at each other fondly. Jemma proffered a dish of chocolate pretzels. ‘Help yourself, Quentin, honey. The great thing about Fatland is you don’t have to feel guilty about enjoying food. When I was a girl I had anorexia - used to binge all day, then throw up so I could start all over again. I hated myself for it. But I’ve put all that behind me.’

  It seemed to be an evening for reminiscences. Quentin wondered whether he should relate a personal memory of his own. But just then the music switched to a lively trad pop number. Jemma grabbed Quentin and hauled him on to the dance floor. ‘Come on, honey - let’s dance!’

  He was whisked into an ecstatic melee of sweating, gyrating bodies, swaying slowly and gracefully in the low gravity like fronds of seaweed in a submarine forest.

  ~ * ~

  The next couple of day-periods were spent in an intensive orientation programme. Quentin and the other people who had arrived on his flight were put through an exhaustive series of games, workshops, physical and mental exercises, to help them adjust to the conditions of their new home.

  By the time he walked through the door of LCC Hydroponics, Quentin felt as if he had lived on the Moon all his life. He was just itching to get down to work.

  He was greeted by the plant foreman, Sonamura Genji, a monolithic former Sumo wrestler.

  ‘Welcome aboard, boss.’ Quentin grasped the dough-like hand. ‘You want me to show you round the works first?’

  They donned hygienically sound overalls and set off.

  ‘We always ensure the optimum conditions for each crop,’ announced Genji, gesturing at the tiers of closely packed hydrobeds that ran the length of the building. ‘Optimum nutrient-concentrations, optimum fertility of the solution, optimum rate at which pumping is increased, optimum use of space in the tanks ...’ Genji formed his thumb and forefinger into a pudgy O. ‘Optimum is our watchword, chief.’ He grinned expansively. ‘O is a nice round letter.’

  Quentin gazed down the long perspective of the ranged nutriculture beds. Pipes ran from tanks into the temperature-controlled beds, carrying oxygen, nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium and other important elements to the roots of the flourishing plants. The allowance of light too was carefully tailored to the individual crops. Every aspect of the environment was meticulously controlled and monitored by computer, and virtually the whole process of cultivation was carried out automatically, smoothly and effectively, with only a handful of technicians supervising operations and conducting routine maintenance on the elaborate network of tanks and troughs. The whole plant seemed to hum with an almost transcendental self-awareness, keeping up a minute-by-minute surveillance of the growth-stages of all the diverse crops beneath the hydroplant’s louvred ceiling. Inside this cavernous hothouse, computer-regulated aquaculture made the most advanced agricultural methods on Earth seem as primitive as medieval strip-farming.

  Genji was talking about yields. ‘More than four times the bulk of the old methods,’ he was saying. ‘But there’s still room for expansion.’

  They walked slowly down the plant, Genji pointing out various features of the technology as they went.

  They passed a transparent section of the wall, and Quentin gazed across the plant compound to a low-rise building which lay a few hundred metres to the left. ‘What’s that building over there?’ he enquired of his guide.

  The Japanese paused. ‘The research labs.’

  ‘Do you know what they’re working on at the moment?’ asked Quentin.

  Genji scratched his cropped head. ‘Some kind of research into high-density food concentrates, I think ...Something else for the starvation market on Earth, I guess.’

  A warbling note sounded through the plant. ‘Ah, that’s our mid-shift break,’ commented Genji. ‘Why not come over to the canteen and meet some of the guys?’

  The staff canteen was filled with hydroponically grown meals. Genji helped himself to a large portion of seaweed. ‘Used to eat this stuff when I was a Sumo,’ he explained, heaping the glutinous green strands on to his plate. ‘I’ve never lost the taste for it.’

  They sat down at a table occupied by a short fat man with crooked spectacles and blue overalls. ‘Hi there, Lou. Mind if we join you? This is our new boss, Mr Fischer.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Lou, extending a hand.

  ‘Lou’s a classical music lover,’ said Genji. ‘He wants to install piped Mozart to the farm.’

  ‘Not for me,’ cut in Lou quickly. ‘For the plants. They respond to it. They actually grow better when people play them music. You’ve heard about gardeners who talk to their plants? Well, it’s not so much talk as music they thrive on. I’ve conducted my own research into this, and I’ve managed to match specific pieces of music to specific crops. Look.’

  He fumbled in the breast pocket of his overall, and drew out a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘This is my table of music: plant ratios.’

  ‘Of course, that’s just a very general outline of the plants’ preferences,’ apologized Lou. ‘I’ve narrowed it down in many cases to specific compositions - in some cases even specific movements. For example, a certain strain of rice, Y52, grows like there’s no tomorrow to the ‘Una nava da guerra’ song in Puccini’s Madame Butterfly.’ He leaned forward earnestly. ‘My researches categorically prove that musical aquaculture is the way forward, that all the hydroponics farms of tomorrow will incorporate hi-fi feeders to the tanks!’ He blinked at Quentin hopefully from behind his crooked spectacles. ‘It wouldn’t cost that much to wire the tanks for sound. You’d see the benefits within weeks, in bigger
harvests.’

  ‘Well...’ Quentin mumbled doubtfully. Genji winked at him, and once again raised his thumb and forefinger to form a fat O.

  ‘Like I said - optimum.’

  ~ * ~

  A fortnight passed uneventfully. Quentin immersed himself in his work. Then, out of the blue, he was summoned for a meeting with Dr Mund. It was to be a working lunch; the Director preferred to hold all his high-level meetings at the dinner table.

  ‘Hey, that’s quite something,’ commented Genji. ‘The big boss himself, huh? Wish I could go.’

  So, thought Quentin wryly, as he travelled by monorail to the Director’s HQ, my old pal wants to see me at last. Will he even remember me?

  The LCC base lay just over the curve of the horizon, on the dark side of the Moon, effectively hidden from the view of the city dwellers. Strange that the base was - by the compact standards of Lunaport - so far out on a limb. Why had the Director chosen to isolate himself in this manner, instead of being right at the centre of the Colony over which he presided?

  Quentin announced himself at Reception. He was met by an LCC functionary and conducted along endless corridors to the Director’s office. Or Presence-Chamber, he thought. The whole thing was so deliberately impressive that he felt himself reacting against it, felt even a certain scorn for the slight theatricality of the place.

  A door slid open. The functionary invited him to enter, then withdrew with a bow. Quentin walked into the room, looking around him uncertainly.

  Above him rose a bulbous transparent orb. Only stars glittered faintly in the black sky; the Earth lay on the other side of the Moon. Like the ceiling of a great cathedral, the dome drew the eye upward, towards heaven.

  ‘Ah, Dr Fischer. I am so pleased that you came.’

  Quentin turned abruptly, and immediately all the scepticism that had been accumulating in his mind since arriving, vanished.

  Dr Mund hung suspended in a kind of web, his vast bloated body, the size of a small automobile, supported by a network of some strong but pliant polymer. As Quentin watched, one swollen hand transferred a black forest gateau to the enormous mouth, which yawned like that of an anaconda swallowing its prey whole. The cake vanished into an unbelievable maw, and the jaws chomped vigorously. A glistening tongue shot out and licked up the traces of cream adhering to the chin.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Quent. Forgive me if I don’t offer to shake hands; mine are always sticky.’ He took another cake. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  Quentin looked around. There were no chairs, only a few beanbags. He drew one over, and sank into its flabby embrace.

  Dr Mund gazed down at him. His eyes were like tiny nuggets of anthracite; hard, black, peering out of the folds of flesh that all but buried them, and which might have effectively hidden eyes less penetrating. He was dressed in an enormous sky-blue rompersuit, the front of which was stained by numberless food spillages. His hands resumed the task of feeding his mouth, plucking pastries and chocolate from an inexhaustible supply at his elbow, moving quickly and daintily like nimble servants who had long ago learned not to get in each others’ way and delay the ceaseless task of bearing food to their voracious master. Words poured out of his mouth, while food poured in.

  ‘Well, Quent, howya doing? It’s good to see you after... How many years is it? Too many, anyhow. I hear you’re doing good work at the hydroplant; knew I could rely on you. You hungry?’

  Quentin glanced queasily at the array of dainties beside his friend, then averted his gaze. ‘No, not right now—’

  ‘Nonsense; you need to eat, keep your strength up.’ Dr Mund pressed a button on his handheld minicomputer, and a long table of polished mahogany, with a chair to match, slid slowly up from a hidden recess in the floor. ‘Sit down.’

  Quentin obeyed. Mund tapped out another command, and almost immediately attendants appeared bearing covered dishes, which they set silently upon the table, and then withdrew.

  ‘Eat,’ ordered Mund.

  Quentin lifted the lid of a dish; a large turkey steamed within. Quentin tucked a napkin into his shirtfront. Then he warily began to carve himself a few slices, and helped himself to vegetables and creamed potatoes.

  ‘I’d like to just sit here and talk about the old days back at college,’ began Mund, ‘but unfortunately I don’t have the leisure to indulge that whim. So instead I’ll get right down to the nitty-gritty of why I called you over here.’ He paused to gulp down a choux bun the size of a basketball, then resumed. ‘At this research centre we’re engaged on epoch-making work which will affect the future of everyone in this colony. LCC is about to enter a new phase. Most of us came to the Moon to escape, not just from the persecution of bigots who blamed us for eating up the Earth’s resources, but also from gravity itself. Gravity is a killer; it drags us down, makes our own bodies a burden, when they ought to be a source of strength. On Luna, gravity takes less of a toll on us - but even here we’re far from free of it. What we’ve been working on is a way of neutralizing gravity, of transcending the crashing force which saps our strength and sucks away our vitality!’

  Dr Mund waved his hands excitedly as he spoke; the mesh quivered. Quentin swallowed a mouthful of turkey.

  ‘You mean... some kind of Buddhist-type transcendence of the body?’ he asked weakly.

  ‘No! I’m not talking about mystical Eastern crap - I’m saying we’ve discovered how everyone in this colony can cheat gravity: by becoming their own world!’

  Quentin gaped at him. Mund laughed.

  ‘Surprised, huh? You just have to think big, Quentin. My plan is this: every man, woman and child in LunaColony will be biologically redesigned so that each becomes a self-supporting entity, complete with their own means of generating their own sustenance, their own oxygen, everything they need built in. Then they will no longer need the resources of a world; they will be their own world, living planets, released from the deadly gravity of the Moon and launched out into space, floating free, Fischer, finally free of gravity! We will have defeated gravity by becoming gravitational bodies, the ultimate subversion of our old enemy! We will grow steadily, over time, be immortal; our DNA will encode a biosphere, the blueprint for an entire ecosystem. In time, we too will become fully-fledged worlds, evolving species of our own ... We will spread out across the Galaxy, no longer trapped on one tiny, overcrowded world, but with the whole of space to explore and to colonize!’

  Dr Mund fell back into his harness, exhausted, his flesh trembling. When he had regained his breath, and eaten, Mund fixed an eye on Quentin.

  ‘Well? What do you say, Quent? You will have a key role to play in this. The lab attached to the hydroplant has been perfecting a high-concentrate nutrient which will be fed intravenously to every fatso, to beef up their mass. Soon your plant will be switched from hydroponics to producing the new food-concentrate. Other members of our team will deal with the physical reshaping of our population. You look sceptical, Fischer, but I assure you, it can be done; the first stages have already been carried out - on me personally. How else do you think I got this big? Dropsy?’ He laughed. ‘Believe me, human flesh is astonishingly malleable. And we are fortunate in having such a brilliant team of scientists, sculptors of the human clay.’

  ‘But what if people don’t want to be changed into planets?’ protested Quentin.

  Mund dismissed the objection. ‘Don’t be absurd.’ He picked up a bun. ‘Who would possibly turn down a chance to live for ever? That’s what I’m offering. That, and the prospect of being free at last from the clutches of gravity, to start a life in which obesity is essential to survival.’

  Mund tapped in a command on his minicomputer. ‘Well, bub, I’m a busy man; the next phase in my transformation is due to start soon. I want you to go back to your hydroplant and prepare for the great task that lies ahead.’

  Quentin stood up. ‘When are you planning to release news of your intentions for the Colony, uh, Doctor?’

  ‘Soon. When all is ready. Until t
hen, Quent - all this is just between friends; is that clear? Meanwhile, why don’t you take a little tour of the centre? I’m sure you’ll find it instructive.’

  In the monorail heading back to Lunaport, Quentin found himself shaking uncontrollably. Now at last he knew what his former friend had been doing all these years.

  He had been going insane.

  ~ * ~

  The injunction to silence became steadily more intolerable to Quentin. He felt that he had to discuss what he had learned at Mund’s base with somebody else; but who? All his colleagues at the hydroplant were keen Mundists; any reservations that he expressed regarding the Director would surely get back to the latter, doing nothing to resolve the situation. Finally, at his wits’ end, Quentin went to see Dr Blakey.