Horse-racing “improves the breed,” they say. Game-programming will improve the breed of computer and programmers alike.
But even the computer is an artifact. What about man’s mind itself?
It may even be that the actual powers of the human mind itself will be intensified (with or without any enhancement by mechanical device) so that men may finally learn to be telepaths. Some more so than others, of course.
Who can imagine what fun it might be to think to one another rather than to talk? What wonders of the human spirit may emerge when each individual is no longer imprisoned by a wall of flesh, but can commune directly with others?
It may be, in fact, that this is the ultimate pleasure and recreation, the purpose toward which all of intelligent life has been tending since the beginning. The delight of direct communion may be such as to sink all other pleasures to nothing.
It may even be that, just as I sit here now trying to imagine the pleasures of the future, some centuries hence another man may sit and try to reconstruct, in sorrow and sympathy, the miseries of a past in which billions of human beings wandered lonely, seeking in the wildest physical and mental activities that pleasure which could only be obtained through the touch of the mental tendrils of a loved one.
• • •
It may be . . . but many things may be. I’ve tried to give some ideas of what the pleasures of tomorrow may be. In the following pages, my fellow compatriots examine other aspects of the future. For the future at present belongs to the realm of science fiction. And until the marvels of tomorrow actually arrive, we’ll have to settle for a vicarious look at possible and probable futures.
Telepathy may be for the future; science fiction is for today.
A WORD FROM THE EDITOR
Sixty years ago, Hugo Gernsback coined the word television in his novel, Ralph 124C41+.
Forty years ago, the first experiments in the transmission of television pictures were carried out. There were less than fifty receiving sets in existence.
Thirty years ago, the first commercial broadcasts were made, during the New York World’s Fair of 1939; programming was limited to two hours a day, and there were several thousand receivers in the New York area.
Twenty-two years ago, the first inter-city network was formed when stations in New York and Washington, D.C. were joined together.
1969 saw the first live transmission from the Moon!
From fictional conception to experiment to commercial realization took less than forty years; from coinage as a word to today less than the lifespan of a man. Hugo Gemsback died just a few years ago; he lived to see a world that depended on the living horse break into the age of space. Gemsback’s novel, unreadable by today’s standards, was a utopian story of the far future, several hundred years hence, when man’s problems were solved through the miracle of science. Yet even in his wildest dreaming, he failed to realize the immediate effect science would have on his own century.
Still, even considering his failures in societal and gadgetry extrapolation, Gernsback opened a window to the future, encouraged a generation of readers to think beyond today and the possible, to tomorrow and the improbable. And this is the role that science fiction still plays today. In Gemsback’s time, and during the next forty years, s-f was considered the poor relation of adventure fiction, the province of the wild-eyed and wooly-headed dreamer. Today, the genre has proven itself, and earned a place of respect. Tomorrow ... no matter what the general view of it as genre: category, science fiction will still be the opener of the door to the future for another generation. And from that generation will come the men who will invent...
What strange and wondrous devices will they invent? I don’t know. Possibly something that has already been described in a story of today, but now considered impossible.
Something as simple as television ...
—Robert Hoskins
Robert Silverberg is a man of many talents: biographer, anthologist, novelist, popularizer of science ... and author of some of the most compelling and disturbing science fiction being written today. Happily for we as readers, he is a man yet young enough that we can look forward to many years of producing stories such as . ..
THE PLEASURE OF OUR COMPANY
Robert Silverberg
He was the only man aboard the ship, one man inside a sleek shining cylinder heading away from Bradley’s World at ten thousand miles a second, and yet he was far from alone. He had wife, father, daughter, son for company, and plenty of others: Ovid and Hemingway and Plato, Shakespeare and Goethe, Attila the Hun and Alexander the Great; a stack of fancy cubes to go with the family ones. And his old friend Juan was along, too, the man who had shared his dream, his utopian fantasy, Juan who had been with him at the beginning and almost until the end. He had a dozen fellow voyagers in all. He wouldn’t be lonely, though he had three years of solitary travel ahead of him before he reached his landfall, his place of exile.
It was the third hour of his voyage. He was growing calm, now, after the frenzy of his escape. Aboard ship he had showered, changed, rested. The sweat and grime of that wild dash through the safety tunnel were gone now, though he wouldn’t quickly shake from his mind the smell of that passageway, like rotting teeth, nor the memory of his terrifying fumbling with the security gate’s copper arms as the junta’s storm-troopers trotted toward him. But the gate had opened, and the ship had been there: he had escaped, and he was safe. He was safe.
I’ll try some cubes, he thought.
The receptor slots in the control room held six cubes at once. He picked six at random, slipped them into place, actuated the evoker. Then he went into the ship’s garden. There were screens and speakers all over the ship.
The air was moist and sweet in the garden. A plump, toga-clad man, clean-shaven, big-nosed, blossomed on one screen and said, “What a lovely garden! How I adore plants! You must have a gift for making things grow.” “Everything grows by itself. You’re—”
“Publius Ovidius Naso.”
“Thomas Voigtland. Former President of the Citizens’ Council on Bradley’s World. Now President-in-exile, I guess. A coup d’etat by the military.”
“My sympathies. Tragic, tragic!”
“I was lucky to escape alive. I may never be able to return. They’ve probably got a price on my head.”
“I know how terrible it is to be sundered from your homeland. Were you able to bring your wife?”
“I’m over here,” Lydia said. “Tom? Tom, introduce me to Mr. Naso.”
“I didn’t have time to bring her,” Voigtland said. “But at least I took a cube of her with me.”
Lydia was three screens down from Ovid, just above a dumb of glistening ferns. She looked glorious, her auburn hair a little too deep in tone but otherwise quite a convincing replica. He had cubed her two years before; her face showed none of the lines that the recent troubles had engraved on it. Voigland said to her, “Not Mr. Naso, dear. Ovid. The poet Ovid.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. How did you happen to choose him?”
“Because he’s charming and civilized. And he understands what exile is like,”
Ovid said softly, “Ten years by the Black Sea. Smelly barbarians my only companions. Yet one learns to adapt. My wife remained in Rome to manage my property and to intercede for me—”
“And mine remains on Bradley’s World,” said Voigtland. “Along with ... along with—”
Lydia said, “What’s this about exile, Tom? What happened?”
He began to explain about McAllister and the junta. He hadn’t told her, back when he was having her cubed, why he wanted a cube of her. He had seen the coup coming. She hadn’t.
As he spoke, a screen brightened between Ovid and Lydia and the seamed, leathery face of old Juan appeared. They had redrafted the constitution of Bradley’s World together, twenty years earlier.
“It happened, then,” Juan said instantly. “Well, we both knew it would. Did they kill very many?”
“I d
on’t know. I got out fast once they started to ..
He faltered. “It was a perfectly executed coup. You’re still there. I suppose you’re organizing the underground resistance by now. And I... I...”
Needles of fire sprouted in his brain.
And I ran away, he said silently.
The other screens were alive now. On the fourth, someone with white robes, gentle eyes, dark curling hair. Voigland guessed him to be Plato. On the fifth, Shakespeare, instantly recognizable, for the cube-makers had modeled him after the First Folio portrait: high forehead, long hair, pursed quizzical lips. On the sixth, a fierce, demonic-looking little man. Attila the Hun? They were all talking, activating themselves at random, introducing themselves to one another and to him. Their voices danced along the top of his skull. He could not follow their words. Restless, he moved among the plants, touching their leaves, inhaling the perfume of their flowers.
Out of the chaos came Lydia’s voice.
“Where are you heading now, Tom?”
“Rigel XIX. I’ll wait out the revolution there. It was my only option once hell broke loose. Get in the ship and—”
“It’s so far,” she said. “You’re traveling alone?”
“I have you, don’t I? And Mark and Lynx, and Juan, and Dad, and all these others.”
“Cubes, that’s all.”
“Cubes will have to do,” Voigtland said. Suddenly the fragrance of the garden seemed to be choking him. He went out, into the viewing salon next door, where the black splendor of space glistened through a wide port. Screens were mounted opposite the window. Juan and Attila seemed to be getting along marvelously well; Plato and Ovid were bickering; Shakespeare brooded silently; Lydia, looking worried, stared out of her screen at him. He studied the sweep of the stars.
“Which is our world?” Lydia asked.
“This,” he said.
“So small. So far away.”
“I’ve only been traveling a few hours. It’ll get smaller.”
He hadn’t had time to take anyone with him. The members of his family had been scattered all over the planet when the alarm came, not one of them within five hours of home—Lydia and Lynx holidaying in the South Polar Sea, Mark archaeologizing on the Westerland Plateau. The integrator net told him it was a Contingency C situation: get off planet within ninety minutes, or get ready to die. The forces of the junta had reached the capital and were on their way to pick him up. The escape ship had been ready, gathering dust in its buried vault. He hadn’t been able to reach Juan. He hadn’t been able to reach anybody. He used up sixty of his ninety minutes trying to get in touch with people, and then, with stunner shells already hissing overhead, he had gone into the ship and taken off. Alone.
But he had the cubes.
Cunning things. A whole personality encapsulated in a shimmering plastic box a couple of centimeters high. Over the past few years, as the likelihood of Contingency C had grown steadily greater, Voigtland had cubed everyone who was really close to him and stored the cubes aboard the escape ship, just in case.
It took an hour to get yourself cubed; and at the end of it, they had your soul in the box, your motion habits, your speech patterns, your way of thinking, your entire package of standard reactions. Plug your cube into a receptor slot and you came to life on the screen, smiling as you would smile, moving as you would move, sounding as you would sound, saying things you would say. Of course, the thing on the screen was unreal, a computer-actuated mockup, but it was programmed to respond to conversation, to absorb new data and change its outlook in the light of what it learned, to generate questions without the need of previous inputs; in short, to behave as a real person would.
The cube-makers also could supply a cube of anyone who had ever lived, or, for that matter, any character of fiction. Why not? It wasn’t necessary to draw a cube’s program from a living subject. How hard was it to tabulate and synthesize a collection of responses, typical phrases, and attitudes, feed them into a cube, and call what came out Plato or Shakespeare or Attila? Of course, a custom-made synthesized cube of some historical figure ran high, because of the man-hours of research and programming involved, and a cube of someone’s own departed great-aunt was even more costly, since there wasn’t much chance that it could be used as a manufacturer’s prototype for further sales. But there was a wide array of standard-model historicals in the catalog. When he was stocking his getaway ship, Voigtland had chosen eight of them.
Fellow voyagers. Companions on the long solitary journey into exile that he knew he might someday have to take. Great thinkers. Heroes and villains. He flattered himself that he was worthy of their company. He had picked a mix of personality types, to keep him from losing his mind on his trip. There wasn’t another habitable planet within a light-year of Bradley’s World. If he ever had to flee, he would have to flee far.
He walked from the viewing salon to the sleeping cabin, and from there to the galley, and on into the control room. The voices of his companions followed him from room to room. He paid little attention to what they were saying, but they didn’t seem to mind. They were talking to each other: Lydia and Shakespeare, Ovid and Plato, Juan and Attila, like old friends at a cosmic cocktail party,
“—not for its own sake, no, but I’d say it’s necessary to encourage mass killing and looting in order to keep your people from losing momentum, I guess, when—” “—such a sad moment, when Prince Hal says he doesn’t know Falstaff. 1 cry every time—”
“—when I said what I did about poets and musicians in an ideal Republic, it was not, I assure you, with the intent that I should have to live in such a Republic myself—” “—the short sword, such as the Romans use, that’s best, but—”
“—a throng of men and women in the brain, and one must let them find their freedom on the page—”
“—a slender young lad is fine, but yet I always had a leaning toward the ladies, you understand—”
“—massacre as a technique of political manipulation—” “—Tom and I read your plays aloud to one another—” “—good thick red wine, hardly watered—”
“—I loved Hamlet the dearest, my true son he was—” “—the axe, ah, the axe! —”
Voigtland closed his throbbing eyes. He realized that it was too soon in his voyage for company, too soon, too soon. Only the first day of his escape, it was. He had lost his world in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye. He needed time to come to terms with that, time and solitude, while he examined his soul. Later he could talk to his fellow voyagers. Later he could play with his cubed playmates.
He began pulling the cubes from the slots: Attila first, then Plato, Ovid, Shakespeare. One by one the screens went dark. Juan winked at him as he vanished. Lydia dabbed at her eyes. Voigtland pulled her cube too.
When they were all gone, he felt a6 if he had killed them.
For three days he roamed the ship in silence. There was nothing for him to do except read, think, watch, eat, sleep, and try to relax. The ship was self-programmed and entirely homeostatic; it ran without need of him, and indeed he had no notion of how to operate it. He knew how to program a takeoff, a landing, and a change of course, and the ship did all the rest. Sometimes he spent hours in front of his viewing port, watching Bradley’s World disappear into the maze of the heavens. Sometimes he took his cubes out and arranged them in little stacks, four stacks of three, then three stacks of four, then six of two. But he did not play any of them. Goethe and Plato and Lydia and Lynx and Mark remained silent. They were his opiates against loneliness; very well, he would wait until the loneliness became intolerable.
He considered starting to write his memoirs. He decided to let them wait a while, too, until time had given him a clearer perspective on his downfall.
He thought a great deal about what might be taking place on Bradley’s World just now. The jailings, the kangaroo trials, the purges. Lydia in prison? His son and daughter? Juan? Were those whom he had left behind cursing him for a coward, running off to Rigel
this way in his plush little escape vessel? Did you desert your planet, Voigtland? Did you run out?
No. No. No. No.
Better to live in exile than to join the glorious company of martyrs. This way you can send inspiring messages to the underground; you can serve as a symbol of resistance; you can go back someday and guide the oppressed father-land toward freedom; you can lead the counter revolution and return to the capital with everybody cheering—can a martyr do any of that?
So he had saved himself. So he stayed alive to fight another day.
It sounded good. He was almost convinced.
He wanted desperately to know what was going on back there on Bradley’s World, though.
The trouble with fleeing to another star system was that it wasn’t the same thing as fleeing to a mountaintop hideout or some remote island on your own world. It would take so long to get to the other system, so long to make the triumphant return. His ship was a pleasure cruiser, not really meant for big interstellar hops. It wasn’t capable of heavy acceleration, and its top velocity, which it reached only after a buildup of many weeks, was less than .50 lights. If he went all the way to the Rigel system and headed right back home, six years would have elapsed on Bradley’s World between his departure and his return. What would happen in those six years?
What was happening there now?
His ship had a tachyon-beam ultrawave communicator. He could reach with it any world within a sphere ten light-years in radius, in a matter of minutes. If he chose, he could call clear across the galaxy, right to the limits of man’s expansion, and get an answer in less than an hour.
He could call Bradley’s World and find out how all those he loved had fared in the first hours of the dictatorship.
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