The Rediscovery of Man - The Complete Short Science Fiction of Cordwainer Smith - Illustrated

by Cordwainer Smith

  “No.”

  “The city will find him. What is his number?”

  “I have forgotten it.”

  “You have forgotten it? Is not Adam Stone a Magnate of the Instrumentality? Are you truly his friend?”

  “Truly.” Martel let a little annoyance creep into his voice. “Watcher, doubt me and call your Subchief.”

  “No doubt implied. Why do you not know the number? This must go into the record,” added the voice.

  “We were friends in childhood. He has crossed the—” Martel started to say “the Up-and-Out” and remembered that the phrase was current only among Scanners. “He has leapt from Earth to Earth, and has just now returned. I knew him well and I seek him out. I have word of his kith. May the Instrumentality protect us!”

  “Heard and believed. Adam Stone will be searched.”

  At a risk, though a slight one, of having the sphere sound an alarm for non-Man, Martel cut in on his Scanner speaker within his jacket. He saw the trembling needle of light await his words and he started to write on it with his blunt finger. That won’t work, he thought, and had a moment’s panic until he found his comb, which had a sharp enough tooth to write. He wrote: “Emergency none. Martel Scanner calling Parizianski Scanner.”

  The needle quivered and the reply glowed and faded out: “Parizianski Scanner on duty and D.C. Calls taken by Scanner Relay.”

  Martel cut off his speaker.

  Parizianski was somewhere around. Could he have crossed the direct way, right over the city wall, setting off the alert, and invoking official business when the petty officers overtook him in mid-air? Scarcely. That meant that a number of other Scanners must have come in with Parizianski, all of them pretending to be in search of a few of the tenuous pleasures which could be enjoyed by a haberman, such as the sight of the newspictures or the viewing of beautiful women in the Pleasure Gallery. Parizianski was around, but he could not have moved privately, because Scanner Central registered him on duty and recorded his movements city by city.

  The voice returned. Puzzlement was expressed in it. “Adam Stone is found and awakened. He has asked pardon of the Honorable, and says he knows no Martel. Will you see Adam Stone in the morning? The city will bid you welcome.”

  Martel ran out of resources. It was hard enough mimicking a man without having to tell lies in the guise of one. Martel could only repeat: “Tell him I am Martel. The husband of Luĉi.”

  “It will be done.”

  Again the silence, and the hostile stars, and the sense that Parizianski was somewhere near and getting nearer; Martel felt his heart beating faster. He stole a glimpse at his chestbox and set his heart down a point. He felt calmer, even though he had not been able to scan with care.

  The voice this time was cheerful, as though an annoyance had been settled: “Adam Stone consents to see you. Enter Chief Downport, and welcome.”

  The little sphere dropped noiselessly to the ground and the wire whispered away into the darkness. A bright arc of narrow light rose from the ground in front of Martel and swept through the city to one of the higher towers—apparently a hostel, which Martel had never entered. Martel plucked his aircoat to his chest for ballast, stepped heel-and-toe on the beam, and felt himself whistle through the air to an entrance window which sprang up before him as suddenly as a devouring mouth.

  A tower guard stood in the doorway. “You are awaited, sir. Do you bear weapons, sir?”

  “None,” said Martel, grateful that he was relying on his own strength.

  The guard led him past the check-screen. Martel noticed the quick flight of a warning across the screen as his instruments registered and identified him as a Scanner. But the guard had not noticed it.

  The guard stopped at a door. “Adam Stone is armed. He is lawfully armed by authority of the Instrumentality and by the liberty of this city. All those who enter are given warning.”

  Martel nodded in understanding at the man, and went in.

  Adam Stone was a short man, stout and benign. His gray hair rose stiffly from a low forehead. His whole face was red and merry-looking. He looked like a jolly guide from the Pleasure Gallery, not like a man who had been at the edge of the Up-and-Out, fighting the Great Pain without haberman protection.

  He stared at Martel. His look was puzzled, perhaps a little annoyed, but not hostile.

  Martel came to the point. “You do not know me. I lied. My name is Martel, and I mean you no harm. But I lied. I beg the Honorable gift of your hospitality. Remain armed. Direct your weapon against me—”

  Stone smiled: “I am doing so,” and Martel noticed the small Wirepoint in Stone’s capable, plump hand.

  “Good. Keep on guard against me. It will give you confidence in what I shall say. But do, I beg you, give us a screen of privacy. I want no casual lookers. This is a matter of life and death.”

  “First: whose life and death?” Stone’s face remained calm, his voice even.

  “Yours and mine, and the worlds’.”

  “You are cryptic but I agree.” Stone called through the doorway: “Privacy, please.” There was a sudden hum, and all the little noises of the night quickly vanished from the air of the room.

  Said Adam Stone: “Sir, who are you? What brings you here?”

  “I am Scanner Thirty-four.”

  “You a Scanner? I don’t believe it.”

  For answer, Martel pulled his jacket open, showing his chestbox. Stone looked up at him, amazed. Martel explained:

  “I am cranched. Have you never seen it before?”

  “Not with men. On animals. Amazing! But—what do you want?”

  “The truth. Do you fear me?”

  “Not with this,” said Stone, grasping the Wirepoint. “But I shall tell you the truth.”

  “Is it true that you have conquered the Great Pain?”

  Stone hesitated, seeking words for an answer.

  “Quick, can you tell me how you have done it, so that I may believe you?”

  “I have loaded ships with life.”

  “Life?”

  “Life. I don’t know what the Great Pain is, but I did find that in the experiments, when I sent out masses of animals or plants, the life in the center of the mass lived longest. I built ships—small ones, of course—and sent them out with rabbits, with monkeys—”

  “Those are Beasts?”

  “Yes. With small Beasts. And the Beasts came back unhurt. They came back because the walls of the ships were filled with life. I tried many kinds, and finally found a sort of life which lives in the waters. Oysters. Oysterbeds. The outermost oysters died in the great pain. The inner ones lived. The passengers were unhurt.”

  “But they were Beasts?”

  “Not only Beasts. Myself.”

  “You!”

  “I came through Space alone. Through what you call the Up-and-Out, alone. Awake and sleeping. I am unhurt. If you do not believe me, ask your brother Scanners. Come and see my ship in the morning. I will be glad to see you then, along with your brother Scanners. I am going to demonstrate before the Chiefs of the Instrumentality.”

  Martel repeated his question: “You came here alone?”

  Adam Stone grew testy: “Yes, alone. Go back and check your Scanners’ register if you do not believe me. You never put me in a bottle to cross Space.”

  Martel’s face was radiant. “I believe you now. It is true. No more Scanners. No more habermans. No more cranching.”

  Stone looked significantly toward the door.

  Martel did not take the hint. “I must tell you that—”

  “Sir, tell me in the morning. Go enjoy your cranch. Isn’t it supposed to be pleasure? Medically I know it well. But not in practice.”

  “It is pleasure. It’s normality—for a while. But listen. The Scanners have sworn to destroy you, and your work.”

  “What!”

  “They have met and have voted and sworn. You will make Scanners unnecessary, they say. You will bring the Ancient Wars back to the world, if Scanni
ng is lost and the Scanners live in vain!”

  Adam Stone was nervous but kept his wits about him: “You’re a Scanner. Are you going to kill me—or try?”

  “No, you fool. I have betrayed the Confraternity. Call guards the moment I escape. Keep guards around you. I will try to intercept the killer.”

  Martel saw a blur in the window. Before Stone could turn, the Wirepoint was whipped out of his hand. The blur solidified and took form as Parizianski.

  Martel recognized what Parizianski was doing: High speed.

  Without thinking of his cranch, he thrust his hand to his chest, set himself up to High speed too. Waves of fire, like the Great Pain, but hotter, flooded over him. He fought to keep his face readable as he stepped in front of Parizianski and gave the sign,

  Top Emergency.

  Parizianski spoke, while the normally moving body of Stone stepped away from them as slowly as a drifting cloud: “Get out of my way. I am on a mission.”

  “I know it. I stop you here and now. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stone is right.”

  Parizianski’s lips were barely readable in the haze of pain which flooded Martel. (He thought: God, God, God of the Ancients! Let me hold on! Let me live under Overload just long enough!) Parizianski was saying: “Get out of my way. By order of the Confraternity, get out of my way!” And Parizianski gave the sign, Help I demand in the name of my Duty!

  Martel choked for breath in the syrup-like air. He tried one last time: “Parizianski, friend, friend, my friend. Stop. Stop.” (No Scanner had ever murdered Scanner before.)

  Parizianski made the sign: You are unfit for duty, and I will take over.

  Martel thought, For the first time in the world! as he reached over and twisted Parizianski’s Brainbox up to Overload. Parizianski’s eyes glittered in terror and understanding. His body began to drift down toward the floor.

  Martel had just strength enough to reach his own Chestbox. As he faded into Haberman or death, he knew not which, he felt his fingers turning on the control of speed, turning down. He tried to speak, to say, “Get a Scanner, I need help, get a Scanner…”

  But the darkness rose about him, and the numb silence clasped him.

  Martel awakened to see the face of Luĉi near his own.

  He opened his eyes wider, and found that he was hearing—hearing the sound of her happy weeping, the sound of her chest as she caught the air back into her throat.

  He spoke weakly: “Still cranched? Alive?”

  Another face swam into the blur beside Luĉi’s. It was Adam Stone. His deep voice rang across immensities of Space before coming to Martel’s hearing. Martel tried to read Stone’s lips, but could not make them out. He went back to listening to the voice:

  “…not cranched. Do you understand me? Not cranched!”

  Martel tried to say: “But I can hear! I can feel!” The others got his sense if not his words.

  Adam Stone spoke again;

  “You have gone back through the Haberman. I put you back first. I didn’t know how it would work in practice, but I had the theory all worked out. You don’t think the Instrumentality would waste the Scanners, do you? You go back to normality. We are letting the habermans die as fast as the ships come in. They don’t need to live any more. But we are restoring the Scanners. You are the first. Do you understand me? You are the first. Take it easy, now.”

  Adam Stone smiled. Dimly behind Stone, Martel thought that he saw the face of one of the Chiefs of the Instrumentality. That face, too, smiled at him, and then both faces disappeared upward and away.

  Martel tried to lift his head, to scan himself. He could not. Luĉi stared at him, calming herself, but with an expression of loving perplexity. She said,

  “My darling husband! You’re back again, to stay!”

  Still, Martel tried to see his box. Finally he swept his hand across his chest with a clumsy motion. There was nothing there. The instruments were gone. He was back to normality but still alive.

  In the deep weak peacefulness of his mind, another troubling thought took shape. He tried to write with his finger, the way that Luĉi wanted him to, but he had neither pointed fingernail nor Scanner’s Tablet. He had to use his voice. He summoned up his strength and whispered:

  “Scanners?”

  “Yes, darling? What is it?”

  “Scanners?”

  “Scanners. Oh, yes, darling, they’re all right. They had to arrest some of them for going into High speed and running away. But the Instrumentality caught them all—all those on the ground—and they’re happy now. Do you know, darling,” she laughed, “some of them didn’t want to be restored to normality. But Stone and the Chiefs persuaded them.”

  “Vomact?”

  “He’s fine, too. He’s staying cranched until he can be restored. Do you know, he has arranged for Scanners to take new jobs. You’re all Deputy Chiefs for Space. Isn’t that nice? But he got himself made Chief for Space. You’re all going to be pilots, so that your fraternity and guild can go on. And Chang’s getting changed back right now. You’ll see him soon.”

  Her face turned sad. She looked at him earnestly and said: “I might as well tell you now. You’ll worry otherwise. There has been one accident. Only one. When you and your friend called on Adam Stone, your friend was so happy that he forgot to scan, and he let himself die of Overload.”

  “Called on Stone?”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember? Your friend.”

  He still looked surprised, so she said:

  “Parizianski.”

  The Lady Who Sailed The Soul

  I

  The story ran—how did the story run? Everyone knew the reference to Helen America and Mr. Grey-no-more, but no one knew exactly how it happened. Their names were welded to the glittering timeless jewelry of romance. Sometimes they were compared to Heloise and Abelard, whose story had been found among books in a long-buried library. Other ages were to compare their life with the weird, ugly-lovely story of the Go-Captain Taliano and the Lady Dolores Oh.

  Out of it all, two things stood forth—their love and the image of the great sails, tissue-metal wings with which the bodies of people finally fluttered out among the stars.

  Mention him, and others knew her. Mention her, and they knew him. He was the first of the inbound sailors, and she was the lady who sailed The Soul.

  It was lucky that people lost their pictures. The romantic hero was a very young-looking man, prematurely old and still quite sick when the romance came. And Helen America, she was a freak, but a nice one: a grim, solemn, sad, little brunette who had been born amid the laughter of humanity. She was not the tall, confident heroine of the actresses who later played her.

  She was, however, a wonderful sailor. That much was true. And with her body and mind she loved Mr. Grey-no-more, showing a devotion which the ages can neither surpass nor forget. History may scrape off the patina of their names and appearances, but even history can do no more than brighten the love of Helen America and Mr. Grey-no-more.

  Both of them, one must remember, were sailors.

  II

  The child was playing with a spieltier. She got tired of letting it be a chicken, so she reversed it into the fur-bearing position. When she extended the ears to the optimum development, the little animal looked odd indeed. A light breeze blew the animal-toy on its side, but the spieltier good-naturedly righted itself and munched contentedly on the carpet.

  The little girl suddenly clapped her hands and broke forth with the question,

  “Mamma, what’s a sailor?”

  “There used to be sailors, darling, a long time ago. They were brave men who took the ships out to the stars, the very first ships that took people away from our sun. And they had big sails. I don’t know how it worked, but somehow, the light pushed them, and it took them a quarter of a life to make a single one-way trip. People only lived a hundred and sixty years at that time, darling, and it was forty years each way, but we don’t need sailors any more.”

  “Of course not,” s
aid the child, “we can go right away. You’ve taken me to Mars and you’ve taken me to New Earth as well, haven’t you, mamma? And we can go anywhere else soon, but that only takes one afternoon.”

  “That’s planoforming, honey. But it was a long time before the people knew how to planoform. And they could not travel the way we could, so they made great big sails. They made sails so big that they could not build them on Earth. They had to hang them out, halfway between Earth and Mars. And you know, a funny thing happened…Did you ever hear about the time the world froze?”

  “No, mamma, what was that?”

  “Well, a long time ago, one of these sails drifted and people tried to save it because it took a lot of work to build it. But the sail was so large that it got between the Earth and the sun. And there was no more sunshine, just night all the time. And it got very cold on Earth. All the atomic power plants were busy, and all the air began to smell funny. And the people were worried and in a few days they pulled the sail back out of the way. And the sunshine came again.”

  “Mamma, were there ever any girl sailors?”

  A curious expression crossed over the mother’s face. “There was one. You’ll hear about her later on when you are older. Her name was Helen America and she sailed The Soul out to the stars. She was the only woman that ever did it. And that is a wonderful story.”

  The mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  The child said: “Mamma, tell me now. What’s the story all about?”

  At this point the mother became very firm and she said; “Honey, there are some things that you are not old enough to hear yet. But when you are a big girl, I’ll tell you all about them.”

  The mother was an honest woman. She reflected a moment, and then she added, “…unless you read about it yourself first.”

  III

  Helen America was to make her place in the history of mankind, but she started badly. The name itself was a misfortune.

  No one ever knew who her father was. The officials agreed to keep the matter quiet.

  Her mother was not in doubt. Her mother was the celebrated she-man Mona Muggeridge, a woman who had campaigned a hundred times for the lost cause of complete identity of the two genders. She had been a feminist beyond all limits, and when Mona Muggeridge, the one and only Miss Muggeridge, announced to the press that she was going to have a baby, that was first-class news.