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

by Cordwainer Smith

  The man picked up his guitar, but the machine went on about its work.

  It selected a fertilized human embryo, tagged it with the freakish name “Elaine,” irradiated the genetic code with strong aptitudes for witchcraft, and then marked the person’s card for training in medicine, transportation by sail-ship to Fomalhaut III, and release for service on the planet.

  Elaine was born without being needed, without being wanted, without having a skill which could help or hurt any existing human being. She went into life doomed and useless.

  It is not remarkable that she was misbegotten. Errors do happen. Remarkable was the fact that she managed to survive without being altered, corrected, or killed by the safety devices which mankind has installed in society for its own protection.

  Unwanted, unused, she wandered through the tedious months and useless years of her own existence. She was well fed, richly clothed, variously housed. She had machines and robots to serve her, underpeople to obey her, people to protect her against others or against herself, should the need arise. But she could never find work; without work, she had no time for love; without work or love, she had no hope at all.

  If she had only stumbled into the right experts or the right authorities, they would have altered or re-trained her. This would have made her into an acceptable woman; but she did not find the police, nor did they find her. She was helpless to correct her own programming, utterly helpless. It had been imposed on her at An-fang, way back at An-fang, where all things begin.

  The ruby had trembled, the tourmaline failed, the diamond passed unsupported. Thus, a woman was born doomed.

  II

  Much later, when people made songs about the strange case of the dog-girl D’joan, the minstrels and singers had tried to imagine what Elaine felt like, and they had made up The Song of Elaine for her. It is not authentic, but it shows how Elaine looked at her own life before the strange case of D’joan began to flow from Elaine’s own actions:

  Other women hate me.

  Men never touch me.

  I am too much me.

  I’ll be a witch!

  Mama never towelled me.

  Daddy never growled me.

  Little kiddies grate me.

  I’ll be a bitch!

  People never named me.

  Dogs never shamed me.

  Oh, I am a such me!

  I’ll be a witch.

  I’ll make them shun me.

  They’ll never run me.

  Could they even stun me?

  I’ll be a witch.

  Let them all attack me.

  They can only rack me.

  Me—I can hack me.

  I’ll be a witch.

  Other women hate me.

  Men never touch me.

  I am too much me.

  I’ll be a witch.

  The song overstates the case. Women did not hate Elaine; they did not look at her. Men did not shun Elaine; they did not notice her either. There were no places on Fomalhaut III where she could have met human children, for the nurseries were far underground because of chancy radiation and fierce weather. The song pretends that Elaine began with the thought that she was not human, but underpeople, and had herself been born a dog. This did not happen at the beginning of the case, but only at the very end, when the story of D’joan was already being carried between the stars and developing with all the new twists of folklore and legend. She never went mad.

  (“Madness” is a rare condition, consisting of a human mind which does not engage its environment correctly. Elaine approached it before she met D’joan. Elaine was not the only case, but she was a rare and genuine one. Her life, thrust back from all attempts at growth, had turned back on itself and her mind had spiraled inward to the only safety she could really know, psychosis. Madness is always better than X, and X to each patient is individual, personal, secret, and overwhelmingly important. Elaine had gone normally mad; her imprinted and destined career was the wrong one. “Lay therapists, female” were coded to work decisively, autonomously, on their own authority, and with great rapidity. These working conditions were needed on new planets. They were not coded to consult other people; most places, there would be no one to consult. Elaine did what was set for her at An-fang, all the way down to the individual chemical conditions of her spinal fluid. She was herself the wrong and she never knew it. Madness was much kinder than the realization that she was not herself, should not have lived, and amounted at the most to a mistake committed between a trembling ruby and a young, careless man with a guitar.)

  She found D’joan and the worlds reeled.

  Their meeting occurred at a place nicknamed “the edge of the world,” where the undercity met daylight. This was itself unusual; but Fomalhaut III was an unusual and uncomfortable planet, where wild weather and men’s caprice drove architects to furious design and grotesque execution.

  Elaine walked through the city, secretly mad, looking for sick people whom she could help. She had been stamped, imprinted, designed, born, bred, and trained for this task. There was no task.

  She was an intelligent woman. Bright brains serve madness as well as they serve sanity—namely, very well indeed. It never occurred to her to give up her mission.

  The people of Fomalhaut III, like the people of Manhome Earth itself, are almost uniformly handsome; it is only in the far-out, half-unreachable worlds that the human stock, strained by the sheer effort to survive, becomes ugly, weary, or varied. She did not look much different from the other intelligent, handsome people who flocked the streets. Her hair was black, and she was tall. Her arms and legs were long, the trunk of her body short. She wore her hair brushed straight back from a high, narrow, square forehead. Her eyes were an odd, deep blue. Her mouth might have been pretty, but it never smiled, so that no one could really tell whether it was beautiful or not. She stood erect and proud: but so did everyone else. Her mouth was strange in its very lack of communicativeness and her eyes swept back and forth, back and forth like ancient radar, looking for the sick, the needy, and stricken, whom she had a passion to serve.

  How could she be unhappy? She had never had time to be happy. It was easy for her to think that happiness was something which disappeared at the end of childhood. Now and then, here and there, perhaps when a fountain murmured in sunlight or when leaves exploded in the startling Fomalhautian spring, she wondered that other people—people as responsible as herself by the doom of age, grade, sex, training, and career number—should be happy when she alone seemed to have no time for happiness. But she always dismissed the thought and walked the ramps and streets until her arches ached, looking for work which did not yet exist.

  Human flesh, older than history, more dogged than culture, has its own wisdom. The bodies of people are marked with the archaic ruses of survival, so that on Fomalhaut III, Elaine herself preserved the skills of ancestors she never even thought about—those ancestors who, in the incredible and remote past, had mastered terrible Earth itself. Elaine was mad. But there was a part of her which suspected that she was mad.

  Perhaps this wisdom seized her as she walked from Waterrocky Road toward the bright esplanades of the Shopping Bar. She saw a forgotten door. The robots could clean near it but, because of the old, odd architectural shape, they could not sweep and polish right at the bottom line of the door. A thin hard line of old dust and caked polish lay like a sealant at the base of the doorline. It was obvious that no one had gone through for a long, long time.

  The civilized rule was that prohibited areas were marked both telepathically and with symbols. The most dangerous of all had robot or underpeople guards. But everything which was not prohibited, was permitted. Thus Elaine had no right to open the door, but she had no obligation not to do so. She opened it—

  By sheer caprice.

  Or so she thought.

  This was a far cry from the “I’ll be a witch” motif attributed to her in the later ballad. She was not yet frantic, not yet desperate, she was not yet even noble.


  That opening of a door changed her own world and changed life on thousands of planets for generations to come, but the opening was not itself strange. It was the tired caprice of a thoroughly frustrated and mildly unhappy woman. Nothing more. All the other descriptions of it have been improvements, embellishments, falsifications.

  She did get a shock when she opened the door, but not for the reasons attributed backwards to her by balladists and historians.

  She was shocked because the door opened on steps and the steps led down to landscape and sunlight—truly an unexpected sight on any world. She was looking from the New City to the Old City. The New City rose on its shell out over the Old City, and when she looked “indoors” she saw the sunset in the city below. She gasped at the beauty and the unexpectedness of it.

  There, the open door—with another world beyond it. Here, the old familiar street, clean, handsome, quiet, useless, where her own useless self had worked a thousand times.

  There—something. Here, the world she knew. She did not know the words “fairyland” or “magic place,” but if she had known them, she would have used them.

  She glanced to the right, to the left.

  The passersby noticed neither her nor the door. The sunset was just beginning to show in the upper city. In the lower city it was already blood-red with streamers of gold like enormous frozen flame. Elaine did not know that she sniffed the air; she did not know that she trembled on the edge of tears; she did not know that a tender smile, the first smile in years, relaxed her mouth and turned her tired tense face into a passing loveliness. She was too intent on looking around.

  People walked about their business. Down the road, an underpeople type—female, possibly cat—detoured far around a true human who was walking at a slower pace. Far away, a police ornithopter flapped slowly around one of the towers; unless the robots used a telescope on her or unless they had one of the rare hawk-undermen who were sometimes used as police, they could not see her.

  She stepped through the doorway and pulled the door itself back into the closed position.

  She did not know it, but therewith unborn futures reeled out of existence, rebellion flamed into coming centuries, people and underpeople died in strange causes, mothers changed the names of unborn lords, and starships whispered back from places which men had not even imagined before. Space3, which had always been there, waiting for men’s notice, would come the sooner—because of her, because of the door, because of her next few steps, what she would say, and the child she would meet. (The ballad-writers told the whole story later on, but they told it backwards, from their own knowledge of D’joan and what Elaine had done to set the worlds afire. The simple truth is the fact that a lonely woman went through a mysterious door. That is all. Everything else happened later.)

  At the top of the steps she stood, door closed behind her, the sunset gold of the unknown city streaming out in front of her. She could see where the great shell of the New City of Kalma arched out toward the sky; she could see that the buildings here were older, less harmonious than the ones she had left. She did not know the concept “picturesque,” or she would have called it that. She knew no concept to describe the scene which lay peacefully at her feet.

  There was not a person in sight.

  Far in the distance, a fire-detector throbbed back and forth on top of an old tower. Outside of that there was nothing but the yellow-gold city beneath her, and a bird—was it a bird, or a large storm-swept leaf?—in the middle distance.

  Filled with fear, hope, expectation, and the surmisal of strange appetites, she walked downward with quiet, unknown purpose.

  III

  At the foot of the stairs, nine flights of them there had been, a child waited—a girl, about five. The child had a bright blue smock, wavy red-brown hair, and the daintiest hands which Elaine had ever seen.

  Elaine’s heart went out to her. The child looked up at her and shrank away. Elaine knew the meaning of those handsome brown eyes, of that muscular supplication of trust, that recoil from people. It was not a child at all—just some animal in the shape of a person, a dog perhaps, which would later be taught to speak, to work, to perform useful services.

  The little girl rose, standing as though she were about to run. Elaine had the feeling that the little dog-girl had not decided whether to run toward her or from her. She did not wish to get involved with an underperson—what woman would?—but neither did she wish to frighten the little thing. After all, it was small, very young.

  The two confronted each other for a moment, the little thing uncertain, Elaine relaxed. Then the little animal-girl spoke.

  “Ask her,” she said, and it was a command.

  Elaine was surprised. Since when did animals command?

  “Ask her!” repeated the little thing. She pointed at a window which had the words TRAVELER’S AID above it. Then the girl ran. A flash of blue from her dress, a twinkle of white from her running sandals, and she was gone.

  Elaine stood quiet and puzzled in the forlorn and empty city.

  The window spoke to her, “You might as well come on over. You will, you know.”

  It was the wise mature voice of an experienced woman—a voice with a bubble of laughter underneath its phonic edge, with a hint of sympathy and enthusiasm in its tone. The command was not merely a command. It was, even at its beginning, a happy private joke between two wise women.

  Elaine was not surprised when a machine spoke to her. Recordings had been telling her things all her life. She was not sure of this situation, however.

  “Is there somebody there?” she said.

  “Yes and no,” said the voice. “I’m ‘Travelers’ Aid’ and I help everybody who comes through this way. You’re lost or you wouldn’t be here. Put your hand in my window.”

  “What I mean is,” said Elaine, “are you a person or are you a machine?”

  “Depends,” said the voice, “I’m a machine, but I used to be a person, long, long ago. A lady, in fact, and one of the Instrumentality. But my time came and they said to me, ‘Would you mind if we made a machine print of your whole personality? It would be very helpful for the information booths.’ So of course I said yes, and they made this copy, and I died, and they shot my body into space with all the usual honors, but here I was. It felt pretty odd inside this contraption, me looking at things and talking to people and giving good advice and staying busy, until they built the new city. So what do you say? Am I me or aren’t I?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am.” Elaine stood back.

  The warm voice lost its humor and became commanding. “Give me your hand, then, so I can identify you and tell you what to do.”

  “I think,” said Elaine, “that I’ll go back upstairs and go through the door into the upper city.”

  “And cheat me,” said the voice in the window, “out of my first conversation with a real person in four years?” There was demand in the voice, but there was still the warmth and the humor; there was loneliness too. The loneliness decided Elaine. She stepped up to the window and put her hand flat on the ledge.

  “You’re Elaine,” cried the window, “You’re Elaine! The worlds wait for you. You’re from An-fang, where all things begin, the Peace Square at An-fang, on Old Earth itself!”

  “Yes.” said Elaine.

  The voice bubbled over with enthusiasm. “He is waiting for you. Oh, he has waited for you a long, long time. And the little girl you met. That was D’joan herself. The story has begun. ‘The world’s great age begins anew.’ And I can die when it is over. So sorry, my dear. I don’t mean to confuse you, I am the Lady Panc Ashash. You’re Elaine. Your number originally ended 783 and you shouldn’t even be on this planet. All the important people here end with the number 5 and 6. You’re a lay therapist and you’re in the wrong place, but your lover is already on his way, and you’ve never been in love yet, and it’s all too exciting.”

  Elaine looked quickly around her. The old lower town was turning more red and less gold as the sunse
t progressed. The steps behind her seemed terribly high as she looked back, the door at the top very small. Perhaps it had locked on her when she closed it. Maybe she wouldn’t ever be able to leave the old lower city.

  The window must have been watching her in some way, because the voice of the Lady Panc Ashash became tender.

  “Sit down, my dear,” said the voice from the window. “When I was me. I used to be much more polite. I haven’t been me for a long, long time. I’m a machine, and still I feel like myself. Do sit down, and do forgive me.”

  Elaine looked around. There was the roadside marble bench behind her. She sat on it obediently. The happiness which had been in her at the top of the stairs bubbled forth anew. If this wise old machine knew so much about her, perhaps it could tell her what to do. What did the voice mean by “wrong planet”? By “lover”? By “he is coming for you now,” or was that what the voice had actually said?

  “Take a breath, my dear,” said the voice of the Lady Panc Ashash. She might have been dead for hundreds or thousands of years, but still spoke with the authority and kindness of a great lady.

  Elaine breathed deep. She saw a huge red cloud, like a pregnant whale, getting ready to butt the rim of the upper city, far above her and far out over the sea. She wondered if clouds could possibly have feelings.

  The voice was speaking again. What had it said?

  Apparently the question was repeated. “Did you know you were coming?” said the voice from the window.

  “Of course not.” Elaine shrugged. “There was just this door, and I didn’t have anything special to do, so I opened it. And here was a whole new world inside a house. It looked strange and rather pretty, so I came down. Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

  “I don’t know,” said the voice candidly. “I’m really a machine. I haven’t been me for a long, long time. Perhaps I would have, when I was alive. I don’t know that, but I know about things. Maybe I can see the future, or perhaps the machine part of me computes such good probabilities that it just seems like it. I know who you are and what is going to happen to you. You had better brush your hair.”