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

by Cordwainer Smith

  And the Lady Goroke—she, poor thing, went mad.

  Mad, for a period of years.

  People did not know it till later, but there was no word to be gotten out of her. She performed the odd actions which we now know to be a part of the dynasty of Lords Jestocost, who forced themselves by diligence and merit upon the Instrumentality for two hundred and more years. But on the case of Joan she had nothing to say.

  The trial is therefore a scene about which we know everything—and nothing.

  We think that we know the physical facts of the life of D’joan who became Joan. We know about the Lady Panc Ashash who whispered endlessly to the underpeople about a justice yet to come. We know the whole life of the unfortunate Elaine and of her involvement with the case. We know that there were in those centuries, when underpeople first developed, many warrens in which illegal underpeople used their near-human wits, their animal cunning, and their gift of speech to survive even when mankind had declared them surplus. The Brown and Yellow Corridor was not by any means the only one of its kind. We even know what happened to the Hunter.

  For the other underpeople—Charley-is-my-darling, Baby-baby, Mabel, the S-woman, Orson, and all the others—we have the tapes of the trial itself. They were not tried by anybody. They were put to death by the soldiers on the spot, as soon as it was plain that their testimony would not be needed. As witnesses, they could live a few minutes or an hour; as animals, they were already outside the regulations.

  Ah, we know all about that now, and yet know nothing. Dying is simple, though we tend to hide it away. The how of dying is a minor scientific matter: the when of dying is a problem to each of us, whether he lives on the old-fashioned 400-year-life planets or on the radical new ones where the freedoms of disease and accident have been reintroduced; the why of it is still as shocking to us as it was to pre-atomic man, who used to cover farmland with the boxed bodies of his dead. These underpeople died as no animals had ever died before. Joyfully.

  One mother held her children up for the soldier to kill them all.

  She must have been of rat origin, because she had septuplets in closely matching form.

  The tape shows us the picture of the soldier getting ready.

  The rat-woman greets him with a smile and holds up her seven babies. Little blondes they are, wearing pink or blue bonnets, all of them with glowing cheeks and bright little eyes.

  “Put them on the ground,” said the soldier. “I’m going to kill you and them too.” On the tape, we can hear the nervous peremptory edge of his voice. He added one word, as though he had already begun to think that he had to justify himself to these underpeople. “Orders,” he added.

  “It doesn’t matter if I hold them, soldier. I’m their mother. They’ll feel better if they die easily with their mother near. I love you, soldier. I love all people. You are my brother, even though my blood is rat blood and yours is human. Go ahead and kill them, soldier. I can’t even hurt you. Can’t you understand it? I love you, soldier. We share a common speech, common hopes, common fears, and a common death. That is what Joan has taught us all. Death is not bad, soldier. It just comes badly, sometimes, but you will remember me after you have killed me and my babies. You will remember that I love you now—”

  The soldier, we see on the tape, can stand it no longer. He clubs his weapon, knocks the woman down; the babies scatter on the ground. We see his booted heel rise up and crush down against their heads. We hear the wet popping sound of the little heads breaking, the sharp cut-off of the baby wails as they die. We get one last view of the rat-woman herself. She has stood up again by the time the seventh baby is killed. She offers her hand to the soldier to shake. Her face is dirty and bruised, a trickle of blood running down her left cheek. Even now, we know she is a rat, an underperson, a modified animal, a nothing. And yet we, even we across the centuries, feel that she has somehow become more of a person than we are—that she dies human and fulfilled. We know that she has triumphed over death: we have not.

  We see the soldier looking straight at her with eerie horror, as though her simple love were some unfathomable device from an alien source.

  We hear her next words on the tape:

  “Soldier, I love all of you—”

  His weapon could have killed her in a fraction of a second, if he had used it properly. But he didn’t. He clubbed it and hit her, as though his heat-remover had been a wooden club and himself a wild man instead of part of the elite guard of Kalma.

  We know what happens then.

  She falls under his blows. She points. Points straight at Joan, wrapped in fire and smoke.

  The rat-woman screams one last time, screams into the lens of the robot camera as though she were talking not to the soldier but to all mankind:

  “You can’t kill her. You can’t kill love. I love you, soldier, love you. You can’t kill that. Remember—”

  His last blow catches her in the face.

  She falls back on the pavement. He thrusts his foot, as we can see by the tape, directly on her throat. He leaps forward in an odd little jig, bringing his full weight down on her fragile neck. He swings while stamping downward, and we then see his face, full on in the camera.

  It is the face of a weeping child, bewildered by hurt and shocked by the prospect of more hurt to come.

  He had started to do his duty, and duty had gone wrong, all wrong.

  Poor man. He must have been one of the first men in the new world who tried to use weapons against love. Love is a sour and powerful ingredient to meet in the excitement of battle.

  All the underpeople died that way. Most of them died smiling, saying the word “love” or the name “Joan.”

  The bear-man Orson had been kept to the very end.

  He died very oddly. He died laughing.

  The soldier lifted his pellet-thrower and aimed it straight at Orson’s forehead. The pellets were 22 millimeters in diameter and had a muzzle velocity of only 125 meters per second. In that manner, they could stop recalcitrant robots or evil underpeople, without any risk of penetrating buildings and hurting the true people who might be inside, out of sight.

  Orson looks, on the tape the robots made, as though he knows perfectly well what the weapon is. (He probably did. Underpeople used to live with the danger of a violent death hanging over them from birth until removal.) He shows no fear of it, in the pictures we have; he begins to laugh. His laughter is warm, generous, relaxed—like the friendly laughter of a happy foster-father who has found a guilty and embarrassed child, knowing full well that the child expects punishment but will not get it.

  “Shoot, man. You can’t kill me, man. I’m in your mind. I love you. Joan taught us. Listen, man. There is no death. Not for love. Ho, ho, ho, poor fellow, don’t be afraid of me. Shoot! You’re the unlucky one. You’re going to live. And remember. And remember. And remember. I’ve made you human, fellow.”

  The soldier croaks, “What did you say?”

  “I’m saving you, man. I’m turning you into a real human being. With the power of Joan. The power of love. Poor guy! Go ahead and shoot me if it makes you uncomfortable to wait. You’ll do it anyhow.”

  This time we do not see the soldier’s face but the tightness of his back and neck betray his own internal stress.

  We see the big broad bear face blossom forth in an immense splash of red as the soft heavy pellets plow into it.

  Then the camera turns to something else.

  A little boy, probably a fox, but very finished in his human shape.

  He was bigger than a baby, but not big enough, like the larger underchildren, to have understood the deathless importance of Joan’s teaching.

  He was the only one of the group who behaved like an ordinary underperson. He broke and ran.

  He was clever: He ran among the spectators, so that the soldier could not use pellets or heat-reducers on him without hurting an actual human being. He ran and jumped and dodged, fighting passively but desperately for his life.

  At l
ast one of the spectators—a tall man with a silver hat—tripped him up. The fox-boy fell to the pavement, skinning his palms and knees. Just as he looked up to see who might be coming at him, a bullet caught him neatly in the head. He fell a little way forward, dead.

  People die. We know how they die. We have seen them die shy and quiet in the Dying Houses. We have seen others go into the 400-year-rooms, which have no door knobs and no cameras on the inside. We have seen pictures of many dying in natural disasters, where the robot crews took picture-tapes for the record and the investigation later on. Death is not uncommon, and it is very unpleasant.

  But this time, death itself was different. All the fear of death—except for the one little fox-boy, too young to understand and too old to wait for death in his mother’s arms—had gone out of the underpeople. They met death willingly, with love and calmness in their bodies, their voices, their demeanor. It did not matter whether they lived long enough to know what happened to Joan herself: they had perfect confidence in her, anyway.

  This indeed was the new weapon, love and the good death.

  Crawlie, with her pride, had missed it all.

  The investigators later found the body of Crawlie in the corridor. It was possible to reconstruct who she had been and what had happened to her. The computer in which the bodiless image of the Lady Panc Ashash survived for a few days after the trial was, of course, found and disassembled. Nobody thought at the time to get her opinions and last words. A lot of historians have gnashed their teeth over that.

  The details are therefore clear. The archives even preserve the long interrogation and responses concerning Elaine, when she was processed and made clear after the trial. But we do not know how the idea of “fire” came in.

  Somewhere, beyond sight of the tape-scanner, the word must have been passed between the four chiefs of the Instrumentality who were conducting the trial. There is the protest of the Chief of Birds (Robot), or police chief of Kalma, a Subchief named Fisi.

  The records show his appearance. He comes in at the right side of the scene, bows respectfully to the four Chiefs, and lifts his right hand in the traditional sign for “beg to interrupt,” an odd twist of the elevated hand which the actors had found it very difficult to copy when they tried to put the whole story of Joan and Elaine into a single drama. (In fact, he had no more idea that future ages would be studying his casual appearance than did the others. The whole episode was characterized by haste and precipitateness, in the light of what we now know.) The Lord Limaono says:

  “Interruption refused. We are making a decision.”

  The Chief of Birds spoke up anyhow.

  “My words are for your decision, my Lords and my Ladies.”

  “Say it, then,” commanded the Lady Goroke, “but be brief.”

  “Shut down the viewers. Destroy that animal. Brainwash the spectators. Get amnesia yourselves, for this one hour. This whole scene is dangerous. I am nothing but a supervisor of ornithopters, keeping perfect order, but I—”

  “We have heard enough.” said the Lord Femtiosex. “You manage your birds and we’ll run the worlds. How do you dare to think ‘like a Chief’? We have responsibilities which you can’t even guess at. Stand back.”

  Fisi, in the pictures, stands back, his face sullen. In that particular frame of scenes, one can see some of the spectators going away. It was time for lunch and they had become hungry; they had no idea that they were going to miss the greatest atrocity in history, about which a thousand and more grand operas would be written.

  Femtiosex then moved to the climax. “More knowledge, not less, is the answer to this problem. I have heard about something which is not as bad as the Planet Shayol, but which can do just as well for an exhibit on a civilized world. You there,” said he to Fisi, the Chief of Birds, “bring oil and a spray. Immediately.”

  Joan looked at him with compassion and longing, but she said nothing. She suspected what he was going to do. As a girl, as a dog, she hated it; as a revolutionary, she welcomed it as the consummation of her mission.

  The Lord Femtiosex lifted his right hand. He curled the ring finger and the little finger, putting his thumb over them. That left the first two fingers extended straight out. At that time, the sign from one Chief to another, meaning, “private channels, telepathic, immediate.” It has since been adopted by underpeople as their emblem for political unity.

  The four Chiefs went into a trancelike state and shared the judgment.

  Joan began to sing in a soft, protesting, doglike wail, using the off-key plainsong which the underpeople had sung just before their hour of decision when they left the Brown and Yellow Corridor. Her words were nothing special, repetitions of the “people, dear people, I love you” which she had been communicating ever since she came to the surface of Kalma. But the way she did it has defied imitation across the centuries. There are thousands of lyrics and melodies which call themselves, one way and another, The Song of Joan, but none of them come near to the heart-wrenching pathos of the original tapes. The singing, like her own personality, was unique.

  The appeal was deep. Even the real people tried to listen, shifting their eyes from the four immobile Chiefs of the Instrumentality to the brown-eyed singing girl. Some of them just could not stand it. In true human fashion, they forgot why they were there and went absent-mindedly home to lunch.

  Suddenly Joan stopped.

  Her voice ringing clearly across the crowd, she cried out:

  “The end is near, dear people. The end is near.”

  Eyes all shifted to the two Lords and the two Ladies of the Instrumentality. The Lady Arabella Underwood looked grim after the telepathic conference. The Lady Goroke was haggard with wordless grief. The two Lords looked severe and resolved.

  It was the Lord Femtiosex who spoke.

  “We have tried you, animal. Your offense is great. You have lived illegally. For that the penalty is death. You have interfered with robots in some manner which we do not understand. For that brand-new crime, the penalty should be more than death; and I have recommended a punishment which was applied on a planet of the Violet Star. You have also said many unlawful and improper things, detracting from the happiness and security of mankind. For that the penalty is re-education, but since you have two death sentences already, this does not matter. Do you have anything to say before I pronounce sentence?”

  “If you light a fire today, my Lord, it will never be put out in the hearts of men. You can destroy me. You can reject my love. You cannot destroy the goodness in yourselves, no matter how much goodness may anger you—”

  “Shut up!” he roared. “I asked for a plea, not a speech. You will die by fire, here and now. What do you say to that?”

  “I love you, dear people.”

  Femtiosex nodded to the men of the Chief of Birds, who had dragged a barrel and a spray into the street in front of Joan.

  “Tie her to that post,” he commanded. “Spray her. Light her. Are the tape-makers in focus? We want this to be recorded and known. If the underpeople try this again, they will see that mankind controls the worlds.” He looked at Joan and his eyes seemed to go out of focus. In an unaccustomed voice he said, “I am not a bad man, little dog-girl, but you are a bad animal and we must make an example of you. Do you understand that?”

  “Femtiosex,” she cried, leaving out his title, “I am very sorry for you. I love you too.”

  With these words of hers, his face became clouded and angry again. He brought his right hand down in a chopping gesture.

  Fisi copied the gesture and the men operating the barrel and spray began to squirt a hissing stream of oil on Joan. Two guards had already chained her to the lamp post, using an improvised chain of handcuffs to make sure that she stood upright and remained in plain sight of the crowd.

  “Fire,” said Femtiosex.

  Elaine felt the Hunter’s body, beside her, cramp sharply. He seemed to strain intensely. For herself, she felt the way she had felt when she was defrozen and taken out of
the adiabatic pod in which she had made the trip from Earth—sick to her stomach, confused in her mind, emotions rocking back and forth inside her.

  Hunter whispered to her, “I tried to reach her mind so that she would die easy. Somebody else got there first. I…don’t know who it is.”

  Elaine stared.

  The fire was being brought. Suddenly it touched the oil and Joan flamed up like a human torch.

  X

  The burning of D’joan at Fomalhaut took very little time, but the ages will not forget it.

  Femtiosex had taken the cruelest step of all.

  By telepathic invasion he had suppressed her human mind, so that only the primitive canine remained.

  Joan did not stand still like a martyred queen.

  She struggled against the flames which licked her and climbed her. She howled and shrieked like a dog in pain, like an animal whose brain—good though it is—cannot comprehend the senselessness of human cruelty.

  The result was directly contrary to what the Lord Femtiosex had planned.

  The crowd of people stirred forward, not with curiosity but because of compassion. They had avoided the broad areas of the street on which the dead underpeople lay as they had been killed, some pooled in their own blood, some broken by the hands of robots, some reduced to piles of frozen crystal. They walked over the dead to watch the dying, but their watching was not the witless boredom of people who never see a spectacle; it was the movement of living things, instinctive and deep, toward the sight of another living thing in a position of danger and ruin.

  Even the guard who had held Elaine and Hunter by gripping Hunter’s arm—even he moved forward a few unthinking steps. Elaine found herself in the first row of the spectators, the acrid, unfamiliar smell of burning oil making her nose twitch, the howls of the dying dog-girl tearing through her eardrums into her brain. Joan was turning and twisting in the fire now, trying to avoid the flames which wrapped her tighter than clothing. The odor of something sickening and strange reached the crowd. Few of them had ever smelled the stink of burning meat before.