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

by Cordwainer Smith

  Joan gasped.

  In the ensuing seconds of silence, Elaine heard something she had never expected to hear before—the weeping of grown human beings. Men and women stood there sobbing and not knowing why they sobbed.

  Femtiosex loomed over the crowd, obsessed by the failure of his demonstration. He did not know that the Hunter, with a thousand kills behind him, was committing the legal outrage of peeping the mind of a Chief of the Instrumentality.

  The Hunter whispered to Elaine, “In a minute I’ll try it. She deserves something better than that…”

  Elaine did not ask what. She too was weeping.

  The whole crowd became aware that a soldier was calling. It took them several seconds to look away from the burning, dying Joan.

  The soldier was an ordinary one. Perhaps he was the one who had been unable to tie Joan with bonds a few minutes ago, when the Lords decreed that she be taken into custody.

  He was shouting now, shouting frantically and wildly, shaking his fist at the Lord Femtiosex.

  “You’re a liar, you’re a coward, you’re a fool, and I challenge you—”

  The Lord Femtiosex became aware of the man and of what he was yelling. He came out of his deep concentration and said, mildly for so wild a time:

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is a crazy show. There is no girl here. No fire. Nothing. You are hallucinating the whole lot of us for some horrible reason of your own, and I’m challenging you for it, you animal, you fool, you coward.”

  In normal times even a Lord had to accept a challenge or adjust the matter with clear talk.

  This was no normal time.

  The Lord Femtiosex said, “All this is real. I deceive no one.”

  “If it’s real, Joan, I’m with you!” shrieked the young soldier. He jumped in front of the jet of oil before the other soldiers could turn it off and then he leapt into the fire beside Joan.

  Her hair had burned away but her features were still clear. She had stopped the doglike whining shriek. Femtiosex had been interrupted. She gave the soldier, who had begun to burn as he stood voluntarily beside her, the gentlest and most feminine of smiles. Then she frowned, as though there were something which she should remember to do, despite the pain and terror which surrounded her.

  “Now!” whispered the Hunter. He began to hunt the Lord Femtiosex as sharply as he had ever sought the alien, native minds of Fomalhaut III.

  The crowd could not tell what had happened to the Lord Femtiosex. Had he turned coward? Had he gone mad? (Actually, the Hunter, by using every gram of the power of his mind, had momentarily taken Femtiosex courting in the skies; he and Femtiosex were both male birdlike beasts, singing wildly for the beautiful female who lay hidden in the landscape far, far below.)

  Joan was free, and she knew she was free.

  She sent out her message. It knocked both Hunter and Femtiosex out of thinking; it flooded Elaine; it made even Fisi, the Chief of Birds, breathe quietly. She called so loudly that within the hour messages were pouring in from the other cities to Kalma, asking what had happened. She thought a single message, not words. But in words it came to this:

  “Loved ones, you kill me. This is my fate. I bring love, and love must die to live on. Love asks nothing, does nothing. Love thinks nothing. Love is knowing yourself and knowing all other people and things. Know—and rejoice. I die for all of you now, dear ones—”

  She opened her eyes for a last time, opened her mouth, sucked in the raw flame, and slumped forward. The soldier, who had kept his nerve while his clothing and body burned, ran out of the fire, afire himself, toward his squad. A shot stopped him and he pitched flat forward.

  The weeping of the people was audible throughout the streets. Underpeople, tame and licensed ones, stood shamelessly among them and wept too.

  The Lord Femtiosex turned wearily back to his colleagues.

  The face of Lady Goroke was a sculptured, frozen caricature of sorrow.

  He turned to the Lady Arabella Underwood. “I seem to have done something wrong, my Lady. Take over, please.”

  The Lady Arabella stood up. She called to Fisi, “Put out that fire.”

  She looked out over the crowd. Her hard, honest Norstrilian features were unreadable. Elaine, watching her, shivered at the thought of a whole planet full of people as tough, obstinate, and clever as these.

  “It’s over,” said the Lady Arabella. “People, go away. Robots, clean up. Underpeople, to your jobs.”

  She looked at Elaine and the Hunter. “I know who you are and I suspect what you have been doing. Soldiers, take them away.”

  The body of Joan was fire-blackened. The face did not look particularly human anymore; the last burst of fire had caught her in the nose and eyes. Her young, girlish breasts showed with heart-wrenching immodesty that she had been young and female once. Now she was dead, just dead.

  The soldiers would have shoveled her into a box if she had been an underperson. Instead, they paid her the honors of war that they would have given to one of their own comrades or to an important civilian in time of disaster. They unslung a litter, put the little blackened body on it, and covered the body with their own flag. No one had told them to do so.

  As their own soldier led them up the road toward the Waterrock, where the houses and offices of the military were located, Elaine saw that he too had been crying.

  She started to ask him what he thought of it, but Hunter stopped her with a shake of the head. He later told her that the soldier might be punished for talking with them.

  When they got to the office, they found the Lady Goroke already there.

  The Lady Goroke already there…It became a nightmare in the weeks that followed. She had gotten over her grief and was conducting an inquiry into the case of Elaine and D’joan.

  The Lady Goroke already there…She was waiting when they slept. Her image, or perhaps herself, sat in on all the endless interrogations. She was particularly interested in the chance meeting of the dead Lady Panc Ashash, the misplaced witch Elaine, and the non-adjusted man, the Hunter.

  The Lady Goroke already there…She asked them everything, but she told them nothing.

  Except for once.

  Once she burst out, violently personal after endless hours of formal, official work, “Your minds will be cleansed when we get through, so it wouldn’t matter how much else you know. Do you know that this has hurt me—me!—all the way to the depths of everything I believe in?”

  They shook their heads.

  “I’m going to have a child, and I’m going back to Manhome to have it. And I’m going to do the genetic coding myself. I’m going to call him Jestocost. That’s one of the Ancient Tongues, the Paroskii one, for ‘cruelty,’ to remind him where he comes from, and why. And he, or his son, or his son will bring justice back into the world and solve the puzzle of the underpeople. What do you think of that? On second thought, don’t think. It’s none of your business, and I am going to do it anyway.”

  They stared at her sympathetically, but they were too wound up in the problems of their own survival to extend her much sympathy or advice. The body of Joan had been pulverized and blown into the air, because the Lady Goroke was afraid that the underpeople would make a goodplace out of it; she felt that way herself, and she knew that if she herself were tempted, the underpeople would be even more tempted.

  Elaine never knew what happened to the bodies of all the other people who had turned themselves, under Joan’s leadership, from animals into mankind, and who had followed the wild, foolish march out of the Tunnel of Englok into the Upper City of Kalma. Was it really wild? Was it really foolish? If they had stayed where they were, they might have had a few days or months or years of life, but sooner or later the robots would have found them and they would have been exterminated like the vermin which they were. Perhaps the death they had chosen was better. Joan did say, “It’s the mission of life always to look for something better than itself, and then to try to trade life itself for meaning.
”

  At last, the Lady Goroke called them in and said, “Goodbye, you two. It’s foolish, saying goodbye, when an hour from now you will remember neither me nor Joan. You’ve finished your work here. I’ve set up a lovely job for you. You won’t have to live in a city. You will be weather-watchers, roaming the hills and watching for all the little changes which the machines can’t interpret fast enough. You will have whole lifetimes of marching and picnicking and camping together. I’ve told the technicians to be very careful, because you two are very much in love with each other. When they re-route your synapses, I want that love to be there with you.”

  They each knelt and kissed her hand. They never wittingly saw her again. In later years they sometimes saw a fashionable ornithopter soaring gently over their camp, with an elegant woman peering out of the side of it; they had no memories to know that it was the Lady Goroke, recovered from madness, watching over them.

  Their new life was their final life.

  Of Joan and the Brown and Yellow Corridor, nothing remained.

  They were both very sympathetic toward animals, but they might have been this way even if they had never shared in the wild political gamble of the dear dead Lady Panc Ashash.

  One time a strange thing happened. An underman from an elephant was working in a small valley, creating an exquisite rock garden for some important official of the Instrumentality who might later glimpse the garden once or twice a year. Elaine was busy watching the weather, and the Hunter had forgotten that he had ever hunted, so that neither of them tried to peep the underman’s mind. He was a huge fellow, right at the maximum permissible size—five times the gross stature of a man. He had smiled at them friendlily in the past.

  One evening he brought them fruit. Such fruit! Rare off-world items which a year of requests would not have obtained for ordinary people like them. He smiled his big, shy elephant smile, put the fruit down, and prepared to lumber off.

  “Wait a minute,” cried Elaine. “Why are you giving us this? Why us?”

  “For the sake of Joan,” said the elephant-man.

  “Who’s Joan?” said the Hunter.

  The elephant-man looked sympathetically at them. “That’s all right. You don’t remember her, but I do.”

  “But what did Joan do?” said Elaine.

  “She loved you. She loved us all,” said the elephant-man. He turned quickly, so as to say no more. With incredible deftness for so heavy a person, he climbed speedily into the fierce lovely rocks above them and was gone.

  “I wish we had known her,” said Elaine. “She sounds very nice.”

  In that year there was born the man who was to be the first Lord Jestocost.

  Under Old Earth

  I need a temporary dog

  For a temporary job

  On a temporary place

  Like Earth!

  —Song from The Merchant of Menace

  I

  There were the Douglas-Ouyang planets, which circled their sun in a single cluster, riding around and around the same orbit unlike any other planets known. There were the gentlemen-suicides back on Earth, who gambled their lives—even more horribly, gambled sometimes for things worse than their lives—against different kinds of geophysics which real men had never experienced. There were girls who fell in love with such men, however stark and dreadful their personal fates might be. There was the Instrumentality, with its unceasing labor to keep man man. And there were the citizens who walked in the boulevards before the Rediscovery of Man. The citizens were happy. They had to be happy. If they were found sad, they were calmed and drugged and changed until they were happy again.

  This story concerns three of them: the gambler who took the name Sun-boy, who dared to go down to the Gebiet, who confronted himself before he died; the girl Santuna, who was fulfilled in a thousand ways before she died; and the Lord Sto Odin, a most ancient of days, who knew it all and never dreamed of preventing any of it.

  Music runs through this story. The soft sweet music of the Earth Government and the Instrumentality, bland as honey and sickening in the end. The wild illegal pulsations of the Gebiet, where most men were forbidden to enter. Worst of all, the crazy fugues and improper melodies of the Bezirk, closed to men for fifty-seven centuries—opened by accident, found, trespassed in! And with it our story begins.

  II

  The Lady Ru had said, a few centuries before: “Scraps of knowledge have been found. In the ultimate beginning of man, even before there were aircraft, the wise man Laodz declared, ‘Water does nothing but it penetrates everything. Inaction finds the road.’ Later an ancient Lord said this: ‘There is a music which underlies all things. We dance to the tunes all our lives, though our living ears never hear the music which guides us and moves us. Happiness can kill people as softly as shadows seen in dreams.’ We must be people first and happy later, lest we live and die in vain.”

  The Lord Sto Odin was more direct. He declared the truth to a few private friends: “Our population is dropping on most worlds, including the Earth. People have children, but they don’t want them very much. I myself have been a three-father to twelve children, a two-father to four, and a one-father, I suppose, to many others. I have had zeal for work and I have mistaken it for zeal in living. They are not the same.

  “Most people want happiness. Good: we have given them happiness.

  “Dreary useless centuries of happiness, in which all the unhappy were corrected or adjusted or killed. Unbearable desolate happiness without the sting of grief, the wine of rage, the hot fumes of fear. How many of us have ever tasted the acid, icy taste of old resentment? That’s what people really lived for in the Ancient Days, when they pretended to be happy and were actually alive with grief, rage, fury, hate, malice, and hope! Those people bred like mad. They populated the stars while they dreamed of killing each other, secretly or openly. Their plays concerned murder or betrayal or illegal love. Now we have no murder. We cannot imagine any kind of love which is illegal. Can you imagine the Murkins with their highway net? Who can fly anywhere today without seeing that net of enormous highways? Those roads are ruined, but they’re still here. You can see the abominable things quite clearly from the moon. Don’t think about the roads. Think of the millions of vehicles that ran on those roads, the people filled with greed and rage and hate, rushing past each other with their engines on fire. They say that fifty thousand a year were killed on the roads alone. We would call that a war. What people they must have been, to rush day and night and to build things which would help other people to rush even more! They were different from us. They must have been wild, dirty, free. Lusting for life, perhaps, in a way that we do not. We can easily go a thousand times faster than they ever went, but who, nowadays, bothers to go? Why go? It’s the same there as here, except for a few fighters or technicians.” He smiled at his friends and added, “…and Lords of the Instrumentality, like ourselves. We go for the reasons of the Instrumentality. Not ordinary people reasons. Ordinary people don’t have much reason to do anything. They work at the jobs which we think up for them, to keep them happy while the robots and the underpeople do the real work. They walk. They make love. But they are never unhappy.

  “They can’t be!”

  The Lady Mmona disagreed. “Life can’t be as bad as you say. We don’t just think they are happy. We know they are happy. We look right into their brains with telepathy. We monitor their emotional patterns with robots and scanners. It’s not as though we didn’t have samples. People are always turning unhappy. We’re correcting them all the time. And now and then there are bad accidents, which even we cannot correct. When people are very unhappy, they scream and weep. Sometimes they even stop talking and just die, despite everything we can do for them. You can’t say that isn’t real!”

  “But I do,” said the Lord Sto Odin.

  “You do what?” cried Mmona.

  “I do say this happiness is not real,” he insisted.

  “How can you,” she shouted at him, “in the face of th
e evidence? Our evidence, which we of the Instrumentality decided on a long time ago. We collect it ourselves. Can we, the Instrumentality, be wrong?”

  “Yes,” said the Lord Sto Odin.

  This time it was the entire circle who went silent.

  Sto Odin pleaded with them. “Look at my evidence. People don’t care whether they are one-fathers or one-mothers or not. They don’t know which children are theirs, anyhow. Nobody dares to commit suicide. We keep them too happy. But do we spend any time keeping the talking animals, the underpeople, as happy as men? And do underpeople commit suicide?”

  “Certainly,” said Mmona. “They are preconditioned to commit suicide if they are hurt too badly for easy repair or if they fail in their appointed work.”

  “I don’t mean that. Do they ever commit suicide for their reasons, not ours?”

  “No,” said the Lord Nuru-or, a wise young Lord of the Instrumentality. “They are too desperately busy doing their jobs and staying alive.”

  “How long does an underperson live?” said Sto Odin, with deceptive mildness.

  “Who knows?” said Nuru-or. “Half a year, a hundred years, maybe several hundred years.”

  “What happens if he does not work?” said the Lord Sto Odin, with a friendly-crafty smile.

  “We kill him.” said Mmona, “or our robot-police do.”

  “And does the animal know it?”

  “Know he will be killed if he does not work?” said Mmona. “Of course. We tell all of them the same thing. Work or die. What’s that got to do with people?”