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

by Cordwainer Smith

  The old me was a little shocked; the French me was disquieted by the fact that this girl had done something unusual even before mankind itself turned to the unusual. The Abba-dingo was a long-obsolete computer set part way up the column of Earthport. The homunculi treated it as a god, and occasionally people went to it. To do so was tedious and vulgar.

  Or had been. Till all things became new again.

  Keeping the annoyance out of my voice, I asked her:

  “What was it like?”

  She laughed lightly, yet there was a trill to her laughter which gave me a shiver. If the old Menerima had had secrets, what might the new Virginia do? I almost hated the fate which made me love her, which made me feel that the touch of her hand on my arm was a link between me and time-forever.

  She smiled at me instead of answering my question. The surfaceway was under repair; we followed a ramp down to the level of the top underground, where it was legal for true persons and hominids and homunculi to walk.

  I did not like the feeling; I had never gone more than twenty minutes’ trip from my birthplace. This ramp looked safe enough. There were few hominids around these days, men from the stars who (though of true human stock) had been changed to fit the conditions of a thousand worlds. The homunculi were morally repulsive, though many of them looked like very handsome people; bred from animals into the shape of men, they took over the tedious chores of working with machines where no real man would wish to go. It was whispered that some of them had even bred with actual people, and I would not want my Virginia to be exposed to the presence of such a creature.

  She had been holding my arm. When we walked down the ramp to the busy passage, I slipped my arm free and put it over her shoulders, drawing her closer to me. It was light enough, bright enough to be dearer than the daylight which we had left behind, but it was strange and full of danger. In the old days, I would have turned around and gone home rather than expose myself to the presence of such dreadful beings. At this time, in this moment, I could not bear to part from my new-found love, and I was afraid that if I went back to my own apartment in the tower, she might go to hers. Anyhow, being French gave a spice to danger.

  Actually, the people in the traffic looked commonplace enough. There were many busy machines, some in human form and some not. I did not see a single hominid. Other people, whom I knew to be homunculi because they yielded the right of way to us, looked no different from the real human beings on the surface. A brilliantly beautiful girl gave me a look which I did not like—saucy, intelligent, provocative beyond all limits of flirtation. I suspected her of being a dog by origin. Among the homunculi, d’persons are the ones most apt to take liberties. They even have a dog-man philosopher who once produced a tape arguing that since dogs are the most ancient of men’s allies, they have the right to be closer to man than any other form of life. When I saw the tape, I thought it amusing that a dog should be bred into the form of a Socrates; here, in the top underground, I was not so sure at all. What would I do if one of them became insolent? Kill him? That meant a brush with the law and a talk with the Subcommissioners of the Instrumentality.

  Virginia noticed none of this.

  She had not answered my question, but was asking me questions about the top underground instead. I had been there only once before, when I was small, but it was flattering to have her wondering, husky voice murmuring in my ear.

  Then it happened.

  At first I thought he was a man, foreshortened by some trick of the underground light. When he came closer, I saw that he was not. He must have been five feet across the shoulders. Ugly red scars on his forehead showed where the horns had been dug out of his skull. He was a homunculus, obviously derived from cattle stock. Frankly, I had never known that they left them that ill-formed.

  And he was drunk.

  As he came closer I could pick up the buzz of his mind…they’re not people, they’re not hominids, and they’re not Us—what are they doing here? The words they think confuse me. He had never telepathed French before.

  This was bad. For him to talk was common enough, but only a few of the homunculi were telepathic—those with special jobs, such as in the Downdeep-downdeep, where only telepathy could relay instructions.

  Virginia clung to me.

  Thought I, in clear Common Tongue: True men are we. You must let us pass.

  There was no answer but a roar. I do not know where he got drunk, or on what, but he did not get my message.

  I could see his thoughts forming up into panic, helplessness, hate. Then he charged, almost dancing toward us, as though he could crush our bodies.

  My mind focused and I threw the stop order at him.

  It did not work.

  Horror-stricken, I realized that I had thought French at him.

  Virginia screamed.

  The bull-man was upon us.

  At the last moment he swerved, passed us blindly, and let out a roar which filled the enormous passage. He had raced beyond us.

  Still holding Virginia, I turned around to see what had made him pass us.

  What I beheld was odd in the extreme.

  Our figures ran down the corridor away from us—my black-purple cloak flying in the still air as my image ran, Virginia’s golden dress swimming out behind her as she ran with me. The images were perfect and the bull-man pursued them.

  I stared around in bewilderment. We had been told that the safeguards no longer protected us.

  A girl stood quietly next to the wall. I had almost mistaken her for a statue. Then she spoke,

  “Come no closer. I am a cat. It was easy enough to fool him. You had better get back to the surface.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “thank you. What is your name?”

  “Does it matter?” said the girl. “I’m not a person.”

  A little offended, I insisted, “I just wanted to thank you.” As I spoke to her I saw that she was as beautiful and as bright as a flame. Her skin was clear, the color of cream, and her hair—finer than any human hair could possibly be—was the wild golden orange of a Persian cat.

  “I’m C’mell,” said the girl, “and I work at Earthport.”

  That stopped both Virginia and me. Cat-people were below us, and should be shunned, but Earthport was above us, and had to be respected. Which was C’mell?

  She smiled, and her smile was better suited for my eyes than for Virginia’s. It spoke a whole world of voluptuous knowledge. I knew she wasn’t trying to do anything to me; the rest of her manner showed that. Perhaps it was the only smile she knew.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “about the formalities. You’d better take these steps here. I hear him coming back.”

  I spun around, looking for the drunken bull-man. He was not to be seen.

  “Go up here,” urged C’mell. “They are emergency steps and you will be back on the surface. I can keep him from following. Was that French you were speaking?”

  “Yes,” said I. “How did you—?”

  “Get along,” she said. “Sorry I asked. Hurry!”

  I entered the small door. A spiral staircase went to the surface. It was below our dignity as true people to use steps, but with C’mell urging me, there was nothing else I could do. I nodded goodbye to C’mell and drew Virginia after me up the stairs.

  At the surface we stopped.

  Virginia gasped, “Wasn’t it horrible?”

  “We’re safe now,” said I.

  “It’s not safety,” she said. “It’s the dirtiness of it. Imagine having to talk to her!”

  Virginia meant that C’mell was worse than the drunken bull-man. She sensed my reserve because she said,

  “The sad thing is, you’ll see her again…”

  “What! How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know it,” said Virginia. “I guess it. But I guess good, very good. After all, I went to the Abba-dingo.”

  “I asked you, darling, to tell me what happened there.”

  She shook her head mutely and began walk
ing down the streetway. I had no choice but to follow her. It made me a little irritable.

  I asked again, more crossly, “What was it like?”

  With hurt girlish dignity she said, “Nothing, nothing. It was a long climb. The old woman made me go with her. It turned out that the machine was not talking that day, anyhow, so we got permission to drop down a shaft and to come back on the rolling road. It was just a wasted day.”

  She had been talking straight ahead, not to me, as though the memory were a little ugly.

  Then she turned her face to me. The brown eyes looked into my eyes as though she were searching for my soul. (Soul. There’s a word we have in French, and there is nothing quite like it in the Old Common Tongue.) She brightened and pleaded with me:

  “Let’s not be dull on the new day. Let’s be good to the new us, Paul. Let’s do something really French, if that’s what we are to be.”

  “A café,” I cried. “We need a café. And I know where one is.”

  “Where?”

  “Two undergrounds over. Where the machines come out and where they permit the homunculi to peer in the window.” The thought of homunculi peering at us struck the new me as amusing, though the old me had taken them as much for granted as windows or tables. The old me never met any, but knew that they weren’t exactly people, since they were bred from animals, but they looked just like people, and they could talk. It took a Frenchman like the new me to realize that they could be ugly, or beautiful, or picturesque. More than picturesque: romantic.

  Evidently Virginia now thought the same, for she said, “But they’re nette, just adorable. What is the café called?”

  “The Greasy Cat,” said I.

  The Greasy Cat. How was I to know that this led to a nightmare between high waters, and to the winds which cried? How was I to suppose that this had anything to do with Alpha Ralpha Boulevard?

  No force in the world could have taken me there, if I had known.

  Other new-French people had gotten to the café before us.

  A waiter with a big brown moustache took our order. I looked closely at him to see if he might be a licensed homunculus, allowed to work among people because his services were indispensable; but he was not. He was pure machine, though his voice rang out with old-Parisian heartiness, and the designers had even built into him the nervous habit of mopping the back of his hand against his big moustache, and had fixed him so that little beads of sweat showed high up on his brow, just below the hairline.

  “Mamselle? M’sieu? Beer? Coffee? Red wine next month. The sun will shine in the quarter after the hour and after the half-hour. At twenty minutes to the hour it will rain for five minutes so that you can enjoy these umbrellas. I am a native of Alsace. You may speak French or German to me.”

  “Anything,” said Virginia, “You decide, Paul.”

  “Beer, please,” said I. “Blonde beer for both of us.”

  “But certainly, M’sieu,” said the waiter.

  He left, waving his cloth wildly over his arm.

  Virginia puckered up her eyes against the sun and said, “I wish it would rain now. I’ve never seen real rain.”

  “Be patient, honey.”

  She turned earnestly to me. “What is ‘German,’ Paul?”

  “Another language, another culture. I read they will bring it to life next year. But don’t you like being French?”

  “I like it fine,” she said. “Much better than being a number. But, Paul—” And then she stopped, her eyes blurred with perplexity.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Paul,” she said, and the statement of my name was a cry of hope from some depth of her mind beyond new me, beyond old me, beyond even the contrivances of the Lords who molded us. I reached for her hand.

  Said I, “You can tell me, darling.”

  “Paul,” she said, and it was almost weeping, “Paul, why does it all happen so fast? This is our first day, and we both feel that we may spend the rest of our lives together. There’s something about marriage, whatever that is, and we’re supposed to find a priest, and I don’t understand that, either. Paul, Paul, Paul, why does it happen so fast? I want to love you. I do love you. But I don’t want to be made to love you. I want it to be the real me,” and as she spoke, tears poured from her eyes though her voice remained steady enough.

  Then it was that I said the wrong thing.

  “You don’t have to worry, honey. I’m sure that the Lords of the Instrumentality have programmed everything well.”

  At that, she burst into tears, loudly and uncontrollably. I had never seen an adult weep before. It was strange and frightening.

  A man from the next table came over and stood beside me, but I did not so much as glance at him.

  “Darling,” said I, reasonably, “darling, we can work it out—”

  “Paul, let me leave you, so that I may be yours. Let me go away for a few days or a few weeks or a few years. Then, if—if—if I do come back, you’ll know it’s me and not some program ordered by a machine. For God’s sake, Paul—for God’s sake!” In a different voice she said, “What is God, Paul? They gave us the words to speak, but I do not know what they mean.”

  The man beside me spoke. “I can take you to God,” he said.

  “Who are you?” said I. “And who asked you to interfere?” This was not the kind of language that we had ever used when speaking the Old Common Tongue—when they had given us a new language they had built in temperament as well.

  The stranger kept his politeness—he was as French as we but he kept his temper well.

  “My name,” he said, “is Maximilien Macht, and I used to be a Believer.”

  Virginia’s eyes lit up. She wiped her face absentmindedly while staring at the man. He was tall, lean, sunburned. (How could he have gotten sunburned so soon?) He had reddish hair and a moustache almost like that of the robot waiter.

  “You asked about God, Mamselle,” said the stranger. “God is where he has always been—around us, near us, in us.”

  This was strange talk from a man who looked worldly. I rose to my feet to bid him goodbye. Virginia guessed what I was doing and she said:

  “That’s nice of you, Paul. Give him a chair.”

  There was warmth in her voice.

  The machine waiter came back with two conical beakers made of glass. They had a golden fluid in them with a cap of foam on top. I had never seen or heard of beer before, but I knew exactly how it would taste. I put imaginary money on the tray, received imaginary change, paid the waiter an imaginary tip. The Instrumentality had not yet figured out how to have separate kinds of money for all the new cultures, and of course you could not use real money to pay for food or drink. Food and drink are free.

  The machine wiped his moustache, used his serviette (checked red and white) to dab the sweat off his brow, and then looked inquiringly at Monsieur Macht.

  “M’sieu, you will sit here?”

  “Indeed,” said Macht.

  “Shall I serve you here?”

  “But why not?” said Macht. “If these good people permit.”

  “Very well,” said the machine, wiping his moustache with the back of his hand. He fled to the dark recesses of the bar.

  All this time Virginia had not taken her eyes off Macht.

  “You are a Believer?” she asked. “You are still a Believer, when you have been made French like us? How do you know you’re you? Why do I love Paul? Are the Lords and their machines controlling everything in us? I want to be me. Do you know how to be me?”

  “Not you, Mamselle,” said Macht. “That would be too great an honor. But I am learning how to be myself. You see,” he added, turning to me, “I have been French for two weeks now, and I know how much of me is myself, and how much has been added by this new process of giving us language and danger again.”

  The waiter came back with a small beaker. It stood on a stem, so that it looked like an evil little miniature of Earthport. The fluid it contained was milky white.

&nb
sp; Macht lifted his glass to us. “Your health!”

  Virginia stared at him as if she were going to cry again. When he and I sipped, she blew her nose and put her handkerchief away. It was the first time I had ever seen a person perform that act of blowing the nose, but it seemed to go well with our new culture.

  Macht smiled at both of us, as if he were going to begin a speech. The sun came out, right on time. It gave him a halo, and made him look like a devil or a saint.

  But it was Virginia who spoke first.

  “You have been there?”

  Macht raised his eyebrows a little, frowned, and said, “Yes,” very quietly.

  “Did you get a word?” she persisted.

  “Yes.” He looked glum, and a little troubled.

  “What did it say?”

  For answer, he shook his head at her, as if there were things which should never be mentioned in public.

  I wanted to break in, to find out what this was all about.

  Virginia went on, heeding me not at all: “But it did say something!”

  “Yes,” said Macht.

  “Was it important?”

  “Mamselle, let us not talk about it.”

  “We must,” she cried. “It’s life or death.” Her hands were clenched so tightly together that her knuckles showed white. Her beer stood in front of her, untouched, growing warm in the sunlight.

  “Very well,” said Macht, “you may ask…I cannot guarantee to answer.”

  I controlled myself no longer. “What’s all this about?”

  Virginia looked at me with scorn, but even her scorn was the scorn of a lover, not the cold remoteness of the past. “Please, Paul, you wouldn’t know. Wait a while. What did it say to you, M’sieu Macht?”

  “That I, Maximilien Macht, would live or die with a brown-haired girl who was already betrothed.” He smiled wryly. “And I do not even quite know what ‘betrothed’ means.”

  “We’ll find out,” said Virginia. “When did it say this?”

  “Who is ‘it’?” I shouted at them. “For God’s sake, what is this all about?”

  Macht looked at me and dropped his voice when he spoke: “The Abba-dingo.” To her he said, “Last week.”

  Virginia turned white. “So it does work, it does, it does. Paul darling, it said nothing to me. But it said to my aunt something which I can’t ever forget!”