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

by Cordwainer Smith

  On the day of the festival before the harvest the Space Lord, using Griselda as a pretext, once more went to the cat stables.

  E’duard as Mr.-Stokely-from-Boston was hard at work. He looked gravely at the Space Lord, but his mind remained closed. He did not spiek. Lord bin Permaiswari found himself annoyed. He opened his mind and spieked, “Animals!”

  E’duard winced slightly but did not spiek.

  The Space Lord, apologetic, spieked, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  This time E’duard spieked back. “Yes, you did. And we are, but why so much contempt? We are each what we are.”

  “I was annoyed that your mind was closed to me, a Space Lord. You have the right to close your mind to anyone. I apologize.”

  E’duard accepted the statement graciously. He said, “There was a reason that my mind was closed to you. I was trying to decide how to tell you something. And I needed to know your full feelings about the girl Madu and the boy Lari before I can spiek freely.”

  Lord bin Permaiswari felt a sense of shame; he had behaved, not as a Space Lord, but as a child. He tried to spiek with complete frankness. “I am truly worried about the boy Lari. As to Madu, you must know that there is a strong attraction, but I must first find out about the boy and see what her feelings are.”

  E’duard nodded. “You spiek as I hoped you would. We have found Lari. He is crippled for life.”

  Lord Kemal’s intake of air hurt his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Kuat had his vet take the boy’s calf muscles and transplant them to his favorite horse, Gogle. The horse will be able to run one more race at top speed, thus fooling all those who bet against Kuat. It’s improbable that any surgery will enable the boy to walk again, much less to run or dance.”

  The Space Lord found his mind a blank. He realized that E’duard was still spieking.

  “We will have the boy in his wheelchair at the horse race tomorrow. You will need Madu’s help. Then you can decide what to do.”

  Until the time of the race next day Lord Kemal found himself moving as if in a dream, dispassionately observing his movements. E’duard spieked to him only once. “We must kill off the diehr-dead at once,” he said. “After the race tomorrow, when everybody is celebrating, will be the time. Keep Kuat busy and I will take care of the matter.”

  Fearful, unhappy, feeling weaker than he had since Styron IV, Lord Kemal bin Permaiswari accompanied Madu and Governor Kuat to the horse race. At their box sat Lari, white-faced, thin, much older, in a wheelchair. “Why?” spiek-shrieked the Space Lord.

  E’duard’s voice came through much more calmly. “Kuat actually thought he was being kind. With the boy crippled, he can’t be the racer-hero he has been to the people of Xanadu. Kuat thought that way he wouldn’t need to substitute the diehr-dead. He didn’t realize he’s taken the boy’s chief reason for wanting to live; he might almost as well have substituted the diehr-dead.”

  Madu was sobbing. Kuat, in what he intended as rough kindness, stroked her hair. “We’ll take care of him. And, Venus! Will we fool the bettors today! They think Gogle can’t run anymore. Will they be fooled! Of course, it’s only for this one race, but it’ll be worth it!”

  “Be worth it,” the Space Lord thought. Be worth the rest of Lari’s life, spent crippled, unable to do what he loved most.

  “Be worth it,” Madu thought. Never to dance again, never to run, to feel the wind in his hair as the crowds cheered.

  “Be worth it,” Lari thought. What does anything matter anymore.

  Gogle won by half a track.

  Kuat, his mood expansive, said to the others, “See you in the main salon of the palace. Have to collect my wagers.”

  Madu’s face was carved of marble as she wheeled Lari toward a special two-cat cart brought up beside the stadium. Lord Kemal, without a word, mounted Griselda. He felt the need, for a little while, at least, for solitude.

  They loped, in silent communication, away from the walls of the city. Lord Kemal heard a cry from the city gate, but he paid no attention. His mind was on Lari. Again the cry. Another lope. Suddenly Griselda faltered, stumbled, fell. At once the Space Lord was down, beside her face. Her eyes were glazing. He saw, then, the dart piercing her neck. Pisang. She tried to lick his hand; he petted her, his eyes filled with tears. She gave one great wrenching sigh, looked into her being, shuddered, and died. Part of him died with her.

  When he reached the gate he queried the guard. No one was supposed to leave the city between the end of the races and the harvesting of the buah fruit. Griselda was the victim of an error of administrative oversight. No one had remembered to tell the Space Lord.

  Silently he walked back through the pathways of the city. How beautiful it had seemed to him a short while ago. How empty and how sad it seemed now.

  He reached the main salon shortly after Madu and Lari in his wheelchair arrived.

  It was strange how all the budding desire for Madu had withered like a flower in the frost.

  Kuat entered, laughing.

  Lord Kemal would be tortured for more than two centuries by a question. When did the end justify the means? When was the law absolute? He saw in his mind’s eye Griselda bounding over dunes and plains—a Madu innocent as dawn—Lari dancing under a sunless moon.

  “Dju-di!” demanded Kuat.

  Madu moved gracefully toward the low table. She picked up the two-holed pitcher. Lord Kemal saw, through E’duard’s spiech, that the pisang flow was being let into the ambiotic fluid of the diehr-dead. Soon they would be truly dead.

  Kuat laughed. “I won every bet I made today.”

  He looked away from Madu toward the Lord Kemal.

  Almost imperceptibly Madu’s thumb moved from one hole to the other.

  Lord Kemal did nothing in the endless night.

  Other Stories

  War No. 81-Q, (Original Version)

  It came to war.

  Tibet and America, each claiming the Radiant Heat Monopoly, applied for a War Permit for 2127 A.D.

  The Universal War Board granted it, stating, of course, the conditions. It was, after a few compromises and amendments had been effected, accepted by the belligerent nations.

  The conditions were:

  a. Five 22,000-ton aero-ships, combinations of aero and dirigible, were to be the only combatants.

  b. They were to be armed with machine-guns firing nonexplosive bullets only.

  c. The War Territory of Kerguelen was to be rented by the two nations, the United American Nations and the Mongolian Alliance, for the two hours of the war, which was to begin on January 5, 2127, at noon.

  d. The nation vanquished was to pay all the expenses of the war, excepting the War Territory Rent.

  e. No human beings should be on the battlefield. The Mongolian controllers must be in Lhasa; the American ones, in the City of Franklin.

  The belligerent nations had no difficulty in renting the War Territory of Kerguelen. The rent charged by the Austral League was, as usual, forty million dollars an hour.

  Spectators from all over the world rushed to the borders of the Territory, eager to obtain good places. Q-ray telescopes came into tremendous demand.

  Mechanics carefully worked over the giant war-machines.

  The radio-controls, delicate as watches, were brought to perfection, both at the control stations in Lhasa and in the City of Franklin, and on the war-flyers.

  The planes arrived on the minute decided.

  Controlled by their pilots thousands of miles away, the great planes swooped and curved, neither fleet daring to make the first move.

  There were five American ships, the Prospero, Ariel, Oberon. Caliban, and Titania, and five Chinese ships, rented by the Mongolians, the Han, Yuen, Tsing, Tsin, and Sung.

  The Mongolian fleet incurred the displeasure of the spectators by casting a smoke screen, which greatly interfered with the seeing. The Prospero, every gun throbbing, hurled itself into the smoke screen and came out on the other side, out
of control, quivering with incoordinating machinery. As it neared the boundary, it was blown up by its pilot, safe and sound, thousands of miles away. But the sacrifice was not in vain. The Han and Sung, both severely crippled, swung slowly out of the mist. The Han, with a list that clearly showed it was doomed, was struck by a lucky shot from the Caliban and fell several hundred feet, its left wing ablaze. But for a second or two, the pilot regained control, and, with a single shot, disabled the Caliban, and then the Han fell to its doom on the rocky islands below.

  The Caliban and Sung continued to drift, firing at each other. As soon as it was seen that neither would be of any further use in the battle, they were, by common consent, taken from the field.

  There now remained three ships on each side, darting in and out of the smoke screen, occasionally ascending to cool the engines.

  Among the spectators, excitement prevailed, for it was announced from the City of Franklin that a new and virtually unknown pilot, Jack Bearden, was going to take command of three ships at once! And never before had one pilot commanded, by radio, more than two ships! Besides, two of the most famous Mongolian aces, Baartek and Soong, were on the field, while an even more famous person, the Chinese mercenary T’ang, commanded the Yuen.

  The Americans among the spectators protested that a pilot so young and inexperienced should not be allowed to endanger the ships.

  The Government replied that it had a thorough confidence in Bearden’s abilities.

  But when the young pilot stepped before the television screen, on which was pictured the battle, and the maze of controls, he realized that his ability had been overestimated, by himself and by everyone else.

  He climbed up on the high stool and reached for the speed control levers, which were directly behind him. He leaned back, and fell! His head struck against two buttons: and he saw the Oberon and Titania blow themselves up.

  The three enemy ships cooperated in an attack on the Ariel. Bearden swung his ship around and rushed it into the smoke screen.

  He saw the huge bulk of the Tsing bear down upon him. He fired instinctively—and hit the control center.

  Dodging aside as the Tsing fell past him, he missed the Tsin by inches. The pilot of the Tsin shot at the reinforcements of the Ariel’s right wing, loosening it.

  For a few moments, he was alone, or, rather, the Ariel was alone. For he was at the control board in the War Building in the City of Franklin.

  The Yuen, controlled by the master-pilot T’ang, rose up from beneath him, shot off the end of his left wing, and vanished into the mists of the smoke screen before the astonished Bearden was able to register a single hit.

  He had better luck with the Tsin. When this swooped down on the Ariel, he disabled its firing control. Then, when this plane rose from beneath, intending to ram itself into the Ariel, Bearden dropped half his machine-guns overboard. They struck the Tsin, which exploded immediately.

  Now only the Ariel and the Yuen remained! Master-pilot faced master-pilot.

  Bearden placed a lucky shot in the Yuen’s rudder, but only partially disabled it.

  Yuen threw more smoke-screen bombs overboard.

  Bearden rose upward; no, he was still safe and sound in America, but the Ariel rose upward.

  The spectators in their helicopters blew whistles, shot off pistols, went mad in applause.

  T’ang lowered the Yuen to within several hundred feet of the water.

  He was applauded, too.

  Bearden inspected his ship with the autotelevisation. It would collapse at the slightest strain.

  He wheeled his ship to the right, preparatory to descending.

  His left wing broke under the strain: and the Ariel began hurtling downward. He turned his autotelevisation on the Yuen, not daring to see the ship, which carried his reputation, his future, crash.

  The Yuen was struck by his left wing, which was falling like a stone, The Yuen exploded forty-six seconds later.

  And, by international law, Bearden had won the war for America, with it the honors of war and the possession of the enormous Radiant Heat revenue.

  All the world hailed this Lindbergh of the twenty-second century.

  The Martian was sitting at the top of a granite cliff. In order to enjoy the breeze better he had taken on the shape of a small fir tree. The wind always felt very pleasant through non-deciduous needles.

  At the bottom of the cliff stood an American, the first the Martian had ever seen.

  The American extracted from his pocket a fantastically ingenious device. It was a small metal box with a nozzle which lifted up and produced an immediate flame. From this miraculous device the American readily lit a tube of bliss-giving herbs. The Martian understood that these were called cigarettes by the Americans. As the American finished lighting his cigarette, the Martian changed his shape to that of a fifteen-foot, red-faced, black-whiskered Chinese demagogue, and shouted to the American in English, “Hello, friend!”

  The American looked up and almost dropped his teeth.

  The Martian stepped off the cliff and floated gently down toward the American, approaching slowly so as not to affright him too much.

  Nevertheless, the American did seem to be concerned, because he said, “You’re not real, are you? You can’t be. Or can you?”

  Modestly the Martian looked into the mind of the American and realized that fifteen-foot Chinese demagogues were not reassuring visual images in an everyday American psychology. He peeked modestly into the mind of the American, seeking a reassuring image. The first image he saw was that of the American’s mother, so the Martian promptly changed into the form of the American’s mother and answered, “What is real, darling?”

  With this the American turned slightly green and put his hand over his eyes. The Martian looked once again into the mind of the American and saw a slightly confused image.

  When the American opened his eyes, the Martian had taken on the form of a Red Cross girl halfway through a strip-tease act. Although the maneuver was designed to be pleasant, the American was not reassured. His fear began to change into anger and he said, “What the hell are you?”

  The Martian gave up trying to be obliging. He changed himself into a Chinese Nationalist major general with an Oxford education and said in a distinct British accent, “I’m by way of being one of the local characters, a bit on the Supernatural side, you know. I do hope you do not mind. Western science is so wonderful that I had to examine that fantastic machine you have in your hand. Would you like to chat a bit before you go on?”

  The Martian caught a confused glimpse of images in the American’s mind. They seemed to be concerned with something called prohibition, something else called “on the wagon,” and the reiterated question, “How the hell did I get here?”

  Meanwhile the Martian examined the lighter.

  He handed it back to the American, who looked stunned.

  “Very fine magic,” said the Martian. “We do not do anything of that sort in these hills. I am a fairly low-class Demon. I see that you are a captain in the illustrious army of the United States. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the 1,387,229th Eastern Subordinate Incarnation of a Lohan. Do you have time for a chat?”

  The American looked at the Chinese Nationalist uniform. Then he looked behind him. His Chinese porters and interpreter lay like bundles of rags on the meadowy floor of the valley; they had all fainted dead away. The American held himself together long enough to say, “What is a Lohan?”

  “A Lohan is an Arhat,” said the Martian.

  The American did not take in this information either and the Martian concluded that something must have been missing from the usual amenities of getting acquainted with American officers. Regretfully the Martian erased all memory of himself from the mind of the American and from the minds of the swooned Chinese. He planted himself back on the cliff top, resumed the shape of a fir tree, and woke the entire gathering. He saw the Chinese interpreter gesticulating at the American and he knew that the Chinese was sayin
g, “There are Demons in these hills…”

  The Martian rather liked the hearty laugh with which the American greeted this piece of superstitious Chinese nonsense.

  He watched the party disappear as they went around the miraculously beautiful little Lake of the Eight-Mouthed River.

  That was in 1945.

  The Martian spent many thoughtful hours trying to materialize a lighter, but he never managed to create one which did not dissolve back into some unpleasant primordial effluvium within hours.

  Then it was 1955. The Martian heard that a Soviet officer was coming, and he looked forward with genuine pleasure to making the acquaintance of another person from the miraculously up-to-date Western world.

  Peter Farrer was a Volga German.

  The Volga Germans are about as much Russian as the Pennsylvania Dutch are Americans.

  They have lived in Russia for more than two hundred years, but the terrible bitterness of the Second World War led to the breakup of most of their communities.

  Farrer himself had fared well in this. After holding the noncommissioned rank of yefreitor in the Red Army for some years he had become a sublieutenant. In a technikum he had studied geology and survey.

  The chief of the Soviet military mission to the province of Yünnan in the People’s Republic of China had said to him, “Farrer, you are getting a real holiday. There is no danger in this trip, but we do want to get an estimate on the feasibility of building a secondary mountain highway along the rock cliffs west of Lake Pakou. I think well of you, Farrer. You have lived down your German name and you’re a good Soviet citizen and officer. I know that you will not cause any trouble with our Chinese allies or with the mountain people among whom you must travel. Go easy with them, Farrer. They are very superstitious. We need their full support, but we can take our time to get it. The liberation of India is still a long way off, but when we must move to help the Indians throw off American imperialism we do not want to have any soft areas in our rear. Do not push things too hard, Farrer. Be sure that you get a good technical job done, but that you make friends with everyone other than imperialist reactionary elements.”