by Larry Niven
“But mine is not,” Scylla the jellyfish said.
“We are sorry. Greeting, Rick.”
“Greeting, elder. Greet Roger Teng-Hui and the Terminator Beaver.”
“Greet you both. Greet Scylla, whose kind only recently made fire. A great accomplishment it was.”
We spoke; the translators spoke; talk grew raucous, then stalled. Into a moment’s pause I asked, “What’s the largest life-form the Chirpsithra know of?”
“Extinct now,” the Chirp said. “They were larger than galaxies. They formed the galaxies. Your telescopes will one day be powerful enough to watch them. Would you witness this now?”
Teng wanted to speak. The Beaver wanted to speak. But they both looked at me first, and Scylla’s snore rang out. “Please show us this wonder.”
“Our monitors ... but you have a local computer, I see.” The creature’s long red armored hand reached out for the Beaver’s Macintosh computer and opened it facing the jellyfish. “Do not disconnect.” The Chirp produced a little box of its own and plugged it into a piece of the Beaver’s equipment. Her fingers played over a surface.
The Beaver was still attached; he twitched. The Mac’s screen raced, went black, then blue-white. “Fast-forward,” the Chirp said.
We watched. A wash of violet light dimmed to blue, to green, to yellow, then broke into an expanding chaos of filaments and dimmed further.
The Chirp’s translator spoke. “Roger Teng-Hui, how do galaxies form?”
Teng said, “It’s a puzzle. Current attempts to model the early universe usually give us a universe that is too uniform to form galaxies. Inflationary theories make galaxies more likely. It’s one of the attractive things about inflation.”
She said, “You have not yet seen the universe forming. It was too uniform. Without galaxies there would be few stars, yet galaxies would never form. But like all here—even Scylla, whose sea-locked kind breed transparent jellyfish to make ever more powerful telescopes—we became able to watch.”
Out of the chaos came whirlpools of light.
“It may be you cannot see the mechanism. Teng, your people have wondered about the missing mass.” Teng recoiled; she chittered laughter. “What is unfalsifiable might still be proven true.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” I said.
“Our translators note key phrases, as ‘missing mass’ in conjunction with ‘energy of empty space.’ If engineers must use the power in the vacuum, and those engineers are yet to evolve, then they will be undiscoverable. But these life-forms we call the Firstborn evolved very early. They metabolized the energy of the vacuum. Wherever there was a bloom of Firstborn, an orgy of uncontrolled breeding, there too were sudden concentrations of mass. Disappearance of volume leaves mass behind, yes? There sudden stars flowered.
“We would study the Firstborn further, but we cannot find them. We fear them extinct. During formation of a galaxy the rage of light and heat may kill them, or else matter around them might grow denser until a black hole swallows all and remains behind to anchor newly forming stars.
“Yet we hope that they still survive between galactic clusters. See this great emptiness—” She showed us on the Mac, a vast hole in the universe where there were no galactic clusters. “We have never traveled that far. If we could study the Firstborn, we might learn their secret.”
The Beaver demanded, “But what drives your ships?”
“Our ships use a lesser effect. The Firstborn hold the key to vast wealth. If we have not learned it, we, in our billions of years ... well. Some younger race might. Teng, Beaver, Rick, it is not in our interest that you should give up striving.”
Scylla’s magnetic floatplate floated out from under the table, and she drifted out onto the tundra. The rest followed. I watched them go, thinking that we must be a common thing to the Chirpsithra. A civilization is only beginning to learn the structure of the universe, when interstellar liners appear and alien intelligences blurt out all the undiscovered secrets.
Primitive peoples die when powerful intruders mock their lifestyles. Whole worlds might be saved, if Chirp diplomats can be trained to imply that vast secrets remain untapped, awaiting the touch of young and ambitious minds.
“Paid you too much,” the Beaver told me. “Did you see animals the size of a galaxy? I did not. I saw blobs and colors.” He ambled out.
Teng caught up with him. I heard him say, “Let’s think about expanding that ‘Helmuthdip’ Web site. Get some of my colleagues involved. Maybe some passengers too.” Teng was bouncing, his spirits restored. In a young universe there were still wonders to achieve, secrets for a young species to learn.
THE CONVERGENCE OF THE OLD MIMD
Among the aliens who travel with the Chirpsithra are some who like it cold. Over the years a succession of ice-blooded species have imposed their aesthetic views on the Siberian tundra that surrounds the Draco Tavern. What we can see through the glass wall includes winding paths and a vastness of wonderful statuary carved from ice. Some of the sculpture houses alien storehouses and offices.
Through that barren, desolate, weird landscape I watched two ten-limbed spiders cloaked and hooded against the cold, picking their way through the winding paths.
Those would be Gray Mourners: Sfillirrath and one of her husbands. Sfillirrath, the larger, seemed in haste: she was taking short cuts through the sculpture, leaving her mate behind. She stopped by the biggest airlock and slowly folded herself and all those long legs into it.
The airlock revolved and she was in. Here and there, sensory clusters turned. Sfillirrath spoke a complicated phrase.
She hadn’t spoken loudly, but she can’t. My translator decided she’d shouted: “The Old Mind is gathering!”
Most of the tables in the Draco Tavern had privacy bubbles enabled. Most of the patrons heard nothing. But nine Bebebebeque, lined along the rim of the bar in front of me, tumbled off and streamed toward her.
Chittering questions, the six-inch-tall golden bugs followed her to a table full of Chirpsithra. She spoke, they spoke, all in the silence of a privacy bubble. Four tall and spindly chirps got up, leaving one behind, and made for an airlock. The bugs stayed.
The Gray Mourner male reached the big airlock and folded himself through it.
Sfillirrath and her husbands had been hanging around Earth for two years now. Chimes In Harmony was newly arrived, currently hovering near the Moon. Sfillirrath had been aboard last night. What she carried would be the latest news, whatever it meant.
It seemed to mean a lot. Patrons watched her approach, listened, then ... something changed. A few left. But—it took me a while to get it—nobody was talking to each other any more. In Sfillirrath’s wake, they were talking to tiny or embedded communication devices.
I stayed at the bar as Sfillirrath circulated among the tables. This might not be any of my business. Then again, would I ever have come here if I weren’t curious? I considered speaking to the sole remaining Chirp. As part of Chimes’s crew she’d know—
But she too was talking to an entity not present.
Sfillirrath was talking to two Folk—and Gail was on her way to offer food or drink or service. Good girl. I’d ask Gail what she’d heard, later. Meanwhile Sfillirrath’s mate had reached the bar.
He surrounded a stool, settled some of his mass on it, and spoke. My translator knew the Gray Mourner speech well. It said, “Hot liquid with much sugar and not much alcohol.”
“Fruit flavor?”
“ No. ”
I poured him hot tea with Benedictine in it I asked, “Which are you?”
“You cannot perceive? I am Shkatht.”
I said, “The Old Mind is gathering?”
“Yes, in the Orion Cluster.”
“Who is the Old Mind and what does it gather?”
He stared, I think. Shkatht has too many eyes to tell. “Information,” he said, “and intellect. Have you never heard reference to the Old Mind?”
“Never,” I said.
&nb
sp; He asked, “Have you ever wondered if there are entities older than Chirpsithra?”
I knew of very old entities that were supposed to be extinct. Otherwise—I asked, “How old are the chirps?” He might know.
“A hundred million years, they tell us, or a half billion, or more, or less. It depends on where you set the breaks in speciation. They hold all the red dwarves in the galaxy now, they say. Their first world joined their first sun before they knew how to prevent that,” Shkatht said. “But the universe is older than that.”
“I wouldn’t think species last half a billion years.”
“No, certainly not species—”
“Shkatht, what is your mate doing?”
“Spreading the word, offering opportunity to all. The Old Mind is converging near the Orion Birthground. Chimes In Harmony prepares to depart. Perhaps the Mind will talk.”
Orion ... birthground of stars? The Hubble telescope gave us pictures of fresh young stars and planetars in the Trapezium Cluster of Orion Nebula. I said, “You’ll be centuries getting there. You make it sound like a grunion run.”
“We will need more than centuries. A convergence doesn’t happen all at once. Not many will choose to go. Some passengers will await the next ship. Some who planned to stay over will fight for a berth aboard Chimes In Harmony. They’re all on their communicators negotiating, changing their plans. What is a grunion run?”
I said, “Fish come up onto shore to mate in the sand. We catch the grunion for food, if we can guess the right night.”
Shkatht knotted himself in a laugh. “This is not a grunion run. We go in hope of speaking to the—oldest intelligence—no, not that. Most knowledgeable, it may be. Rick, permit me a question. What would you make of yourself if your options were infinite?”
I’d played such mind games in college. I said, “I’d make myself intelligent enough to decide what else I wanted.”
More aliens were leaving.
“Rick, there will come a point for my kind, or for yours, or for any tool-using community that lives long enough, when intelligence may be made arbitrarily large. Can you see the danger in that?”
I said, “If you make a computer too powerful, it absorbs all knowledge and then turns itself off.” I’d bought that knowledge the hard way, with my own money, when the Draco Tavern was new.
“Absorbs all available knowledge,” the spider man corrected me. “If a computer can reach further, build its own instruments, telescopes, probes, it lasts longer.”
“The poor fool who manufactured it still goes bankrupt!”
“Cease to think in terms of makers and owners, Rick. Let yourself be the computer, let you own yourself, let you seek greater intelligence. If you are confined to just one world, or just one solar system, there comes a point at which there is nothing left to think about. The information flow has fallen too far. You could never survive ten billion years.”
“It’s that old?”
“Guesswork.”
“Go on.”
“Give up speed of thought. Give up locality. Optimum might be a sluggish flow that sometimes clusters into blazes of brilliance.”
I waited.
“We only know the Old Mind in its present state. What we find is a scattering of elements,” Shkatht said, “everywhere in the starfield, spread across the universe. These elements signal each other when their distance is less than ... it varies greatly with intent ... but let us say five light-minutes apart Think of them as the cells of a brain.”
“Tiny?”
“Elements the size of fine dust, a few million atoms each. They are adrift. They can guide their paths via magnetic fields or light pressure, sometimes up to very high speeds. The further they drift, the less is the intelligence of any grouping, do you see that? Their thought is slow, when every synapse spark takes up to five minutes, sometimes much more. But as elements spread away, their information gathering capability grows. A billion elements scattered through a light-year can become a wonderful telescope, or can engulf an object to study it exhaustively. The Old Mind learns, and from time to time, it converges.”
What I saw with my mind’s eye made a wondrous picture. I was getting excited. “So. A human brain is, what, ten to the twentieth nerve cells? Say you clustered ten to the fortieth elements of the Old Mind in that five-light-minute limit—”
“Too many. It would collapse into a proto-comet. We expect to see ten to the twenty-fifth or so before it all drifts apart, and the distance will be light-years.”
“That’s still a lot.” A billion years of data cluster into a mind, and it thinks about what it’s seen. “It kind of drifts into hyperintelligence, doesn’t it?” It’s done this before, and the memory is there. A mind forms and climbs toward evanescent godhood.
There would be an updating of the records of the universe, a flurry of problem solving, a flowering of new theory ... vast slow thought. Spaceships passing through the cloud, or even inhabited worlds, might never be noticed, or might be studied atom by atom. After a time the elements drift apart, seeking new input.
There would be no pretense that the Old Mind was a single intelligence, nothing like the illusion that a single mind occupies a human skull. Just mind forming and dissolving, carrying bits of what it’s learned, eventually linking again in a different order, in a universe noticeably changed.
No death. Just the drift.
I asked, “Are you going?”
“Sfillirrath has not decided. I think we will go.”
Many of the races I meet never expect to grow old Others never expect to die. Still, “That’s a lot of a lifetime,” I said.
“We want new races, new viewpoints, something to show an Old Mind. Else it will not converse and we will not learn.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We want a human being.”
I looked around. Usually there are human customers. All I saw were Gail and Antony, my staff. “Kind of sparse today—”
“I have been asked to ask you, Rick Schumann.”
My heart thudded hard. “I have this bar,” I said.
“You have trainees. The Draco Tavern would continue,” Shkatht said. “Rick, your kind has found only the most temporary of longevity techniques. If you were the only human being aboard Chimes In Harmony, ship’s laboratories would be brought to bear to keep you alive and in good mental health. The Old Mind converges to observe the birthing of stars and free floating planets and other wonders. We can seduce it with new viewpoints.”
“You don’t even know it’ll talk?”
Shkatht shrugged, a disturbing sight. “A convergence must evolve the concepts of communication. Some remember from earlier ages. Some won’t bother.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, and I poured him tea with a different liqueur. Shkatht extruded a snorkel from his tremendous mouth and drank.
He asked, “Are you disturbed by the company?”
“I like aliens. Even so, how many humans have you got room for?”
“How many must you have?”
“I’ll think about it.” Four, well chosen, might be enough to keep each other sane.
“You have little time to think. Chimes In Harmony prepares to depart. Passengers are gathering now. Entropy is having its way with you, Rick. Think how long you might live.”
I said, “The Old Mind has immortality. It doesn’t die. What it knows doesn’t die. And if it ever—” I stopped.
Sfillirrath had emptied a bottle of maple syrup. Gail approached her with another. Sfillirrath spoke to her. She listened. Nodded.
Shkatht asked, “Why did you stop talking?”
“Shkatht, it never clusters all of itself, does it?”
“How could that be, since twelve billion years ago? It has spread itself across the universe. But we think the Old Mind almost stopped manufacturing new elements, long ago, and we think we know why. It would have become the dominant natural force in the universe. Nothing interesting could happen after that.
“We wonder if
it was too powerful for a time. For billions of years following the Old Mind’s expansion, we see no sign of other intelligence—”
“Rick,” asked Gail, “may I speak to you?”
They took an established science fiction writer from Sri Lanka.
They took the manager of the San Diego Zoo.
They took Gail.
They wanted humans with a record for getting along with minds unlike their own. I hope three humans are enough to keep each other sane.
I didn’t go.
After all, I have this bar. All the traffic between Earth and the universe passes through the Draco Tavern.
There have been other convergences of the Old Mind. Other Chirpsithra liners must have gone to visit them. Sooner or later the stories will come home to the Draco Tavern. All I have to do is wait.
CHRYSALIS
After Apparent Dischord’s lander docked, the Flutterbies came to the Draco Tavern every day.
The Chirpsithra called its kind something multisyllabic, with a juicy sound. My translator rendered this as “Flutterby.” There were seven. They more nearly resembled caterpillars: segmented worms with a couple of dozen frail legs that bunched up near a complicated face with a triple jaw. They weighed half what I did. In Siberian winter they didn’t use pressure suits, nor even clothing for warmth, but backpacks rode behind their heads.
They’d enter through the long-and-low airlock and split up. They were gregarious: they mixed with their fellow travelers and humans too. I spent an hour listening to two of them argue philosophy with a grad student from Washburn U, veering over into quantum physics and astrophysics and evolutionary theory, hitting her in stereo, shooting down every theory she raised.
On the seventh day one Flutterby stayed behind when the rest left. She said, “I hope you will hire me to wait on tables.”
The idea tickled me. I’d never had an alien working in the Tavern. Besides, I needed a replacement for Gail, who had gone off aboard Chimes In Harmony to find the Old Mind and wouldn’t be back until after I was dead.
