The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge (22 page)
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Authors: Vernor Vinge
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The voyage that had crossed one hundred centuries and four light-years was ended.
ILSE SAT IN THE GATHERING TWILIGHT AND LISTENED. SOUND WAS AN UNDREAMED of dimension to her: tiny things burrowing in their holes, the stream gurgling nearby, a faint chirping in the distance. Twilight ended and a shallow fog rose in the dark glade. Ilse knew her voyaging was over. She would never more again. No matter. That had been planned, she was sure. She knew that much of her computing machinery—her mind—had been destroyed in the landing. She would not survive as a conscious being for more than another century or two. No matter.
What did matter was that she knew that her mission was not completed, and that the most important part remained, else the immense gamble her makers had undertaken would finally come to nothing. That possibility was the only thing which could frighten Ilse. It was part of her design.
She reviewed all the programmed memories that had survived the centuries and the planetary entry, but discovered nothing new. She investigated the rest of her body, testing her parts in a thorough, almost
destructive, way she never would have dared while still centuries from her destination. She discovered nothing new. Finally she came to that load of ice she had carried so far. With one of her cryostats broken, she couldn’t keep it at its proper temperature for more than a few years. She recalled the apparently useless leads that disappeared into that mass. There was only one thing left to try.
destructive, way she never would have dared while still centuries from her destination. She discovered nothing new. Finally she came to that load of ice she had carried so far. With one of her cryostats broken, she couldn’t keep it at its proper temperature for more than a few years. She recalled the apparently useless leads that disappeared into that mass. There was only one thing left to try.
Ilse turned down her cryostats, and waited as the temperature within her climbed. The ice near her small fusion reactor warmed first. Somewhere in the frozen mass a tiny piece of metal expanded just far enough to complete a circuit, and Ilse discovered that her makers had taken one last precaution to insure her reliability. At the base of the icy hulk, next to the reactor, they had placed an auxiliary memory unit, and now Ilse had access to it. Her designers had realized that no matter what dangers they imagined, there would be others, and so they had decided to leave this back-up cold and inactive till the very end. And the new memory unit was quite different from her old ones, Ilse vaguely realized. It used optical rather than magnetic storage.
Now Ilse knew what she must do. She warmed a cylindrical tank filled with frozen amniotic fluid to thirty-seven degrees centigrade. From the store next to the cylinder, she injected a single microorganism into the tank. In a few minutes she would begin to suffuse blood through the tank.
It was early morning now and the darkness was moist and cool. Ilse tried to probe her new memory further, but was balked. Apparently the instructions were delivered according to some schedule to avoid unnecessary use of the memory. Ilse reviewed what she had learned, and decided that she would know more in another nine months.
“Long Shot” was many things to me. I wanted the apotheosis of all the planetary missions that dominated space exploration in the twentieth century. I wanted to describe the smallest colony mission that could ever be attempted. (In fact, my only authorly reason for “blowing up” the sun was to justify such a screwball attempt.)
The part of the adventure that I show is certainly a “long shot,” but it’s not the most desperate part of the mission. At the end of the story, we know that Ilse is bearing human zygotes. Consider her size: She could contain many zygotes, but nowhere near the mass to bring them all to term. And what will she do with the babies? How to feed them, how to teach them? Surely, humanity did not expect that there was an alien civilization at the target. (Hmm, maybe they did! We only know what Ilse remembers. An alien race would be a cop-out, but it would make
writing a sequel more fun.) Hey, I really do have some ideas about Ilse’s future (and that is the true “long shot” behind the title). The unwritten sequel would probably take place about ten years later, and a good title might be “Firstborn Son.”
writing a sequel more fun.) Hey, I really do have some ideas about Ilse’s future (and that is the true “long shot” behind the title). The unwritten sequel would probably take place about ten years later, and a good title might be “Firstborn Son.”
Of course, Ilse is far from being the smallest possible interstellar probe. Early in the twentieth century, Svante Arrhenius suggested that micro-organisms might survive interstellar voyages, spreading some forms of life throughout the universe. Even if done deliberately, such “probes” would be slow and limited things. Since writing “Long Shot,” I’ve seen discussions of directed,
useful
probes much smaller than Ilse: Robert L. Forward has described an interstellar probe massing just a few grams (“Starwisp,” Hughes Research Labs Research Report 555, June 1983). Mark Zimmermann has combined that idea with Al to suggest sentient probes in the same mass range. Look around you! Similar travelers may be snugged away in that pebble on the driveway, in the odd thistledown floating across the yard.
useful
probes much smaller than Ilse: Robert L. Forward has described an interstellar probe massing just a few grams (“Starwisp,” Hughes Research Labs Research Report 555, June 1983). Mark Zimmermann has combined that idea with Al to suggest sentient probes in the same mass range. Look around you! Similar travelers may be snugged away in that pebble on the driveway, in the odd thistledown floating across the yard.
Michael Moorcock bought “Apartness” for
New worlds SF
. It was my first sale (though “Bookworm, Run!” was written earlier). “Apartness” was later anthologized by Don Wollheim and Terry Carr in one of their best-of-the-year collections. Such success was a dream come true for this beginning writer. But I wonder if the story’s success had much connection with the question that originally brought me to write it: Why are there no “Eskimos”—no long-established human societies—in Antarctica? Is it too remote from potential colonists, or is the place that much less hospitable than the arctic? I did some reading, concluded that both reasons had some virtue. There might be a few places on the continent that could support pretechnical human settlers, but those colonists would need real motivation. So the question was to find such motivation. Given the context of 1964, there was a terrible possibility—and the story came close to writing itself.
New worlds SF
. It was my first sale (though “Bookworm, Run!” was written earlier). “Apartness” was later anthologized by Don Wollheim and Terry Carr in one of their best-of-the-year collections. Such success was a dream come true for this beginning writer. But I wonder if the story’s success had much connection with the question that originally brought me to write it: Why are there no “Eskimos”—no long-established human societies—in Antarctica? Is it too remote from potential colonists, or is the place that much less hospitable than the arctic? I did some reading, concluded that both reasons had some virtue. There might be a few places on the continent that could support pretechnical human settlers, but those colonists would need real motivation. So the question was to find such motivation. Given the context of 1964, there was a terrible possibility—and the story came close to writing itself.
“…
B
ut he saw a light!
On the coast.
Can’t you understand what that means?” Diego Ribera y Rodrigues leaned across the tiny wooden desk to emphasize his point. His adversary sat in the shadows and avoided the weak glow of the whale oil lamp hung from the cabin’s ceiling. During the momentary pause in the argument, Diego could hear the wind keening through the masts and rigging above them. He was suddenly, painfully conscious of the regular rolling of the deck and slow oscillations of the swinging lamp. But he continued to glare at the man opposite him, and waited for an answer. Finally Capitán Manuel Delgado tilted his head out of the shadows. He smiled unpleasantly. His narrow face and sharp black moustache made him look like what he was: a master of power—political, military, and personal.
B
ut he saw a light!
On the coast.
Can’t you understand what that means?” Diego Ribera y Rodrigues leaned across the tiny wooden desk to emphasize his point. His adversary sat in the shadows and avoided the weak glow of the whale oil lamp hung from the cabin’s ceiling. During the momentary pause in the argument, Diego could hear the wind keening through the masts and rigging above them. He was suddenly, painfully conscious of the regular rolling of the deck and slow oscillations of the swinging lamp. But he continued to glare at the man opposite him, and waited for an answer. Finally Capitán Manuel Delgado tilted his head out of the shadows. He smiled unpleasantly. His narrow face and sharp black moustache made him look like what he was: a master of power—political, military, and personal.
“It means,” Delgado answered, “people. So what?”
“That’s right. People. On the Palmer Peninsula. The Antarctic Continent is inhabited. Why, finding humans in Europe couldn’t be any more fantastic—”
“Mire
, Señor Profesor. I’m vaguely aware of the importance of what you say.” There was that smile again. “But the
Vigilancia—”
, Señor Profesor. I’m vaguely aware of the importance of what you say.” There was that smile again. “But the
Vigilancia—”
Diego tried again. “We simply have to land and investigate the light. Just consider the scientific importance of it all—” The anthropologist had said the wrong thing.
Delgado’s cynical indifference dropped away and his young, experienced face became fierce. “Scientific import! If those slimy Australian
friends of yours wanted to, they could give us all the scientific knowledge ever known. Instead they have their sympathizers”—he jabbed a finger at Ribera—“run all about the South World doing ‘research’ that’s been done ten times as well more than two centuries ago. The pigs don’t even use the knowledge for their own gain.” This last was the greatest condemnation Delgado could offer.
friends of yours wanted to, they could give us all the scientific knowledge ever known. Instead they have their sympathizers”—he jabbed a finger at Ribera—“run all about the South World doing ‘research’ that’s been done ten times as well more than two centuries ago. The pigs don’t even use the knowledge for their own gain.” This last was the greatest condemnation Delgado could offer.
Ribera had difficulty restraining a bitter reply, but one mistake this evening was more than enough. He could understand though not approve Delgado’s bitterness against a nation which had been wise (or lucky) enough not to burn its libraries during the riots following the North World War.
The Australians have the knowledge, all right
, thought Ribera,
but they also have the wisdom to know that some fundamental changes must be made in human society before this knowledge can be reintroduced
,
or else we’ll wind up with a South World War and no more human race
. This was a point Delgado and many others refused to accept. “But really, Señor Capitán, we
are
doing original research. Ocean currents and populations change over the years. Our data are often quite different from those we know were gathered before. This light Juarez saw tonight is the strongest evidence of all that things are different.” And for Diego Ribera, it was especially important. As an anthropologist he had had nothing to do during the voyage except be seasick. A thousand times during the trip he had asked himself why he had been the one to organize the ecologists and oceanographers and get them on the ship; now he knew. If he could just convince this bigoted sailor …
The Australians have the knowledge, all right
, thought Ribera,
but they also have the wisdom to know that some fundamental changes must be made in human society before this knowledge can be reintroduced
,
or else we’ll wind up with a South World War and no more human race
. This was a point Delgado and many others refused to accept. “But really, Señor Capitán, we
are
doing original research. Ocean currents and populations change over the years. Our data are often quite different from those we know were gathered before. This light Juarez saw tonight is the strongest evidence of all that things are different.” And for Diego Ribera, it was especially important. As an anthropologist he had had nothing to do during the voyage except be seasick. A thousand times during the trip he had asked himself why he had been the one to organize the ecologists and oceanographers and get them on the ship; now he knew. If he could just convince this bigoted sailor …
Delgado appeared relaxed again. “And too, Señor Profesor, you must remember that you ‘scientists’ are really superfluous on this expedition. You were lucky to get aboard at all.”
That was true. El Presidente Imperial was even more hostile to scientists of the Melbourne School than Delgado was. Ribera didn’t like to think of all the boot-licking and chicanery that had been necessary to get his people on the expedition. The anthropologist’s reply to the other’s last comment started out respectfully, almost humbly. “Yes, I know you are doing something truly important here.” He paused.
To hell with it,
he thought, suddenly sick of his own ingratiating manner.
This fool won’t listen to logic or flattery
. Ribera’s tone changed. “Yeah, I know you are doing something
truly
important here. Somewhere up in Buenos Aires the Chief Astrologer to el Presidente Imperial looked at his crystal ball or whatever and said to Alfredo IV in sepulchral tones: ’Señor Presidente, the stars have spoken. All the secrets of joy and wealth lie on the floating Isle of Coney. Send your men southward to find it.’ And so you, the
Vigilancia NdP,
and half the mental cripples in Sudamérica are wandering around the coast of Antarctica looking for
Coney Island.” Ribera ran out of breath and satire at the same time. He knew his long-caged temper had just ruined all his plans and perhaps put his life in danger.
To hell with it,
he thought, suddenly sick of his own ingratiating manner.
This fool won’t listen to logic or flattery
. Ribera’s tone changed. “Yeah, I know you are doing something
truly
important here. Somewhere up in Buenos Aires the Chief Astrologer to el Presidente Imperial looked at his crystal ball or whatever and said to Alfredo IV in sepulchral tones: ’Señor Presidente, the stars have spoken. All the secrets of joy and wealth lie on the floating Isle of Coney. Send your men southward to find it.’ And so you, the
Vigilancia NdP,
and half the mental cripples in Sudamérica are wandering around the coast of Antarctica looking for
Coney Island.” Ribera ran out of breath and satire at the same time. He knew his long-caged temper had just ruined all his plans and perhaps put his life in danger.
Delgado’s face seemed frozen. His eyes flickered over Ribera’s shoulder and looked at a mirror strategically placed in the space between the door frame and the top of the cabin’s door. Then he looked back at the anthropologist. “If I weren’t such a reasonable man you would be orca meat before morning.” Then he smiled, a sincere friendly grin. “Besides, you’re right. Those fools in Buenos Aires aren’t fit to rule a pigsty, much less the Sudamérican Empire. Alfredo I was a man, a superman. Before the war-diseases had died out, he had united an entire continent under one fist, a continent that no one had been able to unite with jet planes and automatic weapons. But his heirs, especially the one that’s in now, are superstitious tramps … . Frankly, that’s why I can’t land on the coast. The Imperial Astrologer, that fellow Jones y Urrutia, would claim when we returned to Buenos Aires that I had catered to you Australian sympathizers and el Presidente would believe him and I would probably end up with a one-way ticket to the Northern Hemisphere.”
Ribera was silent for a second, trying to accept Delgado’s sudden friendliness. Finally he ventured, “I would’ve thought you’d like the astrologers; you seem to dislike us scientists enough.”
“You’re using labels, Ribera. I feel nothing toward labels. It is success that wins my affection, and failure my hate. There may have been some time in the past when a group calling themselves astrologers could produce results. I don’t know, and the matter doesn’t interest me,
for I live in the present
. In our time the men working in the name of astrology are incapable of producing results, are conscious frauds. But don’t be smug; your own people have produced damn few results. And if it should ever come that the astrologers are successful, I will take up their arts without hesitation and denounce you and your Scientific Method as superstition—for that is what it would be in the face of a more successful method.”
for I live in the present
. In our time the men working in the name of astrology are incapable of producing results, are conscious frauds. But don’t be smug; your own people have produced damn few results. And if it should ever come that the astrologers are successful, I will take up their arts without hesitation and denounce you and your Scientific Method as superstition—for that is what it would be in the face of a more successful method.”
The ultimate pragmatist,
thought Ribera.
At least there is one form of persuasion that will work
. “I see what you mean, Señor Capitán. And as to success: there is one way that you could land with impunity. A lot can happen over the centuries.” He continued half-slyly, “What was once a floating island might become grounded on the shore of the continent. If the astrologers could be convinced of the idea …” He let the sentence hang.
thought Ribera.
At least there is one form of persuasion that will work
. “I see what you mean, Señor Capitán. And as to success: there is one way that you could land with impunity. A lot can happen over the centuries.” He continued half-slyly, “What was once a floating island might become grounded on the shore of the continent. If the astrologers could be convinced of the idea …” He let the sentence hang.
Delgado considered, but not for long. “Say! That is an idea. And I personally would like to find out what kind of creature would prefer this icebox over the rest of the South World.
“Very well. I’ll try it. Now get out. I’m going to have to make this look like it’s all the astrologers’ idea, and you are likely to puncture the illusion if you’re around when I talk to them.”
Ribera lurched from his chair, caught off balance by the swaying of the deck and the abruptness of his dismissal. Without a doubt, Delgado was the most unusual Sudamérican officer Ribera had ever met.
“Muchísimas gracias
, Señor Capitán.” He turned and walked unsteadily out the door, past the storm light by the entrance, and into the windfilled darkness of the short Antarctic night.
, Señor Capitán.” He turned and walked unsteadily out the door, past the storm light by the entrance, and into the windfilled darkness of the short Antarctic night.
THE ASTROLOGERS DID INDEED LIKE THE IDEA. AT TWO-THIRTY IN THE MORNING (just after sunrise) the
Vigilancia
,
Nave del Presidente
, changed course and tacked toward the area of coast where the light had been. Before the sun had been up six hours, the landing boats were over the side and heading for the coast.
Vigilancia
,
Nave del Presidente
, changed course and tacked toward the area of coast where the light had been. Before the sun had been up six hours, the landing boats were over the side and heading for the coast.
In his eagerness, Diego Ribera y Rodrigues had scrambled aboard the first boat to be launched, not noticing that the Imperial Astrologers had used their favored status on the expedition to commandeer the lead craft. It was a clear day, but the wind made the water choppy and frigid saltwater was splattered over the men in the boat. The tiny vessel rose and fell, rose and fell, with a monotony that promised to make Ribera sick.
“Ah, so you are finally taking an interest in our Quest,” a reedy voice interrupted his thoughts. Ribera turned to face the speaker, and recognized one Juan Jones y Urrutia, Subassistant to the Chief Astrologer to el Presidente Imperial. No doubt the vapid young mystic actually believed the tales of Coney Island, or else he would have managed to stay up in Buenos Aires with the rest of the hedonists in Alfredo’s court. Beside the astrologer sat Capitán Delgado. The good captain must have done some tremendous persuading, for Jones seemed to regard the whole idea of visiting the coast as his own conception.
Ribera endeavored to smile. “Why yes, uh—”
Jones pressed on. “Tell me; would you have ever suspected life here, you who don’t bother to consult the True Fundamentals?”
Ribera groaned. He noticed Delgado smiling at his discomfort. If the boat went through one more rise-fall, Ribera thought he’d scream; it did and he didn’t.
“I guess we couldn’t have guessed it, no.” Ribera edged to the side of the boat, cursing himself for having been so eager to get on the first boat.
His eyes roamed the horizon—anything to get away from the vacuous, smug expression on Jones’ face. The coast was gray, bleak, covered with large boulders. The breakers smashing into it seemed faintly yellow
or red where they weren’t white foam—probably coloring from the algae and diatoms in the water; the ecology boys would know.
or red where they weren’t white foam—probably coloring from the algae and diatoms in the water; the ecology boys would know.
“Smoke ahead!” The shout came thinly through the air from the second boat. Ribera squinted and examined the coast minutely. There! Barely recognizable as smoke, the wind-distorted haze rose from some point hidden by the low coastal hills. What if it turned out to be some sluggishly active volcano? That depressing thought had not occurred to him before. The geologists would have fun, but it would be a bust as far as he was concerned … . In any case, they would know which it was in a few minutes.
Capitán Delgado appraised the situation, then spoke several curt commands to the oarsmen. The crew’s cadence shifted, and the boat turned ninety degrees to move parallel to the shore and breakers five hundred meters off. The trailing boats imitated the lead craft’s maneuver.
Soon the coast bent sharply inward, revealing a long, narrow inlet. The night before, the
Vigilancia
must have been directly in line with the channel in order for Juarez to see the light. The three boats moved up the narrow channel. Soon the wind died. All that could be heard of it was a chill whistle as it tore at the hills which bordered the channel. The waves were much gentler now and the icy water no longer splashed into the boats, though the men’s parkas were already caked with salt. Earlier the water had seemed faintly yellow; now it appeared orange and even red, especially farther up the inlet. The brilliant bacterial contamination contrasted sharply with the dull hills, hills that bore no trace of vegetation. In the place of plant life, uniformly gray boulders of all sizes covered the landscape. Nowhere was there snow; that would come with the winter, still five months in the future. But to Ribera this “summer” landscape was many times harsher than the bleakest winter scene in Sudamérica. Red water, gray hills. The only things that seemed even faintly normal were the brilliant blue sky, and the sun, which cast long shadows into the drowned valley; a sun that seemed always at the point of setting even though it had barely risen.
Vigilancia
must have been directly in line with the channel in order for Juarez to see the light. The three boats moved up the narrow channel. Soon the wind died. All that could be heard of it was a chill whistle as it tore at the hills which bordered the channel. The waves were much gentler now and the icy water no longer splashed into the boats, though the men’s parkas were already caked with salt. Earlier the water had seemed faintly yellow; now it appeared orange and even red, especially farther up the inlet. The brilliant bacterial contamination contrasted sharply with the dull hills, hills that bore no trace of vegetation. In the place of plant life, uniformly gray boulders of all sizes covered the landscape. Nowhere was there snow; that would come with the winter, still five months in the future. But to Ribera this “summer” landscape was many times harsher than the bleakest winter scene in Sudamérica. Red water, gray hills. The only things that seemed even faintly normal were the brilliant blue sky, and the sun, which cast long shadows into the drowned valley; a sun that seemed always at the point of setting even though it had barely risen.
Ribera’s attention wandered up the channel. He forgot the sea sickness, the bloody water, the dead land. He could see
them
; not an ambiguous glow in the night, but people! He could see their huts, apparently made of stone and hides, and partly dug into the ground. He could see what appeared to be leather-hulled boats or kayaks along with a larger, white boat (now what could that be?), lying on the ground before the little village. He could see people! Not the expressions on their faces nor the exact manner of their clothing, but he could see them and that was enough for the instant. Here was something truly new; something the long dead scholars of Oxford, Cambridge, and UCLA had never learned, could never have learned. Here was something that mankind
was seeing for the first and not the second or third or fourth time around!
them
; not an ambiguous glow in the night, but people! He could see their huts, apparently made of stone and hides, and partly dug into the ground. He could see what appeared to be leather-hulled boats or kayaks along with a larger, white boat (now what could that be?), lying on the ground before the little village. He could see people! Not the expressions on their faces nor the exact manner of their clothing, but he could see them and that was enough for the instant. Here was something truly new; something the long dead scholars of Oxford, Cambridge, and UCLA had never learned, could never have learned. Here was something that mankind
was seeing for the first and not the second or third or fourth time around!
What brought these people here?
Ribera asked himself. From the few books on polar cultures that he had read at the University of Melbourne, he knew that generally populations are forced into the polar regions by competing peoples. What were the forces behind this migration? Who were these people?
Ribera asked himself. From the few books on polar cultures that he had read at the University of Melbourne, he knew that generally populations are forced into the polar regions by competing peoples. What were the forces behind this migration? Who were these people?
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