Infinite Dreams

  “Lars, I’m going to tell you something that I’ve said to no one before, and will never say again. You must not ask any questions; you must never tell anyone what I say.”

  “What—”

  He continued rapidly. “Everything you believe about Godbuk is true. I know that very well, for I wasn’t … born on this world. I am an observer, the latest of many, from Urth. Which is not a myth, but an actual world in the sky. The world from which all men came.”

  “You really—”

  “You can’t tell anybody this truth for the same reason I can’t. It would raise false hope.

  “We rediscovered this world some fifty years ago, and immediately began preparations to move you people off this inimical world, either to Urth or, if you prefer, to another world, similar to this one but more pleasant.

  “We can build a flotilla of sky ships that will hold everybody—and it is abuilding. But such a thing takes time. Many generations.”

  Lars was thoughtful. “I think I see.”

  “There may be two more Burnings before the rescue can be made. You know human nature, Lars.”

  “By that time …” he nodded. “They might not greet you as saviors. The memory would tarnish and … you would be seen as withholding freedom, rather than giving it.”

  “Exactly.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. “Then what you want of me,” Lars said slowly, “is to stop teaching the truth. Now that I know it’s the truth.”

  “I’m afraid so. For the sake of future generations.”

  Brian waited patiently while Lars argued with himself. “All right,” he said through clenched teeth, “I promise.”

  “I know what it means. Goodbye, Lars.”

  “Good bye.” He turned abruptly to save a young man the sight of an old man’s tears, and walked heavily down the path back to his school. Today, class, you are going to study long division, the use of the comma, and pottery. And lies.

  Brian watched the old man walk away and then hauled himself to the other side of the river. He started down the path toward Carolltown and wasn’t surprised to find a man waiting for him at the first bend in the road.

  “Hello, Fred.”

  Fred got up, dusting off his breeches. “How did it go?”

  “He believed it, every word. You won’t have any more trouble.”

  Fred handed him a small sack of gold. He weighed it in his palm and then dropped it into his bag without counting it. “I liked the old man,” Brian said. “I feel like a grayfish.”

  “It was necessary.”

  “It was cruel.”

  “You can always give back the gold.”

  “I could do that.” He shouldered his bag and walked away, south to the town where he was born.

  26 Days, On Earth

  There are some writers whose styles are so infectious they’re dangerous to have around while you’re working—your characters start thinking like them, sounding like them. For me, James Boswell is one such culprit.

  I was trying to write my second novel while reading Boswell’s London Journal (the first volume, 1762-63), and the protagonist started sounding like twenty-two-year-old Boswell. Rather than stop reading—I literally flew to the book every day, as soon as I’d written 1,500 words—I postponed the novel and started writing a short story, where the main character was a snobbish kid from the provinces, too intelligent and articulate for his own good, come to the big city for “finishing.”

  But his diary is written in the twenty-second century, not the eighteenth; instead of Scotland, he came from the Moon.

  14 April 2147.

  Today I resolved to begin keeping a diary. Unfortunately, nothing of real interest happened.

  15 April.

  Nothing happened again today. Just registration.

  16 April

  I can’t go on wasting paper or Earth’s Conservation Board will take my diary away and process it into something useful, like toilet paper. So even though nothing happened again, I’ll fill up this space with biographical detail, that will no doubt be of great value to future historians.

  I was born Jonathon Wu, on 17 January 2131, to Martha and Jonathon Wu II, out of the surrogate host-mother Sally 217-44-7624. My parents were wealthy enough to be permitted two legal children, but my early behavior convinced them that one was sufficient. As soon as I was old enough to travel, barely four, they packed me off to Clavius Tutorial Creche, figuring that a quarter of a million miles was a safe distance from which to monitor my growth.

  Clavius Creche, it says here, was established as a uniquely isolated and controlled environment for the cultivation of little scholars. And medium-sized scholars. But when you get to be a big gangling scholar, you’ve got to go somewhere else. There are no universities on the moon, only technical schools. You can take up Lunar citizenship—as long as you’re mutandis—and be admitted to one of those technical schools, winding up as some kind of supercerebral mechanic. But I suppose my father was willing to live on the same planet with me, rather than allow me to grow into being something other than a gentleman.

  I got back to Earth one week ago today.

  17 April

  We began course work today. This quarter I’m taking supposedly parallel courses in algorithmic analysis and logical systems. If I ever get “introduced” to Boolean algebra again, I’ll curl into a ball and swallow my tongue. Continuing readings and analysis in classical Greek and Latin. Supposed to do preliminary readings for next quarter: XXth Century English and American Poets and Commercial Literature as a Cultural Index. This will be with Applied Stochastic Analysis and Artificial Intelligence I. The poetry is amusing but the “commercial” novels make tedious reading. One has always to keep in mind that none of these authors was born with the benefit of genetic engineering, and they were at best men of unremarkable intelligence in a world populated with morons and worse.

  Earth gravity tires me.

  18 April.

  I was talking with my advisor (Greek and Latin), Dr. Friedman, and complained about the sterility of this upcoming literature course. He introduced me to the work of an Irish author named Joyce, loaning me a copy of the construct Finnegans Wake. It has taken me ten hours to read the first thirty pages; totally immersed in it through lunch and dinner. Fascinating. Easily equal to the best of Thurman—why weren’t we given him at Creche?

  I am required to walk for at least two hours every day, in order to become accustomed to the gravity. Thus I am writing this standing up, the diary propped on a bookshelf. Also must eat handsful of nauseating calcium tablets, and will have to walk with braces until my leg-bones have hardened up. Had I stayed on the moon another five years, I probably never would have been able to return to Earth (a prospect which at present would not bother me a bit). Twenty-one is too old to repattern porous bones.

  The braces chafe and look ridiculous in this foppish Earth clothing. But I get a certain notoriety out of being such an obvious extraterrestrial.

  My father called this morning and we talked about my courses for a few minutes.

  19 April

  Today was the first day I ventured outside of the campus complex on foot. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling to be outside without suiting up. Of course, one does wear a respirator (even inside some of the buildings, which leak), and that does something to allay the agoraphobia.

  How will I react to the geophysics course next year? They take field trips to wild preserves where they work for extended periods simply under the sky, exposed to the elements. I realize that mine is an irrational fear, that men lived for millions of years breathing natural air, walking around in the open without the slightest thought that there should be something around them. Perhaps I can convince them that since on Luna this fear is not irrational, but part of survival … perhaps they will grant me some sort of dispensation; waive the course, or at least allow me to wear a suit.

  While wandering around outside of the campus, I dropped into a tavern that supposedly
caters to students. I had some ordinary wine and a bit of hashish which wasn’t at all like the Lunar product. It only served to make me tired. The tavernkeeper didn’t believe that I was sixteen until I produced my passport.

  I got into a rather long and pointless conversation with an Earthie mutandis over the necessity for interplanetary tariff imbalance. They know so little about the other worlds. But then, I know little enough about Earth, for having been born here.

  I was barely able to get back to the dormitory without assistance, and slept through half of my normal reading period. Had to take stimulants to finish the last book of the Georgics. So much of it is about open-air farming that it kept bringing back my earlier discomfort.

  Resolved not to smoke any more Earth hashish until I get my strength back.

  20 April.

  Algorithmic analysis has an economy and order that appeals to me. I had of course planned to take my doctorate in Letters, but now I want to investigate mathematics further. My father would have apoplexy. A gentleman hires mathematicians. I made an appointment with the advising facility for tomorrow.

  I am having difficulty making friends. Their customs are rather strange, but I have grown up in knowledge of that and am prepared to make any adjustment. Perhaps I am too critical of Earth society.

  An embarrassing illustration: this morning for the first time, I felt strong enough for sex. Thinking this would be an ideal way to begin more cordial relations with Earthies, I made a tactful suggestion of that nature to one of my classmates in Systems. She was very indignant and wound up giving me a lecture on cultural relativism. The kernel of it, at least as applied to this situation, was that one is supposed to go through an elaborate series of courting gestures with a prospective mate. Like a bird ruffing out his feathers and cooing. I told her this might make some sense if the ritual had something to do with predicting or promoting future sexual compatibility between the two people, which it didn’t. She reacted with almost frightening force.

  My father had warned me about this moral oddity, but I was given to understand that it only applied to the lower classes and, specifically, to the remaining homo sapiens. Certainly there is a good argument for reducing the number of unengineered births by repressing casual sexual contact, but the same restrictive behavioral patterns shouldn’t be impressed on homo mutandis, to which group I assumed my classmate belonged. From the speciousness of her argument, I suppose it’s possible she doesn’t, but then how could she get into a university? Of course, I wouldn’t insult her by asking.

  21 April.

  The machine analyzed my profile and said that I had the potential for moderate success in mathematics, but that I was temperamentally better suited for literature. It advised that I continue a double course of study for as long as possible, and then switch all of my energies to one field or the other as soon as it became clear in which direction my greatest interest lay. An agreeable course of action, perhaps because of my natural indecisiveness.

  I may have found a friend after all. He isn’t an Earthie, but a Martian, also come to Earth for “polish.” His name is Chatham Howard, and he was flattered that I recognized the Howard name both for its role in early Martian history and for the social rank it now represents, on Mars. He is a year ahead of me, studying sociology.

  22 April

  Chatham took me to a party and introduced me to a number of very pleasant Earthies. I’m still sorting out the impressions, changing my ideas a little bit. Not all Earthies my age are immature provincials.

  Met an interesting female by the name of Pamela Anderson. I have begun the courting ritual, to the best of my abilities. I was attentive and complimentary (though she has some strange ideas, she is not unintelligent), and agreed to meet her tomorrow for the evening meal.

  We kissed once. Odd custom.

  23 April.

  Chatham and a friend joined Pamela and me for dinner at Luigi’s, a restaurant which specializes in an old-fashioned cuisine called “North-American-Italian.” It is more spicy than I am accustomed to, but Pamela recommended a fairly bland dish called spaghetti with mushroom sauce. It was rather good, and reminiscent of some familiar fungi dishes.

  After dinner, we went to a public theatre and saw a drama-tape that consisted mainly of views of various couples, copulating. It was much the same as the tapes I’d been watching in Mental Hygiene classes since I was eight years old, but in this bizarre setting I found it strangely exciting.

  We had drinks at the theatre after the show, and engaged in some bright banter. It was all very enjoyable, but I got the impression that Pamela was not yet interested in me sexually. This was a disappointment, especially after Chatham’s friend quite directly asked him to spend the night with her. Pamela was very warm but didn’t extend any such invitation.

  For the first time I wondered whether she might not consider me too “alien” for a sex partner. I am a half-meter taller than she, and my Lunar myaesthenia is all too evident, with the braces and my quickness to fatigue. I’m also a couple of years younger than she, which evidently is rather important on Earth.

  I found out in our conversation that many of the customs relating to this mating ritual are centuries old. This is an exasperating thing about Earth: in many ways they cling stubbornly to the cultural matrix that brought them to within a button-push of destroying humanity. On the Worlds, at least we had the sense to junk it all and start over.

  Sometimes it brings me up short to remember that I was born an Earthie.

  24 April

  Today I got lost in the middle of writing a long Turing Machine algorithm, when my mind strayed to Pamela. I had to go back to the beginning and start over. Idiotic! Perhaps all this medication is affecting my mental discipline.

  Continuing with analysis of the writings of Virgil, of at least those attributed to him. Obvious many of them written by somebody else.

  25 April

  Pamela met me, without prior arrangement, outside my Systems classroom—an encouragingly aggressive sign. But it turned out that her real interest was in learning more about Lunar mores, for a paper in Comp. Soc. We went down to the cafeteria and discussed, essentially, how different she was from me. I left feeling depressed, but with a “date” for a concert tomorrow.

  26 April.

  The concert was on an ancient instrument called the “glass harmonica.” The melodies were interesting, but the rhythm was simplistic and the harmonies progressed in a very predictable manner. Somehow, the overall effect was moving.

  I learned the most startling thing after the concert. Pamela is not mutandis. We went to a bhang shop with another couple and talked about the difference, the distance, between sapiens and mutandis. She accused me of being ill-informed and patronizing when I talked about our obligation to guide and protect sapiens as they inevitably died out over the next few generations. She said that she was not engineered and her children were not going to be, nor their children. Something else she said, we had not been taught on Luna. But, once it was pointed out, I had to admit it was obvious: there was no guarantee that genetic engineering was going to be successful in the long race, and humanity must maintain a large and pure community of sapiens for several centuries, in case the “experiment” fails.

  I privately disagreed with her contention that sapiens must always remain in the majority. Certainly a million or two would be adequate to the task of rebuilding the race, should all of us mutandi turn purple and explode. Of course her worry was political rather than biological; that we might irrationally legislate sapiens out of existence, were we in the majority.

  She said we had done exactly that on Luna, and I had to patiently explain why we no longer allowed sapiens as colonists. It was not prejudice, but simple logic. She was not convinced.

  [Of course, this explains why I was so surprised to find that Pamela was not mutandis. All of the sapiens on Luna are quite old and mentally incompetent because of a lack of correctional therapeutics in their youth. I was guilty of unconsciously proje
cting my attitudes toward their manifest inferiority onto Earthie sapiens.]

  Somehow the fact that she is not mutandis does not make her less attractive to me. My regard for her intellectual abilities should be greater, knowing as I do now that she started out with a genetic handicap. The main thing I feel now is a vague distrust of her emotional reliability. Or do I mean predictability? It is all very confusing.

  27 April.

  Algorithmic Analysis test tonight. Not difficult but studying for it was very time-consuming.

  28 April

  Pamela took me to the zoo. Tiring but extremely rewarding day. Animals are fascinating. It occurred to me that being adult, or nearly so, and seeing non-human creatures for the first time in my life might give me some unique insight. Instead of writing a long entry in this diary tonight, I will begin an essay on the experience.

  My feet are throbbing. Told Pamela the joke about the computer playing chess with itself, and she laughed. Was this the first time I’ve seen her laugh?

  29 April.

  Pamela read my essay and left saying she never wanted to see me again. She was crying.

  30 April.

  I have reconsidered some of the comparisons I made in the essay, between sapiens and animals. They were meant to be satirical, but I can see in the light of Pamela’s reaction that this intent was not clear. Rather than attempt to translate my attempts at humor into Earthie terms, I deleted these passages. I sent a copy to Pamela.

  Reading back, I see I have known her little more than a week. Odd.

  1 May.

  Latin test.

  2 May.

  Pamela visited today, bringing a male companion. She did not mention the essay.