Fifteen

The next couple of weeks, before we got at all used to Acosmian life, were a time of some confusion and much activity. We spent periods of five hours away from the ship, partly because our oxygen tanks were only good for six hours or so before needing refills, and partly because we wanted to be back at the ship during the five-hour period when we could communicate with earth.

We ourselves spent these in-ship periods either sleeping, eating, or classifying specimens that we had brought in, making reports, and in general keeping things up to date. Our Acosmian friends spent the time either resting or listening to one or more of the five different radio channels that were hooked directly to separate channels from earth, and were now beaming literature, philosophy, science, history, sociology, biology, and I don't know what else up to Jupiter to feed the voracious appetite of the inhabitants. Jonathan had worked out a scheme in conjunction with Georgetown University and the Printing House for the Blind (the Talking Books) to get as much information as possible about earth into as short as possible a time.

Mike and Newton had quickly worked out a recording device that would automatically take down what was being transmitted from earth, and by the second week had almost perfected a translator that went from the English radio signal directly into Acosmian, thus freeing some inhabitant from the tedious necessity of actually reading our books into their language. The languages were so different, however, in their structure that there were numerous instances of apparently hilarious solecisms, which Wordsworth, for one, found a source of immense amusement, and which he never ceased twitting Newton for.

There seemed always to be ten or a dozen Acosmians around the ship when transmission was in progress, because they would rather hear it live than wait for the coins that would reproduce it for them. They were not always the same group, but a few (like St. Peter and Cleopatra and Wordsworth) seemed to take as much interest in us and our ways as we did in theirs, and were always around--and I must say, at our service.

I had told Michele that Mike would be back as if nothing had happened; but it turned out that the old relation between them of squabbling at every opportunity was a thing of the past, even when they were together, which was increasingly seldom. I couldn't tell whether this was because of the remark that she made, or whether it was a simple occasion for him to reinforce his prejudice against women and he now was seizing the opportunity presented for being away from her. Our schedules were such that we didn't all sleep at the same time, in case there might be a transmission from earth; and even when two were awake in the ship together, we were usually doing different things, such as classifying specimens or typing our own reports to earth--which put us in different places. There was plenty of opportunity to talk together, but there was just as much to be doing something private; and Mike was always, it seemed, in the latter condition whenever Michele was awake.

It bothered both Michele and me, but we didn't know what to do about it, and so we tried to put it out of our minds. And it was anything but hard to do this, since there was so much that was fascinating to learn.

I had, as I mentioned, decided that I would find out about the social organization of Acosmia, and discovered almost immediately that I had an extremely simple task; there was practically no social organization.

First of all, there was no fire department, because there was no fire. The Acosmians "cooked" their food by a chemical process, when they did anything with it at all. They ate only plants, which grew more or less wild at the far side of the city from us, and which they picked on little excursions at intervals of what would correspond to about two earth-weeks or so. As they gathered the plants for their meals, they kept the roots, and shaped themselves into baskets to bring them back to the house. They then "replanted" the plants not in immediate use in shelves or on the underside of the porches outside the house, where they would keep for the equivalent of a couple of months, it seemed. Evidently, these ledges were not like the mats on the surface that the plants grew on, and served more or less like our vases rather than small garden plots. Those people who were below the surface and had permanent plants growing on or beside (or beneath) their houses had a good deal of tending to do, carrying surface-matting down to replace what was used up.

In any case, when they prepared food, they put the plants on a kind of table and mixed them with various liquids and pastes, which they kept in spheres which could be squeezed to exude the proper amount--rather like our plastic bottles, but without any definite opening that I was able to detect. They seemed to know where the liquid or the paste would come out, however, even though, as far as I could see, it was not in the same place every time; evidently it had some relation to where the pressure was applied.

This application of chemicals changed the color and texture of the plants, made some into a kind of mush, and stiffened others. They then formed the mass (if it hadn't retained its leafy form) into some kind of artistic shape; and if the Acosmian was single, as most were, he took it outside onto his little porch (it turned out that every house had something like a porch or an eating-opening, at least) and began consuming it.

As others swam by, they might join him and take a few bites (i.e. slide a few bits into themselves somewhere--they had no definite mouth) and engage in conversation. I gathered that not only the appearances of the various dishes (or parts of the meal laid out on the porch) were artistically arranged, but that the parts were intended to be eaten in a certain order, which was often discussed at great length before the dinner, since the arrangement of the tastes was considered to be an art form also--a kind of symphony of savors, which in some cases seemed to be quite complex and refined.

St. Peter told me that eating was really not just something to stay healthy, but was indeed an art, and a dinner was always to some extent a public performance to a select audience. "The emotional overtones of the tastes," he said, "are connected with the actual savors themselves, and are arranged so that repetitions and variations evoke meaningful relationships, more or less as the emotional overtones of words and sounds do in poetry." I didn't understand it, and of course couldn't experience it for myself to discover what he meant.

But to return to my point, there was no fire department. It is difficult to write about these people without being led off the track. Nor was there a sanitation department, because when there was any waste, the people simply pierced the gaseous cells of the material (which kept it suspended at the level they found convenient) and it became heavy and sank down to the incinerator conveniently below them at the center of the planet. There would be an occasional sweeping necessary on the tops of horizontal surfaces, but since these were not many, and were bathed by a gentle wash of the ocean anyway, this could hardly be called an arduous task.

They had no police force either, since it was either true that no one could do harm to anyone unwilling to be harmed, or because they believed this so thoroughly that no one ever tried.

"But are there people who try to be harmed?" I asked. "You mentioned something about 'unfortunate people' once."

"There are a few unfortunate ones, yes," said St. Peter. They either seek forbidden knowledge, like the knowledge of what is beyond the wall, or power over others. But the only power any person can have over another--here, at least--is the power of persuasion; and we are not easily persuaded that there is anything to be gained by learning forbidden knowledge. There is so much else to be learned that is permitted."

"Is there much that's forbidden to know?" I asked, thinking that I might be bringing up a delicate topic.

"Very little," was all he said.

"We keep our children away from the unfortunate people, of course," he continued as a kind of afterthought, "since they are able to be influenced, and we want them preserved from harm. But in most cases, the unfortunate people keep themselves away from us after a while. They try at the beginning of their--how should one say it? Sin, I suppose--to convince us that there is much in what is forbidden that we ought to know; but no one listens to them; and since they become obsessed with the forbidden subjects and we are not interested, they drift off by themselves.

"We all pity them, and some have tried to persuade them to change their course in life before they stop changing; but though we think that it is theoretically possible to accomplish this, I know of no instance where it actually happened. Actually, very few of them ever have stopped changing; they never achieve their goals, of course--or I don't know whether it is 'of course' or not, but they never seem to--and they seem to doubt whether we stop changing or actually die, like the animals, so they have no reason to make the attempt. They wander about among us sadly, for age after age, always seeking what apparently can never be found."

I was silent for a while. Then I said, "I wonder if the literature from earth will influence any of you to become unfortunate. There's so much glorification of evil in it."

"I think you need have no qualms on that score," he answered. "We realize that you are half unfortunate and half more blessed than we, in some ways, and that you are often prey to very strong emotions. With us, there is no inducement to do what is forbidden; it has no prior interest for us, if I may so put it. We must make a deliberate, calculated decision before we could violate a prohibition."

"Yes, but your children might be influenced by tales of heroic rebels on earth, for instance."

"And see that the rebels produced significant good results, and that the same might apply here? I had not thought in just those terms; there might be a good deal in what you say. You see; even though you chafe constantly under the realization that you are a lower form of intelligence than we--Oh, yes, you do," he smiled, seeing my reaction--"It is one of the characteristics you have that endears us to you, and is nothing at all to be ashamed of. Still, you have a fresh point of view which can teach us a great deal--which already has taught us much. And you are not all that unintelligent."

"It's kind of you to say so," was all I could think of to say.

"Do not belittle yourselves," he said. "Some of your philosophers, such as Immanuel Kant or Georg Hegel, have written remarkable treatises, for all their obvious faults; they have much that will repay close examination and study. And I have already mentioned the Bible; and some other writings, such as those by John of the Cross, are exceedingly profound, though in a quite different way. And artists such as William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens have one or two works that are second to very little that we ourselves have produced.

"But," he added, "I think you really have a point, and perhaps we should take this up with Caesar."

Caesar was the elected ruler of the whole of Acosmia (that is, of the city we were in; there were others, scattered through the Red Spot, but so distant that we never visited them). We had been taken to see him early on, and of course gave him this name. He was a rather smaller than normal person, of a light green complexion, and, from what I could gather, a person of as much leisure as anyone else.

We found him in one of the clubs, chatting with a few companions, and St. Peter explained to him that there might be a problem with the children's getting hold of the earth's books "before they made their decision."

"You have read many of the books," he said. "Do you think it would be wise to forbid them?"

"I myself see no pressing danger," he said (in Acosmian, of course, but they always translated simultaneously when we were present), "but it is a new influence, and Paul seems to think that it might be harmful."

"Do you?" he asked me.

"Well, your Majesty, I don't know much about you people," I answered. "With us, the very fact that they would be forbidden would be a challenge to the children to try to get hold of them and read them. But I think it is true that there might be a few things in them that would influence your children in a wrong way; and I'd hate to see us corrupt your peaceful kingdom, the way we seem to corrupt everything we come in contact with."

He smiled his exclamation mark. "We give very little thought to being corrupted; but it may be that we are somewhat over-complacent. As long as one is still changing, it is always theoretically possible to be corrupted; and perhaps you are right, that children should be protected from the occasion of it before they are fully capable of making responsible decisions.

"Let me see . . . . There are two hundred and two families with children living among us now. I think I will visit them and explain the situation, and each can take what action they see best. Thank you for your kind attention to us." And after a few more remarks, he left.

"Doesn't he send someone else on errands like that?" I asked.

"No," replied St. Peter. "It is for errands such as that that he is our ruler."

"Is that all he does?"

"Well, occasionally, he is called upon to settle a dispute we might have. It sometimes happens that two people have equally valid reasons for wanting to do something or for not having it done, and neither of them wishes to yield to the other. They then bring the matter before him, and he acts as the judge to decide the question in favor of one or the other."

"Oh, he's the 'court' you talked about once. But if the reasons on each side are equally valid, how does he make his decision?"

"I do not understand . . . . Oh, I see. I suppose you would say his decision is arbitrary."

"Then what?"

"Then the issue is settled."

"You mean the party the judgment goes against just accepts it?"

"Of course. The matter has to be decided somehow, and neither has any better reason than the other."

"You're an amazing people. If that happened on earth, the one who had to give up his right would be furious, and would fight--just because he had as good a case as the party that won."

"Then you must have a good many unresolvable disputes on earth."

"Well, we do. But we love our rights."

"And a good many 'fights,' as you call them. You mean actual physical violence? Harm to others?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to say."

"This makes many of your writings clear, then. We love our 'rights' also, I think I could say; but we are not so attached to them that it would give us satisfaction to have them at the expense of tranquillity. In general, it gives us greater pleasure to yield what we have to another who wants it than to keep it for ourselves. I do not wish to make a virtue of this; it is, for us, just something natural and satisfying."

"We often feel the same way," I said. "We just don't carry it to an extreme."

He laughed his spiral. "From our point of view, it is your attitude that is the extreme one."

"Well, we believe that there's always a way out so that no one has to have his rights violated."

"Surely," he answered, "this cannot always be the case. Even among us, it is not. Suppose, for instance, that a person owns a house or some land and moves away for a long time, without giving up his claim. Suppose some unsuspecting person moves into the house, thinking it abandoned, and raises a family there. His children inherit the house. Then the original owner's descendants, having been willed that same house, claim it. Each owns the same house by inheritance; and in that sense, each has as much right as the other. How could such a dispute be settled without one party's right having to be given up?"

I thought for a while, and said, "I suppose that you'd have to say that the people that moved in didn't really have a right to the house--or maybe that the people who moved away actually abandoned it and lost the right."

"Exactly. Each descendant's claim is as tenuous as the other's; and therefore as strong. I could construct any number of such situations, and from your writings, I am sure that they are far from unrealistic, especially where nations are disputing over territory. To pretend that everyone's rights can be upheld in situations like this is, forgive me, a chimera and an impossible dream--at least as I see it."

"Well, it does seem to be true that things like this lead to wars for generations. I don't know the answer. But I still don't see how you can expect a person or a nation to just give up its rights if somebody else doesn't have any better claim."

"From our point of view, we find no reason for not giving up what you call our rights if we have no better claim than the other person. But I suppose that is easier for us because each of us knows he will be able to achieve all his goals eventually anyway. In your case, giving up a right might mean never having something you had set your heart on--at least never having it before you die, if your life somehow goes on after death, as some among you seem to think."

"I suppose it's one of those conundrums that no one will ever find a satisfactory answer to," I said.

When I got back to the ship, it was Mike who was awake. "You want to know something?" I said. "It seems the whole of earth's literature has been put into the Acosmian equivalent of an adult bookstore!"

"Yeah?" he said, not really hearing. "Listen, Paul, I've finally figured out how these guys can do physics with no clocks and no rulers. Newton was measuring changes in terms of energy-drops and not time, and coming up with something that looked like our results, and I tried plugging his figures into our equations. First of all, they measure distance by energy-levels in a field, and not the way we do; and then the change is with respect to this energy-distance, and not with respect to time. I found out that if you solve the time derivatives of velocity and acceleration (they know both of these) for time and set them equal to each other, you come out with acceleration as a function of velocity and distance, which you can plug into Newton's (I mean Isaac Newton's) force equations and get the same results without using the time. I haven't worked out how this distance relates to the distance the way they measure it, but I can see that it's possible. It looks like this might be a more powerful way of going about physics.

"Now, what were you saying about adult bookstores?"

I explained about the unfortunate people and how Caesar was going to warn parents to keep their kids away from our writings, and Mike said, "So they have 'unfortunate people,' do they? I knew everything was too perfect to be perfect. And the unfortunate people are the ones that are trying to get forbidden knowledge. Did he tell you what knowledge was forbidden?"

"I gave him a chance to, but he dropped the subject, and so I didn't press it."

"I wonder what it is."

"Now don't go getting ideas, Mike."

"What ideas? I'm curious, that's all. I think I'll ask Newton about it tomorrow."

This bothered me for a few minutes, and I didn't reply. Then I thought that, after all, Newton would either tell him, in which case I had misinterpreted St. Peter; or he wouldn't, in which case what was the problem?

But something really did bother me the next day, when both Mike and Michele were asleep and I was at the laser receiver. Jonathan knew I was the only one awake, and he told me that he was going to print his message on the screen so that his voice wouldn't disturb anyone. I knew right then that this was another one of those messages about Janice.

What I read was this:

"No reply at the moment is necessary. We've been checking into Janice Jones's contacts. It seems that before she got the job, she knew some people who have links to China.

"We've also been checking into what happened to the first stage of the rocket, and found that a blow from an asteroid couldn't have caused the particular damage you reported; it had to have been an explosion.

"It turns out that Janice had met the person who inspected the first stage, and who was there for the final inspection before the launch. Everything is consistent with his sticking a piece of plastic explosive to that place on the skin, which would blow up when heated.

"It didn't work until you got out where you were, we speculate, because you didn't accelerate until you were above the atmosphere, and so there was no friction, and we've discovered that that side of the ship was not exposed to the sun until just that point in the voyage.

"We can't prove anything, of course, but it looks like Janice isn't quite the innocent she seemed to be. Keith Jackson is pestering me to find out when Mike met her and how and so on. I have as much trust in him as you do, Paul, but I'm curious myself.

"But the main reason I'm sending this up is that Janice was checking components. It may be that there's some other kind of booby trap in the ship. Somehow, our records of just what she checked aren't clear. See if Mike can remember what she worked on. I don't want to make you too nervous, Paul, but it could be serious. Discuss it with Michele."