Vanishing acts, p.30
Vanishing Acts, page 30
He asked the question casually, but shot a keen look as he did so. Harper shrugged. “I hardly know, exactly. It’s not a scientific one, because I’m a businessman.” He hesitated. “You ever hear or read about the Tasmanians?”
The intern shook his head. He thrust a needle into a vein in the younger Yahoo’s arm, prepared to let the serum flow in. “If they lived on Earth, I wouldn’t know. Never was there. I’m a third generation. Coulterboy, myself.”
Harper said, “Tasmania is an island south of Australia. The natives were the most primitive people known on Earth. They were almost all wiped out by the settlers, but one of them succeeded in moving the survivors to a smaller island. And then a curious thing happened.”
Looking up from the older Primitive, the intern asked what that was.
“The Tasmanians—the few that were left—decided that they’d had it. They refused to breed. And in a few more years they were all dead … I read about them when I was just a kid. Somehow, it moved me very much. Things like that did—the dodo, the great auk, the quagga, the Tasmanians. I’ve never been able to get it out of my mind. When I began hearing about the Yahoos, it seemed to me that they were like the old Tasmanians. Only there are no settlers on Barnumland.”
The intern nodded. “But that won’t help our hairy friends here a hell of a lot. Of course no one knows how many of them there are—or ever were. But I’ve been comparing the figures in the log as to how many females are caught and taken aboard.” He looked directly at Harper. “And on every trip there are less by far.”
Harper bowed his head. He nodded. The intern’s voice went on: “The thing is, Barnum’s Planet is no one’s responsibility. If the Yahoos could be used for labor, they’d be exploited according to a careful system. But as it is, no one cares. If half of them die from being stungunned, no one cares. If the lighter crews don’t bother to actually land the females—if any of the wretched creatures are still alive when the convicts are done—but just dump them out from twenty feet up, why, again: no one cares. Mr. Harper?”
Their eyes met. Harper said, “Yes?”
“Don’t misunderstand me … I’ve got a career here. I’m not jeopardizing it to save the poor Yahoos—but if you are interested—if you think you’ve got any influence—and if you want to try to do anything—” He paused. “Why, now is the time to start. Because after another few stop-overs there aren’t going to be any Yahoos. No more than there are any Tasmanians.”
Selopé III was called “The Autumn Planet” by the poets. At least, the P.R. picture-tapes always referred to it as “Selopé III, The Autumn Planet of the poets,” but no one knew who the poets were. It was true that the Commission Territory, at least, did have the climate of an almost-perpetual early New England November. Barnumland had been dry and warm. The Commissioner-General put the two Yahoos in a heated cage as large as the room Harper occupied at his company’s Bachelor Executive Quarters.
“Here, boy,” the C-G said, holding out a piece of fruit. He made a chirping noise. The two Yahoos huddled together in a far corner.
“They don’t seem very bright,” he said sadly. “All my other animals eat out of my hand.” He was very proud of his private zoo, the only one in the Territory. On Sundays he allowed the public to visit it.
Sighing, Harper repeated that the Yahoos were Primitives, not animals. But, seeing the C-G was still doubtful, he changed his tactics. He told the C-G about the great zoos on Earth, where the animals went loose in large enclosures rather than being caged up. The C-G nodded thoughtfully. Harper told him of the English dukes who—generation after ducal generation—preserved the last herd of wild White Cattle in a park on their estate.
The C-G stroked his chin. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I see your point,” he said. He sighed gustily. “Can’t be done,” he said.
“But why not, sir?” Harper cried.
It was simple. “No money. Who’s to pay? The Exchequer-Commissioner is weeping blood trying to get the budget through council. If he adds a penny more—No, young fellow, I’ll do what I can: I’ll feed these two, here. But that’s all I can do.”
Trying to pull all the strings he could reach, Harper approached the Executive-Fiscal and the Procurator-General, the President-in-Council, the Territorial Advocate, the Chairman of the Board of Travel. But no one could do anything. Barnum’s Planet, it was carefully explained to him, remained No Man’s Land only because no man presumed to give any orders concerning it. If any government did, this would be a Presumption of Authority. And then every other government would feel obliged to deny that presumption and issue a claim of its own.
There was a peace on now—a rather tense, uneasy one. And it wasn’t going to be disturbed for Harper’s Yahoos. Human, were they? Perhaps. But who cared? As for Morality, Harper didn’t even bother to mention the word. It would have meant as little as Chivalry.
Meanwhile, he was learning something of the Yahoos’ language. Slowly and arduously, he gained their confidence. They would shyly take food from him. He persuaded the C-G to knock down a wall and enlarge their quarters. The official was a kindly old man, and he seemed to grow fond of the stooped, shaggy, splayfooted Primitives. And after a while he decided that they were smarter than animals.
“Put some clothes on ’em, Harper,” he directed. “If they’re people, let ’em start acting like people. They’re too big to go around naked.”
So, eventually, washed and dressed, Junior and Senior were introduced to Civilization via 3-D, and the program was taped and shown everywhere.
Would you like a cigarette, Junior? Here, let me light it for you. Give Junior a glass of water, Senior. Let’s see you take off your slippers, fellows, and put them on again. And now do what I say in your own language …
But if Harper thought that might change the public opinion, he thought wrong. Seals perform, too, don’t they? And so do monkeys. They talk? Parrots talk better. And anyway, who cared to be bothered about animals or Primitives? They were okay for fun, but that was all.
And the reports from Barnumland showed fewer and fewer Yahoos each time.
Then one night two drunken crewmen climbed over the fence and went carousing in the C-G’s zoo. Before they left, they broke the vapor-light tubes, and in the morning Junior and Senior were found dead from the poisonous fumes.
That was Sunday morning. By Sunday afternoon Harper was drunk, and getting drunker. The men who knocked on his door got no answer. They went in anyway. He was slouched, red-eyed, over the table.
“People,” he muttered. “Tell you they were human!” he shouted.
“Yes, Mr. Harper, we know that,” said a young man, pale, with close-cropped dark hair.
Harper peered at him, boozily. “Know you,” he said. “Thir’ gen’ration Coulterboy. Go ‘way. Spoi’ your c’reer. Whaffor. Smelly ol’ Yahoo?” The young medico nodded to his companion, who took a small flask from his pocket, opened it. They held it under Harper’s nose by main force. He gasped and struggled, but they held on, and in a few minutes he was sober.
“That’s rough stuff,” he said, coughing and shaking his head. “But—thanks, Dr. Hill. Your ship in? Or are you stopping over?”
The former intern shrugged. “I’ve left the ships,” he said. “I don’t have to worry about spoiling my new career. This is my superior, Dr. Anscomb.”
Anscomb was also young, and, like most men from Coulter’s System, pale. He said, “I understand you can speak the Yahoos’ language.”
Harper winced. “What good’s that now? They’re dead, poor little bastards.”
Anscomb nodded. “I’m sorry about that, believe me. Those fumes are so quick … But there are still a few alive on Barnum’s Planet who can be saved. The Joint Board for Research is interested. Are you?”
It had taken Harper fifteen years to work up to a room of this size and quality in Bachelor Executives’ Quarters. He looked around it. He picked up the letter which had come yesterday. “… neglected your work and become a joke … unless you accept a transfer and reduction in grade …” He nodded slowly, putting down the letter. “I guess I’ve already made my choice. What are your plans …?”
Harper, Hill, and Anscomb sat on a hummock on the north coast of Barnumland, just out of rock-throwing range of the gaunt escarpment of the cliff which rose before them. Behind them a tall fence had been erected. The only Yahoos still alive were “nesting” in the caves of the cliff. Harper spoke into the amplifier again. His voice was hoarse as he forced it into the clicks and moans of the Primitives’ tongue.
Hill stirred restlessly. “Are you sure that means, ‘Here is food. Here is water’—and not, ‘Come down and let us eat you’? I think I can almost say it myself by now.”
Shifting and stretching, Anscomb said, “It’s been two days. Unless they’ve determined to commit race suicide a bit more abruptly than your ancient Tasmanians—” He stopped as Harper’s fingers closed tightly on his arm.
There was a movement on the cliff. A shadow. A pebble clattered. Then a wrinkled face peered fearfully over a ledge. Slowly, and with many stops and hesitations, a figure came down the face of the cliff. It was an old she. Her withered and pendulous dugs flapped against her sagging belly as she made the final jump to the ground, and—her back to the wall of rock—faced them.
“Here is food,” Harper repeated softly. “Here is water.” The old woman sighed. She plodded wearily across the ground, paused, shaking with fear, and then flung herself down at the food and the water.
“The Joint Board for Research has just won the first round,” Hill said. Anscomb nodded. He jerked his thumb upward. Hill looked.
Another head appeared at the cliff. Then another. And another. They watched. The crone got up, water dripping from her dewlaps. She turned to the cliff. “Come down,” she cried. “Here is food and water. Do not die. Come down and eat and drink.” Slowly, her tribespeople did so. There were thirty of them.
Harper asked, “Where are the others?”
The crone held out her dried and leathery breasts to him. “Where are those who have sucked? Where are those your brothers took away?” She uttered a single shrill wail; then was silent.
But she wept—and Harper wept with her.
“I’ll guess we’ll swing it all right,” Hill said. Anscomb nodded. “Pity there’s so few of them. I was afraid we’d have to use gas to get at them. Might have lost several that way.”
Neither of them wept.
For the first time since ships had come to their world, Yahoos walked aboard one. They came hesitantly and fearfully, but Harper had told them that they were going to a new home and they believed him. He told them that they were going to a place of much food and water, where no one would hunt them down. He continued to talk until the ship was on its way, and the last Primitive had fallen asleep under the dimmed-out vapor-tube lights. Then he staggered to his cabin and fell asleep himself. He slept for thirty hours.
He had something to eat when he awoke, then strolled down to the hold where the Primitives were. He grimaced, remembered his trip to the hold of the other ship to collect Senior, and the frenzied howling of the convicts awaiting the females. At the entrance to the hold he met Dr. Hill, greeted him.
“I’m afraid some of the Yahoos are sick,” Hill said. “But Dr. Anscomb is treating them. The others have been moved to this compartment here.”
Harper stared. “Sick? How can they be sick? What from? And how many?”
Dr. Hill said, “It appears to be Virulent Plague … Fifteen of them are down with it. You’ve had all six shots, haven’t you? Good. Nothing to worry—”
Harper felt the cold steal over him. He stared at the pale young physician. “No one can enter or leave any system or planet without having had all six shots for Virulent Plague,” he said, slowly. “So if we are all immune, how could the Primitives have gotten it? And how is it that only fifteen have it? Exactly half of them. What about the other fifteen, Dr. Hill? Are they the control group for your experiment?”
Dr. Hill looked at him calmly. “As a matter of fact, yes. I hope you’ll be reasonable. Those were the only terms the Joint Board for Research would agree to. After all, not even convicts will volunteer for experiments in Virulent Plague.”
Harper nodded. He felt frozen. After a moment he asked, “Can Anscomb do anything to pull them through?”
Dr. Hill raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps. We’ve got something we wanted to try. And at any rate, the reports should provide additional data on the subject. We must take the long-range view.”
Harper nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” he said.
By noon all fifteen were dead.
“Well, that means an uneven control group,” Dr. Anscomb complained. “Seven against eight. Still, that’s not too bad. And it can’t be helped. We’ll start tomorrow.”
“Virulent Plague again?” Harper asked.
Anscomb and Hill shook their heads. “Dehydration,” the latter said. “And after that, there’s a new treatment for burns we’re anxious to try … It’s a shame, when you think of the Yahoos being killed off by the thousands, year after year, uselessly. Like the dodo. We came along just in time—thanks to you, Harper.”
He gazed at them. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” he asked. They looked at him, politely blank. “I’d forgotten. Doctors don’t study Latin anymore, do they? An old proverb. It means: ‘Who shall guard the guards themselves?’.… Will you excuse me, Doctors?”
Harper let himself into the compartment. “I come,” he greeted the fifteen.
“We see you,” they responded. The old woman asked how their brothers and sisters were “in the other cave.”
“They are well … Have you eaten, have you drunk? Yes? Then let us sleep,” Harper said.
The old woman seemed doubtful. “Is it time? The light still shines.” She pointed to it. Harper looked at her. She had been so afraid. But she had trusted him. Suddenly he bent over and kissed her. She gasped.
“Now the light goes out,” Harper said. He slipped off a shoe and shattered the vapor tube. He groped in the dark for the air-switch, turned it off. Then he sat down. He had brought them here, and if they had to die, it was only fitting that he should share their fate. There no longer seemed any place for the helpless, or for those who cared about them.
“Now let us sleep,” he said.
Avram Davidson, one of the great masters of short fiction of the twentieth century, a writer who won the major awards in the science fiction, fantasy, and mystery genres—the Hugo, Edgar, and World Fantasy Awards—while constantly pushing at the boundaries of those genres. Davidson (1923–1993) published seventeen novels and wrote more than two hundred stories and essays during his lifetime. Many of his best-known stories are collected in The Avram Davidson Treasury.
I first discovered “Now Let Us Sleep” in Time of Passage, a reprint anthology about death edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Joseph Olander about twenty years ago. But its original publication was in Venture Science Fiction in 1957. I found it incredibly moving and could never get it out of my head. I think it’s one of those rare science fiction stories that will never date but instead becomes more appropriate and more powerful with time. So I’m especially delighted to be able to include it in Vanishing Acts.
SEVENTY-TWO LETTERS
TED CHIANG
When he was a child, Robert’s favorite toy was a simple one, a clay doll that could do nothing but walk forward. While his parents entertained their guests in the garden outride, discussing Victoria’s ascension to the throne or the Chartist reforms, Robert would follow the doll as it marched down the corridors of the family home, turning it around corners or back where it came from. The doll didn’t obey commands or exhibit any sense at all; if it met a wall, the diminutive clay figure would keep marching until it gradually mashed its arms and legs into misshapen flippers. Sometimes Robert would let it do that, strictly for his own amusement. Once the doll’s limbs were thoroughly distorted, he’d pick the toy up and pull the name out, stopping its motion in mid-stride. Then he’d knead the body back into a smooth lump, flatten it out into a plank, and cut out a different figure: a body with one leg crooked, or longer than the other. He would stick the name back into it, and the doll would promptly topple over and push itself around in a little circle.
It wasn’t the sculpting that Robert enjoyed; it was mapping out the limits of the name. He liked to see how much variation he could impart to the body before the name could no longer animate it. To save time with the sculpting, he rarely added decorative details; he refined the bodies only as was needed to test the name.
Another of his dolls walked on four legs. The body was a nice one, a finely detailed porcelain horse, but Robert was more interested in experimenting with its name. This name obeyed commands to start and stop and knew enough to avoid obstacles, and Robert tried inserting it into bodies of his own making. But this name had more exacting body requirements, and he was never able to form a clay body it could animate. He formed the legs separately and then attached them to the body, but he wasn’t able to blend the seams smooth enough; the name didn’t recognize the body as a single continuous piece.
He scrutinized the names themselves, looking for some simple substitutions that might distinguish two-leggedness from four-leggedness, or make the body obey simple commands. But the names looked entirely different; on each scrap of parchment were inscribed seventy-two tiny Hebrew letters, arranged in twelve rows of six, and so far as he could tell, the order of the letters was utterly random.
Robert Stratton and his fourth form classmates sat quietly as Master Trevelyan paced between the rows of desks.
“Langdale, what is the doctrine of names?”
“All things are reflections of God, and, um, all—”
“Spare us your bumbling. Thorburn, can you tell us the doctrine of names?”
“As all things are reflections of God, so are all names reflections of the divine name.”
“And what is an object’s true name?”
