This is a fan translation of Captain French, or the Quest for Paradise (Капитан Френч, или Поиски рая) by Mikhail Akhmanov and Christopher Nicholas Gilmore.
Note: Footnotes can be found at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 18
The story with Yoko had its consequences; now Shandra wanted to know how I plotted my course, which star systems I chose on my never-ending journey, why I headed in this direction instead of that one. Was there some idea behind the Circe's movements? If so, then what served as my beacon? My intuition? My subconscious desires? Good judgment? Forecasting? Transmissions and signal from inhabited worlds? Perhaps, as had been the case with Yoko, I chose a route that would rid me of an obstinate wife? Or would be useful to a loving and faithful wife, such as Jeanne du Maurier?
Honestly, Shandra's hypothesis had charmed me, and I was ready to agree with it. After all, I had always taken my women with a specific purpose in mind: either to a world covered with maternity hospitals from one end to the next, or to a scientific paradise, where professorships were growing on faculty cornfields, or to a treasure island, where rivers of gold flowed among diamond banks… Thus, it seemed as if all of my routes were determined by matrimonial considerations! Logical, very logical! Bravo, Shandra!
The only thing she was forgetting was that I had spent most of my life single and, therefore, plotted my course in proud solitude. It should be noted that galactic journeys, except for the wishes of the ladies, could not be planned rationally; at the very least, I had been unable to do so. I directed my flight depending on immediate circumstances: cargo taken on by the Circe in a port, the presence of passengers or specific goods, information left by my colleagues, or rumors that circulated in my current neighborhood. It was always this way, and my visit to Murphy hadn't been an exception: I had assumed that I would find myself on a prosperous world, where I would be able to make a profit on my Punjab figurines. Had I known of the catastrophe, of the theocratic dictatorship, and other Murphian charms, I would have probably passed this galactic corner by and never met Shandra. A horrifying prospect! But chance or fate was protecting me and pointed me on the right paths. Maybe Jeanne du Maurier had been right, I was a man of destiny, even if I refused to admit it.
One might ask, what about interstellar communication? Signals, transmissions, messages that sped from world to world at the speed of light? Unfortunately, as a rule, I couldn't extract anything useful out of them. First, such communication was a costly proposition; it required orbital telescopes, expensive equipment, powerful energy sources, and a team of enthusiasts to run it all. Naturally, a wealthy patron or government financing was necessary, but patrons and governments had other uses for their money, and they, generally, did not wish to throw them out into the cosmic void. And so, interstellar communication was a rare, almost unique, phenomenon; in twenty thousand years, I had intercepted a hundred and twelve such messages, and they had been uterly useless to me. In the last one, sent from Secundus, a local mathematical genius was informing his colleagues that he'd managed to prove Fermat's Last Theorem. I agreed that it was a great achievement, but it was worthless to me, as were the sermons of religious fanatics of all denominations and sorts that polluted the airwaves. This was the second reason: interstellar transmissions concerned either mathematics or theology, but not practical or useful matters. Who would think to transmit a description of a useful device, like a machine for synthesizing pineapples out of sawdust, or even a new symphony? These were commodities, valuable commodities, meant for us, space traders; information that could be traded for other information or for money. There was no such thing as a free lunch; the only free things were theorems and psalms.
We were moving towards Solaris, and, with each passing day, it was growing on our screens, passing several stages of successive metamorphoses: first, a bright spark against the backdrop of velvety darkness, then, a round pearl-gray drop, shining with an opalescent glow, and, finally, a tiny disc, a solid ball, wrapped in the warm blanket of oceans. Solaris journeyed around its star alone, having no natural satellites like Earth's Moon, which was why the Silurian had dragged on there; the local life was unable to get out of the water onto land without tides. There was no longer a need for that, as the settlers had done a moon's job, and the islands and the ocean were full of life. Of course, only algae and volcanic lichen were left of the former endemic flora, while the Solarian fauna was represented by shrimp and seashells. But now they had terrestrial dolphins and whales, as well as numerous kinds of fish, and real soil with grass and trees; having leapt through several geological eras in a single bound, Solaris had seemingly found itself in the modern age, of the kind that suited humans.
Examining the planet, the nearest goal of our wanderings, Shandra asked, "Where will we set down, Graham? I see dozens of archipelagos, big and small, and each one has so many islands! They're like emerald grains on fawn silk… Which one will we choose? This one?"
"No. We're going to land on Fajeirah." I showed her an island near the equator. "It's ruled by the Fajeirah Areopagus, it has several cities and the largest biostation. A nice place! Palm trees, sandy beaches, dolphins, the ocean… You'll like it. After we finish up our business, we'll go north or south. Both places have volcanic islands, warm geysers, cliffs, and waterfalls — everything to attract tourists."
Stretching out her hand, Shandra stroked the ring on my finger, as if trying to make sure that her gift hadn't vanished, hadn't turned into a fleshless phantom. Her voice was quiet, "Could we stay here longer, Graham? A few years? This world is so beautiful… And I want to believe that it will be good to us."
"Make no mistake, my girl! You know the rules; they're the same on Solaris, on Earth, and on any inhabited world. A space trader is like a photon: he lives for as long as he moves, until he loses his ship. You don't want us to lose the Circe, do you?"
"No," she shook her head. "The Circe is your life, Graham… I understand… I understand everything… So, not a year then, a month? Or two?"
"Probably two. But don't be sad, honey, the galaxy is full of beautiful planets! Especially if we're looking down at them from orbit, after eating a full breakfast, holding a cup of coffee."
"Will we see them?"
"Definitely. Here, look!" I called up the star chart of Solaris's neighborhood. "Aloha is one destination, Poytex is another, Alexandria and Fiddler's Green are third and fourth… A sun the color of silver or scarlet like blood, a crimson star or one with a greenish hue… Take your pick! Two or three jumps, and we're there!"
She glanced at the hologram that was shimmering in front of us in mid-air, like a scattering of bright colorful lights.
"Which of these routes leads to the Periphery?"
"All of them, except the one to Fiddler's green star. Why are you asking, baby?"
"I'm not sure… I just thought about those loving mothers… I mean, the women you call frantic… They're always driven to the Periphery, right? But they live on old planets with stable populations. And each child seems like a marvel to them…. And it's so far from those planets to the Periphery… the farther it is, the harder it is to get there…"
I explained to Shandra that she was wrong. On Old Worlds like Iss, Punjab, and Macedonia, it was easier to build a ship for settlers and easier to find a crew. This was where starships were born, or most of them, at any rate, and those were, as a rule, colony ships. Each of them was an enormous flying refrigerator without any comfort, tens of thousands of hibernator coffins plus cargo holds, full of all kinds of stuff; on the one end were the bridge and the crew cabins, and on the other were the reactor, the engines, and the Ramsden drive. A ship like that was designed for a one-way trip. After reaching its destination, the settlers consumed it piece-by-piece: first, all useful cargo was transported down from orbit, then, all the nuts, screws, and bolts, all the useful equipment, and, a century or two later, it was the outer hull's turn. This was why none of the colony tubs had become trade ships; they were like lumps of sugar in a cup of hot tea, dissolving and settling down to the bottom in a myriad of tiny specks.
Our vessels, meaning space trader ships, came into this world differently. This was a rare occasion, as rare as an interstellar transmission, but what couldn't happen in the galaxy? It was so big and so old, that it would have been a wonder, if rare, unlikely, nearly improbable things didn't happen in it… It did happen; time, Maxwell's demons, and the law of large numbers could indeed work miracles.
Just as an example… The people of some world could be suddenly gripped by a mania, a strange ailment of a social or religious sort that those who caught it thought could bestow happiness upon all of humankind. So what then? Then, naturally, they wished to carry the good tidings to the stars themselves, not caring about the expense. With that goal, a missionary ship was built, a reliable vessel with a crew of sacrificial lambs, all of them being holy martyrs, heroes, and prophets. They departed on their journey, but, in time, their ardor waned, and then some martyr and hero grabbed a blaster to throw St. Bartholomew's Day for the others. It he was an entrepreneurial fellow, then he became a space trader, and, if not, then he could sell the ship at an auction and live a wealthy life until the Last Judgment.
There were other options, other reasons that could push us humans to roam the stars. The primary of them was curiosity. This whim cost a pretty penny, but, as had been mentioned, anything could happen in the galaxy!
Some incredibly rich person, the owner of a whole planet, a philanthropist of some sort, possessed by the itch of an explorer, some romantic, who had received an unexpected inheritance… Such people, idealists and dreamers, were fully ready for cosmic journeys, but, statistically, an unfortunate fate awaited them. In the entire universe, there were a hundred pragmatists for every one romantic, and, sooner or later, everything would follow the same path: mutiny aboard the ship, massacre and violence, blood and death… And then, who knew, a new space trader would appear, not necessary the scoundrel who had murdered the previous owner, but simply a lucky fellow. One of those who always ended up in the right place at the right time.
Of course, such newbies still needed to learn the art of commerce among the stars, and that was, to tell the truth, a delicate and complicated task. Planetary experience would do more harm than good here, as it imbued one with a false sense of confidence in one's abilities, which, more than likely, were useless for space trade. Why? Well, it was because any financier from Barsoom, Logres, or Eden was used to receiving a ten percent profit on his invested capital. Twenty was a reason to drink champagne and smash the wine glasses; thirty was an incredible success, a smile of Lady Fortune; and, well, fifty was pure fantasy, a cause to suspect fraud (at least, on civilized planets).
Such scope was not for space traders. We traveled from world to world, and that was a costly task; we needed timely maintenance, reactor fuel, the best equipment, computers and machines, refined cuisine and other things that could brighten up our endless flight. An acceptable ratio in this game was five to one, but it would be better if one managed to squeeze out tenfold profits. Remember that, besides actinides, one also needed platinum, which was the available capital; after all, most of the goods would sit in the holds for centuries, until one found that one corner of the galaxy to sell them at the highest price. This meant restraint, restraint, and more restraint! As well as some guile. Just take my scam with the Punjabi silver… Yes, our profession was not for romantics and amateurs! And not for those who trusted easily! Then again, I could understand, pity, and forgive the latter; even I wasn't without sin if one were to recall Yoko.
But women were women, an understandable weakness, but gullibility had no place in other situations. So, if someone offered you a chance to search for treasure in the Magellanic Clouds or to buy a drive that could take you to the Andromeda Nebula, be careful! The best answer would be to say that you had already been there, and that you were prepared to share all the secrets of other galaxies, for a modest fee, of course. I wouldn't ask for too much; a few grams of platinum was enough to get rid of any adventurer and fanatic.
I knew from personal experience that all such schemers were stubborn, brash, and aggressive, like a flock of hungry crows, but the most arrogant of them all were those who had been inspired by religious ideas. They would run circles around even the frantic mothers, anywhere and anytime! I had received plenty of tempting offers from them: to pack my ship full of missioners and give them a ride to some sinful world (for free, of course, out of my love for the Almighty); to go on a pious tour, eradicating heretics and atheists all across the galaxy; to, finally, sell the Circe for pennies or to go on a quest for Paradise in the pleasant company of a few dozen zealots. All of those respectable gentlemen, who had threatened me with either hellfire or eternal damnation, grazed on the same field as the Children of Light, except their wallets were full of cosmic vacuum. Such passengers were unsuitable to me; if I had to deal with fanatics, I'd rather deal with those who could pay for passage.
Experto crede [Footnote 1]!
I gave Shandra Pan Stanisław's book, the one about the mystical Solaris. She was both ecstatic and horrified; she admired the grandiose fantasy, but she mourned the people's fates and their gained and lost love… This sentient ocean was equivalent to God to her, the real God; after all, its might and mystery could not be comprehended, and it behaved as cruelly and arbitrarily as God: sought out things that were secret, gave what had not been asked for, reminded of the forbidden. An alien, strange, and incomprehensible being…
"Do such things exist?" Shandra asked.
"No," I replied.
I rejected the idea of a Great Universal Intelligence, capable of reading our souls as if a computer screen; to me, it seemed little more than nonsense and superstition. And even if such a monster existed, humans would be uninteresting to it, and it would hardly try to make contact with us. And, since it didn't manifest in any way, then it pretty much didn't exist or didn't exist at all, at least from our, human, point of view. While this thought smacked of solipsism, I couldn't believe something I hadn't seen: enormous sentient oceans and plasma clouds, little green men from the stars of Ursa Major and other aliens. Long ago, Earth had been gripped by a psychosis; space was seen as something mysterious and threatening, and armadas of alien ships were flying towards us out of this cold expanse with an unclear but unkind purpose. I thought of it as a childhood illness, space childhood, if you will. A child also feared ghosts in an empty and dark house, but, after growing up, all they had to do was walk through all the rooms with a bright light, and all the ghostly unreality vanished, replaced by chairs, tables, and cabinets. We had found such furniture — a multitude of planets that were, to varying degrees, habitable for humans, but Intelligence, not the Great Universal one, but simply alien, was still one of those ghosts. Twenty millennia was a long enough time to grow up and discover that. Although… Who knew what awaited us on the other side of the galactic core?
We were approaching Solaris, and I sent a standard message: the name of the ship, route information, the list of goods, and a request to land. The answer was signed by the First Exousiastes of Fajeirah; a very kind invitation, put together in a lush and flowery manner, in accordance with the local tradition. These words, when they appeared on our screen, seemed to smell of the sea and of a pleasant sweet scent that awakened memories of the herbs and essences that Solaris was famous for. I expected to buy up everything that was related to cosmetics, and the Exousiastes's letter hinted at what they expected in return. It seemed that this oceanic world had started improving the land; they required land animals, avians and quadrupeds, to beautify their homes and forests.
Excellent trading prospects! I estimated that I would sell them the orange monkeys as house pets; maybe the pterrogeckos would also fit that purpose. Shabns and black unicorns were too large and voracious, but still, an island the size of Fajeirah could feed a few hundred heads, so even here I had certain prospects. Small predators and rodents would be suitable for their woodlands: foxes, hares, squirrels, raccoons, hedgehogs, and badgers. There were no rats or rabbits in my menagerie; the former caused unpleasant associations, while the latter were too prolific and dangerous to crops. Instead, I could offer beautiful (and completely harmless) beetles and butterflies from Eden and, to maintain the ecological equilibrium, a great selection of birds. I stored avian cell tissues in the freezer, and they included twelve or thirteen thousand species, described in a colorful brochure; everything that Earth and other worlds could provide, except for, perhaps, the telepathic cockatoos from Shandra's mystical kingdom. We started preparing the lounge for the upcoming bidding, as complex as showing the clothes. The runway was piled with mobile holoscreens, chairs were gathered at the center, a bar was unfolded to the right of them, and an exhibition of catalogs and brochures, both printed and on holographic discs, was placed on the left; I instructed the robots to hang a full-size image of a Malacandran sphinx over the entrance to the axial elevator (who knew, maybe someone would take a fancy to it?..), while a temporary winter garden was set up in the gym, with live exhibits, birds, fish, and butterflies. Then again, I wasn't holding out hope on selling the fish, as there were plenty of them on Solaris already.
After the Circe had entered planetary orbit, the preparations were over: the screens came alive, the automated bar blinked with lights, the robots froze along the walls like an honor guard, and we collapsed into chairs, exhausted. Obviously, we hadn't been carrying or lifting anything (which wasn't too heavy at two percent gravity anyway), but we had to command this mechanical pack; everyone knew that the boss got far more tired than his blockhead subordinates. Thus, we were tired; giving orders was such a thankless job!
Examining the fruit of our labor, Shandra muttered, "Such a marvelous sight… But Cassilda would have gone mad from all this. Massaraksh! So much hassle over some birdies and beasties! Over fish, butterflies, and beetles! Cassilda wouldn't have understood"
"Every sandpiper praises his own swamp," I replied with a lazy complacency. "And our swamp is pretty good, constantly expanding… Just look at this particular quagmire…" I pointed in the direction of the runway.
"What do you mean, honey?" Shandra inquired tiredly.
"I mean that, in the old days, I wouldn't even dream of such luxury. Just take our main lounge… I purchased it on Armorica, and it was a difficult operation, for both me and the Circe."
Shandra started, anticipating a new story. My tales meant more to her than books and holographic recordings; she could listen to them in any condition: hungry or full, happy or sad, tired or lively. The place and time were also meaningless: the bridge, the pool, the dining room, or the bed were all equally suitable for partaking in Graham French's wisdom. I was flattered by this and did my best to not lose face.
"Well then, during my second visit to Armorica, I discovered the remains of their colony ship in orbit. They had already gutted it and started on the outer hull; the engine had already been disassembled, the hibernator sections were cut up like metal noodles, but one of the cargo holds was still intact; as I found out, the colonists wanted to set an orbital factory or a relay center there. Or maybe a prison, a hospital, or a bar; their plans for this hulk were fairly controversial and vague. I liked it; a fairly large cylinder of exactly Circe's diameter, with an armored covering and a cermet inner lining. I thought that this barrel would be useful to me. If I stuck it between the hydroponic sections and the habitation module, it would turn into a very nice hall for celebrations or a bunk room for transporting passengers; either way, something useful and profitable. Having mused on this idea, I started negotiating. The talks were long, boring, and tedious. My partners were trying to inflate its worth, mentioning orbital prisons and bars, even though there were plenty of such excesses "down" on the planet. I could maybe understand their idea for a tavern, but the prison was too much! What sort of prison would it be in weightlessness? That wasn't a prison, that was a resort! That was what I told them, adding that, for the next several centuries, they would need a few satellites the size of a soccer ball, not orbital prisons or restaurants. It was hard to argue with the obvious; with sour smiles, my opponents admitted that I had a point, that the old barrel wasn't that important to the future of Armorican civilization, and that its price was probably a little high. Without putting things off, I contacted the Circe to pay in cash, but the partners asked me to wait. Just a little, a few days to think and obtain approval, to prepare all the paperwork, and to seek a consensus in the parliament (or the senate, I can't remember what their governing body was called, but, since we were talking about national property, only it could ratify the contract). I should say that consensus is a complicated business, especially on Armorica, where there are as many parties as there are people, and even more opinions. Understanding all the laboriousness of approvals and deliberations, I waited patiently. Less than a month later, the parliament's (or the senate's) envoy appeared before me, but not with a contract, with a long list of commodities the colonists needed. It was an excellent document! Seven hundred and seventy-two bullet points; and, in order to take care of them, I had to visit every world from Armorica to Earth. But I didn't mind, as it could've been worse; we shook on it, and Cap Frenchie, the great Trader from the Stars, the famous Friend of the Border, departed on his fifty-year journey. After coming back and unloading the goods, I got down to the technical side of the deal, with the help of the Armoricans, of course. The procedure was complicated and as laborious as looking for a consensus in the local parliament. We cut the Circe in half, put my new purchase in, welded the seams, polished the hull, installed additional engines, and, as a result, I became the owner of a luxurious lounge eighty meters in diameter and forty in height. I was ecstatic! Like a teenager who has traded a pile of scrap metal for a brand-new bicycle!"
"And that's when you started your fashion business?" Shandra asked.
"No, that happened later. In those days, all Old Worlds, except for Logres and Penelope, were still accepting colonists, and they needed to be settled, employed, and supplied with all the necessities. They required equipment, machines, and CR facilities, not clothing. But, five or six centuries later, all those worlds developed their unique individuality, their own styles of clothing and entertainment, and then it came time for trading outfits. A profitable business! I was the first to do it, but every good idea bore followers, and they, in time, became competitors…"
"Are there many of them?"
"Not very. No one knows for sure. A hundred or two… maybe a few more."
"But why?" Shandra's eyebrows shot up and froze as two even arches. "Why, Graham? I mean, why are there so few space traders? It's a profitable enterprise, and planetary authorities could engage in interstellar trade… or private companies… or wealthy people… Basically, anyone who can afford to build a ship. But…"
"…there aren't that many volunteers," I finished. "Want to know why? The answer is simple. You've read Baslim-Krause, right? The work on the economics of space flight? What does it say?"
Shandra furrowed her brow, recalling, "It says that a trade ship with a cargo costs a lot of money… a lot… a huge amount! Recouping the investment requires going on a long flight, at least five centuries, if I'm not mistaken… It's too long a time period! Either the government will fall, or the company will go bankrupt, or the ship with all of its cargo will be appropriated by the crew…"
"Exactly," I confirmed. "Pecuniae obediunt omnia, my princess, which means 'money does master all things'… Well, maybe not all things, but definitely space trade. It's a task for loners."
"Maybe loners," Shandra stuck out her lip stubbornly. "But there are wealthy people… Why don't they become space traders?"
I burst out in quiet laughter, examining her blushing face. My debate partner was so beautiful! And so naïve! Noticing me staring at her as if entranced, Shandra stretched out her hand in a specific gesture, and the light of the ceiling panels dimmed. We were surrounded by a cozy, warm gloom; it was created by the lights on the bar counter and by the barely noticeable luminescence of the screens.
Leaning towards to Shandra, I inhaled her scent; it was as pleasant as seeing her face.
"The wealthy live well, my dear. Why should they leave their world, their era, their loved ones and friends? For the dubious pleasure of passing into oblivion? Just imagine what dangers await us, space nomads: destabilization, meteorites, black holes, supernova explosions, harmful viruses, and villains like Clérac Belug… Is it worth the risk?"
Shandra recoiled.
"But, Graham… Is it all really so horrible? I remember you telling me that life 'down' there was more dangerous than traveling through space. And that a monarchy was better than even the fairest democracy!"
An undeniable fact. She had learned my lessons well!
"Are you talking about Lee Herbert's theory? The one with the three stages: democracy, totalitarian regime, and religious bacchanalia, which alternate with one another?"
Shandra shook a mane of golden hair in confirmation.
"I don't know if you should believe this theory," I said slowly. "But almost all worlds experience riots and rebellions, civil wars and uprisings, ecological disasters and periods of decline. And all the calamities that come from the careless use of science. Every place has its disgruntled: women who want to have children, the opposition who strives to attain power, as well as criminals, terrorists, and the disenfranchised, a nuclear charge under the social foundation. Sooner or later, this charge blows, and turmoil comes, followed by collapse… Then a new rise, but, in times of turmoil, a wealthy person risks more than a poor one. First of all, he's ruined financially; then, he's deprived of his civil rights; and, finally, he can be killed as an oppressor and a bloodsucker of the people. But, if you're all alone…" Throwing a glance at Shandra, I corrected myself. "If it's just the two of us, beings not prone to anger, envy, or boredom on a space ship, then what dangers are there? Destabilization? Meteorites? Viruses? Sure, they're unpleasant, but they're far less frequent than social disasters."
I fell silent. Shandra was thinking it all over, biting her lip; the light in the lounge was dim, and gleams of the changing colorful lights from the bar counter slid down her cheeks. One moment, she was covered in lilac shadows, only to be replaced by the darkness, a blue predawn flare, and the scarlet flame of a morning dawn; then the shining of a golden veil of day forced me to squint and blink. And then, again: lilac, black, blue, scarlet, golden… Like a chain of muslin covers that fell on her face.
"Should I increase the brightness?" I asked.
"No, don't…" She touched my hand, her eyes reflecting either emerald or amber fire. "Strange, honey… There seems to be a contradiction here… If the life 'down' there is so dangerous to millionaires, then why don't they move to space? Or do they not believe in the inevitability of a disaster? Do they not wish to accept it? Don't they understand it?"
"They do understand, I think. And those who understand it best become space traders, if they're also restless, curious, and possess common sense. As for the rest… You see, people are irrational creatures, and, being them, they are still prepared to argue against the ancient wisdom, 'hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.' People think that nothing bad will happen to them, especially now, when the worst, death of sickness and old age, no longer hangs over them. And those millionaires of yours are as human as the rest of us, and they live in the wealthiest of the ancient worlds: Old Earth and Lyoness, Barsoom and Malacandra, Penelope and Eden. Peace, splendor, comfort… No one wants to think that all that could still end."
"But the end does come, always," Shandra said quietly with a half-affirmative and half-questioning intonation. "Because of human foolishness or because a comet falls on people's heads… The result is the same: turmoil, chaos, bloodshed, pillaging… I've already seen that, Graham. What else? Of what disasters can you tell me?"
"A great variety of them. Of horrible monsters who escaped from bio-laboratories, as it happened on Earth, or of the hedonistic Tritonian experiments. There was also an unfortunate attempt at correcting the climate on Yamaha; they changed their axial tilt, which led to the melting of polar ice caps and global flooding. On El Dorado, they tried the same with powerful ultrasonic generators; when they were all activated at the same time, the continental shield failed, magma punched through, volcanoes came alive, and only ashes were left of the people… On Shangri-La, a law was put into effect regarding property qualification in determining citizenship status, and, a few centuries later, the majority of the population was made up of slaves and the disenfranchised. They were then led by some screaming ambitious man, a local führer of some kind, and the planet was engulfed in blood. I also recall a world with the strange name Bone-in-the-Throat… They were playing around with heredity, some sort of eugenic tricks, trying to breed a master race, and, before they knew it, their population had doubled. Famine followed, and then… Well, you understand, my dear, it was all like on Murphy. The master race was eaten, and the eugenic experimenters became snacks…"
Shandra shivered.
"Did no one predict the possibility of such terrible disasters?"
"Of course they did, but all such seers were treated the same as Cassandra. They were accused of slowing down progress, spreading panic, preventing grand ideas from being implemented. As a rule, they were disenfranchised, and, in some places, punished with aging… No one took their predictions into account, they were laughed at and ridiculed, until the disaster came. Then they were hanged. This once again proves that humans are irrational creatures."
I fell silent, thinking. It was strange, but people continued to ignore humankind's collective experience, unwilling to learn on others' mistakes and misfortunes. Just take Shangri-La… Brunnershabn was located a mere ten parsecs from it, and, one would think, news of the nuclear disaster should have had cooled even the worst hotheads. But no, that hadn't happened! They still started a civil war on Shangri-La, and as many people died in it as on Murphy after the fall of the Lord's Hammer. So there was a kernel of truth in Lee Herbert's theory; every world was doomed to disaster, as an infernal embryo of arrogance and foolishness hid inside it.
Did that mean that humans were incapable of building a Paradise? After all, Paradise was a symbol of stability; it never experienced disasters, and existence itself did not become an eternal horror and a permanent disaster. Paradise was the antithesis of Lee Herbert's theory and all the similar ideas; it was a place where reason would triumph over foolishness, nobility over selfishness, where eternal life really would be eternal. I decided that there was some progress in my concept of Paradise. Before, I had known what could not be there: boring hymns and dances at the throne of God, angels with tiny wings, rivers of honey, marmalade banks, and other such nonsense. But, as had been mentioned many times, all that was a definition a contrario, not ab actu — based on the contrary, instead of the actual. Now, finally, the light of truth dawned upon me, like a guiding star in the cold and dark cosmic void.
Yes, there, in my Paradise, reason triumphed, prosperity reigned, and eternal life was not subject to sudden disasters… But that was not the important thing! Not that! What then?.. Lately, looking at Shandra, I learned more towards the thought that the important thing there was love. Not stability, not peace, not beauty, not nobility, just love! Only love, capable of brightening up the melancholy of eternal existence!
Shandra waved her hand, and the ceiling panels flared in bright light.
"Are you tired, Graham? Have I tormented you with my constant questions?"
"No, my princess. Ask, and you'll get an answer if I know it. But let's get our throats wet. How about a glass of Punjabi brandy?"
But she decided that it was best for us to go to the bedroom.
I obeyed.
Footnotes
1) Latin for "Trust in one experienced."