«I’ll show them all,» he muttered, his voice strangely deepened by the liquid in which he floated.
The first glimpses that automated probes had relayed back to the scientists in orbit around Jupiter were discounted as sensor errors. Living creatures as big as earthly cities? Impossible. But the cameras and sonars of the probes told the same story. Enormous Jovians swimming in that enormous ocean. Lordly beasts as huge as mountains.
The probes caught only glimpses of the Leviathans. The machines could not go deep enough, down to the depths where these creatures swam, because their communications systems blanked out at such tremendous depths and pressures. Humans had to go, but to do so meant that the humans had to be surgically altered, become more than human. Or perhaps less.
«There’s no guarantee that we can return you to normal, once you’ve undergone the surgery,» said the station’s chief scientist.
Thinking of Zheng He and his own father, Po Han had agreed to the surgery.
«People have died down there,» the chief scientist warned. «Others have returned crippled.»
Po Han did not care. He had cut off the umbilical cord that connected him to home, to family, to Earth. «I am willing to accept the risks,» he said simply.
Now, floating in this utterly alien man-made womb, he burned with eagerness to show the world the greatness of his courage, his daring. I will be famous! I’ll show them all!
And then his heart leaped. Off in the distance, deeper than he was cruising, a shadowy shape glided through the ammoniated water. Blinking, Po Han calibrated the distance and size of the shape. It’s enormous! Bigger than Beijing!
Deeper he pushed himself. The submersible groaned under the increasing pressure that Po Han felt squeezing him in a pitiless vise.
«I can stand the pain,» he said to himself. «I’ll show them… show them all.»
The immense Jovian turned toward him, and Po Han saw that it was followed by others. Dozens more. He couldn’t breathe; the pressure was crushing him. It took nearly half an hour for the gigantic beast to cruise past him. Po Han saw hundreds of eyes along that enormous flank turning toward him, focusing on him.
He shuddered.
And then the Leviathan’s side lit up with a brilliant red display. Po Han goggled at it. A picture, an image of his own submersible. Down to the last sensor pod, every detail perfectly displayed.
All the other Leviathans flashed the same image.
«They’re communicating!» Po Han realized. «They’re trying to communicate with me!»
They are intelligent! Po Han knew it with undeniable certainty. An intelligent alien species.
For countless hours Po Han swam with these gentle giants in his pitifully tiny submersible. And his own fears, his own ambitions, his own resentment of his father and all the others faded into nothingness.
A new resolve filled him, a new dream. «You will show me, great ones,» he whispered. «I will learn from you.»
In the presence of the Leviathans, the humble dream of gaining new knowledge had taken hold of him and would never let go again.
BRILLO
It all started with a pun.
For more than a quarter-century Harlan Ellison has been one of my cherished friends, even though he lives on the West Coast and I on the East. For the first few years of our comradeship, Harlan occasionally sighed wistfully that he had never been published in the pages of Analog Science Fiction magazine.
Analog, you see, was the most prestigious magazine in the field of science fiction. It was (and still is) a bastion of «hard» science fiction, the kind of stuff that I write and Harlan does not. But Harlan saw his problem as deeper than that. He felt that the magazine’s editor, John W. Campbell, Jr., would never publish a story written by Harlan Ellison—for personal reasons, including differences in personality, outlook, and foreskins.
Campbell was the giant figure of the field in those days, and had been since he had become editor of the magazine in 1937, when it was called Astounding Stories.
It was now the late 1960s. Even though I assured Harlan that Campbell would buy any story he liked, no matter who wrote it, Harlan remained convinced that John would never publish a story he had written. So Harlan and I concocted a plot. We would write a story together, put a penname on it, and sell it to Campbell.
Since we lived so far apart, in those days before home computers and modems and fax machines, work on our story progressed slowly. We decided it would be about two police officers: one very human and one a robot that was programmed to know only the law and infractions thereof. No human traits such as mercy or judgment. Casting about for a name for the robot, I punned: «Brillo—that’s what we should call metal fuzz.» (In those days «fuzz» was a slang word for «police.»)
Although he denies it vigorously to this very day, Harlan laughed uproariously at my pun, and we agreed to title the story «Brillo.»
Then came the writing. I flew out to the West Coast on other business, and Harlan and I arranged to meet one evening to start writing the story. We had already exchanged notes about the major characters and the background setting. This one evening would be devoted to writing as much of the story’s first draft as we could.
I finished my day’s work and arrived at Harlan’s home in Sherman Oaks near sunset, ready to work. But Harlan was ready for dinner, instead. He took me, and his friend, Louise Farr, to a Cecil B. DeMille-type restaurant somewhere deep in Beverly Hills. The place was jammed. It looked like a mob scene out of The Ten Commandments. Not to worry. The maitre d’ spotted Harlan in the crowd and personally ushered us to the best table in the place. No waiting. He even sent over a complimentary bottle of fine red wine.
It was nearly ten o’clock by the time we got back to Harlan’s place and down to work. Only to discover that we both had the runs. Something in the food had afflicted us sorely.
But we are professional writers. We wrote the first draft of our story, one painful paragraph at a time. One paragraph was about as long as either one of us could stay out of the bathroom. We would meet each other in the hallway between the john and the typewriter.
By dawn’s bleary light we were exhausted, in more ways than one. And we had roughly five thousand words of first draft on paper.
I flew back to New England. Months passed.
At the Cleveland airport, as I was waiting for my plane home after another business trip, I was paged. None other than Harlan, who excitedly read me the fifteen-thousand word second draft of «Brillo,» while my plane was loaded up and taxied off without me.
It was beautiful and I told Harlan so. It is essentially the story you will read here.
«Campbell will love it!» I said.
«It’s too good for Campbell!» Harlan replied. «Let’s send it to Playboy!»
Playboy paid ten times what Analog did. We are, as I pointed out earlier, professional writers. So we instructed our mutual agent to send «Brillo» to Playboy.
More months passed. It is now Christmas Eve. I am sitting in my office at the laboratory, where I worked as the manager of the marketing department (i.e., resident science-fiction writer). Four P.M. and already pitch dark outside. Snow is sifting past my window. The office Christmas party is about to begin.
My phone rings. Harlan.
Not only has Playboy rejected our story (they had published a story about a robot the year before, and felt that was as far out as they could go then), but our mutual agent automatically sent the manuscript to the next best market—John W. Campbell Jr.—with Harlan’s name still on it! (And mine too, of course.)