The Young Person’s Guide to the Organism
(Variations and Fugue on a Classical Theme)
by James Alan Gardner
THEME: ORGANISM
(ALLEGRO MAESTOSO E LARGAMENTE)
(WITH GOOD SPEED, MAJESTIC AND SWEEPING)
A treat. Come to the window. An Organism is passing the Outpost.
There, where my claw points. It is very faint. It is nearly invisible because its skin absorbs almost all the electromagnetic radiation it receives. Do you know what I mean by electromagnetic radiation? And what else besides light? And what else? And what else? Gamma rays, child. Gamma rays.
When you sleep tonight, I will see that you dream of physics.
You cannot tell from this view, but the Organism is very large. Twelve kilometers long, ten kilometers in diameter at its midsection. That is comparable to the Outpost itself. It is larger than any ship or orbital yet constructed by your race.
If you look closely, you will see that from time to time its skin glistens slightly with thin ghosts of color. It is beautiful, is it not? A thing of splendor, though it is nearly invisible. It is black, but comely.
Can you identify my allusion? The Song of Solomon. From a human celebration text. I have made a study of such texts, child; they hearten me. Whenever I despair that your race is entirely consumed by pettiness, the celebration texts remind me that humans also recognize greatness.
Recognize the greatness of this Organism, child. It is magnificent: huge, ancient, serene. When such an Organism passes by, ephemeral species like yours will dream dreams and see visions. Its presence stirs a resonance within you; some races claim these creatures are the shadows of gods, slowly gliding through our universe.
We do not know where this Organism comes from. It has been in deep space for centuries. If it does not choose to settle down in Sol’s system, it will travel many more centuries before it reaches another star. It has been alone a long time.
No…why should we stop it? We have no right to interfere. Once it is past the Outpost, it is within human jurisdiction.
I don’t understand your question. Why should it matter whether the humans can “handle” the Organism? This is their system—they are its children and its masters. We will not tamper with human affairs, not even “for their own good.” We have neither the right nor the wisdom to meddle. You know that.
Yes, you are human yourself, child, but only in the coils of your DNA. In your brain and heart and soul, you are the chosen envoy of the League of Peoples. By the time humans step beyond the edge of their system, you will be ready to serve as intermediary between our two races. But before you can act, you must learn; and in order to learn, you must observe.
Observe the Organism as it passes, child. We do not know where it came from, nor can we predict where it goes. We cannot tell how much it is moved by instinct, how much by intellect…yet I say unto you, Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these. Yes, another allusion. And unfair to Solomon. I expect he was a marvel himself.
VARIATION A: LEVIATHAN
(PRESTO)
(VERY QUICKLY)
CONTACT: MAY 2038
Not so long ago, my darling girl, every freighter flying the Red Run had one cargo pod doing duty as an Environment. You wouldn’t know what that was, would you? (Whoops, Granddah spilled a bit on your bib, didn’t he? Let me wipe it off. Ahh, get your fingers out of it. It’s the tiniest fingers in the world you have, yes, Colleen, yes, you do.)
An Environment was a piece of Earth, that’s what it was. A sim-u-la-tion. Which is a big word even for those of us who’ve mastered words like Mama and Dada and Granddah. (Granddah. Grannnn-daaahhh. No? Oh, well.)
We sometimes had trouble with Mudside investors who thought the Environment was a waste of our freight space, but those damned moneylenders had their thumbs up their…they were notoriously shortsighted, that’s what they were. You put yourself in the place of those miners on Mars. Which would you rather have? Another few tons of bouillon and toothpaste? Or a walk through a rose garden smelling of perfume and peat moss, maybe a night forest rustling with rabbits and squirrels, or a marsh with red-winged blackbirds fluting away Cheeee-ri-ohhhhh! (Oh, you like that? Cheeee-ri-ohhhh! Cheeee-ri-oh-oo-oh!)
Anyway, how it was, your ship was its Environment. (Take a big mouthful, that’s my girl.) The Environment was your ship’s trademark and you lived up to it. I remember a Japanese ship called the Edo Maru—had a pretty little Shinto shrine, copy of a famous one on Mt. Fuji, I forget the temple’s name. But very pleasant and tranquil. Trouble was, the captain was this Swede, nice fellow really, but hearty, you know, with the loudest voice God ever foisted on someone who didn’t sing opera. Sort of gave the ship a split personality. No one could take it serious.
Don’t know what happened to the Edo. Got old, got sold, I guess. Not many alternatives to that story, are there?
Our ship was called the Peregrine, and our Environment was the deck of a China clipper. A bit different from the back-to-nature Environments, but very popular. We had sun, waves, gulls, fresh-picked oolong in the hold. The kids could climb up into the rigging. Adults too, for that matter—miners would get one whiff of the breeze carrying the salt smell of the Pacific and they’d be clambering up the mast, forgetting the mines and the cold red desert, stretching those muscles that only get stretched when body and soul reach up together.
Once every docking, we’d run a storm—never broadcast when it would be, just let the sky start to turn gray…and the excitement! The looks on the faces of the visitors when the clouds began to cover the sun and folks knew they’d hit the right time! Then a lightning flash in the distance, a count of five, the rumble of thunder…waves heaping up and capping over, the wind rising to squall, the deck rocking, our crew lashing everyone to the railings as rollers came crashing over the bough…well, we were a legend. Peregrine wasn’t a clunk of a freighter looking like a sow dangling twenty full teats, but an honest-to-God clipper ship.
Not an easy image to maintain, I tell you. Like the old masted clipper White Cloud, we couldn’t ever be late, or the mystique would be shattered. Other ships—Coventry, that was the one with the rose garden—Coventry never docked on schedule. Once we saw it parked behind Phobos, passing time till it was overdue. It had its reputation, we had ours.
All of which is preamble to the story I’m going to tell you, soon as you have another spoonful of these beans. Or peas. This green sludge that looks like it came out of some…out of the wrong end of a herbivore. Mmmmm, yes, it’s good, isn’t it?
We may have had some beans and peas on board for the run I’m going to tell about. I don’t know. The manifests said we were carrying perishables, which meant they’d only be good for three or four months in a refrigeration pod. The contract called for docking at Mars-Wheel within ninety days of departure, with a late penalty of ten percent of total fees per day…which was tough terms, let me tell you. But we were the Peregrine and we had our reputation to uphold. Not to mention raking in a pretty packet if we pulled the trick off.
We ran stripped, without a thimble more fuel than we needed and without a single spare part. Normally we’d carry enough gear to rebuild the entire engine if need be, not to mention duplicate navigation and life support systems. But that meant extra mass, and to make the Red Run in ninety days, given the relative positions of the Earth and Mars at that point…well, you don’t want to hear this. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it, which amounts to the same thing, don’t it?