Дэймон Найт: Orbit 11

‘Spore pods, of course, are containers of primitive one-celled life forms which have a DNA structure like that of terrestrial life forms but which were artificially constructed to approximate the first life forms that appeared on our planet. And your hope, Dr. Cullins, is that these forms of earthlike life will flourish in the seas of the new planet and evolve into more complex life forms not greatly different from those of the earth. Is that correct, Dr. Cullins?”

“Hell no, man! Where do you get all these weird ideas?” said the nonphosphorus Cullins.

“Yes,” agreed the Cullins of the phosphors. “Of course the evolution will certainly take several billion years, during which time the crew of the Seed will spend time on another round trip at near light speed. When they return, an earthlike ecology should be present, allowing a hospitable environment in which present terrestrial plants and animals could function. And they will have fertilized seeds and ova preserved by freezing and the equipment for nurturing them. The new world will have both familiar and strange life forms on it, but all will be children of Earth.”

“What if the crew finds a suitable planet which already has life on it, Dr. Cullins?”

“Precisely the same thing that we will do as we spread our colonies through the galaxy. They will land and determine if they and the terrestrial life forms can survive alongside the alien life forms. If they cannot, they will have to search elsewhere.”

“Isn’t the crew rather small for such an undertaking, Dr. Cullins?”

“Bastard!” said the dotless Cullins, speaking the thought aloud that he had kept silent when the recording had been made.

The Cullins of the phosphor dots was apparently calm and genial. “As is the usual case with starships, the majority of the crew exist as frozen fertilized human ova which will be thawed at an opportune time and grown in artificial wombs, then educated by the adult crew members and by the ship computer. This is the most economical way to colonize the galaxy and the same holds true for colonizing the next universe.”

“But the usual size for the adult and conscious crew of a starship is fifty, Dr. Cullins, not nine. Is there a reason for this?”

“You’re hurting me,” Erika protested.

“Sorry,” said the dotless Cullins, releasing his grip on her hand.

“As you know,” began the Cullins of the phosphors, “this is a starship of standard design and the standard starship wasn’t designed with a McJunkins field generator as part of the structure. And a McJunkins generator is a rather bulky piece of hardware. Therefore, space is less abundant and the number of adult crew members had to be reduced.”

“I didn’t want to have to admit that—” said the dotless Cullins, “that we had been unable to get funds enough to build a special ship and had to be content with the ship that was built for the ninth interstellar probe. That ship is not even close to being an optimum design. It cheapens the project. And might make it hard for us to get a special ship for the next Seed.”

“ If there is another Seed,” said the only and dotless Cain. “You’re ignoring the point that you just talked around in that interview. The Seed could carry a crew of fifteen in spite of the McJunkins generator. But we could only find nine who were fitted to be the nucleus of a new race and wanted to go. We had to drive off the crackpots, and the ones who were suited only to be janitors, with threats of violence, but could only find nine volunteers who had the talents and the mental stability.”

“Which only shows that this is a decadent age. But the reality of the first Seed will grow in the public consciousness and reverse the trend. Even if this century doesn’t launch them, more Seeds will come.”

The Cullins of the phosphors had vanished from the screen. There was more to the interview, but the scene in the steevee screen had been shifted to an announcer behind the usual bare desk. “And now we switch to live coverage of the launching of the Seed, beamed from beyond Pluto to our relay on Titan, then from Titan to our relay satellite, then down to our studios. I remind you again that Pluto is never closer to Earth than three billion two hundred million miles, and, though our signals from the Seed travel at the speed of light, they take five hours, thirty-four minutes, and twenty-seven seconds to travel from our transmitter near the Seed to the Earth. Consequently, though our transmission shows the Seed prior to its launching, and this is a live broadcast, not a molecording, the Seed has, in fact, already been launched upon the seas of time.”

“Ouch,” said the only Cullins in sight.

“Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep,” Cain sang softly.

The announcer with the household word for a name beamed through his glasses in an extrovertedly intellectual way, then faded, leaving only his voice. The starship was visible on the screen. Not visible were the batteries of searchlights that were necessary to illuminate the starship for the benefit of the steevee cameras. The older TV cameras could have been operated with the addition of an image intensification circuit which would give them a sensitivity appropriate to the faint light of the distant sun, but the networks wanted to cover the event not just in color but in living depth as well. “It is now T minus one minute and counting. We cut to the Seed for a final word with the mission commander, David Kandt.” Cut they did, to an unsmiling, obviously nervous mission commander.

“In your last seconds in this universe, what are your thoughts, Commander?” asked the voice of a new announcer, this one sounding just as extrovertedly intellectual as the first.

“Well, nothing, uh, complicated. Just good-bye. And we will carry on in the next universe.” Obviously, the speech had been rehearsed, but not enough.

“Thank you, Commander Kandt,” said the voice of the first announcer, though he was on Earth and Kandt could not hear him. “I remind you again that the Seed has already begun its multibillion-year mission, but the transmissions are only now reaching us, due to the great distances involved.” The starship was on the screen again. “Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—field on.” The starship vanished, replaced by a mirrored sphere in which the images of the searchlights could be seen, as could the distorted image of the steevee camera. “And now the plaque will be placed on the Seed.” Figures in pressure suits drifted in around the sphere, guiding three wide bands of fabric which joined at a center. The three cloth tendrils snaked around the mirrored horizon like living tendrils, almost as if they were thrusting forward the tiny men on their tips rather than being pulled by them, as if the men were specialized handling organs at the tips of the three limbs. The tips came together and were secured. The men drew back from the sphere, and a metal plaque, brightly polished but dull against the perfectly reflecting surface of the McJunkins field, was visible at the juncture of the three fabric strips.

Cullins, Cain, and Erika realized simultaneously that the thing looked like an enormous athletic supporter. Looking at it made Erika hornier than ever.

The sphere grew on the screen, filled it. “Our camera is closing on the plaque that has been secured to the Seed. I remind you again that the transmissions are only now . . .” The plaque filled the screen. Superimposed over a spiral nebula was the figure of a man, nude but with his crotch emasculated by a shadow. (Maybe it’s his jock strap around the Seed, Cain thought.) In his right hand was the flag of the Americas Union. In his left was an hourglass. Inscription: On this day of September 9, 2043, men of this universe set forth for a universe not yet born. “The inscription reads,” the announcer began, then read the inscription that the audience had already read. “For the first time, man has sent himself into the future that his race might not die in the collapse of the universe billions of years from now.”