Bob Shaw - The Ceres Solution

“They can hardly be classed as normal,” Gretana said, tentatively accepting the role of devil’s advocate.

“No, but look at the general galactic situation. We know—in fact, it’s basic to our philosophy—that the third-order forces which permeate the universe have a profound effect on living matter, especially just after conception. That’s when the raw materials of heredity are sorting themselves into the arrangement for the new individual. It’s a crucial time, when even the slightest interference from outside—say, the movement of nearby planets—has a major effect on the biological end-product.

“That’s also why the presence of one or more natural satellites is the most powerful factor influencing the development of life on any given planet—simply because a moon is the nearest astronomical neighbour. Do you know, Gretana, that every other planet which supports intelligent life is either moonless, or has a very small moon in a remote orbit?

“Even in the latter case, even when the moon is just a distant hunk of rock, studies have shown that the indigenous race is handicapped in its development because of the unstable lunar influences.” Keith abruptly swallowed the long-awaiting spoonful of soup and, as if to make up for lost time, took several more in rapid succession.

“I didn’t realise a small moon would make a difference,” Gretana said. “I thought it was only…”

“Even the smallest has its effect,” Keith cut in emphatically, “and that’s why the Terran culture is unique. Just think of it—a massive moon, a quarter of the diameter of the planet, atadistance of only thirty planetary diameters! There’s nothing like it anywhere else in the known galaxy.”

Gretana considered her sketchy knowledge of astronomy and frowned. “Really? In a hundred billion star systems?”

“There are other planets with giant moons, of course, but none of them has evolved a civilisation or even anything approaching intelligent life. This place is a crucible, Gretana. The first humans to skord themselves here must have been desperate for a home—maybe they chose it because nobody would follow—and their descendants probably lost the ability to escape right from the first generation. They’ve been here ever since, surviving in conditions that…

“Well, how can you describe the conditions? When the genetic programme is being assembled the weak, weak, weak molecular forces of DNA and RNA need a neutral environment in which to work—but what’s it like here? A volcano? An anthill that somebody has just put his boot through? It’s a miracle that the race has been able to survive this long, let alone create a civilisation. By all the rules of the game, the Terrans should have degenerated to the level of rabid animals long ago, but somehow they’ve managed to retain their humanity—and what do we do? Do we offer them help?”

Keith shook his head and an abstracted look in his eyes showed he was no longer addressing Gretana, that he was rehearsing old and painful arguments. “We feel superior—that’s what we do. We stand by with smug expressions on our faces and watch a world full of human beings go under. We help Old Father Vekrynn fill his stupid bloody Notebook.”

Gretana set her spoon down. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about Warden Vekrynn in that way.”

“Why? Is he a friend of yours?”

“I…” She decided to avoid personal issues. “Mollan has always believed in non-intervention with other human worlds. Vekrynn didn’t decide the policy.”

“No, but he doesn’t oppose it.”

“Why should he?”

“Because it’s wrong, Gretana.” All traces of humour had deserted Keith’s features, leaving a suggestion of hardness, a hinted capacity for cruelty which she found disconcerting.

“It’s wrong to avoid inflicting culture shock?” she said, again feeling icy slitherings far back in her consciousness as she saw the change in Keith’s face. She was almost certain, regardless of logical objections, that his image was lodged somewhere in her memory, but she was unable to make the proper connections. Perhaps it was a matter of the name being…

“It’s not the inflicting of culture shock that bothers Mollan,” Keith said forcibly. “It’s the receiving of it.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Gretana countered. “We are the most advanced.”

“The most static, you mean—the nearest to being dead.” Keith moved his soup plate away to make room for his elbows as he leaned forward. “I know you’re very young, Gretana, but did it never strike you what a boring place Mollan was? We, as a people, have elevated vapidity to the status of a religion. We have a government which is dedicated to ensuring that nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes. We’re a scared people, Gretana. We want eternity to be one endless Sunday afternoon—and that’s why we don’t interact with the other human worlds. It doesn’t matter about our non-human contacts, because it’s impossible for different species to have any social effect on each other, but we shut out the other humans because we’re afraid of their vitality and their potential for change. Don’t talk to me about culture shock.”

“I won’t.” Gretana cast around for a suitable sarcasm. “Your ideas are all too new and advanced for me.”

Keith smiled in mock-kindliness. “Could it be that all ideas are too new and advanced for you? It takes a certain kind of mind to face an eternal Sunday afternoon.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you’re a typical product of the Mollanian system of non-education. How many full-scale educational imprints have you taken in your whole life?”

Gretana felt her cheeks grow warm. “I don’t have to…”

“How many imprints, Gretana?”

“About twenty,” she said defensively.

“Twenty!” Keith sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “You’ve been alive for something like eighty years, and out of that time—allowing a generous one second for the making of each imprint—you have devoted a third of a minute to the pursuit of knowledge. Congratulations!”

“I know all I need to know.”

“Not many people can make a claim like that,” Keith said with overt irony.

“It seems to me that…” Gretana, about to protest at being lectured, left the sentence unfinished as an earlier thought returned to her mind. Was it possible that she knew Keith under a different name?

“It seems to you that my stylus is stuck? Repeating a thing doesn’t make it untrue.”

“It isn’t the repetition, it’s the over-simplification.” Gretana strove to marshal unfamiliar arguments. “Does anybody ever do anything for a single, clear-cut reason?”

“Probably not. The Bureau’s main reason for being so solidly in favour of non-intervention—they don’t try to conceal it, don’t even see it as something that ought to be concealed—is that they want their sociological data to remain quote valid unquote. The Warden’s idea is to stand the uncertainty principle on its head, to observe without having any effect on the subject, and in that way to learn so much about the processes of macro-history that they’ll be able to preserve Mollanian society unchanged, exactly the way it is now, for ever. The fact that you can’t embalm a body until it’s dead doesn’t bother them.”

The smile, the sardonic twist to Keith’s lips, acted as a trigger which released ponderous mechanisms in Gretana’s memory. An image was retrieved, compared with that of the man sitting opposite to her, and a new name appeared in the forefront of her consciousness— Lorrest tye Thralen . Its psychological impact was so great that she almost moaned aloud.

You must act as though nothing had happened , she told herself amid the clamour of mental alarms. Act naturally…get close to the door…