Mike Resnick - Birthright

“No chance,” said Lavers.

“What are you talking about?'’ demanded Bartol. “You got them conditioned to accept a symbiotic hookup, which is much more repugnant.”

“It's physically more repugnant,” said Lavers. “And we've reached the point where we can condition people to withstand just about any physical hardship. And I won't deny that it's probably mentally more repugnant, at least to most of us, and we can overcome that too. But when you talk about the current problem, you're asking me to change everything that makes Man Man, and I don't think I can do it. Oh, I can put them into the deepest hypnotic sleep you ever saw, and drill it into them a million times an hour that Hunks are necessary cogs in the operation, and not only don't want credit for the mission but won't even understand that a mission is taking place. And the conditioning will hold up for a while—a year, or two years, or ten years—but sooner or later they're going to break through it. It's easier to condition a man to eat and breathe when the alternative is starving and suffocating than to share a triumph with another race when the alternative is to not share that triumph.” “Rubbish!” said Bartol. “Just condition them and get them halfway there, and I guarantee they're not going to pull the plug once they break through it.” “Well, you're the man in charge of this part of the project,” said Lavers with a sigh, “so I'll do what you tell me to do. But I'll make you a little side bet.” “Oh?”

“I'll bet you five hundred credits that the ship doesn't make it there and back.” “I confidently expect to be dead and buried long before that eventuality,” said Bartol. “Twenty-five years is a long time.”

“It won't take twenty-five years,” said Lavers. “You're on,” said Bartol. “You know, I think you're as odd as Jesser is.” “Perhaps,” said Lavers.

So the pilots were conditioned again, and within a year the Andromeda I had left the orbit in which it had

been constructed and was hurtling through the intergalactic void at an unimaginable speed. Jesser had indeed been chosen to pilot the mission, and when he was two years out from port with no untoward incidents, four more Andromeda ships were launched, each responsible for charting a different section of the neighboring galaxy.

Bartol spent most of the next year in the Project Control Building, checking the daily readouts of the five Hunks, while Lavers did the same for the pilots. The ships were exactly on course and on schedule, the inhabitants were in perfect physical health, and the Director finally made news of the Andromeda Project available to the media.

The people ate it up. Once again a new sense of purpose, of competition, was stirred within them. Andromeda, most of them agreed, would do for starters, just as Sirius had done some millennia back. But Andromeda was just one galaxy, and not such a big and impressive one at that. There were more than fifty galaxies just in our local group, and then... “And then I noticed this fluctuation,” said one of the minor functionaries on the Andromeda staff. Lavers looked at the readout and shook his head. “Not good,” he said. “Not good at all.” “What seems to be the problem?” said Bartol, who had wandered over. “Encephalogram,” said Lavers.

“On who?”

“Jesser.”

“What does it mean?” asked Bartol.

“Perhaps nothing,” said Lavers. “But if you'll recall a wager we made some years back, I think if I were you I'd get my money ready.”

“Based on one slight deviation from the norm?” said Bartol. “When you're hooked into an alien being three hundred thousand light-years from the nearest star, there is no such thing as a slight deviation,” said Lavers. The deviation remained so long that it finally became accepted as a standard reading until the other pilots began showing the same deviation, all between two and three years into their flight. “But it isn't the same at all,” said Lavers grimly. “It's smaller, slighter. Jesser's has changed so minutely over the past couple of years that it's hardly seemed like a change at all, until you compare it to the other four.”

Bartol merely grunted, and expressed confidence in the basic self-preservational instinct of the five pilots. And then one day Jesser's encephalic reading went right off the scale and came back to his original

norm, all in the space of four hours.

“That's it,” said Lavers. “He's broken through. In a couple of years the others will do it too.” “So he's broken through,” said Bartol. “It changes nothing. He'll evaluate the situation, realize that turning back without being able to slingshot around a star or a black hole will take more fuel than he's got, and he'll keep going. After all, he's a Man, and Men preserve themselves.” “Men do a lot of things,” said Lavers quietly. And, 350,000 light-years away, Jesser took one last baleful look at his companion and slowly unhooked his breathing apparatus.

19: THE PHILOSOPHERS

...It was with the establishment of the University at Aristotle that the Commonwealth began churning out a steady stream of brilliant philosophers as regularly as clockwork. In fact, in retrospect we can say with some assurance that it was during the middle of the Seventh Galactic Millennium, and more specifically 6400-6700 G.E., that philosophy graduated from the vague realm of an art and joined the sciences. Some of the more brilliant treatises are still on file, both on the various Deluros VI planetoids and also at the huge library on Deluros VIII...

—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...The subject of philosophy seems to have taken a very

unphilosophical, and eventually fatal, turning somewhere around 6500 G.E. The dividing line can be drawn with the career of Belore Theriole (6488-6602 G.E.), unquestionably the last of the great human philosophers....

— Origin and History of the Sentient Races , Vol. 9 “Brilliant!” said Hillyar. “Absolutely brilliant!” He put the thick sheaf of papers down on the large table, leaned back, and gave the impression of a man trying very hard to strut without moving his legs. “I told you it was,” said Brannot. “I'd like to see us offer him a spot on the faculty right now, before some other school grabs him.”

The other two members of the examining board nodded in agreement. “Before I make it official,” said Brannot, “I'd like it on the record that we're all in accord.” “Absolutely,” said Hillyar. The others echoed him. “Good. Then it's settled,” said Brannot. He turned to the small figure seated silently in a corner of the room. “Professor Theriole, while the affairs of our university can hardly be of more than passing interest to you, we would nonetheless be honored if a person of your stature would add her name to our recommendation.”

Belore Theriole looked up, brushing a wisp of graying hair from her forehead. “With no offense intended, I believe I am not inclined to do so.” “Have we done something to offend you?” asked Brannot with a note of worry in his voice.

“No,” said Belore thoughtfully, “I don't think I would go so far as to say that you have offended me.”

“Then could it be that you don't agree with our assessment of the thesis?” persisted Brannot. “Oh, I'm sure that the student in question and the thesis in question are equally brilliant,” said Belore. “I detect a note of distaste there,” said Brannot. “Could I prevail upon you to clarify your statement?” “If you insist, Professor Brannot,” said Belore with a sigh. “Insist is too strong a word,” said Brannot. “Let us say that I earnestly request it. After all, when a philosopher of your stature does our humble university the singular honor of sitting in on our examination board, it behooves us to learn everything we can about ourselves and our school from the viewpoint of such a distinguished outsider.”