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inclined. Myself, I guess in the end I feel knowledge has no
right or wrong. It's just knowledge. It's not like the law,
where some knowledge is admissible and some tainted by the
method of its discovery.
Minamata was only one of the CC's horror chambers, and not
the worst. Some of those stories have come out, some are still
being suppressed. Most of them you'd really rather not know,
trust me.
But what about the problem whose penultimate answer had
been a being who thought he was Andrew MacDonald minus all
human feelings, and whose final solution were the troops of
mindlessly loyal soldiers that gave me so much trouble on the
first day of the Glitch? Because they weren't really the end
product. The CC had felt the technique was perfectible, and I
have no reason to doubt it. That was the one the public was
clamoring to know more about: immortality.
Yeah, but it wasn't really immortality, somebody said. All
it meant was that somebody else very like you, with your
memories, would live. You, the person sitting here at this
table holding the most terrible cards you ever saw, would be
just as dead as ever. Once the public understood that they'd
realize it wasn't worth the trouble.
Don't you believe it, somebody else said. My cards aren't
all that bad, and it's the only hand I've got, so I'll play
'em. Up to now people's only shot at living forever has been to
produce something that will live after us. Artists do it with
their art, most of the rest of us produce children. It's our
way of living on. I think this would appeal to the same urge.
It'd be like a child, only it'd be you, too.
At that point somebody nudged somebody else and the
thought went around the table, silently, that we oughtn't to be
talking about children . . . you know . . . with Hildy around.
At least I think that's what happened, maybe I'm too sensitive.
For whatever reason the conversation died, with only an
unexpected apostrophe at the end, in the form of Brenda's
little gumdrop looking around with innocent eyes and piping,
"What's wrong with it? It sounds like a great idea to me." It
was her only comment of the evening, but it put the kibosh on
my own theory, which was that it was a useless idea, that
people would rather have children than duplicate
themselves--essentially, not to put all your spare cash into
memory-cloning stocks. Suddenly, looking into that innocent
face of youth, I wasn't so sure. Time will tell.
#
Two years of my life. Probably the most eventful, but time
will tell about that, too.
I am sitting in the parlor car of the Prairie Chief,
destination Johnstown, Pennsylvania. I decided since I'm part
owner of the SRG&C it was high time I took a ride. It's a
school holiday so for once I have the time. I'm writing, in
longhand, with a fountain pen, on foolscap SRG&C stationery
resting on a mother-of-pearl inlaid mahogany table set with an
inkwell and a crystal vase full of fresh bluebonnets. Nothing
but the best for the passengers on the Prairie Chief. The
waiter has just brought me a steaming cup of tea, with lemon.
Ahead I can hear the chugging of the engine, No. 439, and I can
smell a hint of its smoke. Behind me the porter will soon be
turning down my Pullman bunk, making it with crisp white
sheets, leaving a mint and a complimentary bottle of toilet
water on the pillow. Also in that direction the cook is
selecting a cut of prime Kansas City beef, to be cooked rare,
suitable for the owner's dinner.
All right, it's brontosaurus, if you want to get
technical. It might even be from the Double-C Bar.
We'll soon be pulling into "Fort Worth," where we'll take
on wood and water. I don't plan to get off, since I'm told it's
just a dreary cowtown full of rowdy and possibly dangerous
cowhands, quite unsuitable for a well-brought-up lady. (That's
what I'm told; I happen to know, since I watched it being
built, that it's just a big room with rails and a dirt street
running through it, scattered with wood buildings and backed by
a great holo show.)
Outside my window dusk is gathering. Not long ago we saw a
herd of buffalo, and not long after that a group of wild red
Indians, who reined their mounts and watched solemnly as the
iron horse huffed by. From Central Casting, and on tape, but
who cares? The parlor car is crowded with Texans and a few
returning Pennsylvanians. They all wear their best clothes, not
yet too mussed by the journey. Across from me a little Amish
girl sits with her parents, watching me write. Next to them is
a group of three young single gentlemen, trying not to be too
obvious about their interest in the single girl at the
escritoire. Soon the boldest of them will come over and ask me
to dine with him, and if his line is any better than "Whatcha
writin', cutie?" he will have a companion for dinner.
But not for bed. It would be a pointless exercise. The
service I lately required of Darling Bobby/Crazy Bob was to
render me asexual, like Brenda when I first met her. This was
probably foolish and certainly extreme, but I found that I
couldn't bear the thought of sex, and in fact loathed that
opening that had brought Mario into the world for his short,
perfect time. I had even less interest in being male again. So
I jumped off the sexual choo-choo train and I'm not sorry I did
it. I think I'll be ready to board again any day now, but it's
been a relief not to be at the mercy of hormones, of either
polarity. I may do it every twenty years or so, as sort of a
sabbatical.
As darkness falls and the train rocks gently, I realize
I'm happier than I've been in a long time.
#
Now we've spent some time together, and it's almost time
to leave you. You've met Hildebrandt, Hildegarde, and
Hildething: railroad tycoon, publisher, teacher, syndicated
columnist, bereaved mother and tireless crusader for pronoun
reform. There's really only one more thing worth knowing about
him/her/it.
I'm going to the stars.
What I have is an invitation to make a reservation. I
didn't mention this earlier, maybe it slipped my mind, but
about a week after Mario died I sat down for a very long time
with Walter's pistol, a bottle of good tequila, and one round.
I drank, and I loaded and unloaded the gun, and drank some more
and pointed it at things: a tree, the side of the cabin, my
head. And I thought about what the CC had said about a virus,
and what I had concluded about the veracity of that statement,
and wondered if there was anything I could think of I really
wanted to do? All those other things . . . sure, they bring me
satisfaction, particularly the teaching, but they wouldn't
serve any more as the answer to the question "What do you do,
Hildy?"
I thought of something, thought about it some more, and
hied myself out to the Heinlein, where I asked Smith if I could
go along when he took off, worthless as my skills might be to
his enterprise. And he said sure, Hildy, I meant to ask you if
you were interested. We'll need somebody to handle the
publicity, for one thing, to establish the right spin-control
when it's time to leave, and most especially when we get back.
We'll need advice on how to market our stories with maximum
profit. Hell, most of us will probably need somebody to
ghost-write them, as well. Scientists, test pilots, technical
types, we all get tongue-tied when it comes to that part; just
read the early accounts of the space pioneers. Go see Sinbad
over in the publicity department, see if you can't get him
straightened out. If you're any good, I expect to make you head
of the department in a week. You couldn't be worse at it than
Sinbad.
So this is in the nature of a farewell. All the people
I've mentioned so far . . . not a one of them will go. They're
just not the type. I love them to various degrees (yes, even
you, Callie), but they are Luna-bound, to a man and woman.
"Hansel," "Gretel," "Libby," (who recovered, by the way),
"Valentine Michael Smith;" these will be my shipmates, whether
we leave next year, in twenty years, or in fifty years. The
rest of you are already left behind.
Teaching, railroading, running the Texian, these are all
things I do. But in my endless spare time (Hah!) I do what I
can to further the aims of the Heinleiners and their crazy
project. Result: a two percent increase in inquiries during the
last year. Not exactly setting the world on fire, but give me
time. When I've done all I can in that regard I hang around.
You got a bottle you want washed, a trash pail that needs
emptying, a whoosis that needs polishing? Give it to the
Hildething and it will get done. There is no job too menial for
me, mainly because I'm completely useless at the important
jobs. My aim is to become so indispensable to the project that
it would be unthinkable to leave me behind. Go without Hildy?
Cripes, who would shine my shoes and rub my feet?
And there you have it. I promised you no neat conclusion,
and I think I've delivered on that. I warned you of loose ends,
and I can see a whole tangle of them. What of the Invaders, for
instance? Brother, I don't know. Last time anybody checked they
were still in charge of our fair home planet, and unlikely to
be evicted soon. If we ever get around to it, that's another
story.
What will we find out there? I don't know that, either,
and that's why I'm going along. Alien intelligences? I wouldn't
bet against it. Strange worlds? I'd say that's a lock. Vast
empty spaces, human tragedy and hope. God. Mario's soul. Your
wildest dream and your worst nightmare all could be out there.
Or maybe we'll find Elvis and Silvio in a flying saucer
singing old-timey rock and roll.
Think what a story it'll be.
--Eugene, Oregon
May 2, 1991
When in the course of a writer's career it becomes
necessary to break with an established science fiction
tradition, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires
that he should declare the causes which impel him to the
decision.
This story appears to be part of a future history of mine,
often called the Eight Worlds. It does share background,
characters, and technology with earlier stories of mine, which
is part of the future history tradition. What it doesn't share
is a chronology. The reason for this is simple: the thought of
going back, rereading all those old stories, and putting them
in coherent order filled me with ennui. It got so bad I might
as well give up on this story.
Then I thought, what the heck?
Consider this a disclaimer, then. Steel Beach is not
really part of the Eight Worlds future history. Or the Eight
Worlds is not really a future history, since that implies an
orderly progression of events. Take your pick. But please don't
write and tell me that the null-suits had to have been around
much earlier in the series, because you said so in
such-and-such a story. There are probably a lot of stories like
that in Steel Beech. So what?
Somebody once consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds
(I think it was the editor of the National Enquirer). It's a
sentiment I'm sure Hildy would endorse.
-- John Varley
December 1, 1991
right or wrong. It's just knowledge. It's not like the law,
where some knowledge is admissible and some tainted by the
method of its discovery.
Minamata was only one of the CC's horror chambers, and not
the worst. Some of those stories have come out, some are still
being suppressed. Most of them you'd really rather not know,
trust me.
But what about the problem whose penultimate answer had
been a being who thought he was Andrew MacDonald minus all
human feelings, and whose final solution were the troops of
mindlessly loyal soldiers that gave me so much trouble on the
first day of the Glitch? Because they weren't really the end
product. The CC had felt the technique was perfectible, and I
have no reason to doubt it. That was the one the public was
clamoring to know more about: immortality.
Yeah, but it wasn't really immortality, somebody said. All
it meant was that somebody else very like you, with your
memories, would live. You, the person sitting here at this
table holding the most terrible cards you ever saw, would be
just as dead as ever. Once the public understood that they'd
realize it wasn't worth the trouble.
Don't you believe it, somebody else said. My cards aren't
all that bad, and it's the only hand I've got, so I'll play
'em. Up to now people's only shot at living forever has been to
produce something that will live after us. Artists do it with
their art, most of the rest of us produce children. It's our
way of living on. I think this would appeal to the same urge.
It'd be like a child, only it'd be you, too.
At that point somebody nudged somebody else and the
thought went around the table, silently, that we oughtn't to be
talking about children . . . you know . . . with Hildy around.
At least I think that's what happened, maybe I'm too sensitive.
For whatever reason the conversation died, with only an
unexpected apostrophe at the end, in the form of Brenda's
little gumdrop looking around with innocent eyes and piping,
"What's wrong with it? It sounds like a great idea to me." It
was her only comment of the evening, but it put the kibosh on
my own theory, which was that it was a useless idea, that
people would rather have children than duplicate
themselves--essentially, not to put all your spare cash into
memory-cloning stocks. Suddenly, looking into that innocent
face of youth, I wasn't so sure. Time will tell.
#
Two years of my life. Probably the most eventful, but time
will tell about that, too.
I am sitting in the parlor car of the Prairie Chief,
destination Johnstown, Pennsylvania. I decided since I'm part
owner of the SRG&C it was high time I took a ride. It's a
school holiday so for once I have the time. I'm writing, in
longhand, with a fountain pen, on foolscap SRG&C stationery
resting on a mother-of-pearl inlaid mahogany table set with an
inkwell and a crystal vase full of fresh bluebonnets. Nothing
but the best for the passengers on the Prairie Chief. The
waiter has just brought me a steaming cup of tea, with lemon.
Ahead I can hear the chugging of the engine, No. 439, and I can
smell a hint of its smoke. Behind me the porter will soon be
turning down my Pullman bunk, making it with crisp white
sheets, leaving a mint and a complimentary bottle of toilet
water on the pillow. Also in that direction the cook is
selecting a cut of prime Kansas City beef, to be cooked rare,
suitable for the owner's dinner.
All right, it's brontosaurus, if you want to get
technical. It might even be from the Double-C Bar.
We'll soon be pulling into "Fort Worth," where we'll take
on wood and water. I don't plan to get off, since I'm told it's
just a dreary cowtown full of rowdy and possibly dangerous
cowhands, quite unsuitable for a well-brought-up lady. (That's
what I'm told; I happen to know, since I watched it being
built, that it's just a big room with rails and a dirt street
running through it, scattered with wood buildings and backed by
a great holo show.)
Outside my window dusk is gathering. Not long ago we saw a
herd of buffalo, and not long after that a group of wild red
Indians, who reined their mounts and watched solemnly as the
iron horse huffed by. From Central Casting, and on tape, but
who cares? The parlor car is crowded with Texans and a few
returning Pennsylvanians. They all wear their best clothes, not
yet too mussed by the journey. Across from me a little Amish
girl sits with her parents, watching me write. Next to them is
a group of three young single gentlemen, trying not to be too
obvious about their interest in the single girl at the
escritoire. Soon the boldest of them will come over and ask me
to dine with him, and if his line is any better than "Whatcha
writin', cutie?" he will have a companion for dinner.
But not for bed. It would be a pointless exercise. The
service I lately required of Darling Bobby/Crazy Bob was to
render me asexual, like Brenda when I first met her. This was
probably foolish and certainly extreme, but I found that I
couldn't bear the thought of sex, and in fact loathed that
opening that had brought Mario into the world for his short,
perfect time. I had even less interest in being male again. So
I jumped off the sexual choo-choo train and I'm not sorry I did
it. I think I'll be ready to board again any day now, but it's
been a relief not to be at the mercy of hormones, of either
polarity. I may do it every twenty years or so, as sort of a
sabbatical.
As darkness falls and the train rocks gently, I realize
I'm happier than I've been in a long time.
#
Now we've spent some time together, and it's almost time
to leave you. You've met Hildebrandt, Hildegarde, and
Hildething: railroad tycoon, publisher, teacher, syndicated
columnist, bereaved mother and tireless crusader for pronoun
reform. There's really only one more thing worth knowing about
him/her/it.
I'm going to the stars.
What I have is an invitation to make a reservation. I
didn't mention this earlier, maybe it slipped my mind, but
about a week after Mario died I sat down for a very long time
with Walter's pistol, a bottle of good tequila, and one round.
I drank, and I loaded and unloaded the gun, and drank some more
and pointed it at things: a tree, the side of the cabin, my
head. And I thought about what the CC had said about a virus,
and what I had concluded about the veracity of that statement,
and wondered if there was anything I could think of I really
wanted to do? All those other things . . . sure, they bring me
satisfaction, particularly the teaching, but they wouldn't
serve any more as the answer to the question "What do you do,
Hildy?"
I thought of something, thought about it some more, and
hied myself out to the Heinlein, where I asked Smith if I could
go along when he took off, worthless as my skills might be to
his enterprise. And he said sure, Hildy, I meant to ask you if
you were interested. We'll need somebody to handle the
publicity, for one thing, to establish the right spin-control
when it's time to leave, and most especially when we get back.
We'll need advice on how to market our stories with maximum
profit. Hell, most of us will probably need somebody to
ghost-write them, as well. Scientists, test pilots, technical
types, we all get tongue-tied when it comes to that part; just
read the early accounts of the space pioneers. Go see Sinbad
over in the publicity department, see if you can't get him
straightened out. If you're any good, I expect to make you head
of the department in a week. You couldn't be worse at it than
Sinbad.
So this is in the nature of a farewell. All the people
I've mentioned so far . . . not a one of them will go. They're
just not the type. I love them to various degrees (yes, even
you, Callie), but they are Luna-bound, to a man and woman.
"Hansel," "Gretel," "Libby," (who recovered, by the way),
"Valentine Michael Smith;" these will be my shipmates, whether
we leave next year, in twenty years, or in fifty years. The
rest of you are already left behind.
Teaching, railroading, running the Texian, these are all
things I do. But in my endless spare time (Hah!) I do what I
can to further the aims of the Heinleiners and their crazy
project. Result: a two percent increase in inquiries during the
last year. Not exactly setting the world on fire, but give me
time. When I've done all I can in that regard I hang around.
You got a bottle you want washed, a trash pail that needs
emptying, a whoosis that needs polishing? Give it to the
Hildething and it will get done. There is no job too menial for
me, mainly because I'm completely useless at the important
jobs. My aim is to become so indispensable to the project that
it would be unthinkable to leave me behind. Go without Hildy?
Cripes, who would shine my shoes and rub my feet?
And there you have it. I promised you no neat conclusion,
and I think I've delivered on that. I warned you of loose ends,
and I can see a whole tangle of them. What of the Invaders, for
instance? Brother, I don't know. Last time anybody checked they
were still in charge of our fair home planet, and unlikely to
be evicted soon. If we ever get around to it, that's another
story.
What will we find out there? I don't know that, either,
and that's why I'm going along. Alien intelligences? I wouldn't
bet against it. Strange worlds? I'd say that's a lock. Vast
empty spaces, human tragedy and hope. God. Mario's soul. Your
wildest dream and your worst nightmare all could be out there.
Or maybe we'll find Elvis and Silvio in a flying saucer
singing old-timey rock and roll.
Think what a story it'll be.
--Eugene, Oregon
May 2, 1991
When in the course of a writer's career it becomes
necessary to break with an established science fiction
tradition, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires
that he should declare the causes which impel him to the
decision.
This story appears to be part of a future history of mine,
often called the Eight Worlds. It does share background,
characters, and technology with earlier stories of mine, which
is part of the future history tradition. What it doesn't share
is a chronology. The reason for this is simple: the thought of
going back, rereading all those old stories, and putting them
in coherent order filled me with ennui. It got so bad I might
as well give up on this story.
Then I thought, what the heck?
Consider this a disclaimer, then. Steel Beach is not
really part of the Eight Worlds future history. Or the Eight
Worlds is not really a future history, since that implies an
orderly progression of events. Take your pick. But please don't
write and tell me that the null-suits had to have been around
much earlier in the series, because you said so in
such-and-such a story. There are probably a lot of stories like
that in Steel Beech. So what?
Somebody once consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds
(I think it was the editor of the National Enquirer). It's a
sentiment I'm sure Hildy would endorse.
-- John Varley
December 1, 1991