View from Another Shore : European Science Fiction Read online

  asks Stig, a bit unnerved by what he has seen.

  ‘Yes, and there were some who did in the beginning. But in the

  long run it got them nowhere in their sports and what have you. And

  by the way, it’s more convenient to imagine your way around than to

  walk here, there and everywhere.’

  ‘Have you shifted me around in time?’, asks Stig, feeling very

  uneasy.

  ‘What? Oh, that nonsense of yours about time machines. You folks

  ought to understand that it isn’t possible to make time machines. A

  person can’t shift around in time that way, either into the future or

  the past.’

  ‘But according to the theory of evolution, you would exist quite a

  while after I had been on the scene. And yet both of us are here now

  at the same time, aren’t we?’

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  ‘Yes, but now you must try to keep your wits about you. We Brains

  are carrying out various kinds of experiments. We do a good deal of

  research, because after all we must try to become a little wiser.’

  Krr smiles apologetically.

  ‘We have human beings more or less like you, as well as the

  ingredients of human beings, preserved in—well, let’s call them test

  tubes. And round about us we have a sea of planets at our disposal.

  You see, there are quite a number of points about our past that have

  not been explained. And so our historians are setting up worlds—

  staging them, you might say. They simply take a planet of suitable

  size, proper climate and so on. And then they populate it with an

  adequate number of our test-tube people completely endowed, both

  physically and psychically, as mankind was at a specific period in the

  course of history. They are brought together, assigned the proper roles

  in relation to each other, and then turned loose. And they immedi-

  ately begin to put on a play for us that is altogether authentic from a

  historical standpoint. These people, of course, simply believe they are

  living a real life.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that I come from a test tube?’, Stig shouts.

  In his rage he wants to strike out at the sphere but finds himself

  unable to do so.

  ‘We let our research worlds go on for a long time. Your planet may

  very well have been started at some particular time during the iron

  age and then allowed to develop until your own era. Or it may have

  been started a short while ago. It is only a question of furnishing you

  and the others in your world with a suitable number of remnants

  from earlier times. Then you can attribute a long past to yourselves.’

  ‘That can’t be so’, Stig says quietly. ‘You’re the ones who come

  from another place. My world can’t be unreal.’

  ‘No, it’s really not unreal. Reproductions also are real, you know.’

  ‘Put me down on earth again this instant. I don’t like the feeling of

  uncertainty that you’re trying to arouse in me. And by the way, how

  does it happen that you’re able to carry on a conversation with me? If

  the rubbish you’ve been giving me were true, you wouldn’t be able to

  understand my language at all.’

  ‘I’m a paleopsychologist, and my speciality is your era. Wouldn’t

  you like to meet a few of my colleagues?’

  ‘Are there many of you Brains?’

  ‘Yes, all in all a fairly large number of us are scattered about here

  and there. But there may be a considerable distance between us.’

  ‘Do you have many planets going?’

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  ‘Yes, you might consider it an appalling number. We think there

  are too few. But starting a new world is quite a long and complicated

  business, and sometimes it is hard to get the necessary appropriations.

  At present we have in operation three worlds that are alternatives to

  yours. Three, that is, which are in the same stage of development and

  which were started at the same historical base period as yours. But

  naturally all four—yours and the other three—each developed its

  own distinctive characteristics, even though they bear a strong

  resemblance to each other. You wouldn’t have any difficulty feeling

  just as much at home on any of the other three as you do on the one I

  brought you from.’

  Stig sees two spheres come bouncing toward them like two balls on

  an invisible tabletop. When they come to a halt in front of him they

  both begin to assume facial features, as Krr already has done.

  One is a little taller and chubbier than Krr. It gives Stig a broad smile.

  ‘How do you do?’, it says. ‘My name is Fffh. I’ve overheard most of

  your conversation. I’m a paleopsychologist, and for the time being I’m

  investigating a planet in the same stage of development as yours, just

  as the other two are doing. I’m glad to meet you.’

  By this time the third sphere has managed to straighten out its face.

  It has obviously gone to more trouble than the others, for it has

  provided itself with a slight wrinkle across the forehead and little

  crow’s-feet at the corners of the eyes and mouth.

  ‘My name is Sst-Sst. Excuse me for not shaking hands. What an

  attractive body you have.’

  Stig looks down at himself to determine whether the sphere is

  making fun of him, and to his surprise finds that he is very well

  satisfied with what he sees.

  ‘Thank you—how do you do?’, he replies. ‘Tell me, how does one

  pass the time when he hasn’t got a body?’

  ‘We go in for sports—mental gymnastics’, Fffh explains.

  ‘Fffh has taken part in a rather famous guessing match’, Sst-Sst adds.

  ‘But without too much luck’, says Krr.

  ‘Why am I here?’, Stig asks suddenly.

  ‘Because you put on my ring’, Krr explains.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me? Will I be put into a test tube?’

  ‘Not at all. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Just take it easy.

  And speak up if something doesn’t suit you.’

  Stig notices that various parts of the balls are lighting up now and

  then.

  ‘We’re only communicating with each other’, Sst-Sst explains.

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  ‘You’re limited to thinking in one direction—ahead, and one thought

  at a time. We think spatially. It would take too long if we were to

  explain all our thoughts to you. It would be as if you had to explore a

  big, pitch-dark house with nothing but the light from a match—some

  place where you knew you’d quickly get a view of everything in

  daylight.’

  ‘Before I believe you I’d like to see some of your other worlds. If

  you won’t show me other planets I’ll know that mine is the only real

  world’, Stig exclaims with firmness.

  ‘We’ll let you see three other planets that are in the same stage of

  development as the one you come from’, says Fffh. ‘Things there are

  so closely in accord with your thought processes that you’ll be able to

  understand them. What you would see on the others would be

  beyond your comprehension anyhow.’

&nbs
p; Stig begins to get uneasy when the three Brains apparently take his

  wish seriously. In front of him appears something that suggests a

  mirror. In it he sees unclearly a flickering image of three orbs

  swarming with life. He strains his eyes, trying to distinguish one

  from the other, but has to give it up.

  ‘No, not all at the same time’, he says. ‘I can’t see them all at once.’

  ‘Well, just a moment’, says Krr.

  The planets disappear. Instead he sees in the mirror—or perhaps it

  is a door that the thing reminds him of—three persons, all of whom

  are hardly distinguishable from himself, although one seems a little

  more cheerful, the second a bit stouter, while the third has a few

  more wrinkles in his forehead. Stig nods his head in astonishment,

  and at the same time the other three nod to him.

  ‘Have a good trip’, says one of the Brains.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  Stig is ploughing. The birds sing. He glances toward the sun and

  decides that he may as well go on working a little longer. He gazes

  happily at the handsome ring.

  A little later he chooses to stop while the weather is still good. He

  sets out for home filled with contentment. He steps lightly and with

  every step feels the good earth beneath his feet.

  ‘Is this me, or isn’t it me?’, he mutters to himself as he looks down

  at his strong, brown arms.

  He decides to sing, and finds a stick with which he rhythmically

  taps the ground as he walks.

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  ‘Yes, it’s me, because I want to be me’, he sings, using a home-made

  melody that goes nicely with the sound of the birds. ‘I’m happy

  because I want to be happy.’

  Within shouting distance of the house he comes to a halt.

  ‘Karen’, he calls out. ‘I’ve decided to stop now.’

  In the doorway appears a pretty, cheerful woman. They run to

  meet each other. He reaches her first and seizes her in an embrace.

  At the edge of a ditch they tumble to the ground. He holds her hand

  in his.

  ‘I’ve chosen the prettiest woman as my own.’

  She presses something soft against his lips and whispers: ‘You’re

  talking nonsense. It was I who chose you.’

  Everything is completely serene as he feels the soft fullness of her

  body against his own.

  ‘Just imagine!’, says Karen. ‘We’ve been permitted to live in the

  world that we ourselves prefer to live in. And allowed to arrange

  things exactly as we would like to have them.’

  She gazes gratefully into space.

  Hand in hand they walk toward the house.

  ‘Should we have something to eat?’, says Stig.

  ‘Yes’, she says. ‘That’s a good idea. Shall we eat outdoors?’

  He nods and feels a deep satisfaction at having chosen to do what

  he wanted to do.

  ‘I feel that the Brain is looking down at me’, says Karen, who has

  gone into the house. ‘It is nodding its head because I made the right

  choice.’

  She depicts a circle in front of her face.

  Suddenly a thought whirls through Stig’s mind.

  ‘Since we’re only living in a world that we ourselves have chosen,

  how can we be sure that we made the right choice?’, he says

  gravely. ‘How do we know that we couldn’t have done better? We

  could have arranged everything differently, you know, and in one

  way or another it might have been better. At any rate, we can’t be

  sure.’

  Karen looks at him in alarm. ‘What are you talking about? If we

  had wanted the world to be different than it is, we would, of course,

  have chosen to have it different. Why do you say things like that? You

  never used to behave this way.’

  ‘I’m not quite myself’, Stig admits.

  Together they carry the table out.

  Stig fetches the chairs himself. He picks up a stool, but as he is going

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  out he stumbles. As he falls the ring scrapes the ground. It begins to

  grow larger.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  Stig rides his easy chair over to the service panel. He satisfies himself that the automatic plough is stopped.

  ‘That’s that’, he says to Karen, who is lying on the autoerotic carpet.

  He looks at the ring on his finger which the soil-purifying apparatus

  has just separated out and brought in to him.

  ‘Please tune in for perivision, now that you’re over there’, says

  Karen. ‘And set for three.’

  Stig grunts and presses several buttons on the panel. The table is set

  for three. The announcer steps forth from the television screen and

  seats himself beside them in the chair that stands ready for him.

  Karen joins them.

  The announcer greets them and takes a sip from his cup. Then he

  says: ‘As you know, an event of major importance took place when it

  was discovered that preservatives could be incorporated into explo-

  sives. When the bomb is dropped on an area everything in it rigidifies

  and sets like cement, and the extent of the area depends, of course, on

  the force of the bomb. Afterward, as you know—and as you no doubt

  already have turned to your advantage—afterward it is possible to

  buy such an immobilized, bomb-stricken area, complete with people

  in the most lifelike postures, urinating and doing other piquant

  things. Furthermore, in taking over such an area you naturally

  extend help to the belligerent nation, so that its soldiers can get

  things cleaned up without wading around in corpses and doing other

  messy jobs of that sort. That’s why we all have one or more bomb sites

  situated here and there to serve as ornaments. I like to draw a

  comparison with the ancient Egyptians, who kept their mummies—’

  Stig switches off the sound.

  ‘This wine—well, the label and the year are all right, but don’t we

  have one made from grapes that were picked a little later in the day? I

  prefer those picked in the evening, you know.’

  ‘Find out about that yourself, if you don’t mind. And turn it on

  again. I’d like to hear it, but see if you can’t get him to speak a little more dramatically.’

  Stig again presses several buttons.

  ‘. . . and what is far more interesting, far superior to the old static

  battlefields, a bomb that does not fossilize the area but allows it to

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  carry on as usual. This bomb bears the same relationship to the old

  ones as motion pictures do to still photographs. You can buy such a

  living, animated war-stricken area. Did I say animated? Yes, not only

  do the people move but, I might add, you yourself will be moved. You

  can, of course, determine for yourself the size of the area you want.

  And I promise you will come to feel a strong attachment to your area.

  I am not exaggerating when I say that you will feel the closest ties to

  them. It will be like seeing your own relatives, your dearest friends,

  struck down by misfortune. Just think—an
animated war-stricken

  area, not only life-like, not only automatic, but authentic. How

  thrilling, how different, how instructive! You can witness at closest

  range everything that goes on—see, for example, how a primitive

  native-born woman behaves—and all with a lifelike faithfulness on a

  par with the most subtle neoplastic-realistic novels. Your own war

  documentary. You have not lived until you have tried seeing death in

  this way. On the other hand, the price is just as high as we have been

  able to set it—17 debits.’

  The announcer than alters his tone of voice completely and

  proceeds to comment on a toothpaste that confers new growing

  power on the teeth. Stig turns off the set, and the announcer

  vanishes.

  Karen gets up and stretches. ‘When are we going to get one of

  those?’

  Stig sits toying with the duplicator. ‘In any case, you’ll have to do

  something first’, he says, teasing her.

  He adjusts the apparatus. In front of him stand two identical

  women. One Karen begins to undress. The other follows her example.

  Stig starts the duplicator again and lets it run until three other

  women materialize, all exactly like the first two.

  Together the five figures begin to pull off Stig’s clothing. After he

  has been stripped naked he again presses a button on the device.

  ‘No more’, the six women beg. ‘That’s enough now.’

  With a teasing smile he makes the apparatus produce two more

  women.

  The eight bodies mill around him. Sixteen identical hands caress

  him here, there, and everywhere, sixteen cool, slender hands gently

  stroking his body.

  For some time he lets the eight women minister to him while one

  tries to outdo the other in inventiveness.

  When he tires of the sport he sets the device going in reverse, an

  soon there is but one Karen beside him.

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  With no need for discussion, she goes over to the multiplier and has

  herself transformed to twice her normal size. Stig moves closer to the

  giantess and with some effort pushes his way up into her. His head is

  in the familiar, dark, hot, pulsating surroundings. With a series of

  slithering manoeuvres he moves his head in and out several times.

  For a little while he wallows in her juices.

  He lets himself slip out of her and moves on to her head, which is

  twice as large as a normal head.