“But what has that to do with us?” the animals asked.
“Frankly, you birds and animals have had it easy for long enough. It must have been nice for you, the millions of years without responsibility. Well, the fun’s over now. All of us have work to do.”
A pileated woodpecker raised his rakish head and said, “Why must we animals do it all? What about the plants? They just sit around and grow. Is that equitable?”
“We have already contacted the plants,” the man said. “They are prepared to do their duty. We have discussions going on with some of the larger bacteria, too. This time we’re all in it together.”
Animals and birds are essentially simple-minded and of romantic natures. They cannot resist the fine words of a man, because those words act on them like the finest food, sex, and slumber combined. Even animals dream of the perfect world of future.
The tern grasped a twig in his claw. He said to Graylag, “Do you think men can be trusted?”
“Certainly not,” Graylag said. “But what does that matter?” He grasped a bit of bark. “It’s all changed now, but whether for the better or the worse I don’t know. All I do know is this: it is probably going to be interesting.” Grasping the bit of bark, he flew over to add it to the pile.
The Destruction of Atlantis
Countless centuries ago, before the beginning of Egypt, before the continents had taken on their present shapes, before the oceans and mountains had settled into their present positions, there was a land and a civilization which has left no record. It has all been lost beneath the shift and upheaval of mountain ranges, beneath new ocean beds which once were fertile plains and may be again. The only knowledge we have of this land is a nearly universal memory of something which came before anything we have documented. It has been called Atlantis, but that is only a name for a civilization that we know once existed yet vanished without a trace.
In Atlantis one fine day succeeded another with a regularity that would be called monotonous only by the ungrateful. Indeed, the climate of Atlantis and of all the lands that adjoined it was much of present-day Miami. It was hot, steamy, enervating. All year around, Atlantis lived in a tropical dream, and this continued without change for many centuries.
A great king ruled Atlantis. His domain was cut through by many rivers, some small, others great. Interconnecting them were canals and waterways, their levels maintained by locks to which water was hoisted by means of great paddlewheels driven by slaves. The kingdom was vast, and all of it was connected by a network of waterways, lakes, canals, and channels.
Only the King’s navy and his merchant marine were allowed on the royal waters. Villagers were permitted, on payment of a fee, to fish from the banks. Swimming was allowed, or rather, paddling, since swimming itself was a monopoly of the royal commandos.
Beyond the outermost river stretched a vast desert, reaching to the limits of terra incognita. Strange, nameless tribes came out of the desert from time to time, sometimes in great armed hordes. But always they were turned back by the water barriers, for he who ailed the waterways and rivers ruled Atlantis. This was an axiom as old as time itself, a law of nature against which there was no recourse.
So the King was not too alarmed when he heard that new horde of barbarians was moving down from the north. They came from beyond the back of the world, from misty and fabled Hyperborea.
The King sent out his scouts and spies. He was relieved to hear that, as usual, the barbarians had no ships or rafts, and no materials with which to cross the rivers that shielded Atlantis.
Wide waters had always protected Atlantis from barbarian incursions. Even if the barbarians built boats of reed, or employed inflatable leather bladders—typical barbarian expedients—they were not to be feared. The King’s navy was vigilant, and included swift canoes, deadly triremes, ponderous beaked galleys—all armed and armored, and filled with the King’s superb marines.
So the King awaited this latest invasion with equanimity. But just to be on the safe side, he consulted the royal scientists.
The Chief Scientist reported, “Sire, we have examined all the factors. On the basis of centuries of observation of barbarians, their Fighting techniques, their resources, matched scientifically against our own resources, I can tell you that, barring the completely unforeseen, we have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
The King nodded. But something in the soothing formula disturbed him. He said, “This completely unforeseen that you are barring—what is that?”
“That, Sire, is the element of the unpredictable.”
“But since you know all the factors,” the King said, “why must you make an exception for the unpredictable, when your job is to predict everything of relevance to this situation?”
“That is the heart of scientific method, my Lord, in itself a recent discovery of ours of which we are very proud. To say that we know everything would be the superstitious stuff of the priests. By admitting the possibility of something unforeseen, we remain rigorous in our methodology.”
“What are the chances of this unforeseen occurring?” the King asked.
“So close to zero,” said the Chief Scientist, “that we are still awaiting the invention of a number small enough to express it.”
With this the King had to be content. It was not certainty, but as near to it as a man or even a monarch could get, life being what it was.
The King drew up his forces on the inner bank of the great river encircling Atlantis. Deep and broad, slow moving, brown and steely-gray, the river had sheltered the kingdom from time out of mind. On the far bank they could see their foe—shaggy barbarians clad in furs, which must have been extremely uncomfortable in the sweltering climate. Scouts reported that the barbarians were chanting and praying to their uncouth and outlandish deities, and making no attempt to build water craft.
The barbarian position seemed hopeless. Already food was reported to be running low in their camp. There were many of them, and they were heavily armed, but they could not cross. The King, his army well rested and provisioned, its morale high, awaited the inevitable outcome.
But that very day a change took place, although it seemed a minor one. The skies, hitherto a uniform blue, began to cloud over, although it still lacked some months of the rainy season. The King again consulted his scientists.
“Unseasonable rains,” his Chief Scientist told him, “are unusual, but not unprecedented.”
“It also grows colder,” the King said.
“We have noted that, and we recommend the issuing of cotton jackets to the troops.”
Later in the day, particles of white began to fall from the sky. The King was much alarmed by this.
“It is unusual,” the Chief Scientist said. “But not unprecedented. The last time this white substance fell, according to our records, was some seven hundred years ago. The stuff dissolves too fast for us to give it much more than a cursory examination. It seems to be fragments of clouds, torn apart by the high winds of the upper air.”
The army didn’t like it, of course. Armies don’t like unusual sights and unexpected omens. But they stuck it out, and took heart at the sight of the barbarians across the river, huddling around inadequate campfires in their drenched furs.
But it became colder still, and, as night came on, colder than men’s memories of how cold it could be. Double-woven cotton cloaks and mantles were issued to the troops. And still the cold increased. And once again the king consulted his scientists.
“It is true that we have never seen cold like this,” the Chief Scientist said. “But it makes no difference. It will bother the barbarians more than it will us. Have the men apply extra wax to their bowstrings, because one of the recorded properties of cold is to make flaxen bowstrings brittle.”