The worst thing about studying, Nelson had decided, was books. Especially this old-fashioned kind, with motionless letters the color of squashed ants splayed across musty paper. Still, this dusty volume contained Kuwenezi’s sole copy of this essay. So he had to stick with it.
Evolutionists themselves argued over how species changed. Darwin’s and Wallace’s “natural selection” — in which diversity within a species provides grist for the grinding mill of nature — had to pass ten thousand tests before it triumphed conclusively over Lamarck’s competing theory of “inheritance of acquired traits.”
But even then arguments raged over essential details. For instance, what was the basic unit of evolution?
For years many thought it was species that adapted. But evidence later supported the “selfish gene” model — that individuals act in ways that promote success for their descendants, caring little for the species as a whole. Examples of individual success prevailing over species viability include peacocks’ tails and moose antlers…
Nelson thought he understood the basic issue here. A good example was how people often did what was good for themselves, even if it hurt their family, friends, or society.
But what do peacocks’ tails have to do with it?
Nelson sat beneath overhanging bougainvilleas. Nearby, the gentle flow of water was punctuated by the sound of splashing fish. The air carried thick aromas, but Nelson tried to ignore all those deceptively natural sensoria for the archaic paper reading device in his hands.
If only it were a modern document, with a smart index and hyper links stretching all through the world data net. It was terribly frustrating having to flip back and forth between the pages and crude, flat illustrations that never even moved! Nor were there animated arrows or zoom-ins. It completely lacked a tap for sound.
Most baffling of all was the problem of new words. Yes, it was his own damn fault he had neglected his education until so late in life. But still, in a normal text you’d only have to touch an unfamiliar word and the definition would pop up just below. Not here though. The paper simply lay there, inert and uncooperative.
When he’d complained about this, earlier, Dr. B’Keli only handed him another of these flat books, something called a “dictionary,” whose arcane use eluded him entirely.
How did students back in TwenCen ever learn anything at all? he wondered.
Darwin spoke of two types of “struggle” in the wild — conflict between individuals for reproductive success, and the struggle of each individual against the implacable forces of nature, such as cold, thirst, darkness, and exposure.
Good, Nelson thought. This is what I was looking for.
Influenced by the dour logic of Malthus, Darwin believed the first of these struggles was dominant. Much of the “generosity” we see in nature is actually quid pro quo — or “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” Altruism is generally tied to the success of one’s genes.
Still, even Darwin admitted that sometimes cooperation seems to transcend immediate needs.
Examples do exist where working together for the common good appears to outweigh any zero-sum game of “I win, you lose.”
The book suddenly jolted as a brown paw slapped it. A long snout, filled with gleaming teeth, thrust into view. Feral brown eyes glittered into his.
“Oh, not now, Shig,” Nelson complained. “Can’t you see I’m studyin’?”
But the infant baboon craved attention. It reached out and squeaked appealingly. Nelson sighed and gave in, though his arms were still tender with freshly healed scar tissue.
“What do you have there, eh?” He pried open the little monkey’s paw. Something reddish and half gnawed rolled out — a piece of fruit purloined from a forbidden source. “Aw, come on, Shig. Don’t I feed you more’n enough?”
Of course this was night shift and no one else was around to witness the minor theft. He dug a small depression in the soft loam and buried the evidence. With all recycling factors above par, one pilfered fruit probably wouldn’t trigger catastrophe.
A broad expanse of tinted crystal panes separated this portion of the biosphere from the star-sprinkled night. More than mere practicality had gone into creating this enclosed miracle of biological management. The tracks and runners, the sprinklers and sprayers, were so tastefully hidden one might think this an arboretum or greenhouse rather than a high-tech sewage plant.
Settling Shig in his left arm, Nelson tried to resume where he’d left off.
This latter view of evolution — that it includes a place for kindness and cooperation — certainly is an attractive one. Don’t all our moral codes stress that helping one another is the ultimate good? We’re taught as babes that virtue goes beyond mere self-interest…
Affronted at being ignored, Shig dealt with the insult by turning and sitting on the open book, then looking about innocently.
“Oh, yeah?” Nelson said, and retaliated by tickling the infant, whose jaws gaped in a silent laughter as he writhed and finally escaped by toppling onto the soft grass.
Then, switching states quickly, the little baboon suddenly crouched warily, sniffing the brookside foliage and listening. Shig’s gaze swept the pebbly banks of the nearby stream and the maze of dripping vines crisscrossing overhead. Then, suddenly, a larger baboon emerged from the rustling plantain beds and Shig let out a squeak of pleasure.
Nell sniffed left and right before climbing down and sauntering, toward her offspring, tail high. Sleek and well fed, she hardly resembled the scraggly outcast Nelson had rescued from ark four’s savannah biosphere. Nelson couldn’t help comparing her transformation to his own. We’ve come a long way from sampling shit for a living, he thought.
While in the hospital he at first had worried what the scientists would do to him for leaving six male baboons battered and whimpering beneath the dusty acacia trees. Self-defense or no, Nelson had visions of dismissal, deportation, and a year’s corrective therapy back in a Yukon rehab camp.
But apparently the Ndebele regarded his exploit in ways he hadn’t imagined. Director Mugabe, especially, spoke of the episode having “a salutary effect on the baboons’ relationship with their caretakers…”
If by that he meant the troop would henceforth treat humans more respectfully, Nelson supposed the director had a point. Beyond that though, the people of Kuwenezi claimed to appreciate the “warrior’s virtues” he’d displayed. Hence the battery of placement exams that followed his release from care, and his astonishing assignment here, with the prestigious title of Waste Management Specialist/2.
“Of course the pay’s still shitty,” he reminded himself. Nevertheless, the skills he learned here were in high demand and would guarantee his prospects if he did well.
Modern cities dealt with sewage biologically these days, imitating nature’s own methods. The flow from tens of millions of toilets coursed through settling and aerating paddies the size of large farms. One stretch might be a riot of bulrushes and aloe, bred to remove heavy metals. Next, a scum of specially designed algae would convert ammonia and methane into animal fodder. Finally, most urban treatment plants ended in snail ponds, with fish to eat the snails, and both harvested to sell on the open market.
The water that emerged was generally as pure as any mountain stream. Purer, given the state of most streams these days. It was to this craft at recycling water that most now credited the survival of modern cities. Without it, the least consequence nearly everywhere would have been war.