The overall picture for long-range survival by a civilization is, therefore, historically, not bright.
Our most recent evidence indicates that many societies experience an industrial revolution, followed by exponential technological development, followed by rapid growth, followed by a general collapse. None that we know of, other than the Monument-Makers, seem to have lasted more than three hundred years beyond the development of the computer.
This is not to say there is a cause and effect relationship between technology and extinction. But Colm Manchester, in his monumental Study of Civilization, points out that societies with limited technology tend to be more durable and far harder to destabilize.
It is now more than three and a half centuries since we started using computers. Let us hope the trend does not apply to us.
— Tokyo Daily, Saturday, April 4
RHINE: HELLFIRE SERMONS AFFLICT MANY
“Constitute Child Abuse”
STUDY: RELIGIOUS EDUCATION MAY CLOSE MIND
“Hell Invented by Dante”
chapter 19
There’s not much to be said for sightseeing. You go somewhere that has a waterfall. You have a beer, watch the water go over the edge, and move on. Tours are all the same. In the end, the only thing that matters is the beer.
— Gregory MacAllister, “Endgame”
The monument needed a name. Something other than the Cygni Temple, which was how it was commonly known. When it had first been discovered, decades before, religious organizations had pointed to it proudly as proof that even alien societies recognized the Creator. It might have been true, but the reality was that nobody had any idea what the structure had meant to the creatures who’d put it into its lonely orbit.
MacAllister had begun to realize that, even if he did not get close to the moonriders, there was decent potential on this flight for a good story. He put aside his notes on Dark Mirror and was thinking instead that he might, in visiting these various sites, record his own insights and reactions. It was easy to wax philosophical about places like the temple. So he began a journal.
Before leaving the system, they took pictures. Of the captain and passengers gathered on the bridge, of Amy with the monument behind her, of Eric studying the monument while taking notes. Valya transposed images, so they had shots of Eric leaning against one of the columns, and Amy standing at the foot of the steps, inches from infinity. Even MacAllister allowed her a degree of latitude, and she superimposed his features over the monument, as if he were the resident deity.
“You’re sending me a message,” he said.
They were alone in the common room. “Not at all.” She had a smile that could penetrate his own inner darkness, and she used it, showing him, yes, of course it reflects you, the real you, the guy who thinks he knows everything. But she softened it somehow.
At home, MacAllister was a constant target for attack. Usually it was just people hitting back after he’d delivered a well-deserved criticism. He routinely accepted the reactions as part of the job. Fleabites from persons of no consequence. But when he saw reproach in Valya’s eyes, and for reasons he did not understand, it hurt. He wanted to explain to her that he wished the Academy well, wished her well. That he wasn’t the jerk she so plainly thought he was.
“Did you volunteer for this?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking. I could have refused.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Is there a reason I should have?”
“I thought you might have preferred not to have me aboard.”
“To be honest,” she said, “I was reluctant when Hutch first told me you were coming. Look, Mac, since you ask, you’re not exactly one of my favorite people. It’s not personal; it’s political. But it’s okay. We can make it work while we’re out here.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
She shrugged. “I know. But you’re on the other side. It’s not easy to be friendly with the enemy.”
“I’m not an enemy, Valya.”
“Sure you are.” She lowered her voice. “You and Amy’s father. And four or five other nitwits on the committee. No. Let me finish. I understand about the seas and the duck problem and all the rest of it. But you’re behaving as if this is an either-or situation. If we close down, if the Academy goes away, we won’t get serious starflight up and running again probably during my lifetime.
“And I know what you’re going to say. This isn’t about one person. And to be honest I’m not sure about that. Maybe it is me. I like to be out here, and if the day comes they shut us down, shut everybody down, Orion and Kosmik and everybody else, then my life is over. And if you think the human race is doing just fine sitting on its front porch, as long as the evenings are cool, then I think you need to ask yourself what goddam good we’ll be to ourselves or anybody else.”
Had she just called him a nitwit? “Valya, I never said we should shut down the Academy.”
“Sure you did. Not verbatim, maybe. But you’re aiding and abetting. Look, I can understand you don’t want to support us. But you owe Hutchins a lot. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be walking around. The least you could do is stay out of the fight. Just don’t say anything.”
“I can’t do that, Valya. I’m an editor. The National has an obligation to its readers.”
“Do your readers agree with you? About the Academy?”
“Some do.” He hesitated. “Most do. We’ve taken a reasonable position. Head off the imminent danger first. Then put money into starflight. Anything else would be irresponsible.”
She changed the subject. Talked about 36 Ophiuchi, and the Origins Project beyond.
TIME TO GO.
When the warning came to buckle up, MacAllister was ready. So was Amy, who’d lost interest in the monument and was doing a history assignment with Bill. But as they were pressed back into their seats, and the temple began to recede, she took a last look and smiled at MacAllister. “I’ll be back,” she said.
Acceleration continued several minutes, then went away. The green lights came on. It was okay to release the restraints and walk around. The lights were intended for those so feeble-minded they couldn’t tell when it was possible to stand up without getting thrown against the aft bulkhead.
Valya asked MacAllister to come up front.
“No problems, I hope,” he said as he slid into the right-hand seat.
“We’re fine, Mac.” She released her own harness and rotated her shoulders. “I wanted to ask a favor.”
“Sure,” he said. “What do you need?”
“While we’re out here, I’d like to take Amy to see the supernova.”
The statement puzzled him. “How do you take somebody to see a supernova?” He looked at the quiet sky. “Where is it?”
“I’m talking about the supernova of 2216.”
That was nineteen years ago. A monster event. It had brightened the night sky for days. “How are you going to do that? We have a time machine?”
“Yes,” she said. “We can pass the light, then turn around and look at it.”
Yes. He knew that. Just hadn’t stopped to think. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Mac, it was before Amy’s time. We all got to see it, but Amy wasn’t born yet. I think she’d enjoy it, and we don’t really have to go out of our way. It’ll cost a day or so, but that’s all.”
“I keep forgetting we can do this stuff.”
“So what do you say? Is it okay? It’s on the way to our next site.”
“Sure,” he said. “No moonriders associated with it?”
“No. It’s part of the Blue Tour, but no lights have been seen near it.”
MacAllister shifted his position. “Did you ask Eric?”
“He’s all for it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Sure. I’d enjoy seeing it again.”
THEY CAME BACK together and Valya put the question to Amy. “Would you like to take a ride into the past?”
“Into the past?” she said. “How do you mean?”
“Do you know about the supernova of 2216?”
“Sure.”
“Would you like to see it?”
The child, apparently brighter than MacAllister, lit up. “Would you really do that for me?”
“If you want.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
They made the jump into the mists that evening. When it was done, MacAllister announced he’d had enough excitement for one day and headed for his compartment. Amy was doing homework, and Eric had hunched down in front of his notebook, reading.
He was glad to hit the rack, to get by himself for a few hours. That was another problem with the Salvator. Everybody needed time alone, MacAllister more than most. But he knew he couldn’t take to hanging out in his compartment for long stretches without exciting comment and resentment. You go on a trip like this, you have to be willing to socialize. So it felt especially good when night came and the ship’s lights dimmed, as they did at ten P.M., and he could justify retreating.
He settled in with Ferguson’s latest, Breakout, a history of the first twenty years of interstellar flight. But it turned out to be dreary stuff. The most rousing piece of writing in the entire book was the title. The author had done substantial research, and he wanted the reader to be impressed. Consequently he loaded every page with irrelevant dialogue and descriptions of engine thrust, even to the point of listing the supply inventories for several early flights. Nobody went to the washroom without Ferguson’s recording it.
MacAllister made a few notes and decided it deserved to be reviewed. It was his duty to warn an unsuspecting public.
AT MIDAFTERNOON THEY transited out of the mist and glided back under the stars.
“We’re about six light-years beyond 61 Cygni,” said Valya, “moving in the general direction of the galactic core. Out here, it’s not easy to be precise about distances. Can’t be sure exactly where we are.”
“Which one is it?” asked Amy, looking at the stars on the displays. “The one that’s going to explode?”