But it is not over!
Singing Pig Breakfast Food Company, beware! There will be vengeance!
It has been told.
NINE HUNDRED GRANDMOTHERS
Introduction by Patton Oswalt
And the oldest of the oldest grandmothers knows how the universe began. Or does she? And does she—or they—know how to live forever?
This is R. A. Lafferty dangling a simple, delicious carrot in front of his not-simple protagonist, a space plunderer named Ceran Swicegood. Of course, Ceran would like to think of himself as a “special aspects man,” a more refined breed than his compatriots who take brutish names like Manbreaker and Barrelhouse. These names, they feel, make it easier for them to pillage. A name like “Ceran Swicegood” is for someone who’s searching for more … esoteric and rarefied booty.
But it’s this rarefied, pretentious (and ultimately greedy) search that destroys poor Ceran quicker than the short-term, cash-money goals of his colleagues. Knowledge is power, but ultimate knowledge juuuuuuust out of reach is soul-poison.
Did I mention this story is also hilarious?
Nine Hundred Grandmothers
Ceran Swicegood was a promising young Special Aspects Man. But, like all Special Aspects, he had one irritating habit. He was forever asking the question: How Did it All Begin?
They all had tough names except Ceran. Manbreaker Crag, Heave Huckle, Blast Berg, George Blood, Move Manion (when Move says “Move,” you move), Trouble Trent. They were supposed to be tough, and they had taken tough names at the naming. Only Ceran kept his own—to the disgust of his commander, Manbreaker.
“Nobody can be a hero with a name like Ceran Swicegood!” Manbreaker would thunder. “Why don’t you take Storm Shannon? That’s good. Or Gutboy Barrelhouse or Slash Slagle or Nevel Knife? You barely glanced at the suggested list.”
“I’ll keep my own,” Ceran always said, and that is where he made his mistake. A new name will sometimes bring out a new personality. It had done so for George Blood. Though the hair on George’s chest was a graft job, yet that and his new name had turned him from a boy into a man. Had Ceran assumed the heroic name of Gutboy Barrelhouse he might have been capable of rousing endeavors and man-sized angers rather than his tittering indecisions and flouncy furies.
They were down on the big asteroid Proavitus—a sphere that almost tinkled with the potential profit that might be shaken out of it. And the tough men of the Expedition knew their business. They signed big contracts on the native velvet-like bark scrolls and on their own parallel tapes. They impressed, inveigled, and somewhat cowed the slight people of Proavitus. Here was a solid two-way market, enough to make them slaver. And there was a whole world of oddities that could lend themselves to the luxury trade.
“Everybody’s hit it big but you,” Manbreaker crackled in kindly thunder to Ceran after three days there. “But even Special Aspects is supposed to pay its way. Our charter compels us to carry one of your sort to give a cultural twist to the thing, but it needn’t be restricted to that. What we go out for every time, Ceran, is to cut a big fat hog in the rump—we make no secret of that. But if the hog’s tail can be shown to have a cultural twist to it, that will solve a requirement. And if that twist in the tail can turn us a profit, then we become mighty happy about the whole thing. Have you been able to find out anything about the living dolls, for instance? They might have both a cultural aspect and a market value.”
“The living dolls seem a part of something much deeper,” Ceran said. “There’s a whole complex of things to be un-raveled. The key may be the statement of the Proavitoi that they do not die.”
“I think they die pretty young, Ceran. All those out and about are young, and those I have met who do not leave their houses are only middling old.”
“Then where are their cemeteries?”
“Likely they cremate the old folks when they die.”
“Where are the crematories?”
“They might just toss the ashes out or vaporize the entire remains. Probably they have no reverence for ancestors.”
“Other evidence shows their entire culture to be based on an exaggerated reverence for ancestors.”
“You find out, Ceran. You’re Special Aspects Man.”
Ceran talked to Nokoma, his Proavitoi counterpart as translator. Both were expert, and they could meet each halfway in talk. Nokoma was likely feminine. There was a certain softness about both the sexes of the Proavitoi, but the men of the Expedition believed that they had them straight now.
“Do you mind if I ask some straight questions?” Ceran greeted her today.
“Sure is not. How else I learn the talk well but by talking?”
“Some of the Proavitoi say that they do not die, Nokoma. Is this true?”
“How is not be true? If they die, they not be here to say they do not die. Oh, I joke, I joke. No, we do not die. It is a foolish alien custom which we see no reason to imitate. On Proavitus, only the low creatures die.”
“None of you does?”
“Why, no. Why should one want to be an exception in this?”
“But what do you do when you get very old?”
“We do less and less then. We come to a deficiency of energy. Is it not the same with you?”
“Of course. But where do you go when you become exceedingly old?”
“Nowhere. We stay at home then. Travel is for the young and those of the active years.”
“Let’s try it from the other end,” Ceran said. “Where are your father and mother, Nokoma?”
“Out and about. They aren’t really old.”
“And your grandfathers and grandmothers?”
“A few of them still get out. The older ones stay home.”
“Let’s try it this way. How many grandmothers do you have, Nokoma?”
“I think I have nine hundred grandmothers in my house. Oh, I know that isn’t many, but we are the young branch of a family. Some of our clan have very great numbers of ancestors in their houses.”
“And all these ancestors are alive?”
“What else? Who would keep things not alive? How would such be ancestors?”
Ceran began to hop around in his excitement.
“Could I see them?” he twittered.
“It might not be wise for you to see the older of them,” Nokoma cautioned. “It could be an unsettling thing for strangers, and we guard it. A few tens of them you can see, of course.”
Then it came to Ceran that he might be onto what he had looked for all his life. He went into a panic of expectation.
“Nokoma, it would be finding the key!” he fluted. “If none of you has ever died, then your entire race would still be alive!”
“Sure. Is like you count fruit. You take none away, you still have them all.”
“But if the first of them are still alive, then they might know their origin! They would know how it began! Do they? Do you?”
“Oh, not I. I am too young for the Ritual.”
“But who knows? Doesn’t someone know?”
“Oh, yes, all the old ones know how it began.”
“How old? How many generations back from you till they know?”
“Ten, no more. When I have ten generations of children, then I will also go to the Ritual.”
“The Ritual. What is it?”
“Once a year, the old people go to the very old people. They wake them up and ask them how it all began. The very old people tell them the beginning. It is a high time. Oh, how they hottle and laugh! Then the very old people go back to sleep for another year. So it is passed down to the generations. That is the Ritual.”