I know a thousand ways of feeling hate, of indifference, of superiority, of humbleness, of selfishness, of altruism. Name an emotion and I can see it through a filter of more races than I can count, many of which died before the Earth had cooled. The group mind of the Lobsters is ancient beyond belief.
It tends to give one perspective.
We also collected an immense amount of trivia. Those of us who went though the process — Dean M’bisa, Pancho, B’oosa, Miko, Alegria and myself — are walking encyclopedias of useless knowledge. And some useful knowledge.
Springworld is a garden planet now, thanks to a piece of information Alegria picked up that helped us tame the wind. B’oosa came up with an incredibly cheap energy system. Dean M’bisa is exploring a new concept of theoretical mathematics. We all have things like that. Much of it has been transferred to the Confederación library network, available to any of the inhabited planets.
I held some back. I’m sure the others did, too, although it’s not something we talk about. Some things were too horrible to share, or too personal. Some were too dangerous.
“Carl?”
I smiled, sat down on a bench.
“Hello Pancho, what’s happening?” I could feel him next to me, though he was light years away. Since Construct, all of us who were wiped by the Lobsters have had this method of instantaneous communication. A very handy byproduct of the process.
“I’m on the move again, amigo. Just thought I’d let you know.”
“You don’t stay put long, do you?”
“Selva seems pretty tame these days. I’m going out with a Confederación contact team to Physome. Want to come along?”
Physome. A beautiful planet, beautiful people. They worked with living matter the way we worked with steel and wood. Only they coaxed rather than bending or cutting. It would be a good race to contact. We could learn from each other. In a way we had already learned, for a part of me was from Physome as surely as if I had been born in the silver webs of their hutches. I knew them. I liked them. I loved them. They were a part of me.
I thought it over. No.
“Sorry, Pancho. Not this time. Crops are about ready for harvest.”
“You never go anywhere, amigo. I can’t figure out whether you’re a gentleman farmer or a hermit.”
“This was my father’s land. My roots are here.”
“Your roots are everywhere, as are mine.”
Laughter. “That’s true, old friend. But if I tried to chase them all down I’d be old and grey before I even got started. Have a good trip. Let me know what you find.”
“I’ll keep in touch. Adios, amigo.”
“Adios.” The contact was broken.
Pancho was right. I hardly ever go anywhere. For some reason the excitement doesn’t tempt me like it used to. I am what I am. I no longer feel the need to prove anything to anyone, including myself. After touching the lives of so many people of so many planets all I feel is a kind of gentle peace. I like to work the land of my father. I do it the old way, with my hands. Without the new machines I helped develop. It gives me pleasure. It would take a lot to get me to leave.
Of course Alegria is due back with a contact team and time now. She might get in touch with me with a problem or two. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to see her again.
I wouldn’t mind it at all.
Joe Haldeman, There Is No Darkness
(Series: # )
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