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_Only One Question Is Eternal-- What Lies Beyond the Ultimate?_
THE ONE _and_ THE MANY
By Milton Lesser
There are some who tell me it is a foolish war we fight. My brother toldme that, for one, back in the Sunset Country. But then, my brother islame and good for nothing but drawing pictures of the stars. He connectsthem with lines, like a child's puzzle, and so makes star-pictures. Hehas fish stars, archer stars, hunter stars. That, I would say, is whatis foolish.
Perhaps that is what started it all. I was looking at the stars, tryingto see the pictures, when I should have been minding my sentry post.They took me like a baby, like a tot not yet given to the wearing ofclothing. The hand came out of the darkness and clamped over my mouth,and I ceased my struggling when I felt a sharp blade pricking at thesmall of my back.
At first I feared that they would slay the entire camp as it slept and Icursed my brother for his star-pictures, cursed our leader who had sentus here, twenty archers, against the Onist outpost on our country'sborder. But the Onists had other ideas. They took me away. I had toadmire their vitality, because all night we ran through the silentwoodlands, and they seemed tireless. I could maintain their pace, ofcourse: but I'm a Pluralist.
I could see their village from a long way off, its night fires glowingin the dark. It was only then that we slowed our pace. Soon we enteredthe place, a roughly circular area within a stockade, and my captorsthrust me within a hut. I couldn't do much worrying about tomorrow, notwhen I was so tired. I slept.
I dreamed a stupid dream about the Onist beliefs, the beliefs of anunimaginative people who could picture one Maker and one Maker only. Imust have chuckled in my sleep.
* * * * *
"You're awake."
A brilliant statement, that--because I had sat up, squinted into thebright sunlight streaming in through the doorway, yawned and stretched.The Onists, I tell you, lack imagination.
The girl who spoke was a pretty enough little thing for an Onist. Shesmiled, showing even white teeth. "Do you Pluralists eat?"
I nodded and rubbed my belly. I was to have had dinner after my turn assentry the night before, and now I felt like I could do justice to myportion even at one of the orgies for which the Onists are so famous.
"Bring on your food and I'll show you," I told her, and she turned herback to walk outside. It was early and the village seemed silent--surelythey hadn't intended this one slim maid to guard me! Yet she seemedalone.
I leaped at her, circled her neck with my arm, prepared to make my exit.They would laugh around our fire when I told them of this fine exampleof the Onist lack of foresight....
Except that the girl yelped. Not loudly, but it was loud enough, and abig muscular Onist came striding in with his throwing spear. He backedme off into a corner, prodding my hungry belly with his weapon.
"Will you behave?"
* * * * *
I told him I would and he backed outside, but this time I could see hisshadow across the doorway.
The girl brought food and partook of it with me. I was surprised,because we Pluralists will not eat with an Onist out of choice. Well, Ihave said they are a strange people. Soon the girl stood up, patting hermouth daintily with a square of cloth, and in that, of course, she wastrying to mime our graceful Pluralist women. "I suppose you think we aregoing to kill you," she said. Just like that.
"To tell you the truth, I haven't given it much thought. There isn'tmuch I can do about it."
"Well, we're not. We could have done that back at your camp. We couldhave killed all of you. No, we want to show you something."
I had a ridiculous thought that they made star-pictures, too--even thosewho are not lame like my brother. I said, "Well, what will happen to meafter you show me?"
She smiled. "You still think we're going to kill you. What's your name?"
I told her, but I thought: she can't even keep a conversation goingwithout changing the subject.
"Jak," she repeated after me. "That's a common enough name. We have Jaksamong our Onist people, you know."
"No, I didn't. But you probably copied it."
"I doubt that. We were here first, Jak. Our records say so. Probably,you once captured a man with that name, long ago, liked it, and took itfor your people."
"_You_ were here first!" I sneered. "Maybe that's what your records tellyou, but it isn't so. Look: the Makers endowed us with life, then wentaway in to the sky. By mistake they left one idiot-Maker behind, and hehad nothing to do. He made you Onists before he perished, and that iswhy you think there is only one Maker."
She seemed highly insulted. "Idiot-Maker? Idiot! There was only oneMaker, ever, but because your minds cannot conceive of all that gloryresiding in one figure, you invented a score."
Now it was my turn to be indignant. "A score? Hundreds, you mean;thousands--more than there are leaves on the trees."
"Well, I won't argue with you. Our war has been arguing that point wellenough." I was sorry she would not argue. She looked very pretty whenshe argued, her breasts heaving, her eyes sparkling fire.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Nari. My name is Nari. And don't tell me you had that name first!"
I smiled blandly. "Of course we did. I have an aunt, my mother's sister,who goes by that name. My brother's wife's cousin, also; but she is veryugly."
"And am I ugly?" Nari wanted to know. I guess in that sense at least,women are the same everywhere--Pluralist or Onist, it doesn't matter.
* * * * *
I looked at her. I looked at her so hard that it made her blush, andthen she looked even prettier. But I didn't tell her so.
"You will pass, for an Onist," I admitted. "I guess the Onists mightconsider you pretty; the Onist men might stamp their feet and shout ifyou go by--but then, they are Onists."
At that, she seemed on the verge of leaving my prison hut, but somethingmade her change her mind. She stayed all morning and on into theafternoon. We argued all the time, except at midday, when she wentoutside to get our lunch. She stumbled a little and fell half against myshoulder. I moved toward her to hold her up, and it was the most naturalthing in the world to take her in my arms and kiss her. She must havethought so, too; she responded beautifully--for an Onist.
After lunch, Nari did not mention the kiss, nor did I. It now seemed themost natural thing in the world not to talk about it. We argued somemore, Nari defending her primitive beliefs, I trying to show her thelight of truth. But it was no use: the war had been fought and the warwould continue.
Later that day we set out. That came as a surprise to me, because I hadtaken it for granted that whatever the Onists wanted to show me wasright here in this little village. A dozen of us went, and when we hadbeen on the trail for some little time, Nari joined us, declaring thatshe wanted to see it again--whatever it was.
We went for three days, and although these Onists turned out to bebetter woodsmen than I had thought, still, they could not match theskill we Pluralists have mastered over the generations. I believe Icould have escaped, had I wanted to; but I hardly seemed a prisoner ofwar, and besides, once or twice when we had lagged to the rear of thecolumn, Nari stumbled against me like that day in the hut, and whatcould I do but kiss her?
It was another village we reached at the end of our march, much biggerthan the first. Surprisingly, it looked a lot like a Pluralist town,although it may only have seemed so because I had been out in thewoodlands for three days. They took me straightways to the villagesquare, and it was there that I saw the statue.
* * * * *
These statues of the Makers are rare, and I was surprised to see one inan Onist village. I got on my knees at once to do it reverence. Irealize it was impious to look up, but I did--I had to see if it werethe genuine thing. And it was, to the last detail. Constructed of theforbidden substance known as metal, it towered three times a Pluralist'sheight, or three times an Onist's, for that matter. I have alwayswondered why the Makers did not create our ancestors in their ownsubstance, as they had fashioned us in their image. But that is animpious thought.
A stern gray-haired Onist who said he was Nari's father took me asideafterwards. "Now, Jak," he asked me, "what can you say of what you haveseen?"
I shrugged. "I can say that somehow you've found one of the Makerstatues. What more?"
"It's one, is it not?"
"Of course it's one. They are rare, but I have seen three, all told, inPluralist villages."
"And each time they were separate? You never saw a group?"
"No. No, I didn't."
He slapped his hands together triumphantly. "Then that proves it. Eachis a copy of the original Maker, but there was only one. Otherwise youwould have seen statues in groups. And that is why you are here, Jak: wewant you to go back to your people and tell them what you saw."
I shook my head. "What you say isn't logical. So what if the statues arenever in pairs or groups? We've only seen a few, when once there musthave been many. Also, when your artists do their magic with dyes andcreate portraits, are they generally done one at a time or in groups?"
"One at a time, so the artist may capture the personality in each face,naturally. I have seen group portraits, but I think they are sillythings."
"Exactly." Now I was triumphant. "Exactly as the Makers thought, whichis why the statues are always single--"
"But it is impious to say there was more than one Maker! He had all theknowledge in the world at his fingertips, and so there was no need formore than one. More than this world, even: he went to the stars. Ordon't you believe that?"
"Of course I believe it. Only, _they_ went to the stars, the thousandsof Makers. It isn't impious, because if you can think of one being asgreat as that, try to picture thousands. Yes, thousands. That makes methousands of times more pious than you Onists."
He shook his head wearily. "What's the use? It is for this we arefighting our war, and we thought if we took one of you here, showed himthe undeniable truth of our statue.... Well, will you at least return toyour people with a tale of what you have seen?"
I agreed readily enough: probably, the alternative was death. AlthoughPluralists on rare occasions have been known to take Onist women astheir wives, an Onist prisoner of war was an unwanted thing. The reversewould also be true.
* * * * *
They all bid me goodbye, except for Nari. I could not find her anywherein the village, and a little sadly I set out on my long journey back tothe Sunset Land. By now our raiding party had finished its work on thesmall Onist village on the rim of our country, and I could do nothingbut return to my people, where we might plan new strategy against theunbelievers.
But I had wanted to bid Nari farewell.
I met her in the woodlands, a travel bag slung over her shoulder like amale's. "I wanted to say goodbye privately," she told me.
"Good," I said, but I knew she was lying. Else why the travel bag?
"Goodbye," Nari whispered, but she was not looking at me. Looking,instead, behind her, at the land of her people.
"Nari," I told her, "I have to admit it. You are very pretty--even byPluralist standards. You are--"
This time she did not stumble against me. It wasn't necessary. I drewher to me, and I kissed her a long kiss. Then I told her I loved her,and women, I suppose, will always be women, because she said she knewit.
I will take Nari back to our village in the Sunset Land, where we willbe married by the laws of my people. And if ever there is to be peacebetween the Pluralists and the Onists, it may, after all, come on thesegrounds. The Onists have their beliefs, and so I hate them for theirimpious thoughts. But the love of a man for a maid exists apart fromthat.
It won't be easy. Our arguing continued all the way back to the SunsetLand, and Nari is as stubborn as I am firm.
"There is one Maker," she said.
And I told her, "No, there are many."
Or later, as we neared the Sunset Land, we picked up the thread of ourthoughts again. Pluralist or Onist, we androids are dogmatic creatures.
"One Robot created us all before he went to the stars," said Nari.
"Robots," I said. "Many Robots." But I kissed her.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ July 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.