Star Maker, Olaf Stapledon [top rated books of all time .TXT] 📗
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sea-bottom’s configuration by means of the echoes that it cast up to the
underwater ears. It was strange and terrifying to be caught in a
hurricane, to feel the masts straining and the sails threatening to
split, while the hull was battered by the small but furious waves of
that massive planet. It was strange, too, to watch other great living
ships, as they plowed their way, heeled over, adjusted the set of their
yellow or russet sails to the wind’s variations; and very strange it was
to realize that these were not man-made objects but themselves conscious
and purposeful.
Sometimes we saw two of the living ships fighting, tearing at one
another’s sails with snake-like tentacles, stabbing at one another’s
soft “decks” with metal knives, or at a distance firing at one another
with cannon. Bewildering and delightful it was to feel in the presence
of a slim female clipper the longing for contact, and to carry out with
her on the high seas the tacking and yawing, the piratical pursuit and
overhauling, the delicate, fleeting caress of tentacles, which formed
the love-play of this race. Strange, to come up alongside, close-hauled,
grapple her to one’s flank, and board her with sexual invasion. It was
charming, too, to see a mother ship attended by her children. I should
mention, by the way, that at birth the young were launched from the
mother’s decks like little boats, one from the port side, one from the
starboard. Thenceforth they were suckled at her flanks. In play they
swam about her like ducklings, or spread their immature sails. In rough
weather and for long voyaging they were taken aboard. At the time of our
visit natural sails were beginning to be aided by a power unit and
propeller which were fixed to the stem. Great cities of concrete docks
had spread along many of the coasts, and were excavated out of the
hinterlands. We were delighted by the broad waterways that served as
streets in these cities. They were thronged with sail and mechanized
traffic, the children appearing as tugs and smacks among the gigantic
elders.
It was in this world that we found in its most striking form a social
disease which is perhaps the commonest of all world-diseases-namely, the
splitting of the population into two mutually unintelligible castes
through the influence of economic forces. So great was the difference
between adults of the two castes that they seemed to us at first to be
distinct species, and we supposed ourselves to be witnessing the victory
of a new and superior biological mutation over its predecessor. But this
was far from the truth.
In appearance the masters were very different from the workers, quite as
different as queen ants and drones from the workers of their species.
They were more elegantly and accurately stream-lined. They had a greater
expanse of sail, and were faster in fair weather. In heavy seas they
were less seaworthy, owing to their finer lines; but on the other hand
they were the more skilful and venturesome navigators. Their
manipulatory tentacles were less muscular, but capable of finer
adjustments. Their perception was more delicate. While a small minority
of them perhaps excelled the best of the workers in endurance and
courage, most were much less hardy, both physically and mentally. They
were subject to a number of disintegrative diseases which never affected
the workers, chiefly diseases of the nervous system. On the other hand,
if any of them contracted one of the infectious ailments which were
endemic to the workers, but seldom fatal, he would almost certainly die.
They were also very prone to mental disorders, and particularly to
neurotic self-importance. The whole organization and control of the
world was theirs. The workers, on the other hand, though racked by
disease and neurosis bred of their cramping environment, were on the
whole psychologically more robust. They had, however, a crippling sense
of inferiority. Though in handicrafts and all small-scale operations
they were capable of intelligence and skill, they were liable, when
faced with tasks of wider scope, to a strange paralysis of mind.
The mentalities of the two castes were indeed strikingly different. The
masters were more prone to individual initiative and to the vices of
self-seeking. The workers were more addicted to collectivism and the
vices of subservience to the herd’s hypnotic influence. The masters were
on the whole more prudent, far-seeing, independent, self-reliant; the
workers were more impetuous, more ready to sacrifice themselves in a
social cause, often more clearly aware of the right aims of social
activity, and incomparably more generous to individuals in distress.
At the time of our visit certain recent discoveries were throwing the
world into confusion. Hitherto it had been supposed that the natures of
the two castes were fixed unalterably, by divine law and by biological
inheritance. But it was now certain that this was not the case, and that
the physical and mental differences between the classes were due
entirely to nurture. Since time immemorial, the castes had been
recruited in a very curious manner. After weaning, all children born on
the port side of the mother, no matter what the parental caste, were
brought up to be members of the master caste; all those born on the
starboard side were brought up to be workers. Since the master class
had, of course, to be much smaller than the working class, this system
gave an immense superfluity of potential masters. The difficulty was
overcome as follows. The starboard-born children of workers and the
port-born children of masters were brought up by their own respective
parents; but the port-born, potentially aristocratic children of workers
were mostly disposed of by infant sacrifice. A few only were exchanged
with the starboard-born children of masters.
With the advance of industrialism, the increasing need for large
supplies of cheap labor, the spread of scientific ideas and the
weakening of religion, came the shocking discovery that port-born
children, of both classes, if brought up as workers, became physically
and mentally indistinguishable from workers. Industrial magnates in need
of plentiful cheap labor now developed moral indignation against infant
sacrifice, urging that the excess of port-born infants should be
mercifully brought up as workers. Presently certain misguided scientists
made the even more subversive discovery that starboard-born children
brought up as masters developed the fine lines, the great sails, the
delicate constitution, the aristocratic mentality of the master caste.
An attempt was made by the masters to prevent this knowledge from
spreading to the workers, but certain sentimentalists of their own caste
bruited it abroad, and preached a new-fangled and inflammatory doctrine
of social equality.
During our visit the world was in terrible confusion. In backward oceans
the old system remained unquestioned, but in all the more advanced
regions of the planet a desperate struggle was being waged. In one great
archipelago a social revolution had put the workers in power, and a
devoted though ruthless dictatorship was attempting so to plan the life
of the community that the next generation should be homogeneous and of a
new type, combining the most desirable characters of both workers and
masters. Elsewhere the masters had persuaded their workers that the new
ideas were false and base, and certain to lead to universal poverty and
misery. A clever appeal was made to the vague but increasing suspicion
that “materialistic science” was misleading and superficial, and that
mechanized civilization was crushing out the more spiritual
potentialities of the race. Skilled propaganda spread the ideal of a
kind of corporate state with “port and starboard flanks” correlated by a
popular dictator, who, it was said, would assume power “by divine right
and the will of the people.”
I must not stay to tell of the desperate struggle which broke out
between these two kinds of social organizations. In the worldwide
campaigns many a harbor, many an ocean current, flowed red with
slaughter. Under the pressure of a war to the death, all that was best,
all that was most human and gentle on each side was crushed out by
military necessity. On the one side, the passion for a unified world,
where every individual should live a free and full life in service of
the world community, was overcome by the passion to punish spies,
traitors, and heretics. On the other, vague and sadly misguided
yearnings for a nobler, less materialistic life were cleverly
transformed by the reactionary leaders into vindictiveness against the
revolutionaries.
Very rapidly the material fabric of civilization fell to pieces. Not
till the race had reduced itself to an almost subhuman savagery, and all
the crazy traditions of a diseased civilization had been purged away,
along with true culture, could the spirit of these “ship-men” set out
again on the great adventure of the spirit. Many thousands of years
later it broke through on to that higher plane of being which I have
still to suggest, as best I may.
INTIMATIONS OF THE STAR MAKER
IT must not be supposed that the normal fate of intelligent races in the
galaxy is to triumph. So far I have spoken mainly of those fortunate
Echinoderm and Nautiloid worlds which did at last pass triumphantly into
the more awakened state, and I have scarcely even mentioned the
hundreds, the thousands, of worlds which met disaster. This selection
was inevitable because my space is limited, and because these two
worlds, together with the even stranger spheres that I shall describe in
the next chapter, were to have great influence on the fortunes of the
whole galaxy. But many other worlds of “human” rank were quite as rich
in history as those which I have noticed. Individual lives in them were
no less varied than lives elsewhere, and no less crowded with distress
and joy. Some triumphed; some in their last phase suffered a downfall,
swift or slow, which lent them the splendor of tragedy. But since these
worlds play no special part in the main story of the galaxy, they must
be passed over in silence, along with the still greater host of worlds
which never attained even to “human” rank. If I were to dwell upon their
fortunes I should commit the same error as a historian who should try to
describe every private life and neglect the pattern of the whole
community.
I have already said that, as our experience of the destruction of worlds
increased, we were increasingly dismayed by the wastefulness and seeming
aimlessness of the universe. So many worlds, after so much distress,
attained so nearly to social peace and joy, only to have the cup
snatched from them forever. Often disaster was brought by some trivial
flaw of temperament or biological nature. Some races had not the
intelligence, some lacked the social will, to cope with the problems of
a unified world-community. Some were destroyed by an upstart bacterium
before their medical science was mature. Others succumbed to climatic
change, many to loss of atmosphere. Sometimes the end came through
collision with dense clouds of dust or gas, or with swarms of giant
meteors. Not a few worlds were destroyed by the downfall of a satellite.
The lesser body, plowing its way, age after age, through the extremely
rarefied but omnipresent cloud of free atoms in interstellar space,
would lose momentum. Its orbit would contract, at first slowly, then
rapidly. It would set up prodigious tides in the oceans of the larger
body, and drown much of its civilization. Later, through the increasing
stress of the planet’s attraction, the great moon would begin to
disintegrate. First it would cast its ocean in a deluge on men’s heads,
then its mountains, and then the titanic and fiery fragments of its
core. If in none of these manners came the end of the world, then
inevitably, though perhaps not till the latter days of the galaxy,
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