Star Light, Star Bright, Page 2

  According to the charts, our sun—the sun enclosed in the Dyson sphere—was the star the ancients had called Tau Ceti. It was not the original home to humanity, though; our ancestors were apparently unwilling to cannibalize the worlds of their own system to make their Dyson sphere. Instead, they—we—had come from another star, the closest similar one that wasn't part of a multiple system, a sun our ancestors had called Sol.

  And the planet—that was the term—we had evolved on was, in the infinite humility of our wise ancestors, called by a simple, unassuming name, one I could easily translate: Dirt.

  Old folks like me couldn't live on Dirt now, of course. Our muscles—including our hearts—were weak compared to what our ancestors must have had, growing up under the stupendous gravity of that tiny, rocky world.

  But—

  But locked in our genes, as if for safekeeping, were all the potentials we'd ever had as a species. The ability to see dim sources of light, and—

  Yes, it must be there, too, still preserved in our DNA.

  The ability to produce muscles strong enough to withstand much, much higher gravity.

  You'd have to grow up under such a gravity, have to live with it from birth, said Dr. Tadders, to really be comfortable with it, but if you did—

  I'd seen Kobost's computer animation showing how we might have moved under a much greater gravity, how we might have deployed our bodies vertically, how our spines would have supported the weight of our heads, how our legs might have worked back and forth, hinging at knee and ankle, producing sustained forward locomotion. It all seemed so bizarre, and so inefficient compared to spending most of one's life floating, but—

  But there were new worlds to explore, and old ones, too, and to fully experience them would require being able to stand on their surfaces.

  * * * *

  Dalt was growing up to be a fine young man. There wasn't a lot of choice for careers in a small community: he could have apprenticed with his mother, Delar, who worked as our banker, or with me. He chose me, and so I did my best to teach him how to read the ancient texts.

  “I've finished translating that file you gave me,” he said on one occasion. “It was what you suspected: just a boring list of supplies.” I guess he saw that I was only half-listening to him. “What's got you so intrigued?” he asked.

  I looked up, and smiled at his face, with its bits of fuzz; I'd have to teach him how to shave soon. “Sorry,” I said. “I've found some documents related to the pyramid. But there are several words I haven't encountered before.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as this one,” I said, pointing at a string of eight letters on the computer screen. “'Starship.' The first part is obviously the word for those lights you can see in the sky: stars. And the second part, hip, well—” I slapped my haunch—"that's their name for where the leg joins the torso. They often made compound words in this fashion, but I can't for the life of me figure out what a ‘stars hip’ might be.”

  I always say nothing is better than a fresh set of eyes. “Yes, they often used that hissing sound for plurals,” said Dalt. “But those two letters there—can't they also be transliterated jointly as shuh, instead of separately as ess and hih?”

  I nodded.

  “So maybe it's not ‘stars hip,'” he said. “Maybe it's ‘star ship.'”

  "Ship," I repeated. “Ship, ship, ship—I've seen that word before.” I riffled through a collection of papers, searching my notes; the sheets fluttered around the room, and Dalt dutifully began collecting them for me. “Ship!” I exclaimed. “Here it is: ‘a kind of vehicle that could float on water.'”

  “Why would you want to float on water when you can float on air?” asked Dalt.

  “On the homeworld,” I said, “water didn't splash up in great clouds every time you touched it. It stayed in place.” I frowned. “Star ship. Starship. A—a vehicle of stars?” And then I got it. “No,” I said, grabbing my son's arm in excitement. “No—a vehicle for traveling to the stars!”

  * * * *

  Dalt and Suzto eventually married, to no one's surprise.

  But I was surprised by my son's arms. He and Suzto had been exercising for ages now, and when Dalt bent his arm at the elbow, the upper part of it bulged. Doc Tadders said she'd never seen anything like it, but assured us it wasn't a tumor. It was meat. It was muscle.

  Dalt's legs were also much, much thicker than mine. Suzto hadn't bulked up quite as much, but she, too, had developed great strength.

  I knew what they were up to, of course. I admired them both for it, but I had one profound regret.

  Suzto had gotten pregnant shortly after she and Dalt had married—at least, they told me that the conception had occurred after the wedding, and, as a parent, it's my prerogative to believe them. But I'd never know for sure. And that was my great regret: I'd never get to see my own grandchild.

  Dalt and Suzto would be able to stand on Dirt, and, indeed, would be able to endure the journey there. The starship was designed to accelerate at a rate of five bodylengths per heartbeat squared, simulating Dirt's gravity. It would accelerate for half its journey, reaching a phenomenal speed by so doing, then it would turn around and decelerate for the other half.

  They were the logical choices to go. Dalt knew the ancient language as well as I did now; if there were any records left behind by our ancestors on the homeworld, he should be able to read them.

  He and Suzto had to leave soon, said Doc Tadders; it would be best for the child if it developed under the fake gravity of the starship's acceleration. Dalt and Suzto would be able to survive on Dirt, but their child should actually be comfortable there.

  My wife and I came to see them off, of course—as did everyone else in our settlement. We wondered what people in the sphere would make of it when the pyramid lifted off—it would do so with a kick that would doubtless be detectable on the other side of the shell.

  “I'll miss you, son,” I said to Dalt. Tears were welling in my eyes. I hugged him, and he hugged me back, so much harder than I could manage.

  “And, Suzto,” I said, moving to my daughter-in-law, while my wife moved to hug our son. “I'll miss you, too.” I hugged her, as well. “I love you both.”

  “We love you, too,” Suzto said.

  And they entered the pyramid.

  * * * *

  I was hovering over a field, harvesting radishes. It was tricky work; if you pulled too hard, you'd get the radish out, all right, but then you and it would go sailing up into the air.

  “Rodal! Rodal!”

  I looked in the direction of the voice. It was old Doc Tadders, hurtling toward me, a white-haired projectile. At her age, she should be more careful—she could break her bones slamming into even a padded wall at that speed.

  “Rodal!”

  “Yes?”

  “Come! Come quickly! A message has been received from Dirt!”

  I kicked off the ground, sailing toward the communication station next to the access tube that used to lead to the starship. Tadders managed to turn around without killing herself and she flew there alongside me.

  A sizable crowd had already gathered by the time we arrived.

  “What does the message say?” I asked the person closest to the computer monitor.

  He looked at me in irritation; the ancient computer had displayed the text, naturally enough, in the ancient script, and few besides me could understand that. He moved aside and I consulted the screen, reading aloud for the benefit of everyone.

  “It says, ‘Greetings! We have arrived safely at Dirt.'”

  The crowd broke into cheers and applause. I couldn't help reading ahead a bit while waiting or them to quiet down, so I was already misty-eyed when I continued. “It goes on to say, ‘Tell Rodal and Delar that they have a grandson; we've named him Madar.'”

  My wife had passed on some time ago—but she would have been delighted at the choice of Madar; that had been her father's name.

  “'Dirt is beautiful, full o
f plants and huge bodies of water,'” I read. “'And there are other human beings living here. It seems those people interested in technology moved to the Dyson sphere, but a small group who preferred a pastoral lifestyle stayed on the homeworld. We're mastering their language—it's deviated a fair bit from the one in the ancient texts—and are already great friends with them.'”

  “Amazing,” said Doc Tadders.

  I smiled at her, wiped my eyes, then went on: “'We will send much more information later, but we can clear up at least one enduring mystery right now.'” I smiled as I read the next part. “'Chickens can't fly here. Apparently, just because you have wings doesn't mean you were meant to fly.'”

  That was the end of the message. I looked up at the dark sky, wishing I could make out Sol, or any star. “And just because you don't have wings,” I said, thinking of my son and his wife and my grandchild, far, far away, “doesn't mean you weren't.”

  * * *

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