12.

  “You picked a flower, Philip. Do you remember the flower?”

  “It was green,” Klein said. “Amazingly green. I held it in my hand.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I don’t know,” Klein said. “I don’t know.”

  13.

  “The machine, Philip. How is your machine?”

  “It doesn’t work, anymore.”

  “Where is it? Is it still in your apartment?”

  “It’s here.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. I am the machine. The time machine. I am it.”

  14.

  On the advice of his psychiatrist, Philip Klein moved out of his mother’s apartment.

  He got a furnished room, and supported himself through a job in a bookstore.

  He began taking night school classes in Business Administration.

  He read very little science fiction.

  He began dating.

  His therapy continued, but they no longer spoke of Klein’s machine. They explored his childhood, and his current relationships with the world.

  He was, according to Dr. Segal, developing good insight into himself and his world.

  15.

  The garbage from the Mt. Vernon bus station found its way, eventually, to the city dump.

  Strange green flowers bloomed there briefly, then withered away, before being covered under new loads of garbage.

  16.

  “The Earth is all gone now, all gone away,” Klein said. He was deep under the drug now, breathing very slowly. “And the Sun, the Sun is a long time gone. And yet the light is still bright, brighter than you could imagine. But soft, so it doesn’t hurt my eyes. And I’m floating, floating inside the light. Floating on some fixed path. Moving through the space and the time. And now the light is pulsing. It’s breaking down. There’s darkness in between the light. And the lights are shrinking, moving away from me. Slowly. Very slowly. All going away now. All.”

  Introduction to “Pots”

  by C. J. Cherryh

  The skeleton of this story, if you saw it bleached and wired together in a museum, could easily be taken as one of those unforgettable idea stories we sometimes call Campbellian and which were epitomized in classic stories like “The Star” and “The Nine Billion Names of God” and “Nightfall.” When we first read those stories, they blew us away by the sheer power of the idea; only later, upon reexamining the story, do we realize that the idea is really all there is in this kind of tale. All the characters, all the dialogue, all the actual events exist solely in order to explain or expose the idea to the reader. They do not matter in themselves.

  So much for what we can learn from skeletons. For “Pots” is by C. J. Cherryh, and the rules have changed. The creature does not have to be skin and bone, it can be fully fleshed, full of life. “Pots” can be reread even after you know the cool idea, because Cherryh is incapable of writing a story without a fully imagined society peopled with interesting characters who are worth reading about in their own right. Furthermore, there are resonances with the real world that qualify this story as biting satire along with all the other jobs it does.

  In fact, with “Pots” I think it’s safe to say that gosh-wow sci-fi is fully dead. Unlike the lenslike science of Campbellian days, which enabled us to focus on Truth, Cherryh shows us science as it is really practiced, caught up in the turmoil of personalities, with Truth always out of reach and truths too often limping along, wounded in the turf wars and drive-bys of gangs of Ph.D.-totin’ grant-heads. Or maybe I’m reading too much social criticism into a story that is, after all, just sci-fi.

  POTS

  C. J. Cherryh

  It was a most bitter trip, the shuttle-descent to the windy surface. Suited, encumbered by lifesupport, Desan stepped off the platform and waddled onward into the world, waving off the attentions of small spidery service robots: “Citizen, this way, this way, citizen, have a care—do watch your step; a suit tear is hazardous.”

  Low-level servitors. Desan detested them. The chief of operations had plainly sent these creatures accompanied only by an AI eight-wheel transport, which inconveniently chose to park itself a good five hundred paces beyond the shuttle blast zone, an uncomfortably long walk across the dusty pan in the crinkling, pack-encumbered oxy-suit. Desan turned, casting a forlorn glance at the shuttle waiting there on its landing gear, silver, dip-nosed wedge under a gunmetal sky, at rest on an ochre and rust landscape. He shivered in the sky-view, surrendered himself and his meager luggage to the irritating ministries of the service robots, and waddled on his slow way down to the waiting AI transport.

  “Good day,” the vehicle said inanely, opening a door. “My passenger compartment is not safe atmosphere; do you understand, Lord Desan?”

  “Yes, yes.” Desan climbed in and settled himself in the front seat, a slight give of the transport’s suspensors. The robots fussed about in insectile hesitance, delicately setting his luggage case just so, adjusting, adjusting until it conformed with their robotic, template-compared notion of their job. Maddening. Typical robotic efficiency. Desan slapped the pressure-sensitive seating. “Come, let’s get this moving, shall we?”

  The AI talked to its duller cousins, a single squeal that sent them scuttling, “Attention to the door, citizen.” It lowered and locked. The AI started its noisy drive motor. “Will you want the windows dimmed, citizen?”

  “No. I want to see this place.”

  “A pleasure, Lord Desan.”

  Doubtless for the AI, it was.

  The station was situated a long drive across the pan, across increasingly softer dust that rolled up to obscure the rearview—softer, looser dust, occasionally a wind-scooped hollow that made the transport flex—(“Do forgive me, citizen. Are you comfortable?”)

  “Quite, quite, you’re very good.”

  “Thank you, citizen.”

  And finally—finally!—something other than flat appeared, the merest humps of hills, and one anomalous mountain, a massive, long bar that began as a haze and became solid; became a smooth regularity before the gentle brown folding of hills hardly worthy of the name.

  Mountain. The eye indeed took it for a volcanic or sedimentary formation at distance, some anomalous and stubborn outcrop in this barren reach, where all else had declined to entropy; absolute, featureless, flat. But when the AI passed along its side this mountain had joints and seams, had the marks of making on it; and even knowing in advance what it was, driving along within view of the jointing, this work of Ancient hands—chilled Desan’s well-traveled soul. The station itself came into view against the weathered hills, a collection of shocking green domes on a brown lifeless world. But such domes Desan had seen. With only the AI for witness, Desan turned in his seat, pressed the flexible bubble of the helmet to the double-seal window, and stared and stared at the stonework until it passed to the rear and the dust obscured it.

  “Here, Lord,” said the AI, eternally cheerful. “We are almost at the station—a little climb. I do it very smoothly.”

  Flex and lean; sway and turn. The domes lurched closer in the forward window and the motor whined. “I’ve very much enjoyed serving you.”

  “Thank you,” Desan murmured, seeing another walk before him, ascent of a plastic grid to an airlock and no sight of a welcoming committee.

  More service robots, scuttling toward them as the transport stopped and adjusted itself with a pneumatic wheeze.

  “Thank you, Lord Desan, do watch your helmet, watch your lifesupport connections, watch your footing please. The dust is slick….”

  “Thank you.” With an AI one had no recourse.

  “Thank you, my lord.” The door came up; Desan extricated himself from the seat and stepped to the dusty ground, carefully shielding the oxy-pack from the doorframe and panting with the unaccustomed weight of it in such gravity. The service robots moved to take his luggage while Desan waddled doggedly on, up the plastic gridwork path to the glaringly lime-green domes. Plastics. Plastics that could not even originate in this desolation, but which came from their ships’ spare biomass. Here all was dead, frighteningly void: Even the signal that guided him to the lakebed was robotic, like the advertisement that a transport would meet him.

  The airlock door shot open ahead; and living, suited personnel appeared, three of them, at last, at long last, flesh-and-blood personnel came walking toward him to offer proper courtesy. But before that mountain of stone, before these glaring green structures and the robotic paraphernalia of research that made all the reports real—Desan still felt the deathliness of the place. He trudged ahead, touched the offered, gloved hands, acknowledged the expected salutations, and proceeded up the jointed-plastic walk to the open airlock. His marrow refused to be warmed. The place refused to come into clear focus, like some bad dream with familiar elements hideously distorted.

  A hundred years of voyage since he had last seen this world and then only from orbit, receiving reports thirdhand. A hundred years of work on this planet preceded this small trip from port to research center, under that threatening sky, in this place by a mountain that had once been a dam on a lake that no longer existed.

  There had been the findings of the moon, of course. A few artifacts. A cloth of symbols. Primitive, unthinkably primitive. First omen of the findings of this sere, rust-brown world.

  He accompanied the welcoming committee into the airlock of the main dome, waited through the cycle, and breathed a sigh of relief as the indicator lights went from white to orange and the inner door admitted them to the interior. He walked forward, removed the helmet and drew a deep breath of air unexpectedly and unpleasantly tainted. The foyer of this centermost dome was businesslike—plastic walls, visible ducting. A few plants struggled for life in a planter in the center of the floor. Before it, a black pillar and a common enough emblem: a plaque with two naked alien figures, the diagrams of a starsystem—reproduced even to its scars and pitting. In some places it might be mundane, unnoticed.

  It belonged here, belonged here, and it could never be mundane, this message of the Ancients.

  “Lord Desan,” a female voice said, and he turned, awkward in the suit.

  It was Dr. Gothon herself, unmistakable aged woman in science blues. The rare honor dazed him, and wiped away all failure of hospitality thus far. She held out her hand. Startled, he reacted in kind, remembered the glove, and hastily drew back his hand to strip the glove. Her gesture was gracious and he felt the very fool and very much off his stride, his hand touching—no, firmly grasped by the callused, aged hand of the legendary intellect. Age-soft and hard-surfaced at once. Age and vigor. His tongue quite failed him, and he felt, recalling his purpose, utterly daunted.

  “Come in, let them rid you of that suit, Lord Desan. Will you rest after your trip, a nap, a cup of tea, perhaps. The robots are taking your luggage to your room. Accommodations here aren’t luxurious, but I think you’ll find them comfortable.”

  Deeper and deeper into courtesies. One could lose all sense of direction in such surroundings, letting oneself be disarmed by gentleness, by pleasantness—by embarrassed reluctance to resist.

  “I want to see what I came to see, doctor.” Desan unfastened more seams and shed the suit into waiting hands, smoothed his coveralls. Was that too brusque, too unforgiveably hasty? “I don’t think I could rest, Dr. Gothon. I attended my comfort aboard the shuttle. I’d like to get my bearings here at least, if one of your staff would be so kind to take me in hand—”

  “Of course, of course. I rather expected as much—do come, please, let me show you about. I’ll explain as much as I can. Perhaps I can convince you as I go.”

  He was overwhelmed from the start; he had expected some high official, the director of operations most likely, not Gothon. He walked slightly after the doctor, the stoop-shouldered presence that passed like a benison among the students and lesser staff—I saw the Doctor, the young ones had been wont to say in hushed tones, aboard the ship, when Gothon strayed absently down a corridor in her rare intervals of waking. I saw the Doctor.

  In that voice one might claim a theophany.

  They had rarely waked her, lesser researchers being sufficient for most worlds; while he was the fifth lord-navigator, the fourth born on the journey, a time-dilated trifle, fifty-two waking years of age and a mere two thousand years of voyage against—aeons of Gothon’s slumberous life.

  And Desan’s marrow ached now at such gentle grace in this bowed, mottle-skinned old scholar, this sleuth patiently deciphering the greatest mystery of the universe. Pity occurred to him. He suffered personally in this place; but not as Gothon would have suffered here, in that inward quiet where Gothon carried on thoughts the ship crews were sternly admonished never to disturb.

  Students rushed now to open doors for them, pressed themselves to the walls and allowed their passage into deeper and deeper halls within the maze of the domes. Passing hands brushed Desan’s sleeves, welcome offered the current lord-navigator; he reciprocated with as much attention as he could devote to courtesy in his distress. His heart labored in the unaccustomed gravity, his nostrils accepted not only the effluvium of dome plastics and the recyclers and so many bodies dwelling together; but a flinty, bitter air, like electricity or dry dust. He imagined some hazardous leakage of the atmosphere into the dome: unsettling thought. The hazards of the place came home to him, and he wished already to be away.

  Gothon had endured here, during his further voyages—seven years more of her diminishing life; waked four times, and this was the fourth, continually active now for five years, her longest stint yet in any waking. She had found data finally worth the consumption of her life, and she burned it without stint. She believed. She believed enough to die pursuing it.

  He shuddered up and down and followed Gothon through a seal-door toward yet another dome, and his gut tightened in dismay; for there were shelves on either hand, and those shelves were lined with yellow skulls, endless rows of staring dark sockets and grinning jaws. Some were long-nosed; some were short. Some small, virtually noseless skulls had fangs which gave them a wise and intelligent look—Like miniature people, like babies with grown up features, must be the initial reaction to anyone seeing them in the holos or viewing the specimens brought up to the orbiting labs. But cranial capacity in these was much too small. The real sapient occupied further shelves, row upon row of eyeless, generously domed skulls, grinning in their flat-toothed way, in permanent horror—provoking profoundest horror in those who discovered them here, in this desolation.

  Here Gothon paused, selected one of the small sapient skulls, much reconstructed: Desan had at least the skill to recognize the true bone from the plassbone bonded to it. This skull was far more delicate than the others, the jaw smaller. The front two teeth were restructs. So was one of the side.

  “It was a child,” Gothon said. “We call her Missy. The first we found at this site, up in the hills, in a streambank. Most of Missy’s feet were gone, but she’s otherwise intact. Missy was all alone except for a little animal all tucked up in her arms. We keep them together—never mind the cataloging.” She lifted an anomalous and much-reconstructed skull from the shelf among the sapients; fanged and delicate. “Even archaeologists have sentiment.”

  “I—see—” Helpless, caught in courtesy, Desan extended an unwilling finger and touched the skull.

  “Back to sleep.” Gothon set both skulls tenderly back on the shelf, and dusted her hands and walked further, Desan following, beyond a simple door and into a busy room of workbenches piled high with a clutter of artifacts.

  Staff began to rise from their dusty work in a sudden startlement. “No, no, go on,” Gothon said quietly. “We’re only passing through; ignore us. —Here, do you see, Lord Desan?” Gothon reached carefully past a researcher’s shoulder and lifted from the counter an elongate ribbed bottle with the opalescent patina of long burial. “We find a great many of these. Mass production. Industry. Not only on this continent. This same bottle exists in sites all over the world, in the uppermost strata. Same design. Near the time of the calamity. We trace global alliances and trade by such small things.” She set it down and gathered up a virtually complete vase, much patched. “It always comes to pots, Lord Desan. By pots and bottles we track them through the ages. Many layers. They had a long and complex past.”

  Desan reached out and touched the corroded brown surface of the vase, discovering a single bright remnant of the blue glaze along with the gray encrustations of long burial. “How long—how long does it take to reduce a thing to this?”

  “It depends on the soil—on moisture, on acidity. This came from hereabouts.” Gothon tenderly set it back on a shelf, walked on, frail, hunch-shouldered figure among the aisles of the past. “But very long, very long to obliterate so much—almost all the artifacts are gone. Metals oxidize; plastics rot; cloth goes very quickly; paper and wood last quite long in a desert climate, but they go, finally. Moisture dissolves the details of sculpture. Only the noble metals survive intact. Soil creep warps even stone; crushes metal. We find even the best pots in a matrix of pieces, a puzzle-toss. Fragile as they are, they outlast monuments, they last as long as the earth that holds them, drylands, wetlands, even beneath the sea—where no marine life exists to trouble them. That bottle and that pot are as venerable as that great dam. The makers wouldn’t have thought that, would they?”

  “But—” Desan’s mind reeled at the remembrance of the great plain, the silt and the deep buried secrets.