"What plan is that?" She led him into a warm living room; a crackling fire burned in the grate. Three men sat around a rough wood table; an old man with long white hair and two younger men. A frail, withered old woman sat dozing in a rocker in the corner. In the kitchen, a buxom young woman was fixing the evening meal.
"Why,
the
plan!" Sung-wu answered, astounded. His eyes darted around. Suddenly his briefcase fell to the floor. "Caucs," he said.
They were all Caucasians, even Frija. She was deeply tanned; her skin was almost black; but she was a Cauc, nonetheless. He recalled: Caucs, in the sun, turned dark, sometimes even darker than Mongolians. The girl had tossed her work robe over a door hook; in her household shorts her thighs were as white as milk. And the old man and woman—
"This is my grandfather," Frija said, indicating the old man. "Benjamin Tinker."
Under the watchful eyes of the two younger Tinkers, Sung-wu was washed and scrubbed, given clean clothes, and then fed. He ate only a little; he didn't feel very well.
"I can't understand it," he muttered, as he listlessly pushed his plate away. "The scanner at the Central Chamber said I had eight months left. The plague will—" He considered. "But it can always change. The scanner goes on prediction, not certainty; multiple possibilities; free will. . . . Any overt act of sufficient significance—"
Ben Tinker laughed. "You want to stay alive?"
"Of course!" Sung-wu muttered indignantly.
They all laughed—even Frija, and the old woman in her shawl, snow-white hair and mild blue eyes. They were the first Cauc women he had ever seen. They weren't big and lumbering like the male Caucs; they didn't seem to have the same bestial characteristics. The two young Cauc bucks looked plenty tough, though; they and their father were poring over an elaborate series of papers and reports, spread out on the dinner table, among the empty plates.
"This area," Ben Tinker murmured. "Pipes should go here. And here. Water's the main need. Before the next crop goes in, we'll dump a few hundred pounds of artificial fertilizers and plough it in. The power plough should be ready then."
"After that?" one of the tow-headed sons asked.
"Then spraying. If we don't have the nicotine sprays, we'll have to try the copper dusting again. I prefer the spray, but we're still behind on production. The bore has dug us up some good storage caverns, though. It ought to start picking up."
"And here," a son said, "there's going to be need of draining. A lot of mosquito breeding going on. We can try the oil, as we did over here. But I suggest the whole thing be filled in. We can use the dredge and scoop, if they're not tied up."
Sung-wu had taken this all in. Now he rose unsteadily to his feet, trembling with wrath. He pointed a shaking finger at the elder Tinker.
"You're—meddling!" he gasped. They looked up.
"Meddling?"
"With the plan! With the cosmic plan! Good Elron—you're interfering with the divine processes. Why—" He was staggered by a realization so alien it convulsed the very core of his being. "You're actually going to set back turns of the wheel."
"That," said old Ben Tinker, "is right."
Sung-wu sat down again, stunned. His mind refused to take it all in. "I don't understand; what'll happen? If you slow the wheel, if you disrupt the divine plan—"
"He's going to be a problem," Ben Tinker murmured thoughtfully. "If we kill him, the Arm will merely send another; they have hundreds like him. And if we don't kill him, if we send him back, he'll raise a hue and cry that'll bring the whole Chamber down here. It's too soon for this to happen. We're gaining support fast, but we need another few months."
Sweat stood out on Sung-wu's plump forehead. He wiped it away shakily. "If you kill me," he muttered, "you will sink down many rungs of the cosmic ladder. You have risen this far; why undo the work accomplished in endless ages past?"
Ben Tinker fixed one powerful blue eye on him. "My friend," he said slowly, "isn't it true one's next manifestation is determined by one's moral conduct in this?"
Sung-wu nodded. "Such is well known."
"And what is right conduct?"
"Fulfilling the divine plan," Sung-wu responded immediately.
"Maybe our whole Movement is part of the plan," Ben Tinker said thoughtfully. "Maybe the cosmic forces
want
us to drain the swamps and kill the grasshoppers and inoculate the children; after all, the cosmic forces put us all here."
"If you kill me," Sung-wu wailed, "I'll be a carrion-eating fly. I
saw
it, a shiny-winged, blue-rumped fly crawling over the carcass of a dead lizard— In a rotting, steaming jungle in a filthy cesspool of a planet." Tears came; he dabbed at them futilely. "In an out-of-the-way system, at the bottom of the ladder!"
Tinker was amused. "Why this?"
"I've sinned." Sung-wu sniffed and flushed. "I committed adultery."
"Can't you purge yourself?"
"There's no time!" His misery rose to wild despair. "My mind is
still
impure!" He indicated Frija, standing in the bedroom doorway, a supple white and tan shape in her household shorts. "I continue to think carnal thoughts; I can't rid myself. In eight months the plague will turn the wheel on me—and it'll be done! If I lived to be an old man, withered and toothless—no more appetite—" His plump body quivered in a frenzied convulsion. "There's no
time
to purge and atone. According to the scanner, I'm going to die a young man!"
After this torrent of words, Tinker was silent, deep in thought. "The plague," he said at last. "What, exactly, are the symptoms?"
Sung-wu described them, his olive face turning to a sickly green. When he had finished, the three men looked significantly at each other.
Ben Tinker got to his feet. "Come along," he commanded briskly, taking the Bard by the arm. "I have something to show you. It is left from the old days. Sooner or later we'll advance enough to turn out our own, but right now we have only these remaining few. We have to keep them guarded and sealed."
"This is for a good cause," one of the sons said. "It's worth it." He caught his brother's eye and grinned.
Bard Chai finished reading Sung-wu's blue-slip report; he tossed it suspiciously down and eyed the younger Bard. "You're sure? There's no further need of investigation?"
"The cult will wither away," Sung-wu murmured indifferently. "It lacks any real support; it's merely an escape valve, without intrinsic validity."
Chai wasn't convinced. He reread parts of the report again. "I suppose you're right; but we've heard so many—"
"Lies," Sung-wu said vaguely. "Rumours. Gossip. May I go?" He moved toward the door.
"Eager for your vacation?" Chai smiled understandingly. "I know how you feel. This report must have exhausted you. Rural areas, stagnant backwaters. We must prepare a better programme of rural education. I'm convinced whole regions are in a jangled state. We've got to bring clearness to these people. It's our historic role; our class function."
"Verily," Sung-wu murmured, as he bowed his way out of the office and down the hall.
As he walked he fingered his beads thankfully. He breathed a silent prayer as his fingers moved over the surface of the little red pellets, shiny spheres that glowed freshly in place of the faded old—the gift of the Tinkerists. The beads would come in handy; he kept his hand on them tightly. Nothing must happen to them, in the next eight months. He had to watch them carefully, while he poked around the ruined cities of Spain—and finally came down with the plague.
He was the first Bard to wear a rosary of penicillin capsules.
It is sometimes said that Professor Gregory Benford is the only person alive who may win both a Hugo and a Nobel Prize.
He already has his Hugo, and as a professor of physics at the University of California at Irvine, he has at least a shot at the Nobel.
If he ever wanted to give up both science fiction and physics, he could make a good living at literary criticism. Most critical essays have little to say. This one says a lot.
Fair warning: Ursula K. LeGuin's
The Dispossessed
won a Hugo; second place was
The Mote in God's Eye
by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle.
One of the striking facets of fictional Utopias is that nobody really wants to live there. Perhaps the author, or a few friends, will profess some eagerness. But seldom do Utopian fictions awaken a real longing to take part.
I suspect this is because most visions of supposedly better societies have features which violate our innate sense of human progress—they don't
look
like the future. They may even resemble a warped, malignant form of the past.
Time and again, utopists envision worlds where one aspect of human character is enhanced, and much else is suppressed. Plato's Republic was the first and most easily understandable of these; he thought the artists and similar unreliable sorts should be expelled. Too disruptive, y'know.
Should we be uncomfortable with this fact? If we value western European ideals, yes.
Utopian fictions stress ideas, so we need a way to advance the background assumption while suppressing the foreground of plot and character.
Nearly all Utopias have one or more characteristics which I'll call
reactionary
, in the sense that they recall the past, often in its worst aspects. Here "reactionary" means an aesthetic analogy, no more. It may apply to works which are to the "left" in the usual political spectrum. (I think this one-dimensional spectrum is so misleading that the customary use of "reactionary" means little.) "Regressive" might be an alternate term, meaning that a Utopia seeks to turn back the tide of western thought.
Looking over the vast range of Utopian literature, I sense five dominant reactionary characteristics:
1.
Lack of diversity.
Culture is everywhere the same, with few ethnic or other divergences.
2.
Static in time.
Like diversity, change in time would imply that either the past or the present of the Utopia was less than perfect, i.e., not Utopian.
3.
Nostalgic and technophobic.
Usually this takes the form of isolation in a rural environment, organization harkening back to the village or even the farm, and only the simplest technology. Many writers here reveal their fondness for medieval society. The few pieces of technology superior to today's usually exist only to speed the plot or provide metaphorical substance; they seldom spring from the society itself. (Only those Utopias which include some notion of scientific advancement qualify as SF. Otherwise they are usually simple rural fantasies. This point also calls into question classifying any Utopia as SF if it is drastically technophobic. Simply setting it in the future isn't enough.)
4.
Presence of an authority figure.
In real Utopian communities, frequently patriarchal, this is an actual person. Historically, nearly all Utopian experiments in the west have quickly molded themselves around patriarchal figures. In literary Utopias, the authority is the prophet who set up the Utopia. Often the prophet is invoked in conversations as a guide to proper, right-thinking behavior.
5.
Social regulation through guilt.
Social responsibility is exalted as
the
standard of behavior. Frequently the authority figure is the focus of guilt-inducing rules. Once the authority figure dies, he or she becomes a virtual saint-like figure. Guilt is used to the extreme of controlling people's actions
in detail
, serving as the constant standard and overseer of the citizen's actions.
These five points outline a constellation of values which utopists often unconsciously assume.
Before backing up these points with specifics, consider some Utopias which
don't
share all or most of them. Samuel Delany's
Triton
seems to have none of these features; indeed, it proclaims itself a "heterotopia," stressing its disagreement with the first point. Often Delany depicts societies which express his delight in the freakish. Franz Werfel's
Star of the Unborn
(1946) depicts a heavily technological future with many desirable aspects, while accepting the inevitability of war, rebellion, and unsavory aspects. Advanced technology is carefully weighed for its moral implications in Norman Spinrad's
Songs from the Stars
.
Nonreactionary, or genuinely progressive Utopias, often reject regulation through guilt. This divides Utopias roughly along the axis of European vs. American, with the Europeans typically favoring "social conscience"—a term that often just means guilt.
Consider Edward Bellamy's
Looking Backward
(the most prominent Amerian Utopia of the 19th century) and William Morris's reply to it,
News from Nowhere
. Both stabilize society more through gratification of individual needs than through guilt. Indeed, one of the keys to American politics is just this idea. Huxley's
Island
(written after his move to California) sides more with gratification, though of course his
Brave New World
(written in England) depicts the horrific side of a state devoted to gratification without our "sentimental" humanist principles.
Utopists often thought to be forward-looking, chic, and left-wing may be in fact reactionary. Consider, for example, Ursula LeGuin. Arguably her
The Dispossessed
is the finest American Utopian novel of our time, and much of her work touches on these issues.
A first clue comes from the strangely 19th-century middle-European "feel" of her background society in
The Dispossessed
. This gives a curious static flavor, and of course recalls her reverence for the European tradition of Utopian thought.
Her Utopian experiment on the world Anarres is strikingly technophobic. Except for minor intrusions of a faster-than-light communicator and interplanetary travel (old SF staples), there is little which suggests the future at all. The vague middle-European feel to the architecture, organization of work, etc. is clearly nostalgic; rural Europe itself isn't even like that anymore. Plainly the author disapproves of the techno-flash and dazzle of the opposite world, Urras.