Beyond the Tomorrow Mountains Read online

  All his life Noren had questioned, but never so deeply as this; he had never encountered problems that seemed to make less and less sense as he continued to ponder them. He had assumed that the City held all the answers. And it did! he thought suddenly while he watched the aircar start toward it, ascending to cross the Tomorrow Mountains. It must! Realization struck him forcefully, bursting the bonds of his terror. Was not the computer complex the repository of all truth? In the City he was free to ask the computers anything he wished, and though he had not previously framed such queries as were now torturing him, there was no bar to his doing so. His fellow Scholars had perhaps done it long ago. Neither they nor the Founders could have closed their eyes completely; yet they could scarcely be at peace with themselves—and even, at times, laugh about things—unless they had information that he did not. To get the information, he had merely to go back, as he’d been advised.

  But he could not go so soon. That would look as if he had decided to seek Stefred’s help; it would be an admission that he felt unfit to finish the job at the outpost. He was unwilling to concede anything of the sort, and not only because of what others would think, for he knew that without proving his capability he could not live with himself. He could never rely on himself again.

  So in the weeks that followed, he went on working; he went on studying; he went on tutoring Brek; and though these pursuits gave him no pleasure, neither did he find them intolerable. From time to time he was struck with amazement at his ability to follow them while doubting their real significance, but for the most part, he kept doubt from his thoughts. He no longer let himself worry, nor did he have spells of unaccountable fear. Life in camp was simply neutral—gray, like the surrounding wilderness of unquickened land. He was suspended from the world. He had not yet returned from space. Yet in the depths of his mind he knew there would be a re-entry, a resumption of the search for truth; and for that he began to plan. The planning was a light in the grayness.

  He had come to understand, Noren felt, what Stefred had meant when they’d talked over the radiophone. The reminder about their last discussion had referred not to the ignored warnings, but to the final part. You will need more than courage, Stefred had told him the night he left the City. The kind of knowledge that will help is one you must find for yourself. It exists, and you will have access to it. That was typical of Stefred’s subtle guidance. Though he couldn’t have known what would happen in space, Stefred might well have guessed that sooner or later certain questions would arise. He would not provide answers in advance. He would expect a person of intelligence to know where to look for the answers.

  Eagerly, desperately, Noren planned his questions: the questions he would ask the computers when the opportunity came.

  * * *

  The final space flight was completed safely, with the shuttle bringing back the portion of starship that contained the weak and faltering beacon. Slowly the tower took shape, rising ever higher as level after level was added to it. The work was fantastically difficult, for without any materials with which to build scaffolding, the builders had to attach each section while standing on the one below, assisted only by ropes and lightweight plastic pulleys. Noren and the members of the space teams did the actual rejoining of the starship, but many Scholars helped get pieces into place, and one fell to his death from great height. There were several lesser accidents. Meanwhile, other men began the job of interior compartmentalization, which was to be far less extensive than in the City’s towers since relatively little of the limited plastic material could be transported.

  Noren found it hard to work high above the ground, not because he feared falling, but because it reminded him of the way he had clung helplessly to the starship in space. He suspected that others had the same thought; during supper of the evening before the attachment of the tower’s top, Emet, one of the outpost administrators, sat down beside him. “I’m going for supplies tomorrow,” he said, “and we thought you might like to come along. There’s to be a conference in the City—”

  “I have work to do,” Noren said stubbornly.

  “You can be spared for a day. We heard this afternoon that a conference is being held to discuss some results of the experimentation. You and Brek are the only people here specializing in nuclear physics, and one of you should attend. You will learn by listening.”

  Noren’s spirits lifted. This was the chance he’d been waiting for! What Emet was proposing might not be a mere excuse; they might really think it of some value for him to go. Obviously, the experiments had not yet been completed successfully, for if they had, it would have been announced and everyone would be jubilant. However, there could well be new data of importance. The thought didn’t excite him as it once would have, but he was elated for another cause: in the City he might have time to spare . . . enough time to consult the computers.

  Since Derin’s death an aircar had been kept in camp at night, so that in an emergency it could set out for the City at dawn. This also made it possible for people to go after supplies, take care of other necessary business, and return before dark the same day. It was not safe to cross the mountains after dark; carrying irreplaceable equipment over them was risky enough in broad daylight. The outpost had been located where it was only because of the need to have it well separated from the City in case of future nuclear accident, yet at the same time within easy range of the aircars. This outweighed the inherent danger of flying back and forth across a tall ridge. Still, at times when vital metal things, such as components of the new power and water purification plants, were being brought, everybody was nervous lest there be a crash. Aircars were not hard to pilot, but they had been used almost exclusively at low altitudes, and the mountain country was hazardous.

  It was also strange and forbidding, Noren thought, as he looked down on it the next morning. Little grew there, and many of the rocks were a garish yellow instead of gray or white like most stone of the lowlands. No one knew much about the mountains. They had not been explored except through occasional aerial surveys that had added nothing to the data obtained by the Founders from orbit, other than to verify that the mutant “savages” did exist there. Expeditions on foot were, of course, impossible, since not enough pure water could be carried.

  Noren had never been in an aircar before. As a small boy he had once touched one that had come to his father’s farm, and ever since, he had longed to fly in one; now, like so many things, it had come to him too late. There was no thrill left. He had lost the capacity to feel. Emet looked at him worriedly, and Noren sensed that the camp’s leaders had hoped attendance at the conference might cheer him up. He knew they were still deeply concerned about him, although they concealed it just as he concealed his own feelings. Determined to forestall any suggestion that his free time in the City might well be spent in a visit to Stefred, Noren asked quickly, “Could I try the controls, Emet?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, as soon as we’re past the mountains.” He seemed to relax a little, and Noren found that although he himself was becoming more and more tense, it was not the tenseness of despair. Rather, expectancy was rising in him. He was about to obtain answers! The computers had answers to everything except the research problems yet to be solved. He was not so naive as to suppose that the answers would be easy to comprehend; but tonight, at least, he would have facts to ponder.

  Above the rolling land between mountains and City, he took over the aircar’s direction lever, which could be used from either of the two front seats, and Emet showed him how to maintain level flight. There was nothing difficult about it; Noren was almost sorry when Emet resumed control for the descent into the open top of the huge entrance dome. But his eagerness to gain access to the City’s repository of truth outweighed all other thoughts. He shivered with anticipation as he stepped onto the landing deck.

  “The conference is set for an hour past noon,” Emet told him, “and I’ll meet you here afterward.” He smiled. “Until it starts, you’re free to do as you like.”
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br />   Walking down the stairs and into the main corridor, Noren realized why Emet had not inquired into his plans. He’d assumed he would look for Talyra! Yet the last thing he wanted was to encounter her at this point. Perhaps later, if what he learned proved heartening. . . . He went swiftly to the computer room, hoping fervently that he would not have to wait for a free console; after weeks of waiting, he did not believe he could endure even a quarter-hour more.

  He needn’t have worried; the computer room was strangely deserted. Its dim light seemed somehow eerie when not a single person was in sight. Luck was with him, Noren thought thankfully. Even his privacy was assured; no one would be watching over his shoulder, wanting him to hurry. He settled himself in the booth farthest from the door and with trembling hands prepared to key in the first of his carefully planned queries.

  Noren had conversed with the computer complex often enough to know better than to make the questions too general. He knew that to ask, “What is the meaning of life?” would very likely produce the same result as Brek’s initial request for a full description of the mother world’s history; the computer would offer more information than could be presented in a reasonable length of time. He had planned ahead because he’d been aware that the issue must be approached systematically, logically, if he was not to waste any of the precious moments available to him. Computers, he’d learned, gave precisely what was asked for—that much, and no more. He had found that it paid to be equally precise.

  Nevertheless, his fingers were shaking so that on the very first sentence he miskeyed. WHY DID AN UNPREVENTABLE TRAGDEY STRIKE THE HUMAN RACE? he asked, and the computer responded, NO REFERENT. His heart contracted; then he saw that he had spelled it “tragdey” and tried again, telling himself that this nervousness was foolish. The question might involve deep feelings on his part, but the computer, which had none, would treat it just like any other inquiry. The answer would appear as quickly and as clearly as if he had requested a mathematical formula.

  But it did not. Noren watched the screen expectantly and although the spelling of TRAGEDY changed, NO REFERENT remained there.

  He scowled, wondering what error he was overlooking. Computers, once properly programmed, did not make errors; operators did. That was something he had discovered his first week in the City. No referent? Surely “tragedy” must be in the computers’ vocabulary; it was a perfectly ordinary word. He had no time to lose, however, so he would come back to it after trying another approach.

  The specific matter of why the Six Worlds had been destroyed was hard to lead up to, and after devoting a good deal of thought to the problem of how to do it, Noren had decided that the direct way would be best. Although he could predict the first few responses, it would in the end be quicker than attempting to tell the computer what information he already had. WHY WERE THE SIX WORLDS DESTROYED? he began; and, as expected, the answer was, BECAUSE THEIR SUN BECAME A NOVA. At that point he had merely to ask WHY? again, so that when the astrophysical data concerning elements, temperatures and pressures started to appear, he could press INTERRUPT. Then, with the computer on the right subject and waiting for clarification, it was time to ask what he really wanted to know: WHY DID THESE CONDITIONS OCCUR IN THAT STAR AND NOT SOME OTHER OF THE SAME TYPE?

  The computer did not hesitate; its internal processes were, in terms of human time-perception, instantaneous. Flatly, finally, it responded, THAT IS NOT KNOWN.

  Noren was momentarily dismayed, but then he cursed himself for his own stupidity. Of course it was not known. If it had been, the Founders would have had more than a few weeks’ warning. He still wasn’t touching the heart of the issue. WHY IS IT THAT INHABITED WORLDS ARE EVER DESTROYED? he persisted.

  PLEASE REPHRASE, replied the computer.

  Frowning, Noren sought another way to put it. This would be even more difficult than he’d anticipated, he saw, and he could not afford the time to fumble. WHY DID HUMANKIND EVOLVE ONLY TO BE NEARLY WIPED OUT? he ventured.

  The computer responded tersely, INSUFFICIENT DATA.

  HAS THIS HAPPENED TO OTHER HUMAN RACES ELSEWHERE?

  THAT IS NOT KNOWN.

  Well, he’d again queried foolishly; the computer, after all, knew nothing more than what had been entered into it by the Founders and by Scholars since. His plan of attack was already so upset that he could not get back to it. In desperation Noren asked the thing he’d originally thought would yield too much information: WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?

  PLEASE REPHRASE.

  FOR WHAT PURPOSE DO HUMAN BEINGS LIVE?

  INSUFFICIENT DATA.

  Not so much as a clue to suggest what questions might be more fruitful, Noren thought irritably. That was surprising; it did not work that way with science, where inadequate phrasing usually produced a reply from which one could deduce the correct approach. With an apprehensive glance at the console clock he tried frantically, FOR WHAT PURPOSE IS HUMANKIND IN DANGER?

  INSUFFICIENT DATA.

  IS THERE ANY PURPOSE AT ALL IN THE UNIVERSE?

  INSUFFICIENT DATA.

  Noren fought down the panic that was growing with his frustration. It was evident that he was not going to get what he’d expected. He simply did not know how to communicate with the computer on a subject of this kind, for it must certainly have more data than it had given out. He was beaten. Yet before he left for the conference, he would make one final try.

  He looked around him, seeing that the room was still empty, and he was too overwrought to think about how peculiar that was; he was conscious only of relief. The last question, the one he had scarcely dared hope he might ask, knowing that he would never do so if there were a possibility of anyone’s coming before he could clear the screen. . . . He drew in his breath and, rapidly, keyed: WHAT HAPPENS TO THE MIND AFTER DEATH?

  Without delay, data appeared on the screen, detailed data about the cessation of brain waves. Impatiently, Noren stabbed INTERRUPT again. OMIT THE BRAIN, he instructed. OMIT ALL PHYSIOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS; DISCUSS THE CONSCIOUS MIND.

  The screen went blank, and remained blank—except for the simple statement, THERE IS NO NON-PHYSIOLOGICAL DATA ABOUT DEATH.

  Noren stared, incredulous. This was the cause and summation of his failure to elicit answers to his other questions; the problems were all closely tied. If the computer did not know anything about death, then it could not know why the thirty billion inhabitants of the Six Worlds had died in a single instant. If it did not know what death was, it could not know what life was either; no skill in questioning could make it explain why planets full of people should exist or cease to exist. Yet with these basic issues unresolved, on what could knowledge of the universe be founded? What meaning was there to “truth” that did not encompass the whole?

  That is a mystery, his mother had said when Noren had first asked such things. Only the Scholars know that. But the Scholars did not know, and the shock of that left him wondering whether the search for knowledge might not be entirely futile.

  Chapter Six

  Leaving the computers, Noren found his way to the assembly room without conscious thought. It was not crowded, and in fact even Stefred was absent; apparently only the specialists in nuclear physics had been invited to attend. Noren was so dazed that he scarcely noticed that others also looked troubled, or that none of his acquaintances tried to talk to him. He sat in a sort of stupor, void of all feeling, waiting for the conference to begin. There are no answers, his mind kept repeating. The City does not contain all truth, and if it does not, is there any real truth to be found? How can there be sense to such a universe? How can these others live in it?

  He had assumed that the older Scholars must know something he did not; now he felt that such questions as he’d framed must never have occurred to them. They had discussed the limits of their scientific knowledge often enough, and surprising though it had been to find that even apart from the problem of how to synthesize metal, the Founders had not been omniscient about material things, he had accepted the fact. He h
ad seen how knowledge of that kind increased gradually, through observation and experimentation. Yet never had anyone mentioned a general ignorance of other important matters—deep matters that, having once been thought about, could not possibly be ignored. If people had been perplexed, they would surely have said so! Why had he been singled out to endure this burden? Noren wondered despairingly. The rest had once seemed so much like him in their concern for truth. . . .

  At the front of the room a Scholar was speaking quietly. “Grenald cannot be with us,” he said, “although as I’m sure you all realize, he would not stay away by choice. Two hours ago he collapsed and has been taken to the infirmary. For more than a year the doctors have warned him about overwork, yet he drove himself until there was nothing left to be done. May the Star’s spirit now restore the strength . . .”

  As the eyes of the people turned upward toward the overhead sunburst, Noren saw that many glistened with tears, and bafflement penetrated his numbness. Grenald was greatly respected, but he was a reserved and distant man for whom few felt warm affection. “. . . that he spent on our behalf,” the speaker continued, “for while he cannot live to see the day he strove for, the darkness of this one will nevertheless diminish. We who go on would have him see that we are not vanquished.”

  Several of the women were by this time crying openly, and Noren perceived that some unexpectedly serious failure had been encountered in the work. Terror spread in a cold wave through his body. He felt paralyzed, unreal, as he had on the morning after the space flight. The voice of Grenald’s chief assistant, who had taken the floor, seemed dim and far away.