Son of Man by Robert Silverberg
I am Clay.
I will shelter you, Clay.
He perceives his environment with growing clarity. The waters of the pool are sharply divided into nine zones, each having a distinct temperature, salinity, density, and prevailing molecular form. The meeting place of zone and zone is plainly marked by a quivering interface of unmistakable and unambiguous resonance. Above the iron band of tension at the surface of the pool hover three smears of jiggling red mist streaked with rusty yellow: the foiled goats, glumly peering downward. Clay himself occupies the fourth zone from the top. Three zones beneath him is Quoi, manifesting itself in the form of a tubular emerald glow. Clay refines his perceptions and discovers that Quoi is a massive squidlike being, elongated, tipped at one end by five slender tentacles and at the other by flattened perfunctory flukes. A placid but powerful intelligence is apparent in it; the emanation of its sensibility is a turquoise halo clinging to its black, lustrous skin, and Quoi’s thoughts bubble through the depths like flakes of many-colored snow, swirling, blending, clashing. Clay approaches it more closely. The time-flux brought me here, he says. Was it the same with you?
No. I am native.
More than one intelligent species here, then?
A great many, says Quoi. We Breathers, to begin with, and then there are the Skimmers, the Eaters, the Awaiters, the Interceders, the Destroyers, the—
Too fast, too fast! Show me a Skimmer!
Quoi shows him Hanmer, agile, sleek, ambiguous, subtle, shallow.
And an Awaiter?
Misty image, something deep in the soil, like a giant animated carrot, but more interesting.
An Eater?
Huge fanged mouth. Row on row of teeth receding into the shadowy interior. Saucers for eyes. Bleak, bitter soul ticktocking within. Scales. Claws.
All these, Clay says, are considered human?
These. Yes. And the others.
He is baffled. The logic, again, is absent. Why so many forms evolving simultaneously?
Not simultaneously. Successively. But without the disappearance of the old forms. We are better at survival in these times.
The Skimmers are the newest form?
Yes, says Quoi.
And dominant? And superior?
Newest.
But with powers that the older forms don’t possess, Clay insists. Not merely a difference of shape. Yes?
Quoi admits that this is so.
And the rest?
Survivors.
Did your form evolve close to my time?
No.
Clay shows Quoi the goat-men. These?
Closer to you than me.
Ah.
He tries to assemble and absorb his new data. Skimmers, Eaters, Awaiters, Breathers, Destroyers, Interceders: at least six species occupying the world at once, representing six successive eras in the growth of mankind. Yes. The Skimmers the current stage; the others mere debris of the past, still hanging around. Yes. And the goat-men, and the spheroid? Extinct forms, swept up by the time-flux and carried here. Yes. And himself, soft ape peeled of his fur? The same. His species gone, his time’s deeds obliterated, only the genes enduring, shining seeds squirting across the millennia, ineradicable, inextinguishable. How many forms, he wonders, lie between himself and the oldest of these stubborn survivors? He comprehends a glowing chain of humanity stretching through the epochs. We are an impertinent life-form. We change, but we do not perish. We are forgotten, yet we remain. How can we fear to anger the gods, when we outlast them?
Triumphantly Clay glides from level to level in Quoi’s pool. He revels in his awareness of the gradations of his surroundings. Here the water is cooler and more slippery than here; here he tastes coppery salt, here he tastes glistening lime. Here he compresses. Here he expands. Here he must turn edgewise and press to burst through the wall of molecules. He sees himself transformed: he is something slick and glossy, like a seal, with a tapering snout and powerful flippers. Surge! Thrust! Dive! Soar! He races to the surface. The goat-men still hover, brooding, dropping driblets of drool into the water. To the goats: “Come drown with me!” No. They stay. He stays. Submerged, he drinks wisdom from Quoi.
What do you do? Clay asks.
I examine.
Everything?
Lately I explore the nature of communication. I study the interchanges of love and travel its channels. Was there love in your era?
We believed so.
Did you have the flowing, the twining, the exchanging, and the merging?
The terms are not familiar, says Clay. But I sense the sense.
We will talk of these things.
Gladly.
But as Clay accedes, Quoi falls silent, and for a time Clay cannot find it in the pool. Then he sees the Breather moving slowly at the very bottom, rooting in the mucky floor. Black bubbles rise. Has Quoi lost interest in him? Quoi sends a flicker of reassurance. I will show you our way of love.
Quoi presents a vision.
Here is another pool, black and chilly and deep. Here another Quoi swims slowly in its lower regions. Between Quoi and Quoi there glows a fiery, brilliant streak of harmony. Here is a third Quoi in a third pool. Quoi is linked to Quoi and Quoi. Here is a fourth. Here is a fifth. Here is a sixth. The pools are capsules of cold darkness, driven like spikes into the planet’s skin, and in each capsule there is a Quoi. Linked. Through Quoi, Clay becomes aware of seventy-nine Quois girdling the Earth. It is the entire population of this species, although once there were more, when Quois ruled the planet, in another epoch. No Quois now are born. No Quois die. The clumsy monsters, sealed in their watery pits, specialize in a stable sort of survival. And there is love between and among them. Look now! The white-hot spear of connection, leaping from pool to pool! The heavy bodies flow; the tentacles coil and uncoil; the flukes lash the water, roiling the neat stratification. Yet it is not an ecstatic physical thing. Rather it is a somber communion, sexless, metallic. The Quois twine soul about soul. The Quois exchange the stuff of life-experience. The Quois merge to become Quoi. Clay, participating vicariously, feels such keen misery that his flippers droop and he plummets three levels. Did it come down to this, then, humanity evolving into entombed squids trading melancholy boredoms by remote transmission? What could possibly happen to a Quoi in its pool? Such a creature dropped into the water; such a chemical change happened at such an hour; such bubbles came forth from the underlying detritus. Here lie we, seventy-nine strong, telling one another things we have known for millennia. Clay weeps. Yet as he enters more deeply into the union of the Quois, he perceives the richness of it, the many dimensions, the supple parallaxes of so multiple a joining. The Quois are old married folk; they derive pleasure from the mere accumulation of onenesses. Such we were, and such we did, and such came to pass, and this species burst upon the world, and that one, and this other one, and the time-flux blew and now has brought us Clay, and we love, and we love, and we love, and we are Quoi. And Clay is Quoi. Clay loses himself in this watery dream. His borders dissolve. He blends into Quoiness. He has never felt so secure. He lies on the bottom of the pool, enquoied, beneath five atmospheres of pressure. Centuries go by. He breathes cautiously, letting bright streams of water slide into his body, giving forth the cloudy depleted product. He is aware of the sleepy turning of the many Quois in their separate wells. How deep is their love! How flawless! The contact breaks and he is alone, shattered, bobbing ungovernably toward the surface. He hears the raucous laughter of the waiting goats; he sees their red and yellow emanations hovering above. They will seize him. But Quoi takes him first, calmly, benevolently embracing him, and Clay regains control. Are you well? Quoi asks.
I am well.
You see our mode of life now?
I see it.
May we then examine yours?
And Clay says, You may, yes.
6
He finds himself crawling on hands and knees to the shore of the pool. Morning has come. The goat-men have vanished. His body rids itself of its water
His hips sprout tight white briefs. He sighs, relieved, hearing distant applause at this concealment. He adds a crisp shirt. Socks. Trousers. Necktie. Jacket. Handkerchief in breast pocket. Black shoes of synthetic leather. Wallet bulges against left thigh. Attaché case in right hand. Scent of aftershave lotion on sleek cheeks. He finds an automobile and enters it. Places attaché case beside him. Key in the ignition. Vroom! Right foot taps accelerator. Right hand grasps wheel. Power steering; the car slides easily out into the street. Horns honk. He honks gaily back. The day is overcast, but the sun will burn through. He touches the stud that closes his windows, and gets the air conditioner going, for that bus is going to ride in front of him all the way to the thruway interchange, farting noxiousness at him. And so it happens. But he turns off at last, going around the ramp, pausing at the gate to pick up his toll ticket. His rear-view mirrors show him the towers of the city, smog-wrapped, but he will soon be escaping from all that. He is on the approach ramp now, gently building up velocity, and he is doing fifty as he extrudes himself into the traffic flow. Shortly he is at sixty-five, then seventy, and he holds it there. With a jab of his finger he starts the radio. Mozart burbles from the speakers in the rear. The Haffner? The Linz? He should know them apart by this time. He edges over into the far lane, the fast lane, and coasts along, watching the posts of the median whiz by. A green sign advises him to turn off here for downtown; he laughs at it. In minutes he is beyond the city limits. And yes, the clouds are gone; there is the sun, there is the soft blue sky, sliced every minute or two by the shining wings of a jet rising from the airport on his right. Green fields now flank the thruway. Stands of poplar and maple flutter farther back. He opens his window and lets the sweet summery air enter. He is almost alone on the road, now, out here in the outlying districts. And what is that, up ahead, standing by the side of the road? A hitchhiker? Yes. A girl? Yes. A naked girl? Yes. His old fantasy. Obviously she has had difficulties getting a car to stop for her; she has stripped, and he can see her clothes draped carelessly over the top of the suitcase on the ground beside her: slacks, blouse, panties, bra. He slides his foot onto the brake. Even so, he is unable to stop close to her, overshooting by at least three hundred feet before he finally pulls to a halt on the shoulder. He starts to put the car into reverse, but she is already running toward him, suitcase in hand, garments fluttering behind her, breasts bobbling prettily. She is quite young: no more than twenty, he guesses. Her golden hair is straight and silken, nearly shoulder length. Her skin has the pink flush of health and youth; her blue eyes sparkle. She has round, taut, full breasts, set high on her rib cage and close together. Her waist is narrow, her hips possibly a trifle too broad. Fine golden fleece covers her loins, with one central swirl rising like an arrow toward her small deep navel. Breathless, she arrives at his car.
“Gee, hi!” she cries. “I thought nobody was going to give me a ride today!”
“It can be rough on the thruway,” he agrees. “Get in. Here, give me that.” He takes her suitcase and puts it on the rear seat. Her clothes are still bunched in her hand; he takes those from her, too, flinging them atop the valise. She nestles in beside him. He has costly upholstery and she wriggles in pleasure, he supposes, as her bare buttocks come in contact with the seat. Reaching across her breasts, he locks the car. She smiles eagerly at him. “Where are you heading?” she asks.
“Just out for a drive. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Great,” she says.
The car leaps forward. Soon he is doing seventy again. He gets across into the fast lane. As he drives, he steals glances at his passenger. She has tiny pink nipples and faint blue vein-lines in her breasts. Nineteen at best, he decides.
“I am Clay,” he says.
“I am Quoi,” she tells him.
“Have you ever had a truly meaningful emotional relationship with a man?” he asks.
“I’m not certain. There were one or two—”
“That came close?”
“Yes.”
“But in the end all kinds of defensive walls went up, and you found yourselves embracing at arm’s length?”
“Yes, just like that!” she says.
“It’s been like that for me too, Quoi. The brittle banter, the quick flip witticism, the clever talk that substitutes for any true intimacy of soul—”
“Yes.”
“But there’s always hope—”
“That the next time—”
“That this time—”
“Really the one.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Really the one.”
“If we could truly trust—”
“Open ourselves—”
“Not just physically.”
“But the physical part is important too.”
“As an aspect of the deeper thing, the love thing, the opening of souls.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“We understand each other beautifully.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“It doesn’t happen this way often.”
“So fast.”
“So certain.”
“No. It’s rare.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Such complete understanding. Such a—a tuned response—”
“A flowing. A twining.”
“An exchanging. A merging.”
“Exactly.”
“Who are we to fight destiny?” he says, and turns off the thruway at the next exit. He runs his right hand over the firm cool roundness of her thighs as the car glides around the exit ramp. She keeps her legs pressed chastely together, but smiles at him. He caresses the gentle curve of her belly and takes a dollar bill from his pocket. The man at the toll booth winks. “There a motel near here?” Clay asks. The toll keeper says, “Take a left on Route 71, quarter of a mile.” He nods his thanks and heads for the motel. It is a squat plastic-looking structure, a green-walled U beside the road. The girl waits in the car; Clay goes to the office. “Double room?” The clerk reaches for the registration forms. “Overnight?” he asks, and Clay says, “No, just a couple of hours,” and the clerk looks past Clay’s shoulder into the car, staring as if counting the girl’s breasts, and after a while says, “Credit card?” Clay gives him an American Express card. The clerk writes up the charge; Clay signs the ticket; he gets his room key; he returns to the car and drives it around back to the room. It faces a courtyard in which a small heart-shaped swimming pool has been cut. Children splash in the pool; their mothers doze in the sun. As they get out of the car, the girl looks toward the pool and, sighing, says, “I like kids a lot, don’t you? I want to have dozens of them.” She waves cheerily at the children in the pool. Clay taps her buttocks and says, “Let’s go in.” The room is dark and cool. He turns on the light and turns down the air-conditioner. The girl stretches out on the bed, lying on the olive-toned bedspread. Clay goes into the bathroom and comes out naked. “Don’t turn off the light,” she says. “I like it to be on. I hate secretiveness.” He s
She spreads her legs. He covers her with his body.
“The act of sexual intercourse,” he says, “is basically rather simple. It consists of placing the male organ, the penis, within the vagina, which is the female organ. By agitating the penis within the vagina, stimulation builds up within the male nervous system until a reaction is triggered whereby the male discharges semen, a fluid that contains the sperm cells. The sperm cells travel up the vagina and enter the complex network that is the female reproductive system. If a sperm cell encounters an ovum, or egg cell, fertilization takes place and a child is conceived. The moment when semen is discharged from the penis is usually accompanied by sensations of pleasure, followed by relaxation, for the male. This moment of ecstasy is known as the orgasm. In the female, orgasm is not accompanied by any release of fluid, but there are certain other bodily responses, such as spasms of the vaginal muscles, dilation of the pupils, and a feeling of physical exhilaration.”