The Ties That Bind Part 1

The Ties That Bind.

by Walter Miller.

[Sidenote: _The Earth was green and quiet. Nature had survived Man, and Man had survived himself. Then, one day, the great silvery s.h.i.+ps broke the tranquillity of the skies, bringing Man's twenty-thousand-year-lost inheritance back to Earth...._]

"_Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, Edward, Edward?

Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?"

"O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O._"

--ANONYMOUS

The Horde of sleek s.h.i.+ps arose in the west at twilight--gleaming slivers that reflected the dying sun as they lanced across the darkling heavens.

A majestic fleet of squadrons in double-vees, groups in staggered echelon, they crossed the sky like gleaming geese, and the children of Earth came out of their whispering gardens to gape at the splendor that marched above them.

There was fear, for no vessel out of s.p.a.ce had crossed the skies of Earth for countless generations, and the children of the planet had forgotten. The only memories that lingered were in the memnoscripts, and in the unconscious _kulturverlaengerung_, of the people. Because of the latter half-memory, the people knew, without knowing why, that the slivers of light in the sky were s.h.i.+ps, but there was not even a word in the language to name them.

The myriad voices of the planet, they cried, or whispered, or chattered in awed voices under the elms....

The piping whine of a senile hag: "The ancient G.o.ds! The day of the judging! Repent, repent...."

The panting gasp of a frightened fat man: "The alien! We're lost, we're lost! We've got to run for the hills!"

The voice of the child: "See the pretty birdlights? See? See?"

And a voice of wisdom in the councils of the clans: "The sons of men--they've come home from the Star Exodus. Our brothers."

The slivers of light, wave upon wave, crept into the eclipse shadow as the twilight deepened and the stars stung through the blackening sh.e.l.l of sky. When the moon rose, the people watched again as the silhouette of a black double-vee of darts slipped across the lunar disk.

Beneath the ground, in response to the return of the s.h.i.+ps, ancient mechanisms whirred to life, and the tech guilds hurried to tend them. On Earth, there was a suspenseful night, pregnant with the dissimilar twins of hope and fear, laden with awe, hushed with the expectancy of twenty thousand years. The stargoers--they had come home.

"_Kulturverlaengerung!_" grunted the tense young man in the toga of an a.n.a.lyst. He stood at one end of the desk, slightly flushed, staring down at the haughty wing leader who watched him icily from a seat at the other end. He said it again, too distinctly, as if the word were a club to hurl at the wingsman. "_Kulturverlaengerung_, that's why!"

"I heard you the first time, Meikl," the officer snapped. "Watch your tongue and your tone!"

A brief hush in the cabin as hostility flowed between them. There was only the hiss of air from the ventilators, and the low whine of the flags.h.i.+p's drive units somewhere below.

The erect and elderly gentleman who sat behind the desk cleared his throat politely. "Have you any further clarifications to make, Meikl?"

he asked.

"It should be clear enough to all of you," the a.n.a.lyst retorted hotly.

He jerked his head toward the misty crescent of Earth on the viewing screen that supplied most of the light in the small cabin. "You can see what they are, what they've become. And you _know_ what _we_ are."

The two wingsmen bristled slightly at the edge of contempt in the a.n.a.lyst's voice. The elderly gentlemen behind the desk remained impa.s.sive, expressionless.

The a.n.a.lyst leaned forward with a slow accusing glance that swept the faces of the three officers, then centered on his antagonist at the other end of the desk. "You want to _infect_ them, Thaule?" he demanded.

The wingsman darkened. His fist exploded on the desktop. "Meikl, you're in contempt! Restrict yourself to answering questions!"

"Yes, sir."

"There will be no further breaches of military etiquette during the continuance of this conference," the elderly gentleman announced icily, thus seizing the situation.

After a moment's silence, he turned to the a.n.a.lyst again. "We've got to refuel," he said flatly. "In order to refuel, we must land."

"Yes, sir. But why not on Mars? We can develop our own facilities for producing fuel. Why must it be Earth?"

"Because there will be _some existing facilities_ on Earth, even though they're out of s.p.a.ce. The job would take five years on Mars."

The a.n.a.lyst lowered his eyes, shook his head wearily. "I'm thinking of a billion earthlings. Aren't they worth considering, sir?"

"I've got to consider the men in my command, Meikl. They've been through h.e.l.l. We all have."

"The h.e.l.l was our own making, baron."

"_Meikl!_"

"Sorry, sir."

Baron ven Klaeden paused ominously, then: "Besides, Meikl, your predictions of disaster rest on certain a.s.sumptions not known to be true. You a.s.sume that the recessive determinants still linger in the present inhabitants. Twenty thousand years is a long time. Nearly a thousand generations. I don't know a great deal about culturetics, but I've read that _kulturverlaengerung_ reaches a threshold of extinction after about a dozen generations, if there's no restimulation."

"Only in laboratory cultures, sir," sighed the a.n.a.lyst. "Under rigid control to make certain there's no restimulant. In practice, in a planet-wide society, there's constant accidental restimulation, unconsciously occuring. A determinant gets restimulated, pops back to original intensity, and gets pa.s.sed on. In practice, a kult'laenger linkage never really dies out--although, it can stay recessive and unconscious."

"That's too bad," a wingsman growled sourly. "We'll wake it up, won't we?"

"Let's not be callous," the other wingsman grunted in sarcasm. "a.n.a.lyst Meikl has sensitivities."

The a.n.a.lyst stared from one to the other of them in growing consternation, then looked pleadingly at the baron. "Sir, I was _summoned_ here to offer my opinions about landing on Earth. You asked about possible cultural dangers. I've told you."

"You discussed the danger to earthlings."

"Yes, sir."

"I meant 'danger' to the personnel of this fleet--to their esprit, their indoctrination, their group-efficiency. I take it you see none."

"On the contrary, I see several," said the a.n.a.lyst, coming slowly to his feet, eyes flas.h.i.+ng and darting among them. "Where were you born, Wingman?" he asked the officer at the opposite end of the desk.

"Lichter Six, Satellite," the officer grunted after a moment of irritable silence.

"And you?"

"Omega Thrush," said the other wingsman.

All knew without asking that the baron was born in s.p.a.ce, his birthplace one of the planetoid city-states of the Michea Dwarf. Meikl looked around at them, then ripped up his own sleeve, unsheathed his rank-dagger, and p.r.i.c.ked his forearm with the needle point. A red droplet appeared, and he wiped at it with a forefinger.