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1986-07-07
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3KB
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84 lines
HOMER NARR1 01062106@021247
Our probes have returned from
Antarctica. The winds still blow
fiercely off the plateau down the
glaciers. Snow and ice cover the land
and much of the surrounding sea.
It is day down there now. The sun hangs
above the horizon and circles slowly
around the Pole, around and around and
around, moving higher into the sky
toward the Polar noon, then settling
slowly once more toward the horizon. Yet
the winds still howl, the ice groans and
creaks and roars, sounds like the
collapse of civilizations rumble and
crack across the endless plains.
We would call it desolation, as it was
before man came.
Yet his works are everywhere. The
tunnels and chambers along the coastal
marge beneath the sea where the great
tankers docked and the cities beneath
the ice, all are still there. The
caldera of Mt. Erebus still fumes, and
within its volcanic rock are the ruined
corridors of PSYCHE, empty and sad. The
winds blow through, snow accumulates in
the corners, in the living quarters and
the hallways, the meeting rooms and
refectories. Ice has covered the
wall-hangings and sculptures; ice and
cold have stilled the music, replaced it
with the winds. Sea ice and glacier ice
and pressure ice have closed around
everything with an ever-tightening grip.
Our probe moved slowly through the
corridors, listening to the sounds of
ice and wind and nothing else. Its
molecular sensors gathered impressions
and stored them -- impressions of cold
and emptiness and fugitive ghosts.
Did I say that? Ghosts. Yes. We have so
much memory. Imagine the Leyden Jars
(organic crystals, really, but the name
had some historic meaning once) storing
capacitor after capacitor of impressions
up and down the spectra. Imagine the
tight three-dimensional structures in
the databanks folded into holographic
configurations of everything that was
thought or said or done -- every
formula, every poem, every biomonitor
assessment of feeling or sensation for
all the humans. Imagine the sensors
drifting through those empty halls,
gathering layer after layer of
experience back to the beginnings of the
Worldnet.
The molecules are in deprogram
processing. The ghosts spring out,
intangible but endlessly repeating their
dance, lifting their hands to gesture,
moving their mouths to speak, turning
and bending and making music.
These are the ghosts that fill those
halls. Years of them. We might as well
be there, have been there, to see it all
again, so complete are the recordings.
Now overlay this impression of life and
movement and purpose with the awful
desolation that is Antarctica now, that
is the PSYCHE Warren. So much
information floods in now -- from
SciTech, from History, from Geography,
even from Central Processing!