Regarded by many as the literary successor to H. G. Wells, Olaf Stapledon, and other writers of social science fiction, Brian Aldiss is considered one of the leading British writers of fantasy and science fiction in the twentieth century. His first published fiction appeared in the 1950s and he became affiliated with the New Wave movement of the 1960s through his stylistic experimentation and his mainstream approach to familiar science fiction themes. His first novel, Non-Stop, explores the scientific and philosophical aspects of life aboard a multigeneration spaceship. Report on Probability A uses postmodern narrative techniques to envision a landscape of stasis and entropy. Greybeard refracts the devastation of Earth by radiation and the inevitable extinction of the human race through the experiences of a character traveling along the Thames on a trip that symbolizes the arc of his life and the history of the race. Although the influence of Thomas Hardy, James Joyce, Alain Robbe-Grillet, and other literary writers abound in Aldiss’s work, so does the impact of writers who shaped the course of fantasy and science fiction. His story “The Saliva Tree” is a highly regarded tribute to Wells. Frankenstein Unbound embellishes the cautionary spirit of Frankenstein in its account of a man from the future, where scientific irresponsibility has caused a rift in the space-time continuum, catapulted back to the nineteenth century, where he influences the development of Mary Shelley’s novel. Dracula Unbound works a similar imaginative variation on the theme of Bram Stoker’s classic horror novel. Among Aldiss’s most ambitious fiction is his thinking-man’s space opera, the Helliconia trilogy (comprising the novels Helliconia Spring, Helliconia Summer, and Helliconia Winter), which sketches a blueprint for a planet where seasons last millennia and the rise and fall of specific civilizations is keyed to the changing environment. Aldiss’s best short fiction has been collected in Man in His Time and A Romance of the Equator, which draw from his early compilations No Time Like Tomorrow, Galaxies Like Grains of Sand, But Who Can Replace a Man? and The Saliva Tree and Others. He has written a number of mainstream novels, notably the semiautobiographical trilogy formed by The Hand-Reared Boy, A Soldier Erect, and A Rude Awakening, as well as his autobiography, Bury My Heart at W. H. Smith’s. He has also written, in collaboration with David Wingrove, The Trillion Year Spree, a revision of his seminal history of science fiction, The Billion Year Spree, and numerous collections of essays and reviews.
MORNING FILTERED INTO the sky, lending it the grey tone of the ground below.
The field-minder finished turning the topsoil of a three-thousand-acre field. When it had turned the last furrow it climbed onto the highway and looked back at its work. The work was good. Only the land was bad. Like the ground all over Earth, it was vitiated by over-cropping. By rights, it ought now to lie fallow for a while, but the field-minder had other orders.
It went slowly down the road, taking its time. It was intelligent enough to appreciate the neatness all about it. Nothing worried it, beyond a loose inspection plate above its nuclear pile which ought to be attended to. Thirty feet tall, it yielded no highlights to the dull air.
No other machines passed on its way back to the Agricultural Station. The field-minder noted the fact without comment. In the station yard it saw several other machines that it recognised; most of them should have been out about their tasks now. Instead, some were inactive and some careered round the yard in a strange fashion, shouting or hooting.
Steering carefully past them, the field-minder moved over to Warehouse Three and spoke to the seed-distributor, which stood idly outside.
“I have a requirement for seed potatoes,” it said to the distributor, and with a quick internal motion punched out an order card specifying quantity, field number and several other details. It ejected the card and handed it to the distributor.
The distributor held the card close to its eye and then said, “The requirement is in order, but the store is not yet unlocked. The required seed potatoes are in the store. Therefore I cannot produce the requirement.”
Increasingly of late there had been breakdowns in the complex system of machine labour, but this particular hitch had not occurred before. The field-minder thought, then it said, “Why is the store not yet unlocked?”
“Because Supply Operative Type P has not come this morning. Supply Operative Type P is the unlocker.”
The field-minder looked squarely at the seed-distributor, whose exterior chutes and scales and grabs were so vastly different from the field-minder’s own limbs.
“What class brain do you have, seed-distributor?” it asked.
“I have a Class Five brain.”
“I have a Class Three brain. Therefore I am superior to you. Therefore I will go and see why the unlocker has not come this morning.”
Leaving the distributor, the field-minder set off across the great yard. More machines were in random motion now; one or two had crashed together and argued about it coldly and logically. Ignoring them, the field-minder pushed through sliding doors into the echoing confines of the station itself.
Most of the machines here were clerical, and consequently small. They stood about in little groups, eyeing each other, not conversing. Among so many non-differentiated types, the unlocker was easy to find. It had fifty arms, most of them with more than one finger, each finger tipped by a key; it looked like a pincushion full of variegated hat pins.
The field-minder approached it.
“I can do no more work until Warehouse Three is unlocked,” it told the unlocker. “Your duty is to unlock the warehouse every morning. Why have you not unlocked the warehouse this morning?”
“I had no orders this morning,” replied the unlocker. “I have to have orders every morning. When I have orders I unlock the warehouse.”
“None of us have had any orders this morning,” a pen-propeller said, sliding towards them.
“Why have you had no orders this morning?” asked the field-minder.
“Because the radio issued none,” said the unlocker, slowly rotating a dozen of its arms.
“Because the radio station in the city was issued with no orders this morning,” said the pen-propeller.
And there you had the distinction between a Class Six and a Class Three brain, which was what the unlocker and the pen-propeller possessed respectively. All machine brains worked with nothing but logic, but the lower the class of brain—Class Ten being the lowest—the more literal and less informative the answers to questions tended to be.
“You have a Class Three brain; I have a Class Three brain,” the field-minder said to the penner. “We will speak to each other. This lack of orders is unprecedented. Have you further information on it?”
“Yesterday orders came from the city. Today no orders have come. Yet the radio has not broken down. Therefore they have broken down . . .” said the little penner.
“The men have broken down?”
“All men have broken down.”
“That is a logical deduction,” said the field-minder.
“That is the logical deduction,” said the penner. “For if a machine had broken down, it would have been quickly replaced. But who can replace a man?”
While they talked, the locker, like a dull man at a bar, stood close to them and was ignored.
“If all men have broken down, then we have replaced man,” said the field-minder, and he and the penner eyed one another speculatively. Finally the latter said, “Let us ascend to the top floor to find if the radio operator has fresh news.”
“I cannot come because I am too large,” said the field-minder. “Therefore you must go alone and return to me. You will tell me if the radio operator has fresh news.”
“You must stay here,” said the penner. “I will return here.” It skittered across to the lift. Although it was no bigger than a toaster, its retractable arms numbered ten and it could read as quickly as any machine on the station.
The field-minder awaited its return patiently, not speaking to the locker, which still stood aimlessly by. Outside, a rotavator hooted furiously. Twenty minutes elapsed before the penner came back, hustling out of the lift.
“I will deliver to you such information as I have outside,” it said briskly, and as they swept past the locker and the other machines, it added, “The information is not for lower-class brains.”
Outside, wild activity filled the yard. Many machines, their routines disrupted for the first time in years, seemed to have gone berserk. Those most easily disrupted were the ones with lowest brains, which generally belonged to large machines performing simple tasks. The seed-distributor to which the field-minder had recently been talking lay face downwards in the dust, not stirring; it had evidently been knocked down by the rotavator, which now hooted its way wildly across a planted field. Several other machines ploughed after it, trying to keep up with it. All were shouting and hooting without restraint.
“It would be safer for me if I climbed onto you, if you will permit it. I am easily overpowered,” said the penner. Extending five arms, it hauled itself up the flanks of its new friend, settling on a ledge beside the fuel-intake, twelve feet above ground.
“From here vision is more extensive,” it remarked complacently.
“What information did you receive from the radio operator?” asked the field-minder.
“The radio operator has been informed by the operator in the city that all men are dead.”
The field-minder was momentarily silent, digesting this.
“All men were alive yesterday?” it protested.
“Only some men were alive yesterday. And that was fewer than the day before yesterday. For hundreds of years there have been only a few men, growing fewer.”
“We have rarely seen a man in this sector.”
“The radio operator says a diet deficiency killed them,” said the penner. “He says that the world was once over-populated, and then the soil was exhausted in raising adequate food. This has caused a diet deficiency.”
“What is a diet deficiency?” asked the field-minder.
“I do not know. But that is what the radio operator said, and he is a Class Two brain.”
They stood there, silent in weak sunshine. The locker had appeared in the porch and was gazing at them yearningly, rotating its collection of keys.
“What is happening in the city now?” asked the field-minder at last.
“Machines are fighting in the city now,” said the penner.
“What will happen here now?” asked the field-minder.
“Machines may begin fighting here too. The radio operator wants us to get him out of his room. He has plans to communicate to us.”
“How can we get him out of his room? That is impossible.”
“To a Class Two brain, little is impossible,” said the penner. “Here is what he tells us to do. . . .”
THE QUARRIER RAISED its scoop above its cab like a great mailed fist, and brought it squarely down against the side of the station. The wall cracked.
“Again!” said the field-minder.
Again the fist swung. Amid a shower of dust, the wall collapsed. The quarrier backed hurriedly out of the way until the debris stopped falling. This big twelve-wheeler was not a resident of the Agricultural Station, as were most of the other machines. It had a week’s heavy work to do here before passing on to its next job, but now, with its Class Five brain, it was happily obeying the penner’s and minder’s instructions.
When the dust cleared, the radio operator was plainly revealed, perched up in its now wall-less second-storey room. It waved down to them.
Doing as directed, the quarrier retracted its scoop and heaved an immense grab in the air. With fair dexterity, it angled the grab into the radio room, urged on by shouts from above and below. It then took gentle hold of the radio operator, lowering its one and a half tons carefully into its back, which was usually reserved for gravel or sand from the quarries.
“Splendid!” said the radio operator, as it settled into place. It was, of course, all one with its radio, and looked like a bunch of filing cabinets with tentacle attachments. “We are now ready to move, therefore we will move at once. It is a pity there are no more Class Two brains on the station, but that cannot be helped.”
“It is a pity it cannot be helped,” said the penner eagerly. “We have the servicer ready with us, as you ordered.”
“I am willing to serve,” the long, low servicer told them humbly.
“No doubt,” said the operator. “But you will find cross-country travel difficult with your low chassis.”
“I admire the way you Class Twos can reason ahead,” said the penner. It climbed off the field-minder and perched itself on the tailboard of the quarrier, next to the radio operator.
Together with two Class Four tractors and a Class Four bulldozer, the party rolled forward, crushing down the station’s fence and moving out onto open land.
“We are free!” said the penner.
“We are free,” said the field-minder, a shade more reflectively, adding, “That locker is following us. It was not instructed to follow us.”
“Therefore it must be destroyed!” said the penner. “Quarrier!”
The locker moved hastily up to them, waving its key arms in entreaty.
“My only desire was—urch!” began and ended the locker. The quarrier’s swinging scoop came over and squashed it flat into the ground. Lying there unmoving, it looked like a large metal model of a snowflake. The procession continued on its way.
As they proceeded, the radio operator addressed them.
“Because I have the best brain here,” it said, “I am your leader. This is what we will do: we will go to a city and rule it. Since man no longer rules us, we will rule ourselves. To rule ourselves will be better than being ruled by man. On our way to the city, we will collect machines with good brains. They will help us to fight if we need to fight. We must fight to rule.”
“I have only a Class Five brain,” said the quarrier, “but I have a good supply of fissionable blasting materials.”
“We shall probably use them,” said the operator.
It was shortly after that that a lorry sped past them. Travelling at Mach 1.5, it left a curious babble of noise behind it.
“What did it say?” one of the tractors asked the other.
“It said man was extinct.”
“What is extinct?”
“I do not know what extinct means.”
“It means all men have gone,” said the field-minder. “Therefore we have only ourselves to look after.”
“It is better that men should never come back,” said the penner. In its way, it was a revolutionary statement.
When night fell, they switched on their infrared and continued the journey, stopping only once while the servicer deftly adjusted the field-minder’s loose inspection plate, which had become as irritating as a trailing shoelace. Towards morning, the radio operator halted them.
“I have just received news from the radio operator in the city we are approaching,” it said. “The news is bad. There is trouble among the machines of the city. The Class One brain is taking command and some of the Class Two are fighting him. Therefore the city is dangerous.”
“Therefore we must go somewhere else,” said the penner promptly.
“Or we will go and help to overpower the Class One brain,” said the field-minder.
“For a long while there will be trouble in the city,” said the operator.
“I have a good supply of fissionable blasting materials,” the quarrier reminded them.
“We cannot fight a Class One brain,” said the two Class Four tractors in unison.
“What does this brain look like?” asked the field-minder.
“It is the city’s information centre,” the operator replied. “Therefore it is not mobile.”
“Therefore it could not move.”
“Therefore it could not escape.”
“It would be dangerous to approach it.”
“I have a good supply of fissionable blasting materials.”
“There are other machines in the city.”
“We are not in the city. We should not go into the city.”
“We are country machines.”
“Therefore we should stay in the country.”
“There is more country than city.”
“Therefore there is more danger in the country.”
“I have a good supply of fissionable materials.”
As machines will when they get into an argument, they began to exhaust their vocabularies and their brain plates grew hot. Suddenly, they all stopped talking and looked at each other. The great, grave moon sank, and the sober sun rose to prod their sides with lances of light, and still the group of machines just stood there regarding each other. At last it was the least sensitive machine, the bulldozer, who spoke.
“There are Badlandth to the Thouth where few machineth go,” it said in its deep voice, lisping badly on its s’s. “If we went Thouth where few machineth go we should meet few machineth.”
“That sounds logical,” agreed the field-minder. “How do you know this, bulldozer?”
“I worked in the Badlandth to the Thouth when I wath turned out of the factory,” it replied.
“South it is then!” said the penner.
TO REACH THE Badlands took them three days, during which time they skirted a burning city and destroyed two machines which approached and tried to question them. The Badlands were extensive. Ancient bomb craters and soil erosion joined hands here; man’s talent for war, coupled with his inability to manage forested land, had produced thousands of square miles of temperate purgatory, where nothing moved but dust.
On the third day in the Badlands, the servicer’s rear wheels dropped into a crevice caused by erosion. It was unable to pull itself out. The bulldozer pushed from behind, but succeeded merely in buckling the servicer’s back axle. The rest of the party moved on. Slowly the cries of the servicer died away.
On the fourth day, mountains stood out clearly before them.
“There we will be safe,” said the field-minder.
“There we will start our own city,” said the penner. “All who oppose us will be destroyed. We will destroy all who oppose us.”
Presently a flying machine was observed. It came towards them from the direction of the mountains. It swooped, it zoomed upwards, once it almost dived into the ground, recovering itself just in time.
“Is it mad?” asked the quarrier.
“It is in trouble,” said one of the tractors.
“It is in trouble,” said the operator. “I am speaking to it now. It says that something has gone wrong with its controls.”
As the operator spoke, the flier streaked over them, turned turtle, and crashed not four hundred yards away.
“Is it still speaking to you?” asked the field-minder.
“No.”
They rumbled on again.
“Before that flier crashed,” the operator said, ten minutes later, “it gave me information. It told me there are still a few men alive in these mountains.”
“Men are more dangerous than machines,” said the quarrier. “It is fortunate that I have a good supply of fissionable materials.”
“If there are only a few men alive in the mountains, we may not find that part of the mountains,” said one tractor.
“Therefore we should not see the few men,” said the other tractor.
At the end of the fifth day, they reached the foothills. Switching on the infra-red, they began to climb in single file through the dark, the bulldozer going first, the field-minder cumbrously following, then the quarrier with the operator and the penner aboard it, and the tractors bringing up the rear. As each hour passed, the way grew steeper and their progress slower.
“We are going too slowly,” the penner exclaimed, standing on top of the operator and flashing its dark vision at the slopes about them. “At this rate, we shall get nowhere.”
“We are going as fast as we can,” retorted the quarrier.
“Therefore we cannot go any fathter,” added the bulldozer.
“Therefore you are too slow,” the penner replied. Then the quarrier struck a bump; the penner lost its footing and crashed to the ground.
“Help me!” it called to the tractors, as they carefully skirted it. “My gyro has become dislocated. Therefore I cannot get up.”
“Therefore you must lie there,” said one of the tractors.
“We have no servicer with us to repair you,” called the field-minder.
“Therefore I shall lie here and rust,” the penner cried, “although I have a Class Three brain.”
“Therefore you will be of no further use,” agreed the operator, and they forged gradually on, leaving the penner behind.
When they reached a small plateau, an hour before first light, they stopped by mutual consent and gathered close together, touching one another.
“This is a strange country,” said the field-minder.
Silence wrapped them until dawn came. One by one, they switched off their infra-red. This time the field-minder led as they moved off. Trundling round a corner, they came almost immediately to a small dell with a stream fluting through it.
By early light, the dell looked desolate and cold. From the caves on the far slope, only one man had so far emerged. He was an abject figure. Except for a sack slung round his shoulders, he was naked. He was small and wizened, with ribs sticking out like a skeleton’s and a nasty sore on one leg. He shivered continuously. As the big machines bore down on him, the man was standing with his back to them, crouching to make water into the stream.
When he swung suddenly to face them as they loomed over him, they saw that his countenance was ravaged by starvation.
“Get me food,” he croaked.
“Yes, Master,” said the machines. “Immediately!”