Gregory Benford - Galactic Center - A Hunger for the Infinit

VIP免费

2024-11-29 0 0 197.18KB 27 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

A Hunger for the Infinite (v1.1)

Gregory Benford, 1999

DEATH CAME IN ON SIXTEEN LEGS.

If it is possible to look composed while something angular and ominous is hauling you up

out of your hiding place, a thing barbed and hard and with a gun-leg jammed snug against

your throat -- then Ahmihi was composed.

He had been the Exec of the Noachian 'Sembly for decades and knew this corner of

Chandelier Rook the way his tongue knew his mouth. Or more aptly, for the Chandelier was

great and vast, the way winds know a world. But he did not know this thing of sleek, somber

metal that towered over him.

He felt himself lifted, wrenched. A burnt-yellow pain burst in his sensorium, the merged

body/electronic feeling-sphere that enveloped him. Behind this colored agony came a ringing

message, not spoken so much as implanted into his floating sense of the world around him:

I wish to "talk"-to convey linear meaning.

"Yeasay, and you be --?" He tried to make it nonchalant and failed, voice guttering out in

a dry gasp.

I am an anthology intelligence. I collapse my holographic speech to your serial

inputs.

"Damn nice of you."

The gun-leg spun him around lazily like a dangling ornament, and he saw three of his

people lying dead on the decking below. He had to look away from them, to once-glorious

beauties that were now a battered panorama. This section of the Citadel favored turrets,

galleries, gilded columns, iron wrought into lattices of byzantine stillness. It was over a

millennium old, grown by biotech foundries, unplanned beauty by mistake. The battle -- now

quite over, he saw -- had not been kind. Elliptical scabs of orange rust told of his people,

fried into sheets and splashed over walls. White waste of disemboweled bodies clogged

corners like false snow. An image-amp wall played endlessly, trying to entertain the dead.

Rough-welded steel showed ancient repairs beneath the fresh scars of bolt weaponry that

had sliced men and women into bloody chunks.

I broke off this attack and intervened to spare you.

"How many of my people ... are left?"

I count 453 -- no, 452; one died two xens ago.

"If you'll let them go -- "

That shall be your reward, should you comply with my desire for a conversation.

You may even go with them.

He let a glimmer of hope kindle in him.

This final mech invasion of Chandelier Rook had plundered the remaining defenses. His

Noachian Assembly had carried out the fighting retreat while other families fled. Mote

disassemblers had breached the Chandelier's kinetic-energy weapons, microtermites

gnawing everywhere. Other 'Semblies had escaped while the Noachians hung on. Now the

last act was playing out.

Rook was a plum for the mechs. It orbited near the accretion disk of the black hole, the

Chandelier's induction nets harvesting energy from infalling masses and stretched space-

time.

In the long struggle between humans and mechs, pure physical resources became the

pivot for many battles. It had been risky, even in the early, glory days after mankind

reached the Galactic Center, to build a radiant, massive Chandelier so close to the virulent

energies and sleeting particle hail near the black hole itself: mech territory. But mankind

had swaggered then, ripe and unruly from the long voyage from Earth system.

Now, six millennia since those glory days, Ahmihi felt himself hoisted up before a bank of

scanners. His sensorium told of probings in the microwave and infrared spectra. Cool, thin

fingers slid into his own cerebral layers. He braced himself for death.

I wish you to view my work. Here ...

Something seized Ahmihi's sensorium like a man palming a mouse, squeezed-and he was

elsewhere, a flat broad obsidian plain. Upon which stood ... things.

They had all been human, once. Now the strange wrenched works were festooned with

contorted limbs, plant growths, shafts of metal and living flesh. Some sang as winds rubbed

them. A laughing mouth of green teeth cackled, a cube sprayed tart vapors, a blood-red

liquid did a trembling dance.

At first he thought the woman was a statue. But then breath whistled from her wrenched

mouth. Beneath her translucent white skin pulsed furious blue-black energies. He could see

through her paper-thin skin, sensing the thick fibers that bound muscle and bone, gristle

and yellow tendons, like thongs binding a jerky, angular being ... which began to walk. Her

head swiveled, ratcheting, her huge pink eyes finding him. The inky patch between her legs

buzzed and stirred with a liquid life, a strong stench of her swarmed up into his nostrils, she

smiled invitingly --

"No!" He jerked away and felt the entire place telescope away. He was suddenly back,

dangling from the gun-leg. "What is this place?"

The Hall of Humans. An exhibition of art. Modesty compels me to add that these

are early works, and I hope to achieve much more. You are a difficult medium.

"Using ... us?"

For example, I attempted in this artwork to express a coupling I perceive in the

human world-sum, a parallel: often fear induces lust shortly after, an obvious

evolutionary trigger function. Fear summons up your mortality, so lust answers

with its fleeting sense of durability, immortality.

Ahmihi knew this Mantis was of some higher order, beyond anything his 'Sembly had

seen. To it, their lives were fragmented events curved into ... what? So the Mantis thought

of itself as an artist, studying human trajectories with ballistic precision.

He thought rapidly. The Mantis had some cold and bloodless passion for diseased art.

Accept that and move on. How could he use this?

You share with others (who came from primordial forces) a grave limitation: you

cannot redesign yourselves at will. True, you carry some dignity, since you express

the underlying First Laws.

Still, you express in hardware what properly belongs in software.

An unfortunate inheritance. Still, it provides ground for aesthetic truths.

"If your kind would just leave us alone -- "

Surely you know that competition for resources, here at the most energetic

realm of the galaxy, must be ... significant. My kind too suffers from its own drive

to persist, to expand.

"If you'd showed up when we had full Chandelier strength, you'd be lying in pieces by

now."

I would not be so foolish. In any case, you cannot destroy an anthology

intelligence. My true seat of intelligence is dispersed.

My aesthetic sense, primary in this immediate manifestation, still lodges

strongly in the Hall of Humans that I have constructed light-years away. You

visited it just now.

"Where?" He had to keep this angular thing of ceramic and carbon steel occupied. His

people could still slip away --

Quite near the True Center and its Disk Engine. You shall visit it again in due

time if you are fortunate and I select you for preservation.

"As suredead?"

I find you primates an entrancing medium.

"Why don't you just keep us alive and talk to us?" He was sorry he had asked the

question, for instantly, from the floor below, the Mantis made a corpse rise. It was Leona, a

mother of three who had fought with the men, and now had a trembling, bony body

blackened by Borer weaponry.

You are a fragile medium-pay witness. I do know how to express through you,

though it is a noise-thickened method.

Inevitably you die of it. But if you prefer --

She teetered on broken legs and peered up at him. Her mouth shaped words that

whistled out on separate exhalations, like a bellows worked by an unseen hand.

"I find this ... overly hard-wired ... medium is ... constrained sufficiently ... to yield ...

fresh insights."

"My God, kill her." He thrashed against the pincers that held him aloft.

"I am ... dead as ... a human ... But I remain ... a medium."

He looked away from Leona. "Don't you have any sense of what she's going through?"

My level does not perceive pain as you know it. At best, we feel irreducible

contradiction of internal states.

"Wow, that must be tough."

Working her like a ventriloquist's dummy, the Mantis made Leona cavort below, singing

and dancing at a hideous heel-drumming pace, her shattered bones poking through legs

caked with dried brown blood. Fluids leaked from the punctured chest.

"Damn it, just talk through my sensorium. Let her go!"

My communicative mode is part of the craft I create. Patterns of fear, of hatred;

your flood of electrical impulses and brain chemicals that signifies hopelessness or

rebellion: all part of the virtuosity of the passing mortal moment.

"Sorry I can't seem to appreciate it. Leona ... she's suredead?"

"Yes ... This one ... has been ... fully recorded ... " Leona wheezed, "I have ... harvested

her ... joyously."

"This way ... she's hideous."

As this revived form, I can see your point. But with suitable reworking, hidden

elements may emerge. Perhaps after my culling among the harvested, I shall add

her to my collected ones.

She has thematic possibilities.

Ahmihi shook his head to clear it. His muscles trembled from being held suspended and

from something more, a strange sick fear. "She doesn't deserve this."

Yet I feel something missing in my compositions, those you saw in the Hall of

Humans. What do you think of them?

He fought down the impulse to laugh, then wondered if he was close to hysteria. "Those

were artworks? You want art criticism from me? Now?"

Leona gasped, "I sense ... I have ... missed essentials ... The beauty ... is seeping ...

from my ... works."

"Beauty's not the sort of thing that gets used up."

"Even through ... the tiny ... grimed window ... of your sensorium ... you sense ... a

world-set ... I do not. Apparently ... there is ... something gained ... by such ... blunt ...

limitations."

Which way was this going? He had a faint glimmering. "What's the problem?"

"I sense ... far more ... yet do not ... share your ... filters."

"You know too much?" He wondered if he could get a shot at Leona, stop this. No human

tech could salvage a mind that was sure-dead, "harvested" by the mechs -- though why

mechs wanted human minds, no one knew. Until now. Ahmihi had heard legends of the

Mantis and its interest in humans, but not of any Hall of Humans.

"I have ... invaded nervous ... systems ... driven them to ... insanity, suicide." Leona

twitched, stumbled, sprawled. Her eyes goggled at the vault above, drifted to peer into

Ahmihi's. "Not the ... whole canvas ... something ... missing."

He tried to reach a beam tube and failed. The Chandelier's phosphor lights were dimming,

shadowing Leona.

With obvious pain she struggled to her feet. "I tried ... Ephemerals ... so difficult ... to

grasp."

Ahmihi thought desperately. "Look, you have to be us."

For the first time in this eerie discussion the Mantis paused. It let Leona crumple on the

floor below, a rag doll tossed aside.

That is a useful suggestion. To truncate my selves into one narrow compass,

unable to escape. Yes.

Ahmihi felt a sudden pressure, like a wall of flinty resolve, course through his sensorium.

He had no hope that he would live more than a few moments longer, but still, the hard dry

coldness of it filled him with despair.

THE HARVESTED

>I had come around the corner and there it was, more like a piece of furniture than a

mech, and it poked something at me.

>The last thing I saw was a 'bot we used for ore hauling, tumbling over and over like

something had blown it, and I thought, I'm okay because I'm behind this stressed glass.

>I still got the memory of something hard and blue in my line of sight, a color I'd never

seen before.

>She fell down and I stooped to help her up and saw she had no head and the thing that

was holding her head on the floor jumped up at me, too.

>It had a kind of ceramic tread that came around on me when I thought it was dead,

booby-trapped some way, I guess, and it caught me in the side like a conveyor belt.

The Noachian 'Sembly fled the mech plunder of their Chandelier. Their Exec, Ahmihi, had

emerged from his capture by the Mantis with a sensorium that howled with discord. Each

neurological node of his body vibrated in a different pattern. His voice rang like a stone in a

bucket. It was as if the symphony of his body had a deranged conductor.

But within hours he recovered. He would never speak of the experience with the Mantis.

He led his 'Sembly into craft damaged but serviceable. The mechs did not attack as over

three hundred escaped the drifting hulk their once-glorious spin-city had become.

This was one of the last routs of the Chandelier Age. After these defeats, humanity fled

deep space for the nostalgic refuge of planets. This was in the end foolish, for the Galactic

Center is unkind to the making and tending of worlds. There, within a single cubic light-year,

a million suns glow. Glancing near-collisions between stars can strip the planets from a star

within a few million years. Only worlds carefully stabilized can persist. Even then, they suffer

weathering unknown in the calm outer precincts of the great spiral galaxy.

The Noachian 'Sembly used a gravitational whip around the black hole to escape pursuit.

This cost lives and baked their ships until they could barely limp on to a marginally habitable

world, named Isis by some other 'Sembly, which a millennium before had departed for

greener planets, farther out from True Center. Isis was dry and windswept, but apparently

of little interest to mechs. This was enough; the Noachians spiraled in and began to live

again. But much had happened on the way.

Mech weaponry can be insidious, particularly their biological tricks. A 'Sembly platitude

was all too true. You may get better after getting hit, but you do not get well.

A year into their voyage, Ahmihi lay dying. As he gasped hideously, lungs slowly eaten by

the nano-seekers the mechs had carried, his wife came near to say goodbye. The 'Sembly

folk were afraid to record Ahmihi's personality into an Aspect, since he was plainly mech-

damaged, perhaps mentally. In his fever he spoke of some bargain he had struck with the

near-mythical Mantis, and no one could fathom the terms. He had been tampered with in

some profound way, perhaps so that the story he told could give away nothing vital.

But they did have his archived recording from the year before; not everything would be

lost. In a desperate era, skills and knowledge had to be preserved into the chips which rode

at the nape of the neck of each 'Sembly member. These carried the legacy of many ancient

personalities, rendered into Aspects or the lesser Faces or Profiles. Ahmihi would survive in

fractional form, his expertise available to his descendants.

No one noticed when a small insectlike entity crawled from the dying Ahmihi's mouth. It

whirred softly toward his wife, Jalia, and stung her. She slapped it away, thinking it no

different from the other vermin released from the hydro sections.

The flier implanted in Jalia a packet of nanodevices that quickly recoded one of her ova.

Then it dissolved to avoid detection. The Noachian 'Sembly burned Ahmihi's body to prevent

any possible desecration by mechs, especially if nanos were alive in the ship.

Their prayers were answered; apparently the small band of fleeing humans were not

worth mech time or effort to pursue.

Jalia gave birth to a son, a treasure in an era when human numbers were falling. Gene

scanners found nothing out of the ordinary. She called the boy Paris, in the tradition of the

Noachian 'Sembly, to use city names from Earth -- Akron, Kiev, Fairhope -- though Earth

itself was now a mere legend, doubted by many.

When he was five his intensive education began. He had been an ordinary boy until then,

playing happily in the dry fields from which skimpy crops came. He was wiry, athletic, and

seldom spoke.

When Paris began learning, he made a discovery. Others did not sense the world as he

did.

Every second, many millions of bits of information flooded through his senses. But he

could consciously discern only about forty bits per second of this cataract. He could read

documents faster than he could write, or than people could speak, but the stream was still

torpid.

Whether the information was going in or out, his body was designed for roughly the same

torpid flow speed. All serial ways of taking in information were painfully sluggish. His

awareness was like a spotlight gliding across a darkened stage, lighting an actor's face

dramatically, leaving all else in the blackness. Consciousness stood on a mountain of

discarded information.

Even thinking about this fact was slow. It took him much longer to explain to himself

what he was thinking than it did to think it. His brain channeled ten billion bits per second,

far more than he took in from his surroundings.

There were as many incoming signals from his sensorium as there were outgoing

commands to his body. But nearly none of this could he tell anyone about. His sensibility, his

speech -- all were hopelessly serial logjams. Everybody else was the same; humans were

not alone in their serial solitude.

He had already learned how important story was to them -- and to him. Plots, heroes and

villains, for and against, minor roles and major ones, action and wisdom, tension and

release -- as fundamental as the human linear mouth-gut-anus tube, for story was the key

to mental digestion.

And without knowing it, each of them told their own stories, in every moment. Their

bodies gave them away with myriad expressions, grunts, shrugs, unconscious gestures. Big

chunks of their personalities came through outside their conscious control, as the

unconscious spoke for itself through the body, a speech unheard by the discerning driver,

hidden from it.

For a young boy this was a shock. Others knew more about him than he knew about

himself. By sensing the megabits that leaked through the body, they could read him.

This was enormously embarrassing. Such a silent language must have come early in

human evolution, Paris guessed, when it was more vital to know what strangers meant than

what they said, using some crude protolanguage.

And laughter -- the wine of speech, he learned -- was the consciousness's admission of its

own paucity. He laughed often, after realizing that.

Soon, even while scampering in madcap joy over the hard-packed dirt of the playground,

he felt a part of him stand apart. What he experienced -- all those billions of bits per second

-- was a simulation of what he sensed. This he felt as a gut-level truth.

Worse, the simulation lagged half a second behind the world outside. He tested this by

seeing how fast his body reacted to pain or pleasure. Sure enough, he jerked away from a

needle before he consciously knew it was poking him in the calf.

His sensorium was ripe with tricks. His vision had a blind spot, which he deduced must

emerge from the site where nerves entered the back of the eye. An abandoned, ruined

Chandelier seemed larger when it hung in its forlorn orbit just above the Isis horizon than

when it arched high in the sky. When he ran across the crinkled plains and stopped to

admire filmy clouds overhead, his eyes told him for a while that the clouds were rushing by -

- a kinesthetic memory of running, translated by his mind into an observed fact.

All because evolution shaped the eye-brain system to regard things high up as farther

away, more unattainable, and so made people perceive them as smaller. And retained the

sensation of running, unable to discard the mind's pattern-frame right away.

He sat in class and regarded his giggling classmates. How odd they seemed.

Understanding himself had helped in dealing with them. He was popular, with a natural

manner that some mistook for leadership. It was something decidedly different, something

never seen in human society before. He felt this but could not name it. Indeed, there was no

word.

Gradually Paris saw that their -- and his -- world was meaning-filled, before they became

aware of it. Scents, rubs, flavors-all carried the freight of origins many millennia and

countless light-years away.

So he came to make his next discovery: the unconscious ruled. He learned this when he

noticed that he was happiest when he was not in control -- when consciousness did not

command. Ecstasy, joy, even simple gladness -- these were the fruit of acting without

thinking.

"I am more than my I," he said wonderingly. "I am my Me."

When his work went well -- and everyone worked, even children -- his Me was engaged.

When things went well, they just went, zinging along. He ran 'facturing 'bots, tilled fields,

prepared spicy meals -- all in the flow, immersed.

Even when he used his Faces or Profiles for craft labors, he could manifest their outlined

selves without conscious management. These ancient sliced segments of real people used

some of his perception-processing space, so that when working he lost Isis's crisp savannah

scent, wind-whispers, and prickly rubs. The Faces particularly needed to siphon off these

sensory stimuli, to prevent them from becoming husklike embodiments, mere arid digital

textbooks. He could feel them sitting behind his eyes, eagerly supping snippets of the world,

relishing in scattershot cries. As he slept, he enabled them to raise his eyelids and catch

glimpses that fed them gratifying slivers. Listening through his eardrums, they could keep

watch -- a safety precaution. Of such thin gruel they made their experience. This also

isolated him, ensuring deep sleep.

But there was something more, as well.

Something shadowy sat within him, a Me beyond sensing except as specter. It seemed to

watch while eluding his inner gaze. Yet he could feel this brooding blankness informing his

own sense of self.

This frightened him. He cast about for reassurance. There were sport and sex and

spectacle, all unsatisfying. He probed deeper.

The 'Sembly's religion -- its teachings so varied as to be contradictory -- somehow

summoned forth that state of free going, while the conscious mind was deflected by prayers,

liturgy, hymns, rituals, numbing repetition. One day in Chapel, bored to distraction, Paris

tried engaging the skimpy bandwidth of language with a chant, cycling it endlessly in his

mind. He found his Me set free; thus he invented meditation.

In adolescence he found a genuine talent for art. But his work was strange, transitory: ice

carvings that melted, sand-sculptures held together by decaying electrostatic fields. He

would write poetry with a stylus on pounded plant material, using vegetable pigments ...

and then rapturously watch them burn in a fire.

"Poignancy, immediacy," he replied, when asked about his work. "That is the essence I

seek."

Few understood, but many flocked to see his strange works pass through the moments he

allowed them to have.

Art seemed utterly natural to him. After all, he reasoned, far back in human history, on

mythical Earth, there must have been some primate ancestor who saw in the stone's flight a

simple and graceful parabola, and so had a better chance of predicting where it would fall.

That cousin would eat more often and presumably reproduce more as well. Neural wiring

could reinforce this behavior by instilling a sense of genuine pleasure at the sight of an artful

parabola.

He descended from that appreciative cousin. Though living 28,000 light-years from the

dusty plains where art had emerged in genes, he was building on mental processing

machinery finely tuned to that ancient place. While he shared a sense for the beauty of

simplicity, though, something in him felt the poignancy of each passing moment. That was

human, too, but something else in him felt this sense of the sliding moment as a contrast.

He did not know why, but he did know that this set him apart.

This was his first fame, but not his last.

Quickly he saw that while the Me acted, society held the I accountable. The human social

vow was I agree to take responsibility for my Me. On this he brooded.

He found love, as a young man, and felt it as an agreement: Lover, my Me accepts you.

So as well did spirituality come from I know my Me, just as true courage came from I trust

my Me.

Consciousness -- bit-starved, ill-informed -- was the brain's model of itself, a simulation

of a much more ornate under-Self.

To experience the world directly, with no editing -- what a grail! He attained that state

only now and then, and when in it, felt the shocking fullness of the true world. Language

evaporated like a drop of water beneath the sun's full glare. All he could do was point a

finger and mutter, "That."

Still riding behind his eyes was that phantom, the watcher who could not be watched. Yet

it did not control. He felt it riding in him, and learned to ignore it.

Or rather, his I agreed abstractly to accept the watcher. His Me never did. But there was

no way it could control a shadowy vacancy.

In dreams, his I could not control. In everyday life, he learned that his body could not lie;

its bandwidth was too high, sending out data from his Me in an unconscious torrent.

Conversely, with its small bit rate, the I could lie easily -- in fact, could hardly avoid lying, at

least by omission. But not his Me.

This made him into the leader he had no real desire to become. He was too busy learning

more than anyone had ever known about what it meant to be human.

One evening, as he stood guard in a distant precinct at the outer edge of their holdings,

he caught a mouse and tried to talk to it. Since they were both of flesh and had sprung from

similar origins -- this was an Earth rodent, imported by the original expeditions for reasons

best known to themselves -- he thought he should be able to commune with it. The mouse

studied his face across an abyss of processing ability, and Paris could get nothing whatever

from the creature on his sensorium.

Yet somehow he knew that within that tiny head lay deep similarities. Why could a

communion not come from a mech? He wondered.

Amid such puzzles, life pressed upon him. The mechs had returned to Isis.

He met a Rattler while playing with some young men. They were chasing each other,

carrying a ball, a game that called forth the hunting joys buried in the primordial past. So

immersed they were that the Rattler got within a few hundred meters.

They were playing near the ruins of a huge Kubla left by the people who had claimed Isis

millennia before, then left. Its pleasure dome still offered vibrant illusions if stimulated, and

Paris thought the Rattler must be one of these when he first saw it -- moving slinky-quick,

armatures pivoting to focus upon the men.

The Rattler cut down six of them before Paris could reach his weapon, a long-bore kinetic

rifle. It was hopelessly antique, but that was all they had to give the young men in training.

He fired at the Rattler and even hit it but then a friend fell nearby and that distracted him.

He had seen death, but not this way. He hesitated and by pure luck the Rattler did not kill

him. A bolt from two others stilled the coiled thing. Paris knew he was of no use then and

resolved to do better. The emotions that wrenched him as he helped carry the bodies away

were like a fever, an illness that did not soon abate.

That was the beginning. You start out thinking that other people get killed, but not you,

of course. The first time you are badly wounded the worst shock of it is not the physical one,

but the sudden realization that death can come so easily, and to you.

It had taken a long time after that to know that nothing could happen to him that had not

already happened to every generation before. They had done it and so could he. In a way,

dying was the easiest of the hard things.

There was an inscription above the archway of a broad public plaza, one crowned with a

transparent dome through which the whole mad swirl of the Galactic Center constantly

churned, and he had written it down to keep it, for the strange joy it brought when he

understood it:

By my troth, I care not: a man can die but once; we owe God a death ... and let it go

which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.

After a while he came to know that nothing happens until it actually comes to you, and

you live your life up until then to get the most out of it. To live well, you had to live in each

gliding moment. Cowardice -- the real thing, not momentary panic -- came from inability to

stop the imagination from working on each approaching possibility. To halt your imagining

and live in the very moving second, with no past and no future, was the vital secret. With it

you could get through each second and on to the next without needless pain.

The Me learned this and the I accepted it.

THE HARVESTED

>They threw me in this pit of mech-waste, stuff like greasy packing fluff and I figured,

sure as hell I can climb out of this.

>All around these mechs were gathered like it was a ritual and they hanged me upside

down first, shooting me through the belly and watching the blood run out and down over my

breasts and into my face so I could taste it, warm in the cold air.

>A whistling sharp by me and then a smack.

>Must of been some nanos in the bread I ate before this hot sour taste rose up in my

throat and I started choking real bad.

>It stabbed me with an antenna, a big surprise because I thought it was one of those

mechs that only used microwave pulsers.

>It was at the very end of the campaign and I was tired out and lay down to catch a few

snores and this slow thing came by, I didn't pay it any mind.

>We were going real fast to get away.

>She went first and made the jump clean as you like and I did too but my leggings

busted out and I lost my Goddamn balance.

Riding in his upper spine he carried an advisor Aspect of great antiquity named Arthur.

By then Paris was listened to in 'Sembly gatherings, though he was still fairly young.

Arthur always urged moderation in diplomacy with the mechs and gave examples from

ancient human history. When Paris questioned the hardships Arthur related from the Olden

Times when humans had first come to Galactic Center, Arthur huffily replied,

Let us say it was not precisely tea with the Queen.

Every now and then Arthur would use these archaic expressions from the Old Time and

nobody knew what they meant, but Arthur never seemed to notice. He had others, such as

Warts and all -- some big enough to hang a hat on.

When plasma discharges sent burnt-gold lattices across the entire sector of the night sky,

Arthur observed

Any sufficiently advanced technology at the Center will appear to be a natural

phenomenon.

He was right, of course. Mech constructions swam in gossamer profusion within a few

light-years. No one knew what the mechs were doing at Galactic Center, beyond the obvious

point that here the raw energies and particle fluxes favored their kind. Not only were they

less vulnerable to the cutting climate, they seemed to have a larger purpose.

Arthur regaled Paris with tales of how grand the earlier human eras had been, one of his

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

AHungerfortheInfinite(v1.1)GregoryBenford,1999DEATHCAMEINONSIXTEENLEGS.Ifitispossibletolookcomposedwhilesomethingangularandominousishaulingyouupoutofyourhidingplace,athingbarbedandhardandwithagun-legjammedsnugagainstyourthroat--thenAhmihiwascomposed.HehadbeentheExecoftheNoachian'Semblyfordecadesandk...

展开>> 收起<<

Gregory Benford - Galactic Center - A Hunger for the Infinit.pdf

共27页,预览10页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Gregory Benford - Galactic Center - A Hunger for the Infinit

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: