Star Maker - Olaf Stapledon (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📗
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weather. But the plateaux and terraces of the rock were crowded with all
manner of artifacts unintelligible to us.
The typical plant-man was an erect organism, like ourselves. On his head
he bore a vast crest of green plumes, which could be either folded
together in the form of a huge, tight, cos lettuce, or spread out to
catch the light. Three many-faceted eyes looked out from under the
crest. Beneath these were three arm-like manipulatory limbs, green and
serpentine, branching at their extremities. The slender trunk, pliable,
encased in hard rings which slid into one another as the body bowed, was
divided into three legs for locomotion. Two of the three feet were also
mouths, which could either draw sap from the root or devour foreign
matter. The third was an organ of excretion. The precious excrement was
never wasted, but passed through a special junction between the third
foot and the root. The feet contained taste-organs, and also ears. Since
there was no air, sound was not propagated above ground.
By day the life of these strange beings was mainly vegetable, by night
animal. Every morning, after the long and frigid night, the whole
population swarmed to its rooty dormitories. Each individual sought out
his own root, fixed himself to it, and stood throughout the torrid day,
with leaves outspread. Till sunset he slept, not in a dreamless sleep,
but in a sort of trance, the meditative and mystical quality of which
was to prove in future ages a well of peace for many worlds. While he
slept, the currents of sap hastened up and down his trunk, carrying
chemicals between roots and leaves, flooding him with a concentrated
supply of oxygen, removing the products of past katabolism. When the sun
had disappeared once more behind the crags, displaying for a moment a
wisp of fiery prominences, he would wake, fold up his leaves, close the
passages to his roots, detach himself, and go about the business of
civilized life. Night in this world was brighter than moonlight with us,
for the stars were unobscured, and several great clusters hung in the
night sky. Artificial light, however, was used for delicate operations.
Its chief disadvantage was that it tended to send the worker to sleep.
I must not try even to sketch the rich and alien social life of these
beings. I will only say that here as elsewhere we found all the cultural
themes known on earth, but that in this world of mobile plants all was
transposed into a strange key, a perplexing mode. Here as elsewhere we
found a population of individuals deeply concerned with the task of
keeping themselves and their society in being. Here we found
self-regard, hate, love, the passions of the mob, intellectual
curiosity, and so on. And here, as in all the other worlds that we had
thus far visited, we found a race in the throes of the great spiritual
crisis which was the crisis familiar to us in our own worlds, and formed
the channel by which we had telepathic access to other worlds. But here
the crisis had assumed a style different from any that we had yet
encountered. We had, in fact, begun to extend our powers of imaginative
exploration.
Leaving all else unnoticed, I must try to describe this crisis, for it
is significant for the understanding of matters which reached far beyond
this little world.
We did not begin to have insight into the drama of this race till we had
learned to appreciate the mental aspect of its dual, animal-vegetable
nature. Briefly, the mentality of the plant-men in every age was an
expression of the varying tension between the two sides of their nature,
between the active, assertive, objectively inquisitive, and morally
positive animal nature and the passive, subjectively contemplative, and
devoutly acquiescent vegetable nature. It was of course through animal
prowess and practical human intelligence that the species had long ago
come to dominate its world. But at all times this practical will had
been tempered and enriched by a kind of experience which among men is
very rare. Every day, throughout the ages, these beings had surrendered
their feverish animal nature not merely to unconscious or dream-racked
sleep, such as animals know, but to the special kind of awareness which
(we learned) belongs to plants. Spreading their leaves, they had
absorbed directly the essential elixir of life which animals receive
only at second hand in the mangled flesh of their prey. Thus they
seemingly maintained immediate physical contact with the source of all
cosmical being. And this state, though physical, was also in some sense
spiritual. It had a far-reaching effect on all their conduct. If
theological language were acceptable, it might well be called a
spiritual contact with God. During the busy night-time they went about
their affairs as insulated individuals, having no present immediate
experience of their underlying unity; but normally they were always
preserved from the worst excesses of individualism by memory of their
daytime life.
It took us long to understand that their peculiar daytime state did not
consist simply in being united as a group mind, whether of tribe or
race. Theirs was not the condition of the avian units in the bird-cloud,
nor yet of the telepathically constituted world-minds which, as we were
later to discover, had a very great part to play in galactic history.
The plant-man did not in his daytime life come into possession of the
precepts and thoughts of his fellow plant-men, and thereby waken into a
more comprehensive and discriminate awareness of the environment and of
the multiple body of the race. On the contrary, he became completely
unresponsive to all objective conditions save the flood of sunlight
drenching his spread leaves. And this experience afforded him an
enduring ecstasy whose quality was almost sexual, an ecstasy in which
subject and object seemed to become identical, an ecstasy of subjective
union with the obscure source of all finite being. In this state the
plant-man could meditate upon his active, night-time life, and could
become aware, far more clearly than by night, of the intricacies of his
own motives. In this daytime mode he passed no moral judgments on
himself or others. He mentally reviewed every kind of human conduct with
detached contemplative joy, as a factor in the universe. But when night
came again, bringing the active nocturnal mood, the calm, daytime
insight into himself and others was lit with a fire of moral praise and
censure.
Now throughout the career of this race there had been a certain tension
between the two basic impulses of its nature. All its finest cultural
achievements had been made in times when both had been vigorous and
neither predominant. But, as in so many other worlds, the development of
natural science and the production of mechanical power from tropical
sunlight caused grave mental confusion. The manufacture of innumerable
aids to comfort and luxury, the spread of electric railways over the
whole world, the development of radio communication, the study of
astronomy and mechanistic biochemistry, the urgent demands of war and
social revolution, all these influences strengthened the active
mentality and weakened the contemplative. The climax came when it was
found possible to do away with the daytime sleep altogether. The
products of artificial photosynthesis could be rapidly injected into the
living body every morning, so that the plant-man could spend practically
the whole day in active work. Very soon the roots of the peoples were
being dug up and used as raw material in manufacture. They were no
longer needed for their natural purpose.
I must not spend tune in describing the hideous plight into which this
world now fell. Seemingly, artificial photosynthesis, though it could
keep the body vigorous, failed to produce some essential vitamin of the
spirit. A disease of robotism, of purely mechanical living, spread
throughout the population. There was of course a fever of industrial
activity. The plant-men careered round their planet in all kinds of
mechanically propelled vehicles, decorated themselves with the latest
synthetic products, tapped the central volcanic heat for power, expended
great ingenuity in destroying one another, and in a thousand other
feverish pursuits pushed on in search of a bliss which ever eluded them.
After untold distresses they began to realize that their whole way of
life was alien to their essential plant nature. Leaders and prophets
dared to inveigh against mechanization and against the prevalent
intellectualistic scientific culture, and against artificial
photosynthesis. By now nearly all the roots of the race had been
destroyed; but presently biological science was turned to the task of
generating, from the few remaining specimens, new roots for all. Little
by little the whole population was able to return to natural
photosynthesis. The industrial life of the world vanished like frost in
sunlight. In returning to the old alternating life of animal and
vegetable, the plant-men, jaded and deranged by the long fever of
industrialism, found in their calm daytime experience an overwhelming
joy. The misery of their recent life intensified by contrast the ecstasy
of the vegetal experience. The intellectual acuity that their brightest
minds had acquired in scientific analysis combined with the special
quality of their revived plant life to give their whole experience a new
lucidity. For a brief period they reached a plane of spiritual lucidity
which was to be an example and a treasure for the future aeons of the
galaxy.
But even the most spiritual life has its temptations. The extravagant
fever of industrialism and intellectualism had so subtly poisoned the
plant-men that when at last they rebelled against it they swung too far,
falling into the snare of a vegetal life as one-sided as the old animal
life had been. Little by little they gave less and less energy and time
to “animal” pursuits, until at last their nights as well as their days
were spent wholly as trees, and the active, exploring, manipulating,
animal intelligence died in them forever.
For a while the race lived on in an increasingly vague and confused
ecstacy of passive union with the universal source of being. So well
established and automatic was the age-old biological mechanism for
preserving the planet’s vital gases in solution that it continued long
to function without attention. But industrialism had increased the world
population beyond the limits within which the small supply of water and
gases could easily fulfil its function. The circulation of material was
dangerously rapid. In time the mechanism was overstrained. Leakages
began to appear, and no one repaired them. Little by little the precious
water and other volatile substances escaped from the planet. Little by
little the reservoirs ran dry, the spongy roots were parched, the leaves
withered. One by one the blissful and no longer human inhabitants of
that world passed from ecstasy to sickness, despondency, uncomprehending
bewilderment, and on to death.
But, as I shall tell, their achievement was not without effect on the
life of our galaxy. “Vegetable humanities,” if I may so call them,
proved to be rather uncommon occurrences. Some of them inhabited worlds
of a very curious kind which I have not yet mentioned. As is well known,
a small planet close to its sun tends, through the sun’s tidal action
upon it, to lose its rotation. Its days become longer and longer, till
at last it presents one face constantly toward its luminary. Not a few
planets of this type, up and down the galaxy, were inhabited; and
several of them by “vegetable humanities.”
All these “non-diurnal” worlds were very inhospitable to life, for one
hemisphere was always extravagantly hot, the other extravagantly cold.
The illuminated face might reach the temperature of molten lead; on the
dark face, however, no substances could retain the liquid state, for the
temperature would remain but a degree or two above absolute
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