Otherness Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: David Brin
I drop.
You won't have me, ALAS. You won't.
I am a bad man. I suppose, all told, I've done more good than evil in my life, but that's incidental, a product of happenstance and the bizarre caprices of the world.
I have no control over the world, but I can make my own decisions, at least. As I make this one now.
Down, out of my high research tower, I've come. Into the streets, where the teeming clinics fester and broil. That is where I work now. And it doesn't matter to me that I'm behaving no differently from anyone else today. They are all marionettes. They think they're acting altruistically, but I know they are your puppets, ALAS.
But I am a man , do you hear me? I make my own decisions.
Fever wracks my body now, as I drag myself from bed to bed, holding their hands when they stretch them out to me for comfort, doing what I can to ease their suffering, to save a few.
You'll not have me, ALAS.
This is what I choose to do.
Myth Number 21
Elvis roams the open interstates in a big white cadillac.
It has to be him. Flywheel-bus and commuter-zep riders see plumes of dust trailing like rocket exhaust behind something too fast and glittery to be tracked with the naked eye?
Squint, though, and you might glimpse him behind the wheel, steering with one wrist, fiddling the radio dial, then reaching for that always frosty can of beer. "Thank you, honey," he tells the blonde next to him as he steps on the accelerator.
Roar of V-8 power. Freedom-smell of gasoline. Clean wind blowing back his hair . . . Elvis hoots and lifts one arm to wave at all true Americans who still believe in him.
Chatty Net-zines run blurry pictures of him. "Fakes!" claim those snooty tech types, ignored by the faithful who collect grand old TwenCen automobiles and polish them, saving ration coupons for the once-a-year spin, meeting at the nearest Graceland Shrine for a day of chrome and music and speed and glory.
They stop at ghostly, abandoned filling stations, checking for signs that he's been by. Some claim to find pumps freshly used, reading "empty" yet somehow reeking of high octane. Others point to black, bold tire tracks, or claim his music can be heard in the coyotes' midnight serenade.
Elvis roams the open interstates in a big white cadillac. How else to explain the traces some have found, sparkling like fairy dust across the fading yellow lines?
A pollen of happier days . . . the glitter of rhinestones.
Story Notes
The preceding little fable, cribbed from my novel Earth , is an example of the supershort story, which some call a "drabble." Collections have been published in the 100- and 750-word categories, but my favorite length is precisely 250.
"The Giving Plague" was a reflection on the times, written as the first deadly pandemic of postindustrial society shattered our brief, blithe illusion that the old dangers were behind us. AIDS has transformed the way people look upon each other, the world, and life itself. The cruel ironies of disease and death were poignant for most of human history, when illness was a dark mystery. Now, as we unravel the genetic codes and begin looking our enemies in the face, so to speak, the paradoxes seem only to multiply. Symbiosis and genetic "negotiation" are also contemplated as themes in a novel I wrote with Gregory Benford, Heart of the Comet .
One editor rejected "The Giving Plague" because he thought it "irresponsible to undermine confidence in the blood supply." I leave it to the reader to compare that unique proposition to the tale itself and decide which is more far-fetched. Fortunately, weighty matters of public policy remain unaffected by scary SF tales . . . even those that become Hugo nominees.
Coming up next, "Dr. Pak's Preschool" seems a natural extrapolation of the "enrichment parenting" craze that's sweeping not only Japan, but yuppie America and elsewhere, as well. Having recently embarked on fatherhood, I know the temptations all too well!
The story after that,
You won't have me, ALAS. You won't.
I am a bad man. I suppose, all told, I've done more good than evil in my life, but that's incidental, a product of happenstance and the bizarre caprices of the world.
I have no control over the world, but I can make my own decisions, at least. As I make this one now.
Down, out of my high research tower, I've come. Into the streets, where the teeming clinics fester and broil. That is where I work now. And it doesn't matter to me that I'm behaving no differently from anyone else today. They are all marionettes. They think they're acting altruistically, but I know they are your puppets, ALAS.
But I am a man , do you hear me? I make my own decisions.
Fever wracks my body now, as I drag myself from bed to bed, holding their hands when they stretch them out to me for comfort, doing what I can to ease their suffering, to save a few.
You'll not have me, ALAS.
This is what I choose to do.
Myth Number 21
Elvis roams the open interstates in a big white cadillac.
It has to be him. Flywheel-bus and commuter-zep riders see plumes of dust trailing like rocket exhaust behind something too fast and glittery to be tracked with the naked eye?
Squint, though, and you might glimpse him behind the wheel, steering with one wrist, fiddling the radio dial, then reaching for that always frosty can of beer. "Thank you, honey," he tells the blonde next to him as he steps on the accelerator.
Roar of V-8 power. Freedom-smell of gasoline. Clean wind blowing back his hair . . . Elvis hoots and lifts one arm to wave at all true Americans who still believe in him.
Chatty Net-zines run blurry pictures of him. "Fakes!" claim those snooty tech types, ignored by the faithful who collect grand old TwenCen automobiles and polish them, saving ration coupons for the once-a-year spin, meeting at the nearest Graceland Shrine for a day of chrome and music and speed and glory.
They stop at ghostly, abandoned filling stations, checking for signs that he's been by. Some claim to find pumps freshly used, reading "empty" yet somehow reeking of high octane. Others point to black, bold tire tracks, or claim his music can be heard in the coyotes' midnight serenade.
Elvis roams the open interstates in a big white cadillac. How else to explain the traces some have found, sparkling like fairy dust across the fading yellow lines?
A pollen of happier days . . . the glitter of rhinestones.
Story Notes
The preceding little fable, cribbed from my novel Earth , is an example of the supershort story, which some call a "drabble." Collections have been published in the 100- and 750-word categories, but my favorite length is precisely 250.
"The Giving Plague" was a reflection on the times, written as the first deadly pandemic of postindustrial society shattered our brief, blithe illusion that the old dangers were behind us. AIDS has transformed the way people look upon each other, the world, and life itself. The cruel ironies of disease and death were poignant for most of human history, when illness was a dark mystery. Now, as we unravel the genetic codes and begin looking our enemies in the face, so to speak, the paradoxes seem only to multiply. Symbiosis and genetic "negotiation" are also contemplated as themes in a novel I wrote with Gregory Benford, Heart of the Comet .
One editor rejected "The Giving Plague" because he thought it "irresponsible to undermine confidence in the blood supply." I leave it to the reader to compare that unique proposition to the tale itself and decide which is more far-fetched. Fortunately, weighty matters of public policy remain unaffected by scary SF tales . . . even those that become Hugo nominees.
Coming up next, "Dr. Pak's Preschool" seems a natural extrapolation of the "enrichment parenting" craze that's sweeping not only Japan, but yuppie America and elsewhere, as well. Having recently embarked on fatherhood, I know the temptations all too well!
The story after that,
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