Not the funniest of T.P.’s books, but still a good old twist to the classical Sci-Fi/fantasy party of three chosen to save the world. Question of the day : « who built our universe ? ».
As often, the question is to be looked introspectively.
Quotes from the book :
[incipit]
« It was, of course, a beautiful day - a Company brochure day. At the moment Kin's office overlooked a palm-fringed lagoon. White water broke over the outer reef, and the beach was of crushed white coral and curious shells.
No brochure would have shown the nightmare bulk of the pontoon-mounted strata machine, the small model for islands and atolls under fifteen kilometres.
As Kin watched, another metre of beach spilled out of the big back hopper. She wondered about the pilot's name. There was genius in that line of beach. A man who could lay down a beach like that, with the shells just right, deserved better things. But then, perhaps he was a Thoreau type who just liked islands. You got them sometimes; shy silent types who preferred to drift across the ocean after the volcano teams, dreamily laying complicated archipelagos with indecent skill. She'd have to ask.
She leant over her desk and called up the area engineer. »
[meme reflexion]
« Once upon a time astrohistorians had thought in terms of a vast, empty starry stage, a blank canvas waiting for the brush of life. In fact it was now understood that Life of a kind had appeared within three micro-seconds of the monobloc's explosion. If it hadn't, the universe would now be randomized matter. It was Life which had directed its growth. Life had once resided in the vast spinning dust clouds that became stars - every star was the skeleton of one of the great dust-accreting dinosaurs of the universe's Jurassic.
Later lifeforms had been smaller, brighter. Some, like the Wheelers, had been evolutionary dead ends. Some, notably the Great Spindle Kings and the shameleons, had been successful in the only way that evolution measured success - they survived longer. But even star-striding races died. The universe was tombs upon graves upon mausoleums. The comet that brightened the pagan skies was the abraded corpse of a scientist, three eons ago.
The Policy of the Company was simple. It was: make Man immortal.
It would take a while, and had only just started. But if Man could be spread thinly on many different planets, so that he became many types of Man, perhaps he would survive. The Spindles had died because they were so alike. Now, upon dozens of worlds, men were being changed by different forces, maddened by difterent moons, bent by difterent gravities.
Since the universe could not be said to have a natural ending, because the universe was not natural but only the sum of the lives that had shaped it, Men intended to live forever. Why not?
Preserve meme pools, preserve ideas, that was the secret. If you had a hundred planets there was room for different sciences, curious beliefs, new techniques, old religions to flourish in quiet corners. Earth had been one united civilization and had nearly perished once because of it. Diversify enough, and somewhere you'll always find someone capable of catching anything the future throws at you.
People on a disc guarded by demons and ringed with a waterfall, what memes would they contribute to the genetics of civilization? She tried to explain to Marco.
'What are memes? said Marco.
Memes are - ideas, attitudes, concepts, techniques, said Kin. 'Mental genes. Trouble is, all the memes likely to develop on the disc are host-destructive. Anthro-
pocentricity is one.' »
[we are the Gods]
« 'We built the universe, didn't we,' she said. 'Not us precisely, these lumps of bone and brain, but the thing in us that makes us what we are. The thing that dreams while the rest of us is asleep. »