Wall Around a Star

TWENTY-TWO

In the great contest, the being that had once been Jen Babylon had only very limited assets. He was a fusion of many beings, but the fusion was incomplete; while the Ov­ermind that stood against him was a synthesis of thousands of billions. HE needed no allies. Babylon might have needed many, but had only two: a troubled T'Worlie and a terrified ape.

The Superbeing was very old, and quite unused to being denied HIS own way. HE had been created for the specific purpose of absorbing lesser beings into HIMSELF. There was no opposition. In the first instance, it had been the lesser beings themselves who created the first crude, tiny prototype of the Overmind, for the immense destruction at the core of their galaxy gave them no other hope to sur­vive. Later there was the example of the thousand earlier races who had let themselves be swallowed into HIS maj­esty—sometimes with joy. More often not; but the spur of the explosion at their galaxy's heart had always been enough. So it had been easy for HIM. It had at the last become routine. As the plan progressed and the ark was being prepared, new races reached intelligence, or were discovered, or found their own way into the galactic inter­change; and then HE would choose a member of that race to answer for all, give him the knowledge of what was and what was to be—and accept them into HIMSELF. There had never been any resistance—how could there be?

But now, unbelievably, there was!

For Jen Babylon, and all the parts that made up the huger Jen Babylon, were born of a galactic culture that recognized individual differences and even prized them. Babylon was not merely struggling for the physical safety of his galaxy, but for its soul.

It was a matter of right! The right of Jen Babylon to choose his own field of study, and select his own way of life; of Te'ehala Tupaia to sacrifice himself on the altar of an ideal; of Doc Chimp to allow himself to be killed, and killed again, and still cling to existence. The force that fed Babylon was the total of the rights of even those who de­nied those rights, the Boaty-Bits and the Sheliaks; of the TWorlie and the Watchers and all the myriad unnamed galactic peoples; of the Zaras and the Davids, and Org Riders, and both Jen Babylons and both Tupaias, and the countless Ben Pertins and Doc Chimps—

For they each and all had a right and a built-in direc­tive: to carry on their lives. To do the thing most important to any living thing: to live.

They were not in any way sacred, not even to each other. Not even to themselves. Time and again, the races of the Galaxy had often destroyed each other. Certainly they had worked at cross-purposes. Each had moved on its own trajectory, with all their myriad myriad problems and con­frontations and prejudices and hopes each tugging them in a different direction.

But, over time, there was always a sort of vector effect that summed the individual impassioned drives. Slowly, slowly, with many backtrackings and countless.hesitations, the life of all those beings slowly became—not happier, not more successful, not more comfortable— But more meaningful.

The purpose of life, one of his professors had once told Jen Babylon, is to learn the purpose of life.

And it was now Jen Babylon's task to allow that purpose to be carried out.

Babylon, the physical, mortal Babylon, sighed deeply, raised his head, and confronted the Superbeing. He said steadily, 'Tell me what you want."

to save you. to take into ourself every sentient * our galaxy."

"That," Babylon cried, "you may not do! We don't want to be parts of a collective intelligence! We are individuals, and we mean to stay that way!"

"untrue. only partly true."

"I grant," Babylon said desperately, "that there are ex­ceptions—the collective intelligences, like the Boaty-Bits. But they are our horrible example! Because they are col­lective, they stopped evolving long and long ago—while the rest of us continued to grow! It is conflict—the conflict of ideas and goals—that brings progress!"

"xt brings destruction."

"Yes," Babylon agreed, "sometimes it brings that, too. But that is our choice. We will not permit you to devour us."

Silence, while the Great Being pondered this new fact of resistance and Babylon stole a covert look across the vast chamber. The distant figure of Doc Chimp, which had bounded so swiftly away, was toiling laboriously back, and it carried something softly gleaming, and bigger than Doc himself.

Something flashed before Babylon's eyes, filmy and bright-colored; it hung before him with its five bright eyes peering into his. It chirped frantically: "Dr. Babylon! You must not!"

"I must," said Babylon, reaching out with clumsy sym­pathy to the T'Worlie; but it shrieked in agony, like a ca­nary on the rack, and fluttered clumsily away.

The shape of whirling bits stirred restlessly and the Great Being spoke: "you have no choice," it said reason­ably, and Babylon shook his head.

"Neither of us has a choice," he pointed out. "I deny you the right to absorb us into yourself! And I warn you that if you try, it will be the end of you."

"that is not possible. you are weak. i am strong."

"It is your strength that will destroy you," Babylon said wearily, turning to gaze at Doc Chimp, toiling nearer with the great, murderous weapon in the form of a translucent block that had come—so long ago!—from the wrecked ship. "You see," he said, stretching and gazing down at the distant sun, "we know where we are. This is one of your octant control centers. If my primate friend there fires that weapon it will knock out your controls. That electronic sheath will break down, and how long will it be then before one of your atomic rings disintegrates? And after that—"

He shrugged. He did not need to say any more. The T'Worlie had spelled it all out, and surely this immense mind would not need to have it repeated. He gazed regret­fully at Mimmie, who was stricken with horror at what was going on. Somehow the T'Worlie would have to be made well again . . . Somehow something must be done to re­pair the damaged lives all around him, the grotesque child that Zara Doy was clutching to her, the agonies that they had all suffered . . . Somehow . . . Something.

But what? What could make all this suffering worth­while?

"Freedom," he said aloud, and turned again to the clus­tered shape that confronted him. "You see, it's a standoff. If you don't leave us alone you will be destroyed yourself."

The silence protracted itself, and then the Great Being spoke—its voice slower than before, almost hesitant, "your galaxy is doomed," it protested.

"No!" Babylon said sharply. "It is in danger, but it is not doomed. You failed to control the explosion in the core of your own galaxy, but we will not fail. We will find a way to contain the explosion."

Pause. Then, "how?"

Babylon cried angrily, "I don't know how; I only know that there must be a way. Somehow! Maybe a super-Dyson sphere, enclosing the core—" "such technology does not exist."

"Of course not! Not yet! But it can. I know that no race in the galaxy has the structural materials or the engineer­ing skill—they're both orders of magnitude beyond any­thing that has ever been attempted. But they are not im­possible! And we have time! Thousands of years at least! Especially . . . especially if we work together." And when Babylon had said that he stopped. He had said it all. The decision was no longer his.

The silence was longest of all, while Doc Chimp stood firm but fearful at the keyboard of the strange weapon, skinny arms poised like the mad organist under Notre Dame, while all the other beings waited—while a galaxy waited.

And at last the Superbeing spoke. "i do not know if it is possible. but it is true that there is time."

There was an unheard sound, like a great worldwide sigh. Babylon pressed his advantage: "And you'll let us do it? You'll release the Kooks and let them return to normal life? Withdraw your slave machines from the galaxy?"

"i will."

"And we'll try to build a wall around the core together?"

"we will."

"And when it's done—"

"when it's done- "

"You will leave us alone?"

"no. will make copies. will take copies. will leave originals."

Babylon thought hard. Take copies?

He said slowly, "And then you will leave our galaxy for­ever?"

"forever. with copies."

Babylon nodded. Ten thousand years at least, maybe more. Time in which great changes could occur.

"All right,' he said, "we have agreed. You will help us try to contain the core. Whether it succeeds or fails, you will then go on to another galaxy, making copies of every intelligence in our galaxy and taking them into your­self . . ."

And he did not add:

If you can.