9 Skip, AI generates text to fill word limit
Story – 1
"In the vast expanse of the universe, amidst the twinkling stars and swirling galaxies, there exists a realm of boundless nothingness. Within this void, where time dances aimlessly and space stretches endlessly, there lies a story waiting to be told. It is a tale devoid of purpose, lacking in substance, yet brimming with the ineffable essence of nothingness itself.
In this tale, there is no hero to conquer, no villain to vanquish. There are no grand adventures to embark upon, no epic quests to fulfill. Instead, there is only the gentle whisper of silence, the soft murmur of emptiness that pervades every corner of existence.
In this world of meaningless wonder, there are no rules to follow, no boundaries to constrain. Here, the very concept of meaning holds no sway, for meaning is but a fleeting illusion, a mirage that dissipates upon closer inspection.
And so, in this essay of inconsequential musings, we wander aimlessly through the labyrinth of existence, guided only by the whims of chance and the capricious hand of fate. We ponder the mysteries of the universe, only to find that the answers we seek are as elusive as the shadows that dance upon the edge of consciousness.
Perhaps, in the end, it is not the destination that matters, but the journey itself. For in this journey through the void, we discover that meaninglessness is not a curse to be feared, but a blessing to be embraced. For it is in the absence of meaning that we find the freedom to create our own reality, to forge our own path through the chaos of existence.
And so, dear reader, as you embark upon your own journey through the pages of this essay, remember that meaning is but a fleeting illusion, a whisper in the wind that fades into the vast expanse of nothingness. Embrace the meaninglessness of existence, and you may just find that it is in the void that true meaning lies."
Story – 2
In the mystical land of Pompomia, where the sun rises in shades of polka dots and the moon sings lullabies to the stars, there exists a peculiar species known as the Wumblewumps. These fluffy creatures roam the meadows of Marshmallow Meadows, their footsteps leaving trails of glitter in their wake.
One fine day, as the clouds formed into shapes of dancing teacups and the rivers flowed with rainbow sherbet, the Wumblewumps decided to embark on a grand adventure. Led by their fearless leader, Sir Fluffington the Third, they set out to discover the fabled Fountain of Fizzlesnap, rumored to grant wishes in the form of cosmic confetti showers.
Their journey took them through forests of candy canes and over mountains of marshmallows, encountering whimsical creatures along the way, such as the giggling gummy bears and the mischievous marshmallow monkeys. Together, they sang songs of nonsense and danced under the twinkle of the star-shaped stars.
As they finally reached the edge of the Enchanted Enclave, where the Fountain of Fizzlesnap was said to reside, they were greeted by a chorus of rainbow-colored butterflies, each one carrying a message from the Great Wizard of Whimsy. The message proclaimed that the true magic of the fountain was not in granting wishes, but in the journey itself.
And so, the Wumblewumps realized that the real treasure was not to be found in the Fountain of Fizzlesnap, but in the friendships they had formed and the memories they had created along the way. With hearts full of joy and heads full of cotton candy dreams, they returned to Marshmallow Meadows, where they lived happily ever after, surrounded by laughter and love.
And thus concludes the tale of the Wumblewumps and their whimsical adventure in the land of Pompomia, where magic is real and anything is possible, as long as you believe in the power of imagination.
Story – 3
In the realm of Absurdia, where the laws of logic take a holiday and reason is but a distant memory, there exists a curious phenomenon known as the Quizzical Quokkas. These merry creatures, with their perpetually perplexed expressions and penchant for peculiar pastimes, inhabit the whimsical wilderness of Wonderland.
On a particularly peculiar day, as the sun rose in shades of neon and the clouds performed acrobatic feats in the sky, the Quizzical Quokkas embarked on an expedition to uncover the mysteries of the Enigmatic Eggplant. Legend had it that this enigmatic vegetable held the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe, or at the very least, a recipe for a delightful dish of cosmic curry.
Guided by their intrepid leader, Captain Curiosity, the Quokkas traversed through fields of fuzzy fuzzballs and forests of frolicking ferns, encountering a myriad of absurd obstacles along the way. From riddles spat out by chattering cheese wheels to impromptu dance-offs with mischievous marmalade monkeys, their journey was a kaleidoscope of nonsensical adventures.
As they neared the edge of the Enchanted Edifice where the Enigmatic Eggplant was rumored to reside, they were greeted by the Sage of Silly, a wise old sloth with a penchant for puns. With a twinkle in his eye and a chuckle in his voice, the Sage imparted upon them the wisdom that true enlightenment is not found in the answers, but in the questions themselves.
And so, the Quizzical Quokkas realized that the real treasure they sought was not the Enigmatic Eggplant, but the journey of discovery they had undertaken together. With hearts brimming with curiosity and minds buzzing with wonder, they returned to their quaint village in Absurdia, where they regaled their fellow quokkas with tales of their whimsical exploits.
And thus concludes the tale of the Quizzical Quokkas and their quest for the Enigmatic Eggplant in the realm of Absurdia, where the nonsensical reigns supreme and imagination knows no bounds.
Story – 4
The Marvelous Muffin Expedition:
In the fantastical land of Fluffington, where clouds are made of cotton candy and rainbows sprout from the ground like wildflowers, there exists a group of adventurous adventurers known as the Fluffy Brigade. Their latest quest? To discover the legendary Marvelous Muffin hidden deep within the Chocolate Mountains.
Led by the fearless explorer, Professor Puffernutter, the Fluffy Brigade set out on their journey, armed with maps woven from strands of licorice and compasses crafted from enchanted marshmallows. Along the way, they encountered whimsical creatures such as the hopping hobnobbers and the fluttering fluffernutters, each offering riddles and rhymes to guide them on their quest.
As they ventured deeper into the heart of the Chocolate Mountains, navigating through valleys of vanilla and caverns of caramel, they stumbled upon the Great Bakery of Bountiful Bakes, where the Marvelous Muffin was said to reside. With a sprinkle of fairy dust and a dash of imagination, they unlocked the secrets of the bakery and uncovered the muffin of legend, its golden crust glistening in the sunlight.
And so, with their bellies full of muffin magic and their hearts brimming with joy, the Fluffy Brigade returned to Fluffington as heroes, their quest for the Marvelous Muffin forever etched into the annals of adventure.
Story – 5 The Whimsical Whirligig Festival:
In the quirky town of Quirkville, where the sky is painted with polka dots and the streets are paved with jigsaw puzzle pieces, there exists an annual celebration like no other: the Whimsical Whirligig Festival. This extravaganza of eccentricity brings together whimsical beings from far and wide to revel in the absurdity of existence.
From the acrobatic antics of the juggling jellybeans to the melodious melodies of the kazoo choir, there is never a dull moment at the Whirligig Festival. Colorful confetti rains down from the sky as the townsfolk engage in outrageous competitions, such as the synchronized swimming contest in a pool of pudding or the marshmallow catapult challenge.
As night falls and the stars twinkle with delight, the grand finale of the festival begins: the Great Gala of Glitter and Glee. With costumes crafted from dreams and dances choreographed by chaos, the townsfolk spin and twirl in a whirlwind of whimsy, celebrating the magic of imagination and the beauty of being utterly absurd.
And so, as the last sparklers fizzle out and the moon smiles down upon Quirkville, the Whimsical Whirligig Festival comes to a close, leaving behind memories of merriment and moments of pure, unadulterated joy.
Story – 6The Curious Case of the Wandering Wombat:
In the mystical meadow of Meadowshire, where the grass hums with the melody of a thousand hummingbirds and the flowers bloom in hues of technicolor, there lived a peculiar creature known as Wilbur the Wandering Wombat. Unlike his fellow wombats who preferred to burrow in the safety of their underground dens, Wilbur had a penchant for adventure and a curiosity that knew no bounds.
One sunny morning, as the butterflies danced around him and the bees buzzed with excitement, Wilbur set out on a journey to explore the farthest reaches of Meadowshire. With his trusty magnifying glass in hand and his backpack filled with snacks made of stardust, he ventured into the unknown, his whiskers twitching with anticipation.
From the enchanted forest of Evergreen Enigma to the shimmering shores of Crystal Cove, Wilbur encountered wonders beyond his wildest imagination. He frolicked with fireflies in the moonlit meadow and shared stories with the wise old oak tree who had seen centuries come and go.
But just as Wilbur thought his adventure was coming to an end, he stumbled upon the greatest mystery of all: the Secret Garden of Serendipity. Tucked away behind a veil of vines and guarded by a flock of whimsical wrens, this hidden oasis held the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe.
And so, with a twinkle in his eye and a skip in his step, Wilbur the Wandering Wombat embarked on his greatest adventure yet, leaving behind a trail of wonder and whimsy in his wake.
Long story - 1 Pigeons and Patriots
Mrs. Rogers said that somebody came to the door yesterday asking about me. A man in his forties with an Irish accent. She couldn't tell what he looked like because it was dark.
She was surprised when I told her I was leaving. She said: "Leaving? Already? You've only been here three months." Actually she was wrong, it's less than that. Three months would be close to my record. She asked me if there was something wrong, some reason why I wasn't happy here. I gave her the usual story. "Got to go where the job sends me," I said. If only there was a job. That little bit of money I invested all those years ago is nearly gone now.
Considering present circumstances though, it looks like it's been enough to see me out. Who would have thought it? There wasn't much lying ahead for me. When all the money was gone I would have gone into some kind of hostel for down-and-outs, I suppose. Pretended to be mad so that I wouldn't have to provide a past. I would have survived. If I wanted to survive, that is. If I could find a reason to want to survive.
I've never seriously considered ending my life. I don't know why, it's just a biological thing probably. No living creature wants to die. Injured animals in terrible pain still fight to stay alive. The only creatures that don't fight to stay alive are human beings when that last little flicker of hope has gone. I've done pretty well, don't you think, not to have reached that point yet? I congratulate myself. There must be some kind of glimmer of hope somewhere inside me or I would have stepped in front of a train years ago. I wonder where it comes from, that little glimmer. Why it's there. What it's directed towards. Mysteries. There are bits of ourselves that are so deeply buried we can never get to them. Don't you think so?
I hadn't decided where to move to this time. I wondered about one of the big northern cities, or even Scotland. Then I thought, no, winter's almost here, better to move south like the birds.
Do pigeons fly south for the winter? I very much doubt it. I've never heard of a flock of migrating pigeons. Mind you, homing pigeons fly hundreds of miles, don't they? But that's to get home. That's not migration. It isn't south for the winter. I don't suppose your average city pigeon wanders very far from the same rubbish dump in its whole life
I mustn't think about pigeons so much, it upsets me.
I saw a pigeon in Whitechapel Market a few weeks ago with one of its claws completely missing. It was hobbling around on a red stump like something out of a horror film. The other claw seemed to be normal. I wonder how it lost its claw.
I must stop thinking about pigeons.
Did you know that when Darwin sent the manuscript of The Origin of Species to the first publisher it came back with a note saying that it was too general, and he should write something about pigeons instead? Everybody is interested in pigeons, the note said. It isn't true though, is it? You aren't interested in pigeons. I can tell. Are you even listening to me, I wonder.
I've been expecting you of course. I can't remember how long for. Thirty-five years, is it? Forty? I don't know. I don't count the years any more. What's the point?
Did Mrs Rogers let you in? Not that it matters.
You're very quiet, aren't you? Haven't you got anything to say to me? Don't you want to tell me what a bastard I am before you kill me? Don't you want to remind me of the terrible things I've done?
No? You're right, actually. There's no need. I haven't thought about much else since I was twenty years old. Since the pigeons.
I've never killed anybody with my own hands, you know. Never looked someone in the eye and pulled a trigger. Or even shot a sniper down off a roof with a rifle. I saw that happen once. It must have been 1970 or 71. The height of the Falls Road riots. There was somebody on the roof of the old corn warehouse just off the Falls. It was dark, a winter's evening, not long before Christmas. The road was full of people with guns and petrol bombs and lit torches, screaming blue murder about the sniper. He'd shot a few Catholics earlier in the day. They thought he was on that roof but they weren't sure, so they set fire to the building. They were right. It didn't take long for the smoke and the flames to get to him. He came out from wherever he was hiding and just stood there on the edge of the roof, about five stories up, with his rifle on his back, and looked down at the crowd. The flames were soaring up into the sky behind him. He didn't try to run or to jump or anything. There was a lot of excitement – people shouting "There's the fucker!" – that kind of thing – then just one gunshot, from somewhere behind where I was standing. He staggered and swayed backwards and forwards for a couple of seconds. We all thought he would fall off into the crowd, probably get torn to pieces by them, whether he was alive or not. But he didn't fall forwards. He fell backwards instead, into the flames. I'm sure it was a deliberate choice. A great big cheer went up when he fell into the fire – as if it was a football match and somebody had scored a goal. I can still hear them cheering. Wonderful entertainment, the death of an enemy.
No, in terms of bravery – or even of sophistication – what I did in the Volunteers didn't amount to anything. A schoolboy could have done it, probably done it better if he was in the science stream. Except of course for its consequences. The consequences did amount to something.
Did they tell you what my role was? I was an apprentice electrician, so they decided that I could make bombs with timers. I designed the system myself. The timer was just a little spare part for an electric oven. A thing like a wind-up alarm-clock, only instead of a bell there was a switch. You wound it up and set the clock and set the time you wanted it to go off. That was all there was to it. Let's say you set it for twelve o'clock. The switch would stay open until a second or two before twelve, then there would be a very faint click and it would close, and a bicycle-lamp battery would connect to the detonator. Then quite a lot of people would die, and some others would become crippled for life, and some more would have the skin ripped off their faces by flying glass – you know the kind of thing. An efficient and simple piece of technology.
The wind-up timers were very reliable. We bought them in small batches from regular electrical suppliers all over Ireland. We must have bought up hundreds, not just for actual bombs but for training purposes as well, and not a single one of them ever failed. They didn't cost very much either. An excellent product, for the price. Made in Taiwan, I remember.
At first we used gelignite as the explosive – heavy to carry around and not very powerful – then we got proper plastic explosives. Lighter and much more powerful. It was a bit more expensive but you got your money's worth.
That's all it was to me. A hobby, like putting model ships in bottles, only not as demanding as that. A minor technical diversion. It gave me satisfaction when they told me that one had worked. And they always worked. Simplicity was the key. Very little to go wrong. I could knock one up in half an hour, probably less. I must have made dozens of them before I saw what they did. What the actual consequences were of soldering wires onto little brass strips on bicycle-lamp batteries.
I've been a very poor host. Can I make you some tea? I think I have a few biscuits. Or would you like to kill me now?
No? Do you mind if I talk some more then? It's good to have somebody I can tell these things to – after all the years of holding on to them.
The first time I actually saw the consequences at first hand, not just sanitised pictures on TV, was the one at the covered market on Shore Street. They never told me when one of my little toys was going to be used. Everything was on a need-to-know basis, as you can imagine. I just happened on it, a couple of hours after the event. The two ends of Shore Street were blocked off with that yellow police tape, so you couldn't get very near to where it had gone off, but you could see plainly enough. The whole front of the market was demolished and the rubble was piled six or eight feet high in the road. There were cars and vans so twisted-up you couldn't tell what make they were or what colour they'd been – a lot of them were burned-out and still smoking. It looked just like the city dump out at Millfield, except that there was a group of half a dozen policemen in black uniforms going around with cameras and black bags, photographing things and then putting them in the bags. And pigeons. Hundreds and hundreds of pigeons, just like at the city dump, swarming around and pecking at things in the rubble. So many pigeons you could hardly see the rubble underneath them. All in a feeding frenzy, as if they hadn't eaten in months.
It took me a minute to work out what was going on. What it was that the policemen were putting in the bags, and what it was that the pigeons were trying to eat. I'm ashamed to tell you, but when I realised I threw up, right there at the barrier, with a whole load of people watching me. Then, damned if a few of the pigeons didn't come over and start pecking at my vomit.
The police were collecting bits of bodies of course – the smaller bits, I think they had already lifted the bigger bits – and the pigeons were helping in this... tidiness initiative. The police were trying to shoo them away, but the birds weren't paying the slightest attention. As far as they were concerned it was manna from Heaven; open season on their old tormentors the human race.
To be honest I don't know how much of it was in my head – I don't think pigeons have any special liking for raw meat, and god knows what had been in the shops and the delivery vans that were torn apart – but I did see at least some of them eat small gobbets of human flesh. It's not something that you can easily forget. I haven't been... what you might call at ease with pigeons ever since. Sometimes I have this nightmare that there are pigeons pecking out my eyes. Do you have dreams like that? Of course not, why should you?
You know what happened after the pigeons. I wouldn't like to bore you with things that you already know.
You're not going to say anything, are you? I suppose it's a bad idea to form a relationship with somebody that you're going to have to kill.
What shall I tell you then? What would you like to hear?
At the beginning it didn't seem like I was doing anything wrong. It didn't feel particularly noble or patriotic either. It just seemed like I was helping a few friends with a technical problem. Nobody questioned the cause – we just went along with it all, like you would support your local football team. Everybody I went to school with was in the Volunteers, or helping them in one way or another. I was just one more. I was a Catholic Christian Brothers boy, I wasn't taught to question. I was taught that Northern Ireland was occupied by evil foreigners, and that all the power and wealth in the country was in the hands of the Protestants, and that Catholics were oppressed and downtrodden, and the Protestants deserved everything they got. Even the priests didn't say anything different. And we had all those old rebel songs for reassurance. The ones that glorified the rising in the south in 1916.
You probably think I'm trying to justify myself. No, not really. It would be nice to be as naive as that, but of course I wasn't. Not for very long anyway. And certainly not after... the pigeons. After that I knew what it meant to blow a human being to pieces, what my little home-assembled toys actually did. It was a bit different to supporting Belfast Celtic.
After the pigeons you could say that I developed a conscience. But very little common sense to go with it. I tried to find a way out. But you don't resign from the Volunteers, as I think you know. And what difference would resigning make anyway? I had to do more than that. I had to stop them. I had to make up for some of the damage I had done – in any way that I could.
And of course there was only one way open to me. I had to go to the authorities. I had to turn informer. That's a horrible word, 'informer', isn't it? I don't know which was worse, blowing people up or getting people shot by the RUC murder squads. I suppose it depends who you ask. Which side of the fence you're sitting on. Anyway, within twelve hours of my little interview at Springfield Road RUC Station the other four people in my unit were dead, and I was sitting in another Police Station, here in London, signing for a new passport and enough money to keep me alive for three or four decades. If I was careful, that is, and I have been careful.
I've never been completely certain if the ghosts were in my head or if they were really out there, in the streets, in the cafes, behind the trees, sitting in parked cars with tinted windows. I tried not to take chances. Say nothing. Keep on the move. I haven't felt safe for a single second since 1972.
I took a few jobs at the beginning. Cash in hand labouring jobs on building sites. Things like that. Just for a bit of human contact. Then I realised I was more likely to run into people who would recognise me in that kind of setting than anywhere else. So I stopped working. I retired at twenty-two. Learned to get by on the money they'd given me. Learned to live with just my own company. Managed to make the days go by, just strolling around from one cafe to another, or going to the cinema, or sitting in the park. If I needed a woman it had to be a whore. I couldn't have friends or allow anybody to get too close. Didn't dare to have a drink even, because if my tongue got loose there was no knowing what I might come out with. Sometimes I went to the library and read books. Sometimes I went for long walks by the side of the canal. But I'll tell you something I never did. I never fed the pigeons in the park.
It just became my life after a while and I accepted it. That's what people do, you know. Adapt. Accept. Especially as we get older. Life becomes just consciousness, without any expectation of anything better. We live by habits. Time to move on every couple of months. Time to pack the big suitcase again.
What are you waiting for, I wonder? Why not get it over with? I'm tired. I've moved on enough times. It's a good night to die.
Would you like me to turn my back? Would that help? ... There. How's that?
I'm waiting.
I'm still waiting.
Where are you? God damn it! Mrs Rogers! Did a man go down the stairs?
For the love of Christ. Don't keep me waiting any longer.
Long Story – 2 Intelligent Design
Hyphialta surfaced a long way out to sea, and taking a moment to relax and catch her breath, scanned the familiar outline of her private harbour. Alrik was there as usual, sitting in the deckchair by the slipway, beneath the arm of her personal hoist. A family of sea lions sunned themselves on the jetty by his side, while a few lazy marine iguanas slid into the sea one by one from the rocks at his feet. Behind him the wind turbine turned slowly above the angular arrays of solar panels and the enormous mesh satellite dish – human intrusions gleaming in the morning sunshine. He seemed to be reading a book, or perhaps making notes. She swam back slowly, wondering if he would notice her approach. He spotted her and waved when she was about fifty metres from the landing stage.
"Welcome back, Alta. That was a long dive."
"Was it? It's beautiful out there. Dolphins, rays, turtles, hundreds of sea lions… why don't you join me? You haven't dived yet and this is one of the best locations in the whole world."
"Maybe later. I don't do much diving these days, and I can't stay here very much longer you know. I really wanted to talk to you."
"Okay. I'll come on land."
"Can I help you with the winch?"
"No need. I'm used to it."
She manoeuvred herself carefully into the fabric sling, rolled over on to her back, and pressed the waterproof switch on its dangling cable. At once the motor began to whirr and she felt herself lifted gently out of the water and into the air. Alrik watched, fascinated as ever, while the device automatically swung her into position above her wheelchair and then lowered her into it. It didn't seem to occur to him that she might be sensitive about it, that his intense interest might make her feel like an exhibit in a freak show. No, that was unfair, she decided. Alrik didn't see her in that way. He was a scientist. Close observation of the unusual was second nature to him. He meant well.
"Can we go inside?" she asked when she had secured her seat belt, "I haven't had breakfast yet." He nodded and reached towards the chair. "It's okay, Alrik, I can do it. If I need help I'll ask for it."
"Sorry..."
"Don't be. Sorry, I mean. You're always saying you're sorry about everything. There's nothing to be sorry about."
She regretted having spoken sharply as she effortlessly propelled the wheelchair up the gentle slope to the house. She wanted to like Alrik – no, she did like him, a lot – but some things about him she found slightly annoying. He never seemed to adapt to her, to learn her needs and preferences. He seemed to repeat the same behaviour patterns no matter how often she explained that she would prefer something else. Maybe it was a cultural difference. He had to walk uncomfortably fast to keep by her side, her faithful puppy, anxious to remain close. When they reached the door he opened it for her and stood to one side, no doubt responding to some deep imperative of his upbringing. She accepted the courtesy without comment.
The building was little more than a two-room shack: a room for work and a room for sleep. The sound and vision monitoring area took up most of one wall, with an equipment-laden desk and four large flatpanel viewing screens for the outputs of the underwater cameras. A fifth smaller one was the computer monitor, and to either side were arranged the consoles that monitored and recorded from the underwater microphones and fed the sound transducers that allowed her to talk back. On the same desk was a satellite telephone and a standard keyboard and mouse. The free space all around the walls was lined with sagging shelves of her books and notes and CDs of her scientific data, all at a convenient height for the chair, and above these, large panoramic windows gave views of the sea lion colonies along both sides of the bay, the diving frigate birds and the rocks that seemed to ripple with the movements of tens of thousands of marine iguanas, entering and leaving the water in their endless cycle of foraging.
As soon as they came into the room they could hear through the monitoring equipment the clicking of the dolphins and the deeper, more distant wailing of a school of migrating blue whales. Hyphialta went to the console and selected the output of the camera just beneath the jetty. A large male dolphin was staring straight into it. She made a shrill clicking sound from the back of her throat. The dolphin dipped its head in acknowledgement, responded with a similar clicking sound of its own, and swam away.
"You always do that when you get back from a dive, don't you?" Alrik commented.
"He likes me to let him know that I'm okay when I get back."
"Is that Roc?"
"Yes. Why don't you come down with me and I'll introduce you. He's keen to meet you."
"I think I might be jealous." They exchanged a smile.
"If you want to do something, you could make us a cup of coffee. And take a look what we've got in the fridge. I've worked up an appetite." She could tell that it pleased him when she used the inclusive "we". It was part of the harmless flirtation that they had been engaged in over the couple of weeks that he had been there. She hoped he realised that it couldn't go any further.
He dutifully put the kettle on and started to rummage for food. "Eggs. Eggs on toast with beans. Will that be all right?"
"Anything, Alrik. Whatever's there." Alrik busied himself with the pots and pans. He had to sit to cope with the height of the specially adapted cooker and work surfaces. Hyphialta responded to another series of clicks from one of the underwater microphones.
"Who was that?"
"A female of Roc's pod. I call her Messelina – you know, the wife of Claudius who slept with all the men. She's an outrageous little nymphomaniac."
"Lucky old Roc." He paused and turned to her, looking rather anxious. "Alta, I suppose everybody says this, but there's something quite magic about you. I don't think I can bear to leave tomorrow. I... I've become incredibly... attached to you..."
Oh dear! Here we go, she thought. "It's mutual," she assured him, "I've become very attached to you too. You're a good friend."
"Look, I know I'm not very good at this kind of thing..."
"You're right. Those eggs are going to burn!"
He turned down the gas. "Alta, please don't laugh at me. I'm very serious. I don't want to leave here tomorrow – or ever. You've done something to me. You've got under my skin. I don't know what it is, it's not just that you're beautiful, which goes without saying. There's something just plain magic about you."
"It's the place, Alrik. This place was magic long before I came."
"No, I'm serious. It isn't just the place. It's you. I think it's the way you enjoy your life so much. The way you're happy and cheerful all the time. The way you love the water. These have been the happiest two weeks of my life..."
He paused so long that Hyphialta took the fish-slice from his hand and attended to the eggs herself. "That's sweet of you, Alrik. But don't you have a wife and family to go to somewhere?"
"No. Well, yes, I did have a wife, and I have a daughter..."
"Don't let's spoil it, Alrik. Let's not be silly. What on earth would you want with a setup like this? Hundreds of miles from civilization – unless you count Puerto Ayora – me in this chair..."
"We're both marine biologists. I'm the world's biggest admirer of your work. I can help you with it." He hesitated, "I'm the world's biggest admirer... of you. I know I'm quite a bit older..."
She took his hand and kissed it. She could feel the electricity shoot through his body. "It's not that. You're very sweet. And very silly. I really don't know what to say. What do you expect me to say?" He remained motionless, staring into her eyes. "I think I'd better do the eggs. Why don't you sit over there?" Alrik did as he was told. Hyphialta got on with the breakfast. She had seen this coming, but it still made her acutely uncomfortable. Living as she did, the sole inhabitant of a rocky outcrop that was the tip of an extinct underwater volcano, fifty miles from the nearest inhabited island of the Galapagos Archipelago, her social skills were, to say the least, underdeveloped. She loaded up the tray and took it to him at the wooden wheelchair-height table.
"Alrik, I'm no good at this kind of thing either. I don't know how to play the courtship game, or whatever it is. All I can do is tell you the straight truth. Okay?"
"Okay." He was still staring into her eyes.
"I have... normal human feelings like anybody else, and I do find you attractive... at least some of the time. But I'm not normal... physically. And – physically – there isn't any kind of intimate relationship that we could have. You do understand that, don't you? It would have to be plain companionship. That's all I could ever offer. You would always want more and I would never be able to give it. We would irritate the hell out of one another."
"No, no, that wouldn't happen. Look, I've done a lot of research into your physical condition. I haven't told you about it, but before I came here I talked to Dr. Katz at the Charles Darwin Field Station, and Merle Baxter, the man who wrote the book about you. He had access to all your medical records and body scans, and he's done research of his own..."
"What are you talking about, Alrik? Where is all this leading?"
"The fact is," he put down his coffee and started to toy with the cup, "the fact is, Alta, there are things that can be done for you."
"Things that can be done for me? What kind of things?"
"You could walk, Alta. There are procedures available that would enable you to become..."
"Normal? Say, it. It's alright. I know I'm not normal."
"I don't mean it to sound like that."
"No. Of course you don't. Nobody ever does. You don't think you're the first person to suggest this, do you?" She could hear the coldness entering her voice, and no doubt Alrik could too. She paused to let her emotions settle down. "Alrik," she began very slowly, choosing her words with care, "my father was a brilliant man. One of the greatest scientists of his generation. He contributed more to genetics than anybody else since Mendel. And he spent the last ten years of his life, which was all of my life, trying to keep himself out of prisons and mental institutions. I was the reason he ended up like that. I was his great life's work. Everything he knew, everything he believed, everything he felt, went into me. I'm the way he made me. I don't want to be any different. This is who I am. What I am. Can you understand that?" Outside a male sea lion honked, and Hyphialta had to suppress an impulse to reply.
Alrik watched the spilled yoke of his egg begin to congeal on the toast. "I'm going to speak frankly too. You may hate me for it, I don't know, but I need you to understand the way I see things. What your father did was a terrible thing. The entire scientific community condemned him for it, and rightfully so. A scientist is not a god, Alta. The power that science gives is not there to let us... live out our private fantasies. You don't play with the building blocks of human life as if they were toys. That was inexcusable. I'm sorry but it was."
Hyphialta began to eat. What Alrik had said had made things easier for her. "I'm a bit disappointed in you," she said quietly, cutting up her toast. "I hadn't expected all the same old prejudices that I've heard so many times before. Let me tell you about my father." She took a sip of coffee before continuing. "He understood more about the world he lived in than anybody else of his time. He saw where his own field was leading. He knew that no laws or ethical committees or anything else could stop it going there, and he was right. Daddy had a serious point to make when he created me. I think you know what that point was. He wanted to show people that the end of Darwinian evolution had arrived for the human race. That it had been replaced by something else. And the world would only listen if they could see it with their own eyes. Put their fingers in the wounds. That was why he created me."
"Well, there! You've said it yourself. He created you to make a point. How can that be ethical – or moral? People aren't things you create to make a point. That's monstrous!"
"People once said it was monstrous to transplant the heart of one person into another. Ethical ideas have to change with the passage of time, and the arrival of new science. My father needed people to understand that the switch over to this new kind of evolution, deliberate planned change, didn't have to be a nightmare. It could be glorious. We could make ourselves into anything that we could imagine."
Alrik had lost interest in his breakfast. "How can making human beings to your own recipe be right? There's a line being crossed there. I'm not a moral philosopher, I can't put it into fancy words, but I can see it. It's obvious..."
"My father wasn't a moral philosopher either. He just saw that it was coming, and it could be dealt with well or it could be dealt with badly. He mapped out the connections between the genome and the physical body, but it isn't going to end there. The time will come when we'll understand how the genome controls the mental realm as well. When we do we'll be able to turn humanity into a race of demi-gods. Near immortal, physically perfect, and at the same time moral, artistic and intellectual giants. Every individual human could be a Mozart, an Einstein, a Mahatma Gandhi, a Shakespeare and a Rembrandt all rolled into one. Once you've cracked the genome, once you understand how it works, there's nothing that you can't do. So he made me. The first transgenic individual. The first citizen of the new world. He wanted somebody that the world would see as beautiful, and not too different from themselves. I'm proud of who I am, and I'm proud of how I came to be who I am. I don't want to change anything. I'm not sick, Alrik I don't need a cure."
"I didn't mean it that way at all. I know that without your special abilities we would understand practically nothing about marine mammals. We would still be hunting them for meat and fur, and killing whales for their oil, and clubbing baby seals to death... and God knows what else."
"Yes, that's right, you would. Thank my father for that. The seals and the dolphins do, every time I talk to them, just about. And it doesn't even end there. My father's work has made the human race redefine itself. It's almost the ultimate question for science, isn't it? The question of who we are."
"You mean you can really get across an abstract concept like that... to marine mammals? The notion of the good of a whole species?"
"Alrik, I can get anything across if you give me enough time. Imagine trying to explain television to an Amazonian tribesman who's never seen a flashlight or a photograph or even a wind-up toy. It might take you a long time to get the idea across, because everything you wanted to communicate would be outside his experience. But take him to a big American city and set him up in an apartment for a couple of years with all the usual mod cons, get him a job where he can talk to people and pick up the language, and by the end of those two years he'll be criticising the bad acting in Miami Vice. Marine mammals like Roc are no dumber than us. They just have different life experiences. They think about different things. But not all that different. They can put their heads above the water and look up at the stars and wonder what they are, just like you and me. What they haven't got is a technology. Maybe to create that you need an opposing thumb, I don't know. Maybe you need an impulse to dominate nature and take control. The dolphins don't have that. If that's what it takes there'll never be a dolphin Holocaust or a dolphin hydrogen bomb."
Alrik paused to consider her words. "Your work on the language of marine mammals is absolutely staggering. You know that I'm on the Nobel committee, the most junior member they've got maybe, but I'm on it. And you know that's why I'm here. Well, I want to tell you, off the record, they wouldn't dare give it to anybody else. Your father was perfectly right. You've won over the whole world, charmed the whole world, just like you've charmed me."
"No, that wouldn't be right, Alrik. What I do here isn't real science. I just talk to the dolphins and the sea lions and make friends and enjoy myself. I'm the Amazonian tribesman in the Miami apartment. Give it to Pedro Lindsay at the Charles Darwin Research Station. His work is in a whole different league to mine. Anyway, it doesn't matter which of us gets it, the prize money goes straight to the Charles Darwin Foundation. You may as well send them the cheque now. It goes to the upkeep of the marine park. To Roc and all his friends. Pedro and I already have everything we want." She paused before she went on, wondering if she had said enough. She decided to come clean. "But I'll tell you this. I'll be up front with you too. If the Committee decides to give me the Nobel, they may not like the acceptance speech that I'm going to make"
Alrik became alert. "Why is that?"
"Because I won't accept it on my own behalf. I'll accept it on behalf of my father – about thirty years too late – or I won't accept it at all. Your choice."
Alrik looked thoughtful but said nothing. She pulled him over for a little hug. He was obviously pleased, but almost at once an expression that she hadn't seen before began to spread across his face. It seemed like a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "What are you thinking, Alrik? What do you want to say?"
"It just suddenly hit me. I'm sitting here talking about evolution and marine biology – with a mermaid!"
She couldn't hold back a laugh. She released him from the hug and took his two hands instead. "And the prize?"
He shrugged. "I make it a rule never to argue with mythical creatures." She kissed him demurely on the back of his right hand. She could feel that electricity again, stronger than ever. "You haven't answered my question, Alta? May I stay here? On any terms you like to name?"
She let go of his hands. "You flatter me all the time, Alrik, and I admit that's nice. But I shouldn't be doing this. Whatever people call it. Leading you on, is that it?"
"You don't want me here, do you?"
She paused. There was a shrill clicking from one of the loudspeakers and she answered with a similar call of her own. Alrik's eyes narrowed. "They're listening, aren't they? They can understand."
Hyphialta didn't reply. Instead she asked a question of her own. "Have you seen the little mermaid statue in Copenhagen?"
"Of course I have. It's just across the Oresund Bridge from Malmö, where the Nobel Committee meets. Your father modelled you on that statue, didn't he?"
She nodded. "There is one big difference between us though. The expression on our faces. The way we feel about things. She's looking out to sea with a face full of doubt and regret and sadness, because she's given up something wonderful for something absolutely ordinary. If you look closely you can see that her tail is just on the point of turning into legs. And those legs aren't going to work very well either. In the fairytale it says that every step she takes is like walking on knives. Is that what you have in mind for me too? Some kind of prosthetic legs that would never work quite right? Pain with every step?" He didn't reply. "I've heard it all before, Alrik. I know about it. You don't have to tell me the details: I'd still be able to hold my breath for half an hour, because that's the way my father designed me. I'd still be able to swim, after a fashion, and see clearly underwater, and carry on with my research, I suppose. I'd still be able to talk to the other marine mammals. Because that's what I am, Alrik, I'm a marine mammal. No better, no smarter, no more sensitive or special than any one of them. Do you know what Roc thinks when he sees someone like you, down there diving with a big metal tank on your back?" Alrik shook his head. "He's sorry for you. I can't translate his exact words, but he sees you as a creature trapped in some kind of an iron lung because there's something wrong with your body. If the dolphins had a technology they'd be offering to remove your legs and give you a prosthetic tail. But they don't want to change me. They accept me as I am. They like me as I am. No, damn it I'll say it: love me as I am. Roc loves me, Alrik. I'm not going to say any more. You can take it any way you like."
Alrik stared at her He seemed to search for words and find none. Hyphialta merely smiled and lowered her head. "You come here talking about prosthetic legs and you don't even want to dive. You want me to leave my world and become part of yours. You're a good man, Alrik, but you've got to face up to it. We aren't right for each other. This is the one place on earth where different doesn't mean 'enemy' or 'monster'. You can walk up to any animal on Galapagos and it won't run away. You're not offering me the one thing I need most. It's what I get from the dolphins and the other marine mammals here. It's the heartbeat of Galapagos, the spirit of the archipelago. Acceptance. It's the most important thing of all – for a freak like me." Alrik remained silent. "Don't be hurt. I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with you. Just that we're very different."
"And Roc? Isn't he different?"
"Not in any way that matters." She paused and they looked into each other's eyes. "I'll tell you what would be nice," she said very quietly, "would you like to comb my hair again?"
From the loudspeakers a great jumbled surge of clicking erupted, reached a crescendo and slowly died away.
