After attaining all conceivable goals, then
what? The City was perfection, an ultimate city
that left nothing to be desired and sought after.
But the City was dying—for it had no purpose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Low tinkling music awakened Amco. He stirred up out ofsemi-consciousness as the three-dim screen glowed purple. Lethargicnerves sharpened with intuitive sense of foreboding as the noble figureof the City's Coordinator appeared in the three-dim radius.
The perfect, if characterless, features of the Coordinator were tautwith strain.
"We're confronted by a serious crisis, Amco," his voice said, andwaited.
Amco frowned. A crisis? How could perfection be confronted by crisis?The City was an ultimate City, colossal, tiers on tiers of intricacythat left nothing desired nor sought after. But—
The last episode that could be termed crisis had been six centuriesago in 9400 when an armada of heavily armed ships from an alien cosmostried an invasion of Dhoma and were annihilated. Could they be facinganother such attack? If so, it was a form of offensive unpredictableby the most advanced Dhomastrial minds. He examined the Coordinator'swaiting face.
"I see that the word 'crisis' is perplexing you, Amco."
"Yes. I fail to evolve such a possibility."
"Our city is dying," said the Coordinator.
"How?" Amco asked. "How can perfection die?"
"That is the crisis," said the Coordinator. "We have forgotten howto think. The City has reached a theoretical saturation point. Theapparently insoluble problem of—no problems. Utter intellectual andneural satiation. We're no longer motivated to exist. After attainingall conceivable goals, then what?"
A little flutter of interest stirred in Amco's bored mind. "We mustthink again," he said. "Constructively."
"Then why don't you think?" said the Coordinator softly.
Amco paused blankly. Then: "Wha—what about?"
"That," said the Coordinator, "is our problem. Think of something tothink about."
Amco felt the atavistic fluttering again. "We've achieved all possiblephysical attainments. Perhaps the answer is in the psychoneurel. Theimagination."
"Possibly, Amco. Any practical ideas to follow up with?"
"I—I—No," said Amco in almost a whisper. "But it would be sad to seethe City die."
The Coordinator trembled with the extreme atavism that differentiatedhim so starkly from the norm. He raised a clenched fist in a gesturesymbolic of a time so long buried that it stirred fear in Amco.
"It mustn't die!" he hissed. "It mustn't die!"
"But you said—" began Amco. The Coordinator interrupted:
"Yes. Rotting with inactivity and futility, the logical next step isdeath. If we are unable to discover any purpose in living further—endit. But I can't admit such a possibility. The plenum of all evolutionmustn't end in oblivion. The greatness of organic matter must beevolving toward some future other than nothingness. Flux must meansomething besides an inevitable return to vacuum!"
"At least we have a problem," said Amco.
"And the greatest problem of all," said the Coordinator. "Because if wecan find the true answer now, I shall dictate whether or not life asfar as Dhoma is concerned should continue."
Amco found himself tensing forward. "You mean if we could definitelydetermine that Dhomastrial life isn't justified because it has noultimate goal—you would destroy it?"
"Yes," said the Coordinator hoarsely. "And why not?"
Amco finally ma