Infiltration

Odd, how it had all started. Being suddenly marooned on this planet, forced to survive, somehow, through the long years while waiting for rescue. How many years had it been, now? Some five hundred thousand, in the subjective reference for this particular universe. He knew the formula for conversion into objective time--it all worked out to the equivalent of about six months--but that wasn't what mattered, as long as they'd all had to survive in this universe.

Sleep--suspended animation, if you wanted to call it that--had been the only answer. And they couldn't do that, directly. They'd had to resort to chrysalids.

He smiled to himself, got up, and turned down the fire under the pot until the coffee was percolating softly.

The original plan had snowballed, somewhat.

Resolving chrysalids was one thing--making them eternal was another, and unnecessary. It was far simpler to arrange the chrysalids so they'd be able to reproduce themselves. And, of course, in order to survive, and take care of itself, a chrysalis had to have some independent intelligence.

And, so it worked. The chrysalis housed a sleeper, operating unawares and completely independent of him--or her--until the chrysalis wore out. Then the sleeper was passed on to a new chrysalis, with neither of the chrysalids involved--nor, for that matter, the sleeper--conscious of the transfer. So it would continue, through the weary, subjective years; generation upon generation of chrysalids, until, finally, the paramathematical path drifted back to touch this universe, and the sleepers could wake, and continue their journey.

And if the human race chose to speculate on its origins in the meantime, well, that was part of the snowball.

He got up again, and turned off the flame under the coffeepot. Now, if I were a sorcerer--as defined by Cotton Mather's ilk, of course--, he thought, I should be able to (a) turn the fire off without getting up, or, (b) generate the flame without the use of Con Edison's gas, or, (c), if I had any self-respect at all, conjure hot coffee out of thin air. His lips twisted with nausea as he thought that nine out of ten people would expect him to be drinking blood, as a matter of course.

He sighed with some bitterness, but more of resignation. Well, that was just another part of the snowball.

Because the chrysalids had done a magnificent job in all three of its subdivisions. They had kept the sleepers safe--and reproduced, and used their intelligence to survive. They had survived in spite of pestilence, famine, and flood--by learning enough to wipe out the first two, and control the third. It would seem that progress was not a special quality to be specially desired. Most of the chrysalids were consumed by a fierce longing for the Good Old Days, as a matter of fact. It was merely the inescapable accretion to sheer survival.

And so came civilization. With civilization: recreation. In short, the San Francisco Giants, and--He reached over, suddenly irritated at the raspy-voiced and slightly frantic recapitulation of the lost ballgame, and changed the station. And Beethoven.

He relaxed, smiling slightly at himself once again, and let the music sing to him. Chrysalids, eh? Well, they certainly weren't his kind of life, free to swing from star to star, riding the great flux of Creation from universe to universe. But whence Beethoven? Whence Rembrandt, Da Vinci, and Will Shakespeare, hunched over a mug of ale and dashing off genius on demand, with half an eye on the serving wench?

He shook his head. What would happen to this people, when the sleepers woke?

The snowball. Ah, yes, the snowball. That was a good part of it--and he and his kind were another.

If we had known, he thought. If we had known how it would be...?

But, they hadn't known. It had been just a petty argument, at first. Nobody knew, now, who had started it. But there were two well-defined sides, now, and he was an Insurgent, for some reason. The winning side gives the names that stick. They were Watchers--an honorable name, a name to conjure up trust, and duty, and loyalty. And he was an Insurgent. Well, let it stand. Accept the heritage of dishonor and hatred. Somewhere, sometime, a gage was flung, and he was heir to the challenge.

The chrysalids solved the problem of survival, of course. But the problem of rescue had remained. For rescue, in the sense of help from an outside agency, would be disastrous. When the path shifted back, they had to learn of it themselves, and go on of their own accord--or go into slavery. For there is one currency that outlives document and token. Personal obligation. And, if they were so unlucky as to have an actual rescuer, the obligation would be high--prohibitively so.

The solution had seemed simple, at first. In each generation of chrysalids, there would be one aware individual--one Watcher, to keep guard, and to waken the rest should the path drift back in the lifetime of his chrysalis. Then, when that particular chrysalis wore out, the Watcher would be free to return to sleep, while another took his place.

His mouth twisted to one side as he took a sip of coffee.

A simple, workable plan--until someone had asked, "Well and good. Excellent. And what if this high-minded Watcher realizes that we, asleep, are all in his power? What if he makes some agreement with a rescuer, or, worse still, decides to become our rescuer when the path drifts back? What's to prevent him, eh? No," that long-forgotten, wary individual had said, "I think we'd best set some watchers to watch the Watcher."

Quis custodiet?

What had it been like? He had no way of knowing, for he had no memory of his exact identity. That would come only with Awakening. He had only a knowledge of his heritage. For all he knew, it had been he who raised the fatal doubt--or, had been the first delegated Watcher. He shrugged. It made no difference. He was an Insurgent now.

But he could imagine the voiceless babel among their millions--the argument, the cold suspicion, the pettiness. Perhaps he was passing scornful judgment on himself, he realized. What of it? He'd earned it.

So, finally, two groups. One content to be trustful. And the other a fitful, restless clan, awakening sporadically, trusting to chance alone, which, by its laws, would insure that many of them were awake when the path drifted back. The Insurgents.

So, as well, two basic kinds of chrysalids. The human kind, and the others. Wolves, bears, tigers. Bats, seals--every kind of living thing, except the human. The Insurgent kind.

And so the struggle began. It was a natural outgrowth of the fundamental conflict. Which side had tried to over-power the first chrysalis? Who first enslaved another man? he thought, and half-snarled.

That, too, was unimportant now. For the seed had been planted. The thought was there. Those who are awake can place those who sleep under obligation. Control the chrysalids, and you control the sleepers within. But chrysalids endure for one generation, and then the sleepers pass on.

What then? Simplicity. Group your chrysalids. Segregate them. Set up pens for them, mark them off, and do it so the walls and fences endure through long years.

This is my country. All men are brothers, but stay on your side of the line, brother.

Sorry, brother--you've got a funny shape to your nose. You just go live in that nice, walled-off part of my city, huh, brother?

Be a good fellow, brother. Just move to the back of the bus, or I'll lynch you, brother.

And the chrysali die, the sleepers transfer--into another chrysalis in the same pen. SPQR. Vive, Napoleon! Sieg Heil!

Some of the time it was the Watchers. Some of the time it was the Insurgents. And some of the time, of course, the chrysalids evolved their own leaders, and imitated. For, once the thing had begun, it could not be stopped. The organization was always more powerful than the scattered handsful. So, the only protection against organization was organization.