4 Another Glorious Day in the Universe

[Stephen Whiteside]

4 Another Glorious Day in the Universe

© Stephen Whiteside 19.12.2011

Hocus woke to another glorious day in the universe. This was his little joke. Of course, there is no weather in the Universe. You could say that one day was just like another, except that there were no days, either. Not when you were travelling through the Universe in a space-ship.

It was remarkable that the term ‘ship’ had stuck the way it had. They could have been called planes or cars or trucks or trains, but they weren’t. Hocus assumed it was because ships preceded all of these, but why not call them ‘space-carts’, then, because surely the horse and cart preceded even ships as a mode of transport? Presumably it related to their huge size. Which is also why they were not called ‘space-boats’. So why were the little service craft called ‘pods’ and not ‘boats’? Pocus pondered again. ‘Boat’ seems to summon up water in a way that ‘ship’ doesn’t. ‘Ship’ seems less specific. That must be it. And boat almost implies ‘open boat’, but pods certainly were not open.

Enough of that. Hocus stood up from his position sitting on the side of his bed, his feet on the floor, staring out his window. It was great having a 360 degree of space on the bridge, but it was the last thing you wanted in your bedroom. In fact, he had only one window there, and it was small, with a very effective blind. He usually kept it closed. He saw enough of the Universe during the course of his working day. It was nice when falling asleep or waking up to be able to pretend for a little while that he was back on good old Earth again.

Good old Earth. That was the thing. He had noticed it before. He always yearned to be home when he was out in space, but it was usually only a matter of days after returning to Earth that he was itching to be back in space again. It must be the human condition. Never entirely satisfied with anything for long. Perhaps that was why humans had survived so well. Never comfortable with the status quo. Always striving for improvement. Or, at the very least, change. And change and adaptation drove any species, surely.

Which was an ironic statement, when you thought about it, because humans WERE the only species now. Or just about. All the rest were ersatz, and one thing an ersatz, star-powered animal could not do was evolve. Neither could it die out, but this was strictly not true. All the ersatz animals reflected a once living species that had indeed died out. So Hocus’ philosophising had effectively been rendered redundant several hundred years ago. He still found it hard to get his head around that. Humans were meant to share the world with other life forms, surely. Were humans really driven to monopolise the Universe and wipe out all other forms of life? This was general orthodoxy, but it did not ring true to him, somehow. It didn’t feel right.

At its most basic level, there was the whole question of companion animals. Dogs and cats. There had been a long history of humans, dogs and cats together, and they had, to some extent, evolved in parallel. So why was it right that humans now existed but dogs and cats didn’t? Not as true, live animals. Of course, there were millions of ersatz dogs and cats. But that wasn’t the same thing, was it?

In fact, what had worked well for the tourism industry had not worked well for the pet industry at all. Humans found the ersatz dogs and cats lacking that vital spark that made them so attractive. It was hard to put your finger on it. They lacked that edge of mischief, or simple playfulness, that humans loved. They were so docile. So obedient. So predictable. They were so ‘perfect’ that they were of no value at all. Or so it seemed. Their principal role these days appeared to be in nursing homes, where many of the human residents were demented, and well behaved, predictable animals were highly valued. But for a bunch of rowdy kids in a suburban home? Forget it. They got more stimulation from their computers.

Time for a leisurely shower, shave and breakfast before he was due on duty. It wouldn’t really have mattered if he hadn’t shaved. He could have grown a beard to his belly if he wanted to. Curmudgeon Corporation wouldn’t care. As long as it didn’t interfere with his ability to do his work, which it wouldn’t have. But no. Just because he was away from Earth, there was no need to drop standards. In fact, beards had returned to popularity back on Earth, but Hocus was not aware of that. It was funny, like that. They received regular news bulletins from Earth, but cultural information never made the news. Which was odd, in a way. It was not regarded as important, and yet it was. True, they did receive regular documentary style news bulletins to broaden their knowledge of what was going on back home, but these were very patchy. They made no attempt to really flesh out doings back on Earth. You’d think Curmudgeon would have a rather more sophisticated understanding of the psychological needs of their employees. Human beings really hadn’t come all that far, when you thought about it.

Hocus eschewed star-powered razors, also. It was a hand razor for him. Shaving cream, brush and lather; shave by hand. What a throwback he was! Still, it made sense to him. In an age where just about everything was automated, it was good for the soul to do some things for yourself. He could have chosen to be robotically shaved if he really wanted to. There were plenty that did. Indeed, his little robot shaver stood untouched in its little holster on the wall beside him. Well, it would stay there forever, as far as he was concerned. Perhaps his successor would choose to use it. But for the time he was occupying this little cabin, that little robot could sleep soundly. Sleep long, and sleep deep, my little friend.

He had shaved both cheeks and was just about to begin on his chin, when he felt it. The unmistakeable pull of his little brother. He hesitated briefly. Finish shaving now or later? He knew Pocus didn’t get many chances these days, and he might not have long. Still, it was distracting trying to mind meld with a big lump of shaving cream sitting on your chin. He’d been there before. No. Sure, there was a chance that Pocus would become frustrated with the delay and break off proceedings, but he was going to take the risk. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Rinse the razor quickly under the tap. Wipe face briskly with hand towel. There. He was done.

He sat himself down in his little chair, hands resting gently on the bench before him, eyes closed lightly, and allowed his brother’s mind to softly wash into his head.