The Best of Both Worlds and Other Ambiguous Tales. Brian Stableford
taken the process to a much more elaborate extreme. One of the gifts of the extra measure of progress they were thus permitted was, of course, to develop processes of personal and collective evolution that were authentically Lamarckian, allowing every individual of their species—including individuals of other kinds recruited into their company—to embark on a process of individual progressive evolution, in which the possibilities were multitudinous.
There were, of course, many matters of further detail that my scrupulous educator took it upon herself to enumerate and explain. I asked numerous questions, all of which were answered to my complete satisfaction. In the end, though, the force of the argument was simply and manifestly overwhelming. What I was being offered, with the utmost generosity, was a chance to transcend the vestigial primitive aspects of my own humanity: an opportunity to become, by slow degrees, a much higher kind of being, less closely akin to apes than my fellow men, more nearly reminiscent of angels.
I was not in the least surprised, when I understood my situation, that not one of the more-than-a-thousand human males to whom this offer had formerly been made had turned it down. No creature in whom the empire of reason was secure could ever have done otherwise.
“Yes,” I said, gladly, when the offer was confirmed.” I will certainly agree to join you in the capacity of foster-parent, with a view to becoming one of your company, to the full extent of my eventual abilities.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grayling,” the shadowy Mary McQueen replied. “I felt sure that you would be able to see and appreciate the logic of the situation.”
In order to be invested with my foster-child I had, of course, to meet the extraterrestrial Mother Superior whose daughter Mary was. Because my preconceptions had been partly shaped by the analogy Mary had drawn between the world within the moor and an ant-hive, I half-expected to encounter an individual of gargantuan size lodged in some vast central chamber, perpetually attended by hordes of workers dutifully transporting her nourishment and incessantly bearing away the eggs that she laid. That aspect of the analogy was, however, misleading in the extreme.
In spite of their tentative investment in the arts of parental care, the reproductive strategy of Earthly ants is essentially crude, involving the production of large numbers of offspring. The extraterrestrial visitors did indeed combine the best features of Earthly mammals with those of Earthly insects—indeed, as the description of their existential condition that I have just given will readily testify, they were no longer prisoners to any kind of taxonomic classification. At any rate, their rate of reproduction was essentially sedate. They had been present on the Earth for seven centuries without having had the need to recruit many more than a thousand human males to their cause.
The Mother Superior’s quarters were, in fact, relatively modest, as befitted her modest size. She was only a little larger than Mary McQueen, and although she was certainly plump, she was by no means obese. She was, however, intensely committed to her role as a specialist in reproduction, to the extent that she seemed almost to radiate maternal love.
Thus far in the course of my adventures in the underworld my emotions had been subject to a kindly but generalized suppression. When I was ushered into the Mother Superior’s gloomy apartment, however, there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere. Its warm sickly sweetness was replaced by something more refreshing and bracing, which had the seemingly-paradoxical effect of reigniting at least some of my emotions and appetites. I did not feel that I was at all out of control, but when I came into the presence of the Mother Superior and felt the radiance of her love, I also felt free to return it.
Although I had never known my own mother, and my father had never made any effort to provide me with any kind of substitute, I had never felt unduly deprived in consequence, and I did not feel that the Mother Superior’s welcoming attitude was rushing to fill any kind of experiential void. I did, however, relish the opportunity to return her affection: to lavish upon her all the stored-up affection that I might, in happier circumstances, have been able to lavish upon my own mother for twenty-and-one years.
I could not tell, with any degree of certainty, what the extraterrestrial Mother Superior looked like. Her chamber was not blessed with much illumination, and her face was as vague as my guide’s had become, although she certainly had eyes with which to study me, and doubtless saw me far more clearly than I saw her. She was clad in black, like her sisters, and I do know that her coat—which was presumably some kind of tegument integral to her bodily structure—was soft and warm, with a texture not unlike that of wool. She was capable of standing erect and of sitting down, and she had five-fingered hands that were both expressive and tender, but I had the impression that her form was not such a close imitation of human physique as Mary’s. Mary’s outward form had, of course, to be a very close imitation in order for her to pass for a cousin of the Raggandales.
The Mother Superior’s voice was very musical, but her command of English was somewhat limited; unlike Mary, she had never been up to the surface to insinuate herself, however briefly, into the human social world. Even so, we talked, not about biology and evolution but about more personal matters. In particular, we talked about Emily, and the tragedy of her death. While remaining intensely sympathetic, the Mother Superior explained to me how futile it is to mourn the deaths of creatures which are by nature ephemeral, and why it is a perverted use of emotion to surrender oneself to grief so completely that one becomes impotent in the more elevated sphere of intellectual ability. She was right, of course, but that was not all that mattered to me: what mattered more was that she was kind, that she was helping me to explore the perversities of my own sentiments in order that I might become calmer, happier and better equipped to deal with the vicissitudes of existence.
Longevity, the Mother Superior told me, is not necessarily a good thing. In order to reap the benefits of the condition, one must adapt one’s frame of mind to its demands as well as its possibilities. I was grateful for her generosity in making time to give me that advice, and very grateful indeed for the tenderness of her explanations. When the time came for her to give me her new-born infant to care for, I was more than ready to receive it.
Unlike Earthly ant-queens, alien Mothers Superior do not lay eggs; like humans, they nurture their young in embryo for some considerable time. They give birth by means of a special kind of kiss, which transfers the infant directly into the gut of a recipient host, from whose small intestine it makes its own patient way to the site of its temporary integration.
I had kissed Emily more than once, but I had never experienced anything remotely like the kiss of the Mother Superior. Modesty forbids me to give a more detailed description, but it is only appropriate for me to report that the experience changed my life, and showed me what the true value of emotion is, to an intellect capable of its wise control.
I was taken away from the Mother Superior’s quarters by the same guide that had brought me. Mary led me up through the bowels of the hill, back to the surface of the Earth and the interior of the near-perpetual cloud that sat atop Arnlea Moor, which was now dark grey in the gathering twilight. Indeed, she led me further than that, taking me down the slope until we were completely clear of the mist, and accompanying me almost to the bounds of Haughtonlin.
“You had best make your own way from here,” she said. “It will soon be dark, but I think you can find your way back to Stonecroft without difficulty. The moon is three-quarters full and untroubled by clouds at present.”
“I can find my way, now that I’ve a path to guide me,” I assured her. “Shall I see you again?”
“Of course you will,” she said. “You must visit me at Raggandale very soon, so that we might become good friends.”
I was glad, at the time, to hear that we were to become good friends, although I realized almost immediately that it was a necessary provision, to protect both of us from the hazards of loneliness. My gladness was slightly compromised, however, by the anxiety that any new friendship might be seen as a betrayal of Emily’s love and Emily’s memory.
I felt compelled, in consequence, to go directly to Emily’s grave and kneel beside it, in order to offer her an apology and an explanation.
“I am not the man that I used to be, Emily,” I told her. “I have grown, and