The last gift (L'ultimo dono)

They weren't any taller than the Earth people, yet they built the Temple, this eternal monument which extended over two planets: the Main Planet and its smaller satellite, which had simply been called Temple for thousands of years. Connecting Main to its satellite there is a series of fourteen purification stations in which the pilgrims from Main who wish to visit Temple and see, if only for a few moments and from immeasurable distances, the Mother Priestess, must stop and raise their spirit and get slough off the dross of life. They weren't any taller than the Earth people, and they became extinct millions of years ago, yet they left a legacy to all peoples: their religion, which, over the following eras, absorbed all the others and became, in effect, the only one in the explored universe: the Worship of the Immense. And, of course, they left the Temple, or rather they left the original nucleus, which was renovated and extended and aggrandised in the millions of years that followed, until it became what it is today. They weren't any taller than the Earth people, perhaps even a little shorter, but their name is still remembered millions of years after their extinction, and will be remembered as long as life itself endures in the universe.

He had left the fourteenth and last purification station many days before and was now waiting for the moment of the private hearing in a lounge next to the hall of gifts, a rare honour reserved only to a few. He was an Earth man and he had a casket with him which he hardly took his eyes off, perhaps in the absurd fear that someone might take it from there, from that very place. A group of pilgrims had been waiting for a long time now, reciting the old string of prayer beads and chanting in unison, while silent automatons glided on air pillows, with swift and composed diligence. The Temple is permeated by technology, and there is nothing, from the cleaning, to the lighting system, to the adjustment of the atmosphere, that is not centrally directed by synthetic intelligence, subjected to incessant mutual control, in order to avoid any kind of malfunction. From time to time, however, albeit rarely, a flawed instruction is generated, though only in some minor routine which does not compromise the integrity of the system, a system that has been maintained for millennia, and has withstood all sorts of attacks from the most disparate and desperate, chaotic groups. Such an error – a tiny error – was generated just as the group of pilgrims were coming to the last bead on their prayer-strings, a tiny malfunction in the archive database during a procedure considered of the fifth level, for which no stringent controls are in place. The heavy, enormous doors opened without a groan, without any apparent effort, and the chamberlain approached, surrounded by a group of guardian automatons. He solemnly, but politely, invited the Earth man to follow him inside.
The Mother Priestess, tiny and translucent, almost transparent, was at the centre of the room, which was big enough to hold a large spaceship. She was suspended at a certain height from the floor, supported by invisible, delicate forces. The Earth man stopped his carrier at a certain distance from her and knelt down, bringing his hand to his chest, head bowed, waiting, next to the casket.
"Rise, Earth man" the Priestess told him, and her voice, barely a whisper, was perfectly audible in every corner of the room, without an echo. As he stood up, she said: "I am told that you are the last one of your people. Is it true?"
"Yes, Venerable Mother, it's true. There were two of us for a long time, but I lost my companion a year ago. Now I am the last one"
"What is your name, Earth man?"
"Does it matter, Venerable Mother? Who I will have to be distinguishable from, now? "
"I understand your bitterness, Earth man, as you wish to be named, but yours is not the first people that has departed. Look at this room: it was started by hands which have been extinct for millions of years. Peoples have lives, just like individuals: they are born, grow old, some older than others, but one day they die. Other peoples are born and evolve in their place, according to laws that only the Immense knows. But you know well, Earth man, that the Immense does not forget, neither the peoples nor the individuals. I know it will not pay for your loss, but I hope it will console your mind."

"The will of the Immense be done, Venerable Mother; but my mind would be less embittered if I were not aware that it was not the will of the Immense to declare our end, but the villainous conduct of our wretched ancestors."
"I know. I know that humans did not show the Immense any gratitude for the precious gift of the Earth, and they squandered it ungratefully."
"So it was, Venerable Mother. And we, pilgrims on other planets, far from our now uninhabitable and burning home, for thousands of years we have cursed the folly of our fathers. For millennia we have dreamed of returning to Earth but, as you know, our race has gradually dwindled over time. Perhaps unknown elements on our planet, elements not found in synthetic atmospheres recreated for us elsewhere, have made the succeeding generations ever more sterile. Until there were only two of us. And now just me, the last of the Earth people. "
There was a silence in the great hall, a respectful and sharing silence that was interrupted by the Mother Priestess's soft voice.
"I know you have a gift for me, Earth man..."
"Yes, Venerable Mother” - the man recovered from his brief listlessness, leaned towards the casket and held it up – “Here, the work of countless generations of exiles. All our fortunes, all the time we have been granted, all our efforts are here, Venerable Mother. We have enclosed in this casket all the knowledge that we have collected on the people of the Earth. Not all, to tell the truth, were contemptuous, idle people, heedless of the future. We had artists, philosophers, scientists and thinkers. Everything we were able to gather is here, translated into the major languages of the Galaxy, stored in cells made of indestructible Santen crystal, to buy which we donated all our resources. "
"Thank you for your gift, Earth man. You proved to be better than your fathers. We will keep this treasure here in the Temple, in our archives, so that the memory of your people will always be preserved."
The Priestess waved her hand and the casket rose into the air and floated across the room towards a side passage leading to the service buildings. It continued down a long tunnel, borne along by compressed atmosphere, until it reached the inspection station, where it was to be registered in the archive through an indelible inscription. It was then that the malfunction appeared, a totally insignificant one for the overall functioning of the Temple, but it created a difference between the code inscribed on the chest and the one, which should have been the same, recorded in the memory banks of the archive.
"And now, Earth man, what do you wish to do? You can stay here in the Temple, if you want, for as long as the Immense grants you life."
"I thank you for your offer, Venerable Mother, but I would prefer to be reunited with my people, and my companion."
"As you wish, Earth man. You will be taken to our sleep rooms and your will soon see them. And it will not be long until we meet again in the glory of the Immense. Sleep well, brother Earth man, and may the Immense welcome you kindly."
The man bowed again and walked away, carefully guided and escorted through a multitude of buildings and constructions, to one of the sleep rooms compatible with human physiology. He lay on a comfortable bed, and he was offered images and sweet sounds of his homeland. Images he had viewed countless times and knew by heart, describing a world that he had never seen.
While visions of sunsets on pristine shores flowed through the mind of the Earth man, the casket took a very different direction from the one intended by the code on the memory banks and, after passing through the many detectors that read the code impressed on it, ended its long progress in a place very different from the one originally established. It was not placed, as planned, beside the extinct flower people, poets of Stara, but next to the utterly unmourned Durti cannibal worms, in a corner of the archive where no-one, no matter for how long they searched, could ever recognize it, not even a hypothetical Palaeontologist who might feel, in the millennia to come, the desire to do some research on the dead planet Earth and its ancient inhabitants.
An ampoule of sedative had been gently injected into the veins of the Earth man, a prelude to a peaceful sleeping pill which would then be followed by a lethal substance that quickly and gently would take him among his own people. As the sleeping draught gradually pervaded his body, his reflexes became slower, meanwhile he was dreaming of the sea and the waves that slowly, very slowly, moooore and moooooore slooooowwwwwly caaaarressssed theeeee beeeeaaaaaa..


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The Unsaid Letters (Le lettere non dette)

Smooth sailing today. The currents took me towards the rising sun, east. The sea was calm, only some slight and monotonous ripples moved me up and down. I stumbled upon a bunch of sardines. Or perhaps they were anchovies? Never been able to distinguish them well. I was wrapped like a cloud, a frantic fog. I watched them closely, quicksilver, thousands, and then, suddenly, they swam away. Perhaps a bigger fish chasing? Or a strange call, incomprehensible to me, had attracted them somewhere else? I do not know: I didn't see anything, no big fish, no chaser. They disappeared and I found myself again in the endless blue. Nothing to report.

The sea is a bit rougher today: now I see the ripples of waves. They rise slowly, ripple at the top, become white foam and then descend. And on and on, for miles and miles, to die on a beach they don't know, a continent whose name is unknown. Nothing else to report.

Yesterday's little ripples have become a storm. There is not only the white foam on the top; everything is white, everywhere. The angry sea roars under a sky struck by dark rumbling thunders that give life to agile and fast lightning. And, as shaken by many hands, disorderly and chaotic, from right and left, the waves run towards each other, meet, collide, break and shatter into a myriad of projections. Water breaks the water, and the fragments are still falling into the water and become waves that grow, rise, break again and reform growing water again, breaking again until the storm ceases.

The sea has slowly become quiet. After two days the sky is as blue as the water again. Just a few little white clouds over there break the blue. I should not be very far from the coast: I see many different things around me. An olive branch, for example. Snapped because of the storm here, and there the wind uprooted branches that the rain brought down, down, sliding until the creek, and then through the torrent into the river, more calmly and with more strength, without boulders that impeded its movement, without loops in which it could get stuck, my branch was eventually led into the sea, and came here, near me. From the glass of the bottle, my house, I saw it move and almost touch me. I was almost wrapped up in its leaden, thick and tough leaves, which had resisted the seas and the years.

Look... next to me, not far from the olive branch, another bottle: the current has brought us closer. Amazed and astonished, I stared at her for a long time. She was there, gazing over the mist that fogged her and when it was cleared, she greeted me and smiled. I waved at her with my hand and she waved back, and a warmth I had long forgotten caressed and embraced me. So I greeted a second and a third time, and I think I looked like a puppet to the seagull flying above us in search of something alive to eat. And she, in response, began to greet me, made signs, but I did not understand what she wanted to say, except that she wanted to communicate with me. But how? We smiled at each other and she began showing me how to make an A. And so I made for her a B. She nodded vigorously, her face intent, corrugated and thoughtful, and showed me a C. I did not realize it at first, but then, thinking about it, I understood. I moved my hands again and, as far as the narrow space of the bottle allowed me, I suggested a D. It was not easy, perhaps she had another idea of a D in mind, but in the end we managed to understand each other. We both placed our hands on the glass. We could not touch, but I felt her close, as if the bottles did not exist, as if they were no longer a barrier. And then she started with an E, but that letter was not easy. I tried to understand what she meant, but every time I seemed to have grasped the meaning, it escaped me. Is it so? - I gesticulated - or rather in that way? And she nodded or denied at all my attempts, trying to get me to grasp the meaning of that letter. I thought I had finally, if not understood, at least grasped the meaning of her words. Then the sea swelled. The foam came back, delicate at first, almost a wreath on the waves, then more powerful, eating the blue. More waves formed, shy at first, then bigger and bigger until they became high, very high. And I was tossed again to and fro, up and down.

The storm has ceased. The endless blue is back, only a few white clouds in the sky. The water is calming down, but I can't see the olive branch, and the other bottle has been dragged elsewhere by her currents.

Smooth sailing today. My currents are carrying me into the setting sun, into the west. I look around and I try to spot her, leaning as I can, but I just can't see her. I don't think I understood the E, and I don't think I ever will. Nothing else to report.




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HC / Chronicles of the age to come (HC / Cronache del tempo che verrà)

206,25 

200,00 

Disaster. Eyes fixed on the viewer. A glass of whisky sitting beside it on the pub table. Friday afternoon, shirt collar unbuttoned, tie on his chest now. Nobody could have guessed that the prices would drop below 250. Nobody.

196,88 
«It's the first time I’ve seen you with a whisky this early. Can I sit down? Something wrong? ». 

«I am in debt with China Standard.». 

«How much?». 

«I bought a month ago at 500. And I 've got 10,000.». 

«10,000? 5 million?». 

Silence fell over the table, an island of calm in the chaos of the pub. 

«Yeah.». 

More silence. 

«But have you got 5 million?». 

«If I run up debts, sell everything, even Sarah's things, maybe I can avoid jail. But I'd have to start from scratch, with nothing, no home. Without Sarah ... ». 

«Why do you say that?». 

«Do you think she will stick around a loser?». 

«I always thought you were a solid couple, you loved each other.». 

«Of course I love her, and I'm sure she loves me, but I don't know how long we'll hold out in front of this. To stay afloat I should sell all her things, she should give up everything. Can you picture Sarah leaving the house in the centre to go and live in the suburbs? Giving up the two-month holiday in Polynesia? Can you picture her?». 

«You should talk to her.». 

«Yes, of course. I'll talk to her. Tonight.». 

Silence again, while staring at the viewer again. 

«Now we are under 180 ...». 

«How did you get so much debt with HC? And with China Standard, too?». 

«I had a tip for the Chinese market..». 

«A tip?».

«There were rumours about the conflict between the Shanghai Districts. You remember that China Standard was trading at around 300 before the war but then, during the fighting, it shot up to 900. After peace talks started, the price fell back slowly for six months and was expected to settle at 300 in the coming weeks. But a month ago, I got a rumour that the negotiations had stopped and they’d started fighting again. Meanwhile, as you know, during the war contracts went out for the construction of 10 nuclear reactors in Kazakhstan. Now for technological work like that, China Standard are the best, better than Dark Skilled India or Malawi, for example. So that’s when I took the risk: if the war really resumed, then the quotations for Standard China were bound to shoot up again. So I bought a load of Standard China at 500, undertaking to pay a month later, which is Monday; and I sent the consignment off to Kazakhstan. Slowly, step by step, from Shanghai to Alma Ata in a month, I moved it away from the Districts and got it closer to the nuclear sites. If the war had resumed before the arrival of that load in Kazakhstan, my Standard China would have been the only ones on the market for months. Two days ago, though, the Districts announced the end of the war and with a lot of deep bowing and smiling, they signed a long-term peace treaty. And that’s not all, this morning we had another surprise: not only is the war over, but Canton has announced an absolutely unexpected surplus of HC – Human Commodities – and is going to start exporting them soon. The result is: not only Shanghai commodities, but also Canton ones are flooding the market, and as of this morning prices have slumped... But what's the matter with you? Did I say something wrong?». 

A moment's hesitation, then: «Well, I guess I'd better tell you: it was us who spread the false rumours about the resumption of hostilities. It was not my idea, but I didn't stand back when the Members suggested it.» 

«You? It was you? You?». 

«I swear, I didn't know you were involved.». 

«But why? Why this game?». 

A deep, resigned sigh. 

«Yes, now I can say it. Now ... I swear, I didn’t imagine, I couldn't know ...». 

«But why? Tell me why.». 

«China and the China Standard have nothing to do with it – Dark Malawi was our goal. We’d had an advance tip-off that there was a new outbreak of Ebola in Nigeria, and there was a chance it could spread to Lagos. In any case, it would have exploded near the main camps of Dark Malawi, causing at the very least delivery holdups: consignments would have to be quarantined to control the outbreak. Although Dark Malawi is a very hard-wearing product, losses could not be excluded. At worst, then, if the virus had been confined to the remote forest villages, we would have had late delivery due to quarantine. At best, if Ebola had reached Lagos and begun to spread in the camps, then we would have had a historic rise in prices. Our source was reliable and so we focused on Dark Malawi very strongly but, in order not to arouse suspicions about our manoeuvres and be the only ones to exploit the opportunity, we had to divert the attention of potential rivals before the official publication of the Ebola report. So we began to invent all sorts of false news, from the forecast about the monsoon in India, to the decline in rice production in Vietnam and, in fact, the resumption of war in the Districts ... Our strategy worked: no one noticed anything and the game went pretty well, though not very well, because as you know, the virus was contained and it essentially had no effect on production, as we had hoped, or maybe dreamed. The delivery delays raised the prices by just 10%, but even so, it was all right for us.». 

Elbows on the table, head in his hands. 

«Oh Lord ... Are you telling me that I ruined myself for a mere 10% on your Dark Malawi?». 

«If Ebola had caught on it could have been be a lot more.». 

«And now? What do I do now? ». 

«How much is China Standard worth now?». 

«150. At this rate, Monday I'll sell off under 100, and if I don't get at least one million, I’m bankrupt.».

They contemplated their glasses, now empty, for a long time. 

«Listen, I've got a proposal for you. It's not the best thing, but it will at least guarantee you that million.». 

«And what would that be? Are you going to buy the Standard China at 100?». «No, it's the transport I need. We received a proposal this morning, it's about some old Russian nuclear sites: they might have some material which could be used in those sites in Kazakhstan. It's a deal to be completed in a few days, and we refused it because we wouldn’t know how to move down there so quickly. But if you have a convoy in that area, you could divert it to Russia and we could load it from there, then send it to Kazakhstan.». 

«But one million is too much for a train, it's out of this world!». 

«I know, but I could justify it to our shareholders saying there was nothing else available. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll say: it was the only train available!” – he leaned toward his friend – “even if, in reality, but this is just between you and me, I'm doing it to help you get back a bit.». 

«Thank you ...». 

«Don't mention it. As I said, I feel a bit responsible.». 

«But what shall I do with the load?».

«Get rid of it. I need the train empty, I have to load it in Russia, and those old sites are out of this world, in the middle of nowhere: we wouldn't know what to do with 10,000 Standard China, they’d cost us an arm and a leg just for storage. Get rid of them, all you have to do is pick up the phone. Cancel now and divert the train. It's one million, it may be enough to start over. Think of Sarah!» – he got up – «Another whisky?».

He came back with the glasses just as the phone call was ending. 

«Done: the convoy will head to Russia, then you'll tell me where.». 

«Well done! Among other things, the Chinese always create problems: they always put sub-standard or even sick elements in the loads. Drink up, forget about Standard China, think of Sarah!». 

«I always think of her, when I saw her the first time, when she won the title of Miss University. What was it? 2032? Or '33? I've always been in love with her since then.». 

«Drink. Everything will be fine. Love will win out in the end, I'm sure.». 

As they savoured their whisky, a beam of electrons set in motion another electron beam and this another, then another, and another, farther and farther away. And through cables, antennas and satellites, that beam sent a piece of information that, after travelling overland and underground, eventually reached the ears of the driver of a goods train inching its way north-westwards over the snow-covered expanses of the Asian steppe. When it reached its destination, that beam made the train stop, the side walls of the wagons open, and a load of 10,000 Chinese, scantily dressed, evacuate with efficiency and expertise. When the last Standard China had set foot on the ground, the side walls closed again and the train moved on, as rapidly as possible. 

Even if, on returning home, his thoughts were entirely taken up by the impending conversation with Sarah, which most of his later life would depend upon, he would have felt a bit relieved if he had seen that load. Because it is true that the parameters established by the WTO on Human Commodities are stringent. And it is true that the Standard China is defined as "a young adult Chinese of either sex, aged between 17 and 28 years old, of at least average height and clinical history documented by the opinions expressed by independent experts" - as well as countless other details. But it is also true that the wholesale merchants of the producing countries often circumvent those strict guidelines. Thus consignments are often found to be riddled with sub-standard elements – too young, too old, or sick – and when they reach their destination you have to discard them. In this case, just a quick glance at the load would have convinced him that, after all, getting rid of them was the wisest thing to do. Because among those 10,000 badly dressed Standard China wandering here and there in the icy wilderness (most of whom, however, would be eliminated by the cold of the night, and the rest, the next day, by the gangs of robbers endemic in the area), a high proportion was definitely sub-standard. And he would have been consoled, at least partly, for his loss if he had known that, of those 10,000, a good 10% were children under 12, who would have resulted in a further heavy liability when unloaded.

9,202,458,484 World Population estimated by 2050.  U.S. Census Bureau

In such a market there is a demand price for each amount of the commodity, that is, a price at which each particular amount of the commodity can find purchasers in a day or week or year. The circumstances which govern this price for any given amount of the commodity vary in character from one problem to another; but in every case the more of a thing is offered for sale in a market the lower is the price at which it will find purchasers... Marshall, Principles of Economy




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