We need not dwell upon these multitudinous reiterations of culture, but
must glance for a moment at the last phase of this sixth human species,
so that we may pass on to the artificial species which it produced.
Throughout their career the Sixth Men had often been fascinated by the
idea of flight. The bird was again and again their most sacred symbol.
Their monotheism was apt to be worship not of a god-man, but of a
god-bird, conceived now as the divine sea eagle, winged with power, now
as the giant swift, winged with mercy, now as a disembodied spirit of
air, and once as the bird-god that became man to endow the human race
with flight, physical and spiritual.
It was inevitable that flight should obsess man on Venus, for the planet
afforded but a cramping home for groundlings; and the riotous
efflorescence of avian species shamed man’s pedestrian habit. When in
due course the Sixth Men attained knowledge and power comparable to that
of the First Men at their height, they invented flying machines of
various types. Many times, indeed, mechanical flight was rediscovered
and lost again with the downfall of civilization. But at its best it was
regarded only as a makeshift. And when at length, with the advance of
the biological sciences, the Sixth Men were in a position to influence
the human organism itself, they determined to produce a true flying man.
Many civilizations strove vainly for this result, sometimes
half-heartedly, sometimes with religious earnestness. Finally the most
enduring and brilliant of all the civilizations of the Sixth Men
actually attained the goal.
The Seventh Men were pigmies, scarcely heavier than the largest of
terrestrial flying birds. Through and through they were organized for
flight. A leathery membrane spread from the foot to the tip of the
immensely elongated and strengthened ‘middle finger’. The three ‘outer’
fingers, equally elongated, served as ribs to the membrane; while the
index, and thumb remained free for manipulation. The body assumed the
stream-lines of a bird, and was covered with a deep quilt of feathery
wool. This, and the silken down of the flight-membranes, varied greatly
from individual to individual in colouring and texture. On the ground
the Seventh Men walked much as other human beings, for the
flight-membranes were folded close to the legs and body, and hung from
the arms like exaggerated sleeves. In flight the legs were held extended
as a flattened tail, with the feet locked together by the big toes. The
breastbone was greatly developed as a keel, and as a base for the
muscles of flight. The other bones were hollow, for lightness, and their
internal surfaces were utilized as supplementary lungs. For, like the
birds, these flying men had to maintain a high rate of oxidation. A
state which others would regard as fever was normal to them.
Their brains were given ample tracts for the organization of prowess in
flight. In fact, it was found possible to equip the species with a
system of reflexes for aerial balance, and a true, though artificial,
instinctive aptitude for flight, and interest in flight. Compared with
their makers their brain volume was of necessity small, but their whole
neural system was very carefully organized. Also it matured rapidly, and
was extremely facile in the acquirement of new modes of activity. This
was very desirable; for the individual’s natural life period was but
fifty years, and in most cases it was deliberately cut short by some
impossible feat at about forty, or whenever the symptoms of old age
began to be felt.
Of all human species these bat-like Flying Men, the Seventh Men, were
probably the most carefree. Gifted with harmonious physique and gay
temperament, they came into a social heritage well adapted to their
nature. There was no occasion for them, as there had often been for some
others, to regard the world as fundamentally hostile to life, or
themselves as essentially deformed. Of quick intelligence in respect of
daily personal affairs and social organization, they were untroubled by
the insatiable lust of understanding. Not that they were an
unintellectual race, for they soon formulated a beautifully systematic
account of experience. They clearly perceived, however, that the perfect
sphere of their thought was but a bubble adrift in chaos. Yet it was an
elegant bubble. And the system was true, in its own gay and frankly
insincere manner, true as significant metaphor, not literally true. What
more, it was asked, could be expected of human intellect? Adolescents
were encouraged to study the ancient problems of philosophy, for no
reason but to convince themselves of the futility of probing beyond the
limits of the orthodox system. ‘Prick the bubble of thought at any
point’, it was said, ‘and you shatter the whole of it. And since thought
is one of the necessities of human life, it must be preserved.’
Natural science was taken over from the earlier species with
half-contemptuous gratitude, as a necessary means of sane adjustment to
the environment. Its practical applications were valued as the ground of
the social order; but as the millennia advanced, and society approached
that remarkable perfection and stability which was to endure for many
million years, scientific inventiveness became less and less needful,
and science itself was relegated to the infant schools. History also was
given in outline during childhood, and subsequently ignored.
This curiously sincere intellectual insincerity was due to the fact that
the Seventh Men were chiefly concerned with matters other than abstract
thought. It is difficult to give to members of the first human species
an inkling of the great preoccupation of these Flying Men. To say that
it was flight would be true, yet far less than the truth. To say that
they sought to live dangerously and vividly, to crowd as much experience
as possible into each moment, would again be a caricature of the truth.
On the physical plane, indeed, ‘the universe of flight’, with all the
variety of peril and skill afforded by a tempestuous atmosphere, was
every individual’s chief medium of self-expression. Yet it was not
flight itself, but the spiritual aspect of flight which obsessed the
species.
In the air and on the ground the Seventh Men were different beings.
Whenever they exercised themselves in flight they suffered a remarkable
change of spirit. Much of their time had to be spent on the ground,
since most of the work upon which civilization rested was impossible in
the air. Moreover, life in the air was life at high pressure, and
necessitated spells of recuperation on the ground. In their pedestrian
phase the Seventh Men were sober folk, mildly bored, yet in the main
cheerful, humorously impatient of the drabness and irk of pedestrian
affairs, but ever supported by memory and anticipation of the vivid life
of the air. Often they were tired, after the strain of that other life,
but seldom were they despondent or lazy. Indeed, in the routine of
agriculture and industry they were industrious as the wingless ants. Yet
they worked in a strange mood of attentive absent-mindedness; for their
hearts were ever in the air. So long as they could have frequent periods
of aviation, they remained bland even on the ground. But if for any
reason such as illness they were confined to the ground for a long
period, they pined, developed acute melancholia, and died. Their makers
had so contrived them that with the onset of any very great pain or
misery their hearts should stop. Thus they were to avoid all serious
distress. But, in fact, this merciful device worked only on the ground.
In the air they assumed a very different and more heroic nature, which
their makers had not foreseen, though indeed it was a natural
consequence of their design.
In the air the flying man’s heart beat more powerfully. His temperature
rose. His sensation became more vivid and more discriminate, his
intelligence more agile and penetrating. He experienced a more intense
pleasure or pain in all that happened to him. It would not be true to
say that he became more emotional; rather the reverse, if by
emotionality is meant enslavement to the emotions. For the most
remarkable feature of the aerial phase was that this enhanced power of
appreciation was dispassionate. So long as the individual was in the
air, whether in lonely struggle with the storm, or in the ceremonial
ballet with sky-darkening hosts of his fellows; whether in the ecstatic
love dance with a sexual partner, or in solitary and meditative
circlings far above the world; whether his enterprise was fortunate, or
he found himself dismembered by the hurricane, and crashing to death;
always the gay and the tragic fortunes of his own person were regarded
equally with detached aesthetic delight. Even when his dearest companion
was mutilated or destroyed by some aerial disaster, he exulted; though
also he would give his own life in the hope of effecting a rescue. But
very soon after he had returned to the ground he would be overwhelmed
with grief, would strive vainly to recapture the lost vision, and would
perhaps die of heart failure.
Even when, as happened occasionally in the wild climate of Venus, a
whole aerial population was destroyed by some world-wide atmospheric
tumult, the few broken survivors, so long as they could remain in the
air, exulted. And actually while at length they sank exhausted towards
the ground, towards certain disillusionment and death, they laughed
inwardly. Yet an hour after they had alighted, their constitution would
be changed, their vision lost. They would remember only the horror of
the disaster, and the memory would kill them.
No wonder the Seventh Men grudged every moment that was passed on the
ground. While they were in the air, of course, the prospect of a
pedestrian interlude, or indeed of endless pedestrianism, though in a
manner repugnant, would be accepted with unswerving gaiety; but while
they were on the ground, they grudged bitterly to be there. Early in the
career of the species the proportion of aerial to terrestrial hours was
increased by a biological invention. A minute food-plant was produced
which spent the winter rooted in the ground, and the summer adrift in
the sunlit upper air, engaged solely in photosynthesis. Henceforth the
populations of the Flying Men were able to browse upon the bright
pastures of the sky, like swallows. As the ages passed, material
civilization became more and more simplified. Needs which could not be
satisfied without terrestrial labour tended to be outgrown. Manufactured
articles became increasingly rare. Books were no longer written or read.
In the main, indeed, they were no longer necessary; but to some extent
their place was taken by verbal tradition and discussion, in the upper
air. Of the arts, music, spoken lyric and epic verse, and the supreme
art of winged dance, were constantly practised. The rest vanished. Many
of the sciences inevitably faded into tradition; yet the true scientific
spirit was preserved in a very exact meteorology, a sufficient biology,
and a human psychology surpassed only by the second and fifth species at
their height. None of these sciences, however, was taken very seriously,
save in its practical applications. For instance, psychology explained
the ecstasy of flight very neatly as a febrile and ‘irrational’
beatitude. But no one was disconcerted by this theory; for every one,
while on the wing, felt it to be merely an amusing half-truth.
The social order of the Seventh Men was in essence neither utilitarian,
nor humanistic, nor religious, but aesthetic. Every act and every
institution were to be justified as contributing to the perfect form of
the community. Even social prosperity was conceived as merely the medium
in which beauty should be embodied, the beauty, namely, of vivid
individual lives harmoniously related. Yet not only for the individual,
but even for the race itself (so the wise insisted), death on the wing
was more excellent than prolonged life on the ground. Better, far
better, would be racial suicide than a future of pedestrianism. Yet
though both the individual and the race were conceived as instrumental
to objective beauty, there was nothing religious, in any ordinary sense,
in this conviction. The Seventh Men were completely without interest in
the universal and the unseen. The beauty which they sought to create was
ephemeral and very largely sensuous. And they were well content that it
should be so. Personal immortality, said a dying sage, would be as
tedious as an endless song. Equally so with the race. The lovely flame,
of which we all are members, must die, he said, must die; for without
death she would fall short of beauty.
For close on a hundred million terrestrial years this aerial society
endured with little change. On many of the islands throughout this
period stood even yet a number of the ancient pylons, though repaired
almost beyond recognition. In these nests the men and women of the
seventh species slept through the long Venerian nights, crowded like
roosting swallows. By day the same great towers were sparsely peopled
with those who were serving their turn in industry, while in the fields
and on the sea others laboured. But most were in the air. Many would be
skimming the ocean, to plunge, gannet-like, for fish. Many, circling
over land or sea, would now and again stoop like hawks upon the wildfowl
which formed the chief meat of the species. Others, forty or fifty
thousand feet above the waves, where even the plentiful atmosphere of
Venus was scarcely capable of supporting them, would be soaring,
circling, sweeping, for pure joy of flight. Others, in the calm and
sunshine of high altitudes, would be hanging effortless upon some steady
up-current of air for meditation and the rapture of mere percipience.
Not a few love-intoxicated pairs would be entwining their courses in
aerial patterns, in spires, cascades, and true-love knots of flight,
presently to embrace and drop ten thousand feet in bodily union. Some
would be driving hither and thither through the green mists of vegetable
particles, gathering the manna in their open mouths. Companies, circling
together, would be discussing matters social or aesthetic; others would
be singing together, or listening to recitative epic verse. Thousands,
gathering in the sky like migratory birds, would perform massed
convolutions, reminiscent of the vast mechanical aerial choreography of
the First World State, but more vital and expressive, as a bird’s flight
is more vital than the flight of any machine. And all the while there
would be some, solitary or in companies, who, either in the pursuit of
fish and wildfowl, or out of pure devilment, pitted their strength and
skill against the hurricane, often tragically, but never without zest,
and laughter of the spirit.
It may seem to some incredible that the culture of the Seventh Men
should have lasted so long. Surely it must either have decayed through
mere monotony and stagnation or have advanced into richer experience.
But no. Generation succeeded generation, and each was too short-lived to
outlast its young delight and discover boredom. Moreover, so perfect was
the adjustment of these beings to their world, that even if they had
lived for centuries they would have felt no need of change. Flight
provided them with intense physical exhilaration, and with the physical
basis of a genuine and ecstatic, though limited, spiritual experience.
In this their supreme attainment they rejoiced not only in the diversity
of flight itself, but also in the perceived beauties of their variegated
world, and most of all, perhaps, in the thousand lyric and epic ventures
of human intercourse in an aerial community.
The end of this seemingly everlasting elysium was nevertheless involved
in the very nature of the species. In the first place, as the ages
lengthened into aeons, the generations preserved less and less of the
ancient scientific lore. For it became insignificant to them. The aerial
community had no need of it. This loss of mere information did not
matter so long as their condition remained unaltered; but in due course
biological changes began to undermine them. The species had always been
prone to a certain biological instability. A proportion of infants,
varying with circumstances, had always been misshapen; and the deformity
had generally been such as to make flight impossible. The normal infant
was able to fly early in its second year. If some accident prevented it
from doing so, it invariably fell into a decline and died before its
third year was passed. But many of the deformed types, being the result
of a partial reversion to the pedestrian nature, were able to live on
indefinitely without flight. According to a merciful custom these
cripples had always to be destroyed. But at length, owing to the gradual
exhaustion of a certain marine salt essential to the high-strung nature
of the Seventh Men, infants were more often deformed than true to type.
The world-population declined so seriously that the organized aerial
life of the community could no longer be carried on according to the
time-honoured aesthetic principles. No one knew how to check this racial
decay, but many felt that with greater biological knowledge it might be
avoided. A disastrous policy was now adopted. It was decided to spare a
carefully selected proportion of the deformed infants, those namely
which, though doomed to pedestrianism, were likely to develop high
intelligence. Thus it was hoped to raise a specialized group of persons
whose work should be biological research untrammelled by the
intoxication of flight.
The brilliant cripples that resulted from this policy looked at
existence from a new angle. Deprived of the supreme experience for which
their fellows lived, envious of a bliss which they knew only by report,
yet contemptuous of the naïve mentality which cared for nothing (it
seemed) but physical exercise, love-making, the beauty of nature, and
the elegances of society, these flightless intelligences sought
satisfaction almost wholly in the life of research and scientific
control. At the best, however, they were a tortured and resentful race.
For their natures were fashioned for the aerial life which they could
not lead. Although they received from the winged folk just treatment and
a certain compassionate respect, they writhed under this kindness,
locked their hearts against all the orthodox values, and sought out new
ideals. Within a few centuries they had rehabilitated the life of
intellect, and, with the power that knowledge gives, they had made
themselves masters of the world. The amiable fliers were surprised,
perplexed, even pained; and yet withal amused. Even when it became
evident that the pedestrians were determined to create a new world-order
in which there would be no place for the beauties of natural flight, the
fliers were only distressed while they were on the ground.
The islands were becoming crowded with machinery and flightless
industrialists. In the air itself the winged folk found themselves
outstripped by the base but effective instruments of mechanical flight.
Wings became a laughing stock, and the life of natural flight was
condemned as a barren luxury. It was ordained that in future every flier
must serve the pedestrian world-order, or starve. And as the cultivation
of wind-borne plants had been abandoned, and fishing and fowling rights
were strictly controlled, this law was no empty form. At first it was
impossible for the fliers to work on the ground for long hours, day
after day, without incurring serious ill-health and an early death. But
the pedestrian physiologists invented a drug which preserved the poor
wage-slaves in something like physical health, and actually prolonged
their life. No drug, however, could restore their spirit, for their
normal aerial habit was reduced to a few tired hours of recreation once
a week. Meanwhile, breeding experiments were undertaken to produce a
wholly wingless large-brained type. And finally a law was enacted by
which all winged infants must be either mutilated or destroyed. At this
point the fliers made an heroic but ineffectual bid for power. They
attacked the pedestrian population from the air. In reply the enemy rode
them down in his great aeroplanes and blew them to pieces with high
explosive.
The fighting squadrons of the natural fliers were finally driven to the
ground in a remote and barren island. Thither the whole flying
population, a mere remnant of its former strength, fled out of every
civilized archipelago in search of freedom: the whole population—save
the sick, who committed suicide, and all infants that could not yet fly.
These were stifled by their mothers or next-of-kin, in obedience to a
decree of the leaders. About a million men, women and children, some of
whom were scarcely old enough for the prolonged flight, now gathered on
the rocks, regardless that there was not food in the neighbourhood for a
great company.
Their leaders, conferring together, saw clearly that the day of Flying
Man was done, and that it would be more fitting for a high-souled race
to die at once than to drag on in subjection to contemptuous masters.
They therefore ordered the population to take part in an act of racial
suicide that should at least make death a noble gesture of freedom. The
people received the message while they were resting on the stony
moorland. A wail of sorrow broke from them. It was checked by the
speaker, who bade them strive to see, even on the ground, the beauty of
the thing that was to be done. They could not see it; but they knew that
if they had the strength to take wing again they would see it clearly,
almost as soon as their tired muscles bore them aloft. There was no time
to waste, for many were already faint with hunger, and anxious lest they
should fail to rise. At the appointed signal the whole population rose
into the air with a deep roar of wings. Sorrow was left behind. Even the
children, when their mothers explained what was to be done, accepted
their fate with zest; though, had they learned of it on the ground, they
would have been terror-stricken. The company now flew steadily West,
forming themselves into a double file many miles long. The cone of a
volcano appeared over the horizon, and rose as they approached. The
leaders pressed on towards its ruddy smoke plume; and unflinchingly,
couple by couple, the whole multitude darted into its fiery breath and
vanished. So ended the career of Flying Man.