Post-Boomboom
Alberto Vanasco








A mathematics professor by training, Alberto Vanasco (1925–1993) was born in Buenos Aires and published his first novel, Nonetheless, Juan Lived (Sin embargo, Juan vivía) in 1947. His second effort, The Many Who Do Not Live (Los muchos que no viven, 1957) was made into a film in 1964 with the title All Suns Are Bitter (Todo sol es amargo). Among his other non-SF works are the novels New York, New York (Nueva York, Nueva York, 1967), Others Will See the Sea (Otros verán el mar, 1977), Infamous Years (Años in fames, 1983), and To the South of the Rio Grande (Al sur del Río Grande, 1987); the award-winning play No Pity for Hamlet (No hay piedad para Hamlet, 1948); two collections of poems, She, in General (Ella en general, 1954) and Rolling Stone (Canto rodado, 1962); and the essay “Life and Works of Hegel” (“Vida у obra de Hegel,” 1973). As for Vanasco’s genre work, in the Spanish-speaking SF community his name is associated with Eduardo Goligorsky, since they were coeditors of the two groundbreaking sf anthologies Future Memories (Memorias del futuro, 1966) and Goodbye to Tomorrow (Adiós al manaña, 1967). Vanasco later edited New Future Memories (Nuevas memorias del futuro, 1977).

“Post-boomboom,” from Goodbye to Tomorrow, belongs to the tradition of the postholocaust rebuilding of civilization, but departs from it in several respects, since the main characters are not “savage men” who restore society in the end, nor do contemporary images of the lost world appear as references. The protagonists’ efforts to recover traces of scientific knowledge to pass on to their unpromising children have an ironic, tragicomical effect.






POST-BOOMBOOM






Post-bombum, 1967

by Alberto Vanasco








And then the waters, the furious waves, came rushing in without warning and devastated the land. Between the shredded palm trees, among the remains of the great fire, on top of the carbon and the ice, a few men had found refuge—a very few, barely three or four, as could be seen when they emerged from their hiding places to trap some vermin or other and then quickly hid themselves again. Now and again the sun peeked out through the mists, but the rain continued falling uncontrollably, as it had from the start, as if it would never stop. From among spirals of smoke and soil, life, disoriented, struggled to carry on: freakish animals and bizarre plants appeared on the charred earth. One of the men, who had lost one shoe, dragged himself out of the cave and peered about. The other two out there were trailing a deformed reptile, arguing loudly about who would get to keep the prey and throwing rocks at each other. They were the one who had lost an eye and the one who had lost his hair. Somebody had lit a fire that covered the hillside with smoke. The one who had lost a shoe stopped in order to kill a new species of centipede that was sleeping atop a rock, and he ate it. Then he stretched his neck to see off into the distance.

“Hey! Come here! Hey!” he yelled. “No one’s going to harm you. Come and warm yourselves up a little.” And he stood near the fire.

The bald one approached, still chewing a piece of the reptile he’d hunted. He crouched down next to the fire, and there he remained, squatting, rocking back and forth clumsily. The third one, the one-eyed one, also edged closer and finally stopped right next to the flames.

“Now the three of us are together,” the one with the shoe said proudly.

The other two grunted. More than half an hour passed without them talking again. Their children had also begun to prowl around the place. There was one who looked like a toad, his body swollen and plastered against the ground. The other one appeared to be a girl, and reminded one of a tree, with a delicate, elongated trunk and two arms like broken branches at her sides. The third gave the impression of still being a fetus.

“We must do something,” said the one who had lost a shoe.

“Do what?” asked the one who had barely saved one eye.

“Something, salvage something, for them,” said the other, pointing vaguely toward the children.

“There’s nothing to save,” said the hairless one.

They were silent another hour, listening only to the squawks and bellows of their children as they pushed each other toward the edge of the cliff, scratching each other and struggling to hurl one another into the void.

“We can’t go on this way, hiding and spying on each other like enemies all the time,” the one who had saved naught but one shoe finally said. “Only the three of us remain, maybe only we three in all the world, each one with a child, and we have to do something.”

“There’s nothing to do,” insisted the one who had rescued nothing but his scalp.

“I’ll explain it to you,” said the one with the shoe. “I think there is. We’ve got nothing to do and we’ve got to pass the time somehow. Listen. Between the three of us we must know a few things. We can write them down and arrange them, put all our knowledge together in order to leave it to our children and their children. They’re going to have to start all over again, and our notes can help them out a lot—a sort of encyclopedia. What do you think, eh?” The other two grunted. “You, for example,” he said to the one-eyed one, “what did you use to do? What’s your name? Mine’s Antonio Morales. I worked as a foreman in the harbor. What did you do?”

“My name is Silva,” said the one with the eye. “I was an office worker.”

“Ah, an office worker! You see?” said the one with the shoe. Then the two looked at the one who had lost his hair.

“My name’s Anderson. I was in charge of an apartment complex. The fire’s about to go out.”

“No, it’s still burning, but throw those sticks onto it. Don’t be afraid. Thanks. See? I’m used to doing this, to being in charge, to organizing. There’s a reason why I was a foreman in the harbor. You, Silva, you worked in an office. You must know a lot of things, at least more than us, right?”

“Well, yeah, maybe. I have read some, though only superficially.”

“It doesn’t matter. Everything is important. We don’t have paper but we can jot down stuff on the dirty glass that’s lying around here. Broken glass is something we have lots of. Let’s begin. What do you know?”

Silva thought for a very long while. He watched the flames with his only eye. He felt cold and he’d hardly eaten that week. What did he know? Nowadays he felt that he knew next to nothing. He understood that they’d been destroyed by a most horrible and refined knowledge which a few men had reserved for themselves, and that there they were now, with their kids deformed and the world annihilated, trying to save or recover something. Nero, he suddenly thought with joy. Yes, that’s right. He remembered having seen a movie on television about the Roman emperor.

“Nero,” he said. “That can serve us as a reference.”

“Of course, yes, sir!” said Morales enthusiastically. “Anything will do for a start. What year was this Nero guy? That way we can arrange the time periods a little.”

“I don’t remember that detail. He was with Julius Caesar. Nero burned Rome. I think it was five hundred years before Christ.”

“Hang on. Nero, Christ, Julius Caesar. Very good, this is coming along. And Christ, when was he?”

“Neither B.C. nor A.D., I assume.”

“You assume right,” said Morales and he wrote something down on the glass. “Perfect. What else? What do you know about Julius Caesar?”

“Julius Caesar was the founder of Rome.”

“Nero burned Rome and Julius Caesar established it again, is that right?”

“Well, yes, more or less, I think so.”

“Good,” said the man with only one shoe. “That’s done. Let’s move on to the Greeks. What do you both know about the Greeks?”

“The Greeks lived before.”

“When?”

“Ten thousand years before Christ. They’re famous because they lived in Troy. That’s where they fought the Carthaginians.”

“And who won?”

“I don’t think either of them did. That’s where the phrase a ‘Pyrrhic victory’ came from.”

“Was Pyrrhus the emperor of Carthage?”

“Yes, of course. Write that down.”

“Done. But that’s enough history for today, we’ll continue tomorrow. Let’s take a look at the sciences,” Morales said then. “You. Anderson, you did maintenance, you must know something about electricity.”

“Maintenance no, I was a site manager. As for knowing about electricity, well, not precisely. You don’t have to know those things in order to be site manager of an apartment building. I know how to install a plug and hook up a lamp, but that’s all. Well, OK. we can write down that there are two currents, alternating and direct.”

“And what’s the difference?”

“Um, one kills you, the other gives you a shock.”

“Shock. What else?” said Morales. He was thrilled. “What’s electricity? How do you get it?”

“Well, it comes from the power plant. What it is, I don’t know, although one time I got a shock. It’s like lightning. And yeah, in the power plant there are cables, coils, dynamos. There you go. that could be interesting for our kids.”

“What’s a dynamo?”

“They’re like these little brushes that turn, and then the electric fluid is made.”

“And what else?”

“We’ve got enough with that, I think. Write it down. Electric fluid.”

“OK, got it,” answered Morales.

“And what do you know?” asked the one with an eye missing of Morales, who lacked one shoe.

“I know how to load and unload frozen goods, or how to hang refrigerated meats and stow all kinds of cargo.”

“I don’t think that’s of much use to us now,” said the other. “Don’t you know anything about ships?”

“Yes, I know how to open a hold, and I know the name of every single one of its parts.”

“Why does a ship float? That’s what we’d like to know.”

“Well, it floats because it’s hollow. There’s a law of physics for that.”

“Newton’s Principle,” explained the one who’d been an office worker.

“Oh, of course. Who did you say? Newton?”

“Yes. but wait. Newton’s Principle says that gravity is what attracts all bodies. That was a great discovery. It’s a universal principle.”

“And that’s why a ship floats?”

“No. It floats for precisely the opposite reason. It’s the water that keeps it afloat.”

“So…?”

“I already told you. Newton’s Principle.”

“Since we’re on the sciences,” said Morales writing eagerly, “what’s relativity?”

“Oh, yeah, Einstein had something to do with that,” explained Silva, winking the only eye he had left. “He discovered relativity. He revolutionized astrology’. He said that everything was relative.”

“Good,” said Morales, taking a new sheet of glass. “Everything relative. How did the formulas go?”

“I dunno. Wait. They were a little complicated. He said that light travels at a speed of three hundred thousand kilometers per minute.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t that a lot?”

“No, it’s the one thing I remember with accuracy. But put down per hour, just in case.”

“Perfect, per hour. Who knows something about geometry?”

“The Pythagorean Theorem,” said Silva, whose one eye now shone with energy.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a way to measure the sides of a triangle. Listen, it goes more or less like this—don’t write yet—the sum of the sides is equal to the hypotenuse.”

“Very interesting. Can you explain it to me?”

“Yes, look.” He took out a knife, alarming the other two, but all he did was draw a right triangle on the flat ground. “You see? It means that this side”—he drew a line the same as the hypotenuse—“is equal to the sum of these other two,” and he drew two segments, one after the other, equal to the sides.

“But those aren’t the same,” said the others in unison.

“Apparently, no, but mathematically, yes. That’s why Pythagorus had to prove it.”

“Very good,” said Morales. “If beings come from another planet, they’ll find these pieces of glass and have a complete idea of everything that mankind had come to know.”

“Why don’t we add something about literature?” said Silva.

“Literature?” repeated Anderson.

“No, not literature. We need to write down fundamental things. For example, what’s an atom bomb? How do you make one? That would be very important.”

“An atom bomb?” said the other two. A heavy silence came over the three men. The rain continued to pour down and Morales had to protect the pieces of glass with his body so that the water didn’t erase what he’d written. Just then, the wet and burning wind scattered the soaked pages of a book that had escaped the great fire. Anderson, the bald one, smoothed them out and brought them over. It was a treasure of incalculable value for them: nothing less than a treatise on anatomy, astronomy, zoology.


 Immediately they started to study and transcribe it for their children.

“Let’s see, the nervous system, what’s it say?” Morales began.

Silva, with his lone eye, read: “The brain is the nervous system and it controls the entire body. Let’s suppose I touch a child someplace, any place, and I tell him: ‘You have nerves here,’ he won’t be able to tell me he doesn’t. The brain is protected by a bone that’s a cranee-yum. But first there’s the cerebellum, and after that comes the Medusa Oblongata. Then there’s the spiny column and inside that there’s like a little tube that runs through the whole body. Convolooshuns are like tiny sausages, all rolled up; they’re the things that let us do things.”

“Fascinating.” said Morales. “That’s more like it! What does it say there about the corpuscle?”

“It says: ‘The Corpuscle: What a Piece of Junk!’ Then it says: ‘Digestion is the cause of many illnesses.’”

They continued thus during all of that afternoon and many others, until the man with the one missing shoe thought that they had enough and the next day, in the morning, they gathered their raggedy offspring together and began passing their knowledge on to them. Under the unceasing rain, in that world flattened by a few men who had monopolized the most subtle and diabolical forces of destruction, those three survivors devoted themselves to teaching their descendants the knowledge that they had managed, in their own way. to accumulate, while the deformed creatures who were their children listened to them in silence, watching them with their lifeless eyes:

“The square of 2 is 4. Therefore, in order to find the square of a number, multiply it by 2: for example: the square of 8 is 16, of 12 is 24, of 24 is 48…