FISSION TO FUSION OR HOW IT ALL BEGAN by J. Brian Clarke 1 Hello there. My name is Leo, and I am a protozoa in a puddle. I eat a lot and I reproduce a lot. The eating part is not so bad, although its only purpose seems to be so I can gain enough bulk and energy to do the other thing--and it is that which is the real pain. Having to frequently stop whatever I am doing so I can divide down the middle to become two identical copies of myself is highly inconvenient, not to mention undignified and no fun at all. And the end result of this repeated fissioning? Too many protozoa who look, think and speak exactly like me! So despite the fact we keep bumping into each other, our conversations cannot help but be somewhat banal; "Hi, Leo." "Hello yourself, Leo." "What's new?" "New? I dunno. Today's date?" "Aw, come on!" "Sorry, Leo. Can't think of anything else." "Too much fissioning, huh?" "Something like that." "I sympathize. So what is it anyway?" "What is what?" "The date." "Oh. June 4th, one and a half billion years B.C. or thereabouts." "Wow. Some thereabouts." "Not really. I only looked it up because Leo asked me to." "He did? By the way, how's he doing?" "How do I know? I presume you aren't him, but so what?" "I am not." "What?" "Him." "Oh." "Come to think of it, there must be a lot of us around. After all, the first Leo started dividing a long time ago." "I looked that up too." "You did?" "I just said so, didn't I?" "No need to get snippy!" "I am never-- What is the question?" "How many are we?" "Oh that. Two million or so." "Or so? Can't you narrow it down a bit?" "I don't see how. Aside from the lack of information concerning how many of us have fissioned since we started this conversation, there is the unknown of natural attrition--" "Natural attrition, eh? Now that sounds fascinating." "Like hell it does. You are as bored with this as I am." "OK, so I am making small talk. What else is there to do around here? Life gets pretty dull sometimes." "Leo, life is dull. All the time." "You know something? You might have a point there." "I know I do." It is after one of these scintillating exchanges I get thinking about life, the universe and everything. Something is clearly missing in our lives, despite the fact that other than an occasional accident (what Leo refers to as attrition), we are virtually immortal. Food is plentiful, and we do not lack companionship. Then again, is it companionship when you can only converse with what is, in effect, yourself--and there is not much to talk about except facts and figures? Perhaps we can discuss the weather. You are being absurd, I tell myself. With nothing except the same crummy mixture of warm rain and volcanic ash forever salting our local environment, meteorology is about as stimulating as the average length of a pseudopod. What we need, I decide after enduring another fission during which, for the umpteenth time, I wave myself goodby, is something different. Something-- Someone. I do a double take. Do I really mean that? Where in blazes does a different someone come from, unless from another puddle? Aside from the enormous distances involved, how can we determine if life even exists anywhere except here? I wonder if we can construct some kind of vehicle to transport us across dry space to our nearest extra-puddle neighbor, and promptly dismiss the idea as unscientific nonsense, not to mention blasphemous. If the Creator intended us to make such a journey, he would have given us wheels and lungs. What about the other life which shares our puddle--does it have possibilities? Probably not, I decide, as I think of the limited conversing abilities of our lesser cousins. Comments such as 'ouch', 'glug' or 'aaargh' as they are being absorbed is hardly communication, and in any case their role as consumables is too vital to allow them to have ideas above their station. Idly I form a pseudopod, stretch and extend it so it protrudes from my body like a long finger. Then I curve it, bring the end back to myself and tuck it into a hollow I form in my outer membrane. It is a contortion I have performed countless times, totally pointless of course, unless there is aesthetic value in making oneself look like a lumpy teacup with a thick handle. "What are you doing?" Wishing people would not sneak up on me like that, I hurriedly sproing back to politically correct posture and snap, "Exercising!" It is an off-the-cuff response I instantly regret. "Exercising?" If Leo had eyebrows, he would have raised them. "Well, you know--" I blush, or would have if I had blush glands. "I admit the routine does look interesting. Do you mind if I try it?" Because I am too surprised to respond, Leo apparently interprets my silence as an affirmative and extends his own pseudopod. It is a clumsy first effort in which he extends too far for effective control. So as he curves it back toward himself, its tip wanders off course and brushes against my-- --LIGHTNING--THUNDER--PAIN--JOY-- It is transcendental; an absolute totally of sensation beyond anything I have experienced in all my lives. Leo feels it too. He jerks away and we stare at each other, astonished. "Wha--?" He begins. "I think we just invented something," I say, feeling warm and fuzzy. "Wha--huh?" I have never known a Leo at a loss for words. It is totally unprecedented. The energy begins to seep back into me. "Do it again," I suggest. "This time insert your pseudopod--" I form a hollow in my outer membrane. "--here." So he does. --LIGHTNING--THUNDER-- 2 After much extensive and meticulous research involving many volunteer Leos (too many, after the word gets around), we realize it will make things less confusing if we separate ourselves into two distinct types--pointers and pointees, as it were. But before we initiate that momentous change, we decide the process must have a name. So, after an enthusiastic show of pseudopods, we call it Fun. 3 I am exhausted. Physically and mentally I am so depleted, I cannot even fission! So with extreme reluctance I am suspending myself from physical participation in all sectors of the Project, although I remain available as consultant. Clearly, even the most intense dedication has its limits. 4 Question. Can extreme fatigue cause a tumor? Or is this bulge the first someone?