The fridge was of unknown, ancient origin. It was inefficient, far from frost-free. It quaked at irregular intervals, then lay dormant for long periods, silent in its kitchen space except for a perpetual dripping, like the ticking of a cosmic clock. It was never destined to be a perfect fridge, but it did its job without complaint, and it was the only one they had.
Inside, reliant on the relatively constant atmosphere of this ancient fridge, there began to evolve a range of organisms, each occupying their own little cracks and crevices, each adapting to a particular niche in the more or less steady-state environment. There were algae, fungi, bacteria and other micro-organisms in their resplendent multitudes, a huge and interdependent diversity of life-forms, still evolving. Together, this biomass was locked in isolation in its ageing ark. It was, indeed, a dirty fridge. But cool.
As the fridge rocked in its kitchen and the window looked on, oblivious, the multiplicity of life-forms inside it went forth and multiplied, and throughout the generations they begat and begat in combinations numerous and inventive. And many were their offspring, radiant with the joy of living. And so it came to pass that one day was begotten a new species, and the new species begat a new genera, and the new genera begat a new family, and the new family begat a new order, and the new order begat The New Order, and Lo, finally, the Lord Kelvinator was satisfied, and rested.
Now whilst it may be true that this New Order was, at first glimpse, only one of several species of bacteria which had colonised the cracks around the doorseals, nearest the source of fresh air and external light, this species had in fact evolved a level of intelligence far beyond that of its fellow fridge-dwellers, and had developed sophisticated concepts of civilisation and technology. Adept at exploiting their advantage over the other, slower-thinking microfauna, this germkind soon learned the use of tools to manipulate their part of the fridge. They developed language and mathematics, and learned to plant fungus crops for food on areas of fridge along the fringes of their settlements.
Before long, their co-operative endeavours gave them leisure time, and soon bacterial poets were thoughtfully engaged in writing sonnets to their mother fridge, and praising her bounteous beauty. Bacterial painters and sculptors created works of deep insight into the secret, sacred nature of their home. The self-righteous among them began to dictate moral codes, which were recorded and compiled into publications and pronouncements, and predictions about the next time the fridge door would be opened, and whether the gods would bring them new gifts or take away those bestowed upon them earlier. And so religion was created to confuse and manipulate, and to divide them into many tribes, germ against germ.
And so their culture grew. Bacterial engineers built bridges, transport corridors and waste disposal systems as their settlements matured into cities and their cities sprawled through every nick and wrinkle in the doorseals.
The species grew from strength to strength and bred and spread and filled up all the cracks in the lining of the door. Soon they jostled one another, inter-group tensions bristled, and they were forced to invent war for territorial possession, which kept their numbers down for many generations. But they recovered steadily, and soon bacterial politicians promised truces and treaties, and inquiries into the problem of overpopulation. Eventually they produced reports recommending action and all the bacterial scientists who had been working on the war for territorial possession began to research, postulate and project. They deliberated and abstracted and collaborated and with the bacterial engineers they developed new technologies to help their species adapt to some of the less suitable environments, deeper inside the fridge, along the walls around the door frame.
New generations of bacteria were born, lived, bred and died, then, in a range of environments, and their species learned to accommodate the challenges of life in harsher, less forgiving conditions. There was talk of spreading even further inside the fridge, and exploration parties set out, bravely, to chart the icy unknown.
At the other extreme –on the outer wrinkle of the doorseal, in what bacterial scientists had labelled the Magnetsophere- plans were made to venture out into the very void beyond the fridge itself. One giant leap for germkind might get them as far as the kitchen sink, or even the rubbish bin beyond the bench, and who knew what life-forms might lurk there?
Much of germkind achieved levels of material success beyond the comprehension of their simple, single-celled ancestors. They developed complex systems of food production and home delivery, instantaneous fridge-wide communication, and giant databases of arcane information, which they shuffled back and forth between them. Colossal entertainment networks were established to dominate the culture, and billions vied for celebrity and prizes on shows such as “Who Wants To Be A Helicobacter?” and “Are You Smarter Than e. Coli?”
But there was a price to pay for all this fun, and it was the lower order organisms that paid it, subjugated by germkind’s infinite desire for more. And more. Whole families of algae were no longer seen around their cities, and many fields of fungi fell sacrifice to the rampant growth of germkind.
Over time, reports began to filter back to the major colonies along the inner doorseals of a massive buildup of ice deep in the dark, cold inner recesses of the fridge. Anecdotal evidence indicated that the ice was growing significantly each bacterial year, creeping inexorably towards the outer settled areas, where it threatened the very sustainability of life. Scientific germs constructed complex models and made abstruse calculations of how long their fridge might remain habitable, and did not like what they saw.
Some bacterial politicians and business leaders scoffed at the idea, and said those warning of impending catastrophe were alarmists and doom-sayers, and there was no such scientifically proven phenomenon as fridge-wide cooling. But bureaucrats were more cautious, ordering investigations and monitoring and measuring, to confirm their fears.
When finally a fridge-wide consensus was formed that the entire fridge was indeed growing measurably cooler, the so-called germ in the street began to take notice and to wonder why. Civic and business leaders were questioned and responded by commissioning more investigations and inquiries and a Final Report.
But the bacterial public did not like what the report concluded: the expansion of the inner-fridge ice-sheet had been precipitated by the bacteria themselves, growing so prolifically, spreading in such profusion that they had rendered the doorseals ineffective.
But wait! cried the bacterial sceptics, If the door was being opened by germkind, surely that would admit warmer air, which would be melting the ice, not allowing it to continue to build up?
So the bacterial scientists sighed and tried to explain that the atmosphere of the fridge was a highly complex entity, requiring further investigation and experiment, but what they thought was happening was that the air leaking infinitessimally through the compromised doorseals brought with it moisture, in vapour form, which condensed upon the ice. With glacial slowness at first, then steadily gathering pace, the ice-mound grew. The moist air from outside the fridge was feeding the problem one molecule at a time, a million molecules a minute.
Soon deadly fingers of frost began extending along the fridge walls, almost to the very door itself, and whole species of algae, fungi and the lower orders of bacteria were made extinct in an evolutionary eyeblink. The coming frost engulfed what had once been good areas of fridge for food production, and Germkind drew back from its outposts to the doorseal cracks which had been the cradles of its civilisation. Vast bacterial infrastructures were abandoned to the encroaching ice as unsustainable. Bacteria fled to the overcrowded settlements, filling the doorseals with a flood-tide of refugees.
But as the populations grew and grew, forcing the doorseal cracks wider still, they let in more moist air, and soon the system reached its tipping-point, and collapsed into a runaway and irreversible fridge-wide cooling process known as the Westinghouse effect. Now, great gusts of wind ripped through wide cracks, levelling the cities of germkind to ruins, and billions drowned in the floods of moisture which condensed around the doorseals themselves, inundating low-lying areas. Catastrophic storms lashed their settlements and caused the spread of dread diseases through the species, and there was much woe and lamentation at the loss of bacterial life and its material culture.
The few survivors of the master race huddled in their ever-colder crevices –now renamed crevasses, in recognition of the ice- and prayed to the Lord Kelvinator for salvation, even as they knew that all was lost. Some abandoned their wits and wandered the ruined cities prophesying the impending End Times. “The end of the fridge is nigh!” they cried. But they were wrong.
The gods did indeed arrive one day in a blaze of light as they threw wide the door and began removing the remnants of the bounty they’d bestowed, now much-reduced. But it was not the end of the fridge, for the gods still had a purpose for it. It was only the beginning of The Great Defrosting, and no matter how thoroughly the gods had wiped them from the surface of the fridge, some tiny traces of Life remained, to begin again the cycles of the fridge’s evolution.
Inside, reliant on the relatively constant atmosphere of this ancient fridge, there began to evolve a range of organisms, each occupying their own little cracks and crevices, each adapting to a particular niche in the more or less steady-state environment. There were algae, fungi, bacteria and other micro-organisms in their resplendent multitudes, a huge and interdependent diversity of life-forms, still evolving. Together, this biomass was locked in isolation in its ageing ark. It was, indeed, a dirty fridge. But cool.
As the fridge rocked in its kitchen and the window looked on, oblivious, the multiplicity of life-forms inside it went forth and multiplied, and throughout the generations they begat and begat in combinations numerous and inventive. And many were their offspring, radiant with the joy of living. And so it came to pass that one day was begotten a new species, and the new species begat a new genera, and the new genera begat a new family, and the new family begat a new order, and the new order begat The New Order, and Lo, finally, the Lord Kelvinator was satisfied, and rested.
Now whilst it may be true that this New Order was, at first glimpse, only one of several species of bacteria which had colonised the cracks around the doorseals, nearest the source of fresh air and external light, this species had in fact evolved a level of intelligence far beyond that of its fellow fridge-dwellers, and had developed sophisticated concepts of civilisation and technology. Adept at exploiting their advantage over the other, slower-thinking microfauna, this germkind soon learned the use of tools to manipulate their part of the fridge. They developed language and mathematics, and learned to plant fungus crops for food on areas of fridge along the fringes of their settlements.
Before long, their co-operative endeavours gave them leisure time, and soon bacterial poets were thoughtfully engaged in writing sonnets to their mother fridge, and praising her bounteous beauty. Bacterial painters and sculptors created works of deep insight into the secret, sacred nature of their home. The self-righteous among them began to dictate moral codes, which were recorded and compiled into publications and pronouncements, and predictions about the next time the fridge door would be opened, and whether the gods would bring them new gifts or take away those bestowed upon them earlier. And so religion was created to confuse and manipulate, and to divide them into many tribes, germ against germ.
And so their culture grew. Bacterial engineers built bridges, transport corridors and waste disposal systems as their settlements matured into cities and their cities sprawled through every nick and wrinkle in the doorseals.
The species grew from strength to strength and bred and spread and filled up all the cracks in the lining of the door. Soon they jostled one another, inter-group tensions bristled, and they were forced to invent war for territorial possession, which kept their numbers down for many generations. But they recovered steadily, and soon bacterial politicians promised truces and treaties, and inquiries into the problem of overpopulation. Eventually they produced reports recommending action and all the bacterial scientists who had been working on the war for territorial possession began to research, postulate and project. They deliberated and abstracted and collaborated and with the bacterial engineers they developed new technologies to help their species adapt to some of the less suitable environments, deeper inside the fridge, along the walls around the door frame.
New generations of bacteria were born, lived, bred and died, then, in a range of environments, and their species learned to accommodate the challenges of life in harsher, less forgiving conditions. There was talk of spreading even further inside the fridge, and exploration parties set out, bravely, to chart the icy unknown.
At the other extreme –on the outer wrinkle of the doorseal, in what bacterial scientists had labelled the Magnetsophere- plans were made to venture out into the very void beyond the fridge itself. One giant leap for germkind might get them as far as the kitchen sink, or even the rubbish bin beyond the bench, and who knew what life-forms might lurk there?
Much of germkind achieved levels of material success beyond the comprehension of their simple, single-celled ancestors. They developed complex systems of food production and home delivery, instantaneous fridge-wide communication, and giant databases of arcane information, which they shuffled back and forth between them. Colossal entertainment networks were established to dominate the culture, and billions vied for celebrity and prizes on shows such as “Who Wants To Be A Helicobacter?” and “Are You Smarter Than e. Coli?”
But there was a price to pay for all this fun, and it was the lower order organisms that paid it, subjugated by germkind’s infinite desire for more. And more. Whole families of algae were no longer seen around their cities, and many fields of fungi fell sacrifice to the rampant growth of germkind.
Over time, reports began to filter back to the major colonies along the inner doorseals of a massive buildup of ice deep in the dark, cold inner recesses of the fridge. Anecdotal evidence indicated that the ice was growing significantly each bacterial year, creeping inexorably towards the outer settled areas, where it threatened the very sustainability of life. Scientific germs constructed complex models and made abstruse calculations of how long their fridge might remain habitable, and did not like what they saw.
Some bacterial politicians and business leaders scoffed at the idea, and said those warning of impending catastrophe were alarmists and doom-sayers, and there was no such scientifically proven phenomenon as fridge-wide cooling. But bureaucrats were more cautious, ordering investigations and monitoring and measuring, to confirm their fears.
When finally a fridge-wide consensus was formed that the entire fridge was indeed growing measurably cooler, the so-called germ in the street began to take notice and to wonder why. Civic and business leaders were questioned and responded by commissioning more investigations and inquiries and a Final Report.
But the bacterial public did not like what the report concluded: the expansion of the inner-fridge ice-sheet had been precipitated by the bacteria themselves, growing so prolifically, spreading in such profusion that they had rendered the doorseals ineffective.
But wait! cried the bacterial sceptics, If the door was being opened by germkind, surely that would admit warmer air, which would be melting the ice, not allowing it to continue to build up?
So the bacterial scientists sighed and tried to explain that the atmosphere of the fridge was a highly complex entity, requiring further investigation and experiment, but what they thought was happening was that the air leaking infinitessimally through the compromised doorseals brought with it moisture, in vapour form, which condensed upon the ice. With glacial slowness at first, then steadily gathering pace, the ice-mound grew. The moist air from outside the fridge was feeding the problem one molecule at a time, a million molecules a minute.
Soon deadly fingers of frost began extending along the fridge walls, almost to the very door itself, and whole species of algae, fungi and the lower orders of bacteria were made extinct in an evolutionary eyeblink. The coming frost engulfed what had once been good areas of fridge for food production, and Germkind drew back from its outposts to the doorseal cracks which had been the cradles of its civilisation. Vast bacterial infrastructures were abandoned to the encroaching ice as unsustainable. Bacteria fled to the overcrowded settlements, filling the doorseals with a flood-tide of refugees.
But as the populations grew and grew, forcing the doorseal cracks wider still, they let in more moist air, and soon the system reached its tipping-point, and collapsed into a runaway and irreversible fridge-wide cooling process known as the Westinghouse effect. Now, great gusts of wind ripped through wide cracks, levelling the cities of germkind to ruins, and billions drowned in the floods of moisture which condensed around the doorseals themselves, inundating low-lying areas. Catastrophic storms lashed their settlements and caused the spread of dread diseases through the species, and there was much woe and lamentation at the loss of bacterial life and its material culture.
The few survivors of the master race huddled in their ever-colder crevices –now renamed crevasses, in recognition of the ice- and prayed to the Lord Kelvinator for salvation, even as they knew that all was lost. Some abandoned their wits and wandered the ruined cities prophesying the impending End Times. “The end of the fridge is nigh!” they cried. But they were wrong.
The gods did indeed arrive one day in a blaze of light as they threw wide the door and began removing the remnants of the bounty they’d bestowed, now much-reduced. But it was not the end of the fridge, for the gods still had a purpose for it. It was only the beginning of The Great Defrosting, and no matter how thoroughly the gods had wiped them from the surface of the fridge, some tiny traces of Life remained, to begin again the cycles of the fridge’s evolution.
No comments:
Post a Comment