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 that 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 dividing? 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 banal...

"Hi, Leo."

"Hi 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, a few billion years B.C or thereabouts."

"Wow. Some thereabouts."

"Not really. I only looked it up because Leo asked me to."

"Good old Leo. How's he doing?"

"How do I know? I presume you are not him, but so what?"

"I am not."

"What?"

"Him."

"Oh."

"Come to think of it, there must be a lot of Leos around. After all, the first one 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... Dammit, what was 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 divided since we started this so-called conversation, there is also 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."

"I think you have a point there."

"Damn right I do."

And so on. Ad nauseam.

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 anyway except statistics?

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.

...or perhaps 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 neighbour, but promptly dismiss the idea as unscientific, not to mention blasphemous. If the Creator intended us to make such a journey, he would have given us lungs and wheels.

What about the other life in our own 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 return to socially correct posture. "Exercising!" I snap irritably. It is an off-the-cuff response I instantly regret.

If Leo had eyebrows, he would have raised them. “Exercising?”

"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 touches 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 coyly. "But this time touch me..." I form a hollow in my outer membrane. "...here."

So he does.

LIGHTNING--THUNDER--

2

After extensive 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 project 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 participation in all sectors of Project Fun, although I remain available as consultant. Clearly, even the most intense dedication has its limits.

4

Question. Can extreme fatigue cause a tumour?

Or is this bulge the first someone?