Not many know this, but when the time comes for a planet to part ways with its own existence and the existence of everything on its hitherto solid surface, living and dead, it does not, contrary to popular belief, simply disappear into the vacuum-filled void of outer space.
There is actually an extensive process involved in putting that planet in a place of permanent legacy.
But not many know this.
So here’s how it works:
When a planet goes kaput, if you like, one of its surviving-up-until-kaput citizens is selected, completely at random, to act as a representative of sorts for that planet’s history and culture and general day-to-day life in its little corner of the Universe.
(Note: should the planet go kaput at a time when no living beings remain on its hitherto solid surface, then a former citizen will be roused from the drowsy sleep of death to fulfill the duties that follow as a representative in the same manner they would have had they been alive at the time of said kaput.)
Still got it? Good.
So: that representative’s soul, if you like, is then transferred to a small, grey facility that smells sort of like a hospital, where they meet with a scribe who will promptly request they tell the tale of their planet, flaws and all, or as much as they know of it, from start to finish.
The scribe will then record every single word of the planet’s story, as told by this citizen, and add it to a staggeringly large tome entitled The Big Book of Time, where it will remain for all of eternity’s reading pleasure.Still got it? Good.Now: in the case of the recently deceased planet Earth, the chosen representative was Jeff.
Upon his arrival in the small, grey facility that smelled sort of like a hospital, Jeff sat down on a single grey plastic chair and waited patiently and politely for someone to explain to him what came next. Having just witnessed the final destruction of the planet on which he had spent his entire life, you see, he now believed, for the moment, that he was in heaven, and that any second now a friendly angel would make his or her way over and explain just where to go to get settled into the Afterlife.
He was quite looking forward to it.
And so it was that when the scribe came to meet Jeff, there was a small mix-up that took some moments to set right, through which we will now fast-forward so as not to waste that precious resource known as time.
The scribe, whose name was Charles, now explained to Jeff just what his duties as the randomly chosen representative of the planet Earth would entail.
“Just the quick history of your planet, then,” he said, scribbling on official release forms he was going to have Jeff fill out. The forms made Jeff promise that he would not sue in the event that his home planet is misrepresented in The Big Book of Time.
“Um,” said Jeff. “All of it?”
“Quite so.” Charles nodded, pushing the forms towards Jeff. “Sign here, here, here, here, here and here, please.”
He then pulled a pad of blank paper out of his desk drawer and set it next to a page of notes he had written previously. The notes contained everything he knew about Jeff’s home planet, which was this:
Planet: Earth. Dominant Species: Human.
“Um,” said Jeff.
“Come now, then,” said Charles, “you must know the basic facts, at least. How old was your planet” - he looked down at his notes - “‘Earth’?”
Jeff shrugged. “Depends who you ask, really.”
“Well, I’m asking you, Jeff,” said Charles sternly.
The scribes were very stern, you see.
“Well,” said Jeff slowly, rubbing his chin, “I don’t know, really.”
“Really, Jeff,” said Charles, frowning, "you must have a guess?”
Jeff shrugged again. “Pretty old. Couple billion years, at least,” he said.
To a scribe, this was not very old at all. Nonetheless, Charles scribbled.
“I see. Now, as my research tells me you humans were the dominant species for most of the planet’s existence - short as it was - can you tell me some of the ways in which you made the planet a livable place? Some ways in which you contributed to its history in a positive manner?”
“Hmm,” said Jeff.“Come now,” said Charles again, frowning in the same stern manner.
“Well,” said Jeff, rubbing his chin again, “there’s Cheetos. Those was pretty good, I think. Never ‘ad ‘em much back home, but a fancy snack when I could find ‘em.”
“Cheetos?” said Charles, raising a pompous eyebrow.
“Yeah, yeah. Like sticks made-a cheese. Nice and crunchy. Bit of a mess, though. Stain the fingers, the clothes.” Charles stared, then scribbled, albeit with slow reluctance. “Anything more...noteworthy, perhaps?”
“Hmm,” said Jeff again. “The telly was a good one. Computers, too.”
“Go on.”
“Well, telly was just a box, see, played images and sounds and the like. Computer was a box too. Let you look things up, find answers to questions. Dead useful little blokes.”
Charles was intrigued.
Scribes, you see, tend to live very, very long lives, and so he had already spoken to thousands upon thousands of representatives from thousands and thousands of planets that had long since gone kaput.
And although they all had different names for them, many of these residents had spoken of devices similar to the ones Jeff had just mentioned. In just about every case, they had been used for several different educational and intellectual purposes, and so Charles was very excited by the knowledge Jeff was about to share, which he imagined would be a rich and varied history of the planet Earth that was based largely on the use of these devices.
“Yeah,” said Jeff, looking wistful now. “Telly had all sorts of fun…”
He then went on to explain the finer points of the television, getting lost in a complicated explanation of the 24 hour news network. Somewhere in a detailed overview of political pundits and their role in the whole thing, Charles felt the need to interrupt.
“Tell me, Jeff,” he said, trying to retain his patience, “was there any other use for the news? Perhaps something in a manner that enhanced the mind?”
Jeff frowned. “Other important things, I ‘spose.”
“Ah, yes, here we are. And what were the important things?”
“Hmm,” said Jeff yet again. “Good to keep abreast of what the famous folk were doing.”
“The famous folk?” asked Charles, perking up slightly, or at least as much as a scribe was allowed, which was not very much. Think of a cat that hears a noise, but is too lazy to investigate. “The top minds of your planet, I assume?”
Jeff was rubbing his chin again.“‘Spose so,” he said. “Was mostly the actors and actresses and athletes, really. Or just the people with lotsa money. We always liked to know what they was up to.”
“And was this due to their intellectualism? Their influence as thought leaders?”
Jeff gave a slight laugh. “Some, maybe, yeah,” he said. “But mostly we just thought they was pretty. Fun to look at, like. Didn’t always listen to what they had to say so long as they was glitzed up nice.”
Charles was getting slightly frustrated: it seemed to be taking longer than usual to progress to the point where something significant, something worthy of The Big Book of Time, could be said about this planet. He tried again.
“This computer, then. What kinds of things did people use them to look up? Information, surely?”
Jeff shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah,” he said. “But mostly was the same things as the telly. Watch the same type-a programs. See what the famous folk were up to. See ‘em without they clothes on sometimes, too,” he said, grinning. “Lotsa folk looked that kinda thing up.”
Charles closed his eyes. This was giving him a bit of a headache, and the small grey facility that smelled sort of like a hospital in which he made his living as a scribe did not have any Advil.
“Right,” he muttered, rubbing his temples and thinking of his favourite tea. “Your leaders. What were they like?”
“Right fussy,” said Jeff with a crisp nod. “Always fightin’, back and forth.”
“Fighting...who? Those who threatened you? Extra-terrestrial interlopers?”
“Nah, we never got around to all that. Themselves, mostly. Not one couldn’t go but disagree with the other, a day went past.” He gave another crisp nod.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Charles, as politely as he could manage.
“Always squabblin,’” said Jeff slowly. “Always bitin’ at one another, like. Not so much leadin’ as arguin’ over who’d be the best leader, yeah?”
Charles scribbled.
“And yeah, we had ourselves some enemies we needed protectin’ from, but it was always other people, not those extra-t’restills. Just different folks with different ideas.” He shrugged.
“I see,” said Charles, still scribbling. “Well. In the midst of all this … squabbling, were there any major accomplishments of which you can speak?”
Jeff frowned. “I told you about Cheetos and the telly, but - “
“No, no,” said Charles, again trying to rein in his impatience. “Something … something to which your entire species bore witness?”
“Well,” said Jeff, “we did send a few blokes to the moon, once or twice.”
Charles brightened. “Well, that’s something, then! What did you do there?”
Jeff shrugged. “Took a few pieces of soil. The Yanks left a flag, memory serves.”
Charles felt disappointment again.
“You didn’t take the opportunity to explore it further? To study it further?”
“Well, the folks in charge weren’t all that keen on space, really. Didn’t think it all that much worth explorin’ all the time.”
“Was there nothing else your sciences discovered, or created, on the same planet-wide scale?”
“I ‘spose the nuke was a pretty big one,” said Jeff with another shrug.
“The nuke?” asked Charles, pen at the ready. “Yeah. Giant bomb. Vaporizes the body if you’re close enough, or else makes you real sick for a long, long time. Blows buildings, cars, the whole lot to bits. Lotta bad effects from that one. We didn’t use it all that much.”
Charles was shocked, and, professional though he was, it took him a moment to scribble the details of this development on his notepad.
“I … see. And your leaders … authorized this? For use on your fellow … on other members of your species?”
“Many of ‘em kept the nukes around, yeah,” said Jeff, shrugging. “Liked to have ‘em as a just-in-case, I ‘spose.”
“How … many?” asked Charles.
“Few hundred, few thousand.”
Charles was once again forced to pause before scribbling on his notepad. He decided it was time for his final question, which was always the same.
“Now, tell me, Jeff,” he said. “What was it that did the planet Earth in, in the end?”
Jeff looked slightly embarrassed.
“Well,” he said, “it was us, really.”
“I see,” said Charles, scribbling once again.
“Yeah,” said Jeff, “think we crowded ‘er, like. She used to be right pretty, I ‘eard. Think we changed that a bit, you know. Lotsa pollution, and the like.”
“Pollution?” asked Charles, despite himself.
Jeff nodded. “Our waste, yeah. Things we ain’t really had a use for, anymore. And all the boxes and such they came in. Little things, too. Cig’rits. Paper bags. People threw things all over the place, couldn’t ‘ave a walk in the park without stepping in someone’s bag of old crisps. Made the place a bit hard to live in after a while.”
Charles shook his head as he wrote, pondering with awe how he had gotten the luck of the draw to speak with the representative from this wonder of a planet.
“Right,” he said, looking up and clapping his hands, “that about does it then, Jeff.”
“Oh, alright then,” said Jeff with a nod. “Where am I off to now?”
“On,” said Charles simply, and Jeff disappeared into the Afterlife.
Charles looked down at his single page of notes on the planet Earth, at his latest addition to The Big Book of Time, at everything Jeff had said about Cheetos and the telly and the nuke.
He looked for a long time.
After a while, with a heavy sigh, Charles resigned himself to doing the thing he knew he had to do for the very first time in his long, long career. Scribes were allowed, on extremely rare occasions, to do what he was about to do, but none that he knew had - or at least, none had spoken of any times that it had been a necessity.
Nonetheless.
Charles opened the drawer on the right side of his desk and removed a single small key.
He then used this key to unlock the drawer on the left side of his desk, which contained a single matchbook.
He took his single page of notes on the planet Earth, everything Jeff had said about Cheetos and the telly and the nuke, and held it carefully over the matchbook for a smidgen of a moment before bringing the flames to life and letting the fire consume a story that he, too, soon hoped to forget.
