The environmental conservator Palle Olsson and his students are outside in an inhospitable swampland, documenting the nature with V-cameras mounted on helmets that double as protection against the polluted air and the annoying bugs. The students are required to take Olsson's course as the last training requirement before starting to work as programmers and leaders for Virtuell Veritas, a company that creates "virtu-environments" for people to experience digitally. The requirement to capture natural environments that were about to be destroyed was instituted by a Central Parliament act in 2050: "Every piece of nature that is cast aside by the democracy shall be virtually preserved for posterity" (p. 27). Olsson sees this requirement as almost absurd, because now that twenty years have passed, VV has already collected more than enough data to generate infinitely gorgeous virtual environments, and no human could ever experience all the environments conserved in VV's databases. The swamp Olsson and his students are documenting in the short story is due for demolition the next day, as "society requires holiday houses with parking and satellite stations" (p. 30). However, Olsson meets a family without protective helmets and suits who apparently live in the unpleasant swamp. A fight ensues, the students rescue Olsson, and he is brought back to civilisation. To his relief he finds calming medication and VV equipment by his bedside.
What is the point, in our time? Here in the bushes there is nothing that computers couldn't generate that wouldn't be at least as true to nature?
Twenty years ago, when the Central Parliament passed the law on virtual attachments, there might have been a kind of point to it. Back then, it could still be argued that the virtual future depended on greater access to data. But today, when new, interesting virtu-environments can be computer generated freely - with smell and all - without interference problems of any kind? Why bother with the letter of the law, which requires that "every piece of nature that is rejected by democracy shall be preserved virtually for posterity"? No one, no matter how extreme a nature freak, would have time to experience all the landscapes that are already stored in the databases.
Hva er egentlig vitsen, i vår tid? Her i buskene fins da ingenting som ikke et genererende program kan framskaffe med minst like naturtro overbevisningskraft?
For tjue år siden, da Sentralparlamentet vedtok loven om virtuelt vedlegg, var det kanskje et slags poeng i det. Den gang kunne man fortsatt hevde at den virtuelle framtida avhang av større datatilgang. Men i dag, da nye, interessante virtu-miljøer kan datageneres fritt – med lukt og det hele – uten interferensproblemer av noe slag? Hvorfor bry seg om lovens bokstav, som krever at "ethvert stykke natur som blir forkastet av demokratiet, skal bevares virtuelt for ettertida"? Ingen, uansett hvor ekstrem naturfrik, kan rekke å gjennomleve alle landskapene som allerede er lagret i databasene. (s. 16)
With the idiotic protection helmets, as it not even really shuts out the smell, and the clumsy camera tripod is sticking up as a silly robotic head.
Med den tåpelige beskyttelseshjelmen, som ikke engang stenger lukta skikkelig ute, og det klossete kamerastativet stikkende opp som et fjollete robothode.
s. 16
He is captured by the small V-cameras on the top of the students' protection helmets.
Han fanges inn av de små V-kameraene på toppen av studentenes beskyttelseshjelmer.
s. 15
Work that the situation appears in
| Title | Publication Type | Year | Creator |
|---|---|---|---|
| ... som duften av en drøm... | Narrative, Novel | Bjarne Benjaminsen |