The sun's rays hit perpendicular to the otherworldly surface that stretches to the horizon. The air has a foreign quality, even as it boils and glistens in the distance like any other air. This vast expanse cannot exist on our planet (and, indeed, it does not), but if you wanted to picture it for yourself, you should imagine a steppe in the middle of Eurasia, with short even grass, or a sea at perfect rest.
A figure steps -- or rather: stomps -- slowly on the ground. Wearing green-and-brown camouflage, he would seem more at home in a thick forest, rather than this empty land. A beret is conspicuously missing, replaced instead by a kind of linen covering or veil, that shields him from the sun's unceasing barrage. A large brown canteen hangs by his side, and repeatedly in the couple of minutes we have been observing him, he has already taken three -- now four -- large swigs from it. He wipes his brow, and keeps stomping away.
You would direct your gaze elsewhere, I'm certain, if you thought this was all there was. Just as you were about to stop reading, however, a second, white-clad pilgrim appeared in the distance.
Gradually, as if synchronized by hidden clockwork, the two people move closer to one another. Both are intently focused on their boots, alike in every respect: they have tall, thick soles, that sink half an inch in that strange sand.
Actually, now that we have gotten used to the cruel light and the desolate environs, we can see that it is not sand at all! And the boiling, the glistening, the trembling is in fact a writhing of arthropods, and the surface around and under those boots is covered in shrimp.
«I'm surprised to see someone else around, I must confess», says, at last, the white-clad pilgrim. «I had gotten half-convinced that nobody else would accept the absurd proposition that brought me here. And although it is a small disappointment, to find myself no longer unique, it is a profound relief to have a companion in this. Please, let's go together a while».
The white-clad pilgrim spoke with a firm voice, betraying, by their choice of words, an advanced age and a scholarly attitude.
«I can't imagine how you could have ended up here. But I'll tell you, I must have lost count at least ten times -- actually, I think I've lost count of the times I've -- nevermind. I must have lost count I-don't-know-how-many times of how many shrimps I've squashed, but I'm starting to think I might have gotten myself inadvertently in hell».
«It was a sort of ungodly curse, indeed, that brought me here. I have long toiled in this open field, reaping these short lives for the benefit of...». Their mouth slightly agape, the white-clad pilgrim looked as if a name would come out any second, and yet only the dry, rasping sound of their breath came and came, rhythmically accompanied by the crunching of soft shell, and the squeezing of tender flesh under an unyielding sole.
«Me too!» said the soldier «I remember reading on the internet about the moral hypothetical where you have a decision -- a kind of trolley problem, where on one hand you have a human life, and on the other an insanely huge number of shrimp, just an insane amount, like more than the universe has atoms».
The white-clad pilgrim looked puzzled, but seemed to be understanding enough not to interrupt.
«You know, reading it made me incredibly mad, like, in an unhealthy way. Like, how can you even think that? How can you write that?». This kind of agitated talking, plus the continued stomping, left the man short of breath. The pilgrim caught their chance to interject: «I believe the choice that was offered me was a human life in exchange for 10 to the power of 100 shrimp».
«That's... exactly the same as me. Huh». The soldier looked puzzled, and the pilgrim again, showing more readiness than their old age would have let us believe, said: «Many choices raise their heads again and again, like fearsome chimerae; again and again must we slay them. In the language of our imperial masters, ‘to choose’ is ‘to cut off’, and I hear the same word echo in your own tongue: decision».
Still taken aback by the obscure talk, the soldier also had the good sense to acquiesce, nodding. A brief silence fell over the pair of travelers, and each thought of the other's unintelligible origins, and at the same time how glad they were to have broken their lonely wandering.
«Huh. You know, back home, in my country, there used to be shrimps that looked just like these. You see, these greyish ones?» he pointed briefly, and then without thinking stepped over the spot he was pointing at. «When I was a kid -- I'm talking at least twenty, thirty years ago -- my uncle used to go fishing for these in the brook by his house, in the long summer months. He would come by -- look, there, there's another one, see? Those ones, a bit smaller than the average, greyer». Another pair of stomps, another uncomfortable squishing. «He would bring them freshly-fished and we would barbecue them, or cover them with batter and fry 'em, and I used to look forward to those days every year». We can see the reflection of those days in his eyes. He continued.
«One day, it must have been at the end of my first grade or so, he came by with only two small shrimps, and that was that». The pilgrim showed compassion on their sun-burnt face.
«I think they are extinct now, or at least they don't live anywhere near my uncle's house anymore, or anywhere else in the state. The EPA put out a report --». That wouldn't work. «We found out later that a pharmaceutical factory was producing some toxic byproduct and stocking it in large barrels. When the factory was closed, some barrels must have stayed around, and leaked their chemicals in the river. I can't even be mad, really: my uncle was diagnosed with some kind of genetic disease a few years before, and I'm pretty sure a lot of his medication was produced in that factory. Of course, I wish we could have had the medication and the shrimp, but if I had to choose...». Behind the two travelers was a short trail of crushed carapace, quickly filled back in with more crawling legs and black bug eyes.
«You will recognize, however», said the pilgrim, «that the situation we are in is altogether different from your and your uncle's: in that case the crustaceans would still die, whether by frying pan or by poisoning deadly. In ours, they seem rather content to be living like this, and I have never found a dead one in all my traveling; meaning that they would, if left alone, keep living their natural lives, at the very least. Between two different modes of dying, I believe no one would disagree with your judgement. But we are killing them, where without us they would now be alive».
The pilgrim seemed revitalized by this discussion. They had spent countless days, endless cold nights deep in debate over the substance of the universe, over moral law, over the physical realm, and the metaphysical. They were a philosopher of old, of the kind lives are written about.
The soldier rebutted: «I'm not so sure that's really different. My uncle would only hunt them after mating season had already ended, since that's the way they had always done it, and I doubt they would have ever gone extinct in my area if he had kept it up. So, really, we are comparing a potentially infinite lineage of future shrimp -- if no factory were ever built-- to their extinction. If I had been in charge of the pharmaceutical plant and had known there was a risk of extinguishing a lineage of shrimp, I still think it would have been wrong for me to close down the factory, or never even open it, even knowing about the potential consequences. And they were EPA compliant, you know, but once you produce toxins they are going to end up somewhere, even in the best of scenarios». Again, it was clear that some words had escaped the pilgrim's comprehension, but they seemed nevertheless to be following the arguments.
«I see. But again, the lineage you speak of would not be potentially infinite, but rather constrained by the size of the brook, and the animal's reproductive capacity, and by their resistence to other environmental hazards. Does this not mean that the resulting number, which you just described as “potentially infinite” is much, much smaller than 10 to the power of 100?».
«That's also reasonably true, but I would argue that no moral situation can ever be fully comparable to 10100 anything, since, again, there are no 10100 discrete anythings in the observable universe. Not only that, but the amount of atoms we can have an effect on must be much smaller than the total amount observable. And also, no moral system I have ever heard of entertains the thought that an atom would be a moral patient; in fact, there is probably a calculable minimum number of atoms that can form a moral patient; for instance, the largest virus according to wikipedia is 300 nanometers in size, or 3e-7 m, and again, nobody considers viruses to be moral patients. But even if the largest virus were a moral patient, with an observable universe size of 8.8e23 m, 8.8e23 / 3e-7 ≈ 3e30. That's basically infinitely less than 10e100, how can I be asked to form a moral judgement about a physically impossible situation that is off by at least 70 orders of magnitude? That's one step above gibberish!».
The pilgrim was now visibly delighted, although at a few points their understanding must have faltered. «The question is then, if it makes sense to derive a moral philosophy from situations whose premises are so strong, that they warp any reasoning that can be built off of them. I assume you, as well as I, believe such an exercise to be a pointless endeavor».
The soldier nodded with conviction, trying now to regain some of his lost composure. He had been, effectively, arguing with a ghost. Again a deathly atmosphere settled on the plain without a feature.
If any time passed at all, we would not be able to tell. There is no movement besides the continuous stepping of our two travelers. The horizon is a perfect circle around them, and no mountains could exist on this alien surface.
«Have you ever... thought that this feels wrong? I mean, it feels disgusting, to crush these tiny animals, who can't really escape, and to do it over and over and over again. And that is the only moral that I cannot reason myself out of, the one I perceive, that emerges unprompted from my conscience. Perhaps we should stop, and just... let this go». He had been thinking about this for a while, it was clear.
«If that moral intuition is true -- and you alone can be the judge of that -- it is rather human to follow it, despite what our reason might suggest».
«But then... what are we arguing about? What are we even doing here?» «If through reason we can reach a conclusion that our souls firmly disavow, then what remains of moral philosophy?».
An almost desperate look in the man's eyes, the pilgrim would not respond. Only the abhominable sound of hard black rubber on that living ground.
«You see, I once knew a man, my dear master Plotinus, who one day managed to spot a fatal sadness in my eyes. With all his philosophy, he could not argue that leaving the world by my own hand would not be a rational choice, given my unbearable suffering. He said -- and I still remember his eyes as he was talking -- he said: “Be it reasonable to kill oneself, be it against reason to accommodate one's animus to life: certainly the former is a fierce and inhuman act. And it must not be rather willed, nor be elected, to be monstrous according to reason, than according to nature human”. He was a kind of stoic, you see, well after the times, but I could hear his voice crack slightly when he talked. And more private still, and more pained words followed, that I have kept in my heart ever since».
The staid sun still hit perpendicularly over the vast emptiness, over that phantasmatic wasteland. No time seemed to have passed at all.
Another pair of steps, another pair of steps, another step. The white-clad pilgrim had arrested their movement.
«And that makes 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000».
The soldier could barely lift his head, look the pilgrim in the eyes and half-shout: «Wait...!», that the pilgrim was already a hallucination and a memory, and then nothing over the far-stretching plains.
And that's all there was to see, for an innumerable amount of years. You would like to stay behind and observe the lonely soldier, who takes large swigs of his brown canteen, but after a while it seems senseless, so you leave him to his stomping, and look away from the page.