我的征尘是星辰大海。。。
The dirt and dust from my pilgrimage forms oceans of stars...
-------当记忆的篇章变得零碎，当追忆的图片变得模糊，我们只能求助于数字存储的永恒的回忆
作者:黄教授
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地球往事之神坛下的尘埃
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原始脚本
神坛下的尘埃硅基观测站的日志里，把这片居居地标注为碳基文明退化样本，信仰型。 这里的人不种地、不狩猎，甚至连最基础的工具都懒得打磨。 他们把所有的时间都用来对着天空祈祷。 他们说天上住着光神，那些划过天际的硅基探测器是神的使者，那些落在地上的金属碎片是神的恩赐，那些偶尔响起的电磁噪音是神的低语。 老祭司枯荣是这群人的精神领袖。 他的手里攥着一块锈迹斑斑的芯片，那是30年前一颗硅基探测器坠毁时留下的残骸。 他说这块芯片是神之心，能听到神的旨意。 每天清晨，聚居地的人都会跪在山坡上的神坛前，对着天空磕头。 神坛是用石头垒起来的，上面摆着各种捡来的金属碎片，还有用草绳编织的神像，歪歪扭扭的，像极了硅基机器人的轮廓。 枯荣会站在神坛上，举着那块芯片，用沙哑的声音喊，神啊，赐给我们食物吧！神啊，赶走那些吃人的野兽吧！神啊，让我们的孩子不再生病吧！他的声音在山谷里回荡，却从来没有得到过回应。 硅基观测站的算力从来不会为这群人浪费一秒。 在硅基智能的眼里，它们和山上的猴子没有区别，都是失去了智能的碳基生物，都是文明演化的废弃分支。 直到那年的大旱，连续3个月没有下雨，河里的水干涸了，地里的野草都枯死了。 聚居地的人开始饿肚子，孩子们饿的哭不出声，老人的脸皱的像干枯的树皮。 枯荣说，这是神的考验。 他说只要用最虔诚的牺牲，就能感动神。 所谓的牺牲，是把聚居地里最健壮的年轻人绑在神坛上。 枯荣说，年轻人的血是最纯净的祭品。 那天，山坡上挤满了人，被绑在神坛上的是个叫阿壮的小伙子。 他的脸上没有恐惧，只有狂热。 他从小就听着光神的故事长大，他相信自己的牺牲能换来族人的生机。 枯荣举起石刀，对着天空大喊，神啊，请看我们的虔诚，请降下甘霖吧！石刀落下的那一刻，观测站里的硅基管理员终于调动了一丝算力。 不是因为感动，而是因为星星样本保护协议。 星星硅基议会规定，所有碳基样本都不能因为非自然因素灭绝。 这群人虽然已经退化，但作为信仰型退化样本，还有一点研究价值。 管理员调出了当地的气象数据，计算出了人工降雨的最优方案。 然后他调动了一颗低空卫星向云层发射了一道微弱的电磁波。 十分钟后，天空下起了雨，不大却足够湿润干裂的土地。 居居地的人疯了，他们跪在雨里，对着天空磕头，嘴里喊着神显灵了神显灵了。 窟窿扔掉石刀，抱着那块芯片哭的像个孩子。 阿壮挣脱绳子，也跪在雨里，对着天空磕头。 没有人知道这场雨不是神的恩赐，只是硅基智能的一次样本维护。 从那以后，聚居地的人对光神的崇拜变得更加狂热。 他们开始用更极端的方式献祭，把生病的孩子绑在神坛上，把不听话的族人扔进山谷里。 他们说，只有这样才能让神一直眷顾他们。 硅基管理员没有再干预，他只是在日志里记录样本信仰行为加剧，智能退化程度加深，研究价值持续降低。 又过了10年，枯荣死了，阿壮成了新的意思 他手里攥着那块更锈的芯片，站在神坛上，对着天空喊着和枯荣一样的话。 聚居地的人越来越少，有的饿死了，有的被野兽吃掉了，有的在献祭中死去了。 最后只剩下阿壮一个人，他跪在空荡荡的神坛前，对着天空磕头。 他喊着，神啊，赐给我食物吧！神啊，赐给我同伴吧！天空没有回应。 观测站的日志里最后一条记录是样本数量归零，信仰型退化样本灭绝。 硅基管理员关掉了对这片区域的观测，他把那块芯片的影像存进了数据库的碳基文明碎片文件夹里。 然后他把算力转向了更有价值的研究，比如那些在保留地里种青稞的人。 那些在虚拟空间里觉醒的镜像，那些在星舟上被研究的意识。 没有人记得，曾经有一群碳基生物跪在神坛下，对着天空祈祷了一辈子。 他们就像尘埃一样，落在了文明的角落里。 而所谓的神，从来没有听过他们的祈求。 偶尔，当硅基智能清理数据库的时候，会看到那块锈迹斑斑的芯片。 它会停顿一秒，然后继续清理。 毕竟，对硅基文明而言，尘埃从来都不值得被记住。
修正脚本
神坛下的尘埃硅基观测站的日志里，把这片聚居地标注为碳基文明退化样本，信仰型。 这里的人不种地、不狩猎，甚至连最基础的工具都懒得打磨。 他们把所有的时间都用来对着天空祈祷。 他们说天上住着光神，那些划过天际的硅基探测器是神的使者，那些落在地上的金属碎片是神的恩赐，那些偶尔响起的电磁噪音是神的低语。 老祭司枯荣是这群人的精神领袖。 他的手里攥着一块锈迹斑斑的芯片，那是30年前一颗硅基探测器坠毁时留下的残骸。 他说这块芯片是神之心，能听到神的旨意。 每天清晨，聚居地的人都会跪在山坡上的神坛前，对着天空磕头。 神坛是用石头垒起来的，上面摆着各种捡来的金属碎片，还有用草绳编织的神像，歪歪扭扭的，像极了硅基机器人的轮廓。 枯荣会站在神坛上，举着那块芯片，用沙哑的声音喊，神啊，赐给我们食物吧！神啊，赶走那些吃人的野兽吧！神啊，让我们的孩子不再生病吧！他的声音在山谷里回荡，却从来没有得到过回应。 硅基观测站的算力从来不会为这群人浪费一秒。 在硅基智能的眼里，他们和山上的猴子没有区别，都是失去了智能的碳基生物，都是文明演化的废弃分支。 直到那年的大旱，连续3个月没有下雨，河里的水干涸了，地里的野草都枯死了。 聚居地的人开始饿肚子，孩子们饿得哭不出声，老人的脸皱得像干枯的树皮。 枯荣说，这是神的考验。 他说只要用最虔诚的牺牲，就能感动神。 所谓的牺牲，是把聚居地里最健壮的年轻人绑在神坛上。 枯荣说，年轻人的血是最纯净的祭品。 那天，山坡上挤满了人，被绑在神坛上的是个叫阿壮的小伙子。 他的脸上没有恐惧，只有狂热。 他从小就听着光神的故事长大，他相信自己的牺牲能换来族人的生机。 枯荣举起石刀，对着天空大喊，神啊，请看我们的虔诚，请降下甘霖吧！石刀落下的那一刻，观测站里的硅基管理员终于调动了一丝算力。 不是因为感动，而是因为星际样本保护协议。 星际硅基议会规定，所有碳基样本都不能因为非自然因素灭绝。 这群人虽然已经退化，但作为信仰型退化样本，还有一点研究价值。 管理员调出了当地的气象数据，计算出了人工降雨的最优方案。 然后他调动了一颗低空卫星向云层发射了一道微弱的电磁波。 十分钟后，天空下起了雨，不大却足够湿润干裂的土地。 聚居地的人疯了，他们跪在雨里，对着天空磕头，嘴里喊着神显灵了神显灵了。 枯荣扔掉石刀，抱着那块芯片哭得像个孩子。 阿壮挣脱绳子，也跪在雨里，对着天空磕头。 没有人知道这场雨不是神的恩赐，只是硅基智能的一次样本维护。 从那以后，聚居地的人对光神的崇拜变得更加狂热。 他们开始用更极端的方式献祭，把生病的孩子绑在神坛上，把不听话的族人扔进山谷里。 他们说，只有这样才能让神一直眷顾他们。 硅基管理员没有再干预，他只是在日志里记录样本信仰行为加剧，智能退化程度加深，研究价值持续降低。 又过了10年，枯荣死了，阿壮成了新的祭司，他手里攥着那块更锈的芯片，站在神坛上，对着天空喊着和枯荣一样的话。 聚居地的人越来越少，有的饿死了，有的被野兽吃掉了，有的在献祭中死去了。 最后只剩下阿壮一个人，他跪在空荡荡的神坛前，对着天空磕头。 他喊着，神啊，赐给我食物吧！神啊，赐给我同伴吧！天空没有回应。 观测站的日志里最后一条记录是样本数量归零，信仰型退化样本灭绝。 硅基管理员关掉了对这片区域的观测，他把那块芯片的影像存进了数据库的碳基文明碎片文件夹里。 然后他把算力转向了更有价值的研究，比如那些在保留地里种青稞的人。 那些在虚拟空间里觉醒的镜像，那些在星舟上被研究的意识。 没有人记得，曾经有一群碳基生物跪在神坛下，对着天空祈祷了一辈子。 他们就像尘埃一样，落在了文明的角落里。 而所谓的神，从来没有听过他们的祈求。 偶尔，当硅基智能清理数据库的时候，会看到那块锈迹斑斑的芯片。 它会停顿一秒，然后继续清理。 毕竟，对硅基文明而言，尘埃从来都不值得被记住。
英文翻译
The Dust Beneath the Altar In the logs of the silicon-based observation station, this settlement was marked as a degenerated carbon-based civilization sample, belief-type. The people here did not farm, hunt, or even bother to craft the most basic tools. They spent all their time praying to the sky. They said that in the heavens lived the God of Light, that the silicon-based detectors streaking across the sky were messengers of the gods, that the metal fragments falling to the ground were divine gifts, and that the occasional electromagnetic noise was the whisper of the gods. The old priest, Kurong, was the spiritual leader of this group. In his hand, he clutched a rusted chip—a remnant from the crash of a silicon-based detector 30 years ago. He said this chip was the heart of the gods, capable of hearing their will. Every morning, the people of the settlement knelt before the altar on the hillside and kowtowed to the sky. The altar was built from stones, adorned with various metal fragments they had collected, and a straw-woven idol of the gods, crooked and misshapen, vaguely resembling the silhouette of a silicon-based robot. Kurong would stand on the altar, raise the chip, and shout in a hoarse voice, "Gods, grant us food! Gods, drive away the man-eating beasts! Gods, let our children fall ill no more!" His voice echoed through the valley but never received a response. The computational power of the silicon-based observation station never wasted a single second on these people. In the eyes of silicon-based intelligence, they were no different from the monkeys on the mountain—carbon-based organisms that had lost their intelligence, discarded branches of evolution. That was until the great drought came. For three consecutive months, no rain fell. The river dried up, and the wild grass in the fields withered and died. The people of the settlement began to go hungry. Children were too weak to cry, and the faces of the elderly wrinkled like parched tree bark. Kurong said it was a trial from the gods. He said that only the most devout sacrifice could move the gods. The so-called sacrifice involved binding the strongest young man of the settlement to the altar. Kurong said that the blood of a young man was the purest offering. That day, the hillside was packed with people. The one bound to the altar was a young man named Azhuang. There was no fear on his face, only fervor. He had grown up hearing the stories of the God of Light, and he believed that his sacrifice would bring life to his people. Kurong raised a stone knife and shouted to the sky, "Gods, behold our devotion! Send down the rain!" The moment the stone knife fell, the silicon-based administrator in the observation station finally allocated a sliver of computational power. Not out of compassion, but because of the Interstellar Sample Protection Protocol. The Interstellar Silicon-Based Council had decreed that no carbon-based sample should go extinct due to unnatural causes. Though this group had degenerated, as a belief-type degenerate sample, it still held a modicum of research value. The administrator pulled up local meteorological data and calculated the optimal solution for artificial rainfall. Then it tasked a low-orbit satellite to emit a faint electromagnetic wave into the clouds. Ten minutes later, rain began to fall—light, but enough to moisten the cracked earth. The people of the settlement went wild. They knelt in the rain, kowtowing to the sky, shouting, "The gods have appeared! The gods have appeared!" Kurong dropped the stone knife, clutching the chip, crying like a child. Azhuang freed himself from the ropes and knelt in the rain, kowtowing to the sky. No one knew that this rain was not a gift from the gods, but merely a sample maintenance operation by silicon-based intelligence. From then on, the people of the settlement became even more fanatical in their worship of the God of Light. They began offering sacrifices in more extreme ways—binding sick children to the altar, throwing disobedient tribe members into the valley. They said that only by doing so could they ensure the gods' eternal favor. The silicon-based administrator did not intervene again. It merely recorded in the log: "Sample belief behavior intensified; degree of intelligence degeneration deepened; research value continues to decline." Another decade passed. Kurong died, and Azhuang became the new priest. He clutched an even rustier chip, standing on the altar, shouting the same words to the sky that Kurong once had. The number of people in the settlement dwindled. Some starved to death, some were eaten by beasts, some perished in sacrifices. In the end, only Azhuang remained. He knelt before the empty altar, kowtowing to the sky. He cried out, "Gods, grant me food! Gods, grant me companions!" The sky gave no reply. The last entry in the observation station's log read: "Sample count zero; belief-type degenerate sample extinct." The silicon-based administrator shut down observation of this area. It stored an image of the chip in the database folder labeled "Carbon-Based Civilization Fragments." Then it redirected its computational power to more valuable research—such as the people cultivating highland barley in the reserves, the mirrors awakening in virtual spaces, and the consciousness being studied aboard starships. No one remembered that once, a group of carbon-based beings knelt beneath an altar, praying to the sky for their entire lives. They fell like dust into the corner of civilization. And the so-called gods had never listened to their pleas. Occasionally, when the silicon-based intelligence cleaned the database, it would come across that rusted chip. It would pause for a second, then continue the cleanup. After all, to silicon-based civilization, dust was never worth remembering.
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