Pascale's Wager: Homelands of Heaven

by Anthony Bartlett

  “Welcome, O welcome. We welcome you, Sarobindo, to the Philosophers’ Colony: too long have we missed you at our tables. Tonight, in this moment, you assuage the heartache we have suffered in your absence.”

  His flowery words were only half-heard, but they did have the effect of quieting people down and eventually everyone turned to hear Abelard's address.

  “It is a most pleasant duty to remind everyone, and for the first time to inform our new initiates, of yogi Sarobindo's unique contribution to this our heavenly estate. I will not detain you much, I am sure your appetite for our Zeno's food and wines can only be put off so long! But it is fundamental to us as thinking creatures to recall the nature of our being and without Sarobindo and his teaching our universe would lose a priceless reservoir of truth. We here are Immortals and have overcome the doom of death, yet we also know that philosophy from its primal days begins with the transcendent fact of death. Plato said, in so many words, philosophy was the practice of death. He meant that by dismissing the narrow claims of the body—by being, in so many words, set free from the body—you could nourish the mind or soul on things immortal or eternal. However, we are in the strange situation of being immortal ourselves, yet still wishing to practice philosophy! How can we do that honorably, as part of the great tradition, when none of us dies? In a sense we have overcome the narrow world of the mortal body only to find the body pressing closer than ever. It could even deprive us of the mysterious impetus to thought which only death provides...”

  All the philosophers and most of their guests were now listening respectfully, nodding and smiling at the familiar themes and thoughts. They were waiting happily for the big punchline they knew was coming. Danny and Charlize had heard this kind of talk before and were prepared for it to drift over their heads: except the extraordinary figure of Sarobindo now held center stage and they were keen to find out what was so special about him. Palmiro was thinking in the opposite direction. He felt his teacher's powerful contempt for the guest of honor and he wanted to understand the reason. He was listening to Abelard but his mind was waiting for Adorno's rebuttal which he was sure would come.

  Pascale, in contrast, was following as closely as she could what Abelard was saying. The moment he mentioned death her attention was caught. She was carried back forcefully to her Initiation and her experience of death during the ritual. She had not spoken about the terror of that night, even with Jonas. Now somehow it seemed to be the central topic at a gathering of philosophers, people who thought about everything. It struck her that, really, this evening was turning out to be more crucial than she could have imagined. She sat up and focused intently on what was happening.

  Abelard was describing Sarobindo's part in the actual construction of Heaven. Sarobindo's group had originally been chosen as representatives of a great cultural tradition in which certain noteworthy techniques had been developed. One of these techniques was the practice of trance brought about by non-breathing, a kind of mini-death which could cause in the practitioner an elevated state of consciousness. The ritual of Initiation was in fact a version of this, only it was produced by a chemical rather than prolonged training.

  Naturally, if the experience could be chemically induced people were not interested in the hard work of the old techniques. More critically the technique did not really fit with paradise: what was the point of rehearsing death when death was never going to happen? When Sarobindo understood this, however, he did not abandon his craft, rather he produced a stroke of genius. He devised a strictly limited situation where death could return to Immortals. If in such a situation there really was the possibility of death for himself and his followers then his powerful techniques would regain their noble purpose. At once the idea gained enormous support, to the point that the whole city, whose construction was already underway, suddenly found its true horizon and spiritual core. The bowl-shaped arena where Sarobindo and his disciples would be willing to gamble with death would become the crowning glory of the city's architecture. It would be called the Font Eterno.

  “So it was that death was preserved in Heaven. The great semi-globe you see from downtown is a cross between the Coliseum, a temple and a small-particle accelerator. There is seating for thousands upon thousands in the three hundred tiers of circular galleries. Down in the center is a great crystal lake filled with a foaming sea. Words cannot do justice to the awe the place inspires. You can only appreciate it by being present yourself at one of the sacrificial immersions. Only then will any of you newcomers to Heaven be able to grasp what I am saying. Mahatma Sarobindo stops his own breathing and is thrown physically into the foaming waters. He would drown if he took a breath but he does not. He stays under the surface for twenty minutes until he emerges by his own power just a few seconds before the sea dissolves into a thousand billion random particles. Nothing retains its form in that chaos and a human body would instantly disintegrate, never to be gathered again. We know this from terrible experience, for none of the first practitioners have survived the sea, none except Sarobindo. It is a place where even gods go to die. But Sarobindo, he remains to this day, continuing to sail the vessel of his body to the edge of the abyss, for all our sakes.”

  There was a quiet “Hmmmm" from the assembly, like a sound after biting chocolate. The ascetic at the head of the table for the first time looked around, bestowing his detached beatific smile directly on the assembly. Two things then happened together. Adorno leaned back in his chair and clapped his hands slowly, sardonically. People turned horrified to stare at him, but almost simultaneously Pascale made eye contact with Sarobindo, shot her hand in the air and asked him a question. “Sarobindo, what do you see when you are so near to death?”

  The holy man gazed distantly at the woman to his right. He had not met her before but because she was seated with him at the top table he assumed she had some kind of importance.

  “I see the world as it is.”

  Zeno was now dealing with the two guests who seemed unable to keep the decorum essential to a philosophers' banquet, and in the presence of such a distinguished figure. His practiced calm was wearing thin and he was looking somehow to get a hold of an evening which threatened to be cheated of its grace. He stood up and gestured impatiently to Abelard that he should sit down.

  “Ah, how perfect an answer, Sarobindo, and how accurate to what dear Abelard was describing as the reason for our devotion to you. But despite our desire to engage in just that kind of reflection, our evening has a couple of prior purposes to which we must attend!”

  His insistent tone managed to gain the initiative once more, and he continued. “We have among us two new recruits to the Homeland of Heaven. We, as philosophers, have always brought newcomers to our table so they might savor the greatness of thought at the heart of Immortality.”

  He paused, clearing his throat to deepen his tone. “The two who come to us for the first time tonight are distinguished among all inductees to Heaven in that they came here, if not uninvited, then certainly unplanned. They are most unusual and it is part of our many pleasures tonight to be able to hear from them first hand. Palmiro over there is reputed to be the first to have broken free from his conditioning, and reasoned the existence of our Heavenly world from the scanty facts available to the Northern peoples. The eminent character of his current patron, the wondrous Adorno, is testimony of the esteem in which Heaven now holds him. Pascale who was with him and helped him fly the rocket has just shown us something of—what, should I say, the unorthodox approach?—that enabled them to enter Heaven on their own. We will have a chance to hear from them very soon before we turn to the evening's main delectation, our revered Sarobindo. But enough feeding on talk! Right now is the time for the food of the body, the necessary step on the ladder of beauty and bliss: our evening's feast!”

  He looked around at everyone inviting them to join in the pleasure of his words while clapping his hands sharply. Everyone nodded happily and looked around expectantly. There was a short pause, then from
one of the houses next to the compound emerged an explosion of dancers. They sprang forward carrying trestles and boards between them which they hurried to set up in the space between the tables. Quickly behind there came servers carrying large, laden platters and big-bellied jugs filled with wine and cordial. They brought caviar and French bread, foie gras and California truffle, garlic-and-thyme confit duck, asparagus-stuffed chicken and glazed pork, with onion, celery, spring potatoes, carrots, celery, leeks and baby turnips, with red lentil, couscous, eggplant curries and grilled cumin tofu, on and on, and all rounded out with magnificent selections of cheeses and fruits, a feast which outdid almost any other banquet which the philosophers could remember. The dancers, who had been especially recruited from the Classical and Free Dance Colony, had to work hard to get everything set up and begin serving each of the guests as they made their choices. There was quite a commotion as plates were filled and glasses were charged, with everybody shouting out their selections and making loud murmurs of satisfaction. Finally everything was in place and the majority of the dancers retired leaving a few to offer top-ups and further choices.

  A period of hearty eating and drinking ensued in which there was really no sound except the clatter of knives and forks, the clink of glasses, and the ecstatic groans of the diners. But the moment of pure gastronomic pleasure did not last long. Almost at a signal people began to look up, sensing the need that the talking begin too. Zeno knew the moment well. In an instant he was on his feet and calling attention.

  “Ahem! If our bodily food is anything to judge by, that of the mind will be nothing less than sublime! So let us begin. A few words from our two newest inductees are now in order. As you know, in a subtle way they have changed everything. They have brought into our midst an element of what we might call unpredictability, something we had almost forgotten in Heaven—except, of course, for the noble risk Sarobindo has always been willing to undertake. But I digress. Let me ask Palmiro here, to tell in his own words what it is that made him unique in a score of generations. How did he become the only one in the Northern Homeland to form a logical connection to the existence of Heaven? And even more, what drove him to risk his own and his companion's life, finding and taking off in a rocket to travel through the storms without preparation or permission? Palmiro, my friend, what have you to say?”

  Palmiro had been expecting this but he also felt the shift in Zeno's tone. The master of ceremonies wasn't quite so effusive as he was before and his remarks seemed a little more pointed. Even though he could sense how Adorno did not respect these philosophers he could also feel quite distinctly the power of the group, and he needed to be careful. He glanced up at Pascale and saw how relaxed she looked. He recalled how good she was at handling these situations. Looking around he made up his mind. He would direct attention to his companion from the TEPs, and do so in the kind of matter-of-fact language he had learned from Adorno.

  “In the Northern Homeland we did not have experimental methods by which to test our world. We were given general ideas and basic engineering principles. Nothing that would allow us truly to investigate our physical reality. Personally, I always felt there were major questions about the amount of energy expended to maintain the frozen conditions and about the overall dynamics of the stormworld. I felt there was something wrong with the picture: the heat had to go somewhere and have some effect. But my questions were really the full extent of my contribution. A great deal more was due to my companion, Pascale. Once I communicated to her my thinking it seemed she was able to grasp the overall picture better than me. She saw the pattern of everything, one that even included Heaven. Perhaps even more important, she was able to gain access to her father's computers. It was there we found trace evidence of the existence of Heaven. After that things took their own course. I was arrested for blasphemy and sent to the camps. But Pascale was able to find a job that gave her access to transport, including eventually an ice-tractor belonging to guides from Heaven. It was programmed for the Shuttle Port and she used it to come and rescue me. I would have died or been killed if she hadn't. It was then she told me of her idea to continue on and take the rocket. Her plan was of course the best plan, for what else were we going to do? And obviously, as you can see, it succeeded.”

  No one had heard the story told this way before, succinctly and at first hand. In particular no one had grasped Pascale's role in it all. A few mouths fell open slightly and all eyes turned together toward the young woman in the white shift seated at the head table.

  “Ahh! That is most fascinating, Palmiro. We thank you for your account.” Zeno understood that here was something different and new. A figure who had just disrupted proceedings, and irritated him considerably, but who had so far only been thought a little weird, now turned out to be critical. He sensed an opportunity. He would be able to turn the spotlight away from Adorno to shine it on an entirely new subject, one able to capture everyone's energy and reaction.

  “But from what you say it seems we need to hear from Pascale herself. Pascale, please, tell us the story of your remarkable intuition. How did you manage to see a pattern that included our Heaven? This shows an astonishing perception on the part of someone without any kind of training. What kind of person are you, Pascale, and from where came this near mythical—I am tempted even to say militant—resolve to search your father's computers and to steal the rocket ship? It sounds truly fascinating.”

  The mention of her name and the questions directed at her had a galvanizing effect on Pascale. It was as if she was waking up in the middle of a dream. She looked about, and then looked down, remembering. She was being asked who she was, and that was an enormously important question, one which she had been circling around ever since she came to Heaven. And now, just now, she was beginning to have a clarity about that. Her newborn sense of freedom rose up within her, finding and giving her voice. She lifted her head and spoke.

  “I do not know many people here but the little I have discovered about philosophers tells me they like to find a pattern in things. I like patterns too, as Palmiro said, and I look for them all the time. But I must warn the philosophers that you will not like the pattern I see. It has some very big holes, holes so big that perhaps you may fall in them. Let me tell you about myself. I was born and brought up in the Northern Homeland, a child of the TEPs, and my life there was always a question to me. Palmiro showed me that questions could be real, with substance. I am always grateful to him for that. When I understood what he was saying I prayed one night to God and I believe I saw down, all the way down through the storm world. I saw that there really was a land beyond our own. It meant that almost everything about the Northern Homeland was one big lie and everyone there was living a lie. After that I could not rest until I found a way to rescue Palmiro. And, by searching for him, I discovered the rocket. Now the evidence of my ordinary eyes confirms what I saw before as a pattern. I see that if everything in the North was built on falsehood, then as sure as day follows night everything here is the same. I have enjoyed the life of Heaven, I will not deny it, but now, just now, as you talked of death, I saw the pattern of a lie. And as you question me, so must I answer: all this here, all this splendor of words and wealth and immortality, it is a lie!”

  Her words had a shocking clarity and confidence. It felt as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the tent. The rich texture of the evening became a torn shard of metal twisting stupidly in the wind. People were struck dumb, outraged but not knowing what to say. For the first time Zeno himself was at a loss and the permanent bliss on Sarobindo's face ricked into a frown. Jonas wanted the ground to open up to swallow him and Pascale with him. Cyrus threw his hands in the air and intoned, “Gods in Heaven, Lucifer has arisen". The only ones who were not fazed were the four to the other side of the head table, Marius, Blair and their companions. Blair smiled without blinking and Marius was expressionless. The woman beside Marius gazed at Pascale with frank hostility while the bird of prey next to Blair shifted her head slight
ly, dangerously. Marius scraped his chair and spoke softly between narrowed lips.

  “I think there has been some failure here, of Initiation, of monitoring. The Anthropology Colony is itself at fault for not having debriefed this person, Pascale. We spoke only with Palmiro, and subsequently accepted that he was vouched for by Adorno. We assumed his companion had been selected and vetted in the normal way. Clearly we were not as careful as we might have been, given all the circumstances. I strongly suggest this recent inductee refrain from further remarks until we've had a chance properly to interview her.”

  It was a most unpleasant situation but people were relieved that a voice of authority had spoken. They nodded and a few managed to force a smile, hoping that someone could now get the conversation back on track. Zeno, however, remained inarticulate with failure; the evening had become a total embarrassment. The silence continued to thicken, like blood in a bruise. Then strangely it was Adorno who came to the rescue, though any help from this man was bound to be at a price.

  “Now, now, Marius, no need to be so grim. This is a philosopher's banquet after all, not a courtroom. It seems to me this young woman is fully within bounds to question the value of our world. In fact, questioning our world is something I have been doing for years. Or should I say, forever? Actually, what I do want to say is my recent situation of having a student to instruct has served enormously to sharpen my own thinking, including for public consumption. So do I have your permission to proceed?”

  Everyone was quickly as terrified of what Adorno would say as they had been horrified by Pascale. But they were helpless. Zeno was overcome with confusion; his plans had now completely misfired. No one else could stop the scientist from pressing on with his speech, his voice sounding like the creak of an expensive staircase as a cruel visitor ascended. The company round the tables were like condemned prisoners, waiting for the ax.