Code Of The Lifemaker

by Hogan, James

  plus he knew what the owner of the wallet looked like. Now think about that."

  Whittaker thought hard for a while, then looked over at Conlon. Conlon shrugged.

  Whittaker looked back at Massey, shook his head, and showed his empty palms.

  "Okay, I give in. How'd he know?"

  Massey laughed, produced Whittaker's wallet from his armpit, and tossed it back

  to him. "That tell you enough? And there wasn't anything on your jacket, by the

  way, so don't worry about it."

  "You're kidding!" Whittaker protested. "You mean somebody stole it and then

  turned it in?"

  "See what I mean, Pat—too simple to think of, isn't it?"

  "And the things the people showed while he had the bag over his head?"

  Massey brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his eyebrow, rubbed the tip of

  his nose with a thumb, drew a finger lightly from left to right along his upper

  lip, and then pinched the lobe of his right ear. "A confederate giving coded

  signals from somewhere in the front rows . . . probably an Armenian character

  called Abaquaan, who's always close by Zambendorf somewhere, but you never see

  him."

  "And the metal bar?"

  "Standard magician's equipment. If you saw it done at a school variety show

  without all the hype, you'd applaud politely and say it was a clever trick. In

  fact that's one aspect of some research that Vernon and I are into at the

  moment. It's amazing—if people have made their minds up that what they're seeing

  is genuine paranormal power in action, they'll stick to their conviction even

  after they've agreed that any good stage magician can produce exactly the same

  effect. No amount of appealing to reason will change them. In fact—"

  At that moment the organ behind Vernon blasted out a series of rising and

  falling notes, and a hollow, synthetic computer voice announced, "Visitor at the

  portals."

  Massey glanced at the sarcophagus clock. "That'll be the cab. Drink up. We can

  have a couple more at the bar before we sit down to eat."

  They left the house five minutes later and stopped for a moment below the porch

  to pick out the pinpoint of Mars in the evening sky. "It makes you think,"

  Conlon said absently. "Sometime back in the eighteen hundreds, they thought it

  was miraculous when the first clipper ship made it from Boston round the Horn to

  San Francisco in under a hundred days. And here we are a century and a half

  later, going to Mars and back in the same time."

  "Limits to Growth," Vernon murmured.

  "Huh?" Whittaker said.

  "Oh, it's the title of some dumb book I read from the seventies," Vernon

  replied.

  "I see no limits," Conlon said, scanning the stars. "Where do I look?"

  "In people's minds," Massey answered.

  A thoughtful look came over Vernon's face as he followed Conlon's gaze upward.

  "I guess there have to be other intelligences out there somewhere," he mused.

  "Do you think they have kooks too, or is it a uniquely human thing?"

  Massey snorted as they resumed walking toward the waiting cab. "Nothing out

  there could be dumber than some people," he said.

  5

  FRENNELECH, PRESIDING EMINENCE OF THE HIGH COUNCIL OF Priests at Pergassos, the

  principal city in the land of the Kroaxians, stared down from his raised,

  central seat behind the Council bench and waited for the accused to begin his

  explanation. His tall headdress of fine-grown, reflective organic scales and his

  imposing robes of woven wire, heavily embroidered with carbon fibers and plastic

  thread, enhanced his stature and made all the more intimidating the stem

  expression formed by the setting of the coolant outlet vanes above his chin and

  the thermal patterns radiating from his metal facial surfaces. An acolyte

  standing behind the chair held the organic-grown rod of yellow and red spiral

  stripes, topped by an ornamented ball, that was Frennelech's emblem of office,

  while to the left and right, the lesser priests sat in solemn dignity, holding

  their own, lesser emblems in their steel fingers.

  Heavy chains rattled as the accused, Lofbayel, Maker-of-Maps, rose nervously to

  his feet in the center of the Council Chamber. The guards standing on either

  side of him remained impassive while for a few seconds he stared, cowed and

  bewildered. Then Horazzorgio, the sadistic-looking captain of the Royal Guard

  who had been in command at the time of Lofbayel's arrest, jabbed him roughly in

  the back with the handle of a carbide-tipped lance. "Speak when the Illustrious

  One commands!" he ordered.

  Lofbayel staggered, and caught the bar before him to steady himself. "My words

  were not spoken with any intent to contradict the Holy Scribings," he stammered

  hastily. "Indeed, they were not spoken with thought of the Scribings at all.

  For—"

  "Aha!" Rekashoba, Prosecuter for the High Council, wheeled round abruptly and

  pointed an accusing finger. "Already he confesses. Is it not written: 'In all

  thy words and deeds, be thou mindful of the Holy Scribings'? He stands condemned

  by his own words."

  "The impiety has been noted," Frennelech said coldly from the bench. And to

  Lofbayel, "Continue."

  The mapmaker's imaging matrixes flickered despondently. "It has long been my

  practice to collect writings and drawings of travelers, navigators, explorers,

  soldiers, and scholars from both this and other lands," he explained, and added,

  ". . . for the purpose of further improving the quality of the services that I

  render to His Supreme Majesty, the King."

  "May the Lifemaker protect the King!" Horazzorgio shouted from behind.

  "Let it be so," the bench of priests chanted in response, with the exception of

  Frennelech, whose rank excused him from the obligation.

  Lofbayel continued, "In amassing many such records originated over a time of

  many twelves of twelve-brights, I found impressing itself upon me a strange but

  persistent recurrence: that beyond any place that lies as far to the east as one

  may choose to name, there are always reported more places that lie yet farther

  to the east . . . until they become places that other travelers have encountered

  to the west. And the same is found to be true of north and south, for either

  becomes the other. I have evidence which suggests the same is true for all

  directions, and for a journey commenced at any place." Lofbayel looked along the

  line of stony-faced priests. "Consideration of these facts—if they are facts, of

  course—led me to the supposition that any journey, if protracted long enough

  without hindrance or deviation, must eventually close a path back to its

  beginning."

  "And therefore you conclude the entire world to be round in form?" Frennelech

  sounded incredulous and at the same time appalled. "Through idle daydreaming,

  you believe that you can acquire knowledge . . . spurning the Scribings, which

  are the sole source of all true knowledge? What arrogance is this?"

  "I ... It was intended merely as a conundrum concocted for the amusement of

  students who seek my instruction in the methods of calculation and the graphic

  arts," Lofbayel replied. "We asked: 'What form has no center, yet has centers

  everywhere, and is limited in size
but unlimited in extent?' Further

  contemplation and experiment revealed that the sphere alone possesses properties

  consistent with the conditions which the riddle specified, and this prompted the

  further question: 'Given that the world shares properties in common with the

  sphere, must it not follow that it shares the sphere's form also?'"

  Rekashoba, the Prosecutor, snorted and turned away contemptuously, indicating

  that he had heard as much as his patience would withstand. He straightened and

  raised his head to address the bench. "First, to dispose of the possibility of

  there being any factual basis to this allegation, I will present three

  independent proofs that the world cannot be round. And second, I will show that

  this is no mere innocent exercise in riddles as has been claimed, but a

  pernicious attempt to challenge the authority of the Lifemaker's worldly

  representatives by poisoning the minds of the young and casting doubts upon the

  teachings of the divinely inspired Scribings. Therefore the strictest of

  penalties is not only in order, but mandatory."

  Rekashoba paused, appealed to the chamber with a flourish, and then picked up a

  cellulose ball and a goblet of methane. "My first proof is based on no more than

  the sense that is common to all robeings, and will delay us for but a short

  while." He poured a small quantity of liquid onto the top of the ball and

  watched as it trickled down to the underside and finally fell away in a thin

  stream to the floor. "A body of liquid cannot sustain itself upon the surface of

  a sphere," he observed. "It follows that the surface of a world formed as a

  sphere could not contain oceans of methane. But the oceans exist, do they not?

  Or am I misinformed? Or do thousands of navigators and voyagers delude

  themselves?" He looked penetratingly at Lofbayel. "What reply do you have,

  Denier-of-Oceans?"

  "I have none," Lofbayel murmured unhappily.

  Rekashoba put down the goblet and tossed the ball aside as unworthy of consuming

  more of the Council's time. "But were the sphere vast enough, the oceans might

  be constrained just to its upper regions, one might suppose," he said airily.

  "However, that brings us to my second proof—that what has been claimed

  contradicts itself logically."

  Rekashoba half turned to point to one of Lofbayel's charts, which was being

  displayed on one side of the chamber as evidence. "This chart, we are told,

  represents the entire world in extent, although much of it remains blank and

  devoid of any detail," he said. "Now observe—do not the oceans compose the major

  portion of it? But were this indeed the entire world, and were that world indeed

  a sphere, the oceans, being constrained by necessity as shown in my first proof

  to occupying only its upper regions, would compose the minor portion. Therefore

  either the world cannot be a sphere, or the chart does not depict the entire

  world. If the world is not a sphere, then the proof rests. If the chart is not

  of the entire world, then the accused's own words stand in contradiction to the

  fact, and since his conclusion follows from an assertion thereby shown to be

  erroneous, the conclusion is disproved. Hence, by the second alternative also,

  the world is not a sphere. Since there was no third alternative, the proposition

  is proved by rigorous logic."

  Rekashoba surveyed the faces of the Council members solemnly. "My third proof

  follows from sacred doctrine." His voice had taken on an ominous note, and he

  paused for a moment to allow the more serious mood to take effect. "If this

  matter had no further implications, I could dismiss it as a consequence of

  nothing more than foolishness and ignorance. But it transcends far beyond such

  limits by denying one of the fundamental teachings given to us in the Holy

  Scribings: the Doctrine of Temporal Representation and Succession." He paused

  again, turned to address the whole chamber, and raised a hand in front of him.

  "The world was created in a form designed by the Lifemaker to provide a constant

  reminder that the Church and State function as the divinely ordained instruments

  of His authority, and that their organizational hierarchies constitute visible

  embodiments of His will. Thus the solid canopy of the sky, beyond which the

  mortal world is not permitted ever to look, symbolizes the Supreme

  Archprelate"—the Prosecutor turned and inclined his head deferentially in

  Frennelech's direction— "who sits at the highest position attainable by mere

  robeings. The sky is supported by the unscalable mountains of the Peripheral

  Barrier that bounds world, just as the Supreme Archprelate is supported by the

  spiritual and secular leaders of the civilized world, who are chosen to command

  heights unclimbable by ordinary robeings, one of whom, of course, is His Supreme

  Majesty."

  "May the Lifemaker protect the King!" Horazzorgio shouted.

  "Let it be so," the bench responded.

  Rekashoba continued, "The lesser mountains support the higher, and the foothills

  support the lesser, just as the lower clerics and officials of the State support

  higher edifices above them. And below, the plains and deserts must reconcile

  themselves to their rightful place in the scheme, as must the masses." He

  extended a warning finger. "But the masses must not make the mistake of

  imagining from these considerations that their lot is a harsh or an unjust one.

  Indeed, quite the opposite! For, just as the lowlands are sheltered from the

  storms that rage in the mountains and nourished by the streams flowing down to

  them from above, so the common masses are protected and receive spiritual

  nourishment from the Lifemaker through the succession of higher agencies that He

  has appointed."

  Rekashoba's voice took on a harder note as he looked back at Lofbayel. "But a

  round world would be incompatible with the sacred translations of the Scribings.

  Since the Scribings cannot be questioned, a round world cannot exist." He waited

  a second for his argument to register, and then continued in a louder voice,

  "But, more than that, any claim to the contrary must therefore constitute a

  denial of the Scribings. And such a denial amounts, in a word, to ... heresy!" A

  murmur ran round the chamber. Lofbayel clutched weakly at the bar and for a

  moment looked as if he was about to collapse. The full penalty in the event of a

  charge of heresy being upheld was the burning out of both eyes, followed by slow

  dissolution in an acid vat. Horazzorgio's eyes glinted in gloating anticipation;

  the arresting officer had first option to command the execution in the event of

  a death sentence. The Council members leaned forward to confer among themselves

  in low voices.

  Seated behind the officials and scribes, to one side of the chamber, was a

  rustic-looking figure, simply attired in a brown tunic of coarse-woven copper,

  secured by a heavy, black, braided belt, and a dull red cloak assembled from

  interlocking ceramic platelets. Thirg, Asker-of-Forbidden-Questions, drew in a

  long stream of nitrogen to cool his overworked emotive circuits and took a

  moment to prepare himself. As a longtime friend of Lofbayel, a fellow inquirer

  after truth, and one who had
enjoyed the hospitality of Lofbayel's house on many

  occasions during visits from his solitary abode in the forest below the

  mountains, Thirg had promised Lofbayel's wife that he would plead her husband's

  case if the trial went badly. Thirg was far from optimistic about his ability to

  achieve anything useful, and what he had seen of Rekashoba's zealousness led him

  to fear that the mere act of speaking out in his friend's defense might well be

  enough to make him a marked person in future, subject to constant scrutiny,

  questioning, and harassment. But a promise was a promise. Besides, the very idea

  of not trying was unthinkable. Thirg braced himself and gripped the edges of his

  seat.

  Frennelech looked back out over the chamber. "Does the accused have anything to

  say before the Council's verdict is announced?"

  Lofbayel attempted to speak, but fear made him incoherent. Frennelech shifted

  his gaze to the Court Warden. "One is present who is willing to speak for the

  accused," the Warden said. Thirg took off his cap of aluminum mail, and

  clutching it before him, rose slowly.

  "Who speaks for the accused?" Frennelech demanded.

  "Thirg, a recluse dweller of the forest, who describes himself as a friend of

  the accused," the Warden replied.

  "Speak, Thirg," Frennelech ordered.

  The court and the priests of the Council waited. After a slight hesitation, to

  find his words, Thirg began speaking cautiously. "Illustrious members of the

  High Council and officers of the Court, it cannot be denied that words have been

  uttered rashly, which a moment of prudence and wisdom would have left unsaid.

  Since truth and justice are the business of the Court, whatever consequences

  must lawfully follow, it is not my desire to dispute. But the suggestion of

  heresy, I would respectfully submit, warrants further examination if the

  possibility of a hasty decision unbecoming of the elders and wisest of Kroaxia

  is to be avoided." He paused to look along the line of faces, and found a

  modicum of reassurance that he was being heeded.

  "For by its very definition, a heresy, we are told, is a denial of the truths

  set forth in the Holy Scribings. But does not a denial require a statement of

  that which is denied? We have heard no such statement uttered, and neither has