The maze which Dædalus had proposed was more complicated than the civilization it was based upon. It was a universe with its own space-time, with built-in spectators and a high degree of self-consistency. It had been expensive, but well worth it.
The maze had no objective existence, of course. Not even Dædalus could arrange that. But it didn’t matter. What Minos and his court got was just as good as the real thing.
Within Dædalus’ maze, all of the legends and myths of the Hellenes could be played out. There were creation myths, the stories of the Olympian gods, the Odyssey and the Iliad, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, Orestes and Electra, Iphigenia, just about everyone of any importance.
The people of Atlantis could sit around and watch the action on their small spherical television sets.
For people of importance, Minos’ inner circle of cronies, there were very large spherical television sets in which they could sit and watch the action from the inside.
From the inside of the very large spherical television sets, a member of the audience could even participate in the drama. This was useful when one of the main players needed a vacation.
There was no lack of dramatic material. The stories of the Greeks are interconnected and overlapped. Connections existed between all of the myth cycles. Each myth was a world of possibilities, and was connected at many points to other mythic worlds. Major myths could be rerun many times, and each time with a different outcome.
This made betting possible, which was taxed, and became one of the major sources of revenue for the upkeep of the maze.
The capitol city of Knossos, known throughout Hellas as The Big Olive, was incorporated into the maze. Due to the maze’s enhancement features, Knossos became contemporaneous with all space and time, and Minos found himself the ruler of the universe’s largest city.
Minos and his friends also got immortality out of it, an important plus.
Since the labyrinth was a plenum, entirely filled with its contents, there was no room in it for anything new.
All that could be found in the maze, theoretically at least, were variations on the formal possibilities already contained within it.
This wasn’t a very restricting condition, since the maze was so large, so complicated, so interconnected, that originality was never missed. It was replaced nicely by the seemingly fortuitous.
The only thing that irked Dædalus about the maze was that he could never meet anyone new in it. But old friends are the best friends, and this was a small price to pay, considering what he got.
12. King Minos.
King Minos lived in the new palace that Dædalus built for him within the maze. So magnificent was the result that it used up all the descriptive materials for millions of miles and thousands of years on all sides.
Unfortunately, Minos didn’t have the place all to himself as he had originally planned. When Zeus came for a visit, he decided that Minos’ place was where he’d like to stay when he was away from Olympus. He asked Minos if he could have an apartment somewhere in it, and even offered to pay rent. Minos couldn’t very well refuse.
“I may bring in a few friends from time to time,” Zeus said.
“Oh, certainly,” Minos replied. “Feel free.”
“I will,” Zeus said.
Zeus took over a suite of rooms right above the apartments where Minos lived; overlooking the Fountain of Innocents, the Forum, the Beauborg, and the sex shops of the Rue St. Denis. Zeus did his own decorating. He put in a cocktail lounge and a bowling alley. Topless nymphs served Coors beer and Slim Jim sausages to the sounds of country rock. In Minos’ estimation Zeus’ suite had no class at all.
There was even a moldy deer’s head mounted on one of the walls, overlooking the pool table. It had been a gift from Hades, who had searched through all the gift shops of hell until he found just the right thing.
Hades was Zeus’ brother. Minos didn’t like him, either. Hades was a gloomy fellow, always filled with moralistic ideas and cruel, very cruel, which is proper for a ruler of hell but not much fun in a brother.
Minos sat in his throne room. There was a low rumble of thunder overhead. Zeus had just bowled a spare. The deed was accompanied by gusts of homeric laughter. Minos sighed, gritted his teeth and walked to the window. Far below, crowds moved along the wide paved areas. There were fire eaters, mimes, clowns, magicians, orators and musicians. Minos had thought they would be amusing. Now he wished they’d all go away.
They couldn’t go away, of course. They lived in the vicinity, both the entertainers and the crowds who came to be entertained. Minos was stuck with them. And it was his own fault.
13. How Knossos was Peopled.
Soon after his palace was built, Minos had asked Dædalus to find him a population. His own had perished in the destruction of Atlantis and Minos felt that it was important to have people around, since they gave a place a certain liveliness and color. Dædalus, in a hurry as always, and with a lot of other things on his mind, had simply taken the first population that came to hand, that of 20th century Paris. Minos actually had had quite a different population in mind. He’d thought that it might be nice to have Andean Indians, or Balinese, or possibly Eskimos. But he’d never gotten around to mentioning it, and he didn’t want to ask Dædalus to take the Parisians back since the Master Builder had gone to quite a lot of trouble to get them.
The loss of the population of Paris did not pass unnoticed on 20th century Earth, and was especially remarked upon in France. The new French government had to act quickly. A statement was issued declaring that the Parisians had been carried off by an anomaly, and the event could confidently be expected never to happen again, such being the nature of anomalies. This satisfied everyone except for the lunatic fringe addicted to conspiracy theories. Paris was quickly repopulated. People were imported from other parts of France, and from Africa, the Caribbean and southeast Asia. Soon it was business again as usual.
As for the kidnapped Parisians in Knossos, they adjusted to their new situation without undue hardship. For one thing, Knossos looked just like Paris, except for the Assyrian tourists whom most people mistook for Americans. For another, Minos granted all the inhabitants free vacations in luxury hotels in the nearby Hanging Gardens of Babylon, thus proving the superiority of enlightened monarchy to any form of socialism.
14. In the Maze of Juxtapositions.
Life is crazy in Dædalus’ maze. Theseus found himself standing on a dusty white country road under the shade of a solitary olive tree. To his left there was a range of low mountains. He studied them for a while, aware that there was something unusual about them.
Then he realized what it was: the mountains were moving slowly toward him. Or he was moving slowly toward them. Or both the mountains and he were moving toward each other.
The olive tree started edging away from both him and the avalanching hill.
Then a nearby hill went into motion and began bearing down on him. He studied it and considered taking evasive action. But where can you go when a hill is chasing you? It’s like a landslide of elephants and there’s nowhere to run. So Theseus stood his ground. Heroics are cheap when you’re dead anyway. Still, what can you do?
He was more than a little surprised when the hill collected itself like a great ocean wave and flowed beneath him instead of pouring over him and grinding his flesh and bones to gravel. He was able to surfboard over it on his sneakered feet, wearing the soles of those sneakers down to an eighth of an inch by friction due to the abrading they took from rocks, gravels, sand, sea shells, fossils, old cigarette butts, and all the other matters of which a hill is composed. He was grateful to be shod at all when he stepped off the now-spent hill.
Theseus realized at once that he was in one of Dædalus’ experimental areas. The maze, at this point in space and time, could be likened to a series of mobile walkways, as at an airport. Mountains, trees, lakes, and Theseus himself, were all mounted on movable surfaces, which approached, retreated and circled around each other,
flowed into and around each other, approached and retreated in accordance with laws which Dædalus had invented but not elucidated, following the ancient dictum that mysteries give an air of pleasurable profundity, whereas explanations always smack of the banal.
Nothing in this collage of moving surfaces ever collided. Interaction was suspended; only passing juxtapositions were possible. It was magical and delicious, this section of the maze of juxtapositions. Theseus loved the way things suddenly appeared, moved toward him for a while, then went away. A whole castle passed in this manner, and the people on the battlements waved, like tourists anywhere. Then, without warning, he was in a bog.
It was dark in the bog, in a twilight sort of way, and twisting shadows interlaced the long diagonal lines of the tree trunks. There was a hush broken only by the whirring of distant wings. The waters seemed to rise as color bleached out of the evening sky, and it was for a while a white world with a few smudged lines here and there like one of those artful Japanese sketches that some feel are too clever by half. And then the long desolate call of a sea-bird — distant wings against the sky, and the whirr of mosquitoes.
The bog was old, very old. Lying in it now, in mud-blocked sea-caves far below the surface, congeries of blind skeletons sat in long aisle seats, their delicate tendrils that once were hands applauding soundlessly the sight they could see. Above all, the bog was a motivator of elevated language, bog talk, as it was called, a sort of heightened form of discourse that well set the mood for the next thing that was about to happen.
With a pull like suction gone berserk, Theseus broke his way through the clinging clay fingers of the mud bank and scrambled up to safe ground. He breathed a sigh of relief. Just then the construct began to collapse due to shoddy constructionmanship. And Theseus found himself walking on a road rather than riding on it, and that the mountains had stopped moving.
The road ended. Theseus walked through a thicket of thorny plants, not paying too much attention to his surroundings. But he was alert enough to spring back when something long and thin and bluish-gray reached out to grasp him.
15. Sorrows of the Minotaur.
Like so many of us, the Minotaur has a greater reputation for monstrousness than he deserves.
The Minotaur doesn’t feel particularly monstrous. It’s no fault of his that he has an unusual physical appearance. He’s no killer, except in self-defense, as in the case of this crazy person Theseus who keeps on coming after him with intent to do grievous bodily harm.
The Minotaur would be perfectly willing to shake hands and forget the whole thing, if that could be arranged.
He’s made his offers, his overtures, but they have been ignored. Apparently there’s nothing he can do but keep on running around Dædalus’ silly maze until he can arrange an ambush, catch Theseus unawares, do for him once and for all, or make him listen to reason.
None of the variations of his legend favor this outcome.
The Minotaur finds this discouraging. But, as a creature with Buddhistic leanings, he knows that no situation is entirely unworkable.
The Minotaur finds it all the more ridiculous having to go on with this monster thing, having to work through his Minotaurish situation, since, in his heart of hearts, he doesn’t really consider himself a Minotaur at all. The Minotaur is convinced that, despite outward appearances, he is actually a unicorn.
The reason he thinks this is because, from as far back as he can remember, the Minotaur has had this desire to lay his head in the lap of a virgin.
The Minotaur has the body of a minotaur and the soul of a unicorn.
So far he has kept the secret of his true nature to himself. He hasn’t even told Theseus, who is his closest friend, circumstances being what they are. He hasn’t told anyone, not that people would think badly of him if they did know. People who work in the maze are show business people, after all, modern and tolerant, well known for their liberal views. It’s the Minotaur himself who is old-fashioned. Well, not exactly old-fashioned, but very much a private person, or monster. He doesn’t want everyone knowing his sexual preferences, discussing them at the parties the Minotaur knows they have, from which they exclude him.
He’s finicky, and this is very typical of unicorns, who are shy, proud creatures, not at all like Minotaurs, who tend to be hairy-chested monsters who go about their work of sex and violence and don’t give a damn who knows about it.
To lay his head in the lap of a virgin — that would be very heaven! But the Minotaur never seems to meet any live virgins, only dead ones, through no fault of his own, and anyhow, even if he could meet live virgins, he wouldn’t be interested because he’s in love with Ariadne; she’s the only one he wants, unicorns are not promiscuous and he’s certain he’s a unicorn.
It is true that Ariadne is probably not a virgin. Or so the Minotaur assumes. Not that he’s ever asked. But after all, she did marry Theseus, a move that carries strong sexual implications.
But despite her marriage to Theseus, despite the fact that she lives now with Dionysus, Ariadne has a definite virginal air about her, something unicorns have a very strong sense about. Unicorns know the truth about these matters in their infallible virgin-detecting hearts.
It’s entirely possible that Theseus and Ariadne never consummated their union. For whatever reason. And that could be the real reason why Theseus has abandoned her on Naxos. Because Theseus, a Hellenic jock, a Greek macho, would never stand for his lady not putting out. Heroes don’t stand for that sort of thing. Failure to come across would give Theseus ample grounds for abandoning the lady. And Theseus would be unlikely to talk about it afterwards, because it would reflect badly on his all-important manhood.
The Minotaur knows how unlikely all of this is. Still, so what? Maybe she’s not virgin enough for other people, but she’s plenty virgin for him. What he wants more than anything else in the world is to get together with her under intimate circumstances and lay his head in her lap.
He has pictured this to himself many times. He even plans, when he has time, to have one horn cut off to facilitate matters, and to prevent gouging her soft thigh. He hasn’t entirely decided which horn to sacrifice, but he’ll decide that when he finds a good surgeon, Asclepius by preference, the king of the sawbones, and charging fees in accordance with his reputation, wandering around somewhere in the maze with his little black bag.
The Minotaur will find Asclepius and arrange for the operation, a monohornectomy, a straightforward procedure, one of the simplest of the sex-change operations.
Then the Minotaur plans to do something about his passion. He will kidnap Ariadne, tuck her under one foreleg and gallop away snorting; it’s the only way of bringing it off, no time for persuasion, not until later. After he has taken her to a safe place, he’ll set her free, or almost free, as free as he dares, for he can’t have her running away from him before they have a chance to talk. He won’t hold her against her will no matter what she decides. But at least he will have had a chance to state his case and to tell Ariadne what he really wants — to provide for her every need and sleep with his head in her lap every night. You can never tell, she might go for it.
16. Although Minos is king, Dædalus
is the greatest man in Atlantean Crete, the wealthiest in the ancient world after Midas, the most respected, the one on terms of mutual respect with the gods themselves.
This is very gratifying, of course, but Dædalus is not entirely satisfied with his situation.
Granted, his maze is the greatest creation known to men or gods. But he did build it quite a while ago. What has he done recently? This question bothers him.
And Dædalus has to spend a great deal of his time doing upkeep and general repair work on the maze, and filling in the blank sections. And something is always breaking down. This irritates him because the thing ought to work perfectly. It is apparent that the maze lacks something, and Dædalus knows what it is.
His maze lacks a unified field theory.
Dædalus didn’t
bother to formulate one at the beginning, because he was busy with other matters. Now the maze is working more or less as it was supposed to, but parts of it keep on breaking down for no discernable reason, and there’s always the danger of a really fatal Anomaly, and all for lack of a unified field theory.
Dædalus hasn’t told Minos about this. The king wouldn’t understand, because laymen never really grasp these matters. Minos would just get nervous and ask if the whole thing was going to go smash. And Dædalus couldn’t even answer that apparently simple question without the damned missing unified field theory.
He works on it in the time he can spare from upkeep and maintenance. He’s got a team of scientists working on it, too, the best men available, selected from everywhere and everywhen. Some of them don’t believe he’ll ever find what he’s looking for. They cite Gödel and smile knowingly.
Dædalus has dedicated his life to the proposition that everything is quantifiable. He’s been able to build a maze more complicated than the world upon which it is based, an achievement that will go down in universal history. He’s doing all right by any standard, but he’s not really happy.
It bothers Dædalus that there’s no novelty possible in his maze. Unexpected things do occur rather frequently, but they’re unexpected only because he lacks a unified field theory by which to predict them.
Sometimes Dædalus would just like to chuck the whole thing, go somewhere else, do something else.
The trouble is, he can’t figure out where to go and what else to do.
That’s the situation you get into when you’re master of a maze which incorporates everything except a unified field theory by which it can explain itself.
Dædalus is working on it.
17. The Hornectomy.
Minotaur Maze Page 4
