A Canticle For Leibowitz

by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

  Kornhoer peered over his shoulder. "I've seen that," he said breathlessly. "I could never make heads or tails of it. Is the subject matter important?"

  "I'm not sure yet. The mathematics is beautiful, beautiful! Look here — this expression — notice the extremely contracted term. This thing under the radical sign — it looks like the product of two derivatives, but it really represents a whole set of derivatives."

  "How?"

  "The indices permute into an expanded expression; otherwise, it couldn't possibly represent a line integral, as the author says it is. It's lovely. And see here — this simple-looking expression. The simplicity is deceptive. It obviously represents not one, but a whole system of equations, in a very contracted form. It took me a couple of days to realize that the author was thinking of the relationships — not just of quantities to quantities — but of whole systems to other systems. I don't yet know all the physical quantities involved, but the sophistication of the mathematics is just — just quietly superb! If it's a hoax, it's inspired! If it's authentic, we may be in unbelievable luck. In either case, it's magnificent. I must see the earliest possible copy of it."

  Brother Librarian groaned as yet another lead-sealed cask was rolled out of storage for unsealing. Armbruster was not impressed by the fact that the secular scholar, in two days, had unraveled a bit of a puzzle that had been lying around, a complete enigma, for a dozen centuries. To the custodian of the Memorabilia, each unsealing represented another decrease in the probable lifetime of the contents of the cask, and he made no attempt to conceal his disapproval of the entire proceeding. To Brother Librarian, whose task in life was the preservation of books, the principal reason for the existence of books was that they might be preserved perpetually. Usage was secondary, and to be avoided if it threatened longevity.

  Thon Taddeo's enthusiasm for his task waxed stronger as the days passed, and the abbot breathed easier as he watched the thon's earlier skepticism melt away with each new perusal of some fragmentary pre-Deluge science text. The scholar had not made any clear assertions about the intended scope of his investigation; perhaps, at first, his aim had been vague, but now he went about his work with the crisp precision of a man following a plan. Sensing the dawn of something, Dom Paulo decided to offer the cock a perch for crowing, in ease the bird felt an impulse to announce a coming daybreak.

  "The community has been curious about your labors," he told the scholar. "We'd like to hear about it, if you don't mind discussing it. Of course we've all heard of your theoretical work at your own collegium, but it's too technical for most of us to understand. Would it be possible for you to tell us something about it in — oh, general terms that non-specialists might understand? The community has been grumping at me because I hadn't invited you to lecture; but I thought you might prefer to get the feel of the place first. Of course if you'd rather not—"

  The thon's gaze seemed to clamp calipers on the abbot's cranium and measure it six ways. He smiled doubtfully.

  "You'd like me to explain our work in the simplest possible language?"

  "Something like that, if it's possible."

  "That's just it." He laughed. "The untrained man reads a paper on natural science and thinks; "Now why couldn't he explain this in simple language." He can't seem to realize that what he tried to read was the simplest possible language — for that subject matter. In fact, a great deal of natural philosophy is simply a process of linguistic simplification — an effort to invent languages in which half a page of equations can express an idea which could not be stated in less than a thousand pages of so-called "simple" language. Do I make myself clear?"

  "I think so. Since you do make yourself clear, perhaps you could tell us about that aspect of it, then. Unless the suggestion is premature — as far as your work with the Memorabilia is concerned."

  "Well, no. We now have a fairly clear idea of where we're going and what we have to work with here. It will still take considerable time to finish of course. The pieces have to be fitted together, and they don't all belong to the same puzzle. We can't yet predict what we can glean from it, but we're fairly sure of what we can't. I'm happy to say it looks hopeful. I have no objection to explaining the general scope, but—" He repeated the doubtful shrug.

  "What bothers you?"

  The thon seemed mildly embarrassed. "Only an uncertainty about my audience. I would not wish to offend anyone's religious beliefs."

  "But how could you? Isn't it a matter of natural philosophy? Of physical science?"

  "Of course. But many people's ideas about the world have become colored with religious — well, what I mean is—"

  "But if your subject matter is the physical world, how could you possibly offend? Especially this community. We've been waiting for a long time to see the world start taking an interest in itself again. At the risk of seeming boastful, I might point out that we have a few rather clever amateurs in natural science right here in the monastery. There's Brother Majek, and there's Brother Kornhoer—"

  "Kornhoer!" The then glanced up warily at the arc lamp and looked away blinking. "I can't understand it!"

  "The lamp? But surely you—"

  "No, no, not the lamp. The lamp's simple enough, once you got over the shock of seeing it really work. It should work. It would work on paper, assuming various undeterminables and guessing at some unavailable data. But the clean impetuous leap from the vague hypothesis to a working model—" The thon coughed nervously. "It's Kornhoer himself I don't understand. That gadget—" he waggled a forefinger at the dynamo "—is a standing broad-jump across about twenty years of preliminary experimentation, starting with an understanding of the principles. Kornhoer just dispensed with the preliminaries. You believe in miraculous interventions? I don't, but there you have a real case of it. Wagon wheels!" He laughed. "What could he do if he had a machine shop? I can't understand what a man like that is doing cooped up in a monastery."

  "Perhaps Brother Kornhoer should explain that to you," said Dom Paulo, trying to keep an edge of stiffness out of his tone.

  "Yes, well—" Thon Taddeo's visual calipers began measuring the old priest again. "If you really feel that no one would take offense at hearing non-traditional ideas, I would be glad to discuss our work. But some of it may conflict with established preju — uh — established opinion."

  "Good! Then it should be fascinating."

  A time was agreed upon, and Dom Paulo felt relief. The esoteric gulf between Christian monk and secular investigator of Nature would surely be narrowed by a free exchange of ideas, he felt. Kornhoer had already narrowed it slightly, had he not? More communication, not less, was probably the best therapy for easing any tension. And the cloudy veil of doubt and mistrusting hesitancy would be parted, would it not? as soon as the thon saw that his hosts were not quite such unreasonable intellectual reactionaries as the scholar seemed to suspect. Paulo felt some shame for his earlier misgivings. Patience, Lord, with a well-meaning fool, he prayed.

  "But you can't ignore the officers and their sketchbooks," Gault reminded him.

  20

  * * *

  FROM THE LECTERN IN THE refectory, the reader was intoning the announcements. Candlelight blanched the faces of the robed legions who stood motionless behind their stools and waited for the beginning of the evening meal. The reader's voice echoed hollowly in the high vaulted dining room whose ceiling was lost in brooding shadows above the pools of candle-glow that spotted the wooden tables.

  "The Reverend Father Abbot has commanded me to announce," called the reader, "that the rule of abstinence for today is dispensed at tonight's meal. We shall have guests, as you may have heard. All religious may partake of tonight's banquet in honor of Thon Taddeo and his group; you may eat meat. Conversation — if you'll keep it quiet — will be permitted during the meal."

  Suppressed vocal noises, not unlike strangled cheers, came from the ranks of the novices. The tables were set. Food had not yet made an appearance, but large dining trays replaced the u
sual mush bowls, kindling appetites with hints of a feast. The familiar milk mugs stayed in the pantry, their places taken for tonight by the best wine cups. Roses were scattered along the boards.

  The abbot stopped in the corridor to wait for the reader to finish reading. He glanced at the table set for himself, Father Gault, the honored guest, and his party. Bad arithmetic again in the kitchen, he thought. Eight places had been set. Three officers, the thon and his assistant, and the two priests made seven — unless, in some unlikely case, Father Gault had asked Brother Kornhoer to sit with them. The reader concluded the announcements, and Dom Paulo entered the hall.

  "Flectamus genua," intoned the reader.

  The robed legions genuflected with military precision as the abbot blessed his flock.

  "Levate."

  The legions arose. Dom Paulo took his place at the special table and glanced back toward the entrance. Gault should be bringing the others. Previously their meals had been served in the guesthouse rather than the refectory, to avoid subjecting them to the austerity of the monks' own frugal fare.

  When the guests came, he looked around for Brother Kornhoer, but the monk was not with them.

  "Why the eighth place setting?" he murmured to Father Gault when they had taken their places.

  Gault looked blank and shrugged.

  The scholar filled the place on the abbot's right and the others fell in toward the foot of the table, leaving the place on his left empty. He turned to beckon Kornhoer to join them, but the reader began intoning the preface before he could catch the monk's eye.

  "Oremus," answered the abbot, and the legions bowed.

  During the blessing, someone sipped quietly into the seat on the abbot's left. The abbot frowned but did not look up to identify the culprit during the prayer.

  "... et Spiritus Sancti, Amen."

  "Sedete," called the reader, and the ranks began seating themselves.

  The abbot glanced sharply at the figure on his left.

  "Poet!"

  The bruised lily bowed extravagantly and smiled. "Good evening, Sires, learned Thon, distinguished hosts," he orated.

  "What are we having tonight? Roast fish and honeycombs in honor of the temporal resurrection that's upon us? Or have you, m'Lord Abbot, finally cooked the goose of the mayor of the village?"

  "I would like to cook—"

  "Ha!" quoth the Poet, and turned affably toward the scholar. "Such culinary excellence one enjoys in this place, Thon Taddeo! You should join us more often. I suppose they are feeding you nothing but roast pheasant and unimaginative beef in the guesthouse. A shame! Here one fares better. I do hope Brother Chef has his usual gusto tonight, his inward flame, his enchanted touch. Ah . . ." The Poet rubbed his hands and smirked hungrily. "Perhaps we shall have his inspired Mock Pork with Maize à la Friar John, eh?"

  "It sounds interesting," said the scholar. "What is it?"

  "Greasy armadillo with parched corn, boiled in donkey milk. A regular Sunday special."

  "Poet!" snapped the abbot; then to the thon: "I apologize for his presence. He wasn't invited."

  The scholar surveyed the Poet with detached amusement.

  "M'Lord Hannegan too, keeps several court fools," he told Paulo. "I'm familiar with the species. You needn't apologize for him."

  The Poet sprang up from his stool and bowed deeply before the thon. "Allow me instead to apologize for the abbot, Sire!" he cried with feeling.

  He held the bow for a moment. They waited for him to finish his foolishness. Instead, he shrugged suddenly, sat down, and speared a smoking fowl from the platter deposited before them by a postulant. He tore off a leg and bit into it with gusto. They watched him with puzzlement.

  "I suppose you're right in not accepting my apology for him," he said to the thon at last.

  The scholar reddened slightly.

  "Before I throw you out, worm," said Gault, "let's probe the depths of this iniquity."

  The Poet waggled his head and munched thoughtfully.

  "It's pretty deep, all right," he admitted.

  Someday Gault is going to strangle himself on that foot of his, thought Dom Paulo.

  But the younger priest was visibly annoyed, and sought to draw the incident out ad absurdum in order to find grounds for quashing the fool. "Apologize at length for your host, Poet," he commanded. "And explain yourself as you go."

  "Drop it, Father, drop it," Paulo said hastily.

  The Poet smiled graciously at the abbot. "That's all right, m'Lord," he said. "I don't mind apologizing for you in the least. You apologize for me, I apologize for you, and isn't that a fitting maneuver in charity and good will? Nobody need apologize for himself — which is always so humiliating. Using my system, however, everyone gets apologized for, and nobody has to do his own apologizing."

  Only the officers seemed to find the Poet's remarks amusing. Apparently the expectation of humor was enough to produce the illusion of humor, and the comedian could elicit laughter with gesture and expression, regardless of what he said. Thon Taddeo wore a dry smirk, but it was the kind of look a man might give a clumsy performance by a trained animal.

  "And so," the Poet was continuing, "if you would but allow me to serve as your humble helper, m'Lord, you would never have to eat your own crow. As your Apologetic Advocate, for example, I might be delegated by you to offer contrition to important guests for the existence of bedbugs. And to bedbugs for the abrupt change of fare."

  The abbot glowered and resisted an impulse to grind the Poet's bare toe with the heel of his sandal. He kicked the fellow's ankle, but the fool persisted.

  "I would assume all the blame for you, of course," he said, noisily chewing white meat. "It's a fine system, one which I was prepared to make available to you too, Most Eminent Scholar. I'm sure you would have found it convenient. I have been given to understand that systems of logic and methodology must be devised and perfected before science advances. And my system of negotiable and transferable apologetics would have been of particular value to you, Thon Taddeo."

  "Would have?"

  "Yes. It's a pity. Somebody stole my blue-headed goat."

  "Blue-headed goat?"

  "He had a head as bald as Hannegan's, Your Brilliance, and blue as the tip of Brother Armbruster's nose. I meant to make you a present of the animal but some dastard filched him before you came."

  The abbot clenched his teeth and held his heel poised over the Poet's toe. Thon Taddeo was frowning slightly, but he seemed determined to untangle the Poet's obscure skein of meaning.

  "Do we need a blue-headed goat?" he asked his clerk.

  "I can see no pressing urgency about it, sir," said the clerk.

  "But the need is obvious!" said the Poet. "They say you are writing equations that will one day remake the world. They say a new light is dawning. If there's to be light, then somebody will have to be blamed for the darkness that's past."

  "Ah, thence the goat." Thon Taddeo glanced at the abbot. "A sickly jest. Is it the best he can do?"

  "You'll notice he's unemployed. But let us talk of something sensib—"

  "No, no, no, no!" objected the poet. "You mistake my meaning, Your Brilliance. The goat is to be enshrined and honored, not blamed! Crown him with the crown Saint Leibowitz sent you, and thank him for the light that's rising. Then blame Leibowitz, and drive him into the desert. That way you won't have to wear the second crown. The one with thorns. Responsibility, it's called."

  The Poet's hostility had broken out into the open, and he was no longer trying to seem humorous. The thon gazed at him icily. The abbot's heel wavered again over the Poet's toe, and again had reluctant mercy on it.

  "And when," said the Poet, "your patron's army comes to seize this abbey, the goat can be placed in the courtyard and taught to bleat 'There's been nobody here but me, nobody here but me' whenever a stranger comes by."

  One of the officers started up from his stool with an angry grunt, his hand reaching reflexively for his saber. He broke the hilt dear
of the scabbard, and six inches of steel glistened a warning at the Poet. The thon seized his wrist and tried to force the blade back in the sheath, but it was like tugging at the arm of a marble statue.

  "Ah! A swordsman as well as a draftsman!" taunted the Poet, apparently unafraid of dying. "Your sketches of the abbey's defenses show such promise of artistic—"

  The officer barked an oath and the blade leaped clean of the scabbard. His comrades seized him, however, before he could lunge. An astonished rumble came from the congregation as the startled monks came to their feet. The Poet was still smiling blandly.

  "—artistic growth," he continued. "I predict that one day your drawing of the underwall tunnels will be hung in a museum of fine—"

  A dull chunk! came from under the table. The Poet paused in mid-bite, lowered the wishbone from his mouth, and turned slowly white. He munched, swallowed, and continued to lose color. He gazed abstractly upward.

  "You're grinding it off," he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  "Through talking?" the abbot asked, and continued to grind.

  "I think I have a bone in my throat," the Poet admitted.

  "You wish to be excused?"

  "I am afraid I must."

  "A pity. We shall miss you." Paulo gave the toe one last grind for good measure. "You may go then."

  The Poet exhaled gustily, blotted his mouth, and arose. He drained his wine cup and inverted it in the center of the tray. Something in his manner compelled them to watch him. He pulled down his eyelid with one thumb, bent his head over his cupped palm and pressed. The eyeball popped out into his palm, bringing a choking sound from the Texarkanans who were apparently unaware of the Poet's artificial orb.

  "Watch him carefully," said the Poet to the glass eye, and then deposited it on the upturned base of his wine cup where it stared balefully at Thon Taddeo. "Good evening, m'Lords," he said cheerfully to the group, and marched away.

  The angry officer muttered a curse and struggled to free himself from the grasp of his comrades.