“—the mirror that could burn things at a distance!”
“Yes, that’s right. But it didn’t work. The analepsis, I mean. It was too anachronistic; there was no way to build the culture around the knowledge. Ganymede found out that the manifold is not so easily changed—to the despair of some of us, and the great relief of others, as you might imagine.”
“I should think so! What if he had changed you all right out of existence? You might have disappeared on the spot!”
“Well, maybe so. But how would that be any different from the way it is now? People disappear all the time.”
“Hmm,” Galileo said.
“Anyway, judging by a kind of tautology, since we existed, we didn’t think it could happen. And the manifold of manifolds doesn’t really work like that. I am not competent to speak to the physics involved, but I think I catch a glimpse of it in the analogy of the river mouth, with braiding channels, each one of which is a kind of reality, or a potentiality.”
“That’s the one Aurora told me about.”
“It’s a common image. You have your three or four or ten billion currents running concurrently, and tides running back upstream, and the riverbeds themselves all shifting in the force of the various flows. Some water goes upstream, some downstream, the banks get eroded, there’s cross-chop on the surface, and so on. Some streambeds go dry and get oxbowed, while new ones are carved.”
“Like at the mouth of the Po.”
“I’m sure. So, Ganymede thought he could kick a riverbank so hard that the subsequent erosion would carve an entirely new river downstream, if you see what I mean. But it isn’t like that. There’s a bigger topography somehow. And a single kick …”
He took another drink of wine, wiped his mouth. “In any case, it didn’t work. Archimedes—he got killed. And all that was lost. Even that device, that teletrasporta, to use your word for it.”
“Please do. It’s better than entangler—I mean, everything is already entangled, so that’s not what the device is doing.”
Cartophilus actually smiled at this. “You may be right. Whatever you call it, there’s one of them on the bottom of the Aegean, near An-tikytherae. It’s likely to last a long time, too. It was disguised to look like an Olympic calendar, but that won’t be enough to explain it if it’s ever found.”
“How did Ganymede get back to Jupiter?”
“He returned at the last moment before his ship sank, determined to try again. He’s a stubborn man, and the nature of analepsis makes it possible to try over and over. He decided he needed more time to prepare, to help on the scene. He read intensively in the historical record, and visited various resonant times, and decided you were his best chance to make a significant change in the disaster centuries that follow you. But he wanted to visit Copernicus too, and Kepler.”
“So you came back as Gypsies.”
“Exactly. With a different teletrasporta, probably the last one. I doubt they will send back any more.”
“That’s what Hera said, but why not?”
“Well, results have been uncertain, or bad. And there are philosophical objections to that kind of tampering. We are all entangled always, as you said, but introjections are a kind of assault on another part of time, according to some people. It’s been controversial from the start. Also, the energy requirements to actually move a device in the antichronos dimension are prohibitive.” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“I might. I had quite a tutorial last time I was up there.”
“Well, you know how Jupiter is a gas giant, and Saturn is another, also Uranus and Neptune and Hades. Five gas giants.”
“Yes?”
“Well, before the analepses that sent back the devices, there were seven gas giants. Cronus and Nyx were farther out—so far out that their gravitational effect on the other planets was not crucial to the inner orbits. People argued against destroying them, but the interventionists did it anyway. They needed the power. Ganymede was part of that too. Black holes were created that sucked gas in, and the collapse energy was used to push everything in a small field antichronologically After a device was back here, it was possible to shift consciousness back and forth with hardly any energy expended. Its more a case of just stepping into the complementary field.”
“And how many teletrasportas were sent back?”
“Something like six or seven.”
“And so you came back with this one, to be a Gypsy.”
“Yes.” Cartophilus heaved a big drunken sigh. “I thought I could do some good. I was an idiot.”
“Don’t you ever want to go back?” Galileo asked. “Couldn’t you go back?”
“I don’t know. Even Ganymede has gone back for good, have you noticed? He’s done what he wanted to do here. Or decided the situation at home is so important he needs to be there. Everyone else was already gone. It’s hard to stay here.” He stopped speaking for a while, took another slug. “I don’t know,” he muttered finally. “Cartophilus can always leave if he wants to.”
“Cartophilus? You speak of someone else?”
The ancient one gestured weakly. “Cartophilus is just a … performance. No one is really there. One tries not to be there. Only four dimensions out of ten—it’s not so much.”
Galileo, startled, looked at him closely. “But what sadness this sounds like! What guilt!”
“Yes. A crime.”
“Well,” Galileo said. “Still, it must be in the past. Now is now.”
“But the crime goes on. All I can do now is … deal with it.”
Galileo’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know what happens to me? Are you trying to make it happen? Have you already made it happen?”
The old man raised his hand like a beggar warding off a blow. “I’m not trying anything, maestro. Truly. I’m just here. I don’t know what I should do. Do you?”
“No.”
“Does anybody?”
All Galileo’s friends, and the Linceans especially, wanted him to reply to the attacks that had been made on him in the work on the comets published under the name Sarsi, which everyone told him was a pseudonym for the Jesuit Orazio Grassi. Galileo had avoided writing this response for a long time, feeling there was nothing to be gained by it, and much to be lost. Even now he was unwilling to venture it, and complaining about the situation. But with Paul V gone, and Bellarmino also gone, Galileo’s friends in Rome were convinced that a new opportunity lay before them. And Galileo was their Achilles in the ongoing war with the Jesuits.
Mostly Galileo ignored these pleas for action, but a letter from Virginio Cesarini, a young aristocrat he had met at the Academy of Lynxes the last time he was in Rome, caused him to laugh, then groan. Knowing you has marvelously inflamed in me a desire to know something. This was the laugh. What happened to me in listening to you was what happens to men bitten by little animals, who do not yet feel the pain in the act of being stung, and only after the puncture become aware of the damage received. This was the groan. “Now I’m a wasp,” Galileo groused. “I’m the mosquito of philosophy.”
I saw after your discourse that I have a somewhat philosophical mind.
The strange thing was, he did. Typically people were quite wrong when they felt they were philosophical, as one of the chief features of incompetence was an inability to see it in oneself. But Cesarini turned out to be quite a brilliant youth, sickly but serious, melancholy but intelligent. And so, if he too was writing to ask Galileo to write about the comets, adding his aristocratic position and wealth to the influence of Cesi, Galileo’s best advocate in Rome …
“God damn it.”
This was in the workshop. Mazzoleni regarded him with his cracked grin. He had heard all about it, a thousand times or more. “Why not just do it, boss?”
Galileo heaved a sigh. “I’m under a prohibition, Mazzo. Besides, I’m sick of it. All these questions from the nobility. They never stop, but to them it’s just a game. It’s banquet entertainment, you understand? Why do
things float or sink? What are tides? What are sunspots? How should I know? These are impossible questions. And when you try to answer them, you can’t help but run afoul of fucking Aristotle, and thus the Jesuits and the rest of the dogs. And yet really we don’t know enough to say one way or the other. You know what it’s like—we can barely figure out how fast a ball rolls down a table! So answering these silly people’s questions just gets me in trouble.”
“But you have to do it.”
“Yes.” Galileo gave him a sharp look. “It’s my job, you mean, as court philosopher.”
“Yes. Isn’t that right?”
“I suppose it is.”
“You thought when you stopped teaching in Padua, you would be able to do anything you wanted.”
“I suppose so.”
“No one gets that, maestro.”
Another sharp look. “You impertinent old fool. I’ll send you back to the Arsenale.”
“I wish.”
“Go away or I’ll beat you. In fact, go get me Guiducci and Ar-righetti. I’ll beat them.”
These two young men, private students he had taken on as a favor to Grand Duchess Christina, joined him in the workshop where his crew had made the celatones. He showed the two youths his old folios, filled with the notes and theorems from all his work on motion in Padua. “I want you to make fair copies of these,” he told them. “We worked fast back then, and we didn’t have much paper. See, there are often several propositions per page, and on both sides. What I want you to do is move each proposition or set of calculations onto a single sheet, using one side only. If you have any questions as to what’s what, ask me. When you’re done then maybe we can make some progress on all this.”
At the same time, however, despite his fears and premonitions, his near certainty that it was a bad idea, he watched himself begin to write a treatise on the controversy concerning the comets.
Now the truth was, as he would explain in conversation when friends visited Bellosguardo, he really had been sick, and had only observed the comets when they were visible once or twice, out of curiosity. So he did not know what they were, and probably would not have known even if he had observed them more. He could only offer suppositions based on what he had heard. So on the one hand as he wrote he questioned the whole basis of the phenomenon, and wondered if a comet was merely sunlight on a disturbance in the upper atmosphere, like a night rainbow. And then also he suggested, with his usual edge, that whatever it was, it certainly did not fit any of Aristotle’s celestial categories. Along the way he could make fun of “Sarsi’s” lame logic, for Grassi had made some real howlers attempting to explain what he had no grounds for understanding. And so, as Galileo sat on his high chair before his desk, writing in the shade on the terrace in the mornings, he would add observations and arguments that made for a defense of his method of observation and experiment, of mathematical explanations. Of avoiding the why of things, and concentrating first on the what and the how. Mornings spent writing about these matters were a good distraction from everything else, and the pages piled one on the next. Sometimes it was nice to just be following yourself through the motions of the day. It certainly made writing easier.
In Sarsi I seem to discern the firm belief that in philosophizing one must support oneself upon the opinion of some famous author, as if our minds remain sterile and barren unless wedded to the reasoning of some other person. Possibly he thinks that philosophy is a book of fiction by some writer, like The Iliad or Orlando Furioso—productions in which the least important thing is whether what is written there is true. Well, Sarsi, that is not how matters stand. Philosophy is written in this grand book, the universe, which stands continually open to our gaze. But it cannot be understood unless one first learns to comprehend the language and recognize the letters in which it is composed. It is written in the language of mathematics, and its characters are triangles, circles, and other geometric figures, without which it is completely impossible to understand a single word of it. Without these, one wanders in a dark labyrinth.
While with these concepts, on the other hand—Galileo thought but did not write, looking at his words and feeling the bulk of futurity in him—with these concepts, the universe is blasted by a light, as if a great flash has exploded in your eyes. Everything is clear, all too clear, to the point of transparency, and one walks as if in a world of glass—seeing too far, running into things not quite noticed, the present moment just one abstraction among a host of others. Hera was right; no one should know more than his moment can hold. The future inside you pushes for its release, and the pain of living with that canker is like no other pain.
There was no recourse but to try to forget. He became expert at forgetting. As part of the work of that forgetting, he wrote. To write was to live in the moment, and say what one could there, put it down and forget it, letting the rest fall away.
Once again he told the story of how he had first learned of the telescope.
In Venice, where I happened to be at the time, news arrived that a Fleming had presented to Count Maurice a glass by means of which distant objects might be seen as distinctly as if they were nearby. That was all.
Well, not exactly; not at all, in fact. But he felt defensive about it. Someday people would know. But there was nothing for it, so he returned to the demolishing of the malevolent “Sarsi.”
There is no doubt whatsoever that by introducing irregular lines Sarsi may save not only the appearance being discussed, but any other. Lines are called regular when, having a fixed and definite description, they can be defined and can have their properties listed and demonstrated. Thus the spiral, or the ellipse. Irregular lines then are those which have no determinacy whatever, but are indefinite and casual and hence undefinable. No property of such lines can be demonstrated, and in a word, nothing can be known about them. Hence to say, “Such events take place thanks to an irregular path” is the same as to say, “I do not know why they occur.” The introduction of such supposed explanations is in no way superior to the “sympathy,” “antipathy,” “occult properties,” “influences,” and other terms employed by some philosophers as a cloak for the correct reply, which would be: “I don’t know.” That reply is as much more tolerable than the others, as candid honesty is more beautiful than deceitful duplicity.
But long experience has taught me this about the status of mankind with regard to matters requiring thought: The less people know and understand about them, the more positively they attempt to argue concerning them; while on the other hand, to know and understand a multitude of things renders men cautious in passing judgment upon anything new.
While he was at work on this new treatise, Pope Gregory died, as expected. Galileo was not unlike many others in feeling this was foreordained and unsurprising, as if it had already happened. And over a long malarial summer, the convocation of cardinals would be held to decide on the new pope.
But this time, they couldn’t do it. They appeared to be truly deadlocked. Weeks passed, the maneuvering between the great families was intense but stalemated, and rumors in Rome and all over Italy flew like clouds of flies. It went on so long that six of the eldest cardinals died of exhaustion. Only late in August did the white puff of smoke emerge from the chimney in the Vatican.
The announcement was brought up to Bellosguardo in person by the Medici’s secretary Curzio Picchena, emerging from his coach onto the terrace resplendent in his best finery, his arms outspread, a big smile lighting his face.
“Barberini!” he exclaimed. “Maffeo Barberini!”
For once Galileo Galilei was speechless. His jaw dropped, his hand clapped over his open mouth. He glanced wild-eyed at Cartophilus, then threw his arms wide and howled. He hugged La Piera, who had come out with the other servants to see what was going on, and then he called the whole household to join the impromptu celebration. He fell to his knees, crossed himself, looked at the sky, dashed tears from his eyes.
Finally he rose and took Picchena by both hands.
/> “Barberini? Are you sure? Can it be true? Gracious Grandissimo Cardinal Maffeo Barberini?”
“The very same.”
It was astonishing. The new pope—that very cardinal who had written a poem in honor of Galileo’s astronomical discoveries of 1612; who had argued on Galileo’s side in the debate with Colombe over floating bodies; who had conspicuously stayed away from the proceedings of 1615 that had put Copernicus on the Index; above all, who had written Galileo a letter of regret when Galileo had been too sick to attend a leave-taking breakfast, signing it “Your Brother.” Urbane, worldly, intellectual, literary, liberal, handsome, young—he was only fifty-three, too young for a pope really, as Rome relied on a frequent turnover of popes—which was one reason no one had expected this outcome—but still, there it was. Pope Urban VIII, he had named himself.
Weak with amazement, with enormous, dizzying relief, Galileo called for wine. “Break open a new cask!” Geppo brought him a chair to sit on. “We have to celebrate!” But he was almost too weak to do so.
That night he woke Cartophilus and dragged him out to the telescope.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “This is new. This didn’t happen before!”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—everything that has been happening this year, I’ve felt it as if it had already happened. It’s been hell. But this, Barberini becoming pope—it’s new! I had no premonition.”
“That’s strange,” Cartophilus said, thinking it over.
“What does it mean?”
Cartophilus shrugged. He met Galileo’s gaze. “I don’t know, maestro. I’m here with you, remember?”
“But did you not know what happened, before you came back as a Gypsy? Don’t you remember this or not remember this?”
“I don’t remember if I remember right or not, anymore. It’s been too long.”
Galileo growled, and raised his hand to cuff the man. “You lie.”
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