The Pillars of Eternity

6

The matter of the meeting was so secret that all but three of those present would be subjected to memory elision before leaving the building. The privileged three had ordered the meeting. Two were econospheric councillors. The third, a man with steady blue eyes and an impassive gaze, was the heavily adplanted Director of the Department of Scientific Affairs. All three were members of the Cabal, the inner and semi-secret society by means of which the econospheric government buffered and protected its business.

Seated triumvirate fashion on the traditional raised dais, they loomed like judges over the dozen or more advisers squatting on cushions arranged in a horseshoe on the floor. These, too, were nearly all government employees – scientists, philosophers, policemen. The exception was a quiet individual who had been brought all the way from the famed colonnader planet of Aurelius. To him the trio paid a more discernible, if grudging, respect.

Not until they had settled themselves were the advisers informed that they were to discuss infringements of Article 70898/1/5: Regulations Concerning the Measurement of Time. It was in these regulations, so as not to draw undue attention to it, that the prohibition on time research was buried. The first stage of the meeting, officially called ‘Presentation of the Problem,’ was nearly over. The gathering was watching a recording of a police interrogation, and on the holocast a lean-faced man, still younger rather than middle-aged, swayed drunkenly in the straps of the chair that held him. His mind was being played back with no less trouble than a voice tape.

Gare Romrey was that man, recovered from time-stop, charged with possession of prohibited artifacts, all legal rights waived in the interests of state security. ‘The man’s crazy,’ he was mumbling. ‘The craziest alec I ever came across. By the cards, I was glad to get away from him….’

The picture faded as Romrey slumped. The whole story had been drained from him.

Into the silence that followed, Cere Chai Hebron, the Scientific Director, spoke. ‘From the information obtained from this man, from the other criminal Radalce Obsoc whose confession you have also seen, and from the robots who accompanied the latter, a probability analysis has been made of the period the fugitive Joachim Boaz spent upon the wandering planet. It is estimated with a weighted probability of around sixty-eight percent that the fugitive gained some information concerning time control that could not be perceived by his companion Romrey – remember Romrey’s puzzlement that Boaz decided to leave the alien complex so abruptly, at a point where it might seem the search was most in prospect of greater success. Added to this, possession of the time-refractive gems itself opens up the likelihood of illegal experimentation, with a weighted probability of nearly ninety-seven percent that prohibited data will be obtained – data, incidentally, not available to the authorities themselves, since previously all circulating time-gems had been confiscated and placed under interdict.

‘It might be asked why an expedition of foray is not sent to Meirjain to ascertain the validity of these conclusions. The fact is that although less than a standard year has passed since the events in question took place, the planet has already disappeared back into the Brilliancy Cluster and has proved unlocatable.

‘I now ask Citizen Orskov, Dean of Moss Corporated Laboratories, to speak.’

The designated academic, grey-haired, with a mild manner and a slight nervous affliction that caused him to jerk his head a little as he spoke, did not rise. ‘A few months ago we were asked by the Department to make a fresh examination of the Mirror Theorem,’ he began. ‘For the benefit of those who may not be acquainted with it, the Mirror Theorem describes the motions of point masses through eternity. Put briefly, it states that if an intersection is made at any arbitrary moment in time, the world-lines produced by the future configurations of the totality of point masses in the universe will be an identical reflection of the past configurations. In less technical language, the theorem proves, given a sufficiently long span of time, the periodic recurrence of the universe.

‘Philosophically speaking there has always been a missing piece in this theorem. It deals with a closed system. Its prediction that the future will exactly repeat the past arises from the mechanical determinism inherent in the movements of masses. For a loose illustration of this principle, we can refer to its earliest historical exposition by the prescientific philosopher Lucretius. Working purely with inductive, observational methods, Lucretius produced an account of nature that in many respects was remarkably correct. He pictured the universe as consisting of particles or atoms falling through an endless void. As they fell the particles collided, tangled with and parted from one another, and the impermanent configurations that resulted comprised the worlds and their contents. Since the particles must eternally continue to fall, and since the number of possible configurations is limited, it follows that the same configurations, that is, the same worlds, beings and events, must recur again and again.

‘For Lucretius’s perpetual falling we can substitute its modern equivalent, the law of conservation of mass and energy which, in general terms, represents the endless momentum inherent in matter. What the Mirror Theorem lacks, however, is any term showing that the theorem is rigorous. The theorem is valid not of necessity, but simply because what it describes is a closed system. It has yet to be shown what would happen were an extraneous factor, by some unimaginable means, to be inserted into this system. What could be extraneous to the universe, you may ask? That is why this feature of the Mirror Theorem has never been taken seriously, and why to all intents and purposes the theorem has been regarded as rigorous.

‘Nevertheless, it is thought that the configurations exhibited by our universe in its lifetime do not exhaust all possible configurations, and therefore alternative universes are at least conceivable.’

With that, the academic sat silent, nodding to himself and smiling.

‘Well, and what did your examination yield?’ Director Hebron prodded impatiently.

‘Hm? Oh yes. So sorry. No change. We could not prove the rigorousness of the Mirror Theorem. The mutability of time remains theoretically possible.’

One of the econospheric councillors nodded gravely, and took up the theme. ‘Extraordinary though it may seem, this is the possibility we must seriously consider. Ever since the non-rigorousness of the Mirror Theorem was discovered, we have had to take account of the fact that there might, however low the order of probability, be a means whereby the unfolding progression of events could be turned aside. We know what this means, do we not? It means that the magnificent stability which the econosphere enjoys, and which is guaranteed eternal by cosmic recurrence, could be nullified. The next manifestation of the world could be one in which the econosphere does not exist, in which none of us exists. The time regulations are there to guard against this remote possibility.’

What grotesque grandiosity, thought Madrigo as he listened to the discussion. It was a case of political ideology arrogating cosmic proportions to itself – a peculiarly gross overestimate of the importance of mankind.

The econosphere, slowly but steadily falling into decay, already owing its grandeur to the past rather than to present vigor, still retained its traditional creed of permanence and stability. From colonnader philosophy it had borrowed the idea of the eternal city and applied it, not to the sidereal realm of the galaxies, which was its proper meaning, but to its own existence. Faced with the knowledge that it must eventually collapse and disappear, it found its salvation in the greater and absolute permanence of cosmic recurrence. The econosphere would never perish, because ultimately nothing ever did.

Now its leaders had conceived a paranoiac suspicion that the course of nature, even on this the vastest of scales, could be interfered with. It reminded Madrigo of psychopathological religions of the past, which had gone so far as to put individuals on trial for ‘sabotage against God’.

A question was being raised by the scientists on the floor. Nothing, they pointed out, lay outside nature. How, therefore, could the human mind find the fresh impulse that could lead it to alter time, even if it were technically feasible? Did that not contradict the principle of predetermination, which was supposed to govern human actions as well as everything else?

‘The determinacy of nature has never been absolutely established, either,’ the Dean of Moss Corporated Laboratories responded diffidently. ‘If temporal mutability is possible, then it shows that nature, to some degree, perhaps hidden until now, is potentially indeterminate.’

‘Nevertheless, we would be faced with the incredible fact that this individual, this shipkeeper Joachim Boaz, must already have come in possession of some mental quality that is uniquely new, if he is to have any prospect of success. The indeterminacy of nature must already have shown itself.’

This remark came, in a more forthright manner, from a man wearing the collar of the Research Tabulation Branch of the Department of Scientific Affairs. He apparently had the ear of Director Hebron, for the latter nodded approvingly. ‘As you say, there is something interesting here. We know, of course, how the fugitive came to conceive his ambition. It arose from his very unusual experience, an accidental combination of silicon bone functions and the pain-feeling function of the sensorium. It must be assumed that it is this that has introduced an indeterminate note into nature, if indeed any exists….’ Abruptly he turned to a burly, big-bellied figure in grey uniform who previously had not spoken. ‘How much pain can one experience? Is it known?’

The person he addressed was Chief of the Rectification Branch of the Department of Police, the arm of the police force charged more than any other with the impossible task of enforcing the econosphere’s political laws. For a moment the police chief looked embarrassed; then he recovered himself and his lip curled in a half-smile of ill-veiled relish.

‘This question has received some investigation, of course,’ he said in an impressively heavy baritone. ‘The problem has always been to maintain the subject’s consciousness while continuing to increment pain levels. Consequently the absolute limit of pain has never been reached by us, surprising though that might seem. The silicon bone gimmick sounds like a good one. I’ll see that it’s followed up.’

‘Please do not do so,’ Hebron said politely but firmly. ‘At least not for the present, until we can clear this whole matter up. We do not want any more Joachim Boazes wandering around.’

Throughout the conference Hebron had been glancing at Madrigo, as if expecting him to take part in the exchanges. Madrigo rose to his feet now, in defiance of established protocol which required those on the floor to remain seated.

‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said, gathering in the folds of his cyclas. ‘I know more than any of you about this man you are discussing. I was his mentor in Aurelius.’

He paused, while his gaze traveled coolly over the gathering. ‘Firstly, let me say that any properly trained colonnader like myself will regard your talk regarding alterations to nature as simple foolishness. It is what one can expect from pure scientists. They become hypnotized by their ability to calculate, they allow themselves to become lost in the byways of a logical maze, and so they lose their sense of proportion. They forget, too, that all their science is founded on deeper philosophical ideas. And from the standpoint of genuine philosophy, I can tell you categorically that there can be no alteration to the predestination of time. Whatever happens, the next universe will be an exact reproduction of this one.

‘As for Joachim Boaz, I am sorry to say that his truly harrowing experience has broken his mind, so that he is now even beyond my help. I am certain that he is quite insane, with no vestige of ataraxy. To conjoin in his delusions is undignified in a department of government.’

An initial silence followed Madrigo’s words. Then a babble of argument began. One of the econospheric ministers raised his hand, at which the noise stopped.

He conferred briefly with his two colleagues, in tones which the others could not decipher. Then he turned back to face the gathering.

‘The sense of the meeting is that a situation exists where a derangement of the structure of time could be possible,’ he said coldly, ‘and that this constitutes a threat to the econosphere. We order that the individual Joachim Boaz be found and destroyed. The colonnader’ – he cast an unfriendly glance at Madrigo – ‘is to be held until that is done, for any further assistance he can render.’

Hearing of his pending detention, Madrigo understood that its main purpose was to prevent him from getting a warning to Boaz – even though, on the face of it, memory elision would render it unnecessary. Econosphere officials had a sometimes exaggerated respect for the mental abilities of colonnaders.

He noted, as the meeting broke up, that the police chief’s eyes gleamed with the prospect of the hunt. Even though he, too, after the next few minutes, would not know why the man he hunted was a danger to society.