His
hands, dark as coffee, were marked with the stiff ridges of his veins.
Still, his posture was erect, and his eyes were like the eyes of an ancient
bird, electric and clear.
Ahead, a crowd gathered to watch the passing troop. Horses were ridden
only by those who could afford them, and few were that wealthy. The slizzard
was the common mount-- a scaled creature with snakelike neck, many teeth,
dubious lineage, brief life span and a vicious temperament; the horse, for
some reason, having grown barren in recent generations.
The prince rode on, into the capital of dawn, the watchers watching.
Passing, they turned off the avenue of the sun and headed up a narrower
thoroughfare. They moved by the low buildings of commerce, the great shops
of the great merchants, the banks, the Temples, the inns, the brothels. They
passed on, until at the fringe of the business district they came upon the
princely hostel of Hawkana, the Most Perfect Host. They drew rein at the
gate, for Hawkana himself stood outside the walls, simply dressed,
fashionably corpulent and smiling, waiting to personally conduct the white
mare within.
"Welcome, Lord Siddhartha!" he called in a loud voice, so that all
within earshot might know the identity of his guest. "Welcome to this
well-nightingaled vicinity, and to the perfumed gardens and marble halls of
this humble establishment! To your riders welcome also, who have ridden a
goodly ride with you and no doubt seek subtle refreshment and dignified ease
as well as yourself. Within, you will find all things to your liking, I
trust, as you have upon the many occasions in the past when you have tarried
within these halls in the company of other princely guests and noble
visitors, too numerous to mention, such as -- "
"And a good afternoon to you also, Hawkana!" cried the prince, for the
day was hot and the innkeeper's speeches, like rivers, always threatened to
flow on forever. "Let us enter quickly within your walls, where, among their
other virtues too numerous to mention, it is also cool."
Hawkana nodded briskly, and taking the mare by the bridle led her
through the gateway and into his courtyard; there, he held the stirrup while
the prince dismounted, then gave the horses into the keeping of his stable
hands and dispatched a small boy through the gateway to clean the street
where they had waited.
Within the hostel, the men were bathed, standing in the marble bath
hall while servants poured water over their shoulders. Then did they annoint
themselves after the custom of the warrior caste, put on fresh garments and
passed into the hall of dining.
The meal lasted the entire afternoon, until the warriors lost count of
the courses. At the right hand of the prince, who sat at the head of the
long, low, serving board, three dancers wove their way through an intricate
pattern, finger cymbals clicking, faces bearing the proper expressions for
the proper moments of the dance, as four veiled musicians played the
traditional music of the hours. The table was covered with a richly woven
tapestry of blue, brown, yellow, red and green, wherein was worked a series
of hunting and battle scenes: riders mounted on slizzard and horse met with
lance and bow the charges of feather-panda, fire-rooster and jewel-podded
command plant; green apes wrestled in the tops of trees; the Garuda Bird
clutched a sky demon in its talons, assailing it with beak and pinions; from
the depths of the sea crawled an army of horned fish, clutching spikes of
pink coral in their jointed fins, facing a row of kirtled and helmeted men
who bore lances and torches to oppose their way upon the land.
The prince ate but sparingly. He toyed with his food, listened to the
music, laughed occasionally at the jesting of one of his men. He sipped a
sherbet, his rings clicking against the sides of the glass.
Hawkana appeared beside him. "Goes all well with you, Lord?" he
inquired.
"Yes, good Hawkana, all is well," he replied.
"You do not eat as do your men. Does the meal displease you?"
"It is not the food, which is excellent, nor its preparation, which is
faultless, worthy Hawkana. Rather, it is my appetite, which has not been
high of late."
"Ah!" said Hawkana, knowingly. "I have the thing, the very thing! Only
one such as yourself may truly appreciate it. Long has it rested upon the
special shelf of my cellar. The god Krishna had somehow preserved it against
the ages. He gave it to me many years ago because the accommodations here
did not displease him. I shall fetch it for you."
He bowed then, and backed from the hall.
When he returned he bore a bottle. Before he saw the paper upon its
side, the prince recognized the shape of that bottle.
"Burgundy!" he exclaimed.
"Just so," said Hawkana. "Brought from vanished Uratha, long ago."
He sniffed at it and smiled. Then he poured a small quantity into a
pear-shaped goblet and set it before his guest.
The prince raised it and inhaled of its bouquet. He took a slow sip. He
closed his eyes.
There was a silence in the room, in respect of his pleasure.
Then he lowered the glass, and Hawkana poured into it once again the
product of the pinot noir grape, which could not be cultivated in this land.
The prince did not touch the glass. Instead, he turned to Hawkana,
saying, "Who is the oldest musician in this house?"
"Mankara, here," said his host, gesturing toward the white-haired man
who took his rest at the serving table in the comer.
"Old not in body, but in years," said the prince.
"Oh, that would be Dele," said Hawkana, "if he is to be counted as a
musician at all. He says that once he was such a one."
"Dele?"
"The boy who keeps the stables."
"Ah, I see. . .. Send for him." Hawkana clapped his hands and ordered
the servant who appeared to go into the stables, make the horse-boy
presentable and fetch him with dispatch into the presence of the diners.
"Pray, do not bother making him presentable, but simply bring him
here," said the prince.
He leaned back and waited then, his eyes closed.
When the horse-boy stood before him, he asked:
"Tell me. Dele, what music do you play?"
"That which no longer finds favor in the hearing of Brahmins," said the
boy.
"What was your instrument?"
"Piano," said Dele.
"Can you play upon any of these?" He gestured at those instruments that
stood, unused now, upon the small platform beside the wall.
The boy cocked his head at them. "I suppose I could manage on the
flute, if I had to."
"Do you know any waltzes?"
"Yes."
"Will you play me 'The Blue Danube'?"
The boy's sullen expression vanished, to be replaced by one of
uneasiness. He cast a quick glance back at Hawkana, who nodded.
"Siddhartha is a prince among men, being of the First," stated the
host.
"'The Blue Danube,' on one of these flutes?"
"If you please."
The boy shrugged, "I'll try," he said. "It's been an awfully long time.
. .. Bear with me."
He crossed to where the instruments lay and muttered something to the
owner of the flute he selected. The man nodded his head. Then he raised it
to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. He paused, repeated the trial,
then turned about.
He raised it once more and began the quivering movement of the waltz.
As he played, the prince sipped his wine.
When he paused for breath, the prince motioned him to continue. He
played tune after forbidden tune, and the professional musicians put
professional expressions of scorn upon their faces; but beneath their table
several feet were tapping in slow time with the music.
Finally, the prince had finished his wine. Evening was near to the city
of Mahartha. He tossed the boy a purse of coins and did not look into his
tears as he departed from the hall. He rose then and stretched, smothering a
yawn with the back of his hand.
"I retire to my chambers," he said to his men. "Do not gamble away your
inheritances in my absence."
They laughed then and bade him good night, calling for strong drink and
salted biscuits. He heard the rattle of dice as he departed.
The prince retired early so that he might arise before daybreak. He
instructed a servant to remain outside his door all the following day and to
refuse admission to any who sought it, saying that he was indisposed.
Before the first flowers had opened to the first insects of morning, he
had gone from the hostel, only an ancient green parrot witnessing his
departure. Not in silks sewn with pearls did he go, but in tatters, as was
his custom on these occasions. Not preceded by conch and drum did he move,
but by silence, as he passed along the dim streets of the city. These
streets were deserted, save for an occasional doctor or prostitute returning
from a late call. A stray dog followed him as he passed through the business
district, heading in the direction of the harbor.
He seated himself upon a crate at the foot of a pier. The dawn came to
lift the darkness from the world; and he watched the ships stirring with the
tide, empty of sail, webbed with cables, prows carved with monster or
maiden. His every visit to Mahartha brought him again to the harbor for a
little while.
Morning's pink parasol opened above the tangled hair of the clouds, and
cool breezes crossed the docks. Scavenger birds uttered hoarse cries as they
darted about loop-windowed towers, then swooped across the waters of the
bay.
He watched a ship put out to sea, tentlike vanes of canvas growing to
high peaks and swelling in the salt air. Aboard other ships, secure in their
anchorage, there was movement now, as crews made ready to load or unload
cargoes of incense, coral, oil and all kinds of fabrics, as well as metals,
cattle, hardwoods and spices. He smelled the smells of commerce and listened
to the cursing of the sailors, both of which he admired: the former, as it
reeked of wealth, and the latter because it combined his two other chief
preoccupations, these being theology and anatomy.
After a time, he spoke with a foreign sea captain who had overseen the
unloading of sacks of grain, and now took his rest in the shade of the
crates.
"Good morning," he said. "May your passages be free of storm and
shipwreck, and the gods grant you safe harbor and a good market for your
cargoes."
The other nodded, seated himself upon a crate and proceeded to fill a
small clay pipe.
"Thank you, old one," he said. "Though I do pray to the gods of the
Temples of my own choosing, I accept the blessings of any and all. One can
always use blessings, especially a seaman."
"Had you a difficult voyage?"
"Less difficult than it might have been," said the sea captain. "That
smoldering sea mountain, the Cannon of Nirriti, discharges its bolts against
heaven once again."
"Ah, you sailed from the southwest!"
"Yes. Chatisthan, from Ispar-by-the-Sea. The winds are good in this
season of the year, but for this reason they also carried the ash of the
Cannon much farther than any would think. For six days this black snow fell
upon us, and the odors of the underworld pursued us, fouling food and water,
making the eyes to weep and the throat to burn. We offered much thanksgiving
when we finally outran it. See how the hull is smeared? You should have seen
the sails -- black as the hair of Ratri!"
The prince leaned forward to better regard the vessel. "But the waters
were not especially troubled?" he asked.
The sailor shook his head. "We hailed a cruiser near the Isle of Salt,
and we learned of it that we had missed by six days the worst dischargings
of the Cannon. At that time, it burnt the clouds and raised great waves,
sinking two ships the cruiser did know of, and possibly a third." The sailor
leaned back, stoking his pipe. "So, as I say, a seaman can always use
blessings."
"I seek a man of the sea," said the prince. "A captain. His name is Jan
Olvegg, or perhaps he is now known as Olvagga. Do you know him?"
"I knew him," said the other, "but it has been long since he sailed."
"Oh? What has become of him?"
The sailor turned his head to better study him. "Who are you to ask?"
he finally inquired.
"My name is Sam. Jan is a very old friend of mine."
"How old is 'very old'?"
"Many, many years ago, in another place, I knew him when he was captain
of a ship which did not sail these oceans."
The sea captain leaned forward suddenly and picked up a piece of wood,
which he hurled at the dog who had rounded a piling at the other side of the
pier. It yelped once and dashed off toward the shelter of a warehouse. It
was the same dog who had followed the prince from the hostel of Hawkana.
"Beware the hounds of hell," said the captain. "There are dogs and
there are dogs-- and there are dogs. Three different kinds, and in this port
drive them all from your presence." Then he appraised the other once again.
"Your hands," he said, gesturing with his pipe, "have recently worn many
rings. Their impressions yet remain."
Sam glanced at his hands and smiled. "Your eyes miss nothing, sailor,"
he replied. "So I admit to the obvious. I have recently worn rings."
"So, like the dogs, you are not what you appear to be-- and you come
asking after Olvagga, by his most ancient name. Your name, you say, is Sam.
Are you, perchance, one of the First?"
Sam did not reply immediately, but studied the other as though waiting
for him to say more.
Perhaps realizing this, the captain continued: "Olvagga, I know, was
numbered among the First, though he never spoke of it. Whether you are
yourself among the First, or are one of the Masters, you are aware of this.
So I do not betray him by so speaking. I do wish to know whether I speak to
a friend or an enemy, however."
Sam frowned. "Jan was never known for the making of enemies," he said.
"You speak as if he has them now, among those whom you call the Masters."
The seaman continued to stare at him. "You are not a Master," he
finally said, "and you come from afar."
"You are correct," said Sam, "but tell me how you know these things."
"First," said the other, "you are an old man. A Master, too, could have
upon him an old body, but he would not-- any more than he would remain a dog
for very long. His fear of dying the real death, suddenly, in the manner of
the old, would be too great. So he would not remain so long as to leave the
marks of rings deeply imprinted upon the fingers. The wealthy are never
despoiled of their bodies. If they are refused rebirth, they live out the
full span of their days. The Masters would fear a rising up in arms among
the followers of such a one, were he to meet with other than a natural
passing. So a body such as yours could not be obtained in this manner. A
body from the life tanks would not have marked fingers either.
"Therefore," he concluded, "I take you to be a man of importance other
than a Master. If you knew Olvagga of old, then you are also one of the
Firstlings, such as he. Because of the sort of information which you seek, I
take you to be one from afar. Were you a man of Mahartha you would know of
the Masters, and knowing of the Masters you would know why Olvagga cannot
sail."
"Your knowledge of matters in Mahartha seems greater than my own -- oh,
newly arrived sailor."
"I, too, come from a distant place," acknowledged the captain, smiling
faintly, "but in the space of a dozen months I may visit twice as many
ports. I hear news-- news and gossip and tales from all over-- from more
than a double dozen ports. I hear of the intrigues of the palace and the
affairs of the Temple. I hear the secrets whispered at night to the golden
girls beneath the sugar-cane bow of Kama. I hear of the campaigns of the
Khshatriya and the dealings of the great merchants in the futures of grains
and spices, jewels and silk. I drink with the bards and the astrologers,
with the actors and the servants, the coachmen and the tailors. Sometimes,
perhaps, I may strike the port where freebooters have haven and learn there
the faring of those they hold to ransom. So do not think it strange that I,
who come from afar, may know more of Mahartha than you, who may dwell
perhaps a week's faring hence. Occasionally, I may even hear of the doings
of the gods."
"Then you can tell me of the Masters, and why they are to be numbered
as enemies?" asked Sam.
"I can tell you something of them," replied the captain, "since you
should not go unwarned. The body merchants are now the Masters of Karma.
Their individual names are now kept secret, after the manner of the gods, so
that they seem as impersonal as the Great Wheel, which they claim to
represent. They are no longer merely body merchants, but are allied with the
Temples. These, too, are changed, for your kinsmen of the First who are now
gods do commune with them from Heaven. If you are indeed of the First, Sam,
your way must lead you either to deification or extinction, when you face
these new Masters of Karma."
"How?" asked Sam.
"Details you must seek elsewhere," said the other. "I do not know the
processes whereby these things are achieved. Ask after Jannaveg the
sailmaker on the Street of the Weavers."
"This is how Jan is now known?"
The other nodded. "And beware the dogs," he said, "or, for that matter,
anything else which is alive and may harbor intelligence."
"What is your name, captain?" asked Sam.
"In this port, I have no name at all or a false one, and I see no
reason for lying to you. Good day, Sam."
"Good day, captain. Thank you for your words."
Sam rose and departed the harbor, heading back toward the business
district and the streets of the trades.
The sun was a red discus in the heavens, rising to meet the Bridge of
the Gods. The prince walked through the awakened city, threading his way
among the stalls displaying the skills of the workmen in the small crafts.
Hawkers of unguents and powders, perfumes and oils, moved about him.
Florists waved their garlands and corsages at the passer-by; and the
vintners said nothing, sitting with their wineskins on rows of shaded
benches, waiting for their customers to come to them as they always did. The
morning smelled of cooking food, musk, flesh, excrement, oils and incense
all churned up together and turned loose to wander like an invisible cloud.
Dressed as a beggar himself, it did not seem out of place for him to
stop and speak to the hunchback with the begging bowl.
"Greetings, brother," he stated. "I am far from my quarter on an
errand. Can you direct me to the Street of the Weavers?"
The hunchback nodded and shook his bowl suggestively.
He withdrew a small coin from the pouch concealed beneath his tattered
garments. He dropped it into the hunchback's bowl and it quickly vanished.
"That way." The man gestured with his head. "The third street you come
upon, turn there to the left. Then follow it past two streets more, and you
will be at the Circle of the Fountain before the Temple of Varuna. Coming
into that Circle, the Street of the Weavers is marked by the Sign of the
Awl."
He nodded to the hunchback, patted his hump and continued on his way.
When he reached the Circle of the Fountain, the prince halted. Several
dozen people stood in a shifting line before the Temple of Varuna, most
stern and august of all the deities. These people were not preparing to
enter the Temple, but rather were engaged in some occupation that required
waiting and taking turns. He heard the rattling of coins and he wandered
nearer.
It was a machine, gleaming and metallic, before which they moved.
A man inserted a coin into the mouth of a steel tiger. The machine
began to purr. He pressed buttons cast in the likenesses of animals and
demons. There came then a flashing of lights along the lengths of the Nagas,
the two holy serpents who twisted about the transparent face of the machine.
He edged closer.
The man drew down upon the lever that grew from the side of the machine
cast in the likeness of the tail of a fish.
A holy blue light filled the interior of the machine; the serpents
pulsed redly; and there, in the midst of the light and a soft music that had
begun to play, a prayer wheel swung into view and began spinning at a
furious pace.
The man wore a beatific expression. After several minutes, the machine
shut itself off. He inserted another coin and pulled the lever once more,
causing several of those nearer to the end of the line to grumble audibly,
remarking to the effect that that was his seventh coin, it was a warm day,
there were other people waiting to get some praying done and why did he not
go inside and render such a large donation directly to the priests? Someone
replied that the little man obviously had much atoning to do. There then
began some speculation as to the possible nature of his sins. This was
accompanied by considerable laughter.
Seeing that there were several beggars waiting their turn in line, the
prince moved to its end and stood there.
As the line advanced, he noted that, while some of those who passed
before the machine pushed its buttons, others merely inserted a flat metal
disc into the mouth of the second tiger on the opposite side of the chassis.
After the machine had ceased to function, the disc fell into a cup and was
retrieved by its owner. The prince decided to venture an inquiry.
He addressed the man who stood before him in line:
"Why is it," he asked, "that some men do have discs of their own?"
"It is because they have registered," said the other, without turning
his head.
"In the Temple?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
He waited half a minute, then inquired, "Those who are unregistered,
and wish to use it-- they push the buttons?"
"Yes," said the other, "spelling out their name, occupation, and
address."
"Supposing one be a visitor here, such as myself?"
"You should add the name of your city."
"Supposing one is unlettered, such as myself-- what then?"
The other turned to him. "Perhaps ''twere better," he said, "that you
make prayer in the old way, and give the donation directly into the hands of
the priests. Or else register and obtain a disc of your own."
"I see," said the prince. "Yes, you are right. I must think of this
more. Thank you."
He left the line and circled the fountain to where the Sign of the Awl
hung upon a pillar. He moved up the Street of the Weavers.
Three times did he ask after Janagga the sailmaker, the third time of a
short woman with powerful arms and a small mustache, who sat cross-legged,
plaiting a rug, in her stall beneath the low eave of what once might have
been a stable and still smelled as if it were.
She growled him directions, after raking him upward and down again with
oddly lovely brown-velvet eyes. He followed her directions, taking his way
up a zigzagging alley and down an outer stair, which ran along the wall of a
five-story building, ending at a door that opened upon a basement hallway.
It was damp and dark within.
He knocked upon the third door to his left, and after a time it opened.
The man stared at him. "Yes?"
"May I come in? It is a matter of some urgency . . ."
The man hesitated a moment, then nodded abruptly and stepped aside.
The prince moved past him and into his chamber. A great sheet of canvas
was spread out over the floor, before the stool upon which the man reseated
himself. He motioned the prince into the only other chair in the room.
He was short and big in the shoulders; his hair was pure white, and the
pupils of his eyes bore the smoky beginnings of cataract invasion. His hands
were brown and hard, the joints of his fingers knotted.
"Yes?" he repeated.
"Jan Olvegg," said the other.
"The old man's eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.
He weighed a pair of scissors in his hand.
"'It's a long way to Tipperary,' " said the prince.
The man stared, then smiled suddenly. "'If your heart's not here,'" he
said, placing the scissors on his workstand. "How long has it been, Sam?" he
asked.
"I've lost count of the years."
"Me too. But it must be forty -- forty-five?-- since I've seen you.
Much beer over the damn dam since then, I daresay?"
Sam nodded.
"I don't really know where to begin . . ." said the man.
"For a start, tell me-- why 'Janagga'?"
"Why not?" asked the other. "It has a certain earnest, working-class
sound about it. How about yourself? Still in the prince business?"
"I'm still me," said Sam, "and they still call me Siddhartha when they
come to call."
The other chuckled. "And 'Binder of the Demons,'" he recited. "Very
good. I take it, then, since your fortunes do not match your garb, that you
are casing the scene, as is your wont."
Sam nodded. "And I have come upon much which I do not understand."
"Aye," sighed Jan. "Aye. How shall I begin? How? I shall tell you of
myself, that's how. . . . I have accumulated too much bad karma to warrant a
current transfer."
"What?"
"Bad karma, that's what I said. The old religion is not only the
religion-- it is the revealed, enforced and frighteningly demonstrable
religion. But don't think that last part too loudly. About a dozen years ago
the Council authorized the use of psych-probes on those who were up for
renewal. This was right after the Accelerationist-Deicrat split, when the
Holy Coalition squeezed out the tech boys and kept right on squeezing. The
simplest solution was to outlive the problem. The Temple crowd then made a
deal with the body sellers, customers were brain-probed and Accelerationists
were refused renewal, or . . . well . . . simple as that. There aren't too
many Accelerationists now. But that was only the beginning. The god party
was quick to realize that therein lay the way of power. Having your brains
scanned has become a standard procedure, just prior to a transfer. The body
merchants are become the Masters of Karma, and a part of the Temple
structure. They read over your past life, weigh the karma, and determine
your life that is yet to come. It's a perfect way of maintaining the caste
system and ensuring Deicratic control. By the way, most of our old
acquaintances are in it up to their halos."
"God!" said Sam.
"Plural," Jan corrected. "They've always been considered gods, with
their Aspects and Attributes, but they've made it awfully official now. And
anyone who happens to be among the First had bloody well better be sure
whether he wants quick deification or the pyre when he walks into the Hall
of Karma these days.
"When's your appointment?" he finished.
"Tomorrow," said Sam, "in the afternoon. . . . Why are you still
walking around, if you don't have a halo or a handful of thunderbolts?"
"Because I do have a couple friends, both of whom suggested I continue
living-- quietly-- rather than face the probe. I took their sage advice to
heart and consequently am still around to mend sails and raise occasional
hell in the local bistros. Else"-- he raised a callused hand, snapped his
fingers-- "else, if not the real death, then perhaps a body shot full with
cancer, or the interesting life of a gelded water buffalo, or . . ."
"A dog?" asked Sam.
"Just so," Jan replied.
Jan filled the silence and two glasses with a splashing of alcohol.
"Thanks."
"Happy hellfire." He replaced the bottle on his workstand.
"On an empty stomach yet. . . . You make that yourself?"
"Yep. Got a still in the next room."
"Congratulations, I guess. If I had any bad karma, it should all be
dissolved by now."
"The definition of bad karma is anything our friends the gods don't
like."
"What made you think you had some?"
"I wanted to start passing out machines among our descendants here. Got
batted down at Council for it. Recanted, and hoped they'd forget. But
Accelerationism is so far out now that it'll never make it back in during my
lifetime. Pity, too. I'd like to lift sail again, head off toward another
horizon. Or lift ship. . ."
"The probe is actually sensitive enough to spot something as intangible
as an Accelerationist attitude?"
"The probe," said Jan, "is sensitive enough to tell what you had for
breakfast eleven years ago yesterday and where you cut yourself shaving that
morning, while humming the Andorran national anthem."
"They were experimental things when we left home," said Sam. "The two
we brought along were very basic brain-wave translators. When did the
breakthrough occur?"
"Hear me, country cousin," said Jan. "Do you remember a snot-nosed brat
of dubious parentage, third generation, named Yama? The kid who was always
souping up generators, until one day one blew and he was so badly burned
that he got his second body-- one over fifty years old-- when he was only
sixteen? The kid who loved weapons? The fellow who anesthetized one of
everything that moves out there and dissected it, taking such pleasure in
his studies that we called him deathgod?"
"Yes, I recall him. Is he still alive?"
"If you want to call it that. He now is deathgod-- not by nickname, but
by title. He perfected the probe about forty years ago, but the Deicrats
kept it under wraps until fairly recently. I hear he's dreamed up some other
little jewels, too, to serve the will of the gods . . . like a mechanical
cobra capable of registering encephalogram readings from a mile away, when
it rears and spreads its fan. It can pick one man out of a crowd, regardless
of the body he wears. There is no known antidote for its venom. Four
seconds, no more. . . . Or the fire wand, which is said to have scored the
surfaces of all three moons while Lord Agni stood upon the seashore and
waved it. And I understand that he is designing some sort of jet-propelled
juggernaut for Lord Shiva at this moment. . . things like that."
"Oh," said Sam.
"Will you pass the probe?" Jan asked.
"I'm afraid not," he replied. "Tell me, I saw a machine this morning
which I think may best be described as a pray-o-mat-- are they very common?"
"Yes," said Jan. "They appeared about two years ago-- dreamed up by
young Leonardo over a short glass of soma one night. Now that the karma idea
has caught on, the things are better than tax collectors. When mister
citizen presents himself at the clinic of the god of the church of his
choice on the eve of his sixtieth year, his prayer account is said to be
considered along with his sin account, in deciding the caste he will enter--
as well as the age, sex and health of the body he will receive. Nice. Neat."
"I will not pass the probe," said Sam, "even if I build up a mighty
prayer account. They'll snare me when it comes to sin."
"What sort of sin?"
"Sins I have yet to commit, but which are being written in my mind as I
consider them now."
"You plan to oppose the gods?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I do not yet know. I shall begin, however, by contacting them. Who is
their chief?"
"I can name you no one. Trimurti rules-- that is, Brahma, Vishnu and
Shiva. Which of these three be chiefest at any one time, I cannot say. Some
say Brahma-- "
"Who are they-- really?" asked Sam.
Jan shook his head. "I do not know. They all wear different bodies than
they did a generation ago. They all use god names."
Sam stood. "I will return later, or send for you."
"I hope so. . . . Another drink?"
Sam shook his head. "I go to become Siddhartha once more, to break my
fast at the hostel of Hawkana and announce there my intent to visit the
Temples. If our friends are now gods then they must commune with their
priests. Siddhartha goes to pray."
"Then put in no words for me," said Jan, as he poured out another
drink. "I do not know whether I would live through a divine visitation."
Sam smiled. "They are not omnipotent."
"I sincerely hope not," replied the other, "but I fear that day is not
far off."
"Good sailing, Jan."
"Skaal."
Prince Siddhartha stopped on the Street of the Smiths, on his way to
the Temple of Brahma. Half an hour later he emerged from a shop, accompanied
by Strake and three of his retainers. Smiling, as though he had received a
vision of what was to come, he passed through the center of Mahartha, coming
at last to the high, wide Temple of the Creator.
Ignoring the stares of those who stood before the pray-o-mat, he
mounted the long, shallow stairway, meeting at the Temple entrance with the
high priest, whom he had advised earlier of his coming.
Siddhartha and his men entered the Temple, disarming themselves and
paying preliminary obeisances toward its central chamber before addressing
the priest.
Strake and the others drew back a respectful distance as the prince
placed a heavy purse in the priest's hands and said, in a low voice:
"I'd like to speak with God."
The priest studied his face as he replied, "The Temple is open to all.
Lord Siddhartha, where one may commune with Heaven for so long as one
wishes."
"That is not exactly what I had in mind," said Siddhartha. "I was
thinking of something more personal than a sacrifice and a long litany."
"I do not quite follow you . . ."
"But you understand the weight of that purse, do you not? It contains
silver. Another which I bear is filled with gold-- payable upon delivery. I
want to use your telephone."
"Tele . . . ?"
"Communication system. If you were of the First, such as I, you would
understand my reference."
"I do not . . ."
"I assure you my call will not reflect adversely upon your wardenship
here. I am aware of these matters and my discretion has always been a byword
among the First. Call First Base yourself and inquire, if it will put you at
ease. I'll wait here in the outer chamber. Tell them Sam would have words
with Trimurti. They will take the call."
"I do not know. . ."
Sam withdrew the second purse and weighed it in the palm of his hand.
The priest's eyes fell upon it and he licked his lips.
"Wait here," he ordered, and he turned on his heel and left the
chamber.
Ili, the fifth note of the harp, buzzed within the Garden of the Purple
Lotus.
Brahma loafed upon the edge of the heated pool, where he bathed with
his harem. His eyes appeared closed, as he leaned there upon his elbows, his
feet dangling in the water.
But he stared out from beneath his long lashes, watching the dozen
girls at sport in the pool, hoping to see one or more cast an appreciative
glance upon the dark, heavily muscled length of his body. Black upon brown,
his mustaches glistened in moist disarray and his hair was a black wing upon
his back. He smiled a bright smile in the filtered sunlight.
But none of them appeared to notice, so he refolded his smile and put
it away. All their attention lay with the game of water polo in which they
were engaged.
Ili, the bell of communication, buzzed once more, as an artificial
breeze waited the odor of garden jasmine to his nostrils. He sighed. He
wanted so for them to worship him-- his powerful physique, his carefully
molded features. To worship him as a man, not as a god.
But though his special and improved body permitted feats no mortal man
could duplicate, still he felt uneasy in the presence of an old war horse
like Lord Shiva-- who, despite his adherence to the normal body matrix,
seemed to hold far more attraction for women. It was almost as if sex were a
thing that transcended biology; and no matter how hard he tried to suppress
the memory and destroy that segment of spirit, Brahma had been born a woman
and somehow was woman still. Hating this thing, he had elected to incarnate
time after time as an eminently masculine man, did so, and still felt
somehow inadequate, as though the mark of his true sex were branded upon his
brow. It made him want to stamp his foot and grimace.
He rose and stalked off toward his pavilion, past stunted trees that
twisted with a certain grotesque beauty, past trellises woven with morning
glory, pools of blue water lilies, strings of pearls swinging from rings all
wrought of white gold, past lamps shaped like girls, tripods wherein pungent
incenses burnt and an eight-armed statue of a blue goddess who played upon
the veena when properly addressed.
Brahma entered the pavilion and crossed to the screen of crystal, about
which a bronze Naga twisted, tail in teeth. He activated the answering
mechanism.
There was a static snowfall, and then he faced the high priest of his
Temple in Mahartha. The priest dropped to his knees and touched his caste
mark three times upon the floor.
"Of the four orders of gods and the eighteen hosts of Paradise,
mightiest is Brahma," said the priest. "Creator of all. Lord of high Heaven
and everything beneath it. A lotus springs forth from your navel, your hands
churn the oceans, in three strides your feet encompass all the worlds. The
drum of your glory strikes terror in the hearts of your enemies. Upon your
right hand is the wheel of the law. You tether catastrophes, using a snake
for rope. Hail! See fit to accept the prayer of your priest. Bless me and
hear me, Brahma!'
"Arise . . . priest," said Brahma, having forgotten his name. "What
thing of mighty importance moved you to call me thus?"
The priest arose, cast a quick glance upon Brahma's dripping person and
looked away again.
"Lord," said the priest, "I did not mean to call while you were at
bath, but there is one among your worshipers here now who would speak with
you, on a matter which I take to be of mighty importance."
"One of my worshipers! Tell him that all-hearing Brahma hears all, and
direct him to pray to me in the ordinary manner, in the Temple proper!"
Brahma's hand moved toward the shutoff switch, then paused. "How came
he to know of the Temple-to-Heaven line?" he inquired. "And of the direct
communion of saints and gods?"
"He says," replied the priest, "that he is of the First, and that I
should relay the message that Sam would have words with Trimurti."
"Sam?" said Brahma. "Sam? Surely it cannot be . . . that Sam?"
"He is the one known hereabouts as Siddhartha, Binder of the Demons."
"Await my pleasure," said Brahma, "singing the while various
appropriate verses from the Vedas."
"I hear, my Lord," said the priest, and he commenced singing.
Brahma moved to another part of the pavilion and stood awhile before
his wardrobe, deciding what to wear.
The prince, hearing his name called, turned from the contemplation of
the Temple's interior. The priest, whose name he had forgotten, beckoned him
along a corridor. He followed, and the passage led into a storage chamber.
The priest rumbled after a hidden catch, then drew upon a row of shelves
that opened outward, doorlike.
The prince passed through this doorway. He found himself within a
richly decorated shrine. A glowing view-screen hung above its
altar/control-panel, encircled by a bronze Naga, which held its tail in its
teeth.
The priest bowed three times.
"Hail, ruler of the universe, mightiest of the four orders of gods and
the eighteen hosts of paradise. From your navel springs forth the lotus,
your hands churn the oceans, in three strides -- "
"I acknowledge the truth of what you say," replied Brahma. "You are
blessed and heard. You may leave us now."
"?"
"That is correct. Sam is doubtless paying you for a private line, is h