The whole deal sounded very European to Menelaus. He remembered his mother telling him about their ancestor, a Montrose who led armies in the Civil War (not the real Civil War, the English Civil War), fighting with the Covenanters, but switching to the Royalist side, and trampling the Scots in a series of brilliant campaigns. What had those wars been about? “Folly,” his mother said, her voice as cool and bloodless as the voice of a snake, “Human folly. The names of folly they fought under were Anglicanism, Arminianism, Catholicism, Puritanism; the excuses were royalism and parliamentarianism. But the real reasons they fought are always the same: Phobos, doxa, and kerdos. Fear, fame, and loot.” What had happened to the first Montrose? “His deeds caught up with him, and he was hanged, and ended his life dangling on a rope.” Will that happen to us, Mommy? We’re Montroses, too. “Not here. The First Amendment keeps churchmen out of power, so the jackals have nothing to fight over: there is no meat on those bones.”
He asked more questions, one of which must have offended her—he never knew what made her wrathy, since her expression never changed—and she punished him by making him go read Thucydides. (Darned book did not even say how the war ended, but just broke off in the middle.) But he took the lesson to heart that freeborn men did not allow any son of any bitches to tell them who to pray to or how to do it, and certainly no self-respecting Texan allowed the tax-gatherers to rake in his hard-earned whiskey money to pay for some other man’s preacher. Each man had to pay his own way for his own brand of jollity and his own brand of misery.
In North America, they had still called it “The First Amendment” long after the Constitution was torn to shreds and mostly forgotten. Montrose had not forgotten it, though, since his mother’s strap had seen to that.
So this whole modern set-up stunk like a dead dog as far as Montrose was concerned.
4. Time for Leaving
But he did not have as much time for book-learning, tramping and shooting and sewing as he might have liked. Whole days were lost in hallucination, sleep, headache, or fever dream. The Ghost of Del Azarchel did not bother to dissuade him, did not volunteer any help beyond routine calculations. The Ghost was aloof.
I am required to protect you, Learned Montrose, as honor demands. No less. Not to like you, and certainly not to aid you in undoing my father’s Great Work.
“What is this Great Work?”
The Ghost of Del Azarchel actually sighed. Since it was not a mortal man, a creature who breathed, he must have written the code to formulate the waveform of the desired noise and emitted it from the wall speakers. Montrose recognized that sigh. It was the one Del Azarchel used when he did not want to bother explaining the obvious to those who were slow. Montrose had never heard it used on him before.
The ascent to superior intelligence had not improved Del Azarchel’s disposition. Montrose wondered about the scaling problem of posthumanity. If you swell a personality to giant size, what happens to personality defects? A heartless man was not the dangerous as a heartless titan.
“Ximen,” he said to the machine, “is there any point in studying this Monument? The guys who wrote it are the ones coming to enslave us. Any information that might be in there, any techniques telling us how to build a better mousetrap—they would not tell the truth. So what is the point?”
What do you mean “us”?
“You don’t consider yourself human anymore?”
What do you mean “human”?
Montrose knew better than to argue with Del Azarchel when he got into one of those moods. It was an old trick he used back during training days, to just pretend not to know obvious things, and let your debate opponent exhaust himself trying to explain to you things every child knew—and whatever the explanation was, you pretended not to understand that either, unless he accidentally said what you wanted him to say, and then you agreed, and you let him think he had figured all this out by himself, and buttered him up and told him all right-thinking persons would come to the same notion. It was called the Sarcastic Method, or something like that.
“How about if we allow anyone who calls himself human is human, and start from there?” Montrose ventured.
We must take the so-called “Cold Equations” describing interstellar political economic relations as both a threat and an offer. The most efficient method of joining two alien civilizations together in a mutual relation is to agree on a set of rules and protocols by which that can be done. In the case where one partner is unequal, unable to offer anything of value, the relation is one of unilateral exploitation. Nonetheless, a proper protocol must be agreed upon. No matter how advanced the civilization, the energy cost involved in moving mass across interstellar distances must be recouped.
“You are talking about how to surrender. They put up the Monument to tell us, what the hell, what a white flag is, how long we’ll be allowed to live if we turn belly-up, and how to pay them back for the expense of conquering us?”
The machine did not reply. In fact, even the next day, and the next, Iron Del Azarchel was taciturn.
Once or twice Menelaus woke from experiment-induced delirium, and found the chalet glass covered with notations in his handwriting, in language and symbolisms he could not read, along with little written notes and reminders, suggestions for further study. The final day in the chalet came when he woke, and saw written on the bathroom mirror some doodles of the four-color problem, plus an equation that might have been a solution for certain limiting cases, and then a line of his own handwriting. Skedaddle. Iron Blackie is bored with you. Go hunting and don’t come back.
Montrose, rifle on one shoulder, yannigan bag of spare clothes and blankets on the other, trudged out through the snow, never looking back. As his footfalls crunched through the white world, he wondered, bemused, about what sort of daemon was living in his head, that it used a word like skedaddle. He hoped it was not such a bad fellow after all.
There were no very pleasant memories of the hike after that first day. A storm blew in, and it was forty-seven miles to Glacier Bay, and he was more dead than alive when a group of Copts found him.
These were tall and white-bearded men in parkas of sea lion fur trimmed with wolverine tails. They brought him into an ice-bound church beneath a fretted dome, bright with painted red and gold and blue. What these Copts were doing in Canada, he never did discover. Last he’d heard, back a century and a half ago, Copts lived in Egypt.
Their patriarch, a man with the surprisingly ordinary name of Mark, but who wore a surprisingly ridiculous get-up, took Montrose’s neuromorphogenic drugs from him while he slept, and (he assumed) threw them out. Couldn’t say he blamed him.
More by pantomime than speech, Mark invited him to a place called Iarabulus, to stay with him—if that was what Mark meant by saluting him with a bit of bread and breaking it, offering him half. Less than an hour later by evacuated depthtrain (this one not as nicely appointed as Del Azarchel’s, but still something that looked like a drawing room, not a bus or sleeping car) Iarabulus turned out to be a warm spot on a beach overlooking the Mediterranean built on the ruins of Tripoli.
No, the days he spent with Mark, in the crooked streets of Iarabulus, among screaming children and vendors with carts, were not what soured him on this day and age. The folk were as friendly as he could imagine, as hospitable as Texans, and certainly willing to help out a stranger in need.