Helion had to use a mind trick to keep his joy in check. He was astonished; this was a signal honor far beyond anything Rhadamanthus had predicted, far beyond what he'd
dreamed. If his vision of the future was adopted by the Transcendence, then he himself, Helion, would be the central figure whose philosophy would shape society for the next thousand years. His name would be on every tongue, every marriage list, every guest-password file of every party and convocation....
It was dazzling. Helion decided not to record the joy he felt now, for fear that future replays of this wild emotion would dull it.
There would be more talk, of course, and more debate, and each of the Peers would consult with their advisors, or issuing authorities, or (in the case of Ao Aoen) spirit guides. There would be more talk.
But Orpheus had spoken, and the matter was fairly well decided.
Soaring, with clouds above and clouds below, Phaethon let the joy of flight erase his worries for the moment.
He and Rhadamanthus penguin played in mock dogfights, doing snap rolls, barrel rolls, loops.
Phaethon was closing in on the penguin when the fat bird did an Immelmann, toppling over on one wing, and righting itself to flash toward Phaethon, and on past, shouting "Rata-tatatat! Gotcha!"
Phaethon didn't know what the word Ratatatat meant, but it seemed to imply some sort of victory or counting-coup. Phaethon slowed and stood in the air, hands on hips.
"My dear Rhadamanthus, you're surely cheating!" The bird, of course, only existed as an image in Phaethon's sen-sorum.
"By my honor, sir, I'm only doing what a bird this size could do. You can check my math if you wish."
"Aha? And what are you postulating for your acceleration tolerance in those turns?"
"Well, sir, penguins are sturdy birds! When is the last time
you have ever heard of a Sphenisciforme blacking out, eh?"
"Point well taken!" Phaethon spread his arms and fell backward onto a nearby cloud. Mist spilled upward around him as he sank, smiling.
"My wife would love this, wouldn't she? Glorious things attract herwide vistas, grand emotions, scenes of wonder!"
The cloud got darker around him. On another level of vision, he detected electropotentials building in the area.
"... It's just too bad that we live at a time when everything glorious has already been done for us. The only really impressive things she can ever find are in her dream universes."
"You disapprove?"
"Well... I hate to say it, but... I mean, why can't she write those things? She got an award for one oneiroverse she made up once, a Ptolemaic universe thing, some sort of magic planet. I think there were flying balloons in it, or something." He pursed his lips. "But instead of writing them, she just drifts in and out of other peoples' ideas."
"Sirexcuse me, but I think we're floating into someone's claimed space"
"Someday I'll do something to awe the world, Rhadaman-thus. Once she sees how impressive the real world can be, she won't be so"
Through the darkening cloud, a figure in a golden boat, dressed as falcon-headed god character from pre-Ignition Jovian storm-poetry, swam up through the cloud, and made an impatient gesture with his long black pole. He wore ornate robes of white and gold and blue, with a complex helmet-crown. "Sir! I say, Demontdelune!"
"I'm not Demontdelune; this is Hamlet."
"Ah. As you wish. In any case, please move aside; I'm trying to sculpt a thunderstorm here, and your fields are interfering with my nanomachines."
Phaethon looked around him, switching his perception to a finer level, and shutting off his sense-filter. The illusionary penguin vanished, but now Phaethon could see extraordinarily small machines attached to each and every water droplet, generating repulsive and attractive fields, herding them. There
were more nanomachines per cubic inch in this area than he had ever seen before.
Phaethon was severely impressed. This man could control the shape and density of the cloud down to the finest level. By arranging the flows of cloud drops, he could create static, or trigger condensation. "Butthis is an extraordinary effort!"
"Quite soespecially since I cannot control the wind. I have to play the cloud like a harp whose billion strings all change in length and pitch from moment to moment. My So-photech can speed my perception of time to a point I need to render the performanceI should begin a minute or so from now, as soon as the winds are rightbut, to me, at that time-speed, my performance will seem to last a hundred years."
"Fantastic! What is your name, sir, and why do you make such sacrifices to your art?"
"Call me Vandonnar." This was the name in Jovian poems of the captain of a mining-diver, lost in the clouds, and said to be circling eternally the Great Red Spot Storm, a ghost, so lost that he was unable to find his way to the afterlife. The poem dated from the days when there still was such a Great Red Spot. "My true name I must keep to myself. I fear my friends would disapprove if they knew how much Sophotech time I've spent just for this one storm-song. And Aurelian, our host, has not announced the storm beforehand. Those who don't look up in time to see, or who run inside, will miss the performance, I am not allowing this to be recorded."
"Good heavens, sir, why not?!"
"How else to escape the stifling control of the Sophotechs? Everything is recorded for us here, even our souls. But if this can be played only once, its power is all the greater."
"And yetforgive for so saying, but without the Sophotechs, you could not possibly do the mathematics to control each raindrop in a storm, or to direct where the lightning will fall!"
"You miss my whole point, Mr. Hamhock."
"Hamlet."
"Whatever. This is a statement of third-order chaos math-
ematics. You see? Even with the finest control in the world, even with the wisest Sophotech, where the lightning strikes next cannot be predicted. Some one ambitious raindrop will brush against its neighbors more boldly than anticipated, irritating them, raising more electric charge than guessed; the threshold is crossed; the electrons ionize; in a single instant the discharge path is determined; crooked or straight; and ful-gration flashes! And all because that one little drop could not keep still....
"Wait! The winds are changing.... Go now, please, while
I can still compensate for your passage through my cloud-----
No, that direction! Go there! Otherwise you tangle my strings!..."
Without a word, Phaethon darted away, swift as a salmon. His clothes were moist with mist as he broke free of the storm-cloud, and nanomachines, thick as dust, stained his shoulders and hair.
Phaethon triggered his sense-filter again. The image of the Penguin reappeared.
"Rhadamanthus, you Sophotechs always deny that you are wise enough to arrange everything we do, to arrange coincidences."
"Our predictions of humanity are limited. There is an uncertainty which creatures with free will create. The Earthmind Herself could not beat you every time in a game of paper-scissors-rock, because your move is based on what you think she might choose for her move: and She cannot predict her own actions in advance perfectly."
"Why not? I thought Earthmind was intelligent beyond measure."
"No matter how great a creature's intelligence, if one is guessing one's own future actions, the past self cannot outwit the future self, because the intelligence of both is equal. The only thing which alters this paradox is morality."