But Nebuchednezzar did not raise the mace from his lap. "Slight variations in initial conditions lead to different out-comes in various extrapolations; an acceptable estimate cannot be made at this time."
Phaethon felt again a pang of hope. Uncertainty?
One of the other Gold Manorials, Guttrick Seventh Glaine of Fulvous House, leaned from his seat: "How can the outcome be in doubt? Fulvous Sophotech foretells an exile will be handed down in any case!"
Nebuchednezzar spoke, and his voice filled the halclass="underline" "Phae-thon may have startling news concerning the motives which prompted him to violate the Lakshmi Agreement; representatives from the Warlock Iron Ghost School and the Warlock Seasonal Mind School may reassess their positions based on this new evidence; and Ynought Subwon Centurion of New Centurion House has a guest he wishes to invite to address
us."
Tsychandri-Manyu was still standing: "Oh, please! This is insufficient! How likely are we to be swayed by the opinions of two Warlocks and one Dark-Gray! Three voices out of one hundred three of us?! What single person here honestly supports Phaethon's cause?"
Asmodius Bohost of Clamour House stood, heaving his massive body upright on elephantine legs. "Hoy!" he called, "The Black Mansions say Phaethon should not be exiled, no! In fact, we think he should be crowned king, be given a pension, and have a palladium established in his honor in the acropolis!" He smiled impishy. "Or, at least, that is what we will say we believe, until Tawne House sits down. Come now, Tsychandri! We all know how this is going to turn out, don't we? That doesn't mean we shouldn't enjoy the show. My colleagues and I want to give Phaethon a chance to beg and
squirm."
A titter of uncomfortable laughter traced the room.
Ao Prospero Circe of the Zooanthropic Incarnation Coven of the Seasonal Mind School stood. She was depicted as a Chinese dowager empress in imperial yellow robes, a headdress of black pearls and plumes, and a demeanor of gravest dignity. "Truths often disguise themselves as jests. It is protective mimicry they need in order to survive. And they hop from the mouths of fat fools because no one else is wise enough to utter them. I am one of the two voices Nebuchednezzar counts as undecided. My Twelve minds are eager to
hear what evidence might stir us from what seems to me to be a firm conclusion. My Hound mind gives tongue and bays at the moon; my Wolf mind scents bloods; and yet Stag is chary; and Serpent, so far, remains silent. These omens are unclear. Let Phaethon be given, at least, a chance to plead. If he refuses the chance, on his head be it; but we, by offering, do all that the sadist-tyrant we call Conscience will require, or need."
A second-rank lateral-organization program from Harmonious Composition thought-traffic control stood up, dressed as a London clerk. He took his hat in his hands and touched his forelock before his spoke. "Service to all requires that the College recall that her task is not merely to condemn what is worthy of condemnation but also to urge those worthy of hope to virtue. Shouldn't we, before anything else, plead with Phaethon to change his mind?"
There was a general murmur of assent. Nebuchednezzar tapped the head of his mace, as if it were a gavel, to signal the consent of the College. At that signal, the reproduction of Socrates, who was the Master of the College from Myth, now rose to speak.
"You know my understanding of these matters is poor," Socrates said, his voice heavy with irony. "Often in places in the city, in the streets and in the markets, and particularly in the houses of the rich (who are men of important character, to whom the Many pay close attention) we often hear much talk of law and of justice, of what ought to be done and of what ought not to be done. I know little of these matters, for though many people speak of them, often what they say does not agree with each other, nor does one man use these words the same way twice, but changes his mind as he is a young man or an old man, or in the heat of passion, or for some other reason. Justice, as perhaps we all know, consists of every man doing his duty, which is what the state requires of him. Now, Phaethon, you respect your father, do you not?"
Phaethon could not tell if this were a serious question. Was he supposed to answer this? "Without question, Socrates. I love my father, and respect him more than I can say."
"Ah. And this is because he is the one who brought you into this world, and sustained you through infancy, and, in short, did everything he needed to do to give you life, is it
not?"
"But of course, Socrates."
"Then what do you owe the state, who not only brought you into the world, and brought your father and all your ancestors, but also nurtured you, taught you language and letters, grew the food to feed you, spun the cloths to clothe you, and, in short, provided both you and everyone you know with all the gifts they needed, not just to live well; but to live at all? Is the state not more to be respected than your father? Respected and obeyed? Suppose that you were to die and become merely a shadow, or a memory, but that your family and peers, and all the society beside, had the power to make you flesh again. If you have disobeyed the duties society puts on you, why should society extend itself on your behalf? Society only exists at all because men put aside their natural inclinations, and listen to the commands of duty. Will you cry out that it is the duty of society to defend your life, and to sustain it? But why? You, by disobeying, have done everything in your power to undermine and to destroy the very concept of duty. How can you call upon the spirit of duty to defend you, when you have, to the best of your ability, attempted to destroy that spirit?"
Phaethon said sharply: "But I do not call upon you. I do not ask, do not beg, do not plead. Listen to me, Hortators!" Phaethon turned left and right, studying the many faces around him. "What I intend to do requires neither apology nor excuse. You gentlemen claim to be defending a way of life. But what I defend is life itself. Our civilization must expand; without expansion, life is arrested. Trapped in one small star system, we are confined, ignorant, provincial, vulnerable, and alone. Turn your eyes outward! The surrounding stars are barren; I shall plant gardens. The void is empty; I shall raise cities. Sterile rocks and worthless dust clouds tumble through blind orbits. I shall transform atmospheres choked with poison into blue skies fit for men, pour oceans into dry
wasteland, bring forth new life. I shall make these rocks into worlds! Hortators! Listen, for once, to a voice other than your own! Our civilization is as beautiful as a bride; it is time she gave birth to colonies, and mothered new civilizations in her own image."
One of the augurs for the Warlock Iron Ghost mass-mind called out: "And yet when this bride cries out and bids you to desist, you ignore her sad cries! This is cruelty in a lover all the more for one who claims to love the Golden Oecumene so much! So much that you move heaven and earth to fly away from her embraces!"
The other Master of the College was Emphyrio, a character from early fiction. He spoke, and the book in his lap amplified his voice: "Hear me, O Socrates! Those who lust to destroy courage, freedom, and innovation always use 'duty' as their battle-cry. The truth is that Phaethon is not a slave, or a creature with such low worth that he ought to die whenever such death might please his owners' whims.
"Hortators!" Emphyrio continued in a ringing voice, "Let us not war among ourselves. Phaethon knows joys and sorrow, pain and heart's ease even as we do. He is a man like us. Do we not all wish to do as Phaethon has done? To embrace greatness, triumph over the elements of nature, and to yearn to conquer more? I tell you, my fellows, that nothing is more certain than that our race must one day live beneath the light of other suns."
Looks of surprise, and doubt, flickered from eye to eye among the benches. Whispers ran across the walls.