“It wouldn’t matter,” Dædalus said. “Who are we to judge the goal or even the direction of evolution? From the standpoint we’re considering there’s no difference between eating a banana and inventing Gödel’s Proof.”
“That’s somewhat distressing,” said Gödel’s representative, who was present as an observer.
Dædalus shrugged. “That’s the way the cosmic cookie crumbles. We can no longer permit a discredited morality to penalize all self-defined deviations of the moral maze with karma, the internalized consequences of action, the automatic payoff of causality.”
“Hmm, yes, go on,” said a tall, handsome man, the author’s representative, hastily scribbling notes.
“By canceling the cause and effect mechanism,” Dædalus went on, “we remove the payoff factor from decision-making, and thus render karma bankrupt, permitting the maze-runners of the future to pursue their courses free of interior moral consequence.”
“Letting people get away with murder, you mean,” said the forkbearded committeeman.
“Then as now,” Dædalus said. “Murder, to take your example, will have no necessary karmic consequence. By dispensing with karma, we merely put things onto their true basis. The actual consequence of murder may be something quite different from what we imagine: the flowering of a bed of violets, for example. There will be no hard connections in our maze, no necessary consequences, only juxtapositions, arrived at by hazard or by plan, it makes no difference. All of them will be invested with a purely situational meaning, and will carry no greater burden than that. In our maze, gentlemen, any anything can be any other anything any time it pleases, and this, I submit, is the only freedom worthy of the name.”
There was a hearty round of applause at the conclusion of these words, and several cries of “Onward with the non-karmic universe!” The committeemen gathered around Dædalus, eager to grant him sexual favors of an exquisite nature, or their equivalent in whatever value-system Dædalus favored. But the Master Builder declined all offers with thanks. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
23. The Chinese Waiter—Theseus & Minotaur.
“I’m looking for the Minotaur,” Theseus said.
“Ah,” said the smiling Chinese waiter, setting in front of him a plate of gingered crab with spring onions and black bean sauce, a dish usually available only at the Parthenon Palace Chinese restaurant on Green Goddess Street in downtown Knossos. “You rook for Nimotoor?”
“Minotaur,” Theseus said, taking care with his enunciation.
“Enunciation,” the Chinese waiter said.
“You’re supposed to read my lips,” Theseus said, “not my mind. Minotaur. Short horns, cowhide coloring, a sort of wonky expression around the muzzle, typical Minotaur look.”
The Chinese waiter’s face took on that look of intense expressionlessness that so often betrays inner perturbation. “Maybe you come back room talk with wise man, okay?”
Theseus followed the waiter through the glass-beaded curtains that separated the front of the restaurant from the back, down a corrugated yellow corridor where a toothless oriental man sat carving shrimps into gargoyles to decorate the lobster castle of some local dignitary. He went past the kitchen area where skylarking scullery boys dropped sizzling slices into potbellied tureens, past the provisions room where three Chinese chefs played fan tan with sow belly futures, and came at last to a small apartment upholstered in red velvet and hung with tiffany lamps.
“I keep you crab warm,” the Chinese waiter said softly, and exited.
Theseus could not help but notice that there was another person in the room, a young man who looked strangely familiar.
“Hi, Dad,” the young man said.
“Jason!” Theseus cried. For it was no other than the famous Jason of the Golden Fleece, Theseus’ son, a relationship mentioned in no other Greek myth and revealed here for the first time.
“What are you doing in this part of the maze?” Theseus asked. “I thought you were supposed to be getting the Golden Fleece.”
“I just haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Jason said. “And anyhow, there’s plenty of fleecing to be done right here.”
“You live here?” Theseus asked.
“I have a suite of rooms. Mr. Subtlety, the owner, gave them to me when he employed me.”
“Not as a cook, I hope.”
Jason looked pained. His father’s criticism of his cooking, and especially of his sweet-sour sauces, had been one of the recurring traumas of his childhood.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “Mr. Subtlety hired me as resident hero.”
“What does he need a hero for?”
“Protection. He’s been serving hoisin sauce without a permit. He’s afraid Zeus will leam about it and send Ares here to close him down.”
“Would Ares do that?”
“Of course not. Ares is the god of war, not foreclosures. But try to tell Mr. Subtlety that. Meanwhile I do my job, it’s a living, and it leaves me with plenty of time to take on special roles, like now, when a wise man is needed to advise you and none is available.”
“You?” Theseus asked. “A wise man?”
“Those are my instructions.”
“Well, go ahead, give me some wisdom, I’m listening.”
Jason’s words of wisdom were lost in the earthquake that destroyed the great library of Atlantis, where they had been stored in a bronze briefcase for the edification of posterity and others.
Just at that moment the Minotaur appeared at the window. A wisp of a woman hung from his mouth, giving him a goofy look.
“Excuse me,” the Minotaur said, “is there a drugstore around here? I stuffed myself on sacrificial maidens last night and am now in need of Alka-Seltzer or its ancient equivalent.”
“I’ve got just what you need,” Theseus, said drawing his sword.
The Minotaur jumped back wildly, tried to turn and run, tripped over his own fetlocks and fell heavily. Theseus sprang through the window brandishing his sword and crying, “Tallyho!”
Since there was no other way out, the Minotaur had to play the whoosh card he had kept hidden away for just such an emergency as this. He played it. At once a large, gray, semi-liquid whoosh formed around him, quivered for a moment, then shot off at incredible speed. Theseus ran after it and tried to catch its tail gate, but the whoosh pulled away and soon had accelerated off the infrared end of the visual scale, not to become visible again until it slowed for its next station stop.
“Damnation!” Theseus cried. “When is the next whoosh due?”
Jason consulted his timetable. “That was the last for today. The milktrain whoosh is due tomorrow morning.”
Theseus thanked Jason for his hospitality and his words of wisdom and set out on foot, his homing device chattering as it registered the trail of whoosh residue.
24. Minotaur Meets Minerva.
At least, the Minotaur thought, I’m sympathetic and likable, not like that Greek son of a bitch with the sword.
At least I suppose I’m sympathetic. Even attractive, in my way.
Though maybe a bull’s head isn’t to everyone’s liking.
Still, it turns some people on.
The Minotaur looked at his wristwatch. He was half an hour early for his appointment. He had meant to be half an hour late. He figured that would show class, and the Minotaur was always concerned about showing class because he was convinced that he had class but that it just didn’t show. It was the fault of his bull head, which gave people a bucolic sort of impression, vague and sweet, utterly without class.
The Minotaur was too nervous to ever actually be late for an appointment. He wanted to be, though. He dreamed of showing up for an appointment three-quarters of an hour late, breathless, arriving just as his appointee was leaving in a huff, extremely annoyed and needing a drink. It would be at that moment that the Minotaur would arrive, breathless, apologetic, and, putting a hoof around his appointee’s shoulders, says, “I’m really sorry, the traffic this mo
rning was unbelievable, let’s get a drink. . . .”
The Minotaur dreamed of delivering a speech like that, a speech with class. But on the morning of his appointment he was up early, he shaved and dressed and he still had hours to kill. He sat down and tried to read a magazine but it was no use, he couldn’t concentrate; he kept on checking his wristwatch, and he ended up pacing up and down, hooves clicking on the polished wood floor of his apartment, adjusting his tie, tugging at his jacket, wiping his shoes, until finally he couldn’t stand it any longer and out the door he went.
He had definitely decided not to be early for his appointment, however, so he went there the long way, by the route across the Alps. Even if he couldn’t manage to be half an hour late he was sure he could manage a respectable fifteen minutes later. But of course he arrived half an hour early and of course his appointee was not there.
This wouldn’t be too serious a situation in the real world. But in Dædalus’ maze, if you arrive too early for your appointment you’re apt to miss it entirely.
In the maze, being early can put you into a special time slot that other people can’t get into. You move along encased in your special bubble of earliness, and other people are either late or on time so you never get to meet them. You have to get rid of some of that excess time you’re encased in. Sometimes you can rub it off against a time-absorbent rock, sometimes you can sell it, but sometimes it’s difficult even to give it away. People are suspicious about being offered your excess time, they think there must be something wrong with it, why else would you be trying to give it away? And it’s hard to find a time-absorbent rock in a town or city.
The Minotaur had met his appointee yesterday. He had been passing through town in his usual furtive way when he heard a woman’s voice call out, “Minotaur! Could I have a word with you?”
The Minotaur overreacted as usual, whirling around so fast he lost his balance and fell flat on his rump, the sort of pratfall that the Minotaur feared above anything, feared even more than death at the hands of the Greek butcher, Theseus.
“Let me help you up,” the woman said. Through tears of chagrin, the Minotaur couldn’t help but notice that she was a young woman, dressed in severe clothing that accentuated her angularity, with her hair pulled back in a scholarly bun and hornrimmed glasses perched on her sharp nose. She was definitely a virgin. Minotaurs have a sense for these matters. The Minotaur felt the first anticipatory tremors of love, and allowed himself to be helped to his feet and brushed off.
The young woman explained that she had noticed him while he was passing through town, and had observed that he was a Minotaur, by which she was just stating a fact, not passing a moral judgment. She hoped her observation would not be taken amiss. She had decided to speak to him because he was a victim and she and some of her friends were dedicated to reforming the various sexist, racist, and other discriminatory laws that presently prevailed throughout so much of the maze.
The Minotaur nodded politely, though he had very little idea what she was talking about.
“Minotaurs,” she told him, “are members of an untouchable class called Monsters. They are designated as victims from birth, giving no thought to their individual aspirations. Denied an education in anything but the rudiments of Escaping and Avoiding, they are thus prevented from competing in the job market. Their inalienable rights as sentient beings possessing a reflexive consciousness are thus violated as they are feudally bound to a single occupation without respect to their own wishes.”
“At least we have job security,” the Minotaur quipped, for he was a little miffed. He had always considered his predicament unique and it annoyed him to learn that he was merely representative of the general situation for all monsters. But of course, monsters have little aptitude for politics, and it occurred to the Minotaur that she was right, of course, nobody had ever given him a break; it’s monster this and monster that and monster ’ow’s you soul, but it’s thin red line of monsters when the drums begin to roll. The Minotaur wasn’t sure how that fit in, he had failed Metaphor in school and so was careful not to make comparisons in public lest he be thought a fool.
“Well, it’s nice of you to care,” the Monster said cautiously. “What happens next? Do we talk about it some more?”
She shook her head decisively. “I’m part of the action arm of the Resistance. Minerva’s the name, action’s the game. A hero is in pursuit of you, I suppose?”
“That’s for sure,” said the Minotaur.
“Then what you need is a Safe House,” Minerva said. “A place where you can rest and regain your orientation, or acquire a new one, while we consider what to do with you, sorry, for you, next.”
“Minerva,” the Minotaur said. “Nice name. You wouldn’t happen to be also known as Athene, by any chance?” Because he was sure he had seen her picture on the political page of the Labyrinth Times.
She nodded. “Athene was my slave name back when I was a goddess to the Hellenes. Then I learned about Scientific Futurism. My mind was opened to the possibilities of human development, by Shekovsky and other 20th century thinkers. I took the Latin name Minerva as a sign of faith in the civilization destined to supplant the rule of the Hellenes. Does that answer your question?”
“More than amply,” the Minotaur said.
And so she had told the Minotaur to meet her at this street corner, tomorrow, at noon. And here he was, regrettably early. But where was she?
“Here I am,” Minerva said. “Let’s go.”
25. The Alien Observer.
The Minotaur followed Minerva to a street corner where a large black car had pulled up. The car had tinted windows so the Minotaur couldn’t see in. He did notice that the car had diplomatic license plates, Alien Observer, for Alien Observer, something you saw more and more these days, since Dædalus’ maze had excited considerable comment throughout the civilized portions of the galaxy.
As he got in, the Minotaur thought what a perfect setup this would be for Theseus to try to get at him. He wouldn’t put it past Theseus to hire a couple of stooges and a woman, lure the Minotaur into the car, and then, wham, bam, it’s another monster dead and general rejoicing throughout greater Hellas.
It’s just the sort of sneaky stunt that Theseus would pull, but the Minotaur was a fatalist, what the hell, he got into the car. It sped away.
Sitting beside him was the Alien Observer, immediately noticeable as such because he had no hair and wore blue lipstick.
“Don’t worry, old man,” the Alien Observer said, “we will get you out of this.” He talked in a funny way, like most aliens, with a pronounced weakness in the fricatives.
“It’s very good of you,” the Minotaur said, relieved to find that he was not in a trap after all. “I hate to put you to the trouble.”
“Oh, do not lambaste yourself over it, old man,” the Alien Observer said. “It is incumbent upon us to assist fellow sentient creatures in distress.”
“I’m a monster, however,” the Minotaur pointed out, thinking that an alien, with his inscrutable modalities of perception, might not have noticed.
“I am well aware of this,” the Alien Observer said. “On my planet, we do not recognize such distinctions. That is why we have been given the Good Sentient Being Award of the Galactic Planets three years running. Do you say running?”
“Oh, yes,” the Minotaur said, “that’s quite correct.”
“On my planet,” the Alien Observer said, “we would say, ‘three years of passing in the usual way.’ We do not go in for action metaphors. Nor do we recognize the category of ‘monster.’ On my planet, ou-’Fang, or just ’Fang for short; we recognize only the category of intelligent being.”
“That’s good,” the Minotaur said.
“Oh, yes. It is what we would call a preemptory fact.”
“Local usage,” the Minotaur said.
“Yes, precisely. And all of us belong to a single occupational group.”
“I see,” said the Minotaur.
They rode along in silence for a while. Then the Minotaur asked, “What category?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is the single category of occupational group that all you people on ’Fang belong to?”
“We are all railroad engineers,” the Alien Observer said.
“How does that work?” the Minotaur said.
“We all get the same wage and the same fringe benefits: three weeks’ vacation a year, and maternity leave for those of us who elect to become child-bearing females. We are all employed by the Planetwide Railroad Corporation of ’Fang, and we are all stockholders in it. We take turns being chairman of the board and other high offices.”
“You can’t get much more democratic than that,” the Minotaur said.
“I can’t imagine why other planets haven’t tried it,” the Alien Observer said. “They wouldn’t have to be railroad engineers, of course. It just happens that we are all interested in trains. But they could be vegetable farmers or automobile manufacturers or whatever they pleased. The important point is that everyone should do the same thing. That way there’s no dissension.”
The Minotaur thought carefully about how to phrase his next question. Then he asked, “I can’t help wondering what happens when you have produced all the railroads you could possibly need. I don’t mean to pry, but I am curious.”
The Alien Observer laughed good-naturedly. “We’re asked that all the time. It’s really a matter of definition, isn’t it, deciding when you have all the railroads you could possibly need. What might satisfy some races who do not possess the Transportational Æsthetic might not suit us. In our view there’s no such thing as too much railroad.”
“You must have a lot of track,” the Minotaur suggested.
“Most parts of the planet are triple-tiered,” the Alien Observer said, in the careless tone of someone who doesn’t want to let on how terribly pleased he is with local arrangements. “And I can assure you of one thing.”
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