So here is Theseus, lying on the bed, half asleep, listening to the muffled and barely discernable conversation between Phædra and Hera in the other room. It was Hera’s mother’s apartment they were staying in, but the old lady was in the hospital with a broken hip and Hera had come over to get a few of her things. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. Hera and Phædra were looking through Hera’s old family album. On this page is Aphrodite at her first communion; here is Poseidon on his Sailfish; here is the infant Zeus teething on his pink baby thunderbolt. The women talked softly in the other room in their gentle foreign voices, car tires slushed on wet tar roads, the lights of Olympus glowed in the distance.
There was a loud buzzing sound. It came from Theseus’ knapsack, which he had thrown into a corner. It was the thread, of course, no other piece of equipment had so annoying a sound.
“What time is it?” Theseus asked.
“Time to go Minotauring,” the thread said.
Theseus sighed heavily, stubbed out his baguette, got out of bed. He strapped on his sword and armor, put on his knapsack, left a note for Phædra, went quietly out the door.
Delicious though lying down is, it always gives way, at last, to the demands of the upright and the motile. All our upright movements are but a dance of postural rotation as we hurtle through the unbelievable on our way to the unknowable.
29. Phone Call to Naxos.
Theseus looked around, but there was nothing to see for miles on all sides. There was just a telephone booth, painted red, and a copy of the Universal Maze Directory which connects everybody to everybody else and automatically updates itself whenever someone moves.
This was one of the less built-up parts of the maze, and although it was convenient to everything, it lacked amenities. Theseus took out his address book and leafed through it. It was one of the new models. The names of people well-disposed to you glowed in the dark. It was difficult to read the names of your enemies: they faded out, along with the memories of their better points.
After making a few calls, Theseus went to stay with his ex-wife, Ariadne, and her new boyfriend, Dionysus.
They were happy to see him. Things had been a little quiet on Naxos, an island never known for shows of unseemly mirth. Dionysus had a big farmhouse on the northwestern corner of the island. It occupied a pretty headland looking out to the sea. Below the property was a narrow beach and a little cove where shallow-draught boats could shelter.
Dionysus loved boats. And boats brought in the bootleg Soma, the divine intoxicants of the gods, which he sold to heroes at a modest markup.
Dionysus was also writing a novel, and Ariadne was studying to become a real estate broker.
The original problems between the three of them have been forgotten. Now the memory of the old days has become the special bond that keeps them together.
In the evenings, when the archaic red sun goes down into the sea, they sit at the kitchen table and play bridge. The spool of thread makes a fourth for the game. The thread is capable of splitting itself into seven different personalities, though this talent is rarely called for.
Ariadne seems to have quite a lot of children.
Some of them may be the neighbor’s children, but some of them are surely hers. Hers and Theseus’. Theseus is almost certain that he and Ariadne had at least one child together, maybe two, just possibly three. He can’t quite remember, though; his memory’s not what it used to be, all those past and future wives, all those past and future children, all those changes.
Theseus doesn’t like to ask which, if any, of the children are his. It seems disrespectful, somehow. It’s the sort of thing you just don’t ask. It looks rotten, not remembering which, if any, are your children, not remembering which wife you had which children, if any, by. And anyhow, he doesn’t have to ask, Theseus is sure he wrote all this information down somewhere. He’s a dedicated diarist; he keeps notes, about who he met, what he ate for lunch, how he feels. He’s Theseus; his memoirs are sure to be in demand, the true account, what really happened. It’s all there; he’s recorded the whole thing, but he can’t carry all those bales of paper around with him; he has stored portions of his diary here and there, but it’s all somewhere, if only he could find time to put it together, publish the Memoirs of Theseus, and know which are his children.
Meanwhile the pleasant life on Naxos goes on. The peasants plow their fields, feed their animals, hold their famous shouting contests and their ancient Breadfruit Dances. They are a short, stocky, broad-faced people, always dressed in black, except on special holidays, when they wear white.
The Breadfruit Dances are danced to the accompaniment of indigenous musical instruments, the tamerland, the snap drum, the bug and the accordance. Theseus likes the plaintive sound, although he is more accustomed to the Hellenic electric syrinx and pedal pan pipes.
It is a simple life. At night the yelodians come up from the sea. Dark and sinuous, they slither along the beach and climb the nearby stupa trees in search of oysters. Further up the hillside the broad-leafed snappers are found, characteristic trees of the island. They are not true trees, but belong to a more ancient species, the arboleums, gray plants with characteristic crosshatching under their armpits. Sometimes a yellow-throated harbinger is sighted, flapping heavily through the arboleums. The harbinger is not a true bird. It is a member of the flappian family, an antique species that populated the skies of Naxos back when the earth was young and foolish.
Theseus has a good life on Naxos, but it has to end at last. Nothing can go on forever, specially if it is fun. The inexorable law of nature is that things shall pass from the all right to the unbearable, and that all the days of a man’s life shall be as dead leaves on the tree of metaphor.
The end of his stay came about in an almost inconsequential way, as these things do. Theseus came back to the house one day and asked if there had been any calls for him. Ariadne said there hadn’t been, and added that it was unlikely that he would receive any. “Why is that?” Theseus asked.
“Because the phone isn’t connected,” Ariadne said. “I thought you knew.”
Theseus left the next day.
30. Falling Through the Story.
Theseus got back to the mainland, landing at a little harbor on the rocky coast of Attica. There was a town nearby, low white beehive shaped buildings gleaming under the midday sun. Entering, he saw that there was a celebration underway. But what festival could this be?
Walking into the town, he saw a great banner stretched between two buildings. It read, SAVE OUR MINOTAUR!
By a strange coincidence, he had come here on Minotaur Preservation Day.
Other banners pointed out that Minotaurs are endangered species. It was evident that the people were determined to stop the unauthorized slaughtering of the fabulous beasts, to stamp out that little group of selfish men whose work was sure to obliterate one of the oldest species of the classical world.
One man, standing on a little pedestal, was making a speech. “You have seen other fabulous species disappear! Where nowadays are the Stymphagian birds? Where is the golden-headed walrus, the curly-tailed narwhal; where are the pixilated harpies? They are vanishing. And what is Dædalus doing about it? Nothing, that’s what he’s doing! Dædalus doesn’t care for preservation; it’s only new creation he wants!”
Theseus walked through the town and noted the carnival atmosphere. There were booths selling Souvlaki and stuffed grape leaves. Some of the troglodytes of Libya, themselves threatened with extinction, were present and handing out finely inscribed shards of pottery, the ancient world’s equivalent of leaflets.
Theseus realized that this could work to his advantage. From overheard conversations he learned that the Minotaur himself was making an appearance here.
Theseus considered the situation. He will have an opportunity if he positions himself at a strategic location where he can get a clear shot. He was armed with a lightning bolt which Hermes had borrowed from Zeus. It was the ancient world equivalent of a g
uided missile, a Minotaur-homing device, and it was certain to reach its mark.
He looked around and planned his strategy. The procession, with the Minotaur riding in one of the chariots, would go right up the main street of this town. Quickly he found a vantage point, the old scroll repository on the corner of Classikos Street and Cornucopeia way.
He entered. The building was deserted. On the second floor there was a place where he could prop up the lightning-bolt barrel, fasten the retaining pins to the clay floor, take a careful and leisurely aim. Who would ever dream of an assassin lurking in a scroll repository? This was going to work out just fine.
He still had half an hour before the procession was due to begin. Hiding the thunderbolt in a pile of rubble in a corner, he went out. Nearby there was a luncheonette where he bought a Souvlaki sandwich with grape leaf sauce. He always fired best on a full stomach.
He returned to the repository, and found a man standing at the doorway through which he had entered. Theseus didn’t like that, but decided to carry off the matter boldly. Whistling, he nodded to the man and began to pass him.
“What are you doing up in that scroll repository?” the man asked.
“I just want a good place to watch the action.”
“What’s wrong with the grandstand?”
“I get dizzy from being high up and being crowded by people. Anyway, is there a law against it?”
“Not at all,” the man said. “But you’d better watch yourself up there. The flooring is none too secure. Hasn’t been permanently bonded yet with reality cement. You could say it’s held together by spit and prayer.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
Theseus went upstairs. He waited a few moments, but no one followed him. He set up the thunderbolt on the window ledge, carefully zeroing in the crosshairs. Now he was ready! His pulse started to quicken. He was going to get the Minotaur at last!
Within a few minutes crowds had begun to gather on the street. Most of them took seats in the hastily erected grandstands on either side. There was a distant sound of a brass band. The Minotaur was coming! Little children ran up and down the street, blowing penny whistles. Theseus watched carefully, bent low over his thunderbolt launcher. He didn’t want to blow this one! Then the procession came into sight. He could see the leading chariot, filled with classical secret operatives. They were armed with small bows and arrows.
The procession drew near. Theseus let the secret service chariot pass, the one with the press corps. The third chariot drew near. It was filled with cheerleaders from Classical High School. He let that one go by, too. Now, coming up quickly, he could see another chariot approaching. The Minotaur was in it, huge, blue-purple in color, foam-specked as usual, smiling like he owned the world, waving to the crowd. How happy he looked! Theseus watched, feeling almost regretful over what he had to do. Almost but not quite. He sighted through the crosshairs, took aim as the chariot drew near, then found that his position wasn’t quite as perfect as he’d like.
He could see that the further window would give him a better shot. He picked up his thunderbolt and started across the creaking floor.
He was almost in position, when suddenly, with a heavy tearing sound, the whole construct gave way. Theseus realized too late that he had stumbled onto an unjustified spot. He tried to backpedal, but it was too late. Suddenly he was falling.
Theseus fell through the gauzy descriptive materials that the maze was constructed of. He passed quickly through a region of colossals, cylindrical in shape and gray in color, stacked with their cognates against a lurid background of horrifics. Then he passed through a region of nanoseconds and standard hesitations, and then through some oddly shaped slights, and, after them, a warehouse full of grandioses and etioses.
None of these materials looked like much close up. But it was amazing what Dædalus had done with such uncompromising materials.
Then the maze machinery kicked in and Theseus found himself standing on a standard classical city street. The premise could be seen wavering, there were repercussions of a rhetorical nature, and the author could be glimpsed, a ghostly figure of unbelievable beauty and intelligence, trying desperately, despite his many personal problems, to put things together again.
1991
BREAKOUT
The Command and Computation room of the battlecruiser Eindhoven was the size of a ballroom, but not nearly as gaudy. The color plan was subdued pastels; fighting fleets don’t go in for bright colors, even indoors. The vast room was open-plan, extending the entire width of the ship. It was divided into levels, for the Aristan Navy had long ago given up the closed office arrangements of the past. In the C&C room, if the intercoms failed, you could shout orders from command (on its own raised section) to the computation section, four rows at the center. These rows were filled with computers, most of them manned by technicians, working with data that concerned the ongoing battle for Arista. The technicians were dressed in battle gray with scarlet collars. Most of them wore the rose trefoil that had been awarded their squadron for heroism in the attack on Double Star Pass.
One of these men was Corporal Adams. He was working alone in a small plastic-walled cubbyhole in the back. Small, insignificant-looking, with a tiny moustache, Adams’s official rating was ordinary computerman. But he had turned out to be adept at number manipulation.
He had been more than willing to try his hand at the problem De Vries had set him—a problem no one had been able to solve yet. Granted that no ship could be traced once it had entered FTL mode, since no radio waves were propagated in that medium, De Vries suggested another approach. What if you plotted the vectors of the alien ships coming out of FTL space, extended those lines backwards, applied the standard correction, and averaged them? Might that not reveal their point of origin? Could the alien home world be discovered that way?
The problem wasn’t quite so simple as that. There were additional corrections to be made concerning the courses. But Adams had been able to find the standard math formulas in the ship’s computer library.
Ten minutes ago he had signalled Commander De Vries that he had a result.
De Vries entered the cubbyhole. Adams was so engrossed in going over his data that he didn’t hear the commander enter, and jumped when De Vries said, “What did you come up with, Corporal?”
“Here’s what I’ve got,” Adams said, handing De Vries a piece of paper with coordinates scrawled on it.
De Vries was tall and thin. At twenty-seven, he wasn’t much older than Adams. With his dark ruddy skin and shock of black hair, many people thought he was part American Indian. But De Vries was Afghani on his mother’s side, Flemish on his father’s.
De Vries tapped the coordinates with a finger. “You think the Hothri home world is there?”
“Hey!” Adams said. “I’ve got no idea at all about that. You told me to work with the data in this way and I did. We know that a lot of Hothri ships seem to come out into normal space along similar vectors. Maybe that shows the direction to the home world. Or maybe they’re all coming from a tavern out in space where they go to drink up their methane boilermakers before coming here to shoot us up. I warn you, skipper, neither the assumption nor the data can be classed as reliable.”
“It’ll have to do,” De Vries said. “It’s all we got.”
Adams shrugged. “Sometimes all you’ve got isn’t good enough.”
“But you can never know that until you try to use it,” De Vries said. He left the computation room and made his way back to the bridge.
The Eindhoven, like the rest of his small fleet, had dug itself in to the soil of Arista. Covered by reinforced earth and concrete, the ships were almost impregnable to Hothri bombing. Although they couldn’t be hurt themselves, they also couldn’t do much good. They kept on firing away at the Hothri ships when they came screaming in for their bombing and beaming runs, but didn’t score a lot of hits. That was natural enough—they were designed to operate in the vacuum of space, not as buried for
tresses. But there was no sense keeping them in space when they were outnumbered almost ten to one by the Hothri fleet that had been attacking Arista for the last five years.
If these coordinates were true, there was something De Vries could do, a way he could break out of the stagnant and losing defensive situation he’d been in since taking station at this far-flung planet. But it’s a hell of a gamble, he thought. And with the planet of Arista under increasingly heavy attack, he couldn’t even be sure of getting his fleet off-planet safely. He would have to think about this. Perhaps if Guthrie’s Free Corps were to stage a diversion . . . But they would never agree.
De Vries was on his way to the meeting he had set up with Mira Falken, the Aristan council representative to the fleet, when a breathless crewman hurried up to him. “Urgent message, sir.” It was a pneumo from Martin Havilland, the political officer aboard the Eindhoven. “Need to see you urgently.”
De Vries cursed under his breath. It was a new practice on the part of the government, sending along a political officer with a fleet. In theory, De Vries was in command, but only of military decisions. Havilland, the political officer, was supposed to advise on political consequences. Since a firm line had never been drawn between what was military and what was political, this was a sure recipe for confusion, especially when there was little sympathy between the two men to begin with.
De Vries decided to see Havilland in his own territory. The political officer was in his own little stateroom, reading up on “Human Dimensions,” the most recent effort by the Ministry of Information, also known as Propaganda Central. He put down his book when De Vries entered. He was a few years older than De Vries, a broad-faced man with a tendency toward corpulence and a firm belief in his own omnipotence.
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