The Memory of Whiteness

by Kim Stanley Robinson

  The door was a test; what to say, if he emerged and somebody saw him? Screw your courage to the sticking place: a musical metaphor, referring to the mandolin. Holding his breath he slipped out. No one saw him.

  And the Orchestra was alone. A glass tree ten meters high, growing in a dim red room. See it now, dear Reader, from top to bottom: five flutes, five clarinets, two Ganymede bugles, five oboes, three balloon flutes, two piccolos, five bassoons, two saxophones at each pitch; six trumpets, a balilaika, bagpipes, a choirbox, three guitarps, six French horns, the celesta, a harpsichord; thirty violins, ten violas, six trombones, two alto clarinets, a digeree-doo, two baritones, fifteen cellos, two bass trombones, two tubas; (note the glass arms and fingers on the wind instruments, the airhoses, the plastic-and-wire lips enveloping every mouthpiece); around the control booth in the middle, a piano, the spiral of organ pipes, two harps, four mandolins, four tympanis, snare drum, bass drum, wood blocks, several guitars, a banjo, the godzilla, the mercury drum, eight double basses; then near the bottom, the big boxes: the master computer, a Planck Double Reed, four Klein bottle-drums, and an aeolia, all forming a broad base for the rest. All held in glassy arms, or set on glassy struts; all wired to the control booth, the cocoon at the heart of the tree.

  See it now as the storage room jerks and then slowly drops down the shaft in the center of the power plant; the room is an elevator. Thus begins the laborious process of moving the Orchestra to the site of its next performance; workers wait on the ground floor to shift the statue onto an equipment bus that will take it to the spaceport. As the Orchestra was not made to be moved, it is a delicate operation. Even the slow stop of the elevator room causes a slight stress in the many branches of the glass tree; some of them bend millimeters, then return to their rightful positions; and by this movement small sounds are created, little clinks, and creaks, and bings, a tiny tintinnabulation that is the Orchestra’s own song.…

  Onward, Reader, out of the darkness and silence.

  Chapter Two

  A MIDSUMMER NIGHT

  holywelkin

  I know. Who, you ask, is this ubiquitous Holywelkin? Reader, he is the Euclid, the Newton, the Einstein, the Mauring of our age. Humanity moves from one model of reality to the next; and often, as the anomalies accumulate, it is a genius who looks at the shaky structure of observation and theory, and lays a new foundation for us to build our stories on. And who can explain genius? Genius is not a matter of intelligence, but of spirit; and we cannot speak accurately of the spirit in any language but music.

  Not that this has prevented the hundreds of studies of Arthur Holywelkin from being written, filmed, hologrammed. In them you can learn all that one human can know of another: all the details of the birth in 2956 on Deimos, the childhood on Mars, the youthful work in the high energy physics laboratories in Mercury’s orbit, the Year of the Thought Experiments; the involvement in the plans for the Great Synchrotron, which created subatomic events with energies never before imagined possible, introducing the flood of new data that piled onto the tottering structure of Thirtieth century physics; the quiet years on Ganymede, when the Ten Forms of Change was written; and the last years of exile on Pluto, where the Orchestra was built, and where Holywelkin turned his back on the technological developments based on his work, which were altering the whole of civilization. You can learn all this and more: his childhood fears, his youthful excesses, his sexual preferences, his numerological superstitions, his arcane religious views … you name it: that aspect of Holywelkin has been intensively studied.

  And yet all of this has done nothing to explain Holywelkin. Except for the work done, his biography could be that of any lab technician, nightclub musician, lay preacher, traveling salesman. Nothing in his life explains his work. Nothing in the life of any genius explains their work.

  But we can describe the work—to a certain extent. You, dear Reader, may live in a culture that believes that gods inhabit every object, or in another that believes the speed of light to be an absolute limit, or in a third that understands the world to be composed of tiny balls bouncing against each other. Who knows? After I place this tale in a whiteline jump, it might end up anywhere (or nowhere). So there are certain difficulties. But know this: physics had ground to a halt in the Thirtieth century. After the atomists of classical physics, with their gridwork of absolute space and absolute time; and after the quantum mechanists, with all their relativities of the spacetime continuum; and after the multidimensional cosmologists, with their compactified curved dimensions, wormholes, and spacetime discontinua—after each of these, there came the time when physics was stumped. Experimental results from the Great Synchrotron and the Orbital Gevatron yielded glimpses into the five micro-dimensions, and provided a rich wilderness of data from which no good general theory could be made. Particles were smashed together at trillions of electron volts, results were captured on plates as far away as the asteroid belt, and even at the small sunwatch station on Pluto; in essence the whole solar system was one large physics laboratory. And these experiments showed that quarks were made of smaller “particles” (“events” might be a better term), which existed in the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth dimensions, each of which was curved more tightly than the last. Thus quarks were contained in the “bags” of the higher dimensions, so that quarks behaved differently depending on their constituent parts and the different properties of their “bags”; and there were hundreds and hundreds of these combinations to be found and named. For almost a century physics was reduced to a kind of taxonomy, as new events in the higher dimensions were continually found and labelled. But a larger system that might explain their activity was nowhere offered; the math used to describe these marks on the plates was fractal in its structure, except that it was a fractal pattern without the central core, branches without the tree.

  Then Holywelkin, in his twenty-third year, the “Year of the Thought Experiments,” postulated that all the myriad events that made up quarks were caused by even smaller “particles,” which in varying combinations in the realms of the ten dimensions (five macro-dimensions and five tightly curved micro-dimensions, Holywelkin said) created the confusing welter of behavior seen at the level above it. Using Mauring’s micro-dimensional geometry, Holywelkin made certain predictions about broken quark behavior that were borne out by experiment. He was given time on the Great Synchrotron, and directed a series of experiments designed to confirm his theories concerning these uniform, basic “sub-particles,” which he called glints. The theories were confirmed, and enough data collected for Holywelkin to begin the formulation of the equations governing the movement of these “sub-particles.” These were published as the Ten Forms of Change, and Holywelkin’s own version of the grail-like grand unified theory was given to the world.

  Which made much of it. But that, dear Reader, is History, not physics. And History you will read on every other page of this tale.

  second crossing

  Because of Pluto’s May festival, the planet’s space was crowded with ships; they circled the planet like strings of tiny pearls against the black velvet of space. The catch of one of these strings, you might say, was the great spaceliner Orion, perhaps the most famous ship in the solar system. For over two hundred years the Orion had conveyed the Grand Tours of Holywelkin’s Orchestra downsystem, and now the Orchestra, its traveling crew, and several hundred devoted followers from all over the outer worlds were aboard, ready for the passage to Uranus.

  Dent Ios, however, was not one of those on the Orion. Booking passage had been no easy task; by the time his collective had sent money, cabins were available only on the Caliban, a second-rate ship that had just arrived in Pluto’s space. The exhausted and discouraged Dent had shuttled up to find that his room was no more than a sleeping closet. Even so he would not have left it, but there was no room service, and hunger drove him to the dining commons. On the way he passed a small porthole. Bitterly he stared out at the Orion, which floated just five or six vessels ah
ead of his. Everything of interest during the crossing would occur over there, with Wright and his crew, the critics and the devout, while Dent might as well sleep for the next month. He cursed his collective again—they were ill-organized, manipulative, domineering, inefficient, cheap.…

  Then the catch of the necklace broke away and curved out of the orbit away from Pluto, and the entire string of pearls followed it. Fine image of humanity! For are not most of us on strings, following the few who in matters of the spirit lead us: little Calibans and Paulines, sailing in the wake of the infrequent Orion.… But now, the Grand Tour was off!—And Dent Ios only heaved a piteous sigh, and went to get something to eat.

  In the dining commons he sat next to a couple speaking a Scandinavian language. He ordered Szechuan beef and bean curd from the table console, and quickly it appeared in the console slot, steaming. He ate voraciously. Midway through his meal two men sat down across from him. One was tall, bulky, swarthy, and quick of movement; Dent guessed he was Indian, which meant that he probably originated in the Jupiter system. The other man was short and slight, with odd eyes. They spoke together in Hindi. Dent understood a little of the language, and looked down at his food, embarrassed to be eavesdropping. The two men exchanged a banter almost too rapid for Dent to follow—he only understood that they were discussing the ship and its occupants. The short one spoke at length in a lilting tone; exaggerated shifts in pitch and rhythm made his Hindi a sort of singing. The tall man laughed from time to time. They were joking about the Scandinavians, and even Dent. Something about the smaller man drew attention; even diners at other tables turned to look at him, and listen to his babbling. Soon their table was full, and the small man included them all in his conversation, although no one there seemed to understand Hindi. He was just playing with them. Then he took a radish from his salad, and using his chopsticks as a catapult attempted to shoot it at a passenger entering the commons; but the radish slipped, and struck Dent on the collarbone.

  Perhaps it reminded him of the blows he had received in Lowell. Dent scraped his chair back angrily, fist raised. But the tall man stood very quickly indeed, and said in English, “We’re sorry. A misfire. My friend is—”

  “Your friend is rude,” Dent said in Hindi. “These people and I, they do not”—he searched for the word—“they do not need bad words.”

  Now the short man stood. “I’m sorry. I’m being the fool tonight.” He offered a hand, and reluctantly Dent took it: a small, strong, long-fingered hand. The man’s English was as lilting as his Hindi.

  Dent felt embarrassed again; his outburst was out of proportion to its cause. “It was nothing,” he muttered. “I’ve had a long couple of days.”

  “You didn’t enjoy the May Festival?” the short man asked.

  “No,” Dent said. “Not at all.”

  “Will you play with us tonight?” the man said.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Please. You play guitar.”

  “Why yes, I do.”

  “I knew by your calluses.” The man’s smile was slight, inward. In some ways he seemed to be conversing only with himself—listening to himself very carefully. “We’re going to play Schiapella’s Sixth Guitar Quartet, and we need a fourth.”

  “I don’t know those by heart.”

  “None of us do. We’re having scores printed.”

  “All right, then,” Dent said uncertainly. Usually he played with friends—

  “Good. In a couple of hours, then, in the first practice room.”

  Leaving the commons Dent looked back; the two men were surrounded by a group of people, and the slight young man was laughing at his tall companion, holding the attention of all with a strange force—with his luminous voice, his odd blank face.

  Two hours later Dent entered the music room, guitar case in hand. The room was almost full; people stood in small knots talking. To one side a woman performed on a large godzilla, tapping its hollow arms and rocking it gently, seeming to coax by caresses a series of metallic, lazily oscillating tones. In the room’s center Dent’s new acquaintances were setting sheet music on metal stands. They greeted Dent and introduced a Marie-Jeanne, their fourth, without naming themselves. Dent tried to scan the score as they tuned, but they were ready before he had skimmed more than the first several bars. The woman with the godzilla stopped, and at a nod from the short man they began playing. Dent concentrated. His part was simple enough, but it was hard to put life into sight-reading, and he worked at it. The others were good. The short man was playing with great power and expressiveness; Dent began to enjoy watching the man’s long fingers and their spatulate, callused fingertips, that looked as round and flat as a tree frog’s. His eyes were artificial—Dent saw that in a flash. That accounted for the curious blank intensity of his gaze. Dent lost his place, then a strong run from the short man showed him where they were, and he saw in the score that the man had played Dent’s part for a second to reorient him. Dent confined his attention to the development of the second theme. Now he only heard the others, and he realized that the tall man was a relatively weak player, the woman not much better. But the radish tosser—he was a musician. The room was full of listeners, he could tell by the acoustics. Dent glanced up and saw they were watching the short man. He thought, That’s Johannes Wright. He almost lost his place again, but forced himself to concentrate. The eyes—that was Wright’s situation, he remembered. And the audience. No one would gather to listen to a pick-up quartet; they would be too busy making their own music. No, it all seemed to fit. Traveling on a smaller ship for privacy, security, whatever. And playing counterpoint with him, Dent felt Wright’s power. When the finale ended the room rang with applause and looping whistles.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” Dent said to the man.

  “Johannes,” he said, folding up his sheet music.

  Dent grinned, suddenly feeling that he had known all along. “Dent Ios,” he said. “Happy to meet you.”

  The crossing to Uranus had taken on a new light.

  the traitor

  On board great Orion the hallways were tall and broad, carpeted here with plush fabric, there with rich mosses. It was night in the giant ship, and the light strips running high along the walls were dimmed, the long passageways nearly empty.

  Down the hallway to the communications rooms walked Anton Vaccero. A message had roused him with the news that a holo caller was waiting in live transmission for him; he knew who the caller was. He felt hot and light-headed. In his bed he had considered ignoring the message, but he had been afraid to. And now he hurried, afraid of keeping his caller waiting too long. In the communications complex the woman in charge led him to one of the holo chambers. “Your call’s from Pluto,” she said. “There’ll be about a twenty-second delay.”

  She left. Vaccero felt weak and faint, as if he had not eaten for days. The room went dark and he tried to batten down his fear, to pull himself together. When the light came on again Ernst Ekern stood before him like a ghost, solid and well-lit, but somehow wrong. Prepared for the shock of the sight, Vaccero stood as stiff as a soldier. For what seemed a minute the apparition of Ekern only stood there. Then it nodded.

  “Where is Wright?” The room’s speaker was near the ceiling.

  Anton took a deep breath. “He’s on another ship, with Godavari. I don’t know which one.”

  The twenty seconds seemed like another minute. Sweat slid down the insides of Anton’s arms.

  “Find out,” Ekern said. “You should have known that I would want to know this, you should have anticipated. Why isn’t he on Orion?”

  “They were afraid. Godavari’s agents heard Wright was in danger.”

  Twenty seconds.

  “Good. Thus it begins. You understand: in the beginning of the drama the motif is fear.”

  I understand that all too well, Anton thought.

  “First he frightened the crowd, and then we reverse the terms. The crowd frightens him. When Wright is afraid, he is
ready for the next act. Now to help create the Aura of Unfocused Danger, we must frighten the crew as well. I want you to arrange for their floor to be emptied, for an entire evening within the next few days.”

  “I can search it for you if you like,” Anton offered.

  Another twenty seconds.

  “You just play your part,” Ekern said, frowning slightly. “You are my apprentice, you make no suggestions to me. You play your part and play it well. Clear the floor, and if that proves impossible, gather the crew into a single room. Call room 3773 on Orion and leave the message ‘X’ on the evening before this is to occur. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, master.”

  Ekern’s bearded face frowned; he was slightly cross-eyed as he waited for Vaccero’s reply. Then he nodded, and said, “Very good. Remember, Anton, within the larger framework of the metadrama, small scenes such as this one are partly yours to direct. Once accomplished they become one thread of the weave. We will both be watched by the Magus and all the members of our order, and it will help your rise in the fellowship to use your esthetic sensibility here. And remember—find out which ship Wright is on. This is something you should have known.” Ekern’s expression twisted and instinctively Anton recoiled. “This is something I should know! To have the actor disappear—it has made the others doubt me, and Atargatis laughed. I will not have it! And you, Anton, you my beloved apprentice—but why do you look so pale, my boy? Ha! Why do you fear me?”

  Anton swallowed. “You control my destiny, master.”

  Twenty seconds.

  “You should not fear your destiny, boy. Do as I command, and all will be well. End transmission.”

  And he disappeared. The room went dark. When the light came back on Anton stood in an empty room. He heaved several breaths into his chest. He was damp with sweat, his heart was racing. He fled the room.

  inclusion: interpolation