by Anthology
Tanner said, “What do you think now? Still so pessimistic?”
“It’s too early to say,” said Richardson, looking glum.
“He looks like Socrates, doesn’t he?”
“That was the easy part. We’ve got plenty of descriptions of Socrates that came down from people who knew him, the flat wide nose, the bald head, the thick lips, the short neck. A standard Socrates face that everybody recognizes, just as they do Sherlock Holmes, or Don Quixote. So that’s how we made him look. It doesn’t signify anything important. It’s what’s going on inside his head that’ll determine whether we really have Socrates.”
“He seems calm and good-humored as he wanders around in there. The way a philosopher should.”
“Pizarro seemed just as much of a philosopher when we turned him loose in the tank.”
“Pizarro may be just as much of a philosopher,” Tanner said. “Neither man’s the sort who’d be likely to panic if he found himself in some mysterious place. ” Richardson’s negativism was beginning to bother him. It was as if the two men had exchanged places: Richardson now uncertain of the range and power of his own program, Tanner pushing the way on and on toward bigger and better things.
Bleakly Richardson said, “I’m still pretty skeptical. We’ve tried the new parallax filters, yes. But I’m afraid we’re going to run into the same problem the French did with Don Quixote, and that we did with Holmes and Moses and Caesar. There’s too much contamination of the data by myth and fantasy. The Socrates who has come down to us is as much fictional as real, or maybe all fictional.
For all we know, Plato made up everything we think we know about him, the same way Conan Doyle made up Holmes. And what we’re going to get, I’m afraid, will be something second-hand, something lifeless, something lacking in the spark of self-directed intelligence that we’re after.”
“But the new filters—”
“Perhaps. Perhaps.”
Tanner shook his head stubbornly. “Holmes and Don Quixote are fiction through and through. They exist in only one dimension, constructed for us by their authors. You cut through the distortions and fantasies of later readers and commentators and all you find underneath is a made-up character. A lot of Socrates may have been invented by Plato for his own purposes, but a lot wasn’t. He really existed. He took an actual part in civic activities in fifth-century Athens. He figures in books by a lot of other contemporaries of his besides Plato’s dialogues. That gives us the parallax you’re looking for, doesn’t it—the view of him from more than one viewpoint?”
“Maybe it does. Maybe not. We got nowhere with Moses. Was he fictional?”
“Who can say? All you had to go by was the Bible. And a ton of Biblical commentary, for whatever that was worth. Not much, apparently.”
“And Caesar? You’re not going to tell me that Caesar wasn’t real,” said Richardson. “But what we have of him is evidently contaminated with myth. When we synthesized him we got nothing but a caricature, and I don’t have to remind you how fast even that broke down into sheer gibberish.”
“Not relevant,” Tanner said. “Caesar was early in the project. You know much more about what you’re doing now. I think this is going to work.”
Richardson’s dogged pessimism, Tanner decided, must be a defense mechanism, designed to insulate himself against the possibility of a new failure. Socrates, after all hadn’t been Richardson’s own choice. And this was the first time he had used these new enhancement methods, the parallax program that was the latest refinement of the process.
Tanner looked at him. Richardson remained silent.
“Go on,” Tanner said. “Bring up Pizarro and let the two of them talk to each other. Then we’ll find out what sort of Socrates you’ve conjured up here.”
Once again there was a disturbance in the distance, a little dark blur on the pearly horizon, a blotch, a flaw in the gleaming whiteness. Another demon is arriving, Pizarro thought. Or perhaps it is the same one as before, the American, the one who liked to show himself only as a face, with short hair and no beard.
But as this one drew closer Pizarro saw that he was different from the last, short and stocky, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. He was nearly bald and his thick beard was coarse and unkempt. He looked old, at least sixty, maybe sixty-five. He looked very ugly, too, with bulging eyes and a flat nose that had wide, flaring nostrils, and a neck so short that his oversized head seemed to sprout straight from his trunk. All he wore was a thin, ragged brown robe. His feet were bare.
“You, there,” Pizarro called out. “You! Demon! Are you also an American, demon?”
“Your pardon. An Athenian, did you say?”
“American is what I said. That’s what the last one was. Is that where you come from, too, demon? America?”
A shrug. “No, I think not. I am of Athens.” There was a curious mocking twinkle in the demon’s eyes.
“A Greek? This demon is a Greek?”
“I am of Athens,” the ugly one said again. “My name is Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus. I could not tell you what a Greek is, so perhaps I may be one, but I think not, unless a Greek is what you call a man of Athens.” He spoke in a slow, plodding way, like one who was exceedingly stupid. Pizarro had sometimes met men like this before, and in his experience they were generally not as stupid as they wanted to be taken for. He felt caution rising in him. “And I am no demon, but just a plain man: very plain, as you can easily see.” Pizarro snorted. “You like to chop words, do you?”
“It is not the worst of amusements, my friend,” said the other, and put his hands together behind his back in the most casual way, and stood there calmly, smiling, looking off into the distance, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Well?” Tanner said. “Do we have Socrates or not? I say that’s the genuine article there.”
Richardson looked up and nodded. He seemed relieved and quizzical both at once. “So far so good, I have to say. He’s coming through real and true.”
“Yes.”
“We may actually have worked past the problem of information contamination that ruined some of the earlier simulations. We’re not getting any of the signal degradation we encountered then.”
“He’s some character, isn’t he?” Tanner said. “I liked the way he just walked right up to Pizarro without the slightest sign of uneasiness. He’s not at all afraid of him.”
“Why should he be?” Richardson asked. “Wouldn’t you? If you were walking along through God knows what kind of unearthly place, not knowing where you were or how you got there, and suddenly you saw a ferocious-looking bastard like Pizarro standing in front of you wearing full armor and carrying a sword—” Tanner shook his head. “Well, maybe not. He’s Socrates, after all, and Socrates wasn’t afraid of anything except boredom.”
“And Pizarro’s just a simulation. Nothing but software.”
“So you’ve been telling me all along. But Socrates doesn’t know that.”
“True,” Richardson said. He seemed lost in thought a moment. “Perhaps there is some risk.”
“Huh?”
“If our Socrates is anything like the one in Plato, and he surely ought to be, then he’s capable of making a considerable pest of himself. Pizarro may not care for Socrates’ little verbal games. If he doesn’t feel like playing, I suppose there’s a theoretical possibility that he’ll engage in some sort of aggressive response.”
That took Tanner by surprise. He swung around and said, “Are you telling me that there’s some way he can harm Socrates?”
“Who knows?” said Richardson. “In the real world one program can certainly crash another one. Maybe one simulation can be dangerous to another one. This is all new territory for all of us, Harry. Including the people in the tank.”
The tall grizzled-looking man, said, scowling, “You tell me you’re an Athenian, but not a Greek. What sense am I supposed to make of that? I could ask Pedro de Candia, I guess, who is a Greek but not an Athenian. But
he’s not here. Perhaps you’re just a fool, eh? Or you think I am.”
“I have no idea what you are. Could it be that you are a god?”
“A god?”
“Yes,” Socrates said. He studied the other impassively. His face was harsh, his gaze was cold. “Perhaps you are Ares. You have a fierce warlike look about you, and you wear armor, but not such armor as I have ever seen. This place is so strange that it might well be the abode of the gods, and that could be a god’s armor you wear, I suppose. If you are Ares, then I salute you with the respect that is due you. I am Socrates of Athens, the stonemason’s son.”
“You talk a lot of nonsense. I don’t know your Ares.”
“Why, the god of war, of course! Everyone knows that. Except barbarians, that is. Are you a barbarian, then? You sound like one, I must say—but then, I seem to sound like a barbarian myself, and I’ve spoken the tongue of Hellas all my life. There are many mysteries here, indeed.”
“Your language problem again,” Tanner said. “Couldn’t you even get classical Greek to come out right? Or are they both speaking Spanish to each other?”
“Pizarro thinks they’re speaking Spanish. Socrates thinks they’re speaking Greek. And of course the Greek is off. We don’t know how anything that was spoken before the age of recordings sounded. All we can do is guess.”
“But can’t you—”
“Shh,” Richardson said.
Pizarro said, “I may be a bastard, but I’m no barbarian, fellow, so curb your tongue. And let’s have no more blasphemy out of you either.”
“If I blaspheme, forgive me. It is in innocence. Tell me where I trespass, and I will not do it again.”
“This crazy talk of gods. Of my being a god. I’d expect a heathen to talk like that, but not a Greek. But maybe you’re a heathen land of Greek, and not to be blamed. It’s heathens who see gods everywhere. Do I look like a god to you? I am Francisco Pizarro, of Trujillo in Estremadura, the son of the famous soldier Gonzalo Pizarro, colonel of infantry, who served in the wars of Gonzalo de Cordova whom men call the Great Captain. I have fought some wars myself.”
“Then you are not a god but simply a soldier? Good. I have been a soldier myself. I am more at ease with soldiers than with gods, as most people are, I would think.”
“A soldier? You?” Pizarro smiled. This shabby ordinary little man, more bedraggled-looking than any self-respecting groom would be, a soldier? “In which wars?”
“The wars of Athens. I fought at Potidaea, where the Corinthians were making trouble, and withholding the tribute that was due us. It was very cold there, and the siege was long and bleak, but we did our duty. I fought again some years later at Delium against the Boeotians. Laches was our general then, but it went badly for us, and we did our best fighting in retreat. And then,” Socrates said, “when Brasidas was in Amphipolis, and they sent Cleon to drive him out, I—”
“Enough,” said Pizarro with an impatient wave of his hand. “These wars are unknown to me.” A private soldier, a man of the ranks, no doubt. “Well, then this is the place where they send dead soldiers, I suppose.”
“Are we dead, then?”
“Long ago. There’s an Alfonso who’s king, and a Pius who’s pope, and you wouldn’t believe their numbers. Pius the Sixteenth, I think the demon said. And the American said also that it is the year 2130. The last year that I can remember was 1539. What about you?”
The one who called himself Socrates shrugged again. “In Athens we use a different reckoning. But let us say, for argument’s sake, that we are dead. I think that is very likely, considering what sort of place this seems to be, and how airy I find my body to be. So we have died, and this is the life after life. I wonder: is this a place where virtuous men are sent, or those who were not virtuous? Or do all men go to the same place after death, whether they were virtuous or not? What would you say?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” said Pizarro. “Well, were you virtuous in your life, or not?”
“Did I sin, you mean?”
“Yes, we could use that word.”
“Did I sin, he wants to know,” said Pizarro, amazed. “He asks, Was I a sinner? Did I five a virtuous life? What business is that of his?”
“Humor me,” said Socrates. “For the sake of the argument, if you will, allow me a few small questions—”
“So it’s starting,” Tanner said. “You see? You really did do it! Socrates is drawing him into a dialog!”
Richardson’s eyes were glowing. “He is, yes. How marvelous this is, Harry!”
“Socrates is going to talk rings around him.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Richardson said.
“I gave as good as I got,” said Pizarro. “If I was injured, I gave injury back. There’s no sin in that. It’s only common sense. A man does what is necessary to survive and to protect his place in the world. Sometimes I might forget a fast day, yes, or use the Lord’s name in vain—those are sins, I suppose, Fray Vicente was always after me for things like that—but does that make me a sinner? I did my penances as soon as I could find time for them. It’s a sinful world and I’m no different from anyone else, so why be harsh on me? Eh? God made me as I am. I’m done in His image. And I have faith in His son.”
“So you are a virtuous man, then.”
“I’m not a sinner, at any rate. As I told you, if ever I sinned I did my contrition, which made it the same as if the sin hadn’t ever happened. ”
“Indeed,” said Socrates. “Then you are a virtuous man and I have come to a good place. But I want to be absolutely sure. Tell me again: is your conscience completely clear?”
“What are you, a confessor?”
“Only an ignorant man seeking understanding. Which you can provide, by taking part with me in the exploration. If I have come to the place of virtuous men, then I must have been virtuous myself when I lived. Ease my mind, therefore, and let me know whether there is anything on your soul that you regret having done.”
Pizarro stirred uneasily. “Well,” he said, “I killed a king.”
“A wicked one? An enemy of your city?”
“No. He was wise and kind.”
“Then you have reason for regret indeed. For surely that is a sin, to kill a wise king.”
“But he was a heathen.”
“A what?”
“He denied God.”
“He denied his own god?” said Socrates. “Then perhaps it was not so wrong to kill him.”
“No. He denied mine. He preferred his own. And so he was a heathen. And all his people were heathens, since they followed his way. That could not be. They were at risk of eternal damnation because they followed him. I killed him for the sake of his people’s souls. I killed him out of the love of God.”
“But would you not say that all gods are the reflection of the one God?”
Pizarro considered that. “In a way, that’s true, I suppose.”
“And is the service of God not itself godly?”
“How could it be anything but godly, Socrates?”
“And would you say that one who serves his god faithfully according to the teachings of his god is behaving in a godly way?”
Frowning, Pizarro said, “Well—if you look at it that way, yes—”
“Then I think the king you killed was a godly man, and by killing him you sinned against God.”
“Wait a minute!”
“But think of it: by serving his god he must also have served yours, for any servant of a god is a servant of the true god who encompasses all our imagined gods.”
“No,” said Pizarro sullenly. “How could he have been a servant of God? He knew nothing of Jesus. He had no understanding of the Trinity. When the priest offered him the Bible, he threw it to the ground in scorn. He was a heathen, Socrates. And so are you. You don’t know anything of these matters at all, if you think that Atahuallpa was godly. Or if you think you’re going to get me to think so.”
“Indeed I have very little kno
wledge of anything. But you say he was a wise man, and kind?”
“In his heathen way.”
“And a good king to his people?”
“So it seemed. They were a thriving people when I found them.”
“Yet he was not godly.”
“I told you. He had never had the sacraments, and in fact he spumed them right up until the moment of his death, when he accepted baptism. Then he came to be godly. But by then the sentence of death was upon him and it was too late for anything to save him.”
“Baptism? Tell me what that is, Pizarro.”
“A sacrament.”
“And that is?”
“A holy rite. Done with holy water, by a priest. It admits one to Holy Mother Church, and brings forgiveness from sin both original and actual, and gives the gift of the Holy Spirit.”
“You must tell me more about these things another time. So you made this good king godly by this baptism? And then you killed him?”
“Yes.”
But he was godly when you killed him. Surely, then, to kill him was a sin.”
“He had to die, Socrates!”
“And why was that?” asked the Athenian.
“Socrates is closing in for the kill,” Tanner said. “Watch this!”
“I’m watching. But there isn’t going to be any kill,” said Richardson. “Their basic assumptions are too far apart.”
“You’ll see.”
“Will I?”
Pizarro said, “I’ve already told you why he had to die. It was because his people followed him in all things. And so they worshipped the sun, because he said the sun was God. Their souls would have gone to hell if we had allowed them to continue that way.”
“But if they followed him in all things,” said Socrates, “then surely they would have followed him into baptism, and become godly, and thus done that which was pleasing to you and to your god! Is that not so?”
“No,” said Pizarro, twisting his fingers in his beard.