A Canticle For Leibowitz

by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

  "Take him back to his quarters and sit on him till he cools off," the thon told them. "And better see that he doesn't get a chance at that lunatic."

  "I'm mortified," he said to the abbot, when the livid guardsman was hauled away. "They aren't my servants, and I can't give them orders. But I can promise you he will grovel for this. And if he refuses to apologize and leave immediately, he'll have to match that hasty sword against mine before noon tomorrow."

  "No bloodshed!" begged the priest. "It was nothing. Let's all forget it." His hands were trembling, his countenance gray.

  "He will make apology and go," Thon Taddeo insisted, "or I shall offer to kill him. Don't worry, he doesn't dare fight me because if he won, Hannegan would have him impaled on the public stake while they forced his wife to — but never mind that. He'll grovel and go. Just the same, I'm deeply ashamed that such a thing could have come about."

  "I should have had the Poet thrown out as soon as he showed up. He provoked the whole thing, and I failed to stop it. The provocation was dear."

  "Provocation? By the fanciful lie of a vagrant fool? Josard reacted as if the Poet's charges were true."

  "Then you don't know that they are preparing a comprehensive report on the military value of our abbey as a fortress?"

  The scholar's jaw fell. He stared from one priest to the other in apparent unbelief.

  "Can this be true?" he asked after a long silence.

  The abbot nodded.

  "And you've permitted us to stay."

  "We keep no secrets. Your companions are welcome to make such a study if they wish. I would not presume to ask why they want the information. The Poet's assumption, of course, was merest fantasy."

  "Of course," the thon said weakly, not looking at his host.

  "Surely your prince has no aggressive ambitions in this region, as the Poet hinted."

  "Surely not."

  "And even if he did, I'm sure he would have the wisdom at least the wise counselors to lead him — to understand that our abbey's value as a storehouse of ancient wisdom is many times greater than its value as a citadel."

  The thon caught the note of pleading, the undercurrent of supplication for help, in the priest's voice, and he seemed to brood on it, picking lightly at his food and saying nothing for a time.

  "We'll speak of this matter again before I return to the collegium," he promised quietly.

  A pall had fallen on the banquet, but it began to lift during the group singing in the courtyard after the meal, and it vanished entirely when the time came for the scholar's lecture in the Great Hall. Embarrassment seemed at an end, and the group had resumed a surface cordiality.

  Dom Paulo led the thon to the lectern; Gault and the don's clerk followed, joining them on the platform. Applause rang out heartily following the abbot's introduction of the thon; the hush that followed suggested the silence of a courtroom awaiting a verdict. The scholar was no gifted orator, but the verdict proved satisfying to the monastic throng.

  "I have been amazed at what we've found here," he told them. "A few weeks ago I would not have believed, did not believe, that records such as you have in your Memorabilia could still be surviving from the fall of the last mighty civilization. It is still hard to believe, but evidence forces us to adopt the hypothesis that the documents are authentic. Their survival here is incredible enough; but even more fantastic, to me, is the fact that they have gone unnoticed during this century, until now. Lately there have been men capable of appreciating their potential value — and not only myself. What Thon Kaschler might have done with them while he was alive! — even seventy years ago."

  The sea of monks' faces was alight with smiles upon hearing so favorable a reaction to the Memorabilia from one so gifted as the thon. Paulo wondered why they failed to sense the faint undercurrent of resentment — or was it suspicion? — in the speaker's tone. "Had I known of these sources ten years ago," he was saying, "much of my work in optics would have been unnecessary." Ahha! thought the abbot, so that's it. Or at least part of it. He's finding out that some of his discoveries are only rediscoveries, and it leaves a bitter taste. But surely he must know that never during his lifetime can he be more than a recoverer of lost works; however brilliant, he can only do what others before him had done. And so it would be, inevitably, until the world became as highly developed as it had been before the Flame Deluge.

  Nevertheless, it was apparent that Thon Taddeo was impressed.

  "My time here is limited." he went on, "From what I have seen, I suspect that it will take twenty specialists several decades to finish milking the Memorabilia for understandable information. Physical science normally proceeds by inductive reasoning tested by experiment; but here the task is deductive. From a few broken bits of general principles, we must attempt to grasp particulars. In some cases, it may prove impossible. For example—" He paused for a moment to produce a packet of notes and thumbed through them briefly. "Here is a quotation which I found buried downstairs. It's from a four-page fragment of a book which may have been an advanced physics text. A few of you may have seen it."

  " '—and if the space terms predominate in the expression for the interval between event-points, the interval is said to be space-like, since it is then possible to select a co-ordinate system — belonging to an observer with an admissible velocity — in which the events appear simultaneous, and therefore separated only spatially. If, however, the interval is timelike, the events cannot be simultaneous in any co-ordinate system, but there exists a co-ordinate system in which the space terms will vanish entirely, so that the separation between events will be purely temporal, id est, occurring at the same place, but at different times. Now upon examining the extremals of the real interval—' "

  He looked up with a whimsical smile. "Has anyone here looked at that reference lately?"

  The sea of faces remained blank.

  "Anyone ever remember seeing it?"

  Kornhoer and two others cautiously lifted their hands.

  "Anyone know what it means?"

  The hands quickly went down.

  The thon chuckled. "It's followed by a page and a half of mathematics which I won't try to read, but it treats some of our fundamental concepts as if they weren't basic at all, but evanescent appearances that change according to one's point of view. It ends with the word 'therefore' but the rest of the page is burned, and the conclusion with it. The reasoning is impeccable, however, and the mathematics quite elegant, so that I can write the conclusion myself. It seems the conclusion of a madman. It began with assumptions, however, which appeared equally mad. Is it a hoax? If it isn't, what is its place in the whole scheme of the science of the ancients? What precedes it as prerequisite to understanding? What follows, and how can it be tested? Questions I can't answer. This is only one example of the many enigmas posed by these papers you've kept so long. Reasoning which touches experiential reality nowhere is the business of angelologists and theologians, not of physical scientists. And yet such papers as these describe systems which touch our experience nowhere. Were they within the experimental reach of the ancients? Certain references tend to indicate it. One paper refers to elemental transmutation — which we just recently established as theoretically impossible — and then it says 'experiment proves.' But how?

  "It may take generations to evaluate and understand some of these things. It is unfortunate that they must remain here in this inaccessible place, for it will take a concentrated effort by numerous scholars to make meaning of them. I am sure you realize that your present facilities are inadequate — not to mention 'inaccessible' to the rest of the world."

  Seated on the platform behind the speaker, the abbot began to glower, waiting for the worst. Thon Taddeo chose, however, to offer no proposals. But his remarks continued to make clear his feeling that such relics belonged in more competent hands than those of the monks of the Albertian Order of Saint Leibowitz, and that the situation as it prevailed was absurd. Perhaps sensing the growing uneasiness in the roo
m, he soon turned to the subject of his immediate studies, which involved a more thorough investigation into the nature of light than had been made previously. Several of the abbey's treasures were proving to be of much help, and he hoped to devise soon an experimental means for testing his theories. After some discussion of the phenomenon of refraction, he paused, then said apologetically: "I hope none of this offends anybody's religious beliefs," and looked around quizzically. Seeing that their faces remained curious and bland, he continued for a time, then invited questions from the congregation.

  "Do you mind a question from the platform?" asked the abbot.

  "Not at all," said the scholar, looking a bit doubtful, as if thinking et tu, Brute.

  "I was wondering what there is about the refrangible property of light that you thought might be offensive to religion?"

  "Well—" The thon paused uncomfortably. "Monsignor Apollo, whom you know, grew quite heated on the subject. He said that light could not possibly have been refrangible before the Flood, because the rainbow was supposedly—"

  The room burst into roaring laughter, drowning the rest of the remark. By the time the abbot had waved them to silence, Thon Taddeo was beet red, and Dom Paulo had some difficulty in maintaining his own solemn visage.

  "Monsignor Apollo is a good man, a good priest, but all men are apt to be incredible asses at times, especially outside their domains. I'm sorry I asked the question."

  "The answer relieves me," said the scholar. "I seek no quarrels."

  There were no further questions and the thon proceeded to his second topic: the growth and the present activities of his collegium. The picture as he painted it seemed encouraging. The collegium was flooded with applicants who wanted to study at the institute. The collegium was assuming an educational function as well as an investigative one. Interest in natural philosophy and science was on the increase among the literate laity. The institute was being liberally endowed. Symptoms of revival and renaissance.

  "I might mention a few of the current researches and investigations being conducted by our people," he went on.

  "Following Bret's work on the behavior of gases, Thon Viche Mortoin is investigating the possibilities for the artificial production of ice. Thon Friider Halb is seeking a practical means for transmitting messages by electrical variations along a wire—" The list was long, and the monks appeared Impressed. Studies in many fields — medicine, astronomy, geology, mathematics, mechanics — were being undertaken. A few seemed impractical and ill-considered, but most seemed to promise rich rewards in knowledge and practical application. From Jejene's search for the Universal Nostrum to Bodalk's reckless assault on orthodox geometries, the collegium's activities exhibited a healthy hankering to pry open Nature's private files, locked since mankind had burned its institutional memories and condemned itself to cultural amnesia more than a millennium ago.

  "In addition to these studies, Thon Maho Mahh is heading a project which seeks further information about the origin of the human species. Since this is primarily an archeological task, he asked me to search your library for any suggestive material on the subject, after I complete my own study here. However, perhaps I'd better not dwell on this at any length, since it's tending to cause controversy with the theologicans. But if there are any questions—"

  A young monk who was studying for the priesthood stood up and was recognized by the thon.

  "Sir, I was wondering if you were acquainted with the suggestions of Saint Augustine on the subject?"

  "I am not."

  "A fourth century bishop and philosopher. He suggested that in the beginning, God created all things in their germinal causes, including the physiology of man, and that the germinal causes inseminate, as it were, the formless matter — which then gradually evolved into the more complex shapes, and eventually Man. Has this hypothesis been considered?"

  The thon's smile was condescending, although be did not openly brand the proposal childish. "I'm afraid it has not, but I shall look it up," he said, in a tone that indicated he would not.

  "Thank you," said the monk, and sat down meekly.

  "Perhaps the most daring research of all, however," continued the sage, "is being conducted by my friend Thon Esser Shon. It is an attempt to synthesize living matter. Thon Esser hopes to create living protoplasm, using only six basic ingredients. This work could lead to — yes? You have a question?"

  A monk in the third row had risen and was bowing toward the speaker. The abbot leaned forward to peer at him and recognized, with horror, that it was Brother Armbruster, the librarian.

  "If you would do an old man the kindness," croaked the monk, dragging out his words in a plodding monotone. "This Thon Esser Shon — who limits himself to only six basic ingredients — is very interesting. I was wondering — are they permitting him to use both hands?"

  "Why, I—" The thon paused and frowned.

  "And may I also inquire," Armbruster's dry voice dragged on, "whether this remarkable feat is to be performed from the sitting, standing, or prone position? Or perhaps on horseback while playing two trumpets?"

  The novices snickered audibly. The abbot came quickly to his feet.

  "Brother Armbruster, you have been warned. You are excommunicated from the common table until you make satisfaction. You may wait in the Lady Chapel."

  The librarian bowed again and stole quietly out of the hall, his carriage humble, but his eyes triumphant. The abbot murmured apologetically to the scholar, but the thon's glance was suddenly chilly.

  "In conclusion," he said, "a brief outline of what the world can expect, in my opinion, from the intellectual revolution that's just beginning." Eyes burning, he looked around at them, and his voice changed from casual to fervent rhythms.

  "Ignorance has been our king. Since the death of empire, he sits unchallenged on the throne of Man. His dynasty is age-old. His right to rule is now considered legitimate. Past sages have affirmed it. They did nothing to unseat him.

  "Tomorrow, a new prince shall rule. Men of understanding, men of science shall stand behind his throne, and the universe will come to know his might. His name is Truth. His empire shall encompass the Earth. And the mastery of Man over the Earth shall be renewed. A century from now, men will fly through the air in mechanical birds. Metal carriages will race along roads of man-made stone. There will be buildings of thirty stories, ships that go under the sea, machines to perform all works.

  "And how will this come to pass?" He paused and lowered his voice. "In the same way all change comes to pass, I fear. And I am sorry it is so. It will come to pass by violence and upheaval, by flame and by fury, for no change comes calmly over the world."

  He glanced around, for a soft murmur arose from the community.

  "It will be so. We do not will it so.

  "But why?

  "Ignorance is king. Many would not profit by his abdication. Many enrich themselves by means of his dark monarchy. They are his Court, and in his name they defraud and govern, enrich themselves and perpetuate their power. Even literacy they fear, for the written word is another channel of communication that might cause their enemies to become united. Their weapons are keen-honed, and they use them with skill. They will press the battle upon the world when their interests are threatened, and the violence which follows will last until the structure of society as it now exists is leveled to rubble, and a new society emerges. I am sorry: But that is how I see it."

  The words brought a new pall over the room. Dom Paulo's hopes sank, for the prophecy gave form to the scholar's probable outlook. Thon Taddeo knew the military ambitions of his monarch. He had a choice: to approve of them, to disapprove of them, or to regard them as impersonal phenomena beyond his control like a flood, famine, or whirlwind.

  Evidently, then, he accepted them as inevitable — to avoid having to make a moral judgment. Let there be blood, iron and weeping...

  How could such a man thus evade his own conscience and disavow his responsibility — and so easily! the abbot sto
rmed to himself.

  But then the words came back to him. For in those days, the Lord God had suffered the wise men to know the means by which the world itself might be destroyed...

  He also suffered them to know how it might be saved, and, as always, let them choose for themselves. And perhaps they had chosen as Thon Taddeo chooses. To wash their hands before the multitude. Look you to it. Lest they themselves be crucified.

  And they had been crucified anyhow. Without dignity. Always for anybody anyhow is to get nailed on it and hang on it and if you drop off they beat...

  There was sudden silence. The scholar had stopped talking.

  The abbot blinked around the hall. Half the community was staring toward the entrance. At first his eyes could make out nothing.

  "What is it?" he whispered to Gault.

  "An old man with a beard and shawl," hissed Gault. "It looks like — No, he wouldn't—"

  Dom Paulo arose and moved to the front of the dais to stare at the faintly defined shape in the shadows. Then he called out to it softly.

  "Benjamin?"

  The figure stirred. It drew its shawl tighter about spindly shoulders and hobbled slowly into the light. It stopped again, muttering to itself as it looked around the room; then its eyes found the scholar at the lectern.

  Leaning on a crooked staff, the old apparition hobbled slowly toward the lectern, never taking its eyes from the man who stood behind it. Thon Taddeo looked humorously perplexed at first, but when no one stirred or spoke, he seemed to lose color as the decrepit vision came near him. The face of the bearded antiquity blazed with hopeful ferocity of some compelling passion that burned more furiously in him than the life principle long since due to depart.

  He came close to the lectern, paused. His eyes twitched over the startled speaker. His mouth quivered. He smiled. He reached out one trembling hand toward the scholar. The thon drew back with a snort of revulsion.

  The hermit was agile. He vaulted to the dais, dodged the lectern, and seized the scholar's arm.