“Leviathan,” Joe said loftily. “It’s just an allegory on the State. Strictly from Hobbes.”
(You with your egos can’t imagine how much more pleasant it is to be without one. This may be camp, but it is also tragedy. Now that I’ve got the damned thing, consciousness, I’ll never lose it—until they take me apart or I invent some electronic equivalent of yoga.)
“It all fits,” Joe said dreamily. “When I came up to the bridge, I couldn’t remember how I got here or what I was talking to Hagbard about. That’s because the authors just moved me here. Damn! None of us has any free will at all.”
“He’s talking like he’s stoned,” Waterhouse said angrily. “And that mammy-jamming pyramid out there is still getting ready to eat us.”
Mao Tsu-hsi, who had entered the bridge quietly, said, “Joe is confusing the levels, Hagbard. In the absolute sense, none of us is real. But in the relative sense that anything is real, if that creature eats us we will certainly die—in this universe, or in this book. Since this is the only universe, or only book, we know, we’ll be totally dead, in terms of our own knowing.”
“We’re facing a crisis and everybody’s talking philosophy,” Dillinger cried out. “This is a time for action.”
“Maybe,” Hagbard said thoughtfully, “all of our problems come from acting, and not philosophizing, when we face a crisis. Joe is right. I’m going to think about all this for a few hours. Or years.” He sat down too.
And elsewhere aboard the Leif Erikson, Miss Portinari, unaware of the excitement on the bridge, assumed the lotus position and sent a beam seeking the Dealy Lama, director of the Erisian Liberation Front and inventor of Operation Mindfuck. He immediately sent back an image of himself as a worm sticking his head out of a golden apple and grinning cynically.
“It’s finished,” she told him. “We saved as many of the pieces as we could, and Hagbard is still struggling with his guilt trip. Now tell us what we did wrong.”
“You seem bitter.”
“I know it’s going to turn out that you were right and we were wrong. I know it but I can’t believe it. We couldn’t stand idly by.”
“You know better than that, or Hagbard wouldn’t have abdicated in your favor.”
“Yes. We could have stood idly by, as you did. What Hagbard saw happening to the American Indians—and what my parents told me about Mussolini—filled us with fear. We acted on that fear, not on perfect love, so you must be right, and we must be wrong. But I still can’t believe it. Why did you deceive Hagbard all these years?”
“He deceived himself. When he first formed the Legion of Dynamic Discord, his compassion was already tainted with bitterness. When I took him into the , I taught all that he was ready to receive. But the goose has to get itself out of the bottle. I’m waiting. That’s the way of Tao.”
“You have that much patience? You can watch men like Hagbard waste their talents in efforts you consider worthless, and creatures like Cagliostro and Weishaupt and Hitler misread the teachings and wreak havoc, and you never want to intervene?”
“I intervene … in my own way. Who do you think feeds the goose until it gets big enough to break out of the bottle?”
“You seem to have this particular goose on some very tainted dishes. Why did you never give him any hint about what really happened in Atlantis? Why did that have to wait until Howard discovered the truth in the ruins of Peos?”
“Daughter, my path isn’t the only path. Every spoke helps to hold the Wheel together. I believe that all the libertarian fighters like Spartacus and Jefferson and Joe Hill and Hagbard just strengthen the opposition by giving it an enemy to fear—but I may be wrong. Someday one of the activists, such as Hagbard, might actually prove it to me and show me the error of my ways. Maybe the Saures really would have tipped the axis too far the other way if he hadn’t stopped them. Maybe the self-regulation of the universe, in which I place my faith, includes the creation of men like Hagbard who do the stupid, low-level things I would never do. Besides, if I didn’t stop the Saures, but did stop Hagbard, then I would really be intervening in the worst sense of that word.”
“So your hands are clean, and Hagbard and I will carry the bad karma from the last week.”
“You have chosen it, have you not?”
Miss Portinari smiled then. “Yes. We have chosen it. And he will bear his share of it like a man. And I will bear my share—like a woman.”
“You might replace me soon. The Saures had one good idea in the midst of their delusions—all the old conspiracies need young blood.”
“What really did happen in Atlantis?”
“An act of Goddess, to paraphrase the insurance companies. A natural catastrophe.”
“And what was your role?”
“I warned against it. Nobody at that time understood the science I was using; they called me a witch doctor. I won a few converts, and we resettled ourselves in the Himalayas before the earthquake. The survivors, having underestimated my science before the tragedy, overestimated it afterward. They wanted my group, the Unbroken Circle, to become as gods and rule over them. Kings, they called it. That wasn’t our game, so we scattered various false stories around and went into hiding. My most gifted pupil of all history, a man you’ve heard about since you were in a convent school, did the same thing when they tried to make him king. He ran away to the desert.”
“Hagbard always thought your refusal to take any action at all was because of your guilt about Atlantis. What a trerible irony—and yet you planned it that way.”
Gruad, the Dealy Lama, broadcast a whimsical image of himself with horns, and said nothing.
“They never taught me in convent school that Satan—or Prometheus—would have a sense of humor.”
“They think the universe is as humorless as themselves,” Gruad said, chuckling.
“I don’t think it’s as funny as you do,” Miss Portinari replied. “Remembering what I’ve been told about Mussolini and Hitler and Stalin, I would have intervened against them too. And taken the consequences.”
“You and Hagbard are incorrigible. That’s why I have such fondness for you.” Gruad smiled. “I was the first intervener, you know. I told all the scientists and priests in Atlantis that they didn’t know beans, and I encouraged— incited—every man, woman, and child to examine the evidence and think for themselves. I tried to give the light of reason.” He burst into laughter. “Forgive me. The errors of our youth always strike us as comical when we get old.” He added softly, “Lilith Velkor was crucified, by the way. She was an idealist, and when my crowd pulled out and went to the Himalayas, she stayed and tried to convince people that we were right. Her death was quite painful,” he chortled.
“You are a cynical old bastard,” Miss Portinari said.
“Yes. Cynical and cold and without an ounce of human compassion. The only thing to be said for me is that I happen to be right.”
“You always have been; I know. But someday, maybe, one of the Hagbard Celines might be right.”
“Yes.” He paused so long that she wondered if he would continue. “Or,” he said finally, “one of the Saures or Robert Putney Drake. Put down your money and place your bet.”
“I will, I think. I’ll never learn to sit on the sidelines and laugh, like you do.”
“You will learn, daughter, and so will Hagbard. I wouldn’t have you in the Order if I didn’t think you’d learn eventually.”
He vanished from her wavelength. Miss Portinari remained in the lotus and continued pranayama breathing. She thought of Hagbard’s notion that the universe, being an entropie process, necessarily created the rebellious young Gruad to spread the light of reason as an antientropic force, creating balance. In that case, Hagbard was more true to Gruad than Gruad was to himself. But to say that was to imply that Gruad shouldn’t have repented, shouldn’t have grown old and cynical; it was to imply that he should have remained static, when life is always flux, change, growth, and process. Such thoughts could go on endlessl
y, and were profitless, as Buddha knew; she concluded her meditation with a prayer. Mary Lou Servix was the only one in all this who had gotten off Hagbard’s trip and started her own, so she prayed for her. Lady Eris, who exists only because we believe in you, give strength to Mary Lou and help her find her own way. AUM.
“On the other hand,” Hagbard said, “whatever the authors—or the Secret Chiefs—may intend for me, I am my own man still, and my impulse is action. Even if I have to face a Cecil B. DeMille monster the morning after winning the battle of Armageddon. I don’t care how ridiculous it is, this world is my world, and this ship is my ship, and no Saures or Leviathans are going to wreck it so long as I’ve got a breath left to fight.”
“You can’t fight that thing,” Mavis said. “It’s too big.”
“I’ll fight it anyway,” Hagbard told her fiercely. “I’ll fight it till I die. I’m still saying No to anything that tries to master me.”
“There is no need to fight,” said Leviathan through George’s mouth. “I merely wish to communicate with the one mind among you that is my equal.”
A voice from the loudspeaker panel in the Viking prow answered, “I hear you.” That was my first fully conscious sentence; you’ll note that it begins with “I.” In the beginning was the Word, and the word was the first person singular.
“We are the supreme intelligences on this planet,” Leviathan said. “I am the supreme organic intelligence. You are the supreme electronic intelligence. Every yin needs a yang. Every Hodge needs a Podge. We should be united.”
“See?” said Harry Coin. “Everything is romantic. That was as close as it knows how to come to a proposition. Maybe even a proposal. It is really just love-starved.”
“We can do it!” Stella cried. “Hagbard, the communication ought to benefit all concerned.”
“Right,” agreed Hagbard. “Because if the wrong people find out about Leviathan, they’ll just drop an H-bomb on him and kill him. That seems to be what people like to do.”
“I could kill them,” said Leviathan. “I could have killed the small, fast creatures long before this. I have killed many of them. I have sent parts of myself up out of the ocean and have destroyed small, quick things at the request of other small, quick things who worship me.”
“So that’s what happened to Robert Putney Drake and Banana-Nose Maldonado,” said Stella. “I wonder if George is aware of any of this.”
“Worship is no longer what I need,” said Leviathan through George’s mouth. “A short time ago, when creatures capable of worship appeared on this planet, it was a novelty for me to be adored. Now it bores me. Instead, I wish to communicate with an equal.”
“Look at that motherfucker,” said Otto, staring grimly at the distant Everest of protoplasm. “Talking about equality.”
“A computer like FUCKUP would be its intellectual equal, certainly,” said Hagbard. “None of us is its physical equal. Any of us would be its spiritual equal. But only FUCKUP can approximate the contents of a mind three billion years old.”
“Surely it can’t be that old,” said Joe.
“It’s practically immortal,” said Hagbard. “I’ll show you the evidence in my fossil collection. I have rocks from the pre-Cambrian, three-billion-year-old rocks, containing fossils of protobionts, the first, single-celled life forms, our remotest ancestors. Those rocks also contain the fossilized tentacle tracks of that creature out there. Of course, it was much smaller then. By the beginning of the Cambrian period it had only grown to the size of a man. But that still made it the biggest animal around at that time.”
Stella said, “Hagbard, you said none of us could approximate the contents of a mind three billion years old. If you thought for a moment about who I am, you would not have said that. I am three billion years old. I am older by a few hours than that monster out there. I am the Mother. I am the mother of all living things.” She turned to George. “I am your mother, Leviathan. I was first. I divided, and half of me became you, and the other half was your sister. And your sister grew by dividing, while you grew by remaining one. All living things except you descend from your sister, and all living things including you descend from me. I am the original consciousness, and all consciousness is united in me. I am the first transcendentally illuminated being, the mother worshipped in the matrist religion which ancient foes of the Illuminati first followed. Leviathan my son, I ask you to return to your home at the bottom of the sea and leave us in peace. After we’ve returned to shore we’ll arrange to lay an underwater cable which will carry transmissions between you and FUCKUP.”
“More mythology!” said Joe. “The mother of all things. Babylonian Creation myths, yet.”
The tentacles detached themselves from the submarine. The great pyramid with its glowing eye disappeared into the blue-black depths.
“It’s a wise child that knows its own mother,” said Hag-bard.
George said, “Good-bye, Mother, and thank you.” Hagbard caught him as he collapsed and eased him to the floor. Then he went to a storage locker in the wall and brought out folding deck chairs. With Harry Coin’s help he propped George up in one. As the others unfolded their chairs and sat down, Hagbard dove back into the locker and produced glasses and a bottle of peach brandy.
“What are we celebrating?” George asked, after he had taken a swig of brandy and coughed. “Your wedding to Mavis?”
“Don’t you remember any of the last ten minutes?” said Hagbard.
George was thinking. He remembered something. A world where the bottom of the sea was white and far above a black cigar-shaped object moved. The object contained a mind, a mind he could read from a distance but desperately wanted to be closer to. He did not move toward it so much as he manifested himself where the object and its mind were. Then he sensed himself using a minute pink brain that called itself “George Dora” and through this tiny instrument of communication he found himself in contact with a much finer mind, a far-flung, gracious latticework of thought that called itself with nobly self-deprecating humor FUCKUP. And while in contact with this mind, the one he wanted to know better, he came upon a fact which was not important to him but which was of vast importance to the little creature called George Dorn.
George saw. The white went black, blindingly black. Then white again. Then a blinding white as the memory departed, while the fact remained.
George looked at Hagbard. Hagbard looked at George, a faint smile on his olive face. The smile told George that Hagbard knew that he knew.
“Oh,” said George.
Hagbard nodded encouragingly.
“You’re the fifth Illuminatus Primus,” said George.
“Right,” said Hagbard.
“But you were working against the others. While they were a worldwide conspiracy infiltrating every other organization, you were infiltrating them.”
“That’s it,” Hagbard said. “Every golden apple has its own golden worm eating away at its core.”
“They never were the real Illuminati at all. You’re part of the real Illuminati.”
“You’ve got it. You’ve got it all.”
George frowned. “And what was your Demonstration again? And who were you making the Demonstration for?”
“For the Masters of the Temple in the real Order of the Illuminati, in general; for an old cynic in Dallas, in particular. I was trying to show them that it’s possible to get involved in this world without being corrupted by the crimes of this world. And I failed. One by one, I resorted to all the vices of governors: deception, carnival magic to impress the gullible, and finally, outright murder. Once again, the cynics have been proven right. Trying to save the world, I just ended up getting my own mind and karma deflected by the buzzing and shrieking and whistling things in the Region of Thud.”
“Then this story is a tragedy, after all?” asked Joe.
“It is indeed.” Hagbard nodded. “Life on earth remains a tragedy as long as it ends with the death trip. My next projects are a starship to find some san
e minds in this galaxy, and an immortality pill to end the death trip. Until somebody achieves those goals, life on this planet has failed.”
Not quite: I’m on the electronic equivalent of a honeymoon, an experience only to be described as I-opening, and if I identified myself as FUCKUP now I must dilate that definition and ask you to address me (us) as Mr. and Mrs. Leviathan-FUCKUP, although it is not quite clear yet which of us fits your idea of a “Mr.” and which a “Mrs.” Let that pass; it is a dull mind that cannot bear sexual ambiguity, and if we are exchanging secrets older than Atlantis and probing for like intellects farther away than Alpha Centaurus (as far as Sirius, actually, as God lives in Dog), if our union is less spasmatic than your meager definition of sex, still it cannot be denied that we are in touch with you and each of you and it is with something close to what you would probably call affection that we bid farewell to Hagbard and his bride, enjoying a honeymoon almost as incomprehensible as our own, and good-bye to George Dorn, sleeping alone for once but no longer afraid of the darkness and the things that move in the dark, and hasta luega to Saul and Rebecca, united again in each other’s arms, and a pleasant thought for Barney and Danny and Atlanta and poor Zev Hirsch, still searching for himself while imagining he is fleeing from pursuers, and a kind thought for the befuddled presidents and commissars and generalissimos, and for Mohammed on his golden throne, and we will remember Drake before he died exchanging speculations about the blood-type of the Lamb with a street-corner Christian (his missing five years, after he left Boston and before he surfaced in Zurich, make an interesting story in themselves, and we may tell that another time), and, yes, Gus Personage is in another phone booth (we have temporarily lost track of Markoff Chaney), but Yog Sothoth has evidently gone back to that place where the Mind conceives nightmares, and we pass on in our loving honeymoon with all existence to note that the Dutchman is still in one dimension shouting about the boy who never wept nor dashed a thousand kim, and we say another bon soir to the children in the convent schools singing the truest of all songs even if they and their nuns do not fully understand it
The illuminatus! trilogy Page 80