A Canticle For Leibowitz l-1

by Walter M. Miller

  For several days the thon and his assistant studied the library itself, the files, the monastery’s records apart from the Memorabilia — as if by determining the validity of the oyster, they might establish the possibility of the pearl. Brother Kornhoer discovered the thon’s assistant on his knees in the entrance of the refectory, and for a moment he entertained the impression that the fellow was performing some special devotion before the image of Mary above the door, but a rattle of tools put an end to the illusion. The assistant laid a carpenter’s level across the entranceway and measured the concave depression worn in the floor stones by centuries of monastic sandals.

  “We’re looking for ways of determining dates,” he told Kornhoer when questioned. “This seemed like a good place to establish a standard for rate of wear, since the traffic’s easy to estimate. Three meals per man per day since the stones were laid.”

  Kornhoer could not help being impressed by their thoroughness; the activity mystified him. “The abbey’s architectural records are complete,” he said. “They can tell you exactly when each building and wing was added. Why not save your time?”

  The man glanced up innocently. “My master has a saying: ‘Nayol is without speech, and therefore never lies.’ “

  “Nayol?”

  “One of the Nature gods of the Red River people. He means it figuratively, of course. Objective evidence is the ultimate authority. Recorders may lie, but Nature is incapable of it.” He noticed the monk’s expression and added hastily:

  “No canard is implied. It is simply a doctrine of the thon’s that everything must be cross-referenced to the objective.”

  “A fascinating notion,” murmured Kornhoer, and bent down to examine the man’s sketch of a cross-section of the floor’s concavity. “Why, it’s shaped like what Brother Majek calls a normal distribution curve. How strange.”

  “Not strange. The probability of a footstep deviating from the center-line would tend to follow the normal error function.”

  Kornhoer was enthralled. “I’ll call Brother Majek,” he said.

  The abbot’s interest in his guests’ inspection of the premises was less esoteric. “Why,” he demanded of Gault, “are they making detailed drawings of our fortifications?”

  The prior looked surprised. “I hadn’t heard of it. You mean Thon Taddeo—”

  “No. The officers that came with him. They’re going about it quite systematically.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “The Poet told me.”

  “The Poet! Hah!”

  “Unfortunately, he was telling the truth this time. He pick-pocketed one of their sketches.”

  “You have it?”

  “No, I made him return it. But I don’t like it. It’s ominous.”

  “I suppose the Poet asked a price for the information?”

  “Oddly enough, he didn’t. He took an instant dislike to the thon. He’s gone around muttering to himself ever since they came.”

  “The Poet has always muttered.”

  “But not in a serious vein.”

  “Why do you suppose they’re making the drawings?”

  Paulo made a grim month. “Unless we find out otherwise, we’ll assume their interest is recondite and professional. As a walled citadel, the abbey has been a success. It’s never been taken by siege or assault, and perhaps their professional admiration is aroused.”

  Father Gault gazed speculatively across the desert toward the east. “Come to think of it; if an army meant to strike west across the plains, they’d probably have to establish a garrison somewhere in this region before marching on Denver.” He thought for a few moments and began to look alarmed. “And here they’d have a fortress ready-made!”

  “I’m afraid that’s occurred to them.”

  “You think they were sent as spies?”

  “No, no! I doubt if Hannegan himself has ever heard of us. But they are here, and they are officers, and they can’t help looking around and getting ideas. And now very likely Hannegan is going to hear about us.”

  “What do you intend doing?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Why not talk to Thon Taddeo about it?”

  “The officers aren’t his servants. They were only sent as an escort to protect him. What can he do?”

  “He’s Hannegan’s kinsman, and he has influence.”

  The abbot nodded. “I’ll try to think of a way to approach him on the matter. We’ll watch what’s going on for a while first, though.”

  In the days that followed, Thon Taddeo completed his study of the oyster and, apparently satisfied that it was not a disguised clam, focused his attention on the pearl. The task was not simple.

  Quantities of facsimile copy were scrutinized. Chains rattled and clanked as the more precious books came down from their shelves. In the case of partially damaged or deteriorated originals, it seemed unwise to trust the facsimile-maker’s interpretation and eyesight. The actual manuscripts dating back to Leibowitzian times which had been sealed in airtight casks and locked in special storage vaults for indefinitely long preservation were then brought out.

  The thon’s assistant assembled several pounds of notes. After the fifth day of it, Thon Taddeo’s pace quickened, and his manner reflected the eagerness of a hungry hound catching scent of tasty game.

  “Magnificent!” He vacillated between jubilation and amused incredulity. “Fragments from a twentieth century physicist! The equations are even consistent.”

  Kornhoer peered over his shoulder. “I’ve seen that,” he said breathlessly. “I could never make heads or tails of it. Is the subject matter important?”

  “I’m not sure yet. The mathematics is beautiful, beautiful! Look here — this expression — notice the extremely contracted term. This thing under the radical sign — it looks like the product of two derivatives, but it really represents a whole set of derivatives.”

  “How?”

  “The indices permute into an expanded expression; otherwise, it couldn’t possibly represent a line integral, as the author says it is. It’s lovely. And see here — this simple-looking expression. The simplicity is deceptive. It obviously represents not one, but a whole system of equations, in a very contracted form. It took me a couple of days to realize that the author was thinking of the relationships — not just of quantities to quantities — but of whole systems to other systems. I don’t yet know all the physical quantities involved, but the sophistication of the mathematics is just-just quietly superb! If it’s a hoax, it’s inspired! If it’s authentic, we may be in unbelievable luck. In either case, it’s magnificent. I must see the earliest possible copy of it. “

  Brother Librarian groaned as yet another lead-sealed cask was rolled out of storage for unsealing. Armbruster was not impressed by the fact that the secular scholar, in two days, had unraveled a bit of a puzzle that had been lying around, a complete enigma, for a dozen centuries. To the custodian of the Memorabilia, each unsealing represented another decrease in the probable lifetime of the contents of the cask, and he made no attempt to conceal his disapproval of the entire proceeding. To Brother Librarian, whose task in life was the preservation of books, the principal reason for the existence of books was that they might be preserved perpetually. Usage was secondary, and to be avoided if it threatened longevity.

  Thon Taddeo’s enthusiasm for his task waxed stronger as the days passed, and the abbot breathed easier as he watched the thon’s earlier skepticism melt away with each new perusal of some fragmentary pre-Deluge science text. The scholar had not made any clear assertions about the intended scope of his investigation; perhaps, at first, his aim had been vague, but now he went about his work with the crisp precision of a man following a plan. Sensing the dawn of something, Dom Paulo decided to offer the cock a perch for crowing, in ease the bird felt an impulse to announce a coming daybreak.

  “The community has been curious about your labors,” he told the scholar. “We’d like to hear about it, if you don’t min
d discussing it. Of course we’ve all heard of your theoretical work at your own collegium, but it’s too technical for most of us to understand. Would it be possible for you to tell us something about it in — oh, general terms that non-specialists might understand? The community has been grumping at me because I hadn’t invited you to lecture; but I thought you might prefer to get the feel of the place first. Of course if you’d rather not—”

  The thon’s gaze seemed to clamp calipers an the abbot’s cranium and measure it six ways. He smiled doubtfully.

  “You’d like me to explain our work in the simplest possible language?”

  “Something like that, if it’s possible.”

  “That’s just it.” He laughed. “The untrained man reads a paper on natural science and thinks; “Now why couldn’t he explain this in simple language.” He can’t seem to realize that what he tried to read was the simplest possible language — for that subject matter. In fact, a great deal of natural philosophy is simply a process of linguistic simplification — an effort to invent languages in which half a page of equations can express an idea which could not be stated in less than a thousand pages of so-called “simple” language. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I think so. Since you do make yourself clear, perhaps you could tell us about that aspect of it, then. Unless the suggestion is premature — as far as your work with the Memorabilia is concerned.”

  “Well, no. We now have a fairly clear idea of where we’re going and what we have to work with here. It will still take considerable time to finish of course. The pieces have to be fitted together, and they don’t all belong to the same puzzle. We can’t yet predict what we can glean from it, but we’re fairly sure of what we can’t. I’m happy to say it looks hopeful. I have no objection to explaining the general scope, but—” He repeated the doubtful shrug.

  “What bothers yon?”

  The thon seemed mildly embarrassed. “Only an uncertainty about my audience. I would not wish to offend anyone’s religious beliefs.”

  “But how could you? Isn’t it a matter of natural philosophy? Of physical science?”

  “Of course. But many people’s ideas about the world have become colored with religious — well, what I mean is—”

  “But if your subject matter is the physical world, how could you possibly offend? Especially this community. We’ve been waiting for a long time to see the world start taking an interest in itself again. At the risk of seeming boastful, I might point out that we have a few rather clever amateurs in natural science right here in the monastery. There’s Brother Majek, and there’s Brother Kornhoer—”

  “Kornhoer!” The then glanced up warily at the arc lamp and looked away blinking. “I can’t understand it!”

  “The lamp? But surely you—”

  “No, no, not the lamp. The lamp’s simple enough, once you got over the shock of seeing it really work. It should work. It would work on paper, assuming various undeterminables and guessing at some unavailable data. But the clean impetuous leap from the vague hypothesis to a working model—” The thon coughed nervously. “It’s Kornhoer himself I don’t understand. That gadget—” he waggled a forefinger at the dynamo “ — is a standing broad-jump across about twenty years of preliminary experimentation, starting with an understanding of the principles. Kornhoer just dispensed with the preliminaries. You believe in miraculous interventions? I don’t, but there you have a real case of it. Wagon wheels!” He laughed. “What could he do if he had a machine shop? I can’t understand what a man like that is doing cooped up in a monastery.”

  “Perhaps Brother Kornhoer should explain that to you,” said Dom Paulo, laying to keep an edge of stiffness out of his tone.

  “Yes, well—” Thon Taddeo’s visual calipers began measuring the old priest again. “If you really feel that no one would take offense at hearing non-traditional ideas, I would be glad to discuss our work. But some of it may conflict with established preju — uh — established opinion.”

  “Good! Then it should be fascinating.”

  A time was agreed upon, and Dom Paulo felt relief. The esoteric gulf between Christian monk and secular investigator of Nature would surely be narrowed by a free exchange of ideas, he felt. Kornhoer had already narrowed it slightly, had he not? More communication, not less, was probably the best therapy for easing any tension. And the cloudy veil of doubt and mistrusting hesitancy would be parted, would it not? as soon as the thon saw that his hosts were not quite such unreasonable intellectual reactionaries as the scholar seemed to suspect. Paulo felt some shame for his earlier misgivings. Patience, Lord, with a well-meaning fool, he prayed.

  “But you can’t ignore the officers and their sketchbooks,” Gault reminded him.

  20

  From the lectern in the refectory, the reader was intoning the announcements. Candlelight blanched the faces of the robed, legions who stood motionless behind their stools and waited for the beginning of the evening meal. The reader’s voice echoed hollowly in the high vaulted dining room whose ceiling was lost in brooding shadows above the pools of candle-glow that spotted the wooden tables.

  “The Reverend Father Abbot has commanded me to announce,” called the reader, “that the rule of abstinence for today is dispensed at tonight’s meal. We shall have guests, as you may have heard. All religious may partake of tonight’s banquet in honor of Thon Taddeo and his group; you may eat meat. Conversation — if you’ll keep it quiet — will be permitted during the meal.”

  Suppressed vocal noises, not unlike strangled cheers, came from the ranks of the novices. The tables were set. Food had not yet made an appearance, but large dining trays replaced the usual mush bowls, kindling appetites with hints of a feast. The familiar milk mugs stayed in the pantry, their places taken for tonight by the best wine cups. Roses were scattered along the boards.

  The abbot stopped in the corridor to wait for the reader to finish reading. He glanced at the table set for himself, Father Gault, the honored guest, and his party. Bad arithmetic again in the kitchen, he thought. Eight places had been set. Three officers, the thon and his assistant, and the two priests made seven — unless, in some unlikely case, Father Gault had asked Brother Kornhoer to sit with them. The reader concluded the announcements, and Dom Paulo entered the hall.

  “Flectamus genua,” intoned the reader.

  The robed legions genuflected with military precision as the abbot blessed his flock.

  “Levate.”

  The legions arose. Dom Paulo took his place at the special table and glanced back toward the entrance. Gault should be bringing the others. Previously their meals had been served in the guesthouse rather than the refectory, to avoid subjecting them to the austerity of the monks’ own frugal fare.

  When the guests came, he looked around for Brother Kornhoer, but the monk was not with them.

  “Why the eighth place setting?” he murmured to Father Gault when they had taken their places.

  Gault looked blank and shrugged.

  The scholar filled the place on the abbot’s right and the others fell in toward the foot of the table, leaving the place on his left empty. He turned to beckon Kornhoer to join them, but the reader began intoning the preface before he could catch the monk’s eye.

  “Oremus,” answered the abbot, and the legions bowed.

  During the blessing, someone sipped quietly into the seat on the abbot’s left. The abbot frowned but did not look up to identify the culprit during the prayer.

  …et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.

  “Sedete,” called the reader, and the ranks began seating themselves.

  The abbot glanced sharply at the figure on his left.

  “Poet!”

  The bruised lily bowed extravagantly and smiled. “Good evening, Sires, learned Thon, distinguished hosts,” he orated.

  “What are we having tonight? Roast fish and honeycombs in honor of the temporal resurrection that’s upon us? Or have you, m’Lord Abbot, finally cooked the goose of the mayor of t
he village?”

  “I would like to cook—”

  “Ha!” quoth the Poet, and turned affably toward the scholar. “Such culinary excellence one enjoys in this place, Thon Taddeo! You should join us more often. I suppose they are feeding you nothing but roast pheasant and unimaginative beef in the guesthouse. A shame! Here one fares better. I do hope Brother Chef has his usual gusto tonight, his inward flame, his enchanted touch. Ah…” The Poet rubbed his hands and smirked hungrily. “Perhaps we shall have his inspired Mock Pork with Maize a la Friar John, eh?”

  “It sounds interesting,” said the scholar. “What is it?”

  “Greasy armadillo with parched corn, boiled in donkey milk. A regular Sunday special.”

  “Poet!” snapped the abbot; then to the thon: “I apologize for his presence. He wasn’t invited.”

  The scholar surveyed the Poet with detached amusement.

  “M’Lord Hannegan too, keeps several court fools,” he told Paulo. “I’m familiar with the species. You needn’t apologize for him.”

  The Poet sprang up from his stool and bowed deeply before the thon. “Allow me instead to apologize for the abbot, Sire!” he cried with feeling.

  He held the bow for a moment. They waited for him to finish his foolishness. Instead, he shrugged suddenly, sat down, and speared a smoking fowl from the platter deposited before them by a postulant. He tore off a leg and bit into it with gusto. They watched him with puzzlement.

  “I suppose you’re right in not accepting my apology for him,” he said to the thon at last.

  The scholar reddened slightly.

  “Before I throw you out, worm,” said Gault, “let’s probe the depths of this iniquity.”

  The Poet waggled his head and munched thoughtfully.

  “It’s pretty deep, all right,” he admitted.