Tarot, page 34
Then he heard the trapdoor closing. Now the brass door opened, spilling light into the hall. Therion the Thesmothete stood there, carrying a bright torch. “Come, Postulant.”
Brother Paul followed him through a series of galleries set off by locked doors. At each door Therion murmured a password and gave a secret signal, and it opened.
During one of these pauses, Brother Paul slipped back into his robe. Now he felt more confident. At last the test was over!
They came finally to a crypt that Brother Paul’s directional sense informed him had been hollowed out of the Great Pyramid itself. This was a chamber never discovered by the archaeologists! The walls were polished stone, covered by symbolic paintings. At each corner stood a bronze statue: a man, a bull, a lion, and an eagle. Hanging from the high ceiling was an elaborate lamp. Brother Paul observed that the beams of light between the statues and from the lamp together formed the outline of a pyramid: five corners counting the apex.
In the center was a huge round silver table, and on this table stood two cups, two swords, two coins, scepters, and lamps. The four symbols of the Tarot suits, plus the lamps necessary to see the rest in this sunless chamber.
Therion turned to him. “Son of Earth, I have only to give the sign and you will be plunged alive into subterranean depths to eat the bread of remorse and drink the waters of anguish until the end of your days. But we are not vindictive; all we ask of you is your solemn oath that you will never reveal to anyone the least detail of what you have seen or heard this night, and you shall go free. Will you give this oath?”
Reasonable enough. A secret society would not remain secret long if it did not institute such a precaution. But Brother Paul’s mission required that he express his knowledge outside. “I will not,” he said.
Therion stared at him incredulously. “That was intended to be a rhetorical question, Postulant. There is only one answer.”
“Not for me.” Had he gone through all this—for nothing?
“Beware, Postulant! Defiance is punished by death!” And a menacing roaring sounded as the overhead lamp was extinguished. The chamber was now lighted only by tremulously flickering candles set behind the statues.
“My information cannot benefit anyone, if it is sworn to secrecy,” Brother Paul said, unmoved.
Therion pointed to the cups on the silver table. “Then you must undertake this trial,” he cried. “One goblet contains a violent poison; the other is harmless. Choose one, without reflection, and drink it down.”
Brother Paul stepped up to the table, picked up the right cup, and drank its contents down.
Therion smiled. “I tried,” he said. “Both drinks were—safe.”
As Brother Paul had figured. A test of pure chance would have been pointless; courage, not life or luck, was the issue here.
“Worthy zealot,” Therion said, “You have passed all tests. Now you are ready to share the wisdom of the ancients. Magic is composed of two elements, knowledge and strength. Without knowledge, no strength can be complete; without some sort of strength, no one can attain knowledge. Learn how to suffer, that you may become impassive; learn how to die, to become immortal; learn restraint, to attain your desire: these are the first three secrets the Magus must learn to become a priest of Truth. He must study with us for twelve years to master it, as Moses of the Jews did, and Plato of the Greeks did, and—”
“Twelve years?” Brother Paul demanded.
“To start. After that the real education begins.”
“I can’t wait twelve years!” Brother Paul protested. “I can’t wait twelve weeks! I need my answer now.” Before it was time for him to be shuttled back to Earth; the mattermission schedule would not be modified for the convenience of one man.
“This is impossible,” Therion said firmly.
“Then I must depart.”
Therion gestured, and a panel slid open in the floor before his feet. “There is your exit.”
From the pit came the noise of rattling chains and panting struggle and the roar of some great beast. Then there came the scream of a human being in dreadful agony—abruptly cut off.
Brother Paul stepped forward to look into the pit. There was a lion-sized sphinx tearing at a naked human body lying before it.
Brother Paul stepped around the pit, snatched one of the swords from the table, flexed it twice to get its heft, then jumped into the hole. The last things he perceived as he acted were Therion’s gape of incredulity and Amaranth’s scream from somewhere in the distance. Then his feet struck the back of the vicious sphinx. He swung his sword down—and the Animation exploded into nothingness.
13 • Reflection (Past)
Barrington Moore, Jr., comments on the contradiction between politics and morality in Reflections on the Causes of Human Misery. Why do revolutionaries start out by proclaiming the brotherhood of man, and all too often finish by practicing the same deceit and tyranny they initially opposed? The answer is this: Unscrupulous means are apt to be more effective than scrupulous ones. If the revolutionary behaves in a decent manner, he is likely to lose out to his enemy who does not. Thus he is corrupted by the very process of achieving power.
Brother Paul walked through the forest, seeking the others. He was momentarily intrigued by the scenery, noting its five levels: grass grew on the ground, giving way at the edge of the path to small leafy plants or vines, which in turn gave way to tall weeds like miniature meter-tall trees. Then head-high bushes, and finally the much taller trees.
He still did not know what he would say to the colonists; he had seen much and experienced much, but still lacked a proper basis on which to judge. God was in all of these or none; how could he know? The matter was so highly subjective that he doubted any objective verdict was possible. Yet he was obliged to make his appearance—after he rounded up the others, before the rift in Animation closed up again.
The region seemed unfamiliar. Had he come this way before? He must have wandered considerably during his visions; certainly he had walked much and crawled more. Yet he still had to be within a few kilometers of his starting point and somewhere within Northole, or he would have walked right out of the Animation. As perhaps he had done.
Maybe his best course was to orient on the sun and march in a straight line. He would surely intersect a local path that would lead him to the village or other habitation. This was a standard mechanism of the type to be found in intelligence tests; it was therefore suspect, but should do for the time being.
Abruptly the forest opened out onto a broad, flat clearing. He started across it, then halted as he discovered concrete. This was a modern highway!
No—it proceeded nowhere. The pavement ended abruptly about a hundred and fifty meters to his left. A dead end, yet an oddly well-kept road. No weeds overgrew it. What could be its purpose, here on Planet Tarot?
Curious, he followed it to his right. Wisps of mist obscured the way ahead, but within a kilometer a building loomed.
He stared, amazed. That was an airport control tower. This was a runway! Yet there were no airplanes on this primitive world. This made no sense.
How had the colonists mustered the resources to construct such a massively modern facility? It might be within their technological capacity, since theoretically all the knowledge of Earth was available to every colony planet, but the sheer labor would be ruinous! These people hardly had fuel enough to heat their homes or resources enough to do more than palisade their villages against natural threats. And if they had resources that had been concealed from him (and why should they deceive him?), to expend them on something as useless as this, in a world where the automobile did not yet exist, let alone aircraft—something was crazy!
A mock-up! That would be it—a grandiose imitation, a shell, a monument to what might be in the planet’s future. On what a scale, though!
Intrigued, Brother Paul marched up to the terminal. The thing was huge, girt by ribbons of asphalt, parking lots, access ramps and satellite sub-terminals. Everything was in place. The cars and planes looked completely authentic, so much like Earth of a decade ago that the nostalgia was almost painful. The shrubbery was well-kept, and there was an attractive fountain with the water splaying in artistic patterns.
People were going in and out, just exactly as though on Earth, each appropriately garbed for the occasion, each preoccupied with his own concern. Brother Paul joined the throng at the main entrance, trusting that his presence would not interfere with the show. His Holy Order of Vision habit was in style anywhere. He was curious to see whether the interior was as well appointed as the exterior.
It was. Phenomenally long escalators conveyed people to the operating floors. Loudspeakers bellowed unintelligibly. Short lines formed at ticket desks. Buzzers sounded as people moved toward marked departure gates carrying too much metal. This restoration was absolutely perfect; no detail seemed to have been omitted!
A hand tugged at his. “Come on, Daddy—we’ll miss our flight!”
Startled, Brother Paul looked down to discover a young girl hanging on to his hand. She was eight or nine years old, blue-eyed, with two long fair braids. “Daddy, hurry!” she cried urgently.
“Young lady, there seems to be a confusion of identities,” he said, resisting the pull.
She persisted. “You said it leaves at nine-fifty, and it’s nine-forty now, and we haven’t even found the gate!”
“I’m not even married,” Brother Paul protested, as much to himself as her. Where was her family? He didn’t want to lead this child astray.
“Oh, Daddy, come on!” And she fairly dragged him on.
He had either to yield somewhat or to risk an embarrassing scene with a strange child. He suffered himself to be hauled along. “But I don’t have a ticket,” he said irrelevantly, hoping this would distract her. A ticket for what?
“You let me carry the tickets, remember?” And she relinquished his hand long enough to rummage in her little patchwork handbag. She brought out two envelopes girt with baggage tags and validations, looking very official. “See?”
He was beginning to regret the nicety of detail in this exhibit! He took the ticket folders and examined them. The first envelope was made out to Miss Carolyn Cenji. That was a shock, for he hardly ever used his surname and had thought most colonists were not aware of it. He shifted to the second envelope—and it said Father Paul Cenji. The immediate destination was Boston.
He set aside the riddle of the names for the moment. There was a Boston on Planet Tarot? Yes, it was certainly possible; some hamlet named after the Earth original, used on tickets for verisimilitude. Cute. Still, that did not justify all this!
“Flight 24C for Boston boarding at Gate 15,” the loudspeaker blared with sudden, atypical clarity.
Brother Paul smiled. Old, old pun! 24C—two four cee—to foresee. This whole elaborate display was an exercise in that foresight, the aspiration of a backward planet looking firmly toward the future. Or perhaps looking into the recent past, nostalgically, when technology and power were cheap; why else were they employing the name of an Earth city? Strange how difficult it could be to distinguish future from past in certain situations. Was there much difference between them?
“That’s it!” Carolyn cried with little-girl excitement. “Hurry!”
Still trying to figure out how his name had gotten on the ticket—let alone that of a nonexistent daughter!—Brother Paul suffered himself once more to be drawn along toward Gate 15. There had to be some mistake—but which mistake was it? His presence here on Planet Tarot was no secret, but it had hardly been the occasion for widespread publicity. An important person might have been treated to such a personalized tour of the exhibit, but he was not—
They joined the line at the security access. Should he inquire of one of the other people? Or would that violate the spirit of this charade?
Maybe the child’s real father would be at the Gate—it was the obvious place—and this confusion of identities or whatever could be straightened out. He did have other business and had already allowed himself to be diverted too long. Perhaps he had been tempted by the mock airport because he didn’t really want to face another community meeting with another null report. But he would not permit that to overwhelm him.
Now they were hustling through the metal detector—no buzz!—and up to the Gate. The attendant checked the tickets with perfect officiousness. “Very good, Father,” he said. “Go right on in.”
Father! But of course that was on the ticket; it hadn’t quite registered before. “I am Brother Paul, and I fear there has been a—”
“Right. Nonsmokers to the front. Families with children board first.” The man was already looking to the next.
“Daddy, we’re holding up the line!” Could her father have boarded already? It seemed unlikely without the ticket. But since the plane was only another mock-up, such details hardly mattered. The man could have boarded. A coincidence of names, but a distinction in title and marital status. Though how the girl could be confused about her own—
The boarding tube debouched into the airplane. Brother Paul sighted down the narrow aisle, searching for heads in the triple seats to either side. There was no one in cleric habit.
“This one,” Carolyn said. “In front of the wing, so we can see out.”
“I can’t stay on the plane!” Brother Paul protested. “I only stopped by the terminal to see what—”
“Please fasten your seatbelts,” the stewardess said.
“Wait! I have to get off—” But the boarding tube had already separated, and the plane door was closed. He was trapped.
Well, it wasn’t as if the plane were actually going anywhere. He had wandered into a most elaborate setting and ritual, but that was all. He sat down in the seat beside her and fastened the seat belt. He did not want to appear to be a complete spoilsport. The airplane began to taxi forward. Brother Paul lurched up—and got nowhere. The seat belt bound him securely. He grabbed the buckle convulsively, got it loose, stood up, looked about—and paused again.
If he jumped off now, as the mock-up trundled realistically around the concrete runway, the little girl would be left to endure her “flight” alone. Half the fun of it would be gone for her. He certainly would never desert a child on a real flight; why should he do it now? His cruelty would be much the same, figuratively.
He settled back into his seat and rebuckled. His other appointment would simply have to wait a little longer. No doubt the Watchers, discovering him absent, would check the edges of the Animation area and locate him here in due course. Since the child’s real parents were not present, Brother Paul would have to keep an eye on her until they turned up. As Jesus Christ Himself had said about the least of children—
The plane turned, orienting on the main runway, the one Brother Paul had originally spied. The machine accelerated. The vegetation outside shot by. This was no gentle push; the passengers were pressed back into their couches. It seemed like two hundred kilometers per hour. Fascinated, Carolyn peered out of the slanted window. Brother Paul squinted past her head, as interested as she, though for a different reason. This was really quite an effect!
The nose lifted, then the tail. The plane angled up, still driving relentlessly forward. This was becoming too realistic; how could it stop before the pavement gave out?
The passing foliage dropped below. Take off!
Take off? Brother Paul stared past the child through the few waving strands of her hair that had yanked themselves free of the braids. Already the landscape was twenty meters below and dropping rapidly, forced behind by the monstrous thrust of the jets.
Suddenly he caught on. Motion picture film projected on the window as the structure of the plane was angled. To make it seem, by means of tilt and vision, as though they were flying. Very clever illusion.
Soon the window image showed clouds, and the plane leveled out. Champagne was served; Brother Paul declined his glass. There had been a time when—but he would never touch any mind-affecting drug again!
The stewardess walked down the aisle, plunking packaged breakfasts on the little shelves that folded out from the seats in front. Scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, and fruit juice.
Breakfasts? Was this morning? Well, it could be, after all his time crawling through the labyrinth under the Sphinx. Subjective impressions of the passage of time were suspect once a person had been in Animation.
“Can I have milk?” Carolyn asked.
”May you have milk,” Brother Paul said absently.
The stewardess smiled and produced a glass of milk. She was a buxom lass, and a chain of thought related the milk to—but he cut that off. Invalid, anyway; many people were not aware that cows did not freshen until bred.
Carolyn had a great time with this “picnic” meal, but Brother Paul was pensive. Why such an elaborate set with real food just like that of a past day on Earth (no wooden soup!), as though this really were a pre-mattermission airplane flight? It was really getting beyond the simple entertainment stage. Why squander the meager resources of Planet Tarot on such an exhibition of nostalgia?
Yet when he thought about it, it began to make more sense. He suffered from some nostalgia himself. It was nice to revisit the affluent, technological past, even briefly, even in mock-up. It had been so many years since he had been on a real airplane—and then it had not been as large or elegant as this one. So why not relax and enjoy the show?
They finished their meal—Carolyn left much of hers, he noted distastefully; he did not like waste—and the stewardess cleared away the trays.
