“You think you have created civilization with your inventions and discoveries. And, in fact, people got along well enough up to fifty or seventy-five years ago, when your inventions and discoveries began to come so fast that they have revolutionized everybody’s thinking. The Church is the only stable institution they have left to cling to. But what good would inventions and discoveries be without a moral force to make people moderate their actions towards each other? How long would they be civilized if, every chance a man had, he knocked his neighbor over the head, dragged him into his kitchen, and cooked and ate him?
“You scoff. You say, 7 should never consider such an act. I lead a moral upright life without supernatural sanctions. But are you gentlemen average citizens? You know the answer to that one. Still less are you members of that large fringe who really prefer evil to good, who revel in wickedness. If you do not believe such people exist, come with me to night courtthat is, if we all survive our present peril. So if you convince the Prem of your ‘truth’ and overthrow our creed, who shall guide the people? Do you think you can do so by equations and formulas, which they cannot even understand?
“Think about what I have said, gentlemen, and thank you for your courtesy in listening to me. Good night.”
When the patriach had gone, there was a moment of silence. A committeeman said: “I may not agree with him, but he’s a plausible old devil.”
“He is perfectly honest in his way,” said another.
“Oh, nonsense!” said another. “All supernaturalism is simply a scheme to enable a class of magicians called priests to live without working.”
“Oh, that’s not fair at all… .”
They argued inconclusively, shying away from the actual decision. It transpired that all of them wanted to save their heads and therefore to win the debate, but they wanted to find a reason for so doing that would not make them look like mere frightened self-seekers. Ardur Mensenrat put it acceptably:
“In the first place, we don’t really know whether our action would be the critical factor in deciding the Prem for war or peace. We have only Yungbor’s word for that. If I know Alzander Mirabo, he will have made up his mind long since. If we don’t furnish him with a pretext, somebody will.
“In the second, while we should deplore the massacre of the priesthood, if worse come to worst we think we are more important to civilization than they, and that they can be replaced more easily than we.
“Finally, if it were a question of eliminating war forever from Kforri, we might do otherwise. But it is not. Yungbor takes credit for the peace of recent decades, but the historiographers tell a different story. They say it is the result of the balance of power among the major nations. All are armed and touchy, all are full of tribal parochialism, truculent nationalism, and rancorous xenophobia. If the Prem does not go to war now, we have no assurance that somebody else will not do so next month.”
There was a common sigh of relief that Mensenrat had put so succinctly the thoughts that others, including Marko Prokopiu, were groping for. Marko’s mind had wandered during the debate, which tended to ramble and stray. In phantasy he saw himself gripping the wrist of the Stringiarch and poking the knife into her back, a couple of inches to the left of the spine where it would have a good chance of reaching the heart… .
He hesitated, fought down the horrible fear of making a fool of himself, and rapped on the table.
“Yes, Master Prokopiu?” said Mensenrat.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” said Marko, feeling himself blush, “although I’m but an ignorant backwoods schoolteacher, without even a legitimate degree, I have a suggestion to make.”
“Go ahead.”
“What I suggest does not conflict with the plans for the debate but might make the debate unnecessary.”
“Get to the point, sir,” said Mensenrat.
“Well, I was thinkingthat is, if we could get control of the person of the Prem, we might hold him as hostage to make him let us go.”
“Preposterous!” said somebody.
“Maybe, but what have we to lose? And speaking as one who has just escaped from the Isle of Mnaenn by that means, I think I may claim some small expertise in the science of kidnaping, which has perhaps been denied you learned gentlemen.”
“What’s your plan?” said Mensenrat.
“Well, the idea has only just dawned upon me, so I shall more or less have to make it up as I go. But, briefly …”
12
The following morning, the eleventh of Perikles, Muphrid rose behind a thin cover of clouds. Marko Prokopiu stood with Boert Halran, Ulf Toskano, and other philosophers watching the inflation of the bag in the courtyard. This time, the balloon was not loaded with much fuel or ballast, because it was meant to be used as a captive balloon only.
Marko’s throat hurt from talking most of the night. The philosophers would have argued forever, or until the Prem’s executioner came for them, if Mensenrat had not taken Marko’s side and bullied the rest into acquiescence. At that, many seemed convinced that if only they did nothing, the danger would go away of its own accord.
An imperial soldier rode up to the guarded gate in front of the building, dismounted, and came in. He clanked up to Toskano, drew his sword, banged his spurs together, saluted, sheathed his sword, and drew a folded paper from the cuff of his gauntlet.
“His ineffable Serenity, the Prem of Eropia, sends you greetings,” said the soldier, “and begs that you will have the inexpressible goodness to read this note and return your answer forthwith.”
Toskano read the note and said to the philosophers around him: “He’s coming. Second hour. Will you be ready, Boert?”
“Easily,” said Halran.
Toskano spoke to the soldier: “Have the generous kindness, esteemed sir, to inform your master, the mighty Prem of Eropia, that we shall be overcome with gratitude at his serenity’s gracious condescension in visiting our convention and witnessing some of our trivial experiments. All will be ready.”
“I cordially thank Your Excellency,” said the soldier, and clanked off.
Marko turned back to the balloon, but then came another interruption. Domingo Bivar rushed out of the hall with his long hair flying, waving a fistful of paper. He had bags under his bloodshot eyes.
“Dr. Toskano!” he shouted. “Dr. Toskano! Come quick! All is solved! We win! I must tell you. … It is a thing most amazing… .”
Toskano asked Halran: “How soon will your balloon be inflated?”
“Not for another hour,” said Halran.
Toskano followed Bivar; Marko and a few others followed Toskano. Bivar led them back to the room containing the Chimei microscope. One of the brothers (Marko could not be sure which) was still on guard. The cards were stacked on the table.
Bivar sat down, dropped his notes on the floor, picked them up, reshuffled them, and began: “Gentlemen: what we have here is a record, made by some process long since lost, of the literature of the men of Earth before the Descent.”
He waited until the buzz occasioned by this announcement had subsided, then went on :x “These little gray spots on the cards are pictures, made by some process chemical, of pages printed. If Dr. Chimei can with a few bits of glass make the small appear large, why cannot the large be made small? But to continue. One of the boxes contained an encyclopedia complete. The other contained a collection of biographies of men of Earth. There were thousands of lives of Earthmen, some as long as whole books in themselves. Why only these two collections should have been preserved, or why the Ancient Ones should have recorded their knowledge in that form”