“I had thought,” the Speaker said mildly, “that epistemology had been pretty well settled.”
“Certainly, certainly—in the limited sense of agreeing on the semantic nature of symbolic communication. Speech and other communication symbols necessarily refer back to agreed-upon, pointed-to referent physical facts, no matter how high the level of abstraction, for communication to take place. Beyond that we cannot communicate. That’s why Brother Johann and I can’t argue about religion. He carries his around inside of him and can’t point to what he means—as I carry mine. We can’t even be sure that we disagree. Our notions about religion may be identical, but we can’t talk about it meaningfully—so we keep quiet.”
Johann smiled with untroubled good nature, but said nothing. Carvala looked up from her fancy work and said sharply, “Is this a development center lecture?”
“Sorry, Carvala. We agree on the method of symbol communication—the symbol is not the referent, the map is not the territory, the speech-sound is not the physical process. We go further and admit that the symbol never abstracts all of the details of the process it refers to. And we concede that symbols can be used to manipulate symbols…dangerously but usefully. And we agree that symbols should be structurally as similar as possible to the referents for communication purposes. To that extent epistemology is settled; but the key problem of epistemology—how we know what we know and what that knowledge means, we have settled by agreeing to ignore—like Johann and myself in re theology.”
“Do you seriously propose that we investigate it?”
“I do. It’s a key problem in the general problem of the personality. There is a strong interconnection between it and the object of Mordan’s proposal. Consider—if a man ‘lives’ after his body is dead or before that body was conceived, then a man is something more than his genes and his subsequent environment. The doctrine of no-personal-responsibility for personal acts has become popular through the contrary assumption. I won’t go into the implications—they must be evident to all of you—in ethics, in politics, in every field. But note the parallel between map-territory and gene-chart-and-man. These basic problems are all inter-related and the solution to any of them might be the key to all the others.”
“You did not mention the possibility of direct communication without symbols.”
“I implied it. That is one of the things we agreed to forget when we accepted the semantic negative statements as the final word on epistemology. But it ought to be looked into again. There is something to telepathy, even if we can’t measure it and manipulate it. Any man who has ever been happily married knows that, even if he’s afraid to talk about it. Infants and animals and primitives have some use of it. Maybe we’ve been too smart. But the question ought to be reopened.”
“Speaking of philosophical questions in general,” put in the member from New Bolivar, “we have already agreed to subsidize one. Doctor Thorgsen’s project—the ballistic stellarium—eidouraniun, I should call it. The origin and destination of the universe is certainly a classic problem of metaphysics.”
“You have right,” said the Speaker. “If we follow Richard’s proposal, Doctor Thorgsen’s project should be included under it.”
“I suggest we did not allot Doctor Thorgsen sufficient credit.”
“The subsidy could be increased, but he has not spent much of it. He seems to have little talent for spending money.”
“Perhaps he needs abler assistants. There is Hargrave Caleb, and, of course, Monroe-Alpha Clifford. Monroe-Alpha is wasted in the department of finance.”
“Thorgsen knows Monroe-Alpha. Perhaps Monroe-Alpha doesn’t want to work on it.”
“Nonsense! Any man likes a job that stretches his muscles.”
“Then perhaps Thorgsen hesitated to ask him to help. Thorgsen is an essentially modest man, as is Monroe-Alpha.”
“That seems more likely.”
“In any case,” the Speaker finished, “such details are for the instigator to consider, not the whole board. Are you ready for opinion? The question is Brother Richard’s proposal in the broadest sense—I suggest that we postpone elaboration of the details of projects and methods until tomorrow and other morrows. In the mean time—does any member oppose?”
There was no opposition; there was full consent.
“So be it,” said the Speaker. He smiled. “It seems we are about to attempt to walk where Socrates stumbled. It will take some doing!”
“Crawl, not ‘walk,’” Johann corrected. “We have limited ourselves to the experimental methods of science.”
“True, true. Well, ‘he who crawls cannot stumble.’ Now to other matters—we still have a state to govern!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Whither thou goest—”
“HOW would you like,” Felix asked Phyllis, “to have a half interest in a gladiator?”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“This undertaking of Smith Darlington’s—feetball. We are going to incorporate each employee’s contract and sell it. Our agent thinks it will be a good investment, and, truthfully, I think he’s right.”
“Feetball,” repeated Phyllis meditatively. “You did say something about it, but I never understood it.”
“It’s a silly business, at best. Twenty-two men get out on a large open place and battle with their bare hands.”
“Why?”
“The excuse is to move a little plastic spheroid from one end of the place to the other.”
“What difference does it make which end it’s on?”
“None, really—but it’s as reasonable as any other game.”
“I don’t get it,” Phyllis decided. “Why should anyone fight unless he wants to kill someone?”
“You have to see it to understand it. It’s exciting. I even found myself shouting.”
“You!”
“Uh huh. Me. Old calm-as-a-cat Felix. It’s going to take hold, I tell you. It’s going to be popular. We’ll sell permissions to view it physically and then all sorts of lesser rights—direct pick-up, and recording, and so forth. Smith has a lot of ideas about identifying various combinations with cities and organizations and attaching color symbols to them and songs and things. He’s full of ideas—an amazing young man, for a barbarian.”
“He must be.”
“Better let me buy you a piece of it. It’s a pure spec proposition and you can get in cheap—now. It’ll make you rich.”
“What use have I for any more money?”
“I don’t know. You might spend it on me.”
“That’s pretty silly. You’re bloated with credit now.”
“Well, that brings me around to another subject. When we’re married you can really put your mind on helping me spend it.”
“Are you on that subject again?”
“Why not? Times have changed. There is no obstacle anymore. I’ve come around to Mordan’s way of thinking.”
“So Mordan told me.”
“He did? Egg’s Name—everything goes on behind my back! Never mind. When do we stat the contract?”
“What makes you think we are going to?”
“Huh? Wait a minute—I thought that all that stood between us was a difference of opinion about children?”
“You thought too much. What I said was that I would never marry a man who didn’t want children.”
“But I understood you to say—” He got up and moved nervously around the room. “Say, Phil—don’t you like me?”
“You’re nice enough—in your own horrid way.”
“Then what’s the trouble?”
She did not answer.
Presently he said, “I don’t know whether it makes any difference since you feel that way about it, but I love you—you know that, don’t you?”
“Come here.” He came near to where she was sitting. She took him by the ears and pulled his head down.
“Filthy, you big dope—you should have said that ten minutes ago.” She kissed him.
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Sometime later she said dreamily, “Filthy—”
“Yes, darling?”
“After we have Theobald we’ll have a little girl and then another little boy, and then maybe another little girl.”
“Um—”
She sat up. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you pleased at the prospect?” She looked at him closely.
“Sure, sure.”
“Then why are you looking so glum?”
“I was thinking about Cliff. The poor lunk.”
“Hasn’t he found any trace of her yet?”
“Nary a trace.”
“Oh, dear!” She put her arms around him and held him.
No sign of her in the Giant Forest, though he had cut the air back to the place. No woman had registered there with the given name of Marion. No one could he find who could identify her by his description. No ship had checked in there registered to such a person. Nor did the owners of the ships that had been there know such a person—several of them knew Marions, but not the Marion—although three of them had responded to the description closely enough to send him charging across country, with wildly beating heart, on errands which cruelly disappointed him.
There remained Johnson-Smith Estaire, at whose town house he had first seen her. He had consulted her at once, after his initial failure to find Marion still at the Park. No, she didn’t recall such a person. “After all, my dear Master Monroe-Alpha, the place was simply mobbed.”
Did she keep a guest list? Yes, of course; what kind of a hostess did he think she was? Could he see it? She sent for her social secretary.
There was no Marion on the list.
He went back again. Could she have been mistaken? No, there was no mistake. But people sometimes brought others along to such a party as that—had he thought of that? In that case the hostess would have no record of it. Did she recall any such? No, she couldn’t—it was too much to ask. Would it be too much to ask to copy the guest list? Not at all—anything to oblige.
But first he must listen to her. “It’s becoming simply impossible to get servants at any reasonable wage.” Couldn’t he do something about it. “Dear Master Monroe-Alpha.” In what way? He was the man who handled the dividend, wasn’t he? That was the trouble—with the dividend so high they simply would not enter service unless you simply bribed them, my dear.
He tried to explain to her that he had no control over the dividend, that he was simply the mathematical go-between for the facts of economics and the Board of Policy. He could see that she did not believe him.
He decided not to tell her, since he wanted a favor from her, that he himself would not choose to work as a personal servant for another unless driven to it by hunger. He tried to suggest that she make use of the excellent automaton furniture manufactured by her husband, supplemented by the help of the service companies. But she would have none of it. “So common, my dear. I tell you nothing replaces a well-trained servant. I should think people of that class would take pride in such a profession. I’m sure I would if I were called to such a station in life.”
Monroe-Alpha wondered where she had picked up such ideas, but he held his peace, and made sympathetic noises. Presently he got the list.
Impatiently, but with aching care, he plodded through the list. Some of the addresses were outside the Capital, some as far away as South America—Johnson-Smith Estaire was a fashionable hostess. Those he could not question himself, not fast enough to satisfy the lump of misery inside him. He must needs hire agents to track them down. He did so; it took all the credit he had—personal service comes high!—he borrowed against his salary to make up the deficit.
Two of the guests had died in the mean time. He set more agents to work, investigating tactfully their backgrounds and acquaintances, trying, trying to locate a woman named Marion. He dare not even leave these two deceased to the last, for fear the trail might grow cold.
The others, those living in the Capital, he investigated himself. No, we took no one with us to that party—certainly no one named Marion. Estaire’s party?—let me see, she gives so many. Oh, that one—no, I’m sorry. Now let me think—do you mean Selby Marion? No, Selby Marion is a little tiny woman with bright red hair. Sorry, my dear fellow—care for a drink. No? What’s the hurry?
Yes, surely. My cousin, Faircoat Marion. There’s a stereo of her over there, on the organ. Not the one you’re looking for? Well, signal me and tell me how you made out. Always glad to do a favor for a friend of Estaire’s. Fine woman, Estaire—always lots of fun at her place.
We did take someone to that party—who was it, dear? Oh, yes, Reynolds Hans. He had some strange girl with him. No, I can’t remember her name—do you, dear?—Me, I just call them all Lollipops, if they’re under thirty. But here’s Reynolds’ address; you might ask him.
Master Reynolds did not consider it an intrusion, no. Yes, he recalled the occasion—jolly brawl. Yes, he had escorted his cousin from Sanfrisco. Why, yes, her name was Marion—Hartnett Marion. How had he known her name?
Say, that’s interesting—done something like that himself once. Thought he’d lost track of the girl, only she turned up the following week at another party. Married, though, and in love with her husband—fortunately.
No, he didn’t mean that Marion was married, but this other girl—kid named Francine. Did he have a picture of his cousin? Well, now, let me see, he didn’t think so. Wait now, he might have a flat pic, taken when they were kids, in a scrapbook somewhere. Where would that be? He was going to clean out this flat some day and throw away a lot of this junk—never could find anything when he wanted it.
Here it is—that’s Marion, in the front row, second from the left. Was that the girl?
It was she! It was she!
How fast can a skyracer be pushed? How many corners can a man cut without being patrolled? Go…go…go!
He paused for a moment and tried to still his racing heart, before signalling at the door. The scanner investigated him and the door dilated.
He found her alone.
He stopped when he saw her, unable to move, unable to speak, face white.
“Come in,” she said.
“You…you’ll receive me?”
“Of course. I’ve been waiting.”
He searched her eyes. They were warm and tender still, albeit troubled. “I don’t understand. I tried to burn you.”
“You didn’t mean to. You didn’t want to.”
“I—But… Oh, Marion, Marion!” He stumbled forward toward her, and half fell. His head was in her lap. He shook with the racking sobs of one who has not learned how to cry.
She patted his shoulder. “My dear. My dear.”
He looked up at last and found that her face was wet, even though he had heard no sound of tears. “I love you,” he said. He said it tragically, as if it were an irreparable harm.
“I know. I love you.”
Much later, she said to him, “Come with me.”
He followed her on out into another room, where she busied herself at her wardrobe. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve a few things to take care of first.”
“First?”
“This time I’m coming with you.”
On the way back he used the phrase “—after we’re married.”
“You intend to marry me?”
“Of course. If you’ll have me!”
“You would marry a control natural?”
“Why not?” He met the issue bravely, even casually.
Why not? Well, Roman citizens, proud of their patrician Latin blood, could have told him. The white aristocracy of the Old South could have, in their little day, explained to him in detail why not. “Aryan” race-myth apologists could have defined the reasons. Of course, in each case the persons giving the reasons would have had a different “race” in mind when explaining the obscene horror he contemplated committing, but their reasons would have been the same. Even Johnson-Smith Estaire could have explained to him “Why not”—and
she would most certainly cut him off her list for stooping to such an alliance.
After all, kings and emperors have lost their thrones for lesser miscegenations.
“That’s all I wanted to know,” she said. “Come here, Clifford.”
He came, a little mystified. She raised her left arm; he read the little figures tattooed there. The registration number was—no matter. But the classification letter was neither the “B” of a basic type, such as he bore, nor the CN of a control natural. It was X—experimental.
She told him about it a little later. Her hyper-dexter great grandparents had both been control naturals. “Of course it shows a little,” she said. “I do catch colds…if I don’t take my pills. And sometimes I forget. I’m a sloppy person, Clifford.”
A child of these two, her dexter grandfather, had been identified, rather late in life, as a mutation, probably favorable—almost certainly favorable. His mutation was no gross matter, easily recognized, but was subtle and subliminal. It had to do with emotional stability. Perhaps it would be easiest to say that he was more civilized than any man can be expected to be.
Naturally, an attempt was made to conserve the mutation. She was one of the conservators.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“No more privacy than a guppy in an aquarium”
PHYLLIS squealed at him as he got home.
“Felix!”
He chucked aside the file case he had been carrying and kissed her. “What’s the trouble, Flutterbrain?”
“This. Look. Read it.” “It” was a stat of a handwritten message. He read aloud:
“‘Espartero Carvala presents her compliments to Madame Longcourt Phyllis and prays permission to call on the morrow at half after sixteen hundred.’ Hummm… You’re shooting high, darling.”
“But whatever am I to do?”
“Do? Why, you put out your hand, say ‘How do you fare?’ and then serve her something—tea, I suppose, though they say she drinks like a fish.”
“Filthy!”
“What’s the matter?”