'Here's our paradox, then,' he said. 'For some reason, he decides to make the doll. Eccentric, yes, but perfectly legal; he was entirely within his rights, breaking no laws. He'll have gone to the specifications register and copied out the drawings and the commentary, gone home and planned out how he was going to tackle the job-the tools he'd need, the materials; and then he takes it into his head to make changes, improvements. Can you explain that, do you think?'
'No.'
'Neither can I,' Psellus said, 'which is why you're here, and why you can't go home until I have an answer that makes sense. All right, let's break it down into little bits and see if that helps. Let's start with the sequence of events.'
'The what?'
'The order he did things in. Do you think he made the changes while he was reviewing the plans, or did they occur to him once he'd started?'
She shrugged, a very small movement. 'I don't know.'
Psellus acted as though he hadn't heard her. 'I think,' he said, 'he made them before he actually began to cut metal; I don't see him as the sort of man who improvises in midstream, not unless something goes wrong. If I'm right, do you see the implications?'
She shook her head.
'It means,' Psellus said, 'that he started out with the view of-I don't know, of making the best mechanical doll he could possibly make, and to hell with rules and laws. That's different, don't you agree, to making a change on the spur of the moment. More deliberate. A stronger intention.'
'I suppose so.'
'Of course, I'm only guessing,' Psellus went on. 'Perhaps the changes were spur-of-the-moment decisions after all. But here's another thing.' He straightened his legs under the desk. 'If I was a very skillful craftsman, as Ziani was-'
'You keep talking like he's dead or something.'
'So I am,' Psellus said. 'As he is, then; if I built something very clever and difficult, like a mechanical doll-well, I'm making it for my daughter, we know that. But I think I'd also want to show it off, just a little: to friends at work, other craftsmen, people who'd know and appreciate the quality of my work. I couldn't resist that, it's only natural, don't you think?'
She said nothing.
'I think so. But by changing Specification, I'm making that impossible. I'm building this very clever machine, and nobody else will ever see it, apart from a kid who won't understand. Now, we're saying that a man who changes Specification must be guilty of the sin of pride; but if he was proud of the work, he'd want to show it off, wouldn't he? There's the paradox. You can see it, can't you?'
Still nothing. She was looking just past his head.
'Maybe now you can see why I'm in such a tangle,' Psellus went on sadly. 'None of it makes any sense, does it? There's no sense in building it at all-if your daughter had wanted a mechanical doll more than anything in the world, I'm sure you'd have known about it, her mother. She'd have nagged and begged and wheedled and made a pest of herself. And if she didn't want it so desperately, the only other motive for building it would be pride, and we've just agreed it couldn't have been that. What a muddle,' he added. 'It really doesn't add up.'
'I suppose it doesn't,' she said quietly. 'And I'm sorry if it bothers you, but I can't understand it either. Not when you put it like that.'
Psellus smiled. 'Ah,' he said, 'but that's only the little mystery. That's nothing at all compared to the big mystery. You wait till we get onto that, and you'll see why I simply can't leave it alone.' He took a deep breath, and sighed. 'But we won't bother about that now. Let's talk about something a bit less gloomy. How about true love?'
Her eyes gleamed angrily. 'What are you on about now?'
'Falier,' he replied, 'the man you're going to marry, now that you've got your dispensation. Your true love. At least, I'm assuming…' He grinned. 'I take it you two are in love; why else would you be getting married, after all?'
'Yes,' she said, and her voice was like the grating of the two ends of a broken bone. 'Yes, we love each other. All right?'
He nodded. 'I thought as much,' he said. 'After all, it's a big step, for both of you. He'll be taking on another man's child, for one thing; not to mention the wife of the Republic's most wanted man. It stands to reason he must love you very much.'
'He does. You can ask him, if you like.'
'I might, now you suggest it.' Psellus nibbled a bit more off the rim of his biscuit. 'And then there's you. Intriguing, let's say. A lot of trouble was gone to so that you could stay in your house and get your pension from the Guild-I almost said widow's pension, but of course, Ziani's still alive. Someone really put himself out to arrange all that. You wouldn't happen to know who, would you? I seem to be having a certain amount of difficulty finding out through approved channels.'
That got her attention. 'Sorry,' she said, 'no idea.'
'Some anonymous benefactor, then,' he replied. 'My first thought was your father; and yes, he made representations, through his head of chapel. I saw the file; the application was dismissed. The other file-the one that was approved-seems terribly difficult to find, however. I've had archivists scurrying around the records office looking for it, but it doesn't appear to be there. They think the mice may have eaten it, though apparently they didn't manage to get their teeth into the approval certificate. I had a good look at that, and it says quite clearly: by order of the Guild benevolent association, you get to stay in the house and draw the pension for life or until remarriage. All perfectly in order. Not signed, of course. Being a certificate, it's got a seal rather than a signature; which is annoying, because a signature would've given me a name, someone I could've pestered for some background. But a seal simply means it was sent down to the clerks' office with the other approved documents.' He shook his head slightly. 'Not to worry. We were talking about love, not office procedures. The point I'm making is, thanks to this unknown altruist, you were nicely placed for life: a home and an income-not a fortune, but as much as any Guild widow gets. More, actually, because of Ziani's status. I think that, in your position, most people would've been very grateful for that.'
'I was. What are you getting at?'
He waved his hand vaguely. 'I'm not getting at anything. I'm just saying: your marriage to Falier can't just be a single mother's entirely understandable desire for security, a roof over her head, food and clothes for the kid. No, you're giving all that up-for life or until remarriage, remember? Yes, I'm sure you do. So you're making sacrifices, just as Falier is. Therefore, logically, you must be in love, or why do it?'
'We're in love,' she snapped, 'I just told you that.'
He nodded. 'And I'm explaining why I believe you,' he said soothingly. 'It's not as if I don't approve of love; on the contrary, I think it's a splendid thing, and so does the Guild. Official policy; love is a benefit to the community at large, and should be encouraged.' He chuckled. 'They did a study once, did you know? They did a survey, and they found that happily married men, and men who were either engaged or going steady, had a sixteen percent higher productivity rating, adjusted over time, than bachelors and men who didn't get on with their wives. So, you see, love is good for business as well as everything else.'
'That's really interesting,' she said flatly.
'Isn't it? Of course,' he went on, 'that's good news for the ordnance factory. When Ziani was foreman, productivity was excellent; if the survey's to be believed, presumably it's because he loved his wife and was happy at home. Since he left and Falier took over, productivity-measured in output per man-hour-has dropped by seven percent. But now Falier's getting married to someone who loves him very much, so with any luck we ought to be able to claw back that seven percent and who knows, maybe even notch up an extra point or two. Coincidence, of course, that he'll be marrying Ziani's wife; but the view the committee took is that if you made Ziani happy, it's likely you'll make Falier happy too. A proven track record, as you might say.'
She gave him a poisonous look, and said nothing. He drank the rest of his water. Siege warfare, he thought; the attacking army lines up its siege engines, its catapults and mangonels and trebuchets and onagers, and lets fly a horrendous bombardment against the city walls, until the air is thick with the dust from pounded masonry, but the walls are thick enough to shrug it off. But the bombardment is just a decoy, because while it's going on, the sappers
