Existence

her stroking tentacle, there was a bumpy roughness to the imprinted image that smelled like time… vast amounts of it, congealed and stale.

She didn’t care for either of the patterns, but Tarsus knew that she must contemplate them for an allotted interval, and then select one as preferable over the other, or else the hatch covers would not loosen. So she fondled the paper coverings, peered at them, even used her beak to take samples, stroking with her tongue and musing on whatever subtleties lay beyond mere wood pulp and waterproof paste…

… at which point she chose.

* * *

A murmur of excitement yanked Hamish out of his reverie and back to the present. Most of the onlookers in the Cephalo-Delphi Center were leaning toward an observation window, separating them from the large aquarium tank, where a famous prognosticating octopus had finally made her choice, opening one of two hatches representing alternate possible futures.

Having gained access, Tarsus was now dismembering a crab, with relish, ignoring the creature’s bitter resistance with snapping claws. Her caretaker, Dr. Nolan, announced the augury results with evident satisfaction.

“Tarsus has spoken. On the basis of her choice, our investor co-op has purchased ten thousand wager-shares on the Chicago Predictions Exchange, betting that the International Contact Commission will continue to be deadlocked in stalemate for at least another week, delaying their recommendations for what to do about the alien artifact.

“Given that Tarsus has accurately forecast outcomes on nine of her last twelve tries-well above statistical significance-we expect that other investors will follow suit. And now, if you will follow me to the reception area, there will be refreshments while I answer any questions.”

Hamish hung back, feeling miffed as the crowd followed Dr. Nolan. This was supposed to be his morning with Tarsus. But that appointment for a private audience with the eight- armed soothsayer had been put off, preempted, so that the keepers might ask their octopus-seer another silly, useless question about the Havana Artifact.

There was a time when they would not treat the famous Hamish Brookeman that way. As recently as a few weeks ago.

After all, what did it matter if that raucous pack of scientists, scholars, and politicians in Virginia dithered over their report? With the world spiraling into disorder, frenzy, or despair, was any public statement likely to make a difference?

In fact, Hamish had made his appointment to consult Tarsus several months ago, before anyone knew about crystals filled with ersatz aliens. Back when his top concern had been the hunt for the Basque Chimera, the infant son of Agurne Arrixaka Bidarte. A search that now seemed secondary, even inconsequential.

In fact, he had been contemplating a completely different question to ask Tarsus, today. Something much more timely, even personal.

And if that made Tenskwatawa angry?

So what. Let him hunt for the Neanderthal boy without my help!

Hamish still nursed hurt feelings over the snub, back at that elite gathering in Switzerland, when the leader of the Renunciation Movement kept him away from the main event, a private viewing of Rupert Glaucus-Worthington’s greatest treasure-a crystal skull that must have once been an emissary from space. Hamish would have missed it all, but for intervention by mysterious third parties. Ever since that evening, he had felt loyalties slipping. Not his belief in Renunciation; that was still firm. But his willingness to leave all decisions to one leader.

A leader who was now firming up an alliance with trillionaire lords.

Well? argued part of his mind-the devil’s advocate. Is there any other group that can make renunciation work? It won’t happen in a democracy. At least the trillies have experience managing great enterprises and making decisions from the shadows. History shows that only an oligarchy can suppress technology’s breakneck race ahead. And that conference in Switzerland showed one encouraging aspect. All those boffin papers, on how an elite can rule with noblesse oblige-at least they seem to be taking their new responsibilities seriously.

Anyway, what choice will we have?

Humanity could only survive by rejecting the aliens’ path. By returning to its roots. To the social pattern that ruled every other civilization but this one.

And yet-

– yet his own role and importance in these unfolding events seemed to be diminishing, day by day. Even when the Prophet asked his advice, it seemed off-hand, even perfunctory. And Hamish was coming to realize something bitter, but true.

He did not want to become just another boffin-lackey for the new oligarchy.

Hamish fondled a small, sealed container, no bigger than his knuckle, in his jacket pocket. It contained a single contaict lens. If he slipped it on, it might put him back in touch with the mysterious strangers who once guided him through the halls of Rupert Glaucus-Worthington’s expansive mansion, leading him by secret passages to witness the New Lords in action. To see, with his own eyes, how Rupert and his peers confronted the unexpected. And that moment had changed him.

In their expressions of dull surprise, he had not seen the visage of wise leaders. Not Plato’s philosopher kings, but stunned and ignorant men, clinging to preconceptions, as likely to make grand errors as anybody else.

In which case, are they any more qualified to pick a path for humanity, than I am?

Before Hamish could follow that mental track much further, something interrupted the chain of sullen thoughts. Wriggles, his little earring aissistant, spoke up.

“Hamish, something has happened.

“It has to do with Roger Betsby. You asked to be informed of any significant developments.”

Hamish blinked.

Betsby? Oh, right. The Strong Affair. That matter had seemed so pressing-to save the career of an absurd fool of a U.S. senator from his self-inflicted public relations fiasco. Now it struck Hamish as so… P.A.… or pre-Artifact. True, Senator Strong could still be helpful in formulating right policies for the new era. Yet, the first thing to cross his mind was that Hamish looked forward to seeing the senator’s nemesis again. To spar once more with the doctor’s agile mind.

What has Betsby done now? He caught himself smiling in anticipation, as if relishing the next clever move of a worthy chess opponent.

Fishing in his jacket pocket, Hamish brushed past the small contaict lens container, choosing instead a larger, rectangular shape that he swiftly unfolded into a pair of tru-vu goggles.

“Show me,” he commanded Wriggles.

But, even expecting something unexpected, what erupted before Hamish struck him numb with shock.

THE POSTHUMOUS CONFESSION OF A POISONER

If you are watching this, it means that I’m dead, or missing, or so mind-altered that I can no longer transmit the complicated daily stop-code on this, my final statement to the world.

My name is Roger Betsby. I am… or was… a physician serving one of the refugee communities in the Detroit Renewal District. Blink here, and my homunculus will take you on a tour of who I was and what I stood for. But I bet you are more likely interested in hearing my deathbed denunciation.

First a confession. On October the twelfth of last year, while pretending to be a waiter at a luncheon of the First Americans Club, I slipped a substance into the beverage consumed by Senator Crandall Strong. Among THESE links are vid recordings showing me in the act. There are also clips-redistributed by scores of newsnexers-of the senator’s subsequent speech, which started in his normal fashion, with a low, mild voice, but soon rising in tone and volume as he typically recited from a long list of complaints and grudges.