'Then what would you have us do? Would you change our laws?'
'Our mores, not our laws. There are many things which are repugnant, deadly to the spirit, and self- destructive, but which law should not forbid. Addiction, self-delusion, self-destruction, slander, perversion, love of ugliness. How can we discourage such things without the use of force? It was in response to this need that the College of Hortators evolved. Peacefully, by means of boycotts, public protests, denouncements, and shunnings, our society can maintain her sanity against the dangers to our spirit, to our humanity, to which such unboundried liberty, and such potent technology, exposes us.'
Phaethon suddenly understood why Helion had always supported the College of Hortators, even when they made poor decisions. The Hortators had saved Helion's identity from Hyacinth, and had restored it to him.
But Phaethon certainly did not want to hear a lecture, not today. 'Why are you telling me all this? What is the point?'
'Phaethon, I will let you pass through those doors, and, once through, you will have at your command all the powers and perquisites I myself possess. The point of my story is simple. The paradox of liberty of which you spoke before applies to our entire society. We cannot be free without being free to harm ourselves. Advances in technology can remove physical dangers from our lives, but, when they do, the spiritual dangers increase. By spiritual danger I mean a danger to your integrity, your decency, your sense of life. Against those dangers I warn you; you can be invulnerable, if you choose, because no spiritual danger can conquer you without your own consent. But, once they have your consent, those dangers are all-powerful, because no outside force can come to your aid. Spiritual dangers are always faced alone. It is for this reason that the Silver-Gray School was formed; it is for this reason that we practice the exercise of self-discipline. Once you pass those doors, my son, you will be one of us, and there will be nothing to restrain you from corruption and self-destruction except yourself.
'You have a bright and fiery soul, Phaethon, a power to do great things; but I fear you may one day unleash such a tempest of fire that you may consume yourself, and all the world around you.'
Helion turned and pointed toward the doors. 'There is your heritage; now I step aside. But if you feel in any way unready or unfit, then do not go in.' And, at his gesture, the count of time began again.
Was he ready? Phaethon had never let doubt enter his mind; he went up the stairs with a dancer's quickness. As he paused with his hand on the panels of the door, he thought with fierce certainty: I won't be like my father was. I would save my friends if they were drowning, law or no law. I would find a way.
Beyond the door was a wide dark, solemn space, with an examination pool shining like a silver eye in the gloom before him....
Phaethon had been irked by the exchange with Helion. He had always promised himself he would redact the unrecorded conversation, so that his memories of his graduation and rite of passage would be a memory of gold, a perfect day, untarnished by Helion's sarcasm and doubts. Didn't he have a right, if that was the way he wanted to remember it?
But, somehow, Phaethon had never gotten around to redacting the memory, and, eventually realized he would not and should not. The irritation had been real, part of the event, part of him, and part of his life. Falsifying the event would have made the event false, and part of him false.
So he kept the memory. He had not even stored it in archive, but kept it in his head.
With his arm still buried up to his elbow in the two-dimensional screen of the self-consideration circuit, Phaethon took his hand off of the index box. He had seen the memory that had made him hesitate. It was a warning from his past; Helion had told him not to trust the Sophotechs, that the machine intelligences would not protect his life from fear and sorrow. Instead, Helion had urged him to trust the Hortators, the guardians of the conscience of society. ,
Phaethon could see the pale light indicating his desire for Helion's help dim and ebb away. But the Sophotechs would help him. Hadn't Monomarchos solved a seemingly impossible problem? Any problem could be solved, as long as the problem solver were intelligent enough.
As for trusting the Hortators, they were the ones who had somehow gotten Phaethon to butcher his own memory. To
forget his drowned wife. They would be no help; if anything, they were his rivals.
Should he go in person to the place where his wife's body was kept? Phaethon could see the red line indicating his fear levels, rising and rising, forming what psychometric analysts called a catastrophe bubble. In a moment, fear would make him do something unwise, such as telepresenting himself to where his wife lay, when he knew he should go in person. How to head off this growing fear?
Phaethon, leaning into the surface, plunged in his arm up to his shoulder, so that he could reach the deep- structure connections feeding into his emotion/action core. He turned his pride reading up to the maximum recommended level.
Suddenly he was invincible. Was he not Phaethon? The mere fact that he inspired such fear in the Hortators was a sign of his power, power enough to sweep aside any obstacles that might dare to confront him. He had spun worlds and moons into new orbits; he had done miracles before this; to save his wife from the cobwebs of delusion could not be so impossible a task!
With great satisfaction he saw his fear levels deflate. But the emotion grid now showed another catastrophe bubble beginning to form, this one a response to mounting impatience. The same high pride that disdained all thought of fear would not allow him to wait the hours or days it would take to ship his physical body to the Eveningstar Sophotech Housing where, no doubt, Daphne Prime was resting. Besides, to rent j a vehicle would require him to draw money from Helion's account, and give Helion plenty of warning, and perhaps time to interfere.
Whereas, on the other hand, the very reason why the manorial movement had gotten started in the first place was that telepresentation was quicker and less expensive than lugging | a physical body around everywhere.
A gesture at the communication icon was sufficient to make a connection. A moment later he woke up in another scene.
THE COFFIN
Phaethon found himself in a chair of pale wood, ornamented with scrollwork, next to a small table holding a lily vase, a pomander, and a figment-case made of brass. A rug of white and pigeon-blue was underfoot. Before him, embraced by two funeral urns, was a doorway leading to a hall of dark green marble.
