Computer to examine the other.”
“So you can see if she has a black ball in her brain?”
Burton grimaced. Nur always seemed to be able to read his mind.
“Yes.”
The two dumped one body into a cabinet and ordered the Computer to get rid of it. White light filled the cabinet, and, when they looked through the window in the door, the cabinet was empty. There were not even ashes in it.
The other corpse was placed on a table above which was a huge dome-shaped device. Though there was no display of energy, the interior of the body was shown on a screen in a series of images. Burton had the Computer run the images back to the one he wanted. There was a tiny black sphere on the forebrain. This had been surgically implanted and, acting at a subvocalized codeword, would release a poison into the bearer’s body, killing it instantly.
“So … she was an Agent.”
“But we still don’t know when she came here or what her ultimate intentions were,” Frigate said.
“For the moment,” Burton said, “we don’t have to. It’s enough that we’ve gotten rid of the Snark. Now we’re on our own, free.”
They were, however, free only in some senses. Burton asked the Computer if the overrides installed by the woman were now removed. It replied that they were not.
“When would they be released?”
The Computer did not know.
“We’re stymied,” Frigate said.
“Not forever,” Burton replied. He was not as confident as he sounded.
10
On that perhaps forever-lost Earth, so far in distance and time, in A.D. 1880 in the city of London, England, appeared a privately printed book. It was titled The Kasîdah of Hâjî Abdû El-Yezdî, A Lay of the Higher Law. Translated and annotated by His Friend and Pupil F. B. The initials stood for Frank Baker, a nom de plume of Captain Richard Francis Burton. “Frank” was from his middle name; “Baker” was his mother’s maiden surname. Not until after his death would his true name be appended to a reprint.
The poem, set in distichs imitating the classical Arab form, was supposed to be the work of a Persian Sufi, Haji Abdu of the city of Yezdi in Persia. Haji was a title borne by any Moslem who had made a pilgrimage to Mecca. Burton himself, having made the pilgrimage, disguised as a Moslem, could call himself a Haji. In this poem, Burton poured out his wisdom, pessimism, vast knowledge, and agnosticism, the Burtonian World-View and World-Pain. As Frank Baker, he had annotated the poem by “Abdu” and written an afterword that expressed a somewhat cynical and laughing view of himself. The laughter was, however, sad.
The preface summed up his philosophy, formed after fifty-nine years of wandering over the only planet he would ever know—or so he thought at the time.
TO THE READER
The Translator has ventured to entitle a “Lay of the Higher Law” the following composition, which aims at being in advance of its time; and he has not feared the danger of collision with such unpleasant forms as the “Higher Culture!” The principles which justify the name are as follows: The Author asserts that Happiness and Misery are equally divided and distributed in the world.
(Frigate’s comment on this statement was that it could be valid. But if Burton meant that individuals got an equal share of happiness and misery, he was wrong. Some people staggered along under a great burden of misery and had little happiness to lighten their load. Others had far more than their share of happiness. Anyway, Burton had not defined what he meant by happiness and misery. Though, of course, he didn’t have to do that for misery. Everybody knew what that was. Happiness, however, what was that? A mere freedom from pain and trouble? Or a positive quality? Was contentment happiness? Or did you have to be joyous to be happy?)
He makes Self-cultivation, with due regard to others, the sole and sufficient object of human life.
(What about your children? Alice had said. You have to cultivate them
“So you can see if she has a black ball in her brain?”
Burton grimaced. Nur always seemed to be able to read his mind.
“Yes.”
The two dumped one body into a cabinet and ordered the Computer to get rid of it. White light filled the cabinet, and, when they looked through the window in the door, the cabinet was empty. There were not even ashes in it.
The other corpse was placed on a table above which was a huge dome-shaped device. Though there was no display of energy, the interior of the body was shown on a screen in a series of images. Burton had the Computer run the images back to the one he wanted. There was a tiny black sphere on the forebrain. This had been surgically implanted and, acting at a subvocalized codeword, would release a poison into the bearer’s body, killing it instantly.
“So … she was an Agent.”
“But we still don’t know when she came here or what her ultimate intentions were,” Frigate said.
“For the moment,” Burton said, “we don’t have to. It’s enough that we’ve gotten rid of the Snark. Now we’re on our own, free.”
They were, however, free only in some senses. Burton asked the Computer if the overrides installed by the woman were now removed. It replied that they were not.
“When would they be released?”
The Computer did not know.
“We’re stymied,” Frigate said.
“Not forever,” Burton replied. He was not as confident as he sounded.
10
On that perhaps forever-lost Earth, so far in distance and time, in A.D. 1880 in the city of London, England, appeared a privately printed book. It was titled The Kasîdah of Hâjî Abdû El-Yezdî, A Lay of the Higher Law. Translated and annotated by His Friend and Pupil F. B. The initials stood for Frank Baker, a nom de plume of Captain Richard Francis Burton. “Frank” was from his middle name; “Baker” was his mother’s maiden surname. Not until after his death would his true name be appended to a reprint.
The poem, set in distichs imitating the classical Arab form, was supposed to be the work of a Persian Sufi, Haji Abdu of the city of Yezdi in Persia. Haji was a title borne by any Moslem who had made a pilgrimage to Mecca. Burton himself, having made the pilgrimage, disguised as a Moslem, could call himself a Haji. In this poem, Burton poured out his wisdom, pessimism, vast knowledge, and agnosticism, the Burtonian World-View and World-Pain. As Frank Baker, he had annotated the poem by “Abdu” and written an afterword that expressed a somewhat cynical and laughing view of himself. The laughter was, however, sad.
The preface summed up his philosophy, formed after fifty-nine years of wandering over the only planet he would ever know—or so he thought at the time.
TO THE READER
The Translator has ventured to entitle a “Lay of the Higher Law” the following composition, which aims at being in advance of its time; and he has not feared the danger of collision with such unpleasant forms as the “Higher Culture!” The principles which justify the name are as follows: The Author asserts that Happiness and Misery are equally divided and distributed in the world.
(Frigate’s comment on this statement was that it could be valid. But if Burton meant that individuals got an equal share of happiness and misery, he was wrong. Some people staggered along under a great burden of misery and had little happiness to lighten their load. Others had far more than their share of happiness. Anyway, Burton had not defined what he meant by happiness and misery. Though, of course, he didn’t have to do that for misery. Everybody knew what that was. Happiness, however, what was that? A mere freedom from pain and trouble? Or a positive quality? Was contentment happiness? Or did you have to be joyous to be happy?)
He makes Self-cultivation, with due regard to others, the sole and sufficient object of human life.
(What about your children? Alice had said. You have to cultivate them
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