chiseled epitaphs noted for their charm, which may have preserved the blocky tombs’ hard carbo-concentrated walls in their revered sanctity. Here one referred to
I, THE FAMOUS WIT , P LONEJURE ,
S OOTHED PAIN WITH COMEDY AND LAUGHTER .
A PERFORMER OF PARTS , SURE I OFTEN DIED …
B UT NEVER QUITE LIKE THIS .
Another was more dry:
D IUREAUS SAW THE OTHER F OLK BESIDE HIM ,
GUILTY , TRUE , AND SQUARE , AND WORSE ,
H UNG UP ON A HIGHER CROSS THAN SHE ,
D IUREAUS DIED HERE OF FURIOUS ENVY .
Pleasant, to think that wit was ancient. She wished that the Chief of Wisdom Asenath had a touch of wit in her genes. One more tomb inscription caught well Asenath’s melancholy spirit:
T HEY TOLD ME , H ERADOLIS ; THEY TOLD ME YOU WERE DEAD .
T HEY BROUGHT ME BITTER NEWS TO HEAR , AND BITTER TEARS TO SHED .
I WEPT WHEN I REMEMBERED HOW OFTEN YOU AND I
H AD TIRED THE SUN WITH TALKING , AND SAW A JET - CURL CARVE THE SKY .
Since this passage was carved, Memor noted, whole worlds had evolved to harbor life, and others had been scorched of life by ancient brutalities. Yet the image saw a jet-curl carve the sky endured.
Ah! Here was the entrance; no more time for rumination. Step proud and high—
Memor marched in grandly, head held high with casual grace, her attendants trailing beneath the grand arches of this Citadel of Remembrance. Herald music rumbled and sang to greet her. Pungent mists fell in tribute and out of duty she sniffed, bowed, fluttered a quick ruby tail display. Skin-caressing life fell in curling display around her, caressing her head leathers, whispering faint blessings and salacious compliments. Invitations whispered in her ears, promising succulent delights, then fluttered away. Aromas of heady prospect swarmed up her nostrils and tainted the air with ruddy promise.
Impatient, she shook these off and looked around for the right portal to find Asenath. From the court rabble here dawdling came much sensory babble, greetings, aromas, electric skin-jolts, high hails, a murmur of veiled gossip—all usefully ignored, for now, to show that she was above the insolent fray.
High ramparts trimmed in grace notes of colorful mega-flowers loomed like cliffs over the noisy gathering crowd, most of them come for the extermination ceremonies. They knew the ancient rules against recording in any medium, sight or sound or scene—a ritual death—and so came for the immediate experience. They did carry magnifier scopes and had an anxious, eager air. Skittering voices surged with a hunger that had no proper name. All these she avoided.
Administrative high offices were disguised from those unwelcome, which meant of course the crowd schooled in mere sensation—and the even greater number of the unknowing, unschooled, blunt of mind—all got shielded away by pale luminances that misled the unwary, sending them down dank corridors to their elemental raw pleasures. In such holes the halt and lame of mind would find some passing delights, and forget why they came, forget for their short vexed time the whole point of the Folk. Good enough.
Yet the dancing sheaves of prickly glow were smart sensors, and the walls knew well whom to admit. Those embedded intelligences, ever circumspect in their ways, sent fraying brilliant amber fingers to direct Memor down somber, ancient corridors. Crusty, glistening rock winked her forward past a sensor net of embedded eyes. She drew in the soft moist airs. There were always fresh changes in the Citadel, yet the Ancient Zone captured best the colossal powers lodged here. The rough stones held much elegant and courtly wisdom of ages past, canny knowledge set in stone. Memor heaved a sigh. She belonged here.
A quiet, delicious blend of dread and strangeness flowed in her Undermind; she sensed it with a tingle of relish. She forgave it the sudden lance that had jarred her, and concentrated on the immediate. That strumming presence knew that this primordial, welcoming Citadel could well be her
I, THE FAMOUS WIT , P LONEJURE ,
S OOTHED PAIN WITH COMEDY AND LAUGHTER .
A PERFORMER OF PARTS , SURE I OFTEN DIED …
B UT NEVER QUITE LIKE THIS .
Another was more dry:
D IUREAUS SAW THE OTHER F OLK BESIDE HIM ,
GUILTY , TRUE , AND SQUARE , AND WORSE ,
H UNG UP ON A HIGHER CROSS THAN SHE ,
D IUREAUS DIED HERE OF FURIOUS ENVY .
Pleasant, to think that wit was ancient. She wished that the Chief of Wisdom Asenath had a touch of wit in her genes. One more tomb inscription caught well Asenath’s melancholy spirit:
T HEY TOLD ME , H ERADOLIS ; THEY TOLD ME YOU WERE DEAD .
T HEY BROUGHT ME BITTER NEWS TO HEAR , AND BITTER TEARS TO SHED .
I WEPT WHEN I REMEMBERED HOW OFTEN YOU AND I
H AD TIRED THE SUN WITH TALKING , AND SAW A JET - CURL CARVE THE SKY .
Since this passage was carved, Memor noted, whole worlds had evolved to harbor life, and others had been scorched of life by ancient brutalities. Yet the image saw a jet-curl carve the sky endured.
Ah! Here was the entrance; no more time for rumination. Step proud and high—
Memor marched in grandly, head held high with casual grace, her attendants trailing beneath the grand arches of this Citadel of Remembrance. Herald music rumbled and sang to greet her. Pungent mists fell in tribute and out of duty she sniffed, bowed, fluttered a quick ruby tail display. Skin-caressing life fell in curling display around her, caressing her head leathers, whispering faint blessings and salacious compliments. Invitations whispered in her ears, promising succulent delights, then fluttered away. Aromas of heady prospect swarmed up her nostrils and tainted the air with ruddy promise.
Impatient, she shook these off and looked around for the right portal to find Asenath. From the court rabble here dawdling came much sensory babble, greetings, aromas, electric skin-jolts, high hails, a murmur of veiled gossip—all usefully ignored, for now, to show that she was above the insolent fray.
High ramparts trimmed in grace notes of colorful mega-flowers loomed like cliffs over the noisy gathering crowd, most of them come for the extermination ceremonies. They knew the ancient rules against recording in any medium, sight or sound or scene—a ritual death—and so came for the immediate experience. They did carry magnifier scopes and had an anxious, eager air. Skittering voices surged with a hunger that had no proper name. All these she avoided.
Administrative high offices were disguised from those unwelcome, which meant of course the crowd schooled in mere sensation—and the even greater number of the unknowing, unschooled, blunt of mind—all got shielded away by pale luminances that misled the unwary, sending them down dank corridors to their elemental raw pleasures. In such holes the halt and lame of mind would find some passing delights, and forget why they came, forget for their short vexed time the whole point of the Folk. Good enough.
Yet the dancing sheaves of prickly glow were smart sensors, and the walls knew well whom to admit. Those embedded intelligences, ever circumspect in their ways, sent fraying brilliant amber fingers to direct Memor down somber, ancient corridors. Crusty, glistening rock winked her forward past a sensor net of embedded eyes. She drew in the soft moist airs. There were always fresh changes in the Citadel, yet the Ancient Zone captured best the colossal powers lodged here. The rough stones held much elegant and courtly wisdom of ages past, canny knowledge set in stone. Memor heaved a sigh. She belonged here.
A quiet, delicious blend of dread and strangeness flowed in her Undermind; she sensed it with a tingle of relish. She forgave it the sudden lance that had jarred her, and concentrated on the immediate. That strumming presence knew that this primordial, welcoming Citadel could well be her
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