The Caryatids by Bruce Sterling Page B

massing to invade the Balkans."
    Vera's heart sank a little. "Ten years . . . What? What did you say?"
    "That's right, ten years. That has to take ten years. Because the Roman Empire has only recently conquered this island. You could see how new and raw that little town of Palatium is. The Pannonian Wars on the mainland, they will be going hot and heavy right through the reign of Tiberius. That will be our major tourist draw here."
    "I don't understand."
    Montalban chuckled. "I suppose not. Well, just take it from me, then: the theme-park business can be a very steady, long-term earner, as long as it's got a solid heritage connection and a unique value proposi-tion."
    "I know that you must think that I'm stupid . . . Can't you talk to me like a normal person? Please?" Montalban gazed around the island a long moment, as if seeking some kind of solace from the sunshine, the flowers, and the foaming shore at low tide. "Vera: In the Dispensation, the businesspeople are the normal people."
    "It's not normal to talk about history as if history was a business."
    "You are absolutely wrong there, Vera. History is a business. History is the only business. It's abnormal to do business without history as the ab-solute and final business bottom line. That's why industry wrecked this planet: because people ran the world like a fire sale. They never understood the past, the future, and the proper human relationship to space and time. The only way to think sustainably is to think synchronically!"
    Realization dawned. "Wait, now, I do see what you're saying! You're a Synchronist. You're from a Dispensation cult! You're stealing my island from my cult just so you can sell my island to your own cult!" Slowly, Montalban shook his head. He was feeling sorry for her.
    "Vera, I am not the extremist in this discussion."
    "Yes you are. Synchronists are cultists. You're crazy."
    "No, I'm Californian. And I came here on behalf of investors, real-estate people, developers—the global mainstream. So that they can co-opt this extreme, experimental situation into a much more conventional, rational, profitable situation. Is that distinction clear to you yet?"
    "No! It's not clear. You're not explaining anything to me. You're just letting a lot of big, mystical words fall out of your mouth that make you look good and make me look bad." Montalban thoughtfully examined the wavelets lapping. His hands twitched in his trouser pockets. "You know what they call this situation? This is a classic 'clash of paradigms.' " Vera set her lips. "You know what they call people from California? They call them 'flakes.' "
    "Acquis people can be pretty stubborn," Montalban mused. "I've met a lot of Acquis people in my business life. They can be really wonderful people, don't get me wrong there, but somehow it always boils down to a paradigmatic culture war. We have two sets of mental software, and two different operating systems."
    "Maybe we're lucky that there's just two sets and not a thousand of them." Montalban brushed sand from his walking shoes. "I suppose we are lucky, though we live in a world in disaster. Multiparty states never ac-complish anything."
    "You're still talking nonsense, though, John. You know that, don't you?"
    "All right. Fine. I'm talking nonsense. I apologize. You explain some-thing to me, then. Tell me why your friend there is playing with my daughter, while she's got her brain inside a kettle and she's wearing robot construction equipment that could break every single bone in my little girl's body." Vera glanced up the beach at Karen. Karen and the little girl were getting along splendidly. Mary Montalban was scampering along the beach like a wound-up top, while Karen bounded over the child's head in boneware leaps that could have cleared the tops of trees.
    "Have you ever had your brain scanned?" Vera asked him.
    "I have regular medical checkups," said Montalban. "My brain is just fine. My brain is not a peripheral for heavy construction