CHAPTER EIGHT 

 

THE SOUND OF  

n HANDS CLAPPING

 

 

Hartstein accepted the praise graciously and walked proudly from the assembly. Sergeant Brannick followed him, no expression at all on his rugged face. Hartstein reached out to push the polished brass doors, but they were pulled open by Agency corporals in dress uniforms. They saluted Hartstein. He would have to learn to get used to it.

Brannick called to him, and Hartstein stopped and turned around. “I'm happy for you, Lieutenant,” said Brannick. “I'd like to shake your hand. You never stop making me proud of you. And besides that, I owe you something. You know that I've never been very good at—"

“Sergeant,” said Hartstein, “I never want you to think that you owe me something. You've saved my neck more times than I want to remember, so it made me glad that I could return the favor this once. But I'm still a few rescues behind. Just because they made an officer out of me, it doesn't mean that our relationship has changed any. You're still my teacher and my friend. And I'd rather you didn't call me ‘sir.’ At least not in private."

Brannick relaxed and gave the youth an easy smile. “Good to hear that,” he said. “I didn't think you'd get all inflated on me, but sometimes the bars on the collar warp a kid's mind. And this war ain't over yet; you're still going to need your tail saved now and then. I hope it's me that's there to do it. You're the best I ever trained."

“That's enough of that, Brannick. Let's forget all about it and concentrate on what we've got to do next."

Brannick agreed. “Whatever you say. But I'm not forgetting that you could have left me with them. With the Commander. I'm not forgetting that you got me out of there under fire, at risk to yourself."

“So tell me, did they promote me for that, Sarge, or for bringing back the hundred and twenty pages they're so excited about?"

“Ha,” Brannick snorted, “I'd like to think my wrinkled old hide was what they were worried about; but I know better. Those pages are a superweapon, Hartstein, maybe just what we need to end this war. They're drawing up plans for the final battle right this minute. We'll hear about it before morning."

Hartstein understood well enough. The Agency didn't have the precious time to waste, not after the calamitous defeat in Atlantis. The thing to do was to strike back quickly with every weapon at the Agency's disposal. They had to recoup their losses.

“When you were promoted,” Hartstein asked, “were you reviewed personally by the Overlords themselves?"

“Of course not. They have better things to do."

“Then why do they give me their personal attention?"

“I don't want to tell you."

“Why the hell not? Do I have to order you to tell me?"

Brannick's shoulders slumped a little, but then he recovered. “Every time I tell you, you get mad. The Overlords are interested because they know you're someone particularly important in this war. They know that somehow the outcome of the conflict involves you. They know because they looked ahead and saw it."

“You're right, Brannick, I don't want to hear about it. Melissa Spence thought I was someone special, too. That's why she approached me with her idea."

“Not quite. You're important, but you're not special, son. You may be the hinge that the future turns on, but you're expendable and easily replaced. You are not the active will of the universe, but the physical machine through which it will work. You are not the engine, but the transmission. You're just Lieutenant Hartstein, the Fulcrum of Fate."

It didn't make things any better. “Can I resign that job?” he asked.

“You might not have to. You might get killed tomorrow. Maybe that's how you're supposed to make your contribution."

“Great. Wonderful. Just make sure they spell my name right on the victory monument."

What Sergeant Brannick hopefully called the final battle was a concentrated effort that would attack every known Underground cell in the present, the quasi-pasts and futures, and the limited real past and future. It would be the largest combined military operation in the history of the world.

It was also the greatest gamble anyone had ever taken. The five Overlords felt the immense pressure, but they were chosen to lead because they were able to think and reason clearly in such grave situations. There wasn't a single Agent who doubted his leaders, and each one was prepared to go into battle wherever and whenever he was sent, in defense of his continuum. If the Agency failed, very soon there would be nothing left in the universe to recall the existence of either faction.

The preparations for this final struggle were huge and time-consuming, but they could be made in the past and returned to the present when they were completed. Thus, the attack itself could be launched with as little as twenty-four hours’ notice. Hartstein felt a slight nervousness because whatever he was assigned, it would be the most important mission of his career. He was a lieutenant now but he was still a Special Agent, working alone on the lonely battlefields of time. He paced his narrow quarters and thought of the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He thought of his father; since Hartstein had joined the Agency, he had seen his parents only in the unreal Christmas visit. What would Mr. Hartstein think of his son now? Had Hartstein at last earned his father's respect? The answer to that was in the future somewhere, a future that would not be at all unless Hartstein and his fellows succeeded in their objectives.

Hours later, after dinner, Captain D'Amato called Hartstein into a conference room. Hartstein was surprised to see that the captain was alone. “Sit down, Lieutenant,” said D'Amato. He moved restlessly in his plush armchair; he was holding a sheaf of papers, and his hand trembled.

Hartstein said nothing; he sat in the other chair and waited.

“Your assignment, Lieutenant Hartstein,” said the captain, holding the papers up. “It's a difficult one."

“I don't expect any of them are particularly easy, sir,” said Hartstein solemnly.

“Exactly so. But this is a vital mission. Your success could undermine much of the Underground's theoretical basis, and therefore render them virtually helpless. Much of their math weaponry would cease to have validity, and we would then be in a position to eliminate them quickly and without danger to our own forces."

Hartstein raised an eyebrow. “I'm honored to be given such a job, sir,” he said.

“Glad to hear it. Briefly, son, you are going back into the real past, to Ancient Greece. You are going to impersonate an Athenian philosopher, and you are going to introduce ideas contrary to those of the Underground. Now that we're able to make the present responsive to changes in the past, these philosophical notions will have the force of Euclid, Plato, and Aristotle. They will alter the perception of the universe just slightly, but just enough to make the existence of the Underground impossible."

“Philosophy, sir?” asked Hartstein. “I thought that we were fighting this war with pure mathematics. How does Ancient Greek philosophy have any effect?"

“Sometimes there is a fine line between science and mathematics on the one hand, and philosophy on the other, particularly when you're dealing with the very large or the very small, the infinitely new or the infinitely old. Even though those philosophers lived twenty-five centuries ago, and few people today read their works or even know their names, their ideas have colored the thinking of every generation that came after them. Their theories and attitudes have been passed down through all the years as a heritage, that which we call civilization. Change the ancient foundation of scientific thinking, and you change the way we look at our world today. That is what you must do—but carefully. If you operate too broadly, the result may be disastrous."

“I don't know if I'm quite the right person to carry this out, Captain."

“You are the right one, Hartstein, we are all certain of it. But you needn't worry too much. We have a detailed outline of just what you're supposed to say and to whom you're supposed to say it. Take it and study it tonight, and in the morning report to ESB for your preparation."

“Yes, sir."

“Good luck, Lieutenant,” said D'Amato.

“Good luck to you, sir, and to the rest of the Agency. I hope when I finish in Greece and return, it will be to a world without the Underground."

“If we fail, son,” said the captain somberly, “you won't have a world to return to."

That night, Hartstein read the briefing thoroughly; but he had had very little previous education in philosophy, and some of the arguments he read made no sense at all. An introductory note said that he shouldn't worry about that, because the ESB treatment would give him insight into the Greek philosophers he needed to understand. Finally, after the second time through the difficult material, Hartstein gave up, trusting to the Agency to endow him with whatever he lacked. He dropped the pages to the floor, turned his face to the wall, and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

In the morning he decided that there was one more thing he had to do. Sometime in the night the realization formed that it wasn't only philosophy he needed to learn, but more math as well. If he hoped to protect himself and do his job, he required a more fundamental grasp of the major weapon of this war. He was curious why the Agency hadn't seen fit to instill that knowledge earlier. It was as if they had sent him out with a slim dagger to fight unknown enemies in the dark.

Fortunately, it would be easy to remedy that situation. He dressed quickly and decided to skip breakfast. He went first to the ESB department reserved for the use of the Agents. This was a more elaborate facility than that used by tourists to prepare for their brief holidays in the quasi-past. Virtually anything an Agent had to know in order to carry out orders was available to authorized personnel. It was a quick and efficient way to learn languages, history, and the basic ideas of any science or art. What the Agent did with this knowledge, of course, depended on that individual's own talents and inclinations.

A young woman, an Agency corporal, sat at a desk processing a large pile of forms. It was early in the day, but she was already harried and unhappy. “Excuse me,” said Hartstein.

She looked up, not pleased by the interruption. When she saw that he was a lieutenant, she gave him her attention but not her enthusiasm. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

“I would like to take a course or two in intermediate mathematics. From algebra through plane geometry, trig, calculus, and so on. Enough so that I'll be able to handle myself where I'm going. It seems like all the Underground agents I run into have a much better education than I do."

The corporal nodded. “I see. But I'm afraid, sir, that information is classified."

“Classified? But it's basic high school and college math. How could it be classified?"

“Since the disaster in Atlantis, all potential weapons sources have been declared top secret, and mathematical training is now given only on a need-to-know basis."

“But I need to know.” Hartstein felt the familiar frustration of dealing with low-level personnel, the men and women who sat at desks and stood behind counters and decided his fate. How rarely they understood that circumstances vary from person to person, and how less likely they were to venture beyond the safe limits of their specific orders.

“We'll see what you're cleared for, sir,” said the young woman. She took Hartstein's identification and typed it into her terminal. A moment later the data appeared on her screen, out of Hartstein's sight. She turned to him. “I'm very sorry, sir,” she said. “It says here that you're cleared for any amount of math you wish to take. Take this card and follow the blue line. The technicians will give you whatever you need."

Hartstein took the card she offered and followed the blue line. It led to the ESB treatment booths. A tech sergeant took his card, saluted, and led Hartstein into one of the booths. The couch was comfortable and the lighting dim. “Which course do you want, sir?” asked the sergeant.

“General mathematics,” said Hartstein. “From algebra through calculus."

“Yes, sir. Just relax. We have an excellent new course in vector analysis and another in game theory. Would you like those as well?"

“No, I don't think I'll need all that. I just want to be a little ahead of the Ancient Greeks. None of them will know calculus, so it ought to give me an advantage. And then I'll be on an even footing if I run up against any rebels from here on in."

The treatment lasted only an hour, and Hartstein emerged from it feeling no different, with no obvious flood of mathematical appreciation coloring his thoughts. Just as he had not consciously been aware of the insertion of the Egyptian language and customs prior to his first tour of Alexandria, so now his new knowledge of elementary and advanced math slept in his mind, waiting for him to call it forth.

While he was in the ESB section, Hartstein also took the prep he needed for his mission to Ancient Greece. Hellenic philosophy, culture, the language, and hints as to the strategy he should follow in debating with the great analytical minds of antiquity filled his unconscious. It was almost time for him to report to the transmission screen. He had only one more stop to make.

“Well, well, well,” said the young man in the costume and props department. He looked at Hartstein critically, one hand on his hip, the other languidly stroking his downy cheek as he thought. “A lieutenant now, I see. And the absolute darling of the Agency. You know, you're quite a celebrity to us poor clerks. I like to think that in some small way I've contributed to your marvelous, cometlike ascendancy."

“I'm an officer now,” said Hartstein, “and I expect to be treated like one."

“Oh,” said the corporal, feigning chagrin, “please forgive me. You want me to salute, don't you? Is that it? Please say it is. I've been simply praying that you'd make me salute.” There was an intrinsic precision and snap missing from the young man's salute.

Hartstein returned it anyway. “I need to be fixed up for Greece,” he said.

“I'll say you do."

“I'm going back to Ancient Greece, about 460 b.c. I want to look like a respectable philosopher."

“Just leave yourself in my capable hands."

Hartstein didn't intend to reply to that suggestion. He waited for the corporal to go into the storeroom and return with an appropriate costume. It did not take long.

“Here you are, Lieutenant, sir.” He put a plastic bag on the counter. The costume inside was more voluminous than anything Hartstein had worn except, perhaps, the Palestinian outfit. Still, it was only a white togalike mantle and a pair of sandals.

“I'm glad to see those,” said Hartstein. “I'm tired of going back into periods where I have to run around risking my neck with nothing on my feet but bruises."

“Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan. My, my, how I'd love to see you in your element. It must be thrilling, sir."

Hartstein didn't know if the props corporal was mocking him or not. He let it pass. “No jewelry or anything else?"

“Just this.” The young man handed over a long, slender staff. “That's your badge of office, you know. You can't be a good peripatetic educator without your staff. If one of the boys gets out of line—you know, spitballs and paper wads—you go whoops! with the old stick. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That's how the West was won, n'est-ce pas?"

There was a moment of silence while Hartstein tried to gauge the corporal's attitude; it was impossible. For an instant Hartstein wanted to inaugurate his staff across the young man's skull. He took the costume into a dressing room and changed. One of the makeup artists supplied him with an appropriate beard and hairstyle. When Hartstein appeared again, the props corporal was astonished. “Oh my heavenly days!” he cried, clapping his hands together. “Why, look who it is! It must be Socrates himself, or Zeus, or Sir Laurence Olivier, or somebody! I wish I had my autograph book with me today. How grateful I am that I'm not just some poor scullery maid in the cafeteria. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Cold air had no problem finding a way up under Hartstein's toga. “If the Greeks were so civilized,” he muttered, “why isn't there decent underwear?"

The corporal pretended to blush and avert his eyes. “I just can't stand it anymore,” he said. “What are you up to in that outfit?"

“I'm going back to change the Greeks’ ideas of mathematics and the universe."

“Oh, how rugged and sly we are. But do you know enough to take them on? I mean no disrespect, my lord, but they have people like Pythagoras playing on their team."

“I took an hour's worth of ESB math training this morning."

The young man looked honestly impressed. “Say something in equations for me."

Hartstein shook his head. “I can't. You know how it is. It won't come until I need it."

The corporal was enthusiastic. “I'll coach you. ‘If a point is that which has no part ...’”

“What's that?” asked Hartstein.

“That's Euclid's very first definition, you ninny. I mean, sir."

“Uh huh. ‘A point is that which has no part.'” A look of amazement crossed his face. “Why, then it follows that straight lines parallel to the same straight line are also parallel to each other! And, of course, that if an equilateral pentagon be inscribed in a circle, the square on the side of the pentagon is equal to the squares on the side of the hexagon and on that of the decagon inscribed in the same circle! And then ... and then..."

“Ah,” murmured the young corporal, “only Euclid and Hartstein have looked on beauty bare."

Hartstein could not reply as he stared off toward infinity, visions of the endless minuet of numbers moving stately through his head. His mouth hung open and he began to teeter just a little.

“Hello?” said the props clerk. He prodded Hartstein a bit with a forefinger. The lieutenant started a slow, magnificent topple. The corporal caught him by one arm.

“Thanks,” said Hartstein dreamily.

“Are you all right?"

“It was beautiful,” Hartstein murmured. “All ... white and hard and clean."

“Well, at the risk of depressing you utterly, I ought to remind you that you have an important mission, and that we're not just doing this to get you ready for the masked ball of the Krewe of Proteus."

“Yes, of course.” Hartstein returned the young man's salute and stumbled away toward the purple glow of the transmission screen.

A few minutes later Hartstein was wandering the hills beyond Athens, sometime during the Golden Age of Pericles. The chilly air of early spring refreshed him and cleared his still-dazzled mind. Goats and sheep tore at the sparse grass around him. Bald discolored stone, the bones of the earth, gaped through the black soil. Not far away was a grove of trees, empty and barren but promising a future of fruit. In the damp wind, with patches of snow still clinging to the ground in protected places, that future seemed impossibly far away. On a hilltop in the distance, Hartstein saw the Parthenon as Euripides and Sophocles had seen it, unbroken and proud. Grasping his long staff, Hartstein began to walk toward the city.

After a quarter mile, a young man, evidently an aristocrat, joined him on the road. They greeted each other, and the Athenian youth asked respectfully, “Are you then a teacher?"

“Yes,” said Hartstein. “I have come to set the others right. For all their greatness, your philosophers have ignored a simple truth and entertained themselves with inventing various false semblances of truth. Only they are wise enough in the ways of argument to see their deceptions, but I will open the eyes of the unschooled. Thereafter these wicked teachers of Athens will no longer lead young minds astray."

His words excited the Athenian. “My name is Brosias, son of Diogoras. I am a student of Gorgias of Leontini and his followers."

“Ah yes. The Sophists. It is they whom I have come to challenge."

“May I walk with you, sir? I'd like to hear your arguments."

“As you wish. Was it not Gorgias himself who said ‘Nothing exists; but even if it did, we could not know it'? Your teachers pride themselves on being able to confuse and bewilder, rather than to make clear. They value rhetorical athletics over genuine knowledge and wisdom."

Brosias shrugged. “That is nothing new, sir. That's the same thing Socrates is telling everybody. Nobody listens to him, though."

Hartstein laughed indulgently. “They will, soon enough. That ugly old hound has an idea or two worth considering."

They skirted the Acropolis proper and came into the Agora, the broad area at the foot of the north slope. This part of the city has often been described as the marketplace, but that gives only a little of its flavor: yes, there were tradesmen and craftsmen here, a bazaar of Greek and imported commodities for sale; but one found new ideas here as well, and the excitement of discovery. New machines, new theories were unveiled, demonstrated by geniuses or charlatans to fascinated audiences. Ethics in business and private life developed in the Agora in an attempt to govern relations with domestic neighbors and foreign nations. Taking these accomplishments one step further into the abstract, philosophers questioned their fellow citizens about matters no one had ever bothered to think about before. Perhaps to the average Athenian such subjective problems had little practical value, but then they could not know that nearly three thousand years later the fate of the world depended on them.

“Look, sir,” said the honest Brosias, “there is Protagoras, the finest lawyer in the city. He is a Sophist, and he is able to win any case at all through the force of his logic."

“Not his logic,” chided Hartstein, “but his manipulation of mere words. He tangles the listener up in trivial considerations of various words and their meanings. Meanwhile the sense and spirit of the vital question itself dies ignored at his feet. He cares not for the truth of his argument, but only for its success. Can you not see where that leads?"

Brosias frowned, deep in thought. After a moment he gave up. “No, I can't,” he said.

“It leads to the assumption that all arguments are equally valid. And then it follows from that, that no arguments are essentially valid, and therefore such things as philosophical inspection and the pursuit of justice are based on worthless notions, and are completely without objective merit."

“I have no difficulty accepting that,” said Brosias.

That gave Hartstein some trouble. He was prepared to speak with people who still felt that truth and morality were constant and desirable. But if the Sophists had persuaded some of these youngsters that such abstract concepts are purely relative, then his assignment would be more difficult than he had imagined.

“Lo, my teacher himself is speaking to those artisans,” said Brosias as they approached a part of the Agora given over to potters, leatherworkers, and other craftsmen.

“I can see by his staff that he is a philosopher."

“I shall introduce you, sir. I'm afraid you didn't tell me your name."

“I am Epimander of Miletus.” Epimander was the name of one of the authors Hartstein discovered in his first visit to the Library of Alexandria, the perpetrator of Self-Realization Through Hubris. There was no record of any actual classical philosopher by that name, and it sounded good to Hartstein.

“Miletus, the home of obsolete thinkers,” said Brosias with an impudent grin. “That's what Protagoras calls it."

They stood beside the Sophist and listened to him debating with the Athenian citizens. Hartstein was not impressed either by Protagoras's philosophy or his skill with words. Perhaps the man had earned a great reputation here, in the early morning of civilization; but where Hartstein came from, the Greek would have a tough time holding his own with a high school senior.

“Sir,” said Brosias, “I wish to introduce Epimander of Miletus, who has come to question you about your methods."

Protagoras turned around and smiled. He held out a hand in a very unclassical gesture. “Hartstein, isn't it? I've been waiting for you."

Hartstein's spirit sank. Here, too, the Underground was ahead of him. It was not going to be just a matter of adjusting the attitudes of these Ancient Greeks: it was going to be a deadly contest for the hearts and minds of the audience, using rhetorical skill as a weapon. He shook the man's hand. “How are we going to work this?” he asked.

The rebel looked around at his listeners. “Why don't you go ahead and attack my way of thinking. Then I'll try to enumerate your errors. When one of us looks like a big enough fool, it'll be over."

Hartstein was frightened. He was sure that someone else should have been sent in his place. This Underground impostor was certainly well trained and confident. Hartstein himself had only the benefit of his brief ESB treatment that morning. He prayed that it would be enough. “I understand that you teach your students to argue either side of a legal case,” he said.

“Yes, that is true,” said Protagoras. “First, it enables them to plead on behalf of all clients, even when my students have no personal interest in the matter. Second, it stretches their imagination and forces them to think in new and creative ways."

“That sounds good at first hearing,” said Hartstein, “but I would like to show how destructive such a technique will prove to be in the long run.” He turned to one of the attentive potters. “You, sir, do you feel that if called upon to sit on a jury, that you would be able to render a good and true verdict in the best interests of justice and the state?"

“Why, of course,” said the potter.

“And are you of the same opinion?” Hartstein asked another man.

“All Athenian citizens would be,” said the second man.

“And what is it that makes you so confident?” asked Hartstein.

The first man thought for a moment before replying. “One man may be mistaken or misled or of dishonest inclinations,” said the potter. “But a jury must have an inner sense of justice. As a group of sincere and disinterested citizens, a jury is able to find the truth in any legal dispute. That is the basis of our system, and one of the foundations of our great state."

“I agree,” said Hartstein. “Yet this man Protagoras is teaching his students to argue even the unjust side of a question, to mislead a jury in deliberate fashion for the profit of a guilty client. He is able to persuade men through the art and craft of his words, which may sound more truthful than they are in fact."

“Aristophanes made the same complaint in his new play,” said a silversmith who had joined the crowd. “He portrays a contest between Just and Unjust Argument, and it is Unjust Argument who wins every time."

Hartstein paused to consider his next step. “But such a thing goes against all reason. There must be a general knowledge of what is right and what is wrong, even though all the philosophers in the world play with their meanings. Each man knows inside when an action is right, and when it is wrong."

“Do you mean to say that there are such things as absolute universal laws?” asked Protagoras, still smiling placidly.

Even without his ESB preparation, Hartstein would have recognized this as the first stage of a rhetorical trap. “I say that a man may invent justifications for wrongdoing, yet still know that it is wrong."

“Yes, that is true,” said the Underground agent. “Right is right, and wrong is wrong. All things that are, are; and things that are not, are not. And it is the man himself who knows these things: that ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ ‘being’ and ‘not-being’ exist. Will you accept that?"

“Yes,” said Hartstein hesitantly.

“Then what is it about a man which enables him to know these things?"

“Only his mind, sir,” said Brosias.

“Good lad. His mind, of course. Man is the measure of all things. Or more precisely, in the words of Anaxagoras, ‘Mind orders all.’”

“That is a primary tenet of our beliefs,” said one of the leatherworkers. “The mind of man is the source of all blessings which do not come directly from the gods or nature. We take the growing things and cultivate them for food. We take stone and build houses. We shape our environment as we will."

“Very good,” said Protagoras. “Therefore, it follows that justice also does not exist except in relation to the mind of man. Truth exists only in relation to the jury selected to find it. By this I mean that the truth and justice of a matter before our court may not be the same as that before a court of, for example, the northern barbarians, if indeed they have one. Our ideas of justice do not always reflect the ideas of the Egyptians or the Scythians or the Persians."

“But, sir,” said a second potter, “what you are saying cuts us off from any great and everlasting notion of truth. Surely you are not denying the existence of the gods and their institutions?"

“No, no, of course not. But what we as mere mortals perceive as truth and justice and honor are ideas that have developed because of man, not gods. They exist because men live together in communities and so must formulate abstract concepts in order to keep peace with each other. There is no truth or justice beyond the mind of man."

“Your predecessor, Gorgias, said that nothing exists,” said Hartstein. “Is this an example of how the mind of man orders all things?"

Protagoras laughed. “Gorgias was merely demonstrating that as the knowledge of the world is not constant but relative to the observer, then it is impossible for one man to convey his precise knowledge to another, for each man has his own view of the world."

It was clear that Protagoras was well on his way toward persuading these Athenians of the Temporary Underground's view of the universe. Hartstein had to do something to counteract the rebel's success. “Tell me once and for all, sir, if you believe in any set of fundamental laws of human behavior, independent of whatever cultural influences may be used to modify them."

Protagoras shrugged. “Will you accept the statement that only that which is, exists; and that which is not, does not exist? As you granted earlier?"

“Certainly,” said Hartstein.

“And if anything exists, my friend, it must be either finite or infinite. Do you not agree?"

“I suppose there is no third alternative."

“Yet through simple logical means, with which no one has found fault, Parmenides arrived at the conclusion that what exists is pure being, and is necessarily infinite."

“That is a well-known hypothesis we have all studied,” said Brosias.

“And another philosopher uses precisely the same method to prove that pure being must necessarily be finite in nature. Only a false proposition, my friends, can lead to such a contradiction. Therefore, I submit that nothing exists, but only the illusion of existence exists; and that the universe is content to have nothing exist, and that the universe and the mind of God would be blessed to have the illusion of existence removed forever."

Hartstein opened his mouth but found nothing to say. All the others in the audience turned to him, waiting for a devastating refutation of Protagoras's reasoning. It was clear to Hartstein that such a confrontation was pointless. He had another plan: he touched his temporal tap and was gone. He conceded the first round to the Underground.

 

Jumping ahead to twenty years after the death of Protagoras, Hartstein went to visit Democritus, the man who organized the atomic theories of earlier philosophers such as Leucippus. “Let the Underground have Protagoras,” thought Hartstein. “I'll provide a firm foundation for the materialist side. A tendency to accept the idea of atoms here will result in a clear advantage for the Agency in centuries to come."

Democritus came to Athens as a young man, drawn by the excitement generated by the circle of thinkers assembled by Pericles. At first, Democritus had felt rejected and just a little resentful. Hartstein wondered if the Underground had warned the Athenians not to speak with the young Democritus, that his theory of atoms was dangerous and impious.

Hartstein found Democritus in the middle of the Agora, trying to interest passersby in his little hard bits of matter. He was shouting and waving his staff, but no one was listening.

“You know,” said Hartstein, “that sounds very interesting."

“I'm glad you think so,” said Democritus. “It's almost impossible to get these Athenians to pay attention. Those Sophists screwed everything up for a long time. Listen to this, I heard it from a young woman, one of their students. A woman, yet! She said, ‘Either things exist or they don't. If they don't exist, then there can't be atoms. If matter does exist, it is either finite or infinite. If it is infinite, there cannot be atoms, because there must be a quantity of not-being between each atom, which would necessitate an infinity of not-being for the entire universe, and an infinity of not-being would not permit the existence of any matter. If matter is finite, then once again there cannot be atoms, because in this case as well there must be not-being as a separator of atoms, and I cannot accept the being of not-being, or an argument that claims both the existence and the non-existence of something at the same time.’ That, my friend, is Sophistry, even more absurd than that of the damned Protagoras himself. It is all just verbal tap-dancing."

“Tap-dancing? I didn't know there was tap-dancing in Ancient Greece."

Democritus blushed. “What do you mean, ‘Ancient'?"

But Hartstein wouldn't be so easily bluffed. “You aren't from this century, are you? You're another agent of the Underground."

“Well,” said the false Democritus, “you found me out. What can I say? Be careful, Hartstein. We'll meet again.” The rebel touched his temporal tap and disappeared. Hartstein did the same.

 

The appearance of the Agora hadn't changed very much. It was now several decades earlier, during the height of Periclean Athens. Hartstein needed to speak with Anaxagoras and change that great thinker's mind about a few things; in that way, Hartstein could destroy the arguments of Protagoras in advance and prepare the Greeks to accept the atomic theory of the true Democritus. He decided not to waste a moment; he stopped a wealthy merchant walking through the marketplace with his wife and three children. “Excuse me, sir, I am looking for Anaxagoras, the scientist and philosopher. I am new in this wonderful city, and I was hoping you could point him out to me."

“I hope you enjoy your stay,” said the merchant. “That's my little shop, right over there. If you need anything in the way of rugs or fabrics or dyes, come see me. Nothing I like better than doing business with newcomers to our city. A good way to expand my export business, you see, if you tell all your friends at home about my line."

“This is my home,” said Hartstein curtly.

“Yes, of course. You're looking for the scientist. That's him, right over there, hitting that poor slave over the head with his staff."

“Thank you. Good day to you and to your lovely family, sir.” Hartstein crossed the way and waited for Anaxagoras to stop punishing the slave.

“Are you waiting to address me?” asked the philosopher.

“Yes,” said Hartstein, “when you're finished. I understand that you believe mind orders all things."

Anaxagoras looked astonished. “I have considered that idea, yes, but I haven't told anyone as yet. How could you know about it?"

“I have a way of knowing all that is of importance to me. You are quite certain of your conclusion?"

A wary expression crossed the Greek's face. “Of course I am. What else would order all things?"

“Perhaps there is a divine will that defines everything so that the human mind may comprehend them."

Anaxagoras looked afraid. “Divine, you say? You are not ... divine yourself, by any chance? Apollo, perhaps, or one of those?"

Hartstein laughed. He wanted it to be deep and booming, but it wasn't. He sounded more like a pet cockatoo than one of the Olympians. “You're still superstitious, I see. But I wonder, do you mean that each individual has a separate and equally true world, or that the total consciousness of human minds creates the world by cooperative effort? For if the former is true, how can we coexist in different worlds? And if the latter is true, then the world must change from day to day, as the consciousness of it changes."

“Interesting, very interesting questions. I see that you are more than a mere educated Athenian. I will tell you. In the beginning all things were mixed together, except Mind. Mind set the mixture in motion, and the heavy particles drifted to the center, while the lighter particles were forced to the outside. Thus the sun, moon, and stars are hot stones thrown out of this vortex into the sky. They are not, as our ancestors believed, gods."

“And do you have equally mechanical explanations for other phenomena, as well? For rain, for instance, and lightning?"

Anaxagoras looked unhappy. “These Athenians are not going to be pleased to hear my ideas. My new philosophy requires a complete change in beliefs. It will not be a simple matter to persuade them all."

Hartstein nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps I could suggest a way to make it easier for you. You must make a slight change in your conception of the nature of matter. Nothing that would change your creative framework, just a greater emphasis on atoms and less on the generative power of the mind."

“But—"

Hartstein would not be interrupted. “Your idea of religion is that there is a Mind that remains pure and unmixed in all things. That's a sound idea in some ways, but you're right—these people won't buy it. They'll think it's atheism. They picture their gods sleeping on clouds and plucking lyres. Forget about mind for now; just rely on the Athenians’ willingness to believe in the existence of tiny particles. Everyone understands tiny particles."

Anaxagoras shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir, but my sponsor would not approve."

“Your sponsor?"

The philosopher pointed. “Yes. Over there. It is Pericles himself."

Hartstein looked. Smiling at him across the marketplace was the same rebel agent who had impersonated Protagoras. Once again, the Underground had anticipated Hartstein's plan.

 

As Hartstein saw it, the Underground had taken the first skirmish as Protagoras; there had been a draw with Democritus; and the rebels controlled Anaxagoras. Hartstein felt that a solid victory with Zeno of Elea would even the score, for much of the logic used by the later philosophers derived from Zeno. So the Agent jumped a few years back and many miles to Elea in Italy.

Zeno is most famous for his four paradoxes of motion. Of these, the most familiar is his “Achilles and the Tortoise.” According to Zeno, if Achilles gives the tortoise a head start of any amount in a race of any length, the poor man can never catch up to the animal. This is because before Achilles can pass the tortoise, he must run to point A where the tortoise started the race. But the tortoise has moved on to point B, so Achilles must run to that point, but the tortoise has moved on to point C, and so on until the torpid creature crosses the finish line. Meanwhile Achilles, swift of foot, has been reduced to tippy-toeing in microscopic fractions of inches after it. Zeno's other three paradoxes are also entertaining and treacherous; Hartstein wanted to get this master puzzler on the side of the Agency.

When Hartstein popped into the Eleatic academy, Zeno was going over the tortoise paradox for the benefit of the young men in his class. It did not take long for Hartstein to recognize that “Zeno” was the same Underground agent who had posed as Protagoras. “There can be no such thing as atoms,” said Zeno loudly, for Hartstein's benefit as well as the class. “Parmenides has proved the nonsense involved with postulating a ‘void’ or a ‘not-being’ that separates points of time or space. The same is true of matter. If something is not, then it has no properties, and thus cannot hold atoms apart. We must conclude that there are no atoms, and therefore there is no matter. There is only Mind, or something like that. But as to matter, space, and time, they are the imposition of human limitations upon the perfect order of the universe."

Hartstein interrupted. “It seems I'm following you backward through time, listening to you palm off that anti-atom line in one form after another. You're doing the philosophical equivalent of taking out a cigarette lighter and astonishing the natives."

Zeno smiled unperturbably. “You know that and I know it, my friend, but these children will never learn it. And do you know, I am not so far from the truth. With the development of partial numbers, these old paradoxes have gained new meaning. If we assign a partially negative quantity to Achilles's velocity, not only does he never overtake the tortoise, he loses ground with every stride! But that is too much for these young minds to comprehend. You must look elsewhere if you hope to destroy all our work, Hartstein. I have won this engagement as well."

 

Hartstein was very hungry, but he didn't have a penny or an obolus or whatever the ancients used for cash. He hadn't planned to take so long to accomplish his mission. He thought he'd visit ancient Athens and have a little talk with Socrates or somebody, and that would be that. He didn't figure on running into the Underground on the same errand—and once again nobody had bothered to warn him of the possibility. Now he needed, besides lunch, a complete reevaluation of his strategy. Next before Zeno, chronologically and ideologically, was Parmenides. If Hartstein failed there, too, he would try Heraclitus. Before Heraclitus there was Pythagoras, a big shot in the pantheon of both the Agency and the Underground. If Hartstein could claim Pythagoras, it didn't matter how many later philosophers the rebels cornered. But if the Underground co-opted Pythagoras first, then the only thing to do was travel further back and try for the philosophers from Miletus: Anaximenes, Anaximander, and, finally, the world's first philosopher, Thales.

Things went worse for Hartstein the more he delved into the past. The Underground had set up a little intellectual boundary around each philosopher that prevented him from disrupting what the rebels had accomplished. The Underground had mixed, distorted, misquoted, and perverted the rational thought of centuries in order to support their own position. If left undisturbed, mankind would develop through the ages with a firm, unspoken, unconscious conviction that the world does not truly exist, that there is no such thing as matter, and that what we view as reality is only an uncomfortable illusion that annoys the universe. In the present, it would be the Underground that had the support and backing of the people, not the Agency.

In the time of Parmenides, the Underground taught that only being exists, and that being is unchanging.

Before Parmenides, Heraclitus paved the way by saying that the universe may seem like eternal flow and change, but behind that evident strife is a cosmic order—the logos. That's as far as Heraclitus took the idea; but when the Underground finished with it, they made everyone believe that the logos wasn't really crazy about the flow and change and strife and would really appreciate it if we'd all go away. Parmenides was the same rebel agent who had been Democritus, and the part of Heraclitus was played by the gently smiling man who had previously impersonated Protagoras and Zeno.

The scene shifted to Crotona, a city in southern Italy. Here Pythagoras made his home. Combining the roles of religious leader and philosopher and scientist, he was one of the most influential men in that part of the world. The Pythagorean philosophy favored neither the Agency nor the Underground, but balanced between them. It stated that numbers were things, which the Agency found useful; but it also said that things were numbers, which the Underground could definitely use in order to rid the universe of both things and numbers. Before Pythagoras, the Milesian philosophers said “To be is to be material.” That was a fine notion for the Agency to encourage and defend. Unfortunately, Pythagoras took his second thesis and ran very far with it, into the realm of abstract and mystical applications. That was the kind of stuff the Agency wanted people to forget about.

Hartstein was expecting to find an academy of young men sitting around Pythagoras chanting “Things are numbers” and “Numbers are things.” He was very wrong. He was very surprised, too. When he arrived, he did find an academy of young men sitting around Pythagoras (he was the immoderately serene rebel again). But they were chanting a syllable that sounded like “Öm.” Hartstein hadn't been prepared for that at all.

“What's all this?” he cried. “What have you done?"

Pythagoras gazed at him blissfully. “May this unworthy one humbly offer your honorable self a cup of tea from this miserable pot?” he asked.

“Are you kidding? What's this oriental stuff going on here?"

“Zen,” said Pythagoras. “Listen to the words of Lao-Tze: ‘The Tao never does, yet through it everything is done; If princes and dukes can keep the Tao, the world will of its own accord be reformed. When reformed and rising to action, let it be restrained by the Nameless pristine simplicity. The Nameless pristine simplicity is stripped of desire. By stripping of desire quiescence is achieved, and the world arrives at peace of its own accord.’”

Peace. Meditation. Oneness. Nothingness.

"Nothingness!" shrieked Hartstein. “Oh my God!” He saw immediately what a disaster that could mean for the Agency in the present. The Underground had sidetracked pre-Socratic philosophy from a consideration of the material nature of the universe to a preoccupation with nothingness. There could be no worse catastrophe. Hartstein decided to skip both Anaximenes and Anaximander, and leap all the way back to the beginning, to Thales of Miletus. He adjusted his temporal tap and jumped.

When he arrived, the first thing he saw was the Commander's destroyer. “Well, well, if it isn't Captain Future,” said Tipchak. “We meet again, Hartstein."