“We’ve tried to warn her. But she loathes even the mainstream so passionately that she won’t take the threat seriously. I think she thinks … bad ideas can’t touch her. If Anthrocosmology is nothing but superstition, it has no power to harm her.”

“Tell that to Giordano Bruno.” My eyes were adapting to the darkness; I could see a faint strip of light on the floor of the hold in the distance.

I said, “Have I missed something – or have we been talking all this time about the people you call moderates? ” Kuwale didn’t reply, but I felt ver move – slumping forward, as if in a final surrender to shame. “What do the extremists believe? Break it to me gently, but break it to me now. I don’t want any more surprises.”

Kuwale confessed miserably, “You might say they … hybridized with the Ignorance Cults. They’re still ACs, in the broadest sense: they believe that the universe is explained into being . But they believe it’s possible – and desirable – to have a universe without any TOE at all: without a final equation, a unifying pattern. No deepest level, no definitive laws, no unbreakable proscriptions. No end to the possibility of transcendence .

“But the only way to guarantee that … is to slaughter everyone who might become the Keystone.”

#

My clothes seemed to reach an equilibrium with the hold’s moist air at the most uncomfortable level of dampness possible. I needed to urinate, but I held off for the sake of dignity – hoping that I’d be able to judge correctly when the problem became life-threatening. I thought of the astronomer Tycho Brahe – who’d died after rupturing his bladder during a banquet, because he was too embarrassed to ask to be excused.

The strip of light on the floor didn’t move, but it grew slowly brighter, and then dim again, as the hours wore on. The sounds reaching the hold meant little to me; random creaking and clanking, muffled voices and footsteps. There were distant hums and throbbing noises, some constant, some intermittent; no doubt the most casual boating enthusiast could have discerned the signature of an MHD engine, propelling a jet of seawater backward with superconducting magnets – but I couldn’t have picked the difference between maximum thrust and a crew member taking a shower.

I said, “How does anyone ever become an Anthrocosmologist, when no one knows you exist?”

Kuwale didn’t answer; I nudged ver with my shoulder.

“I’m awake.” Ve sounded more dispirited than I was.

“Then talk to me, I’m going out of my mind. How do you find new members?”