Though not to fathom, came a vagrant sliver of thought. Memor stopped, shocked. Her attendants rustled, unsure what to do. With a feather rattle Memor bade them stand away. The sudden thrust of not to fathom carried guilt and fear wrapped around it. Memor felt the thought-voice and knew it had come lancing up from her Undermind. Something had festered there, and now propelled out, calling to her. She would have to deal with the unruly, understand what this shaft of emotion meant. But not now. She forced herself to resume her stroll, not letting her aides see her vexed condition. Best to rattle her feathers, sigh, casually move on.

She noted there were pointless messages for the unknowable future, here: TO BE READ UPON YOUR WAKING, from some lost age when minds stored in silica or cryo could, they hoped, work forth from their decay into some future with vaster, smarter resources. None awoke, for there was no shortage of minds in the Bowl. Nor of bodies, for the number of walking, talking minds was a matter of stability, not wealth. Minds were not the point of the Bowl, but the long-run destiny of the Folk was … and of course, of those lucky species who came onboard through countless Annuals of time, to help make the Bowl sail on, sail on, to witness and grasp the great prospect offered by the whole galaxy’s own vast, strange, ponderous assets. Whoever or, indeed, whatever wrote TO BE READ UPON YOUR WAKING lived in some illusion of past times. They now drifted as fragrant dust beneath Memor’s great slapping feet.

She looked around, savoring. Some mausoleums carried 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, PLONEJURE,

SOOTHED PAIN WITH COMEDY AND LAUGHTER.

A PERFORMER OF PARTS, SURE I OFTEN DIED …

BUT NEVER QUITE LIKE THIS.

Another was more dry:

DIUREAUS SAW THE OTHER FOLK BESIDE HIM,

GUILTY, TRUE, AND SQUARE, AND WORSE,

HUNG UP ON A HIGHER CROSS THAN SHE,

DIUREAUS 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:

THEY TOLD ME, HERADOLIS; THEY TOLD ME YOU WERE DEAD.

THEY BROUGHT ME BITTER NEWS TO HEAR, AND BITTER TEARS TO SHED.

I WEPT WHEN I REMEMBERED HOW OFTEN YOU AND I

HAD 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 place of execution. Should she not perform well, and fail with the primates that were fully her charge now, she would receive little mercy.

Yet this did not fully overcome her awe at the majesty here. Of course, her Undermind often used its trickster mode, slipping words and even phrases into her speech, in its keen, eager way. Jokes about Underminds escaping control were a staple of classic literature and current japes. She could feel its hopeful spikes of muted zeal and would have to keep it carefully controlled now. Though not to fathom, indeed.

Drama entered seldom in an Astronomer’s life, and for that she was grateful.

Ah! The correct portal. She entered into a small knot of Astronomers, to be greeted by feather-riffs in orange and emerald, then small trill songs that echoed complimentary status-signals. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Bass calls of friendship resounded. A shield, of course, for what all knew: Memor had been summoned and they were looking forward to the show. Anticipation danced in their eyes and neck-feather-flutters.

She had to wait while a Revealing ceremony concluded. It had been a passage of legendary ardor and travail. The recent male, unsteady and weak-eyed, now advanced toward the welcoming cadre, where she knelt with gravid solemnity. The new She looked around in a many-wrinkled face full of bewildered puzzlement. She blinked with surprise, her feather-fan awash in ripples of wonder and flourishes of muted purple hope. Memor recalled this stage, when the male dwindled away into memory and a new She emerged, dewy-eyed.

From this fresh female’s Revealing she would, through the difficult next Annuals, acquire the long views of a She, yet retain the robust memories of prancing, exploring thrill that had marked her vivid He era. Memor could not help joining in with her deep soprano the rising fulsome joy-song, full of deep welcoming tones, and from above, the high, tenor resonances—all celebrating the conferred judgment and sympathy-from-experience that the Revealing summoned forth. This new She would in time, and with much further study of the essential astrophysics and the Vast History, join the Order of Astronomers. From this essential balance—more a sure dance, truly—between the He and She, wisdom could and thus would come.