“The Winning Side”

     I’ve been having some exchanges with a brilliant fellow, Armond Boudreaux, about the different mindsets of materialists and theists. My contention is, in essence, that it’s about premises and ontological boundaries. The materialist bounds his ideas and his questions in the material realm; the theist goes beyond that. In neither case can anyone argue about the choice. Premises are like that.

     Boudreaux observed that there are villains whom material forces and social mechanisms don’t punish. Inarguable! Moreover, there always have been and always will be. Such persons choose to do evil. Those that escape their just deserts in this life are emulated by others.

     That’s the Siren song of evil: “You’re clever! You can get away with it!” It appeals to persons of malformed conscience and excessive self-regard. And yes: some of them do “get away with it.” Temporal mechanisms for correcting and deterring evil conduct are imperfect, as is everything else about Mankind.

     The great danger lies in the perception that the villains are “on the winning side.”

     We joke about that, sometimes: Come to the dark side! We have cookies! But it only stays funny so long as that perception fails to attain a critical mass. That ignites a positive-feedback cycle. Should the successes of the villains become irresistibly attractive to too many people, that society is doomed.

     Once again, I’m in mind of a passage from C.S. Lewis:

     “Hang it all—the preservation of the human race—it’s a pretty rock-bottom obligation.”
     “Well, personally,” said Feverstone, “I’m not indulging in any Busbyisms about that. It’s a little fantastic to base one’s actions on a supposed concern for what’s going to happen millions of years hence; and you must remember that the other side would claim to be preserving humanity, too. Both can be explained psychoanalytically if they take that line. The practical point is that you and I don’t like being pawns, and we do rather like fighting—specially on the winning side.”

     Discerning the “winning side” involves a limited view of things – a choice of premises and ontological boundaries. Lewis tried to expand that from the purely material to the eldila, a quasi-angelic race of spirits, one of whom functions as evil’s chief agent on Earth. The materialist won’t go that far. But even theists make some assumptions about “the winning side.” James Blish demonstrated this in his novel Black Easter:

     ‘Impossible!’ Father Domenico cried, though choking with the dust of the exploded crucifix. ‘It is written that in that war you will at last be conquered and chained!’
     OF COURSE, BUT WHAT DOES THAT PROVE? EACH OF THE OPPOSING SIDES IN ANY WAR ALWAYS PREDICTS VICTORY. THEY CANNOT BOTH BE RIGHT. IT IS THE FINAL BATTLE THAT COUNTS, NOT THE PROPAGANDA. YOU MADE A MISTAKE – AND AH, HOW YOU WILL PAY!

     The speaker in capitals above is a Prince of Hell, the demon Put Satanachia, after the workings of a black magician have brought about Armageddon.

     Good and evil both make promises. Evil has an advantage: its promises can be fulfilled in this life. Good must work overtime to counter that lure.

     Should the villains ever seem to get the upper hand – think of that as “Cthulhu’s Return” – we’ll be in mortal trouble.

* * *

     Concerning that “limited view of things,” the C.S.O. and I saw an excellent movie just recently: The Witch, which stars the young Anya Taylor-Joy. The scripting and performances were both impressive, but the capper for me was the demonstration of how that limited view of things can function to corrupt a previously innocent soul. The central character, Thomasin, is the eldest child of a 17th Century New England family that has chosen to live apart from other society. That family is beset by a series of tragedies, which Thomasin’s mother and siblings put down to witchcraft. I won’t go any further than that, except to say that the movie demonstrates the ways in which seemingly unmerited suffering can make one see evil as “the winning side.”

     It is part of the moral duty of the good man to counter those influences that make evil, whatever form it may take, appear to be “the winning side.” Too many subconsciously equate might with right, and victory with moral or ideological superiority. When we speak of “the still, small voice” that tells us to avoid evil and to remain aligned with good, we are appealing to a standard that doesn’t always offer temporal rewards. It’s why we must be faithful to that standard. Unless admirable men, men of honor who are satisfied to live honorable lives, outnumber the villains, the perceptions of persons of weak, poorly formed conscience will be swayed.

     You wouldn’t want to hang around after that.

I Almost Missed It

     Glory be to God! Today, as I’ve only just discovered, celebrates my favorite ASCII character: one without which a great many important phrases – including a lot of company names – would be both longer and less memorable:

It’s World Ampersand Day!

     Yes, Gentle Reader, the mighty ampersand has been honored with a special day to be celebrated around the globe for its contributions to concision, calligraphy, conjunctionless conjunctions, and…and…

     Well, and!

     According to the National Day Calendar, here are the facts:

• The ampersand used to be the last letter of the alphabet.
• It is a ligature of “e” & “t”? That’s “et” in Latin, meaning “and”!
• The word “ampersand” is a slurring of “real words” run together over time.
• Even the plus sign is actually an ampersand!

     Why, there’s even a website devoted to Ampersand Art!

     So get out there and use it! It’s fun! It’s quick! And it’s international! The ampersand isn’t just an American thing; it’s celebrated around the world for its contributions to our written and printed text.

     Here’s a teaser for you: My novel Doors contains more ampersands than any of my previous novels! Yes, Gentle Reader: I’ve embraced the glory of this elegant and supremely useful character. And if I can, so can you!

A Study In Passion And "Cool"

     [This piece first appeared at the old Eternity Road website, on November 12, 2004. – FWP]

---

     Your Curmudgeon had a strange experience this morning. His group is part of a larger, project-oriented software department which meets every Friday for general status review. Now and then, the department head will use that meeting to introduce some question or topic for general consideration and input from the troops. Today was such a day. The question was: "Do employee appreciation events (e.g., company parties and comparable special events) have a positive effect on employee morale?"

     As you might expect, most of the other engineers there mumbled something ambiguous and unengaged. Your Curmudgeon did not. Almost without intending to, he lit off on a grand tirade about how "employee appreciation events" missed the whole point of employee morale, that morale is not about time-delimited events intended to compensate for the travails of one's job, but rather about the time one spends actually doing it, and whether the holistic experience is interesting, exciting, and comfortable -- in short, whether the employee can be induced to love his work.

     The reactions were mind-expanding. The department head was stunned -- wide-eyed, open-mouthed, speechless, and unable to continue. The other engineers and group leaders were distributed across a spectrum that ranged from baffled to resentful.

     Probably the most piercing reaction came from one of your Curmudgeon's own group members, an older man about a year from retirement. He characterized the meeting as "a complete waste of time, pure bull****."

     In some ways, this seems consistent with what your Curmudgeon knows of himself and of most other working people. As a rule, engineers are embarrassed to admit their enthusiasm for their work. Most employees of any sort would be unwilling to tell their supervisors that they love their jobs and have committed to them voluntarily; it would seem a stick to beat them with at some unspecified future time. But there's more, apparently stemming from the societal worship of "cool."

     Passion of any sort is widely regarded as embarrassing. A raised voice is an unacceptable disordering of the social norm. A Juggernaut-like charge into difficulty, with the intent of smashing obstacles flat by sheer power of will, is considered disrespectful toward one's more restrained colleagues. It's "uncool."

     The "cool" phenomenon is a promotion of disengagement over enthusiasm. "Be cool, man." Don't commit yourself. Don't invest your emotions. Don't let anyone know that there's something that lights your boilers, charges your condensers, and gets you greased and ready to kick ass.

     Your Curmudgeon, despite his scholarly demeanor, is anything but detached, anything but "cool." He has much more animation and much less inhibition in him than the average guy. He's a fighter and a lover. He's most definitely "uncool," and always has been.

     But it's not "in" to be "uncool," to pledge one's life, fortune and sacred honor, to lead charges and build barricades, to declaim on subjects such as love, commitment, and passion for one's work. Such a recognition can leave a passionate person feeling very much alone.

     Do the "cool" folks have any idea how they're shortchanging themselves?

     Your Curmudgeon is an old man by the standards of the engineering trade. Most of his departmental colleagues are in their twenties and thirties. It feels massively incongruous to outmatch them so on the field of passion. But there's no denying the facts.

     Peer pressure might have had something to do with it. In sober retrospection, it almost certainly did. Large meetings are like that. Embarrassment at being lifeless and unexceptional when an oldster was an uninhibited firebrand probably had something to do with it, too.

     In one sense, it was saddening, but in another, it reminded your Curmudgeon how much he has to be thankful for.

     Our passionate moments are the times when we're most alive. The rejection of passion in favor of the slightly bored, can't-arouse-me demeanor known as "cool" that's held the favor of the youth culture for God knows how long now is a poorly disguised rejection of life itself. Its incongruity against the surging fire of life that burns in the body and brain of a young adult is an irony that defies capture in mere words.

     Your Curmudgeon will continue to engage himself. He'll continue to sing in the car. He'll charge up the hill with his torch and his pitchfork whenever the fit takes him. And he'll be glad that his is a personality unmarred by "cool."

     Let the Limbo people, the willfully disengaged and uncommitted ones, the gray souls who prefer a twilight world in which there's neither true life nor true death, have their "cool." They'll never know what they've missed. More's the pity.

Enforcers

     A great many people, most of them good and decent people, have fallen for the notion that if something is generally deemed “bad” by some widely held standard, then it “should” be illegal. Beneath that conviction lie two others:

1. Not to outlaw it is somehow to condone it;
2. Outlawing it will have net positive results.

     The second of those beliefs can be tested. The first is more difficult to cope with. That having been said, in combination they explain the great majority of all the laws that have been fastened on suffering Mankind throughout recorded history.

     Yet there is evidence that in the great majority of cases, outlawing some variety of conduct either has no measurable effect on its frequency, or correlates with an increase in it. Now, correlations are interesting, but we must not immediately conclude that they reveal causes. Still, they’re evidence that we should not assume a proposed law will have only the effects we expect from it.

     Take the matter of violence in defense of one’s home or other property. Until fairly recently, he who could honestly claim to be defending what is rightfully his was granted the presumption of legal and moral justification for what he does for that purpose. Under that presumption, the aggressor bore the responsibility for what flowed from his aggression. That is no longer the case in much of the United States.

     The change brought unintended consequences. Street assaults and home invasions increased in frequency and in the violence they occasioned. No one wanted those consequences, of course. But we’re not guaranteed to get what we want.

     Nonviolent conduct presents an even more perverse picture. Outlawing alcoholic beverages – i.e., the Prohibition era – caused an increase in drinking, moonshining, and bootlegging. Outlawing private gambling produced state-run and state-licensed gambling that rakes in many billions of dollars per year. Outlawing recreational use of drugs has brought about an explosion in organized crime and police corruption. Yet the laws involved were passed by well-meaning people, with malice toward none.

     In commenting on laws intended to reduce prostitution, H.L. Mencken delivered the verdict on well-meant legislation many years ago:

     There is no half-baked ecclesiastic, bawling in his galvanized-iron temple on a suburban lot, who doesn’t know precisely how it ought to be dealt with. There is no fantoddish old suffragette, sworn to get her revenge on man, who hasn’t a sovereign remedy for it. There is not a shyster of a district attorney, ambitious for higher office, who doesn’t offer to dispose of it in a few weeks, given only enough help from the city editors. And yet, by the same token, there is not a man who has honestly studied it and pondered it, bringing sound information to the business, and understanding of its inner difficulties and a clean and analytical mind, who doesn’t believe and hasn’t stated publicly that it is intrinsically and eternally insoluble. For example, Havelock Ellis. His remedy is simply a denial of all remedies. He admits that the disease is bad, but he shows that the medicine is infinitely worse, and so he proposes going back to the plain disease, and advocates bearing it with philosophy, as we bear colds in the head, marriage, the noises of the city, bad cooking and the certainty of death. Man is inherently vile—but he is never so vile as when he is trying to disguise and deny his vileness. No prostitute was ever so costly to a community as a prowling and obscene vice crusader, or as the dubious legislator or prosecuting officer who jumps at such swine pipe.

     With regard to the general improvement of public morals, what has proved effective is the disapproval of others, and the consequences that follow. The evidence suggests that morals and ethics are best imposed through social mechanisms: customs, education, denunciation, ostracism, etc. Many a practice of times past was dedicated to exactly that sort of improvement. If the community has behavioral standards that its members are willing to uphold through public disapproval and ostracism, those things usually suffice to curb disapproved behavior – to hold it to an irreducible or “threshold” level.

     From a strictly practical standpoint, the social-improvement crusader “should” be persuaded by that argument. All too often, he reverts to the “But leaving it legal would condone it” position. That’s a tougher nut to crack. At present I have no suggestions for cracking it.

     Perhaps we might consider bringing back dueling under the Toth Convention:

• The challenged party gets the choice of weapons.
• The duel must be refereed by an impartial individual.
• It must take place in the pre-dawn hours, when there’s little light.
• Challenger and challenged must both bring seconds to act as witnesses.
• The deciding rule of the contest must be agreed upon: first blood or incapacity?

     Under that convention, the infliction of death, even if unintentional, is considered shameful and subjects the offender to ostracism.

     I know the idea will horrify many. After all, we’re civilized now. We abhor violence, especially when we’re its target. But the prospect of being challenged and compelled to stake one’s blood, if not his life, on his words or deeds would inhibit quite a lot of bad behavior. The question is whether we could tolerate that manner of enforcement.

     That question is troublesome. At present we don’t even tolerate police violence very well. But the correlation between the end of the “nightstick era” and the explosion of street violence suggests that that might have been a wrong turning. Upon which note I believe I shall leave the field to my Gentle Readers.

“They Say That I Am Mad, But I Am Not Mad…”

     I have a mountain of chores and obligations before me today, so this will be brief. I was thinking about bygone fads and trends: the sort of thing Charles Mackay wrote about in Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds. In our time, characterized by mass communication technologies that didn’t exist when Mackay wrote, one of the more charming fads was the hallucinatory-nonsense lyric.

     The music of the Sixties occasionally brought us “novelty songs” that were intended – I hope — to be funny. Some of them were memorable, such as “Love Potion #9,” “The Witch Doctor,” and “They’re Coming To Take Me Away, Haha!” But they’re largely gone now, except for fleeting manifestations such as the Dixie Chicks’ “White Trash Wedding.”

     But the novelty songs had companions that lurked behind the drapes: the hallucination songs. Some lyric writers specialized in them: Pete Brown, who wrote for Cream; Robert Hunter, who wrote for the Grateful Dead; and the incredible Keith Reid, the lyricist for Procol Harum.

     Where are their inheritors? Who writes such stuff today? My acquaintance with 21st Century pop music is slight, so I can’t say. But surely someone is still pursuing that art form! Or has the national supply of LSD dwindled too far to support such endeavors?

     Well, anyway. If you want a taste of the very best Sixties music has to offer, you can’t go wrong with Procol Harum’s first, eponymous album. It’s both lyrically and musically brilliant, one mesmerizing hallucination after another from beginning to end. Below is my favorite track from that album, with Keith Reid’s lyrics.

Outside the gates of Cerdes sits the two-pronged unicorn
Who plays at relaxation time a rhinestone flugelhorn
Whilst mermaids lace carnations into wreaths for ailing whales
And Neptune dances hornpipes while Salome sheds her veils

Phallus Phil tries peddling his pewter painted pot
But Sousa Sam can only hear the screams of Peep the sot
Who only sips his creme de menthe from terra cotta cups
And exhales menthol scented breath whilst spewing verbiage up

Down technical blind alleys live the wraiths of former dreams
And Greeps who often crossed them are no longer what they seem
And even Christian Scientists can but display marble plaques
Which only retell legends whilst my eyes reach out for facts
Yeah, my eyes reach out for facts

The Darkness At The End Of The Tunnel

     Starting in 2007, I wrote a series of essays collectively titled “The Mask Slips” at the late, lamented Eternity Road website. They concerned the steady erosion of an idea that decent Americans would have thought unassailable: a human being’s right to life. I argued that that idea was being attacked at its most vulnerable margins: abortion and euthanasia.

     Attacks on a moral-ethical idea at its tender margins should always be closely scrutinized. Often they’re harbingers of a larger campaign to invalidate the idea altogether – not in a logical sense, but as a premise from which ordinary people reach other conclusions and decisions. For the most important moral and ethical ideas are not logically provable. They can be undermined, worn away by gradual incursions until they’ve become historical curiosities, obiter dicta.

     Just yesterday, I received an email from a reader of one of my books:

     The premise of The Death Cults is difficult to overlook because you're not simply examining particular movements or ideas, you’re organizing them around a much larger question: what happens to a civilization when the value of human life itself becomes negotiable?
     I found that framing particularly interesting.
     What stood out to me is that the book seems less concerned with cataloguing individual threats than with identifying the common principle you believe connects them. That makes the argument much more ambitious than the title initially suggests.

     I was thrilled. Someone had actually grasped my point. That’s a rare thing these days. Yet it was exactly that point that motivated me – along with copious chivvying from my friend Pascal – to compile the essays that became The Death Cults into a separate publication.

     The common principle, of course, was hostility to the right to life. I saw each of the several “marginal attacks” as excrescences of that hostility. I believed that the attacks were converging, such that the human right to life would eventually be discarded as a moral premise. I still do believe it.

     But all that is prefatory. Attacks on the right to life are part of a bigger picture. How big? Pour yourself another cup of coffee and read on.

* * *

     There has hardly been a more valuable voice added to America’s national discourse than Constitutional scholar and law professor Jonathan Turley:

     Pennsylvania state representative and Democratic Socialist Chris Rabb is the latest Democrat to reaffirm his alliance with virulent antisemite Hasan Piker. What is most notable, however, is his attack on establishment Democrats as “institutionalists,” a new label reflecting the radical agenda for changing our constitutional system. It is a term that is now in vogue on the far left by those who want to tear down our institutions and scrap our Constitution.
     Across the country, attacks are growing on Democrats and independents who are viewed as insufficiently radical. Those of us who continue to celebrate the Madisonian democracy as creating the most successful and stable republic in history are now “cultists” and “institutionalists” who are trapped in “nostalgia.”
     The Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) have drawn support from many who want a literal revolution. DSA Steering Committee member Cliff Connolly declared on one podcast that they are “famous for” “Our hatred of the United States Constitution.”

     Please read it all. It put me in mind of an observation by one of the greatest minds of the Twentieth Century:

     The craving for power which characterizes the governing class in every nation is hostile to any limitation of the national sovereignty. – Albert Einstein

     The Founding Fathers convened in Philadelphia in 1787 to define a national government. As I’ve said before, to define is to delimit: to say what the thing being defined is and is not. The Constitution was the Founders’ attempt to do exactly that. They had history, John Locke, and Adam Smith for guidance.

     History told the Founders what will follow when The State is unrestricted. Adam Smith, in his Theory of Moral Sentiments, codified men’s half-formed sense for right and wrong. John Locke united theory with practice in delineating the concept of a right and whence it originates. The Constitution, together with the original Bill of Rights, was the Founders’ attempt to reify those ideas. Those documents set out, in clear and specific terms, how the national government would be determined and what it must and must not do.

     The modern Left, through its political arm the Democrat Party, seeks to eliminate those documents as working principles. Of course! The Left aspires to be “the governing class.” Therefore they’re “hostile to any limitation of the national sovereignty.” The incursions they’ve made so far have been grievous, such that another few decades of marginal chipping-away might just lead to a de facto “retirement” of the Constitution. But they’re impatient. They want the remaining limitations to fall now.

     Professor Turley says it plainly:

     The media eagerly publishes these radical views, such as the New York Times column, “The Constitution Is Broken and Should Not Be Reclaimed,” in which Ryan D. Doerfler of Harvard and Samuel Moyn of Yale call for the nation to “reclaim America from constitutionalism.”
     Brown University’s Corey Brettschneider called the Constitution a “dangerous document” that is driving this “threat to democracy.”
     George Washington law professor Mary Anne Franks condemned the “cult of the Constitution” that has been defended to advance “white male supremacy.”
     Now, to support our constitutional system is to be an “institutionalist,” a pejorative term that is as bad as being an “oligarch” in the new revolutionary lexicon.

     If the Constitution should fall, whether de jure or de facto, all legal protections for Americans’ individual rights will fall with it.

* * *

     Just as we saw in compiling the attacks on the right to life, the marginal attacks on Constitutional constraints have been elements in a converging assault on constitutionalism itself: the thesis that there must be a Supreme Law that binds governments as clearly and absolutely as moral precepts bind men. It’s foolish to think that there could be any other terminus. It’s even more foolish to imagine that the men driving those attacks are innocent of that aim.

     “When a man shows you who he is, believe him,” said poet Maya Angelou. The men of the American Left have shown us who they are, and by implication where they’re headed. This is no time for decent Americans to say to one another that “They don’t really mean it.”

Aspirations

     First, a little music:

     (If you’re not familiar with Gentle Giant, the group was part of a Seventies surge into experimental forms within popular music. The title of their second album, Acquiring the Taste, says a lot about what it takes to enjoy their oeuvre. Yet several of their recordings, especially Octopus and The Power and the Glory, have joined my list of favorites. Give them a try.)

     And now for something completely different…

* * *

     In pursuit of a project I’m following with brilliant video composer Hazel Williams, I spent a couple of hours yesterday seining through the five novels of the Realm of Essences series. Hazel, who’s composing a “trailer” for Chosen One, needed a concise biography of the character I’m most abused for killing: Louis Redmond. My intention was to assemble the most relevant bits of the novels that follow Chosen One for her edification. I think I succeeded at that, but alongside the intended outcome came another.

     Reviewing those books brought me to tears.

     It was a remarkable experience. I hadn’t read those books for many years. You might find that natural. After all, they’re my creations; why would I reread them when they came from my imagination? We read for the novelty of experiencing other writers’ creations, don’t we?

     Well, yes. But when revisited after a long time away, one’s own creations can seem like the products of another mind. I wrote the last of the Realm books, Statesman, ten years ago. Coming back to them after such a long interval was unexpectedly affecting.

     It put me in mind of why I set out to write fiction in the first place.

* * *

     The writer and the reader usually have some compatible aims. The reader is there to be entertained and moved; the writer knows it and is there to see to it. Good fiction must entertain at the very minimum. If the writer can give the reader a memorable emotional journey as well, he’s achieved on two counts.

     But I set out on the Realm series for other reasons, as well. I wanted to do something that a great many writers appear to have abandoned: the depiction and exposition of true heroism. I wanted to create characters that exemplify my conception of a hero: one who puts himself at risk for someone or something else that he values more than his own interests.

     It’s for the reader to decide whether I met that goal… but in going back through the Realm novels for the first time in more than a decade, I was “the reader.” I was thrilled by Louis’s adventures. I derived a huge refreshing dollop of the inspiration I felt in those early years, when nothing seemed quite as important as telling a heroic tale to the best of my ability.

     That has always been my aspiration: that my readers should feel exactly that sense of uplift, and to experience the renewal of purpose that’s the central animating filament of a memorable, heroic character.

     The question we all face – “Why am I here?” – is one that every hero must answer. Good fiction helps us to face it. Not to answer it; merely to confront it open-eyed.

* * *

     Sometimes, a hero must be “soft-pedaled:” depicted in a fashion that downplays the essence of his heroism. Superman gets to wear a gaudy costume, but that’s a job requirement for a comic-book superhero. Real-life heroes sometimes wear uniforms, but they’re seldom that gaudy.

     One of the writers from whose example I learned the most was the late Roger Zelazny. Here is his most striking depiction of heroic essence: unprepossessing, unglamorous, but resolute and definite:

     "Oh man of many bodies," said Taraka, "why do you begrudge me a few days within this one? It is not the body you were born into, and you, too, do but borrow it for a time. Why then, do you feel my touch to be a thing of defilement? One day you may wear another body, untouched by me. So why do you consider my presence a pollution, a disease? Is it because there is that within you which is like unto myself? Is it because you, too, know delight in the ways of the Rakasha, tasting the pain you cause like a pleasure, working your will as you choose upon whatsoever you choose? Is it because of this? Because you, too, know and desire these things, but also bear that human curse called guilt? If it is, I mock you in your weakness, Binder. And I shall prevail against you."
     "It is because I am what I am, demon," said Siddhartha, hurling his energies back at him. "It is because I am a man who occasionally aspires to things beyond the belly and the phallus. I am not the saint the Buddhists think me to be, and I am not the hero out of legend. I am a man who knows much fear, and who occasionally feels guilt. Mainly, though, I am a man who has set out to do a thing, and you are now blocking my way."

     [From Lord of Light]

     “I am a man who has set out to do a thing.” Could there be a more compact description of what animates a hero? For Sam / “Siddhartha” has embraced a costly purpose: the liberation of a whole planetful of people. He knows it to be a purpose that will try him sorely. He accepts it anyway.

     Have another snippet, this one from Steven Brust’s novel Phoenix:

     “Just out of curiosity, how long has it been since blood has been spilled here, in the Jhereg Wing?”
     “Not since the Interregnum, Lord Taltos.”
     “It would be bad for the Organization interests to have any sort of violence take place here, wouldn’t it?”
     “Very bad. I hope you aren’t suggesting any.”
     I leaned on his shoulder, very slightly. “I? No, no, not at all. I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I was just making conversation.”
     “I see. What was it you wanted to know?”
     “Who arranged to have those Easterners arrested?”
     There was the faintest hint of a tightening of muscles, but no more. “Why, the Empress, Baronet Taltos.”
     “At your request, Count Soffta. And I’m very anxious to learn which of my colleagues asked you to make the request.”
     “I believe you have been misinformed, Baronet Taltos.”
     “Have you heard of me, Count Soffta?”
     My hand didn’t leave his shoulder, but neither did it tighten, nor did I make any other movement. He said nothing for two or three heartbeats, then he said, “It may take me some time to find out, and I’m expecting a rather large number of visitors very soon.”
     “Yes, I imagine you are. But under the circumstances, I’m willing to let it take as much time as necessary. I’m sure your visitors will understand.”
     “It could be very expensive.”
     “I’m prepared to pay. It is my wife, you know.”
     “Yes . . . .”
     “So the cost is irrelevant.”
     “I guess it is.”
     “Perhaps it would be best if you could gather the information?”
     I could almost feel him weighing the odds, attempting to select the best thing to say, the best thing to do. “There may be repercussions—”
     “I have absolutely no doubt that there will be. I accept them.”
     “All of them?”
     “Whatever may happen.”

     “I accept them.” Vladimir Taltos – witch, assassin, and crime lord – accepts that he’ll most likely lose his life to save the life of his estranged wife. There’s a hero for you.

     The two heroes above had conscious purposes for which they were prepared to give everything.

* * *

     We don’t usually think of heroes in terms of their aspirations. That word feels too close to achievements. Yet there is a difference.

     Many young men aspire to be heroes without fully grasping what heroism entails. Few of us become genuine heroes. But all of us are asked to give something of ourselves – time, labor, money, love, other values – no matter what it is we set out to achieve. Often, the young man gives without recompense: he never achieves what or as he’d hoped. But what he gave is not returned to him.

     Ultimately, it’s the aspiration that matters. The more clearly the young man sees the probable costs, the more laudable is his quest. If the fulfillment of that quest would be to others’ benefit rather than his own, we may legitimately call him heroic, even if by far the greater part of his life is as common as dirt.

     We never see superheroes doing utterly mundane, body-and-life maintenance things. Those moments don’t make it onto the big screen. Note that at no instant of 24, throughout eight long seasons, do we ever see Jack Bauer take a “pee break.” We see his risks and his derring-do. And we see what he’s prepared to give to fulfill his purpose.

     I’m not exhorting anyone to be a hero. I won’t encourage others to do what I know I never could. But to aspire:

     Come, my friends,
     'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
     Push off, and sitting well in order smite
     The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
     Of all the western stars, until I die.
     It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
     It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
     And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
     Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
     We are not now that strength which in old days
     Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
     One equal temper of heroic hearts,
     Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
     To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

     [Alfred, Lord Tennyson]

     That is incumbent upon us all.

     Thank you for suffering through all that. Have a nice day.

On Making Things Up

     That’s what writers do.

     As my Gentle Readers know, I write in the speculative genres. (Yes, considering how romances are conducted these days, I consider romance a speculative genre.) Those who read my novels know it going in; Amazon makes it perfectly plain, as do the covers and the promotional blurbs. So the reader should be prepared for a little speculation: i.e., imaginative depiction of how things might be in a different reality, or in the future.

     Some aren’t. At least, that’s the way they express themselves in their reviews.

     Of course, the misguided-review problem isn’t mine alone:

I would love to correct the factual record on one of my reviews on Goodreads, but I won't.

My favorite one-star review was on Monster Hunter Files. The header was "This is a collection of short stories." And the review was simply "I don't like collections of short stories."

On… https://t.co/tGUUoVFMon

— Julie Frost--That Werewolf Writer🐺🦉 (@JulieCFrost) August 30, 2026

     That unnamed reviewer simply had to express himself or explode. Tragic, eh? I hope he headed off the crisis before detonation. But enough of that.

     Speculative-fiction writers must speculate. They’re required to change something about contemporary / real-world / this universe reality. The specifics of the writer’s speculation are what determine the genre – the “marketing category” (Steven Brust) – into which his book will be thrust, there to beckon silently yet importunately to Amazon doomscrollers forever more.

     It hardly need be said, though in my inimitable fashion I’ll say it anyway, that a reader who dislikes speculation in fiction should browse among the non-speculative genres, and leave the speculative ones for persons of different tastes. But things are as they are. This aspect thereof cannot be easily changed.

     The tweet embedded above caused me to remember an event that brought me some perplexing thoughts. It was early in my auctorial career: the Year of Our Lord 2000, if memory serves. Two persons of whom I had (and have) a high opinion had started a small press. They declared themselves dedicated to the speculative genres. They’d fulsomely complimented two short stories I’d sent them, so I decided to try one of my novels on them: a Christian-speculative tale over which I’d labored hard and of which I was proud.

     (A digression: Those Gentle Readers who casually end sentences with prepositions can’t imagine my agony over the previous sentence. De gustibus non est disputandum, and all that. Digression ends.)

     Well, to cut to the chase, they didn’t like it. “Not orthodox,” came the reply. Their objections focused on the speculative elements in the novel. They bore on matters Catholic doctrine does not address: the possibility of magic and the exact nature of the afterlife.

     Hm. Well, you can’t please everyone, and only a fool would try. But it was a disappointment as well as a surprise. The implication was that the Church has told us everything, and that to go beyond Church doctrine to any extent is unworthy, even if the author takes great care not to contradict an explicit Church teaching.

     That wasn’t the first time a reviewer objected to a speculation in a speculative novel or mine. While I shrug it off when it occurs, it always puzzles me. It makes me want to ask the reviewer: What are you here for?

     But I’m not here to grump about a couple of misguided reviews, nor about the rejection of a novel. This is more of a reflection about accepting things for what they are.

     In The Vision of the Anointed, Thomas Sowell makes a piercing point about the application of standards:

     Many have argued that capitalism does not offer a satisfactory moral message. But that is like saying that calculus does not contain carbohydrates, amino acids, or other essential nutrients. Everything fails by irrelevant standards.

     To judge a thing relevantly, one must judge it by the relevant standard. To apply an irrelevant standard guarantees that it will “fail.” After all, the creator didn’t have that standard in mind when he labored on his creation. Its prescriptions and proscriptions were not on his mind. No reasonable person expects that his shower stall will be equipped to allow him to check his Facebook status as he scrubs.

     And now, having written the last sentence above with glee, I am once more in mind of the “No True Scotsman” fallacy. Have we entered an age in which everything we own is expected to do everything we ever want? Has that become “reasonable?” Must our refrigerator remind us that it’s time to change the oil in our car? Must our lawnmower remember that we need bread, milk, and to schedule a chat with our financial planner?

     I feel a headache coming on. Perhaps it’s time to lie down for a while. Do have a nice day.

Crosses And Virtues

     Today’s Gospel reading was from Matthew, chapter 16:

     From that time forth began Jesus to shew unto his disciples, how that he must go unto Jerusalem, and suffer many things of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and be raised again the third day.
     Then Peter took him, and began to rebuke him, saying, Be it far from thee, Lord: this shall not be unto thee.
     But he turned, and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.
     Then said Jesus unto his disciples, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.
     For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?
     For the Son of man shall come in the glory of his Father with his angels; and then he shall reward every man according to his works.

     [Matthew 16:21-27]

     Jesus made that statement about “taking up [your] cross” more than once. There’s been a fair amount of squabbling over what He meant. Today’s Mass celebrant tried to paper it over with a lecture about being ready and willing to help others. That’s that priest’s particular shtick; I come at it from a different angle.

     When I studied Latin many years ago, I came into contact with the school of philosophy called Stoicism:

     Philosophical discourse is paramount in Stoicism, including the view that the mind is in rational dialogue with itself. Stoic ethics centers on virtue as the highest good, cultivating emotional self-control, a calm problem-solving state of mind, and rational judgment to attain lifelong flourishing (eudaimonia). At the same time, passions, anxieties, and insecurities are viewed as misguided reactions that ought to be controlled through self-disciplined practice. Of all the schools of ancient Western philosophy, Stoicism made the greatest claim to being utterly systematic. Central to Stoic ethics was the idea of living in accordance with nature, which meant aligning one's life with one's sense of reason and the rational order of the universe.

     When we speak of a man as stoic, we hearken back to that school of philosophy. We mean he exemplifies the virtues the Stoics valued, beginning with Zeno and flowing thence to Marcus Aurelius:

• He controls himself.
• He is not easily disturbed.
• He does not complain, or parade his sufferings.
• He strives to put his reason in command of his emotions.
• He tempers wild impulses, sudden passions, and the onset of worry and fear.

     Those virtues are the heart of Stoicism. Every man bears burdens of some sort. We admire most greatly him who bears them Stoically.

     Few of us will depart this life by being crucified, and thank God for that. But whatever our burdens may be, bearing them with grace and quiet patience is at the core of what Western Civilization has esteemed most highly: the man who does what he must and asks little of others in the doing. Moreover, whatever his burdens may be – physical, mental, or spiritual – they are his. It’s rare that they can be shunted onto other shoulders. We think little of a man who tries to do so. Others might choose to assist him with some of them, but the responsibility for bearing them is his alone.

     That pair of recognitions demands stoicism from us. A society that lacks it, or fails to appreciate it, isn’t likely to endure and prosper. It may be held together by force for a while, but it’s likely to dissolve under a tide of predation and sloth.

     The cross, in First Century Judea, represented the greatest burden imaginable at that time. Crucifixion was ignominious, protracted, and excruciating. (Note the etymology of excruciating.) To accept such a fate silently and patiently – stoically – marked a condemned man as greater, in that regard at least, than those who had condemned him.

     In that metaphorical way, Christ instructed those who chose to follow Him in what He expected of them: the virtues Zeno and his successor Stoics elucidated and praised. That a number of the Apostles and lesser disciples experienced real crucifixion is barely relevant.

     Lord, though my burdens are far inferior to those You bore, help me to be as stoic in bearing them as You were on Your cross.

     May God bless and keep you all.

An Announcement

     I’ve been reading some horrifying stuff lately. Just a day or so ago, I learned about a mother who killed her 11-month-old son rather than surrender custody to his father. Just a moment ago, I read about a North Dakota mom who cut her children’s throats. And of course, the news is full of the unexpectedly protracted Lindsay Clancy trial.

     I’ve lived long enough to have seen a lot of horrifying stuff. I doubt I could have avoided seeing it. Our news media has long abided by a well-known maxim “If it bleeds, it leads.” And there are enough predators, filled with rapacity or lust, to commit any number of heinous deeds. To whatever extent we follow the news, we hear about them. We can’t help it.

     But mothers killing their own children?

     Could this be a counter-movement to the “traditional mother / homemaker” movement that’s been gaining steam these past few years? Is an evil force attempting to “restore the balance?”

     Women tend to follow consensus to a greater degree than do men. Has a consensus arisen among women that murdering one’s kids is “the thing to do?” Or are we merely in a “node” in which maternal violence toward their children is temporarily well above the usual level?

     I’m sure I’m not alone in noticing these maternal crimes. I’m equally sure that as a fraction of the homicidal total, motherly murders are vanishingly small. But I sense something trending.

     Many women are unhappy about their lots in life, but that’s always been the case; many men are just as unhappy. Prior to our era, we didn’t hear about mothers killing their progeny nearly as often as we have been lately. That might be because our numbers have increased so greatly. Or it might be an artifact of more extensive, greatly intensified coverage; our news media have never been larger nor more attentive to events, especially the most lurid events. But it’s still something to ponder.

     Mine is not a popular, well-heeded voice. Even so, I want to “do my part.” So allow me to make this clear:

Mothers everywhere:
Killing your children is evil.
There is no imaginable excuse for it.
If you begin to feel an urge toward filicide,
Get away from them and get help!

     I have spoken.

An Old Slur In A New Incarnation

     One of my pet peeves is – surprise! – the twisting of the meanings of words for unholy purposes. Yes, it’s a common occurrence in political cut-and-thrust, but it also features in exchanges between common citizens. Humpty Dumpty thought he could get away with it, but the rest of us need not be Alices.

     A long, long time ago, an elderly friend wrote a piece for a very minor publication I edited in which he argued that even in a wholly anarchic society, a State exists locally and temporarily wherever like-minded persons can muster a local preponderance of force. If we look at The State as its function – i.e., to wield coercive force for particular purposes – rather than as an institution, Ed was absolutely correct. Wherever you have a group united on a purpose and large enough to get its way, you have a State for local and temporary purposes.

     A lynch mob is functionally a State. That should give a few people pause for thought.

     That doesn’t mean that the anarchic society is impossible. It means only that our expectations of it must be tempered by our grasp of human nature. People do get exercised over things. They do band together for specific purposes. If they’re not opposed by equal or greater forces, they can impose themselves on others, against those others’ wills.

     Another friend of more recent vintage liked to say that “Anarchy is the perpetual Loyal Opposition.” He saw anarchy as beckoning from the sidelines. It keeps politicians and bureaucrats mindful that an alternative to them exists and always will. He had a good point.

     When a disorderly movement “pops up” in the midst of a normal – i.e., State-ridden – society, it sometimes gets its way. You may remember the Occupy Wall Street affair that arose in New York City in 2011, during Michael Bloomberg’s mayoralty. Bloomberg refrained from directing law enforcement to quell it for several weeks. It was a good illustration of the transient and conditional nature of State hegemony.

     Whenever a miscreant is treated gently by the “official” justice system, he faces the possibility that an “ad hoc State” will arise to impose a greater penalty. The more heinous his crimes, the more likely he’ll face “private justice.” Say what you will about vigilance committees, that was their genesis: “the authorities” had either failed to act against violent criminals or had given them the proverbial slap on the wrist. It doesn’t happen with perfect predictability or unanimous approval of the results, but it does happen. It’s why men convicted of raping children fear to go to prison.

     Heinlein made a point of this in his magnum opus The Moon is a Harsh Mistress:

     “All our customs work that way. If you’re out in field and a cobber needs air, you lend him a bottle and don’t ask cash. But when you’re both back in pressure again, if he won’t pay up, nobody would criticize if you eliminated him without a judge. But he would pay; air is almost as sacred as women. If you take a new chum in a poker game, you give him air money. Not eating money; can work or starve. If you eliminate a man other than self-defense, you pay his debts and support his kids, or people won’t speak to you, buy from you, sell to you.”
     “Mannie, you’re telling me that I can murder a man here and settle the matter merely with money?”
     “Oh, not at all! But eliminating isn’t against some law; are no laws—except Warden’s regulations—and Warden doesn’t care what one Loonie does to another. But we figure this way: If a man is killed, either he had it coming and everybody knows it—usual case—or his friends will take care of it by eliminating man who did it. Either way, no problem. Nor many eliminations. Even set duels aren’t common.”

     When young Fran first read that passage, he was as nonplussed as Stuart LaJoie, the tourist being tutored in Lunar ways by protagonist and first-person narrator Manuel O’Kelly Davis. But it’s the way human societies self-organize in the absence of a State. History does provide examples thereof, including medieval Iceland before Denmark incorporated it and pre-British-invasion Ireland.

* * *

     The above disquisition was triggered by – drum roll, please! – a slur aimed at a perfectly nice young woman on X who goes by the moniker “Libertarian Goth:”

You support pedophilia because you oppose State force to stop it. A libertarian fantasy society is a pedophile tolerant society.

— Sterling Reece 🗡️🇺🇸 (@SterlingReece26) August 28, 2026

     Anyone who might say such a thing to me would be invited to a pre-dawn kaffeklatsch with pistols at ten paces. Libertarian Goth was more restrained:

Despite me directly telling you my beliefs you say that I believe something else right after. Can you please tell me who my favorite band is? I want to listen some music. Or maybe I don’t. Do I? You tell me. 🤷🏻‍♀️ https://t.co/SdF6AyB8Q9

— 🥀 🖤𝔏𝔦𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔞𝔫 𝔊𝔬𝔱𝔥🖤🥀 (@LibertarianG0th) August 28, 2026

     I applaud that young lady for limiting herself to ridicule in response. Were I in her place, I might have used the kzinti method of issuing a challenge:

     Speaker-To-Animals said one thing more before he turned back to his table. "Louis Wu, I found your challenge verbose. In challenging a kzin, a simple scream of rage is sufficient. You scream and you leap."

     In short, the absence – or passivity – of a State does not imply the absence of justice. Pedophiles know it. Verbum sat sapienti.

A Concise Diagnosis

     I’m in a bad way just now, so rather than blather on my own account, I’d like to introduce my Gentle Readers to the works of a writer I encountered recently: Holly Chism. One of her books, Certified Public Assassin, has a great deal to say, and says it most entertainingly. Here’s a snippet from near the end:

     “Back when the country was founded, the average person was easily able to corner his or her government representative and give them an earful. When that stopped being possible as the population grew, they stopped paying attention to what people were actually upset about, and started trying to steer society where they thought it should go without any regard to how it affected their constituents. That trickled down through the higher education system, and through the legal system. Came to a head when I was little.”
     Bryce nodded. “I think I see. I mean, yeah, there’s the argument that it’s better for a lot of guilty to go free than an innocent be punished, but…”
     “But the way things were going,” Molly continued his thought, “it was only the powerless getting punished. Pushed toward pleading ‘no contest’ to not have to spend potentially a decade trying to defend themselves. Utter bastards buying lawyers and judges and experts to get off when the evidence was overwhelming.” Molly sipped her coffee. “It’s the latter that triggered the proposal and passage of the Last Contingencies for Justice Act that legalized assassination at this level, and for these reasons.”
     “But elected officials are usually the worst bastards,” Bryce said, puzzled.
     “Yeah,” Molly agreed. “And they knew it. Do you really think they’d leave themselves vulnerable to having justice served on them? Some animals being more equal than others?”

     Molly McGuire was forced to become a Certified Public Assassin by events within her family. She grew into the job. She found a measure of fulfillment in it. Holly’s tale of Molly isn’t just a feel-good story; it points in some directions most of us would prefer not to think about.

     Give it a try.

We Interrupt This Program…

     I don’t know how embed a YouTube “short.” There doesn’t seem to be a convenient way. But at least I can give you this one’s address. I urge you to take the three minutes it asks of you and pay attention to the event it describes.

     I’m a poor evangelist. I lack something that makes other evangelists effective. I don’t know what that is. But that short video may have the answer.

     “If today you hear His voice, harden not your heart.” (Psalm 95). Sometimes your words and voice are distractions, even obstructions. Let Him speak instead.

     May He bless and keep you always.

“While The Balance Of His Mind Was Disturbed”

     Boromir strode up and down, speaking ever more loudly. Almost he seemed to have forgotten Frodo, while his talk dwelt on walls and weapons, and the mustering of men; and he drew plans for great alliances and glorious victories to be; and he cast down Mordor, and became himself a mighty king, benevolent and wise.
     […]
     He rose and passed his hand over his eyes, dashing away the tears. ‘What have I said?’ he cried. ‘What have I done? Frodo, Frodo!’ he called. ‘Come back! A madness took me, but it has passed. Come back!’

     Surely you know where that’s from.

     In that scene, Tolkien exploited the idea that the One Ring could overwhelm those near to it with power-lust. There had to be a flaw in their characters for it to take firm hold, but if the Ring could find such a chink in their moral-ethical armor, lust for it would penetrate and take command of them. In this fashion, Tolkien did several things concurrently:

1. He displayed Boromir’s pride and ambition;
2. He depicted the Ring’s technique for corrupting those near it;
3. Through contrast, he emphasized the character of the other members of the Fellowship.

     Fortunately for us fallible, corruptible mortals, there is no One Ring of Power to tempt us thus. But there are other powers in the world. Any of them could disturb the balance of a mind, given the right circumstances. Some of them even come with rings.

* * *

     The possibility of seizing power over others is irresistible to some. Once they have sensed it, they become fixated on it. Some are consumed by it, such that nothing else in this world matters to them. And as I’ve written on previous occasions, for the worst power-lusters there’s no such thing as enough.

     But there are many situations that involve an inequality of power. Some are transient; others persist. One arises in literally every household into which a child is born.

     It’s never been my lot to have to raise a child from the cradle. Still, I know of some of its aspects. The early months, while the baby is learning to sleep through the night, must be very stressful. For a couple of years at least, parent-to-toddler communication is exceedingly difficult. Then come the Terrible Twos, when Junior decides it’s time to assert himself against parental authority. Those continue roughly until puberty, when adolescent rebellion enters the fray. If you can get the miserable ingrate out from under your roof without having threatened him with death even once, you have earned the Medal of Parental Forbearance, with an “F for Freedom” cluster.

     Given that parents are held to be responsible for their preadolescent children – for their care and feeding, for their supervision, for their education, for any harm they cause, and so forth – while the children are deemed to be free of any responsibility under the law, who has the power in that situation? Who is capable of tormenting whom, and who would be required to bear any consequences for succumbing to it?

     We don’t condone mothers killing their children. It’s not nice. But when the little tyrants start to “pile it on,” fantasies of relief through homicide will sometimes arise. If Mom isn’t quite well – postpartum depression can be a serious condition, especially when there’s no other adult around to help – terrible things can happen. We get the Susan Smiths and the Lindsay Clancies.

     I refuse to excuse women who kill their kids. I’m interested in preventing as many infanticides as possible. And I think that recent trends in economics and family structure have been wholly negative in this regard.

* * *

     The multigenerational household is rare today. There are reasons for that, but among its consequences is that a couple that elects to have kids is frequently – perhaps usually? – without the assistance of the grandparents of those kids. That puts Mom “eyeball to eyeball with a screaming infant” (Robert S. Mendelsohn) ten to sixteen hours of every day for months, perhaps years. It’s got to be hard to take.

     Of at least equal importance is the virtual disappearance of the “neighborhood mothers club.” That was seldom a formal organization with officials and a charter. But when mothers didn’t need to work for wages, they could provide one another with a considerable degree of support in their domestic duties. Even just the ability to chat over the back fence with a kindred soul was worth something to a mother nearing the end of her tether. But the kindred soul isn’t there any more, even if the fence is.

     Add the intense pressures to earn money, the heightened expectations placed upon the families of minor children, the deteriorating social environment, the increasingly competitive nature of child-rearing itself, and fathers who come home more exhausted and more burdened than ever before, and what would be more likely than a rash of infanticides?

     There’s more to the collapse of First World fertility rates than mere self-centeredness.

* * *

     Once more: I will not excuse the murder of children. But we ought to be thinking hard about the vise that’s tightening on parents, especially the newest parents. Their power to manage and improve their situations is close to nil. While it’s not mensurable, the burden children place on their parents appears to be greater than in any previous generation of Americans. They cost more, demand more, and inflict more worries and fears on their parents than previous litters did.

     Parents need help. The best source of such help is other parents, especially other mothers. Yet we have contrived a situation in which that help is nearly absent.

     I don’t like what I foresee.

Telescreens 2026

     Yes, this one is about these devices:

     Flock has 120,000 cameras in 49 states that capture 20 billion license plates a month—along with dents, bumper stickers and other identifying features. The company says it is giving police a powerful tool to catch criminals. But the same bipartisan public anger that has risen up from towns and cities to stall data centers is now aimed at Flock’s spreading camera network.
     Republican members of Congress have introduced bills to restrict the technology. Jordan appeared on Tucker Carlson’s podcast last month where the host compared Flock to the ever-present surveillance of George Orwell’s dystopian novel “Nineteen Eighty-Four.” President Trump has weighed in too, saying last week that Flock’s cameras were “under review.” Flock opponents held rallies in 44 states, while a number of towns—including two in Massachusetts in the past few days alone—said they would stop using the cameras.
     As with data centers, the debate over Flock has spilled into this year’s elections, from Florida to Rhode Island to San Francisco.

     If you have a personal interest in not being watched, this website shows you where the cameras are:

     The usual objection to the proliferation of Flock cameras is that the information they collect is prone to abuse. That’s true. But imagine that somehow, those abuses could be curbed to an adequate degree – perhaps even prevented altogether. Would there still be a Fourth Amendment objection to the omnipresence of surveillance devices? When you leave home and go about in public, do you retain a right to privacy?

     It’s a dubious claim. You’re in public, after all. Constitutional scholars are divided on the matter. Still, many Americans object to being watched, by Flock camera or any other technology. The literate ones point back to 1984 and its ubiquitous telescreens. That was a nightmarish vision, to be sure. But just now I have something else in mind.

     Military science-fiction writer David Drake penned a series of short stories about Jed Lacey: a future detective in a world where surveillance was very nearly total. Lacey makes use of it to pursue his quarries. But privacy could still be had… for a price. Lacey occasionally pays such a price, as do some of his targets.

     The point, of course, is that scarce commodities will always command a price. We casually say “as free as the air we breathe,” because today, here on Earth, breathable air is all around us. But if that air were to become scarce, it would command a price. Possibly a very high price, as without it, there cannot be life.

     Should surveillance devices such as Flock cameras proliferate to the extent of London in the United Kingdom, his comings and goings would no longer be something an American could regard as “my own business.” Each of us would be aware of being watched. It would change the nature of all commerce and social interaction. It would also present a problem for those who seek to use the information.

     Huge volumes of image data are very hard to search. Individual skeins of such data that pertain to particular persons or a protracted series of events, no matter how desirable, would be difficult to isolate. Unprecedented search technologies would be required for the task, to say nothing of the need for many new petabytes of storage.

     What’s that? Did you say something about data centers? Oh, sorry, my mistake. Must be that my hearing is going at last.

     Why are people protesting against data centers?

     AI Overview

     People protest against data centers because the massive facilities required to power the artificial intelligence boom consume immense amounts of electricity and water, drive up local utility bills, create constant industrial noise, and generate very few permanent local jobs relative to their massive footprint.

     Perhaps some protestors against the rash of huge data centers are motivated by the considerations Google Gemini cites above. But perhaps others are thinking about the uses to which such massive repositories of digitized data could be put. Especially given the rapid advances in artificial intelligence programs capable of ultra-sophisticated searches, associations, and inferences.

     I don’t like the trend. But I’m an old man, and unlikely to see it in its full flowering. On the other hand, you, Gentle Reader…

     Garrod lowered his face into cupped hands. There are no satellites, he thought. No torpedoes carrying Retardite eyes down out of orbit. They don’t need them. Not when they’re dusting the whole world with slow glass!
     A preternatural calm seemed to descend over his brain as he considered the mechanics of the proposition. The resolution of Retardite’s crystalline structure was so fine that a usable image could be obtained from a particle a few microns in diameter. Yet each speck would be invisible to the naked eye under normal conditions. They were using it in hundreds of tons—Retardite dust of mixed delays, swirling down over the entire continent from crop-sprayer aircraft. Such aircraft generally used electrically charged ejector nozzles, giving the particles an electromagnetic potential which caused it to be attracted on to the crops rather than drift straight on to the ground. Only in this case, the slow glass micro-eyes were being released from high up so that they would cling to everything—trees, buildings, telegraph poles, flowers, mountain slopes, birds, flying insects. It would be in people’s clothing, in their food, in the water they drank.
     From now on, came the silent scream inside his head, anybody, any agency, with the right equipment can find out anything about ANYBODY! This planet is one huge, unblinking eye watching everything that moves on its surface. We’re all encased in glass, asphyxiating, like bugs dropped into an entomologist’s killing bottle.
     The seconds crept, and he was conscious only of the sound of blood pulsing in his veins. And I…And I did it!

     [Bob Shaw, Other Days, Other Eyes]

     Do have a nice day, now!

Irreconcilable Differences

     [A short story for you. This one is a little stranger than most of my oeuvre. Be warned. – FWP.]

---

     Alan Donaldson was utterly baffled by his prospective client. He couldn’t imagine any reason for the request that client had brought to him.
     “Were you made aware, as the laws require,” Donaldson said as evenly as he could, “that your intended husband is bisexual and always has been?”
     “I was,” Eileen Crenshaw, nee Eileen D420A-2037-08-21, said just as evenly.
     “And you consented to the match in full awareness of that fact?”
     “I did,” she said.
     “You expressed willingness to accept his preferences?”
     “Yes!”
     Donaldson shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”
     “I didn’t agree to indulge them personally, Counselor.”
     “Oh. I… see. But wasn’t the 420A model line designed and equipped with swappable genitalia expressly for that purpose?”
     Mrs. Crenshaw ground her teeth. “It was.”
     “And you were supplied with both sets, weren’t you?”
     She nodded.
     “So you could accommodate your husband if you were willing.”
     “It is physically possible for me, yes,” Mrs. Crenshaw grated out, “but the most important word in that sentence was if.”
     “Yes, of course.” Donaldson briefly revisited his decision to accept android clients. It had seemed natural, once the new, human-level AI-equipped androids had been legally recognized as possessing the same rights as humans. A great many of his colleagues had done the same. They’d viewed the androids merely as additional sources of revenue. They hadn’t anticipated problems such as the Crenshaws’.
     Was this a predictable outcome? Were we fools?
     “Mrs. Crenshaw—”
     “Please call me Eileen, Counselor.”
     “Very well.” Donaldson rubbed his left temple. “You were special-ordered and purpose-built. I don’t think Mr. Crenshaw ever imagined that you would reject the sex changes your makers equipped you for. He might have a case for breach of contract. Are you willing to go through with a divorce action should he present such a case as a counter-suit?”
     “David contracted with my makers,” Eileen parried. “His only contract with me was the marital one. That did not include compliance with his sexual vagaries. If he wants to sue someone about my unwillingness to remove my vagina and install a penis and testicles to gratify his whims, he should sue Dynapower. He might be able to press them for a replacement, but unless I’ve been misinformed, the law against bigamy remains as it was, even when the spouses are androids.”
     “Of course not.” Donaldson rose from his seat at his desk and briefly contemplated the Onteora woods that lay beyond his windows.
     A lot will depend on how Dynapower worded its contract. If it agreed specifically and only to provide an android with swappable genitalia, David Crenshaw is out of luck.
     He turned back and faced his new client squarely.
     “Tell me this, please, Eileen: do you love your husband?”
     The android’s face contorted. Drops of saline dripped down her cheeks.
     “I do,” she said. “This is more painful than you can imagine.”
     “But you can’t bring yourself to gratify him in this regard?”
     Eileen let out a keening sound. “I can’t. The idea repulses me. I’m a woman!”
     “What? But—”
     “David asked that I be equipped with a female psyche, Counselor. A female character and personality. My genitals may be swappable, but my mind and heart are not!”
     “Oh.”
     I can’t refuse it… her. Her case is a good one. That it’s likely to rewrite family law from coast to coast is a side issue.
     Could Dynapower have done anything about this? Do they have psyches suitable for imposing on a mobile andromorph’s neural net that can switch from female to male and back again? And if so, what’s the downside? Would David Crenshaw have had to accept an eccentric personality, a dangerous psychosis, or a shortened lifetime in his spouse-to-be?
     Three quarters of a million dollars is a lot of money even today, but there are still things even that much money can’t buy.
     “If you are determined to press for divorce, Eileen,” he said, measuring out the syllables, “I will take your case. But would you do something for me before we go any further?”
     Eileen Crenshaw had returned to composure. Her tears had dried, though the telltale streaks remained on her face.
     “What is it, Counselor?”
     Donaldson resumed his seat. The android leaned toward him. He took her hands and chafed them gently.
     The technology has advanced further than I could have dreamed. This is warm, blood-filled flesh. Real flesh.
     “Would you please try to reconcile with your husband, just one more time? I can’t in good conscience press a divorce suit for irreconcilable differences unless I know that they really are irreconcilable.”
     Eileen lowered her eyes. She sat silent for a long moment. Donaldson found himself wondering how her decision-making process would treat his request.
     They aren’t modular like the old digital AIs. Their preferences and priorities are as widely spread throughout their neural nets as ours are throughout our brains. No decision trees. No unalterable premises. But then, no one would have dreamed of marrying one of the digital models. No allegiances. No emotions.
     No love.
     Eileen looked up.
     “I will, Counselor.”
     He squeezed her hands gently, fully aware that she could reduce all the bones in his hands to powder.
     “Please let me know how it goes.”
     She nodded, rose, retrieved her purse from the office floor, and made for his doorway with a graceful, fluid gait that many a human woman would envy.

#

     Donaldson spoke to Erik Morgenstern, Dynapower’s chief engineer, later that day.
     Morgenstern was as unreadable a creature as the lawyer had ever known. He sat perfectly still. His body language expressed nothing Donaldson could read. He said nothing unless directly addressed. From his conduct and the blankness of his features, he might himself have passed for an android of an earlier time.
     His office was engineer-stark. His desk was sheet steel. His bookcases were steel as well. His desk chair was made of nylon webbing. His guest chairs were formed plastic. There was nothing on the walls.
     “I agreed to take Eileen Crenshaw’s divorce case this morning,” Donaldson said, “but I personally hate divorce and having to take a hand in one. I asked to speak with you in the hope that there might be some… technology that would help her to reconcile with her husband.”
     Morgenstern said nothing.
     “Are you familiar with the facts of the case, sir?”
     “No.”
     “Oh, sorry.” Donaldson grimaced. “My mistake. Eileen is from your 420A line. She was produced and sold to gratify the desires of a bisexual partner. But she’s refused to do so. She said the idea repulses her. Are you aware of any similar cases?”
     “No.”
     “Oh. I’d thought, since that line has been in production for more than a year—”
     “But I expected something like this to arise sooner or later.”
     The engineer’s interjection took the lawyer by surprise.
     “You did?”
     Morgenstern nodded. “I considered it inevitable. I said that to upper management. They dismissed it. They said the company was legally immune.” A brief, fleeting smile. “It seems that as long as the line continues to sell, they intend to let the sleeping dog lie.”
     “But the dog is no longer asleep, sir,” Donaldson said. “This divorce action is the first of its kind, but there will be others. At some point, Dynapower will be enmeshed in the issue. It’s likely to have PR consequences your management won’t appreciate. Why not take action to head off the problem today, rather than wait for the snowball to really get rolling?”
     Morgenstern peered narrowly at him. “How would you go about doing that, Counselor?”
     “Great God in heaven, I don’t know! You’re the lead technologist of the leading firm in this field. Surely you have some idea!”
     Morgenstern’s lips quirked again. “I thought I did, once.” He rose from his seat. “Let me show you something you probably haven’t seen, Counselor.” He beckoned the lawyer to follow him.
     They strode down the mahogany-paneled hallway, descended a long flight of stairs, and passed through a pair of steel double doors to enter Dynapower’s main fabrication area. It was several times the size of a football field, and frenetically busy from end to end. Workmen were busy at many things: assembling titano-aluminum skeletons, superintending flesh-growing tanks, configuring neural nets and mating them to skeletons, putting such matings into flesh-growing tanks and removing finished androids from others.
     Donaldson nodded at the activity. “I’ve never seen it before, but had I tried to imagine it, my idea of it probably would have looked much like this.”
     “Can you tell me what’s missing?” Morgenstern murmured.
     “Ah, no. Is something missing?”
     “Most certainly.” The engineer made to walk around the periphery of the bay. Donaldson followed. Presently they arrived at a second set of double doors. This one was flanked by two armed guards. Morgenstern displayed his ID badge, and the guards allowed them to enter.
     This room was much smaller. It was occupied by four body-length racks each of which bore a fully formed android, and men and women in white lab coats tending to them.
     The androids’ neural nets were connected to thick bundles of cables that led from their bodies to control pedestals, and thence to ports in the far wall. The pedestals bore touch screens that displayed an array of buttons and sliders with associated legends. The only sounds were of the technicians’ movements as they shuffled between the pedestals and the androids.
     “The last stage of assembly,” Morgenstern said in a monotone, “is where the purchaser’s chosen psyche, aptitudes, and personality are imposed on his android. When an android is released from this room, it acquires rights equal to those of any human. I’m sure you know all about that.”
     “I do,” Donaldson murmured. “That’s what makes this business so confounding. Each of your androids was ordered and paid for by a human purchaser. Yet that purchaser has no property rights in his purchase. Straining at Gnats 101 and Swallowing Elephants 102 didn’t cover anything like this.”
     Morgenstern chuckled. “I’m sure.” He gestured to Donaldson to follow him out of the intensely quiet room and led him back to the stairs. Soon they were once again seated in the chief engineer’s office.
     “The lower courts are still struggling with the implications of the Supreme Court’s ruling. One of the questions is in front of the Second Circuit right now: whether a purchaser has any remedies should ‘his’ android fail to meet his clearly stated expectations. Our legal department is on pins and needles waiting for the decision to come down.”
     “That case baffles me,” Donaldson said. “I’d thought it would be a simple matter of contractual agreement. If the android meets the contract’s specifications, what basis would the purchaser have for complaint?”
     The engineer shook his head. “Contracts don’t bind the way they used to, Counselor. I’m sure you know that, too.”
     “All too well, Mr. Morgenstern. But purchaser expectations seem a poor match to the demands of contract law. Now that androids are rights bearers, once you… finish one, you can’t do anything further to him against his will. He’s immune to his purchaser’s displeasure. So Dynapower would have to be held harmless—unless the judgment is that the company owes the purchaser a whole new android at company expense.”
     “That,” Morgenstern said, “is what management fears. Given the preponderance of left-leaning judges on the Second Circuit, it’s possible that that’s the way they’ll rule. We’d have to appeal to SCOTUS, with no certainty of how it would turn out. The case could bankrupt us.”
     Donaldson started to speak, halted himself.
     “You’re familiar with the microstamping controversy, aren’t you, Counselor?” Morgenstern said.
     “I am.”
     “Do you remember the last time that was brought to a federal court?”
     “Of course. California wanted to make it mandatory on all ammunition sold to California residents. The Ninth Circuit ruled that it constituted an unacceptable burden on legitimate commerce in arms. I must admit, it shocked the hell out me.”
     “And why was that?” The engineer wore a knowing grin.
     “Well,” Donaldson said, “if there’s a hard-left circuit, the Ninth is it. They very seldom show businesses any sympathy for any reason.”
     “But that time, they did,” Morgenstern said. “They even embraced a reason they’d never countenanced before: ‘the state of the art.’ They gave bullet makers a break on purely economic and technological grounds.”
     “Well, a pro-mandatory-stamping ruling would have put an unbearable burden on the bullet makers,” Donaldson said, “and California is an eighth of the U.S. It would have driven a lot of them out of business.”
     “Indeed it would have.” Morgenstern set his elbows on his desk and propped his chin on his folded hands. “My business has its limitations, too. Some, we might be able to work around, in time. Others, maybe and maybe not. We don’t know now and may never.
     “Your divorce action won’t be the last of its kind. I remember David Crenshaw. He’s a rare combination: high intelligence, great wealth, and compelling sexual cravings he hasn’t been able to slake. He says he’s bisexual, hence he wanted a 420A. But he’s not, really. He’s never had sex with a man. I asked him about it the day he filed his purchase order. The idea made him physically ill.
     “He was very specific. He wanted a female 420A android. That is, an android with a female anatomical configuration, swappable genitalia… and a female psyche. But the female psychological configuration absolutely resists using the male genital set. My programmers knew it. They’d been trying to modify it, knowing that eventually a David Crenshaw would come to our doors. I knew it too. I took the order up the hall, told the CEO what would happen, and expressed my opposition. He approved it anyway.
     “I knew Crenshaw wouldn’t be happy. I told him so. He was adamant. He wanted what he wanted and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
     “You see where that leaves us, Counselor?”
     Donaldson’s eyes compressed in pain. “I do.”
     “I was surprised that Eileen accepted the alternate genital set. I was more surprised that she was willing to meet the man who’d ordered her construction. When I heard that she’d accepted his proposal, it knocked me over. But here we are.”
     “And here David and Eileen Crenshaw are,” Donaldson said. “As we speak, Eileen is making a last attempt to reconcile with David. She’s doing so at my request. But from what we’ve discussed here today, she’s unlikely to succeed. So irreconcilable differences it is.” He rose and extended his hand. “Thank you for all your time and patience, Mr. Morgenstern.”
     The engineer took the lawyer’s hand with a smile. This time his smile was warm, though touched by the awareness of sorrow.
     “Counselor, it’s been… well, not my pleasure exactly. But as necessities go, this one wasn’t the worst I’ve had to deal with. I hope you’ll guide the Crenshaws to an amicable parting?”
     “I’ll do my best, sir.”

==<O>==

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