PRAYERS ON THE WIND

by WALTER JON WILLIAMS

[VERSION 1.1 (Feb 13 03). If you find and correct errors in the text, please update the version number by 0.1 and redistribute.]

First appeared in When the Music’s Over, edited by Lewis Shiner, 1991. For the personal use of those who have purchased the ESF 1993 Award anthology only.

Hard is the appearance of a Buddha.

—Dhammapada

Bold color slashed bright slices out of Vajra’s violet sky. The stiff spring breeze off the Tingsum glacier made the yellow prayer flags snap with sounds like gunshots. Sun gleamed from baroque tracework adorning silver antennae and receiver dishes. Atop the dark red walls of the Diamond Library Palace, saffron-robed monks stood like sentries, some of them grouped in threes around ragdongs, trumpets so huge they required two men to hold them aloft while a third blew puff-cheeked into the mouthpiece. Over the deep, grating moan of the trumpets, other monks chanted their litany.

Salutation to the Buddha.

In the language of the gods and in that of the Lus,

In the language of the demons and in that of the men,

In all the languages which exist,

I proclaim the Doctrine.

Jigme Dzasa stood at the foot of the long granite stair leading to the great library, the spectacle filling his senses, the litany dancing in his soul. He turned to his guest. “Are you ready, Ambassador?”

The face of !urq was placid. “Lus?” she asked.

“Mythical beings,” said Jigme. “Serpentine divinities who live in bodies of water.”

“Ah,” !urq said. “I’m glad we got that cleared up.” Jigme looked at the alien, decided to say nothing.

“Let us begin,” said the Ambassador. Jigme hitched up his zen and began the long climb to the Palace, his bare feet slapping at the stones. A line of Gelugspa monks followed in respectful silence. Ambassador Colonel !urq climbed beside Jigme at a slow trot, her four boot heels rapping. Behind her was a line of Sangs, their centauroid bodies cased neatly in blue-and-gray uniforms, decorations flashing in the bright sun. Next to each was a feathery Masker servant carrying a ceremonial parasol.

Jigme was out of breath by the time he mounted the long stairway, and his head whirled as he entered the tsokhang, the giant assembly hall. Several thousand members of religious orders sat rigid at their stations, long lines of men and women: Dominicans and Sufis in white, Red Hats and Yellow Hats in their saffron zens, Jesuits in black, Gyudpas in complicated aprons made of carved, interwoven human

bones…. Each sat in the lotus posture in front of a solid gold data terminal decorated with religious symbols, some meditating, some chanting sutras, others accessing the Library.

Jigme, !urq, and their parties passed through the vast hall that hummed with the distant, echoing sutras of those trying to achieve unity with the Diamond Mountain. At the far side of the room were huge double doors of solid jade, carved with figures illustrating the life of the first twelve incarnations of the Gyalpo Rinpoche, the Treasured King. The doors opened on silent hinges at the touch of equerries’ fingertips.

Jigme looked at the equerries as he passed — lovely young novices, he thought, beautiful boys really. The shaven nape of that dark one showed an extraordinary curve.

Beyond was the audience chamber. The Masker servants remained outside, holding their parasols at rigid attention, while their masters trotted into the audience chamber alongside the line of monks.

Holographic murals filled the walls, illustrating the life of the Compassionate One. The ceiling was of transparent polymer, the floor of clear crystal that went down to the solid core of the planet. The crystal refracted sunlight in interesting ways, and as he walked across the room Jigme seemed to walk on rainbows.

At the far end of the room, flanked by officials, was the platform that served as a throne. Overhead was an arching canopy of massive gold, the words AUM MANI PADME HUM worked into the design in turquoise. The platform was covered in a large carpet decorated with figures of the lotus, the Wheel, the swastika, the two fish, the eternal knot, and other holy symbols. Upon the carpet sat the Gyalpo Rinpoche himself, a small man with a sunken chest and bony shoulders, the Forty-First Incarnation of the Bodhisattva Bob Miller, the Great Librarian, himself an emanation of Avalokitesvara.

The Incarnation was dressed simply in a yellow zen, being the only person in the holy precincts permitted to wear the color. Around his waist was a rosary composed of 108 strung bone disks cut from the forty skulls of his previous incarnations. His body was motionless but his arms rose and fell as the fingers moved in a series of symbolic hand gestures, one mudra after another, their pattern set by the flow of data through the Diamond Mountain.

Jigme approached and dropped to his knees before the platform. He pressed the palms of his hands together, brought the hands to his forehead, mouth, and heart, then touched his forehead to the floor.

Behind him he heard thuds as some of his delegation slammed their heads against the crystal surface in a display of piety — indeed, there were depressions in the floor worn by the countless pilgrims who had done this — but Jigme, knowing he would need his wits, only touched his forehead lightly and held the posture until he heard the Incarnation speak.

“Jigme Dzasa. I am pleased to see you again. Please get to your feet and introduce me to your friends.”

The old man’s voice was light and dry, full of good humor. In the seventy-third year of his incarnation, the Treasured King enjoyed good health.

Jigme straightened. Rainbows rose from the floor and danced before his eyes. He climbed slowly to his feet as his knees made popping sounds — twenty years younger than the Incarnation, he was a good deal stiffer of limb — and moved toward the platform in an attitude of reverence. He reached to the rosary at his waist and took from it a white silk scarf embroidered with a religious text. He unfolded the khata and, sticking out his tongue in respect, handed it to the Incarnation with a bow.

The Gyalpo Rinpoche took the khata and draped it around his own neck with a smile. He reached out a hand, and Jigme dropped his head for the blessing. He felt dry fingertips touch his shaven scalp, and then a sense of harmony seemed to hum through his being. Everything, he knew, was correct. The interview would go well.

Jigme straightened and the Incarnation handed him a khata in exchange, one with the mystic three knots tied by the Incarnation himself. Jigme bowed again, stuck out his tongue, and moved to the side of the platform with the other officials. Beside him was Dr. Kay O’Neill, the Minister of Science. Jigme

could feel O’Neill’s body vibrating like a taut cord, but the minister’s overwrought state could not dispel Jigme’s feeling of bliss.

“Omniscient,” Jigme said, “I would like to present Colonel !urq, Ambassador of the Sang.”

!urq was holding her upper arms in a Sang attitude of respect. Neither she nor her followers had prostrated themselves, but had stood politely by while their human escort had done so. !urq’s boots rang against the floor as she trotted to the dais, her lower arms offering a khata. She had no tongue to stick out — her upper and lower palates were flexible, permitting a wide variety of sounds, but they weren’t as flexible as all that. Still she thrust out her lower lip in a polite approximation.

“I am honored to be presented at last, Omniscient,” !urq said. Dr. O’Neill gave a snort of anger.

The Treasured King draped a knotted khata around the Ambassador’s neck. “We of the Diamond Mountain are pleased to welcome you. I hope you will find our hospitality to your liking.”

The old man reached forward for the blessing. !urq’s instructions did not permit her to bow her head before an alien presence, so the Incarnation simply reached forward and placed his hand over her face for a moment. They remained frozen in that attitude, and then !urq backed carefully to one side of the platform, standing near Jigme. She and Jigme then presented their respective parties to the Incarnation.

By the end of the audience the head of the Gyalpo Rinpoche looked like a tiny red jewel in a flowery lotus of white silk khatas.

“I thank you all for coming all these light-years to see me,” said the Incarnation, and Jigme led the visitors from the audience chamber, chanting the sutra Aum vajra guru Padma siddhi hum, Aura the diamond powerful guru Padma, as he walked.

!urq came to a halt as soon as her party had filed from the room. Her lower arms formed an expression of bewilderment. “Is that all?”

Jigme looked at the alien. “That is the conclusion of the audience, yes. We may tour the holy places in the Library, if you wish.”

“We had no opportunity to discuss the matter of Gyangtse.”

“You may apply to the Ministry for another interview.”

“It took me twelve years to obtain this one.” Her upper arms took a stance that Jigme recognized as martial. “The patience of my government is not unlimited,” she said.

Jigme bowed. “I shall communicate this to the Ministry, Ambassador.”

“Delay in the Gyangtse matter will only result in more hardship for the inhabitants when they are removed.”

“It is out of my hands, Ambassador.”

!urq held her stance for a long moment in order to emphasize her protest, then relaxed her arms. Her upper set of hands caressed the white silk khata. “Odd to think,” she said, amused, “that I journeyed twelve years just to stick out my lip at a human and have him touch my face in return.”

“Many humans would give their lives for such a blessing,” said Jigme. “Sticking out the lip is quite rude where I come from, you know.”

“I believe you have told me this.”

“The Omniscient’s hands were very warm.” !urq raised fingers to her forehead, touched the ebon flesh. “I believe I can still feel the heat on my skin.

Jigme was impressed. “The Treasured King has given you a special blessing. He can channel the energies of the Diamond Mountain through his body. That was the heat you felt.”

!urq’s antennae rose skeptically, but she refrained from comment. “Would you like to see the holy places?” Jigme said. “This, for instance, is a room devoted to Maitreya, the Buddha That Will Come.

Before you is his statue. Data can be accessed by manipulation of the images on his headdress.”

Jigme’s speech was interrupted by the entrance of a Masker servant from the audience room. A white khata was draped about the avian’s neck. !urq’s trunk swiveled atop her centaur body; her arms assumed a commanding stance. The clicks and pops of her own language rattled from her mouth like falling stones.

“Did I send for you, creature?”

The Masker performed an obsequious gesture with its parasol. “I beg the Colonel’s pardon. The old human sent for us. He is touching us and giving us scarves.” The Masker fluttered helplessly. “We did not wish to offend our hosts, and there were no Sang to query for instruction.”

“How odd,” said !urq. “Why should the old human want to bless our slaves?” She eyed. The Masker and thought for a moment. “I will not kill you today,” she decided. She turned to Jigme and switched to Tibetan. “Please continue, Rinpoche.”

“As you wish, Colonel.” He returned to his speech. “The Library Palace is the site of no less than twenty-one tombs of various bodhisattvas, including many incarnations of the Gyalpo Rinpoche. The Palace also contains over eight thousand data terminals and sixty shrines.”

As he rattled through the prepared speech, Jigme wondered about the scene he had just witnessed.

He suspected that “I will not kill you today” was less alarming than it sounded, was instead an idiomatic way of saying “Go about your business.”

Then again, knowing the Sang, maybe not.

The Cabinet had gathered in one of the many other reception rooms of the Library Palace. This one was small, the walls and ceiling hidden behind tapestry covered with applique, the room’s sole ornament a black stone statue of a dancing demon that served tea on command.

The Gyalpo Rinpoche, to emphasize his once-humble origins, was seated on the floor. White stubble prickled from his scalp.

Jigme sat cross-legged on a pillow. Across from him was Dr. O’Neill. A lay official, her status was marked by the long turquoise earring that hung from her left ear to her collarbone, that and the long hair piled high on her head. The rosary she held was made of 108 antique microprocessors pierced and strung on a length of fiberoptic cable. Beside her sat the cheerful Miss Taisuke, the Minister of State.

Although only fifteen years old, she was Jigme’s immediate superior, her authority derived from being the certified reincarnation of a famous hermit nun of the Yellow Hat Gelugspa order. Beside her, the Minister of Magic, a tantric sorcerer of the Gyud School named Daddy Carbajal, toyed with a trumpet made from a human thighbone. Behind him in a semireclined position was the elderly, frail, toothless State Oracle —

his was a high-ranking position, but it was a largely symbolic one as long as the Treasured King was in his majority. Other ministers, lay or clerical, sipped tea or gossiped as they waited for the Incarnation to begin the meeting.

The Treasured King scratched one bony shoulder, grinned, then assumed in an eyeblink a posture of deep meditation, placing hands in his lap with his skull-rosary wrapped around them. “Aum,” he intoned.

The others straightened and joined in the holy syllable, the Pranava, the creative sound whose vibrations built the universe. Then the Horse of the Air rose from the throat of the Gyalpo Rinpoche, the syllables Aum mane padme hum, and the others reached for their rosaries.

As he recited the rosary, Jigme tried to meditate on each syllable as it went by, comprehend the full meaning of each, the color, the importance, the significance. Aum, which was white and connected with the gods. Ma, which was blue and connected with the titans. Ne, which was yellow and connected with men. Pad, which was green and connected with animals. Me, which was red and connected with giants and demigods. Hum, which was black and connected with dwellers in purgatory. Each syllable a separate realm, each belonging to a separate species, together forming the visible and invisible universe.

“Hri!” called everyone in unison, signifying the end of the 108th repetition. The Incarnation smiled and asked the black statue for some tea. The stone demon scuttled across the thick carpet and poured tea into his golden bowl.

The demon looked up into the Incarnation’s face. “Free me!” said the statue.

The Gyalpo Rinpoche looked at the statue. “Tell me truthfully. Have you achieved Enlightenment?”

The demon said nothing.

The Treasured King smiled again. “Then you had better give Dr. O’Neill some tea.”

O’Neill accepted her tea, sipped, and dismissed the demon. It scuttled back to its pedestal.

“We should consider the matter of Ambassador !urq,” said the Incarnation.

O’Neill put down her teacup. “I am opposed to her presence here. The Sang are an unenlightened and violent race. They conceive of life as a struggle against nature rather than search for Enlightenment.

They have already conquered an entire species, and would subdue us if they could.”

“That is why I have consented to the building of warships,” said the Incarnation.

“From their apartments in the Nyingmapa monastery, the Sang now have access to the Library,” said O’Neill. “All our strategic information is present there. They will use the knowledge against us.”

“Truth can do no harm,” said Miss Taisuke.

“All truth is not vouchsafed to the unenlightened,” said O’Neill. “To those unprepared by correct study and thought, truth can be a danger.” She gestured with an arm, encompassing the world outside the Palace. “Who should know better than we, who live on Vajra? Haven’t half the charlatans in all existence set up outside our walls to preach half-truth to the credulous, endangering their own Enlightenment and those of everyone who hears them?”

Jigme listened to O’Neill in silence. O’Neill and Daddy Carbajal were the leaders of the reactionary party, defenders of orthodoxy and the security of the realm. They had argued this point before.

“Knowledge will make the Sang cautious,” said Jigme. “They will now know of our armament. They will now understand the scope of the human expansion, far greater than their own. We may hope this will deter them from attack.”

“The Sang may be encouraged to build more weapons of their own,” said Daddy Carbajal. “They are already highly militarized, as a way of keeping down their subject species. They may militarize further.”

“Be assured they are doing so,” said O’Neill. “Our own embassy is kept in close confinement on a small planetoid. They have no way of learning the scope of the Sang threat or sending this information to the Library. We, on the other hand, have escorted the Sang ambassador throughout human space and have shown her anything in which she expressed an interest.”

“Deterrence,” said Jigme. “We wished them to know how extensive our sphere is, that the conquest would be costly and call for more resources than they possess.”

“We must do more than deter. The Sang threat should be eliminated, as were the threats of heterodox humanity during the Third and Fifth Incarnations.”

“You speak jihad,” said Miss Taisuke.

There was brief silence. No one, not even O’Neill, was comfortable with Taisuke’s plainness.

“All human worlds are under the peace of the Library,” said O’Neill. “This was accomplished partly by force, partly by conversion. The Sang will not conversion.”

The Gyalpo Rinpoche cleared his throat. The others fell silent at once. The Incarnation had been listening in silence, his face showing concentration but no emotion. He always preferred to hear the opinions of others before expressing his own. “The Third and Fifth Incarnations,” he said, “did nothing to encourage the jihads proclaimed in their name. The Incarnations did not wish to accept temporal power.”

“They did not speak against the holy warriors,” said Daddy Carbajal.

The Incarnation’s elderly face was uncommonly stern. His hands formed the teaching mudra. “Does not Shakyamuni speak in the Anguttara Nikaya of the three ways of keeping the body pure?” he asked.

“One must not commit adultery, one must not steal, one must not kill any living creature. How could

warriors kill for orthodoxy and yet remain orthodox?”

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. Only Daddy Carbajal, whose tautric Short Path teaching included numerous ways of dispatching his enemies, did not seem nonplused.

“The Sang are here to study us,” said the Gyalpo Rinpoche. “We also study them.”

“I view their pollution as a danger.” Dr. O’Neill’s face was stubborn. Miss Taisuke gave a brilliant smile. “Does not the Mahaparinirvana-sutra tell us that if we are forced to live in a difficult situation and among people of impure minds, if we cherish faith in Buddha we can ever lead them toward better actions?”

Relief fluttered through Jigme. Taisuke’s apt quote, atop the Incarnation’s sternness, had routed the war party.

“The Embassy will remain,” said the Treasured King. “They will be given the freedom of Vajra, saving only the Holy Precincts. We must remember the oath of the Amida Buddha: ‘Though I attain Buddhahood, I shall never be complete until people everywhere, hearing my name, learn right ideas about life and death, and gain that perfect wisdom that will keep their minds pure and tranquil in the midst of the world’s greed and suffering.’”

“What of Gyangtse, Rinpoche?” O’Neill’s voice seemed harsh after the graceful words of Scripture.

The Gyalpo Rinpoche cocked his head and thought for a moment. Suddenly the Incarnation seemed very human and very frail, and Jigme’s heart surged with love for the old man.

“We will deal with that at the Picnic Festival,” said the Incarnation.

From his position by the lake, Jigme could see tents and banners dotting the lower slopes of Tingsum like bright spring flowers. The Picnic Festival lasted a week, and unlike most of the other holidays had no real religious connection. It was a week-long campout during which almost the entire population of the Diamond City and the surrounding monasteries moved into the open and spent their time making merry.

Jigme could see the giant yellow hovertent of the Gyalpo Rinpoche surrounded by saffron-robed guards, the guards present not to protect the Treasured King from attackers, but rather to preserve his tranquillity against invasions by devout pilgrims in search of a blessing. The guards — monks armed with staves, their shoulders padded hugely to make them look more formidable — served the additional purpose of keeping the Sang away from the Treasured King until the conclusion of the festival, something for which Jigme was devoutly grateful. He didn’t want any political confrontations disturbing the joy of the holiday.

Fortunately Ambassador !urq seemed content to wait until her scheduled appearance at a party given by the Incarnation on the final afternoon.

Children splashed barefoot in the shallows of the lake, and others played chibi on the sward beside, trying to keep a shuttlecock aloft using the feet alone. Jigme found himself watching a redheaded boy on the verge of adolescence, admiring the boy’s grace, the way the knobbed spine and sharp shoulders moved under his pale skin. His bony ankles hadn’t missed the shuttlecock yet. Jigme was sufficiently lost in his reverie that he did not hear the sound of boots on the grass beside him. “Jigme Dzasa?”

Jigme looked up with a guilty start. !urq stood beside him, wearing hardy outdoor clothing. Her legs were wrapped up to the shoulder. Jigme stood hastily and bowed.

“Your pardon, Ambassador. I didn’t hear you.”

The Sang’s feathery antennae waved cheerfully in the breeze. “I thought I would lead a party up Tingsum. Would you care to join us?”

What Jigme wanted to do was continue watching the ball game, but he assented with a smile.

Climbing mountains: that was the sort of thing the Sang were always up to. They wanted to demonstrate they could conquer anything.

“Perhaps you should find a pony,” !urq said. “Then you could keep up with us.”

Jigme took a pony from the Library’s corral and followed the waffle patterns of !urq’s boots into the trees on the lower slopes. Three other Sang were along on the expedition; they clicked and gobbled to one another as they trotted cheerfully along. Behind toiled three Maskers-of-burden carrying food and climbing equipment. If the Sang noticed the incongruity demonstrated by the human’s using a quadruped as a beast of burden while they, centauroids, used a bipedal race as servants, they politely refrained from mentioning it. The pony’s genetically altered cloven forefeet took the mountain trail easily, nimbler than the Sang in their heavy boots. Jigme noticed that this made the Sang work harder, trying to outdo the dumb beast.

They came to a high mountain meadow and paused, looking down at the huge field of tents that ringed the smooth violet lake. In the middle of the meadow was a three-meter tower of crystal, weathered and yellow, ringed by rubble flaked off during the hard winters. One of the Sang trotted over to examine it.

“I thought the crystal was instructed to stay well below the surface,” he said.

“There must have been a house here once,” Jigme said. “The crystal would have been instructed to grow up through the surface to provide Library access.”

!urq trotted across a stretch of grass, her head down. “Here’s the beginning of the foundation line,”

she said. She gestured with an arm. “It runs from here to over there.”

The Sang cantered over the ground, frisky as children, to discover the remnants of the foundation.

The Sang were always keen, Jigme found, on discovering things. They had not yet learned that there was only one thing worth discovering, and it had nothing to do with old ruins.

!urq examined the pillar of crystal, touched its crumbling surface. “And over eighty percent of the planet is composed of this?” she said.

“All except the crust,” Jigme said. “The crystal was instructed to convert most of the planet’s material.

That is why our heavy metals have to come from mined asteroids, and why we build mostly in natural materials. This house was probably of wood and laminated cloth, and it most likely burned in an accident.”

!urq picked up a bit of crystal from the ring of rubble that surrounded the pillar. “And you can store information in this.”

“All the information we have,” Jigme said reverently. “All the information in the universe, eventually.”

Involuntarily, his hands formed the teaching mudra. “The Library is a hologram of the universe. The Blessed Bodhisattva Bob Miller was a reflection of the Library, its first Incarnation. The current Incarnation is the forty-first.”

!urq’s antennae flickered in the wind. She tossed the piece of crystal from hand to hand. “All the information you possess,” she said. “That is a powerful tool. Or weapon.”

“A tool, yes. The original builders of the Library considered it only a tool. Only something to help them order things, to assist them in governing. They did not comprehend that once the Diamond Mountain contained enough information, once it gathered enough energy, it would become more than the sum of its parts. That it would become the Mind of Buddha, the universe in small, and that the Mind, out of its compassion, would seek to incarnate itself as a human.”

“The Library is self-aware?” !urq asked. She seemed to find the notion startling.

Jigme could only shrug. “Is the universe self-aware?” !urq made a series of meditative clicking noises.

“Inside the Diamond Mountain,” Jigme said, “there are processes going on that we cannot comprehend. The Library was designed to be nearly autonomous; it is now so large we cannot keep track of everything, because we would need a mind as large as the Library to process the information.

Many of the energy and data transfers that we can track are very subtle, involving energies that are not fully understood. Yet we can track some of them. When an Incarnation dies, we can see the trace his spirit makes through the Library — like an atomic particle that comes apart in a shower of short-lived particles, we see it principally through its effects on other energies — and we can see part of those

energies move from one place to another, from one body to another, becoming another Incarnation.

!urq’s antennae moved skeptically. “You can document this?”

“We can produce spectra showing the tracks of energy through matter. Is that documentation?”

“I would say, with all respect, your case remains unproven.”

“I do not seek to prove anything.” Jigme smiled. “The Gyalpo Rinpoche is his own proof, his own truth. Buddha is truth. All else is illusion.”

!urq put the piece of crystal in her pocket. “If this was our Library,” she said, “we would prove things one way or another.”

“You would see only your own reflection. Existence on the quantum level is largely a matter of belief.

On that level, mind is as powerful as matter. We believe that the Gyalpo Rinpoche is an Incarnation of the Library; does that belief help make it so?”

“You ask me questions based on a system of belief that I do not share. How can you expect me to answer?”

“Belief is powerful. Belief can incarnate itself.”

“Belief can incarnate itself as delusion.”

“Delusion can incarnate itself as reality.” Jigme stood in his stirrups, stretching his legs, and then settled back into his saddle. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “It’s quite true. There was a man who went for a drive, over the pass yonder.” He pointed across the valley, at the low blue pass, the Kampa La between the mountains Tampa and Tsang. “It was a pleasant day, and he put the car’s top down. A windstorm came up as he was riding near a crossroads, and his fur hat blew off his head into a thorn bush, where he couldn’t reach it. He simply drove on his way.

“Other people walked past the bush, and they saw something inside. They told each other they’d seen something odd there. The hat got weathered and less easy to recognize. Soon the locals were telling travelers to beware the thing near the crossroads, and someone else suggested the thing might be a demon, and soon people were warning others about the demon in the bush.”

“Delusion,” said !urq.

“It was delusion,” Jigme agreed. “But it was not delusion when the hat grew arms, legs, and teeth, and when it began chasing people up and down the Kampa La. The Ministry of Magic had to send a naljorpa to perform a rite of chöd and banish the thing.”

!urq’s antennae gave a meditative quiver. “People see what they want to see,” she said.

“The delusion had incarnated itself. The case is classic: the Ministries of Science and Magic performed an inquiry. They could trace the patterns of energy through the crystal structure of the Library: the power of the growing belief, the reaction when the belief was fulfilled, the dispersing of the energy when chöd was performed.” Jigme gave a laugh. “In the end, the naljorpa brought back an old, weathered hat. Just bits of fur and leather.”

“The naljorpa got a good reward, no doubt,” said !urq, “for bringing back this moldy bit of fur.”

“Probably. Not my department, actually.”

“It seems possible, here on Vajra, to make a good living out of others’ delusions. My government would not permit such things.”

“What do the people lose by being credulous?” Jigme asked. “Only money, which is earthly, and that is a pitiful thing to worry about. It would matter only that the act of giving is sincere.”

!urq gave a toss of her head. “We should continue up the mountain, Rinpoche.”

“Certainly.” Jigme kicked his pony into a trot. He wondered if he had just convinced !urq that his government was corrupt in allowing fakirs to gull the population. Jigme knew there were many ways to Enlightenment and that the soul must try them all. Just because the preacher was corrupt did not mean his

message was untrue. How to convince !urq of that? he wondered.

“We believe it is good to test oneself against things,” !urq said. “Life is struggle, and one must remain sharp. Ready for whatever happens.”

“In the Parinibbana-sutra, the Blessed One says that the point of his teaching is to control our own minds. Then one can be ready.”

“Of course we control our minds, Rinpoche. If we could not control our minds, we would not achieve mastery. If we do not achieve mastery, then we are nothing.”

“I am pleased, then,” Jigme smiled, “that you and the Buddha are in agreement.”

To which !urq had no reply, save only to launch herself savagely at the next climb, while Jigme followed easily on his cloven-hoofed pony.

The scent of incense and flowers filled the Gyalpo Rinpoche’s giant yellow tent. The Treasured King, a silk khata around his neck, sat in the lotus posture on soft grass. The bottoms of his feet were stained green. Ambassador !urq stood ponderously before him, lower lip thrust forward, her four arms in a formal stance, the Incarnation’s knotted scarf draped over her shoulders.

Jigme watched, standing next to the erect, angry figure of Dr. O’Neill. He took comfort from the ever-serene smile of Miss Taisuke, sitting on the grass across the tent.

“Ambassador Colonel, I am happy you have joined us on holiday.”

“We are pleased to participate in your festivals, Omniscient,” said !urq. “The spring flowers are lovely, are they not? It’s worthwhile to take a whole week to enjoy them. In so doing, we remember the words of Shakyamuni, who tells us to enjoy the blossoms of Enlightenment in their season and harvest the fruit of the right path.”

“Is there a season, Omniscient, for discussing the matter of Gyangtse?”

Right to the point, Jigme thought. !urq might never learn the oblique manner of speech that predominated at the high ministerial levels.

The Incarnation was not disturbed, “Surely matters may be discussed in any season,” he said.

“The planet is desirable, Omniscient. Your settlement violates our border. My government demands your immediate evacuation.”

Dr. O’Neill’s breath hissed out at the word demand. Jigme could see her ears redden with fury.

“The first humans reached the planet before the border negotiations were completed,” the Incarnation said equably. “They did not realize they were setting in violation of the agreement.”

“That does not invalidate the agreement.”

“Conceded, Ambassador. Still, would it not be unjust, after all their hard labor, to ask them to move?”

!urq’s antennae bobbed politely. “Does not your Blessed One admit that life is composed of suffering?

Does the Buddha not condemn the demon of worldly desires? What desire could be more worldly than a desire to possess a world?”

Jigme was impressed. Definitely, he thought, she was getting better at this sort of thing.

“In the same text,” said Jigme, “Shakyamuni tells us to refrain from disputes, and not repel one another like water and oil, but like milk and water mingle together.” He opened his hands in an offering gesture.

“Will your government not accept a new planet in exchange? Or better yet, will they not dispose of this border altogether, and allow a free commerce between our races?”

“What new planet?” !urq’s arms formed a querying posture.

“We explore constantly in order to fulfill the mandate of the Library and provide it with more data.

Our survey records are available through your Library access. Choose any planet that has not yet been inhabited by humans.”

“Any planet chosen will be outside of our zone of influence, far from our own frontiers and easily cut off from our home sphere.”

“Why would we cut you off, Ambassador?”

“Gyangtse is of strategic significance. It is a penetration of our border.”

“Let us then dispose of the border entirely.”

!urq’s antennae stood erect. Her arms took a martial position. “You humans are larger, more populous. You would overwhelm us by sheer numbers. The border must remain inviolate.”

“Let us then have greater commerce across the border than before. With increased knowledge, distrust will diminish.”

“You would send missionaries. I know there are Jesuits and Gelugspa who have been training for years in hopes of obtaining converts or martyrdom in the Sang dominions.”

“In would be a shame to disappoint them.” There was a slight smile on the Incarnation’s face.

!urq’s arms formed an obstinate pattern. “They would stir up trouble among the Maskers. They would preach to the credulous among my own race. My government must protect its own people.”

“The message of Shakyamuni is not a political message, Ambassador.”

“That is a matter of interpretation, Omniscient.”

“Will you transmit my offer to your government?” !urq held her stance for a long moment. Jigme could sense Dr. O’Neill’s fury in the alien’s obstinacy. “I will do so, Omniscient,” said the Ambassador. “Though I have no confidence that it will be accepted.”

“I think the offer will be accepted,” said Miss Taisuke. She sat on the grass in Jigme’s tent. She was in the butterfly position, the soles of her feet pressed together and her knees on the ground. Jigme sat beside her. One of Jigme’s students, a clean-limbed lad named Rabjoms, gracefully served them tea and cakes, then withdrew.

“The Sang are obdurate,” said Jigme. “Why do you think there is hope?”

“Sooner or later the Sang will realize they may choose any one of hundreds of unoccupied planets. It will dawn on them that they can pick one on the far side of our sphere, and their spy ships can travel the length of human occupied space on quite legitimate missions, and gather whatever information they desire.”

“Ah.”

“All this in exchange for one minor border penetration.”

Jigme thought about this for a moment. “We’ve held onto Gyangtse in order to test the Sangs’

rationality and their willingness to fight. There has been no war in twelve years. This shows that the Sang are susceptible to reason. Where there is reason, there is capability for Enlightenment.”

“Amen,” said Miss Taisuke. She finished her tea and put down the glass. “Would you like more? Shall I summon Rabjoms?”

“Thank you, no.” She cast a glance back to the door of the tent. “He has lovely brown eyes, your Rabjoms.”

“Yes.”

Miss Taisuke looked at him. “Is he your consort?”

Jigme put down his glass. “No. I try to forsake worldly passions.”

“You are of the Red Hat order. You have taken no vow of celibacy.”

Agitation fluttered in Jigme’s belly. “The Mahaparinirvana-sutra says that lust is the soil in which other passions flourish. I avoid it.”

“I wondered. It has been remarked that all your pages are such pretty boys.”

Jigme tried to calm himself. “I choose them for other qualities, Miss Taisuke. I assure you.”

She laughed merrily. “Of course. I merely wondered.” She leaned forward from out of her butterfly position, reached out, and touched his cheek. “I have a sense this may be a randy incarnation for me.

You have no desire for young girls?”

Jigme did not move. “I cannot help you, Minister.”

“Poor Jigme.” She drew her hand back. “I will offer prayers for you.”

“Prayers are always accepted, Miss Taisuke.”

“But not passes. Very well.” She rose to her feet, and Jigme rose with her. “I must be off to the Kagyupas’ party. Will you be there?”

“I have scheduled this hour for meditation. Perhaps later.”

“Later, then.” She kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand, then slipped out of the tent. Jigme sat in the lotus posture and called for Rabjoms to take away the tea things. As he watched the boy’s graceful movements, he gave an inward sigh. His weakness had been noticed, and, even worse, remarked on. His next student would have to be ugly. The ugliest one he could find. He sighed again.

A shriek rang out. Jigme looked up, heart hammering, and saw a demon at the back of the tent. Its flesh was bright red, and its eyes seemed to bulge out of its head. Rabjoms yelled and flung the tea service at it; a glass bounced off its head and shattered.

The demon charged forward, Rabjoms falling under its clawed feet. The overwhelming smell of decay filled the tent. The demon burst through the tent flap into the outdoors. Jigme heard more shrieks and cries of alarm from outside. The demon roared like a bull, then laughed like a madman. Jigme crawled forward to gather up Rabjoms, holding the terrified boy in his arms, chanting the Horse of the Air to calm himself until he heard the teakettle hissing of a thousand snakes followed by a rush of wind, the sign that the entity had dispersed. Jigme soothed his page and tried to think what the meaning of this sudden burst of psychic energy might be.

A few moments later, Jigme received a call on his radiophone. The Gyalpo Rinpoche, a few moments after returning to the Library Palace in his hovertent, had fallen stone dead.

“Cerebral hemorrhage,” said Dr. O’Neill. The Minister of Science had performed the autopsy herself — her long hair was undone and tied behind, to fit under a surgical cap, and she still wore her scrubs. She was without the long turquoise earring that marked her rank, and she kept waving a hand near her ear, as if she somehow missed it. “The Incarnation was an old man,” she said. “A slight erosion in an artery, and he was gone. It took only seconds.”

Cabinet accepted the news in stunned silence. For all their lives, there lives had been only the one Treasured King. Now the anchor of all their lives had been removed.

“The reincarnation was remarkably swift,” Dr. O’Neill said. “I was able to watch most of it on the monitors in real time — the energies remained remarkably focused, not dissipated in a shower of sparks as with most individuals. I must admit I was impressed. The demon that appeared at the Picnic Festival was only one of the many side effects caused by such a massive turbulence within the crystal architecture of the Diamond Mountain.”

Miss Taisuke looked up. “Have you identified the child?”

“Of course.” Dr. O’Neill allowed herself a thin-lipped smile. “A second-trimester baby, to be born to a family of tax collectors in Dulan Province, near the White Ocean. The fetus is not developed to the point where a full incarnation is possible, and the energies remain clinging to the mother until they can move to the child. She must be feeling… elevated. I would like to interview her about her sensations before she is informed that she is carrying the new Bodhisattva.” Dr. O’Neill waved a hand in the vicinity of her ear again.

“We must appoint a regent,” said Daddy Carbajal.

“Yes,” said Dr. O’Neill. “The more so now, with the human sphere being threatened by the unenlightened.”

Jigme looked from one to the other. The shock of the Gyalpo Rinpoche’s death had unnerved him to the point of forgetting political matters. Clearly this had not been the case with O’Neill and the Minister of Magic. He could not let the reactionary party dominate this meeting.

“I believe,” he said, “we should appoint Miss Taisuke as Regent.” His words surprised even himself.

The struggle was prolonged. Dr. O’Neill and Daddy Carbajal fought an obstinate rearguard action, but finally Miss Taisuke was confirmed. Jigme had a feeling that several of the ministers only consented to Miss Taisuke because they thought she was young enough that they might manipulate her. They didn’t know her well, Jigme thought, and that was fortunate.

“We must formulate a policy concerning Gyangtse and the Sang,” Dr. O’Neill said. Her face assumed its usual thin-lipped stubbornness.

“The Omniscient’s policy was always to delay,” Miss Taisuke said. “This sad matter will furnish a further excuse for postponing any final decision.”

“We must put the armed forces on alert. The Sang may consider this a moment in which to strike.”

The Regent nodded. “Let this be done.”

“There is the matter of the new Incarnation,” Dr. O’Neill said. “Should the delivery be advanced?

How should the parents be informed?”

“We shall consult the State Oracle,” said Miss Taisuke.

The Oracle, his toothless mouth gaping, was a picture of terror. No one had asked him anything in years.

Eerie music echoed through the Oracular Hall of the Library, off the walls and ceiling covered with grotesque carvings — gods, demons, and skulls that grinned at the intent humans below. Chanting monks sat in rows, accompanied by magicians playing drums and trumpets all made from human bone. Jigme’s stinging eyes watered from the gusts of strong incense.

In the middle of it all sat the State Oracle, his wrinkled face expressionless. Before him, sitting on a platform, was Miss Taisuke, dressed in the formal clothing of the Regency.

“In old Tibetan times, the Oracle used to be consulted frequently,” Jigme told Ambassador !urq. “But since the Gyalpo Rinpoche has been incarnated on Vajra, the Omniscient’s close association with the universe analogue of the Library has made most divination unnecessary. The State Oracle is usually called upon only during periods between Incarnations.”

“I am having trouble phrasing my reports to my superiors, Rinpoche,” said !urq. “Your government is at present run by a fifteen-year-old girl with the advice of an elderly fortune-teller. I expect to have a certain amount of difficulty getting my superiors to take this seriously.”

“The Oracle is a serious diviner,” Jigme said. “There are a series of competitive exams to discover his degree of empathy with the Library. Our Oracle was right at the top of his class.”

“My government will be relieved to know it.”

The singing and chanting had been going on for hours. !urq had long been showing signs of impatience. Suddenly the Oracle gave a start. His eyes and mouth dropped open. His face had lost all character.

Then something else was there, an alien presence. The Oracle jumped up from his seated position, began to whirl wildly with his arms outstretched. Several of his assistants ran forward carrying his headdress while others seized him, holding his rigid body steady. The headdress was enormous, all hand

wrought gold featuring skulls and gods and topped with a vast array of plumes. It weighed over ninety pounds.

“The Oracle, by use of intent meditation, has driven the spirit from his own body,” Jigme reported.

“He is now possessed by the Library, which assumes the form of the god Yamantaka, the Conqueror of Death.”

“Interesting,” !urq said noncommittally.

“An old man could not support that headdress without some form of psychic help,” Jigme said.

“Surely you must agree?” He was beginning to be annoyed by the Ambassador’s perpetual skepticism.

The Oracle’s assistants had managed to strap the headdress on the Oracle’s bald head. They stepped back, and the Oracle continued his dance, the weighty headdress supported by his rigid neck. The Oracle dashed from one end of the room to the other, still whirling, sweat spraying off his brow, then ran to the feet of Miss Taisuke and fell to his knees.

When he spoke it was in a metallic, unnatural voice. “The Incarnation should be installed by New Year!” he shouted, and then toppled. When the assistant monks had unstrapped the heavy headdress and the old man rose, back in his body once more and rubbing his neck, the Oracle looked at Miss Taisuke and blinked painfully. “I resign,” he said.

“Accepted,” said the Regent. “With great regret.”

“This is a young man’s job. I could have broken my damn neck.”

Ambassador !urq’s antennae pricked forward. “This,” she said, “is an unusually truthful oracle.”

“Top of his class,” said Jigme. “What did I tell you?”

The new Oracle was a young man, a strict orthodox Yellow Hat whose predictive abilities had been proved outstanding by every objective test. The calendar of festivals rolled by: the time of pilgrimage, the week of operas and plays, the kite-flying festival, the end of Ramadan, Buddha’s descent from Tishita Heaven, Christmas, the celebration of Kali the Benevolent, the anniversary of the death of Tsongkhapa….

The New Year was calculated to fall sixty days after Christmas, and for weeks beforehand the artisans of Vajra worked on their floats. The floats — huge sculptures of fabulous buildings, religious icons, famous scenes from the opera featuring giant animated figures, tens of thousands of man-hours of work — would be taken through the streets of the Diamond City during the New Year’s procession, then up onto Burning Hill in plain sight of the Library Palace where the new Incarnation could view them from the balcony.

And week after week, the new Incarnation grew, as fast as the technology safely permitted. Carefully removed from his mother’s womb by Dr. O’Neill, the Incarnation was placed in a giant autowomb and fed a diet of nutrients and hormones calculated to bring him to adulthood. Microscopic wires were inserted carefully into his developing brain to feed the memory centers with scripture, philosophy, science, art, and the art of governing. As the new Gyalpo Rinpoche grew the body was exercised by electrode so that he would emerge with physical maturity.

The new Incarnation had early on assumed the lotus position during his rest periods, and Jigme often came to the Science Ministry to watch, through the womb’s transparent cover, the eerie figure meditating in the bubbling nutrient solution. All growth of hair had been suppressed by Dr. O’Neill and the figure seemed smooth perfection. The Omniscient-to-be was leaving early adolescence behind, growing slim and cat-muscled.

The new Incarnation would need whatever strength it possessed. The political situation was worsening. The border remained unresolved — the Sang wanted not simply a new planet in exchange for Gyangtse, but also room to expand into a new militarized sphere on the other side of human space. Sang military movements, detected from the human side of the border, seemed to be rehearsals for an invasion, and were countered by increased human defense allotments. As a deterrent, the human response was

made obvious to the Sang: Ambassador !urq complained continually about human aggression. Dr.

O’Neill and Daddy Carbajal grew combative in Cabinet meetings, opposition to them was scattered and unfocused. If the reactionary party wanted war, the Sang were doing little but playing into their hands.

Fortunately the Incarnation would be decanted within a week, to take possession of the rambling, embittered councils and give them political direction. Jigme closed his eyes and offered a long prayer that the Incarnation might soon make his presence felt among his ministers.

He opened his eyes. The smooth, adolescent Incarnation hovered before him, suspended in golden nutrient. Fine bubbles rose in the liquid, stroking the Incarnation’s skin, The figure had a fascinating, eerie beauty, and Jigme felt he could stare at it forever.

Jigme saw, to his surprise, that the floating Incarnation had an erection. And then the Incarnation opened his eyes. The eyes were green. Jigme felt coldness flood his spine — the look was knowing, a look of recognition. A slight smile curled the Incarnation’s lips. Jigme stared. The smile seemed cruel.

Dry-mouthed, Jigme bent forward, slammed his forehead to the floor in obeisance. Pain crackled through his head. He stayed that way for a long time, offering prayer after frantic prayer.

When he finally rose, the Incarnation’s eyes were closed, and the body sat calmly amid golden, rising bubbles.

The late Incarnation’s rosary seemed warm as it lay against Jigme’s neck. Perhaps it was anticipating being reunited with its former owner.

“The Incarnation is being dressed,” Dr. O’Neill said. She stepped through the doors into the vast cabinet room. Two novice monks, doorkeepers, bowed as she swept past, their tongues stuck out in respect, then swung the doors shut behind her. O’Neill was garbed formally in a dress so heavy with brocade that it crackled as she moved. Yellow lamplight flickered from the braid as she moved through the darkened counsel chamber. Her piled hair was hidden under an embroidered cap; silver gleamed from the elaborate settings of her long turquoise earring. “He will meet with the Cabinet in a few moments and perform the recognition ceremony.”

The Incarnation had been decanted that afternoon. He had walked as soon as he was permitted. The advanced growth techniques used by Dr. O’Neill appeared to have met with total success. Her eyes glowed with triumph; her cheeks were flushed.

She took her seat among the Cabinet, moving stiffly in the heavy brocade. The Cabinet sat surrounding a small table on which some of the late Incarnation’s possessions were surrounded by a number of similar objects or imitations. His rosary was around Jigme’s neck. During the recognition ceremony, the new Incarnation was supposed to single out his possessions in order to display his continuance from the former personality. The ceremony was largely a formality, a holdover from the earlier, Tibetan tradition — it was already perfectly clear, from Library data, just who the Incarnation was.

There was a shout from the corridor outside, then a loud voice raised in song. The members of the Cabinet stiffened in annoyance. Someone was creating a disturbance. The Regent beckoned to a communications device hidden in an image of Kali, intending to summon guards and have the disorderly one ejected.

The doors swung open, each held by a bowing novice with outthrust tongues. The Incarnation appeared between them. He was young, just entering late adolescence. He was dressed in the tall crested formal hat and yellow robes stiff with brocade. Green eyes gleamed in the dim light as he looked at the assembled officials.

The Cabinet moved as one, offering obeisance first with praying hands lifted to the forehead, mouth, and heart, then prostrated themselves with their heads to the ground. As he fell forward, Jigme heard a voice singing.

Let us drink and sport today,

Ours is not tomorrow.

Love with Youth flies swift away,

Age is naught but Sorrow.

Dance and sing,

Time’s on the wing,

Life never knows the return of Spring.

In slow astonishment, Jigme realized that it was the Incarnation who was singing. Gradually Jigme rose from his bow.

Jigme saw that the Incarnation had a bottle in his hand. Was he drunk? he wondered. And where in the Library had he gotten the beer, or whatever it was? Had he materialized it?

“This way, boy,” said the Incarnation. He had a hand on the shoulder of one of the doorkeepers. He drew the boy into the room, then took a long drink from his bottle. He eyed the Cabinet slowly, turning his head from one to the other.

“Omniscient—” said Miss Taisuke.

“Not yet,” said the Incarnation. “I’ve been in a glass sphere for almost ten months. It’s time I had some fun.” He pushed the doorkeeper onto hands and knees, then knelt behind the boy. He pushed up the boy’s zen, clutched at his buttocks. The page cast little frantic glances around the room. The new State Oracle seemed apoplectic.

“I see you’ve got some of my things,” said the Incarnation.

Jigme felt something twitch around his neck. The former Incarnation’s skull-rosary was beginning to move. Jigme’s heart crashed in his chest.

The Cabinet watched in stunned silence as the Incarnation began to sodomize the doorkeeper. The boy’s face showed nothing but panic and terror.

This is a lesson, Jigme thought insistently. This is a living Bodhisattva doing this, and somehow this is one of his sermons. We will learn from this.

The rosary twitched, rose slowly from around Jigme’s neck, and flew through the air to drop around the Incarnation’s head.

A plain ivory walking stick rose from the table and spun through the air. The Incarnation materialized a third arm to catch the cane in midair. A decorated porcelain bowl followed, a drum, and a small golden figurine of a laughing Buddha ripped itself free from the pocket of the new State Oracle. Each was caught by a new arm. Each item had belonged to the former Incarnation; each was the correct choice.

The Incarnation howled like a beast at the moment of climax. Then he stood, adjusting his garments.

He bent to pick up the ivory cane. He smashed the porcelain bowl with it, then broke the cane over the head of the Buddha. He rammed the Buddha through the drum, then threw both against the wall. All six hands rose to the rosary around his neck; he ripped at it and the cord broke, white bone disks flying through the room. His extra arms vanished.

“Short Path,” he said, turned and stalked out.

Across the room, in the long silence that followed, Jigme could see Dr. O’Neill. Her pale face seemed to float in the darkness, distinct amid the confusion and madness, her expression frozen in a racking, electric moment of private agony. The minister’s moment of triumph had turned to ashes.

Perhaps everything had.

Jigme rose to comfort the doorkeeper.

“There has never been an Incarnation who followed the Short Path,” said Miss Taisuke.

“Daddy Carbajal should be delighted,” Jigme said. “He’s a doubtob himself.”

“I don’t think he’s happy,” said the Regent. “I watched him. He is a tantric sorcerer, yes, one of the best. But the Incarnation’s performance frightened him.”

They spoke alone in Miss Taisuke’s townhouse — in the lha khang, a room devoted to religious images. Incense floated gently in the air. Outside, Jigme could hear the sounds of celebration as the word reached the population that the Incarnation was among them once again.

A statue of the Thunderbolt Sow came to life, looked at the Regent. “A message from the Library Palace, Regent,” it said. “The Incarnation has spent the evening in his quarters, in the company of an apprentice monk. He has now passed out from drunkenness.”

“Thank you, Rinpoche,” Taisuke said. The Thunderbolt Sow froze in place. Taisuke turned back to Jigme.

“His Omniscience is possibly the most powerful doubtob in history,” she said. “Dr. O’Neill showed me the spectra — the display of psychic energy, as recorded by the Library, was truly awesome. And it was perfectly controlled.”

“Could something have gone wrong with the process of bringing the Incarnation to adulthood?”

“The process has been used for centuries. It has been used on Incarnations before — it was a fad for a while, and the Eighteenth through Twenty-Third were all raised that way.” She frowned, leaning forward. “In any case, it’s all over. The Librarian Bob Miller — and the divine Avalokitesvara, if you go for that sort of thing — has now been reincarnated as the Forty-Second Gyalpo Rinpoche. There’s nothing that can be done.”

“Nothing,” Jigme said. The Short Path, he thought, the path to Enlightenment taken by magicians and madmen, a direct route that had no reference to morality or convention…. The Short Path was dangerous, often heterodox, and colossally difficult. Most doubtobs ended up destroying themselves and everyone around them.

“We have had carnal Incarnations before,” Taisuke said. “The Eighth left some wonderful love poetry behind, and quite a few have been sodomites. No harm was done.”

“I will pray, Regent,” said Jigme, “that no harm may be done now.”

It seemed to him that there was a shadow on Taisuke’s usual blazing smile. “That is doubtless the best solution. I will pray also.”

Jigme returned to the Nyingmapa monastery, where he had an apartment near the Sang embassy. He knew he was too agitated to sit quietly and meditate, and so called for some novices to bring him a meditation box. He needed to discipline both body and mind before he could find peace.

He sat in the narrow box in a cross-legged position and drew the lid over his head. Cut off from the world, he would not allow himself to relax, to lean against the walls of the box for support. He took his rosary in his hands. ” Aum vajra satira,” he began, Aum the Diamond Being, one of the names of Buddha.

But the picture that floated before his mind was not that of Shakyamuni, but the naked, beautiful form of the Incarnation, staring at him from out of the autowomb with green, soul-chilling eyes.

“We should have killed the Jesuit as well. We refrained only as a courtesy to your government, Rinpoche.”

Perhaps, Jigme thought, the dead Maskers’ soul were even now in the Library, whirling in the patterns of energy that would result in reincarnation, whirling like the snow that fell gently as he and !urq walked down the street.

To be reincarnated as humans, with the possibility of Enlightenment. “We will dispose of the bodies, if you prefer,” Jigme said.

“They dishonored their masters,” said !urq. “You may do what you like with them.”

As Jigme and the Ambassador walked through the snowy streets toward the Punishment Grounds, they were met with grins and waves from the population, who were getting ready for the New Year celebration. !urq acknowledged the greetings with graceful nods of her antennae. Once the population heard what had just happened, Jigme thought, the reception might well be different.

“I will send monks to collect the bodies. We will cut them up and expose them on hillsides for the vultures, Afterward their bones will be collected and perhaps turned into useful implements.”

“In my nation,” !urq said, “that would be considered an insult.”

“The bodies will nourish the air and the earth,” said Jigme. “What finer kind of death could there be?”

“Elementary. A glorious death in service to the state.”

Two Masker servants, having met several times with a Jesuit acting apparently without orders from his superiors, had announced their conversion to Buddhism. !urq had promptly denounced the two as spies and had them shot out of hand. The missionary had been ordered whipped by the superiors in his Order.

!urq wanted to be on hand for it.

Jigme could anticipate the public reaction. Shakyamuni had strictly forbidden the taking of life. The people would be enraged. It might be unwise for the Sang to be seen in public for the next few days, particularly during the New Year Festival, when a large percentage of the population would be drunk.

Jigme and the Ambassador passed by a row of criminals in the stocks. Offerings of flowers, food, and money were piled up below them, given by the compassionate population. Another criminal — a murderer, probably — shackled in leg irons for life, approached with his begging bowl. Jigme gave him some money and passed on.

“Your notions of punishment would be considered far from enlightened in my nation,” !urq said.

“Flogging, branding, putting people in chains! We would consider that savage.”

“We punish only the body,” Jigme said. “We always allow an opportunity for the spirit to reform.

Death without Enlightenment can only result in a return to endless cycles of reincarnation.”

“A clean death is always preferable to bodily insult. And a lot of your flogging victims die afterward.”

“But they do not die during the flogging.”

“Yet they die in agony, because your whips tear their backs apart.”

“Pain,” said Jigme, “can be transcended.”

“Sometimes,” !urq said, antennae twitching “you humans are terrifying and I say this in absolute and admiring sincerity.”

There were an unusual number of felons today, since the authorities wanted to empty the holding cells before the New Year. The Jesuit was among them — a calm, bearded, black-skinned man stripped to the waist, waiting to be lashed to the triangle. Jigme could see that he was deep in a meditative trance.

Suddenly the gray sky darkened. People looked up and pointed. Some fell down in obeisance, others bowed and thrust out their tongues.

The Incarnation was overhead, sitting on a wide hovercraft, covered with red paint and hammered gold, that held a small platform and throne. He sat in a full lotus, his elfin form dressed only in a light yellow robe. Snow melted on his shoulders and cheeks.

The proceedings halted for a moment while everyone waited for the Incarnation to say something, but at an impatient gesture from the floating throne things got under way. The floggings went efficiently, sometimes more than one going on at once. The crowd succored many of the victims with money or offers of food or medicine. There was another slight hesitation as the Jesuit was brought forward —

perhaps the Incarnation would comment on, or stay, the punishment of someone who had been trying to spread his faith — but from the Incarnation came only silence. The Jesuit absorbed his twenty lashes without comment, was taken away by his cohorts. To be praised and promoted, if Jigme knew the Jesuits.

The whipping went on. Blood spattered the platform. Finally there was only one convict remaining, a young monk of perhaps seventeen in a dirty, torn zen. He was a big lad, broad-shouldered and heavily-muscled, with a malformed head and a peculiar brutal expression — at once intent and unfocused, as if he knew he hated something but couldn’t be bothered to decide exactly what it was. His body was possessed by constant, uncontrollable tics and twitches. He was surrounded by police with staves.

Obviously they considered him dangerous.

An official read off the charges. Kyetsang Kunlegs had killed his guru, then set fire to the dead man’s hermitage in hopes of covering his crime. He was sentenced to six hundred lashes and to be shackled for life. Jigme suspected he would not get much aid from the crowd afterward; most of them were reacting with disgust.

“Stop,” said the Incarnation. Jigme gaped. The floating throne was moving forward. It halted just before Kunlegs. The murderer’s guards stuck out their tongues but kept their eyes on the killer.

“Why did you kill your guru?” the Incarnation asked.

Kunlegs stared at him and twitched, displaying nothing but fierce hatred. He gave no answer.

The Incarnation laughed. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Will you be my disciple if I remit your punishment?”

Kunlegs seemed to have difficulty comprehending this. His belligerent expression remained unaltered.

Finally he just shrugged. A violent twitch made the movement grotesque.

The Incarnation lowered his throne. “Get on board,” he said. Kunlegs stepped onto the platform. The Incarnation rose from his lotus, adjusted the man’s garments, and kissed him on the lips. They sat down together.

“Short Path,” said the Incarnation. The throne sped at once for the Library Palace.

Jigme turned to the Ambassador. !urq had watched without visible expression.

“Terrifying,” she said. “Absolutely terrifying.”

Jigme sat with the other Cabinet members in a crowded courtyard of the Palace. The Incarnation was about to go through the last of the rituals required before his investiture as the Gyalpo Rinpoche. Six learned elders of six different religious orders would engage the Incarnation in prolonged debate. If he did well against them, he would be formally enthroned and take the reins of government.

The Incarnation sat on a platform-throne opposite the six. Behind him, gazing steadily with his expression of misshapen, twitching brutality, was the murderer Kyetsang Kunlegs.

The first elder rose. He was a Sufi, representing a three-thousand-year-old intellectual tradition. He stuck out his tongue and took a formal stance. “What is the meaning of Dharma?” he began.

“I’ll show you,” said the Incarnation, although the question had obviously been rhetorical. The Incarnation opened his mouth, and a demon the size of a bull leapt out. Its flesh was pale as dough and covered with running sores. The demon seized the Sufi and flung him to the ground, then sat on his chest.

The sound of breaking bones was audible.

Kyetsang Kunlegs opened his mouth and laughed, revealing huge yellow teeth.

The demon rose and advanced toward the five remaining elders, who fled in disorder.

“I win,” said the Incarnation.

Kunlegs’ laughter broke like obscene bubbles over the stunned audience. “Short Path,” said the

Incarnation.

“Such a shame,” said the Ambassador. Firelight flickered off her ebon features. “How many man-years of work has gone into it all? And by morning it’ll be ashes.”

“Everything comes to an end,” said Jigme. “If the floats are not destroyed tonight, they would be gone in a year. If not a year, ten years. If not ten years, a century. If not a century…”

“I quite take your point, Rinpoche,” said !urq. “Only the Buddha is eternal.”

“So I gather.”

The crowd assembled on the roof of the Library Palace gasped as another of the floats on Burning Hill went up in flames. This one was made of figures from the opera, who danced and sang and did combat with one another until, burning, they came apart on the wind.

Jigme gratefully took a glass of hot tea from a servant and warmed his hands. The night was clear but bitterly cold. The floating throne moved silently overhead, and Jigme stuck out his tongue in salute. The Gyalpo Rinpoche, in accordance with the old Oracle’s instructions, had assumed his title that afternoon.

“Jigme Dzasa, “may I speak with you?” A soft voice at his elbow, that of the former Regent.

“Of course, Miss Taisuke. You will excuse me, Ambassador?”

Jigme and Taisuke moved apart. “The Incarnation has indicated that he wishes me to continue as head of the government,” Taisuke said.

“I congratulate you, Prime Minister,” said Jigme, surprised. He had assumed the Gyalpo Rinpoche would wish to run the state himself.

“I haven’t accepted yet,” she said. “It isn’t a job I desire.” She sighed. “I was hoping to have a randy incarnation, Jigme. Instead I’m being worked to death.”

“You have my support, Prime Minister.”

She gave a rueful smile and patted his arm. “Thank you. I fear I’ll have to accept, if only to keep certain other people from positions where they might do harm.” She leaned close, her whisper carrying over the sound of distant fireworks. “Dr. O’Neill approached me. She wished to know my views concerning whether we can declare the Incarnation insane and reinstitute the Regency.”

Jigme gazed at Taisuke in shock. “Who supports this?”

“Not I. I made that clear enough.”

“Daddy Carbajal?”

“I think he’s too cautious. The new State Oracle might be in favor of the idea — he’s such a strict young man, and, of course, his own status would rise if he became the Library’s interpreter instead of subordinate to the Gyalpo Rinpoche. O’Neill herself made the proposal in a veiled manner — if such and-such a thing proved true, how would I react? She never made a specific proposal.”

Anger burned in Jigme’s belly. “The Incarnation cannot be insane!” he said. “That would mean the Library itself is insane. That the Buddha is insane.”

“People are uncomfortable with the notion of a doubtob Incarnation.”

“What people? What are their names? They should be corrected!” Jigme realized that his fists were clenched, that he was trembling with anger. “Hush. O’Neill can do nothing.”

“She speaks treason! Heresy!”

“Jigme….”

“Ah. The Prime Minister.” Jigme gave a start at the sound of the Incarnation’s voice. The floating throne, its gold ornaments gleaming in the light of the burning floats, descended noiselessly from the bright sky. The Incarnation was covered only by a reskyang, the simple white cloth worn even in the bitterest

weather by adepts of tumo, the discipline of controlling one’s own internal heat.

“You will be my Prime Minister, yes?” the Incarnation said. His green eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Kyetsang Kunlegs loomed over his shoulder like a demon shadow.

Taisuke bowed, sticking out her tongue. “Of course, Omniscient.”

“When I witnessed the floggings the other day,” the Incarnation said, “I was shocked by the lack of consistency. Some of the criminals seemed to have the sympathy of the officials, and the floggers did not use their full strength. Some of the floggers were larger and stronger than others. Toward the end they all got tired, and did not lay on with proper force. This does not seem to me to be adequate justice. I would like to propose a reform.” He handed Taisuke a paper. “Here I have described a flogging machine. Each strike will be equal to the one before. And as the machine is built on a rotary principle, the machine can be inscribed with religious texts, like a prayer wheel. We can therefore grant prayers and punish the wicked simultaneously.”

Taisuke seemed overcome. She looked down at the paper as if afraid to open it. “Very… elegant, Omniscient.”

“I thought so. See that the machine is instituted throughout humanity, Prime Minister.”

“Very well, Omniscient.”

The floating throne rose into the sky to the accompaniment of the murderer Kunlegs’ gross bubbling laughter. Taisuke looked at Jigme with desperation in her eyes.

“We must protect him, Jigme,” she said. “Of course.”

“We must be very, very careful.”

She loves him, too, he thought. A river of sorrow poured through his heart. Jigme looked up, seeing Ambassador !urq standing with her head lifted to watch the burning spectacle on the hill opposite. “Very careful indeed,” he said.

The cycle of festivals continued. Buddha’s birthday, the Picnic Festival, the time of pilgrimage…

In the Prime Minister’s lha khang, the Thunderbolt Sow gestured toward Taisuke. “After watching the floggings,” it said, “the Gyalpo Rinpoche and Kyetsang Kunlegs went to Diamond City spaceport, where they participated in a night-long orgy with ship personnel. Both have now passed out from indulgence in drink and drugs, and the party has come to an end.”

The Prime Minister knit her brows as she listened to the tale. “The stories will get offworld now,”

Jigme told her. “They’re already offworld.”

Jigme looked at her helplessly. “How much damage is being done?”

“Flogging parties? Carousing with strangers? Careening from one monastery to another in search of pretty boys? Gracious heaven — the abbots are pimping their novices to him in hopes of receiving favor.”

Taisuke gave a lengthy shudder. There was growing seriousness in her eyes. “I’ll let you in on a state secret. We’ve been reading the Sang’s despatches.”

“How?” Jigme asked. “They don’t use our communications net, and the texts are coded.”

“But they compose their messages using electric media,” Taisuke said. “We can use the Library crystal as a sensing device, detect each character as it’s entered into their coding device. We can also read incoming despatches the same way.”

“I’m impressed, Prime Minister.”

“Through this process, we were kept informed of the progress of the Sang’s military buildup. We were terrified to discover that it was scheduled to reach its full offensive strength within a few years.”

“Ah. That was why you consented to the increase in military allotments.”

“Ambassador !urq was instructed not to resolve the Gyangtse matter, in order that it be used as a

casus belli when the Sang program reached its conclusion. !urq’s despatches to her superiors urged them to attack as soon as their fleet was ready. But now, with the increased military allotments and the political situation, !urq is urging delay. The current Incarnation, she suspects, may so discredit the institution of the Gyalpo Rinpoche that our society may disintegrate without the need for a Sang attack.”

“Impossible!” A storm of anger filled Jigme. His hands formed the mudra of astonishment.

“I suspect you’re right, Jigme.” Solemnly. “They base their models of our society on their own past despotisms — they don’t realize that the Treasured King is not a despot or an absolute ruler, but rather someone of great wisdom whom others follow through their own free will. But we should encourage !urq in this estimation, yes? Anything to give impetus to the Sang’s more rational impulses.”

“But it’s based on a slander! And a slander concerning the Incarnation can never be countenanced!”

Taisuke raised an admonishing finger. “The Sang draw their own conclusions. And should we protest this one, we might give away our knowledge of their communications.”

Anger and frustration bubbled in Jigme’s mind. “What barbarians!” he said. “I have tried to show them truth, but…”

Taisuke’s voice was calm. “You have shown them the path of truth. Their choosing not to follow it is their own karma.”

Jigme promised himself he would do better. He would compel !urq to recognize the Incarnation’s teaching mission.

Teaching, he thought. He remembered the stunned look on the doorkeeper’s face that first Cabinet meeting, the Incarnation’s cry at the moment of climax, his own desperate attempt to see the thing as a lesson. And then he thought about what !urq would have said, had she been there.

He went to the meditation box that night, determined to exorcise the demon that gnawed at his vitals.

Lust, he recited, provides the soil in which other passions flourish. Lust is like a demon that eats up all the good deeds of the world. Lust is a viper hiding in a flower garden; it poisons those who come in search of beauty.

It was all futile. Because all he could think of was the Gyalpo Rinpoche, the lovely body moving rhythmically in the darkness of the Cabinet room.

The moan of ragdongs echoed over the gardens and was followed by drunken applause and shouts. It was the beginning of the festival of plays and operas. The Cabinet and other high officials celebrated the festival at the Jewel Pavilion, the Incarnation’s summer palace, where there was an outdoor theater specially built among the sweet-smelling meditative gardens. The palace, a lacy white fantasy ornamented with statues of gods and masts carrying prayer flags, sat bathed in spotlights atop its hill.

In addition to the members of the court were the personal followers of the Incarnation, people he had been gathering during the seven months of his reign. Novice monks and nuns, doubtobs and naljorpas, crazed hermits, loony charlatans and mediums, runaways, workers from the spaceport… all drunk, all pledged to follow the Short Path wherever it led.

“Disgusting,” said Dr. O’Neill. “Loathsome.” Furiously she brushed at a spot on her brocaded robe where someone had spilled beer.

Jigme said nothing. Cymbals clashed from the stage, where the orchestra was practicing. Three novice monks went by, staggering under the weight of a flogging machine. The festival was going to begin with the punishment of a number of criminals, and any who could walk afterward would then be able to join the revelers. The first opera would be sung on a stage spattered with blood.

Dr. O’Neill stepped closer to Jigme. “The Incarnation has asked me to furnish him a report on nerve induction. He wishes to devise a machine to induce pain without damage to the body.”

Heavy sorrow filled Jigme that he could no longer be surprised by such news. “For what purpose?” he

asked.

“To punish criminals, of course. Without crippling them. Then his Omniscience will be able to order up as savage punishments as he likes without being embarrassed by hordes of cripples shuffling around the capital.”

Jigme tried to summon indignation. “You should not impart unworthy motives to the Gyalpo Rinpoche.”

Dr. O’Neill only gave him a cynical look. Behind her, trampling through a hedge, came a young monk, laughing, being pursued by a pair of women with whips. O’Neill looked at them as they dashed off into the darkness. “At least it will give them less of an excuse to indulge in such behavior. It won’t be as much fun to watch if there isn’t any blood.”

“That would be a blessing.”

“The Forty-Second Incarnation is potentially the finest in history,” O’Neill said. Her eyes narrowed in fury. She raised a clenched fist, the knuckles white in the darkness. “He is the most intelligent Incarnation, the most able, the finest rapport with the Library in centuries… and look at what he is doing with his gifts!”

“I thank you for the compliments, Doctor,” said the Incarnation. O’Neill and Jigme jumped. The Incarnation, treading lightly on the summer grass, had walked up behind them. He was dressed only in his white reskyang and the garlands of flowers given him by his followers. Kunlegs, as always, loomed behind him, twitching furiously.

Jigme bowed profoundly, sticking out his tongue.

“The punishment machine,” said the Incarnation. “Do the plans move forward?”

Dr. O’Neill’s dismay was audible in her reply. “Yes, Omniscient.”

“I wish the work to be completed for the New Year. I want particular care paid to the monitors that will alert the operators if the felon’s life is in danger. We should not want to violate Shakyamuni’s commandment against slaughter.”

“The work shall be done, Omniscient.”

“Thank you, Dr. O’Neill.” He reached out a hand to give her a blessing. “I think of you as my mother, Dr. O’Neill. The lady who tenderly watched over me in.the womb. I hope this thought pleases you.”

“If it pleases your Omniscience.”

“It does.” The Incarnation withdrew his hand. In the darkness his smile was difficult to read. “You will be honored for your care for many generations, Doctor. I make you that promise.”

“Thank you, Omniscient.”

“Omniscient!” A new voice called out over the sound of revelry. The new State Oracle, dressed in the saffron zen of a simple monk, strode toward them over the grass. His thin, ascetic face was bursting with anger. “Who are these people, Omniscient?” he demanded.

“My friends, minister.”

“They are destroying the gardens!”

“They are my gardens, minister.”

“Vanity!” The Oracle waved a finger under the Incarnation’s nose. Kunlegs grunted and started forward, but the Incarnation stopped him with a gesture. “I am pleased to accept the correction of my ministers,” he said.

“Vanity and indulgence!” the Oracle said. “Has the Buddha not told us to forsake worldly desires?

Instead of doing as Shakyamuni instructed, you have surrounded yourself with followers who indulge their own sensual pleasures and your vanity!”

“Vanity?” The Incarnation glanced at the Jewel Pavilion. “Look at my summer palace, minister. It is a

vanity, a lovely vanity. But it does no harm.”

“It is nothing! All the palaces of the world are as nothing beside the word of the Buddha!”

The Incarnation’s face showed supernal calm. “Should I rid myself of these vanities, minister?”

“Yes!” The State Oracle stamped a bare foot. “Let them be swept away!”

“Very well. I accept my minister’s correction.” He raised his voice, calling for the attention of his followers. A collection of drunken rioters gathered around him. “Let the word be spread to all here,” he cried. “The Jewel Pavilion is to be destroyed by fire. The gardens shall be uprooted. All statues shall be smashed.” He looked at the State Oracle and smiled his cold smile.

“I hope this shall satisfy you, minister.” A horrified look was his only reply.

The Incarnation’s followers laughed and sang as they destroyed the Jewel Pavilion, as they toppled statues from its roof and destroyed furniture to create bonfires in its luxurious suites. “Short Path!” they chanted. “Short Path!” In the theater the opera began, an old Tibetan epic about the death by treachery of the Sixth Earthly Gyalpo Rinpoche, known to his Mongolian enemies as the Dalai Lama. Jigme found a quiet place in the garden and sat in a full lotus, repeating sutras and trying to calm his mind. But the screams, chanting, songs, and shouts distracted him.

He looked up to see the Gyalpo Rinpoche standing upright amid the ruin of his garden, his head raised as if to sniff the wind. Kunlegs was standing close behind, caressing him. The light of the burning palace danced on his face. The Incarnation seemed transformed, a living embodiment of… of what? Madness?

Exultation? Ecstasy? Jigme couldn’t tell, but when he saw it he felt as if his heart would explode.

Then his blood turned cold. Behind the Incarnation, moving through the garden beneath the ritual umbrella of a Masker servant, came Ambassador !urq, her dark face watching the burning palace with something like triumph.

Jigme felt someone near him. “This cannot go on,” said Dr. O’Neill’s voice, and at the sound of her cool resolution terror flooded him.

” Aum vajra sattva,” he chanted, saying the words over and over, repeating them till the Jewel Pavilion was ash and the garden looked as if a whirlwind had torn through it, leaving nothing but tangled ruin.

Rising from the desolation, he saw something bright dangling from the shattered proscenium of the outdoor stage.

It was the young State Oracle, hanging by the neck.

“!urq’s despatches have grown triumphant. She knows that the Gyalpo Rinpoche has lost the affection of the people, and that they will soon lose their tolerance.” Miss Taisuke was decorating a Christmas tree in her lha khang. Little glowing buddhas, in their traditional red suits and white beards, hung amid the evergreen branches. Kali danced on top, holding a skull in either hand.

“What can we do?” said Jigme.

“Prevent a coup whatever the cost. If the Incarnation is deposed or declared mad, the Sang can attack under pretext of restoring the Incarnation. Our own people will be divided. We couldn’t hope to win.”

“Can’t Dr. O’Neill see this?”

“Dr. O’Neill desires war, Jigme. She thinks we will win it whatever occurs.”

Jigme thought about what interstellar war would mean; the vast energies of modern weapons deployed against helpless planets. Tens of billions dead, even with a victory. “We should speak to the Gyalpo Rinpoche,” he said.

“He must be made to understand.”

“The State Oracle spoke to him, and what resulted?”

“You, Prime Minister—”

Taisuke looked at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. “I have tried to speak to him. He is interested only in his parties, in his new punishment device. It’s all he will talk about.”

Jigme said nothing. His eyes stung with tears. Two weeping officials, he thought alone on Christmas Eve. What more pathetic picture could possibly exist.

“The device grows ever more elaborate,” Taisuke said. “There will be life extension and preservation gear installed. The machine can torture people for lifetimes!” She shook her head. Her hands trembled as they wiped her eyes. “Perhaps Dr. O’Neill is right. Perhaps the Incarnation needs to be put away.”

“Never,” Jigme said. “Never.”

“Prime Minister.” The Thunderbolt Sow shifted in her corner. “The Gyalpo Rinpoche has made an announcement to his people. ‘The Short Path will end with the New Year.’”

Taisuke wiped her eyes on her brocaded sleeve. “Was that the entire message?”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

Her eyes rose to Jigme’s. “What could it mean?”

“We must have hope, Prime Minister.”

“Yes.” Her hands clutched at his. “We must try to have hope.”

Beneath snapping prayer flags, a quarter-size Jewel Pavilion made of flammable lattice stood on Burning Hill. The Cabinet was gathered inside it, flanking the throne of the Incarnation. The Gyalpo Rinpoche had decided to view the burning from inside one of the floats.

Kyetsang Kunlegs, grinning with his huge yellow teeth, was the only one of his followers present. The others were making merry in the city.

In front of the sham Jewel Pavilion was the new torture machine, a hollow oval, twice the size of a man, its skin the color of brushed metal. The interior was filled with mysterious apparatus.

The Cabinet said the rosary, and the Horse of the Air rose up into the night. The Incarnation, draped with khatas, raised a double drum made from the tops of two human skulls. With a flick of his wrist, a bead on a string began to bound from one drum to the other. With his cold green eyes he watched it rattle for a long moment. “Welcome to my first anniversary,” he said.

The others murmured in reply. The drum rattled on. A cold winter wind blew through the pavilion.

The Incarnation looked from one Cabinet member to the other and gave his cruel, ambiguous smile.

“On the anniversary of my ascension to the throne and my adoption of the Short Path,” he said, “I would like to honor the woman who made it possible.” He held out his hand. “Dr. O’Neill, the Minister of Science, whom I think of as my mother. Mother, please come sit in the place of honor.”

O’Neill rose stone-faced from her place and walked to the throne. She prostrated herself and stuck out her tongue. The Treasured King stepped off the platform, still rattling the drum; he took her hand, helped her rise. He sat her on the platform in his own place.

Another set of arms materialized on his shoulders; while the first rattled the drum, the other three went through a long succession of mudras. Amazement, Jigme read, fascination, the warding of evil.

“My first memories in this incarnation,” he said, “are of fire. Fire that burned inside me, that made me want to claw my way out of my glass womb and launch myself prematurely into existence. Fires that aroused lust and hatred before I knew anyone to hate or lust for. And then, when the fires grew unendurable, I would open my eyes, and there I would see my mother, Dr. O’Neill, watching me with happiness in her face.”

Another pair of arms appeared. The Incarnation looked over his shoulder at Dr. O’Neill, who was

watching him with the frozen stare given a poison serpent. The Incarnation turned back to the others. The breeze fluttered the khatas around his neck.

“Why should I burn?” he said. “My memories of earlier Incarnations were incomplete, but I knew I had never known such fire before. There was something in me that was not balanced. That was made for the Short Path. Perhaps Enlightenment could be reached by leaping into the fire. In case, I had no choice.”

There was a flare of light, a roar of applause. The first of the floats outside exploded into flame.

Fireworks crackled in the night. The Incarnation smiled. His drum rattled on.

“Never had I been so out of balance,” he said. Another pair of arms materialized. “Never had I been so puzzled. Were my compulsions a manifestation of the Library? Was the crystal somehow out of alignment? Or was something else wrong? It was my consort Kyetsang Kunlegs who gave me the first clue.” He turned to the throne and smiled at the murderer, who twitched in reply. “Kunlegs has suffered all his life from Tourette’s syndrome, an excess of dopamine in the brain. It makes him compulsive, twitchy, and — curiously — brilliant. His brain works too fast for its own good. The condition should have been diagnosed and corrected years ago, but Kunlegs’ elders were neglectful.”

Kunlegs opened his mouth and gave a long laugh. Dr. O’Neill, seated just before him on the platform, gave a shiver. The Incarnation beamed at Kunlegs, then turned back to his audience.

“I didn’t suffer from Tourette’s — I didn’t have all the symptoms. But seeing poor Kunlegs made it clear where I should look for the source of my difficulty.” He raised the drum, rattled it beside his head.

“In my own brain,” he said.

Another float burst into flame. The bright light glowed through the wickerwork walls of the pavilion, shone on the Incarnation’s face. He gazed into it with his cruel half-smile, his eyes dancing in the firelight.

Dr. O’Neill spoke. Her voice was sharp. “Omniscient, may I suggest that we withdraw? This structure is built to burn, and the wind will carry sparks from the other floats toward us.”

The Incarnation looked at her. “Later, honored Mother.” He turned back to the Cabinet. “Not wanting to bother my dear mother with my suspicions, I visited several doctors when I was engaged in my visits to town and various monasteries. I found that not only did I have a slight excess of dopamine, but that my mind also contained too much serotonin and norepinephrine, and too little endorphin.”

Another float burst into flame. Figures from the opera screamed in eerie voices. The Incarnation’s smile was beatific. “Yet my honored mother, the Minister of Science, supervised my growth. How could such a thing happen?”

Jigme’s attention jerked to Dr. O’Neill. Her face was drained of color. Her eyes were those of someone gazing into the Void.

“Dr. O’Neill, of course, has political opinions. She believes the Sang heretics must be vanquished.

Destroyed or subdued at all costs. And to that end she wished an Incarnation who would be a perfect conquering warriorking — impatient, impulsive, brilliant, careless of life, and indifferent to suffering.

Someone with certain sufficiencies and deficiencies in brain chemis—

O’Neill opened her mouth. A scream came out, a hollow sound as mindless as those given by the burning floats. The Incarnation’s many hands pointed to her, all but the one rattling the drum.

Laughing, Kyetsang Kunlegs lunged forward, twisting the khata around the minister’s neck. The scream came to an abrupt end. Choking, she toppled back into his huge lap.

“She is the greatest traitor of all time,” the Incarnation said. “She who poisoned the Forty-First Incarnation. She who would subvert the Library itself to her ends. She who would poison the mind of a Bodhisattva.” His voice was soft, yet exultant. It sent an eerie chill down Jigme’s back.

Kunlegs rose from the platform holding Dr. O’Neill in his big hands. Her piled-up hair had come undone and trailed across the ground. Kunlegs carried her out of the building and into the punishment

machine.

The Incarnation’s drum stopped rattling. Jigme looked at him in stunned comprehension.

“She shall know what it is to burn,” he said. “She shall know it for many lifetimes.”

Sparks blew across the floor before the Incarnation’s feet. There was a glow from the doorway, where some of the wickerwork had caught fire.

The machine was automatic in its function. Dr. O’Neill began to scream again, a rising series of shrieks. Her body began to rotate. The Incarnation smiled. “She shall make that music for many centuries. Perhaps one of my future incarnations shall put a stop to it.”

Jigme felt burning heat on the back of his neck. O’Neill’s screams ran up and down his spine.

“Omniscient,” he said. “The pavilion is on fire. We should leave.”

“In a moment. I wish to say a few last words.”

Kunlegs came loping back, grinning, and hopped onto the platform. The Incarnation joined him and kissed him tenderly. “Kunlegs and I will stay in the pavilion,” he said. “We will both die tonight.”

“No!” Taisuke jumped to her feet. “We will not permit it! Your condition can be corrected.”

The Incarnation stared at her. “I thank you, loyal one. But my brain is poisoned, and even if the imbalance were corrected I would still be perceiving the Library through a chemical fog that would impair my ability. My next Incarnation will not have this handicap.”

“Omniscient!” Tears spilled from Taisuke’s eyes. “Don’t leave us!”

“You will continue as head of the government. My next Incarnation will be ready by the next New Year, and then you may retire to the secular life I know you wish to pursue in this lifetime.”

“No!” Taisuke ran forward, threw herself before the platform. “I beg you, Omniscient!”

Suddenly Jigme was on his feet. He lurched forward, threw himself down beside Taisuke. “Save yourself, Omniscient!” he said.

“I wish to say something concerning the Sang.” The Incarnation spoke calmly, as if he hadn’t heard.

“There will be danger of war in the next year. You must all promise me that you won’t fight.”

“Omniscient.” This from Daddy Carbajal. “We must be ready to defend ourselves!”

“Are we an Enlightened race, or are we not?” The Incarnation’s voice was stern.

“You are Bodhisattva.” Grudgingly. “All know this.”

“We are Enlightened. The Buddha commands us not to take life. If these are not facts, our existence has no purpose, and our civilization is a mockery.” O’Neill’s screams provided eerie counterpoint to his voice. The Incarnation’s many arms pointed at the members of the Cabinet. “You may arm in order to deter attack. But if the Sang begin a war, you must promise me to surrender without condition.”

“Yes!” Taisuke, still face down, wailed from her obeisance. “I promise, Omniscient.”

“The Diamond Mountain will be the greatest prize the Sang can hope for. And the Library is the Buddha. When the time is right, the Library will incarnate itself as a Sang, and the Sang will be sent on their path to Enlightenment.”

“Save yourself, Omniscient!” Taisuke wailed. The roar of flames had drowned O’Neill’s screams.

Jigme felt sparks falling on his shaven head.

“Your plan, sir!” Daddy Carbajal’s voice was desperate. “It might not work! The Sang may thwart the incarnation in some way!”

“Are we Enlightened?” The Incarnation’s voice was mild. “Or are we not? Is the Buddha’s truth eternal, or is it not? Do you not support the Doctrine?”

Daddy Carbajal threw himself down beside Jigme. “I believe, Omniscient!

“I will do as you ask!”

“Leave us, then. Kyetsang and I wish to be alone.”

Certainty seized Jigme. He could feel tears stinging his eyes. “Let me stay, Omniscient!” he cried. “Let me die with you!”

“Carry these people away,” said the Incarnation. Hands seized Jigme. He fought them off, weeping, but they were too powerful: he was carried from the burning pavilion. His last sight of the Incarnation was of the Gyalpo Rinpoche and Kunlegs embracing one another, silhouetted against flame, and then everything dissolved in fire and tears.

And in the morning nothing was left, nothing but ashes and the keening cries of the traitor O’Neill, whom the Bodhisattva in his wisdom had sent forever to Hell.

Jigme found !urq there, standing alone before O’Neill, staring at the figure caught in a webwork of life support and nerve stimulators. The sound of the traitor’s endless agony continued to issue from her torn throat. “There will be no war,” Jigme said.

!urq looked at him. Her stance was uncertain.

“After all this,” Jigme said, “a war would be indecent. You understand?” !urq just stared.

“You must not unleash this madness in us!” Jigme cried. Tears rolled down his face. “Never, Ambassador! Never!”

!urq’s antennae twitched. She looked at O’Neill again, rotating slowly in the huge wheel. “I will do what I can, Rinpoche,” she said.

!urq made her lone way down Burning Hill. Jigme stared at the traitor for a long time.

Then he sat in the full lotus. Ashes drifted around him, some clinging to his zen, as he sat before the image of the tormented doctor and recited his prayers.

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