Chapter 3 Chapter One

When the Consul woke up, he had a bad headache and a dry throat. He felt like he had a thousand dreams, but he couldn't remember them all.This feeling can only be felt after freezing and sleeping.He blinked, sat upright on the low bed, staggered and tore off the last few sensory strips clinging to his skin.It's an oval, windowless room with two diminutive clone crew members standing to one side, and a tall, hooded saint.A clone came over and handed him a glass of thawed orange juice to help restore the body, as was customary.He took it and drank it hungrily. "The giant tree is still two light minutes away from Hyperion, a five-hour journey." The saint said.The Consul realized at last that it was Het Masteen, captain of the Treeship of the Saints, the loyal voice of the Tree, who addressed him.It occurred to the Consul vaguely that it was a great honor to be woken up by the captain.But he hadn't recovered from his fugue state, and he was too insane to express gratitude.

"The others have been awake for quite some time," Heite Masteen said, waving his hand to signal the clone to leave. "They have already assembled on the first dining platform." "Ahem." The Consul took a sip of his drink, cleared his throat, tried again to express his gratitude, and finally said, "Thank you, Height Masteen," he looked around the oval room, black grass carpet, transparent Walls, continuous curved weir rafters.The Consul realized he must be in a small environmental chamber somewhere.He closed his eyes, trying to recall the scene when he rendezvoused with the saint's spaceship before it was quantized.

The Consul remembered the scene when his spaceship was approaching and rendezvous, and first saw the thousand-meter-long giant treeship, its details hidden in the numerous mechanical and erg-driven shields, which surrounded it like a spherical mist. With the entire giant tree ship.But the leafy tree trunk is obviously shining with thousands of lights, and these lights shine softly through the leaves and the thin-walled environmental cabin, and they also illuminate countless platforms, bridges, command cabins, stairs, and the bow.At the base of the giant tree ship, engineering spheres and cargo spheres piled up like oversized tree galls, and at the same time, blue-purple jets trailed at the tail like ten thousand-meter-long roots.

"The others are waiting," said Heit Masteen softly, nodding for the Consul to look toward the ottoman, where the Consul's luggage was ready to be unpacked.The saint gazed thoughtfully at the weir timbers supporting the rafters, and the Consul began to change into a semi-formal evening dress, baggy black trousers, well-polished naval boots, a waist and elbow puffed White silk blouse, light yellow belt, black vest, overlord crimson diagonal stripes on the shoulders, and a soft golden tricorn hat.Part of the curved wall became a mirror, and the Consul stared at the image in the mirror: an elderly middle-aged man in semi-formal evening attire, tanned, but with a strange paleness in sad eyes.The consul frowned, nodded, and turned to leave.

Heite Masteen waved his hand, and the consul followed the tall figure in a robe, through an enlarged area in the small cabin, and came to a corridor that curved upwards and disappeared into the ship of giant trees In the huge bark wall of the torso.The Consul stopped, came to the edge of the corridor, and took a sharp step back in horror.At least six hundred meters down, the singularity is imprisoned in the foundation of the giant tree, and the one-sixth gravity generated makes people feel "down", and there are no railings. They continued their silent climb.Turned a corner at the corridor of the main tree trunk, walked for thirty meters, circled half a circle later, crossed a fragile suspension bridge, and came to a branch five meters thick.They walked along the branch, the Hyperion sun shining on the lush foliage.

"Is my ship back from reserve?" the Consul asked. "It's fueled up and on standby in District Eleven," Height Masteen said.They walked into the shadow of the tree trunks, and through the black gaps in the leaves the stars were faintly visible. "The other pilgrims agree to land in your ship if the military authorities grant us passage," the saint added. The Consul rubbed his eyes, hoping to have more time to recover from the cold claws of slumber. "Have you fought against the task force?" "Oh, we fought. We were questioned by them when we quantum leaped through the tunnel. Now, a warship of the overlord... is escorting us." Heite Masteen pointed to the sky above their heads.

The Consul raised his head and squinted at the second section of the upper rows of branches, where the shadow of the treeship faded away, and the large leaves were dotted in the afterglow of the sunset.Even where the shadows remain, glowing birds perch like Japanese lanterns atop bright hallways and shimmering swaying vines, illuminating the drawbridge.The glowworms of Old Earth and the radiant webs of Maui twinkle and guide into the labyrinth of leaves, and they mingle with the constellations to deceive even the seasoned traveler of the stars. Heite Masteen stepped into a basket pulled by a whisker cable that disappeared three hundred meters into the air.The Consul followed, and they began to rise quietly.He noticed that the corridors, the cabins, the platforms, were deserted except for a few saints and their diminutive clone counterparts.The Consul recalled not seeing a single passenger during the rush hours between the rendezvous and freezing slumber, but at the time he believed this was due to the special case of the treeship's quantization, the passengers were all safe in their frozen beds Woolen cloth.However, right now, the ship of the giant tree is moving at a speed far below the theory of relativity, its branches should be packed with passengers.He spoke to the Saints about what was not right in front of them.

"Just the six of you," said Height Masteen.The basket stopped in the maze of leaves, and the captain of the giant tree ship led the way. They came to a wooden escalator that looked tattered from long-term use. The Consul blinked in surprise.Under normal circumstances, the Saint's giant tree ship carries two thousand to five thousand passengers, which is undoubtedly people's favorite way of interstellar travel.The treeship shuttles between galaxies a few light-years away, takes a shortcut with beautiful scenery, and rarely adds four to five months of time debt, so it can allow their large number of passengers to spend as little time as possible in the fugue. state.For the ship of the giant tree, it takes six years to go back and forth to Hyperion, and passengers who do not pay the bill mean that the saints will suffer huge economic losses.

The consul further realized that the ship of the giant tree would be an ideal means of transportation in the subsequent evacuation, and the loss would eventually be repaid by the overlord, this idea was long overdue.Still, the Consul knew what a risk it would be for the Brotherhood of Saints to bring such a handsome but fragile ship as the Yggdrasil, of which there were only five of its kind, into a war zone! "Pilgrims," ​​Heit Masteen announced as the two consuls entered a wide platform, where a small group was waiting at the end of a long wooden table.Above them, the stars shone brightly, spinning as the treeship changed angle or course.On either side, solid spheres of leaves curved into the green skins of giant fruits.The Consul quickly recognized the setting of the captain's dining table before the five passengers rose to place Het Masteen at the head of the table.He found an empty seat reserved for himself to the captain's left.

Everyone sat quietly, and Heite Masteen began to make a formal introduction.Although the consul had never dealt with these people and he did not know any of them, some of these names sounded familiar to the sect. He sorted out the identities and impressions of these people through his long-term diplomatic experience. To the consul's left sat Father Rainer Hoyt, a priest of the old Christian school, known as the Catholic Church.The Consul forgot the difference between the black coat and the Roman collar, but he quickly remembered the St. Francis Hospital in Hebron.He was sent there almost forty standard years ago on his first diplomatic mission, with disastrous results.He then received treatment for alcohol trauma at that hospital.And, at the mention of Hoyt's name, he remembered another priest who had disappeared during his tenure as Hyperion's consul.

Rainer Hoyt, the consul estimated, was a young man in his mid-thirties.However, it seemed that, in the not-too-distant past, something had aged this young man.The Consul looked at his thin face, the cheekbones sunken deep into the sallow skin, the large eyes buried deep in their empty sockets, the thin lips with permanently twitching muscles, so languid that it was impossible to say He was smiling cynically.But the hair did not fall out as it did with radiation damage.He felt he was gazing at a man who had been ill for years.Still, the Consul was amazed to see that behind that mask of concealed pain lay the childish vibes of life, the fat face, blond hair, the slight remnants of soft lips, which belonged to a younger, healthier, not cynical Like Rainer Hoyt. Sitting next to the pastor was a man who, just a few years ago, was familiar to most of the citizens of the Overlord.The Consul wondered if the time of public favor was shorter now in the World Wide Web than it was when he lived there.Maybe shorter.If so, then Colonel Federman Kassad, the "Butcher of South Brescia," as he was called, may no longer be in the limelight.But for the Consul's generation, and for all the people of the outside world who live in a slow pace, Kassad is not a man who is easily forgotten. Colonel Feldman Kassad was tall, so tall that he could almost look at the two-meter-tall Heite Masteen.He was dressed in black military uniform, with no insignia, and nothing to indicate his status.The black suit was similar to Reverend Hoyt's coat, but the two had nothing in common.Kassad did not have Hoyt's weak appearance. He was brown and obviously very healthy, as thin as a whip handle, with muscles showing in his shoulders, hands, and neck.The colonel's eyes were small and dark, like the full range of some simple video camera.Faces are angular, shaded, flat, convex.Unlike Pastor Hoyt's haggard face, it was like a cold stone statue.A thin tuft of beard on his chin accentuated his angular face like blood on a knife's edge. The Colonel's actions reminded the Consul of an animal he had seen on the planet Luses a few years ago. It was a native jaguar in a private breeding ship zoo, quiet when it was quiet, and moving like a gust of wind.His voice was soft, but the Consul noticed that even the Colonel's silence was noticeable. The long table was mostly empty, and the group was gathered at one end.Opposite Feldman Kassad sat a poet named Martin Silenus. Silinas looked like the opposite of the soldier he was facing.Kassad was lean and tall, Martin Silenus was short and bloated.In contrast to Kassad's stone-like face, the poet's face is as round and expressive as any terrestrial primate.The voice was loud, rough, and full of foul language.This Martin Silenus, thought the Consul, had something pleasing to him, with his ruddy cheeks, his wide mouth, his deep black eyebrows, his keen ears, his restless hands and hands. Fingers, so long, they are more than enough for a pianist, or for strangling people.His gray hair was cropped messily. Martin Silenus looks to be approaching the sixtieth mark.But the Consul noticed blue stains showing on his neck and palms, which gave it away.He suspected the man had been treated by Paulson, more than once.Silenus' real age may have been between ninety and one hundred and fifty standard years.If he was as old as the latter, the Consul thought, the poet was probably insane. At first glance, Martin Silenus gives the impression of being loud and very energetic.But the first impression of the next guest at the table is: a person full of wisdom and taciturn.Sol Winterberg looked up when he was introduced.The consul noticed that he had a short gray beard, a wrinkled forehead, and sad, shining eyes.This is the famous scholar.The consul had heard the story of the wandering Jew, and his desperate plea.But he was surprised to find that the old man was holding a toddler, his daughter Rachel, who was only a few weeks old now.The Consul turned his face away. The sixth pilgrim, and the only woman at the table, was named Braun Lamia.When she was introduced, the detective looked directly at the Consul with a threatening gaze, and even when she looked away from him, the Consul could feel the pressure of her burning eyes. Braun Lamia, a former citizen of Lusus, a planet with 1.3 times the gravity, is about the same height as the poet seated one seat to her right, but even the loose corduroy spaceship suit can't hide her strong body. layers of muscle.Her shoulder-length black curly hair, two horizontal black eyebrows on a broad forehead, and a strong pointed nose made her eagle gaze even more piercing.Lamia's mouth is wide and thick, expressive and aesthetically pleasing, with the corners turned up when she smiles, which may be grim or just playful.The woman's dark eyes seemed to challenge these observers to discover the truth of the case. She was, thought the Consul, a beauty. The introduction is over.The Consul cleared his throat, and turned to look at the saint. "Heyt Masteen, you said there were seven pilgrims. Is Mr. Winterberg's child the seventh?" Heite Masteen's hood moved slowly from side to side. "No. Only those who decide of their own accord to seek the Shrike can become a Pilgrim." There was a small commotion among the group sitting around the table.Everyone, including the consul, knew it well: the number of pilgrims could only be completed if the number of pilgrims was a prime number to complete the pilgrimage north initiated by the Church of the Shrike. "I am the seventh," said Heit Masteen, captain of the Saints' treeship Yggdrasil, and loyal voice of the tree.There was a silence after the announcement, and Heite Masteen motioned for the clone crew to serve the food for the last time before landing. "So the Ousters haven't entered the system yet, have they?" Braun Lamia asked.Her hoarse voice made the Consul feel rather strange, and his heart rippled. "Not yet," Heit Masteen said, "but we're not a few standard days ahead of them. Our instruments have detected their fusion skirmish in the Oort cloud of the Hyperion galaxy. " "Will there be a war?" Reverend Hoyt asked.His voice sounded as sleepy as his face.No one volunteered to answer, and the priest turned to the right, as if the question had been addressed to the consul. The Consul sighed.The clone crew served drinks; whiskey, he hoped. "God knows what these Ousters will do?" he said. "They no longer behave according to human logic." Martin Silenas laughed loudly and threw up his hand, splashing the wine. "Like the fuck us people act according to human logic?" He took a swig of his drink, wiped his mouth, and laughed again. Braun Lamia frowned. "If there is an immediate war," she said, "will the authorities prevent us from landing?" "We'll get through," said Height Masteen.The sun shone through the folds of his turban on his yellowish skin. "A man who had just escaped from the war and gave his life to the Shrike." Pastor Hoyt muttered to himself. "Great universe, let there be no death!" intoned Martin Silenus.The loudness of the voice convinced the Consul that he could even wake someone from a frozen slumber.The poet drank the last bit of wine and raised his empty goblet, obviously toasting the stars: "There is no breath of death, there is no death, cry, cry; Wail, Shibeli, wail, your god-child is vicious paralyzed Cry, brethren, cry, for my strength is gone; As deformed as a reed, weak as my voice, Oh, oh, the pain, the pain of weakness Whispering, whining, my numb body is getting warmer..." Silenas stopped suddenly and poured some wine. After his long recitation, everyone fell into silence again.The other six people look at me and I look at you.The Consul noticed the smile on Saul Winterburo's face, the baby wriggling in his arms drawing his attention away. "Then," said Pastor Hoyt hesitantly, as if trying to sort out some of his earlier thoughts, "if the Overlord's frigates leave and the Ousters take Hyperion, maybe they won't make a big deal out of it, and let the We do our own thing." Colonel Federman Kassad sneered under his breath. "The Ousters don't want to take Hyperion," he said. "If they get the planet, they'll loot everything they want, and do what they want most. Burn the scorched rocks into pieces and use the pieces as firewood. They will melt the poles, boil the oceans, pour salt on the continents to pickle what is left, and finally make the whole planet a barren land for eternity .” "Then..." Pastor Hoyt took over, and the ending faded away. The clones removed the soup and salad plates, and began to serve the main course. At this time, everyone remained silent. "You said we were escorted by a Hegemony," the Consul said to Het Masteen, who had just finished roast beef and poached squid. The saint nodded and pointed his hand upwards.The Consul tilted his head and looked up.But in the rotating starry sky, he couldn't see anything moving. "Here you are," said Feldman Kassad, leaning over pastor Hoyt and handing the consul a pair of military binoculars. The Consul nodded his thanks, turned on the power switch with a flick of his thumb, and scanned the patch of sky Het Masteen was pointing at.The binoculars' rotating crystals swept across the area in a programmed search pattern, humming slightly as they focused.Suddenly, the vision freezes, blurs, magnifies, and finally freezes. The Consul gasped involuntarily as the Overlord ship filled the viewfinder.It was neither the fuzzy seed expected from a shock reconnaissance plane, nor the bulb-shaped object of a torch ship. Electronic imaging showed that it was a rough and black attack aircraft carrier.This thing is truly breathtaking, compared only to warships from centuries ago.With its four cantilevered incongruously indented to form a streamlined hull, the Overlord Gyro is ready for battle, its sixty-meter probes as sharp as Clovis points, its Hawking drives and The fusion capsule sits at the far end of the launch shaft, looking like an arrow's feather. The consul handed the binoculars back to Kassad without a word.If the task force has dispatched a fully armed aircraft carrier to escort "Yggdrasil", then, what level of firepower fleet will welcome the Destroyer invasion? "How long do we have to wait to land?" Braun Lamia asked.She was using the comlog to tap into the treeship's data network, and whatever she found or didn't find, she looked disheartened anyway. "Four hours into orbit," grumbled Heit Masteen, "and then a few minutes before the ship lands. Our Archon friend offered us his private ship to take us ashore." "To Keats?" Saul Winterberg asked.This was the first time the scholar spoke after the meal. The Consul nodded. "Keats is still the only departure airport on Hyperion," he said. "Airport?" Pastor Hoyt huffed. "I thought we'd go straight north. To Shrike Kingdom." Heite Masteen shook his head patiently. "The pilgrimage always starts from the capital," he said, "and it takes several days to reach the Tomb of Time." "Days!" snapped Braun Lamia. "It's the most absurd." "Maybe," admitted Height Masteen, "but that's the way it is." Pastor Hoyt's face was ashen, as if something from the meal just now made him feel bloated and uncomfortable, even though he barely ate anything. "Look," he said, "can't we change the rules? Just this once, I mean, if there's this terrible war and things like that, can't we change the rules? Can't we be around the Time Tombs Log in, or wherever, and just get done?" The Consul shook his head. "Over four hundred years, countless spacecraft or aircraft have tried to cut corners and go directly to the northern wilderness," he said, "but I don't know of any that have succeeded." "May I ask a question?" Martin Silenus said, throwing up his hands happily like a schoolboy. "What the hell is going on with all those ships?" Reverend Hoyt frowned at the poet.Feldman Kassad smiled.Saul Winterberg said: "The Consul didn't say those places were inaccessible. People can go there by boat or by other land vehicles. Spaceships and aircraft haven't disappeared either. They land easily near ruins or time tombs. , and returned to any place controlled by the computer without any difficulty. Only, the pilot and passengers disappeared.” Wen Tebo lifted the sleeping baby from his lap and put it into the baby basket hanging around his neck . "It's the old tale again," Braun Lamia said. "What do the ship's logs say?" "Nothing," said the Consul, "no violence. No forced entry. No navigational deviation. No unexplained timing discrepancies. No unusual energy leaks or losses. No physical phenomena of any kind." "No passengers," said Height Masteen. The Consul took two slow breaths.If Het Masteen meant to be... joking, this was the first time the Consul had shown a burgeoning sense of humor in his dealings with the Saints in decades.The Consul looked at the captain's blurred face under the hood, but he couldn't see that he was joking. "What a great plot," Selinas laughed. "The real sea of ​​souls that Christ cried over, that's where we're headed. Who the hell planned this shit?" "Shut up," Braun Lamia said, "old man, you're drunk." The Consul sighed.The group hadn't spent more than a standard hour together. The clone crew cleaned up the dishes and began to serve desserts, sherbet, coffee, giant tree fruit, Saurer, fruit torte, and drinks specially prepared by revival chocolate.Martin Silenus waved his hand, no dessert, but asked the clone to bring another bottle of wine.The consul thought for a few seconds and ordered a bottle of whiskey. "I just had an idea," Saul Winterberg said, as they ate dessert, "that if we're going to survive, we're going to have to talk to each other." "What do you mean?" Braun Lamia asked. Wentberg unconsciously rocked the baby to sleep on his chest. "For example, does anyone here know why the Church of the Shrike, why the whole world chose him for this trip?" No one answered. "I don't think people know," Winterberg said. "What's even more confusing is, who here is a member of the Shrike Church? How chaotic is the religious concept, I will definitely not worship an organic killing machine." Wen Tebo raised his brows and looked around at these people on the table. "I am the faithful voice of the Great Tree," said Heit Masteen. "Many saints believe that the Shrike is the personification of punishment, who punishes those who do not get their nourishment from the roots. But I must say, this Pure heresy, not found in the Covenant or in any of Muir's relevant literature." The consul, seated to the captain's left, shrugged. "I'm an atheist," he said, raising his glass to the light. "I've never had anything to do with the Church of the Shrike." Reverend Hoyt smiled impassively. "The Catholic Church ordained me as a priest," he said. "Worshiping the Shrike is contrary to any dogma of the Catholic Church." Colonel Kassad shook his head, wondering if he meant a refusal to answer, or that he was not a member of the Shrike Church. Martin Silenus opened his arms. "I was baptized a Lutheran," he said, "a sect that no longer exists. Before your parents were even born, I helped create the Zen Spirit. I was Catholic, Apocalyptic, Neo-Marxist, Interface Maniac, Devout Shaker, Demonist, Bishop of Jacques Nada, paying member of Assured Rebirth Society. Now, I'm happy to say Well, I'm a simple heathen." He laughed at them all, "to a heathen," he concluded, "the Shrike is an easy god to accept." "I don't give a damn about religion," said Braun Lamia, "I don't bow down to it." "I believe I have made my point clear," said Saul Winterberg. "None of us admits to the Church of the Shrike, yet they have a unique vision. There are millions of faithful believers. Wishing to make a pilgrimage to the Tombs of Time...to their fierce god, but they just...made seven of us to make what might be their last pilgrimage." The Consul shook his head. "You may have made it clear, Mr. Winterberg," said he, "but I cannot understand it." The scholar stroked his beard absently. "It seems that our reasons for returning to Hyperion are so tempting that even the Shrike Church and the Overlord's Probabilistic Intelligence Agency think we should return," he said, "Among these reasons, for example mine, maybe It is well known, and although everyone at the dinner table knows their own stories, I am sure that no one else will understand the whole story. So I suggest that everyone spend the remaining days Share any other stories of your own." "Why?" Colonel Kassad said. "It doesn't look like it's going to work." Winterberg laughed. "On the contrary, first of all, when the Shrike or other disasters upset us, it can at least please us, so that we fellow travelers can understand each other and know how much is how much. At the same time, if we use our brains, look at us What kind of similar experience has attracted the strange mind of the Shrike, I think this can give us a lot of inspiration to save our lives." Martin Silenus laughed, closed his eyes, and intoned: "Each astride the back of a dolphin Steering by the tail fin, The innocent die again, Their wounds opened again. " "It's Lenista, isn't it?" said Reverend Hoyt. "I studied her in seminary." "Correct," said Silenus, opening his eyes and pouring another glass of wine, "it's Yeats. A bastard, five hundred years after he lived, Lenista was just sucking her Mom's metal nipples." "Look," said Lamia, "what good is it that we tell each other stories? We meet with the Shrike, we tell him what we want, and then one of us gets a wish and the others die .Isn't that so?" "That's what the myth says," said Winterberg. "The Shrike is not a myth," Kassad said, "and neither is his Iron Tree." "So, why tell a story?" Braun Lamia asked, poking at the last chocolate cheesecake. Winterbo gently stroked the back of the sleeping baby's head. "We live in unprecedented times," he said, "and we are among the citizens of the Overlord, one in a million who travel not along the Web but across the stars. Part. We each represent a unique era in our past. For example, I am sixty-eight years old, but due to the time debt caused by travel, my sixty-eight years have spanned a century of Hegemony's history .” "So what?" said the woman next to him. Wen Tebo opened his hand and pointed to everyone at the table. "These of us represent islands of time, as well as oceans of viewpoints separated from each other. Or, to put it more colloquially, it is as if each of us holds a small piece of a puzzle, and since the first human Since landing on Hyperion, no one has known the whole puzzle," Winterberg scratched his nose, "it's a puzzle." He said, "to be honest, this puzzle has aroused my great interest It's my last week to enjoy them. I'm glad to see the flashes of wisdom, and even if it doesn't work out, I'm content to be able to solve the mystery." "I agree," said Height Masteen dryly. "I hadn't thought of that, but I can understand that it would be wise to tell a story until we face the Shrike." "But what if someone is lying?" Braun Lamia asked. "It doesn't matter," Martin Silenus laughed. "That's the magic." "We should vote it out," the consul said.He remembered what Meena Gladstone had said about one of the group being spies for the Ousters.Will listening to the story expose the spy?The Consul laughed, thinking the very idea of ​​a spy was stupid. "Who said we were a bunch of happy little democrats?" Colonel Kassad asked indifferently. "We'd better do it this way," said the consul. "To achieve our individual goals, we must all reach the Shrike's territory together. We need a method, a choice." "We can pick a leader," Kassad said. "Go to hell." The poet's tone was very funny.Others at the table shook their heads in disapproval. "Okay," said the consul, "let's vote. This is our first decision. It was proposed by Mr. Winterbury. Everyone, let's see if we need to tell us about our past connection with Hyperion." "Yes or no," Heite Masteen said. "Either we each share our story or we don't. We are the minority." "That's it," said the Consul, suddenly eager to hear other people tell their stories, just as he was sure he wouldn't tell his own. "Who approves of storytelling?" "Agreed," Saul Winterberg said. "Agreed," said Height Masteen. "Totally agree," Martin Silenas said. "I'm not going to miss the antics of a month of excited bathing in a cesspit." "I agree too," the Consul finished, much to his own surprise. "Anyone object?" "I don't want to," said Reverend Hoyt, his voice listless. "I thought it was a stupid idea," Braun Lamia said. The consul turned to Kassad. "Colonel?" Feldman Kassad shrugged noncommittally. "The votes are counted as follows: four in favor, two against, and one abstention," said the Consul. "Majority in favor. So who starts talking?" Nothing happened.Martin Silenus, writing something on a scrap of paper, looked up at last.He tore the paper into several pieces. "I wrote down the numbers from one to seven, seven in total," he said. "Should I draw lots to decide which story to tell first?" "That sounds really childish," Lamia said. "I'm a naive fellow," Silenus responded with a lecherous grin on his face. "Mr. Ambassador," he nodded at the consul, "may I borrow that gilded pillow you used for your hat?" The Consul handed over his three-cornered hat, and the folded paper was thrown into the hat and passed on to the crowd.Saul Winterberg drew first, Martin Silenus last. The Consul opened the slip of paper to make sure no one could see it.He is the seventh.He was relieved like air from an inflated balloon.It was likely, he reasoned, that things would intervene and interrupt the storytelling before it was his turn to tell it.Maybe war would make things unrealistic.Maybe everyone will lose interest in the story.Perhaps the king died.Maybe the horse died.Maybe he can teach a horse to talk. No more whiskey, thought the Consul. "Who's first?" Martin Silenus asked. There was a moment of silence, and the Consul heard the rustling of the leaves and the breeze. "Me," said Reverend Hoyt.The vicar's expression showed that he was living in agony, the expression the Consul had seen on the faces of friends who were terminally ill.Hoyt spread out a piece of paper with a large "1" clearly scribbled on it. "Okay," Silenus said, "let's go." "Now?" the priest asked. "Why not?" said the poet.He'd had at least two bottles of wine, but the only sign was a slight dizziness on his round face, some kind of magic on his arched eyebrows. “离降落还有几小时，”他说，“我打算睡个觉，把冰冻沉眠的痛苦甩掉，然后我们安全着陆，安顿在当地人那儿。” “我们的朋友的看法是，”索尔·温特伯轻声说，“每天午餐后的几小时是讲故事的最佳时间。” 霍伊特牧师叹息着，站起身。“等一会。”他说完，便离开了餐桌。 过了几分钟，布劳恩·拉米亚说：“你们觉得他是不是紧张过头了？” “不，”雷纳·霍伊特说，他从木梯子（一个主干楼梯）的顶上爬了出来，“我需要这些，”他把两本又小又脏的笔记本放在桌上，坐了下来。 “可不能照着祷告本逐字逐句读啊，”塞利纳斯说，“魔术师，我们要讲我们自己的荒诞故事。” “他妈的，给我闭嘴！”霍伊特叫道。他在脸上画着十字，手触到胸前。这一夜，领事第二次发觉，他正在看着一个病入膏肓的人。 “抱歉，”霍伊特牧师说，“不过，假如要讲我的故事，我必须同时讲述其他人的故事。这些日记属于一个人，当初我为什么来海伯利安，今日又为何返回，正是为了这个人。”霍伊特深深地吸了口气。 领事触摸着日记。它似乎曾罹患火难。“你的朋友是个怀旧的人，”他说，“假如他仍旧书面记日记的话。” “是的，”霍伊特说，“假如你们都准备就绪了，那我就开始讲了。” 桌边的众人点点头。在就餐台下，一千米长的巨树之舰正在冷夜中航行，生命的脉动无比强烈。索尔·温特伯将熟睡的宝宝从婴儿筐中抱起，小心地放在地上一块加了衬垫的毯子中，就在他座位边上。他拿出通信志，将它放在毯子边上，按了下触显，设定成噪声模式。这一星期大的婴孩趴在那，睡着。 领事伸了个懒腰，抬头发现了一颗蓝绿相间的星星，那就是海伯利安。他看着它慢慢变大。海特·马斯蒂恩把兜帽往前拉，整张脸埋在阴影之下。索尔·温特伯点上烟斗。其他人则加了咖啡，舒舒服服地躺在了椅子中。 马丁·塞利纳斯看上去则是听众中最生龙活虎，最期盼的一位了。他身体前倾，小声吟道： “他说：'好罢， 既然这故事游戏，得由在下我率先， 那请以上帝之名，欢迎最短第一签！ ☆君友听吾道来，策马骑乘走向前。 ' 朝圣众耳闻此语，当下便不再停歇， 讲者立刻就开始，欢乐笑意布满脸， 完整故事和陈述，全数皆写在下面。 "