A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [84]
For several days the thon and his assistant studied the library itself, the files, the monastery’s records apart from the Memorabilia-as if by determining the validity of the oyster, they might establish the possibility of the pearl. Brother Kornhoer discovered the thon’s assistant on his knees in the entrance of the refectory, and for a moment he entertained the impression that the fellow was performing some special devotion before the image of Mary above the door, but a rattle of tools put an end to the illusion. The assistant laid a carpenter’s level across the entranceway and measured the concave depression worn in the floor stones by centuries of monastic sandals.
“We’re looking for ways of determining dates,” he told Kornhoer when questioned. “This seemed like a good place to establish a standard for rate of wear, since the traffic’s easy to estimate. Three meals per man per day since the stones were laid.”
Kornhoer could not help being impressed by their thoroughness; the activity mystified him. “The abbey’s architectural records are complete,” he said. “They can tell you exactly when each building and wing was added. Why not save your time?”
The man glanced up innocently. “My master has a saying: ‘Nayol is without speech, and therefore never lies.’ “
“Nayol?”
“One of the Nature gods of the Red River people. He means it figuratively, of course. Objective evidence is the ultimate authority. Recorders may lie, but Nature is incapable of it.” He noticed the monk’s expression and added hastily:
“No canard is implied. It is simply a doctrine of the thon’s that everything must be cross-referenced to the objective.”
“A fascinating notion,” murmured Kornhoer, and bent down to examine the man’s sketch of a cross-section of the floor’s concavity. “Why, it’s shaped like what Brother Majek calls a normal distribution curve. How strange.”
“Not strange. The probability of a footstep deviating from the center-line would tend to follow the normal error function.”
Kornhoer was enthralled. “I’ll call Brother Majek,” he said.
The abbot’s interest in his guests’ inspection of the premises was less esoteric. “Why,” he demanded of Gault, “are they making detailed drawings of our fortifications?”
The prior looked surprised. “I hadn’t heard of it. You mean Thon Taddeo-”
“No. The officers that came with him. They’re going about it quite systematically.”
“How did you find out?”
“The Poet told me.”
“The Poet! Hah!”
“Unfortunately, he was telling the truth this time. He pick-pocketed one of their sketches.”
“You have it?”
“No, I made him return it. But I don’t like it. It’s ominous.”
“I suppose the Poet asked a price for the information?”
“Oddly enough, he didn’t. He took an instant dislike to the thon. He’s gone around muttering to himself ever since they came.”
“The Poet has always muttered.”
“But not in a serious vein.”
“Why do you suppose they’re making the drawings?”
Paulo made a grim month. “Unless we find out otherwise, we’ll assume their interest is recondite and professional. As a walled citadel, the abbey has been a success. It’s never been taken by siege or assault, and perhaps their professional admiration is aroused.”
Father Gault gazed speculatively across the desert toward the east. “Come to think of it; if an army meant to strike west across the plains, they’d probably have to establish a garrison somewhere in this region before marching on Denver.” He thought for a few moments and began to look alarmed. “And here they’d have a fortress ready-made!”
“I’m afraid that’s occurred to them.”
“You think they were sent as spies?”
“No, no! I doubt if Hannegan himself has ever heard of us. But they are here, and they are officers, and they can’t help looking around and getting ideas. And now very likely Hannegan is going to hear about us.”
“What do you intend doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Why not talk to Thon Taddeo