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her eyes to the force, the heady electricity, of the dark past. They had
fought wars, slaughtered each other, all supposedly for ideas.
Now, swaddled in Empire, humanity was soft. Instead of bloody battles,
satisfyingly final, there were "fierce" trade wars, athletic head-buttings.
And lately, a fashion for debates.
This collision of sims, touted everywhere on Trantor, would be watched by over
twenty billion households. And it was beamed to the entire Empire, wherever
the creaky funnels of the wormhole network went. The rude vigor of the
prehistoric sims was undeniable; she felt it herself, a quickening in her
pulse.
The merest few interviews and glimpses of the sims had intrigued the 3D
audience. Those who brought up the age-old laws and prohibitions got shouted
down. The air crackled with the zest for the new. No one had anticipated that
this debate would balloon into this.
This could spread. Within weeks, Junin could inflame all Trantor into a
renaissance.
And she was going to take every scrap of credit for it that she could, of
course.
She looked around at the president and other top-ranking executives of
Artifice Associates, all chattering away happily.
The president, to demonstrate neutrality, sat between Sybyl and Marq who had
not spoken to each other since the last meeting.
On Marq's far side his client, the Skeptics' representative, scanned the
program; next to him, Nim. Monsieur Boker gave Sybyl a nudge. "That can't be
what I think it is, " he said.
Sybyl followed his eyes to a distant row at the back where what looked like a
mechman sat quietly beside a human girl. Only licensed mech vendors and
bookies were allowed in the stadium. "Probably her servant, " Sybyl said.
Minor infractions of the rules did not disturb her as they did Monsieur Boker,
who'd been especially testy since a
3D caster leaked the news that Artifice Associates was representing both the
Preservers and Skeptics. Fortunately, the leak occurred too late for either
party to do anything about it.
"Mechserves aren't allowed, " Monsieur Boker observed.
"Maybe she's handicapped, " Sybyl said to placate him. "Needs help in getting
around. "
"It won't understand what's going on anyway, " said Marq, directing his remark
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to Monsieur Boker. "They're truncated. Just a bunch of decision-making
modules, really. "
"Precisely why it has no business here, " replied Monsieur Boker.
Marq beeped the arm of his chair and ostentatiously placed a bet on Voltaire
to win.
"He's never won a bet in his whole life, " Sybyl told Monsieur Boker. "No head
for the math. "
"Is that so?" Marq shot back, leaning forward to address Sybyl directly for
the first time. "Why don't you put your money where your lovely mouth is?"
"I've got the probabilities on this one bracketed, " she said primly.
"You couldn't solve the integral equation. " Marq snorted derisively.
Her nostrils flared. "A thousand. "
"Mere tokenism, " Marq chided her, "considering what you're being paid for
this project. "
"The same as you, " said Sybyl.
"Will you two cut it out, " Nim said.
"Tell you what, " said Marq. "I'll bet my entire salary for the project on
Voltaire. You bet yours on your anachronistic
Maid. "
"Hey, " Nim said. "Hey. "
The president deftly addressed Marq's client, the Skeptic. "It's this keen
competitive spirit that's made Artifice
Associates the planet's leader in simulated intelligences. " Artfully he
turned to the rival, Boker. "We try to "
"You're on!" cried Sybyl.
Her dealings with the Maid had convinced her that the irrational must have a
place in the human equation, too. She remained convinced for about three quick
eye-blinks, and then began to doubt.
9.
Voltaire loved audiences. And he had never appeared before one like this ocean
of faces lapping at his feet.
Although tall in his former life, he felt that only now, gazing down at the
multitudes from his hundred-meter height, had he achieved the stature he
deserved. He patted his powdered wig and fussed with the shiny satin ribbon at
his throat.
With a gracious flourish of his hands, he made a deep bow to them, as if he'd
already given the performance of his life.
The crowd murmured like an awakening beast.
He glanced at the Maid, concealed from the audience behind a shimmering
partition in the far corner of the screen. She folded her arms, pretending to
be unimpressed.
Delay only excited the beast. He let the crowd cheer and stamp, ignoring boos
and hisses from approximately half of those present.
At least half of humanity has always been fools, he reflected. This was his
first exposure to the advanced denizens of
this colossal Empire. Millennia had made no difference.
He was not one to prematurely cut off adulation he knew was his due. Here he
stood for the epitome of the French intellectual tradition, now vanquished but
for him.
He gazed again at Joan who was, after all, the only other surviving member of
their time, quite obviously the peak in human civilization. He whispered, "Tis
our destiny to shine; theirs, to applaud. " When the moderator finally pleaded
for silence a bit too soon; Voltaire would take that up with him
later Voltaire endured Joan's introduction with what he hoped was a stoic
smile. He elaborately insisted that Joan make her points first, only to have
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