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to everyone who thought they had something to say on the existence of souls.
When they had all said their piece, the king went away to think.
'After a year, the king announced he had come to his decision. He said that
the answer was not quite so simple as every-body had thought, and he would
publish a book, in several volumes, to explain the answer. The king set up two
publishing houses, and each published a great and mighty volume. One repeated
the sentences, "Souls do exist. Souls do not exist," time after time, part
after part, page after page, section after section, chapter after chapter,
book after book. The other repeated the words, "Souls do not exist. Souls do
exist," in the same fashion.
In the language of the kingdom, I might add, each sentence had the same number
of words, even the same number of letters. These were the only words to be
found beyond the title page in all the thousands of pages in each volume. The
king had made sure that the books began and finished printing at the same
time, and were published at the same time, and that exactly the same number
were published.
Neither of the publishing houses had any perceivable superiority or seni-ority
over the other.
'People searched the volumes for clues; they looked for a single repetition,
buried deep in the volumes, where a sentence or even a letter had been missed
out or altered, but they found none. They turned to the king himself, but he
had taken a vow of silence, and bound up his writing hand. He would still nod
or shake his head in reply to questions concerning the governing of his
kingdom, but on the subject of the two volumes, and the existence or otherwise
of souls, the king would give no sign.
'Furious disputes arose, many books were written; new cults began. Then a
half-
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons year after the two volumes had been published,
two more appeared, and this time the house that had published the volume
beginning, "Souls do not exist," published the volume which began, "Souls do
exist." The other publisher followed suit, so that theirs now began, "Souls do
not exist." This became the pattern.
'The king lived to be very old, and saw several dozen volumes published. When
he was on his death bed, the court philosopher placed copies of the book on
either side of him, hoping the king's head would fall to one side or the other
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at the moment of death, so indicating by the first sentence of the appropriate
volume which conclusion he had really come to... but he died with his head
straight on the pillow and with his eyes, under the eyelids, looking straight
ahead.
'That was a thousand years ago,' Ky said. 'The books are published still; they
have become an entire industry, an entire philosophy, a source of un-ending
argument and -'
'Is there an ending to this story?' he asked, holding up one hand.
'No,' Ky smiled smugly. 'There is not. But that is just the point.'
He shook his head, got up and left the Crew Lounge.
'But just because something does not have an ending,' Ky shouted, 'doesn't
mean it doesn't have a...'
The man closed the elevator door, outside in the corridor; Ky rocked forward
in the seat and watched the lift-level indi-cator ascend to the middle of the
ship. '...
conclusion,' Ky said, quietly.
He'd been revived nearly half a year when he almost killed himself.
He was in the elevator car, watching a torch he had left in the centre of the
car as it slowly spun. He had left the torch switched on, and put out all the
other lights. He watched the tiny spot of light move slowly around the
circular wall of the car, slow as any clock hand.
He remembered the search lights of the Staberinde, and wondered how far they
were away from it now. So far that even the sun itself must be weaker than a
searchlight seen from space.
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons
He did not know why that made him think of just taking off the helmet, but
found himself starting to do it, nevertheless.
He stopped. It was quite a complicated procedure to open the suit while in
vacuum.
He knew each of the steps, but it would take some time. He looked at the white
spot of light which the torch was shining on the wall of the lift, not far
from his head. The white spot was gradually coming closer as the torch spun.
He would start to ready the suit to take the helmet off; if the torch beam hit
his eye - no, his face, any part of his head - before that, then he would
stop, and go back as though nothing had happened. Otherwise, if the spot of
light did not strike his face in time, he would take the helmet off and die.
He allowed himself the luxury of letting the memories wash over him, while his
hands slowly began the sequence that would end, unless interrupted, with the
helmet being blasted off his shoulders by the air pressure.
Staberinde, the great metal ship stuck in stone (and a stone ship, a building
stuck in water), and the two sisters. Darckense; Livueta (and of course he'd
realised at the time that he was taking their names, or something like their
names, in making the one he masqueraded under now). And Zakalwe, and
Elethiomel. Elethiomel the terrible, Elethiomel the Chairmaker...
The suit beeped at him, trying to warn him he was doing something very
dangerous. The spot of light was a few centimetres from his head.
Zakalwe; he tried to ask himself what the name meant to him. What did it mean
to anybody? Ask them all back home; what does this name mean to you? War,
perhaps, in the imme-diate aftermath; a great family, if your memory was long
enough; a kind of tragedy. If you knew the story.
He saw the chair again. Small and white. He closed his eyes, tasting
bitterness in this throat.
He opened his eyes. Three final clips to go, then one quick twist... he looked
at the spot of light. It was invisible, so close to the helmet, so close to
his head. The torch in the centre of the elevator car was facing almost
straight at him, its lens bright.
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He undid one of the three final helmet clips. There was a tiny hiss, barely
noticeable.
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