“Perhaps. It’s not at all easy to say what one thinks when it comes to these problems or, for that matter, to any problem which demands articulation. Sometimes one is undone by the flow of words assuming its own direction, carrying one, protesting, away from the anticipated shore to _terra incognita_. Other times, at the climax of a particularly telling analogy, one is aware that in the success of words the meaning has got lost. Put it this way, finally, _accurately_: I accept no man’s authority in that realm where we are all equally ignorant. The beginning and the end of creation are not our concern. The eventual disposition of the human personality which we treasure in our conceit as being among the more poignant ornaments of an envious universe is unknown to us and shall so remain until we learn the trick of raising the dead. God, or what have you, will not be found at the far end of a syllogism, no matter how brilliantly phrased and conceived. We are prisoners in our flesh, dullards in divinity as the Greeks would say. No man can alter this though of course human beings can be made to _believe_ anything. You can teach that fire is cold and ice is hot but nothing changes except the words. So what can your _magus_ do? What can he celebrate except that which is visible and apparent to all eyes? What can he offer me that I should accept his authority, and its source?” She sighed, “I’m not sure he wants anything for himself; acceptance, authority ... one doesn’t think of such things, at least not now. As for his speaking with the voice of some new or old deity, he denies the reality of any power other than the human....” “A strange sort of messiah.” “I’ve been trying to tell you this.” She smiled. “He sounds at times not unlike you just now ... not so glib perhaps.” “Now you mock _me_.” “No more than you deserve for assuming facts without evidence.” “If he throws over all the mystical baggage what is left? an ethical system?” “In time, I suppose, that will come. So far there is no system. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” “You’ve yet to answer any direct question I have put to you.” She laughed. “Perhaps there is a significance in that; perhaps you ask the wrong questions....” “And perhaps you have no answers.” “Wait.” “For how long?” She looked at her watch by the candles’ uncertain light. “For an hour.” “You mean we’re to see him tonight?” “Unless you’d rather not.” “Oh, I want to see him, very much.” “He’ll want to see you too, I think.” She looked at me thoughtfully but I could not guess her intention; it was enough that two lines had crossed, both moving inexorably toward a third, toward a temporary terminus at the progression’s heart. 4