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Dr. Cobb, or "Uncle Mort" to his great grand-niece, sits alone in a cloister pale of old paper books. He has been sleeping and rising in this room since becoming Professor of Cosmography emeritus two years past. Today his most pressing concern is not sleep or even food (Although he has been thinking about taking a constitutional through the Biodome). Mort is thouroughly engaged at the moment with language and the creation of the hierarchy. Language itself being a biological map of sorts, it stands to reason that it covers a terrain of a kind and, like any Aesop life, there would be some system of distinction from one path of biological (or temporal) manifesation chosen over the full range of possibilities. Furthermore, and not completely unlike our starry home, the consequent pattern would be as telling of the known world as the unknown one, as much of without as within. There was not only a Daemon wave (or music), but a whole hierarchy of harmony for it and it alone, All Creative and bound by neither time nor space. Perhaps, Mort thinks to himself, he was looking for the poet inside himself. |
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