He turned back to the King. “And now, Your Highness, be plain and to the point. What is this philosophic endeavor of which you spoke?”
“I have discovered the true philosophy, the correct metaphysical basis upon which to construct the principles of human conduct. Even when you entered, was I perfecting my discipline.”
“Liar!” I shouted. “You were lazing about, eating a fig!”
Greyboar glared at me and I shut up. Tongue knots are the worst.
The King gazed at me reproachfully. “You misinterpret these trifles,” he said, waving a vague hand at his surroundings.
Trifles! His silk robe alone was worth enough to feed all the paupers of New Sfinctr for a year. And New Sfinctr has a lot of paupers.
The King got that long-suffering look in his face. You know, the one rich people get when they talk about the triviality of wealth in the scheme of things.
“These small luxuries are but the material aids to my philosophy,” he said, “necessary, I regret to say, solely because I have not yet sufficiently advanced in my discipline to dispense with them. I am only, as yet, an accomplished Languid. I am on the verge, however—I am convinced of it!—of achieving Torpor, whereupon I will naturally dispose of these intrinsically worthless comforts.”
“What is this Torpor you seek?” asked Greyboar.
“To a question, I respond with a question. What is the fundamental law of the universe?”
“He’s stalling for time, Greyboar!” Sure enough, I was tongue-tied. A half hitch.
Greyboar turned back to the King. “Conservation of matter and energy.”
His Highness began to sneer, thought better of it.
“To be sure, but the conservation of matter and energy is at bottom a mere statement of equivalence. From the ethical standpoint, a miserable tautology.”
The strangler scratched his chin. “I admit that it does not appear to bear upon one’s moral principles.”
“Course not!” snorted the King. “Subject’s fit only for tinkerers. No, sir, the whole secret lies with the second law of thermodynamics.”
Greyboar’s frown has to be seen to be believed.
“Surely it’s obvious!” exclaimed the King. “Philosophy—ethics, that is, the rest is trivia—concerns itself with the conduct of men, with the direction of their actions, not the substance of their deeds. To place our ethics upon a sound metaphysical basis, therefore, we must ask the question: To what end do all things in the Universe, without exception, conduct themselves?”
Greyboar was still frowning. The King’s jowls quivered with agitation.
“Come, come, my good man! To what destination does Time’s Arrow point?”
“Maximum entropy,” responded the strangler.
“Precisely!”
“But life works against entropy, human life most of all. At least, in the short run.”
“Yes! Yes! And there’s the folly of it all!”
I hadn’t the faintest idea what they were babbling about, but all of a sudden Greyboar’s eyes bugged out. Never seen it happen before. What I mean is, he wasn’t what you’d call the excitable type.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I mumbled to myself.
“Of course!” bellowed the chokester. He swept the King into his embrace. “Master! Guru!”
“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this,” I mumbled to myself.
Then everything fell apart at once. A loud crash indicated the escape of the King’s soldiers from their makeshift prison. As if that weren’t bad enough, I could hear the squeals which announced the arrival of the porkers. Bound to happen, of course, a strangler’s got no business dawdling on the job.
Fortunately, Greyboar hadn’t lost his ears along with his senses.
“Time presses, master.” He set the King back on the divan. “Quickly, what is the Way?”
The King frowned. “Why, ’tis simple enough, in its bare outline. The achievement of ethical entropy lies along the ascending stages of Languor, Torpor, and Stupor. In turn, achievement of these steps requires following the eightfold Path of Chaos through application of the Foursome Random Axioms. But where is the haste? I shall intercede on your behalf with the authorities. You can be sure of it! Long have I sought a true disciple. We shall discuss our philosophy at length.”
“Languor, torpor, stupor, eightfold path, foursome axioms, languor, torpor, stupor . . .” muttered Greyboar, like a schoolboy reciting his tables. He seized the King by the throat. “I fear not, my guru.”
The King’s face swelled like a blowfish. “But . . . but . . . ”
Greyboar shook his head sadly. “Matter of professional ethics.”