They heard the echoes of the themes of largest and smallest. The superclusters formed by streamers of galactic clusters across the width of the universe were controlled by a few simple melodies of mathematics, and the same theme designed the tiniest parts of the fine structure of the universe, string segments of the superstrings, which were in turn the membranes in three-dimensional space of some intrusion from ulterior dimensions of infinite density and energy.…

The same simplicity emerged again at the level of DNA, or the countless other theoretical systems whereby biopsychological patterns could be embedded into molecular or submolecular strata; again at the level of large governmental-economic-megapsychological collaborations; and again at the galactic and galactic-cluster, and galactic-supercluster level. The universe itself, with its helices and nautilus spirals of streams of superclusters, seen as a whole, looked like a pearl streaked with irregularities, which looked so similar to smaller structures and relations found within them, that the whole of the macrocosmic universe could have been a vast tablet of symbols expressing laws, or genetics expressing life, or a neural system expressing thought, or …

And everything was based on certain subtle primal nonrepeating irregularities, as delicate, as arbitrary, as irrational as the ratio of radius to circumference.…

They heard the cosmos singing.

While they listened, rapt, intent, ecstatic, they made their hands move and lips open, so that they drank of the golden cup once every seven days. Without rising to their feet, they dipped the cup, one after another, into the low bowl atop the marble pillar, whose liquid never diminished.

From time to time, as months passed, their bodies had to be maintained by more than the draft of the golden cups. The music followed them as they moved from chamber to chamber. They feasted, exercised, excreted, suffered medicinal exercises and minor molecular surgery, and in the unadorned chambers of the monks they slept (all but the significant segments of their brains). The company of monks who ministered to them were a variety of races, Locusts and Witches and Giants, all biomodified for lunar conditions, tall and thin. Here were Chimera, looking almost deformed for carrying no weapons, and Melusine, whose whale and dolphin forms looked more like eels and dragons than like their earthly originals, moving without noise through the waters of unlit cisterns. The monks never spoke, or, if they did, only to brain segments in Montrose and Del Azarchel not concerned with the music of the universe. Always the two were returned to the dark and singing chamber, and the music grew and grew within their minds like some immense tower, level upon level of song, in ever greater variations and deeper insights.

Then, one day, when they were once again kneeling in the dark and oval chamber beneath the gold fountain and the red-and-black statues, in the middle of the soaring flight of song, it stopped. Silence like deafness was like a backhanded blow to their ears—the sound was cut off, jarred to a halt.

Del Azarchel felt as if his whole body ached to hear the next tone, the resolution of the chords and multitudes of chords. “Selene!” Del Azarchel shouted at the ceiling. “Where is the rest of it? Play on!” He leaped to his feet with earthly strength, and hung in the lunar air for a long moment, light as a moth, his dark Hermetic robes a stormcloud about his legs and upraised arms.

Montrose was kneeling in a circle of spent cigarette butts and ash stains he had accumulated over the months, since he had occupied himself rolling “quirlies” during parts of the symphony he thought were slow or predictable.

Montrose rose more gently, staring thoughtfully at the golden cup he was hefting in his hand. The material in the cup had altered the cellular structures in their bodies in a very subtle and sophisticated way, a specific application of the biosuspension technology, so that, when they made the motion to rise to their feet, the muscles in their legs responded as if they had only been kneeling a short time. There was not even a pins-and-needles sensation, not even a twinge. Not that kneeling on the moon was much of a strain in any case.

Montrose also spoke toward the ceiling, and said more quietly, “Thanks for the song, Mother Selene. Mighty hospitable of you, I am sure. Say! About this drink! I need to get a bathtub of this stuff for our next long sleep.”

A voice came from behind them, as pure in tone as if a silver harp spoke, humming with strange echoes. The statue of the black-robed figure was evidently made of a more mobile substance than the dark marble and white alabaster it appeared to be, because the face moved as it spoke. “That and whatever else you ask will be granted you, in gratitude for the aid you shall give.”

Del Azarchel slowly floated to the floor. As if some efficient squire serving an assassin had cleaned and sheathed his master’s long dirk neatly beneath his freshly laundered cloak, Del Azarchel’s rage was stored away, unseen but doubtless close to hand. His voice and manner were courteous: “With kindest thoughts we accept your offer to grant us a boon. We are awed by your generosity; without delay reveal to us the next movement of the symphony. The secrets of the universe…”

But now his bland expression slipped, and a naked hunger shined in his eyes. Nor was anger ever far from hunger, not in the soul of Del Azarchel. He did not continue speaking, but took a spaceman’s oxygen pomander from his pouch and held it to his nose. This was not to measure his carbon dioxide output, but just to hide his expression.

The inhuman voice of the lunar intelligence came from the pale gargoyle face framed by the white wig and topped by the black cap. “I do not have the capacity to transliterate the next stage of the Monument into musical notation, and the Lunar Cenotaph language is asymptotically more complex. Once he is repaired, you will inquire of the planetary intelligence, called Tellus, who is beyond the Fourth Comprehension.”

Montrose said, “Well? Where and how do we do that? Can you radio the Earth for us?”

Del Azarchel gave Montrose a smug look, for he had realized something Montrose had not. Del Azarchel said, “Mother Selene, I have no reluctance to assume the stature of an Exarchel once more, but surely it would be easier were you to act as intercessor and emissary for us, telling and explaining what Tellus wishes to ask? For my somewhat rustic friend has shown himself to be reluctant to suffer augmentation to ghostly rank, for he does not foresee how any copies of himself could share in the nuptial bliss he foolishly imagines to be of his deserving once the Princess Rania returns to me.”

“Oh, pox and pustules!” growled Montrose, and he tried to pry the long-barreled pistol out of the hand of the red statue. “Hand it over! Be a pal!” he said to the figure.

“You must endeavor to forgive,” came the inhuman voice from the black statue behind him.

“I’ll forgive you of whatever-the-hell you want, if’n you just hand over the damn shooting iron,” said Montrose through clenched teeth. “Pesterification! Blackie! Come y’here and put your face just so. Maybe I can work the thumb trigger even with the stone hand in the way.”

“Would you disturb the sanctity of this place?” said the dark statue softly.

“Only to murder Blackie. I’ll mop up after.”

“The unforgiving shall linger unforgiven, and your love be lost. Can you be true to your beloved, and not be true?” And the strange voice hummed with echoes in the vast chamber.

Montrose let go of the pistol and looked over his shoulder. “I don’t rightly much like the sound of them riddles.”

The black statue saluted him by raising its gold sword, saying, “I like them even less.”

“What the pestiferous taint do you mean? Who needs to forgive me?”