The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle Read Online Free PDF Page A

will of the majority.”
    “Agreed,” said the Consul, suddenly curious to hear the others tell their stories and equally sure that he would never tell his own. “Those in favor of telling our tales?”
    “Yes,” said Sol Weintraub.
    “Yes,” said Het Masteen.
    “Absolutely,” said Martin Silenus. “I wouldn’t miss this little comic farce for a month in the orgasm baths on Shote.”
    “I vote yes also,” said the Consul, surprising himself. “Those opposed?”
    “Nay,” said Father Hoyt but there was no energy in his voice.
    “I think it’s stupid,” said Brawne Lamia.
    The Consul turned to Kassad. “Colonel?”
    Fedmahn Kassad shrugged.
    “I register four yes votes, two negatives, and one abstention,” said the Consul. “The ayes have it. Who wants to start?”
    The table was silent. Finally Martin Silenus looked up from where he had been writing on a small pad of paper. He tore a sheet into several smaller strips. “I’ve recorded numbers from one to seven,” he said. “Why don’t we draw lots and go in the order we draw?”
    “That seems rather childish, doesn’t it?” said M. Lamia.
    “I’m a childish fellow,” responded Silenus with his satyr’s smile. “Ambassador”—he nodded toward the Consul—“could I borrow that gilded pillow you’re wearing for a hat?”
    The Consul handed over his tricorne, the folded slips were dropped in, and the hat passed around. Sol Weintraub was the first to draw, Martin Silenus the last.
    The Consul unfolded his slip, making sure that no one else could see it. He was number seven. Tension ebbed out of him like air out of an overinflated balloon. It was quite possible, he reasoned, that events would intercede before he had to tell his story. Or the war would make everything academic. Or the group could lose interest in stories. Or the king could die. Or the horse could die. Or he could teach the horse how to talk.
    No
more whiskey
, thought the Consul.
    “Who’s first?” asked Martin Silenus.
    In the brief silence, the Consul could hear leaves stirring to unfelt breezes.
    “I am,” said Father Hoyt. The priest’s expression showed the same barely submerged acceptance of pain which the Consul had seen on the faces of terminally ill friends. Hoyt held up his slip of paper with a large 1 clearly scrawled on it.
    “All right,” said Silenus. “Start.”
    “Now?” asked the priest.
    “Why not?” said the poet. The only sign that Silenus had finished at least two bottles of wine was a slight darkening of the alreadyruddy cheeks and a somewhat more demonic tilt to the pitched eyebrows. “We have a few hours before planetfall,” he said, “and I for one plan to sleep off the freezer fugue when we’re safely down and settled among the simple natives.”
    “Our friend has a point,” Sol Weintraub said softly. “If the tales are to be told, the hour after dinner each day is a civilized time to tell them.”
    Father Hoyt sighed and stood. “Just a minute,” he said and left the dining platform.
    After some minutes had passed, Brawne Lamia said, “Do you think he’s lost his nerve?”
    “No,” said Lenar Hoyt, emerging from the darkness at the head of the wooden escalator which served as the main staircase. “I needed these.” He dropped two small, stained notebooks on the table as he took his seat.
    “No fair reading stories from a primer,” said Silenus. “These are to be our own tall tales, Magus!”
    “Shut up, damn it!” cried Hoyt. He ran a hand across his face, touched his chest. For the second time that night, the Consul knew that he was looking at a seriously ill man.
    “I’m sorry,” said Father Hoyt. “But if I’m to tell my … my tale, I have to tell someone else’s story as well. These journals belong to the man who was the reason for my coming to Hyperion … and why I am returning today.” Hoyt took a deep breath.
    The Consul touched the journals. They were begrimed and charred, as if they had survived a