The war room is dimly lit, the rows of secondary displays on both sides shed just enough light to see where I go as I walk up to the central dais. The central chair is still free, and lovely Miriël has taken her usual place at the right.

I look at her as I come closer. She wears her usual style of clothes, a light grey silken blouse, and the tightly fitting black pants. The shining silk goes well with her long black hair and the golden glow of her skin, and she wears the necklace of grey pearls, a heirloom from my family, from long ago and far away, an echo of long-lost Tahiti in the great ocean of Earth.

She greets me with a gentle smile and says: 'Good morning, mahatma. How are you? What will we do today?'

I smile back, sit down in my chair, and tap the control pad. A projection of the computer's personality appears before the dais. Embar has taken on his favourite form, partly winged dragon, partly S'ngac.

Standing upright on his hoofed hind feet, the four three-inch horns reach seven feet high, and the three-pronged gold tipped tail sweeps restlessly through the air. He hisses a greeting. 'Salaam aleikum, Milord, Milady'.

The lady winks at him, while I reply: 'Salaam, Embar, all is well, I presume?' He nods, the question is just ritual anyway, moves his bulky body in the left chair, and puts his four-fingered claws on the armrests. Turning to Miriël I say: ' We will observe the ultimate beginning, lovely one. Watch carefully.'

Embar takes the hint, the night-bleu body moves as a claw points theatrically to the central screen. It becomes slowly transparent, and shows a cloud of white light in the centre. Then the cloud expands and we enter it to see that it is nothing but a potential, a form of not-yet- energy.

It is the place Nowhere, at the time Before. We are looking at that what was before the beginning - that what spawned this universe, and still is there - behind and beyond the world of matter and mind.

I have seen it before, but Miriël must be instructed, she must learn this, the lore of Kolwynia, before she can go back to the worlds in time. And when she will be ready for that, I will leave this place to. I have spent time enough here, in this third version of the Palace of Kalithea. I turn to Miriël, to explain what the screen shows.

"This is what spawned the universe. There and then - both are meaningless, but that is another story - the not-space is filled with energy in its primordial form, static, unchanging energy. It has only one property: it is aware of its existence. Aware of self, and of nothing else, for there is nothing else. And though it is aware, it is an awareness that is devoid of any meaning, for there is nothing to measure meaning by. And it is like this forever. "

She nods, and I know she is only memorising, not trying to understand.

"That What is All is not thinking, not seeing, not hearing. Such things require objects outside of the All, and they need time. But there is nothing else, and time has not started. "

And falling silent, I think that we would find this Nirvana very unsatisfactory, but That What Is does not even have a clue to the meaning of either satisfactory or unsatisfactory.

She shakes her long black hair, looks innocently at me and asks: "How do you know that this un-nothingness is self-aware, mahatma?"

I put the antique razor on the control pad. Its blade is shining, the inscription on the handle a flashing bright green. I look at it to, at that symbol of logic, at Occams Razor, animated by a submobile of Vassago, and suddenly the whole room seems to loose focus, seems to glide out of reality. I shake myself loose from that feeling, but Miriël did not even notice. The question remains in her eyes. I smile: "I trust the razor, Miriël. It agrees with me that to suppose only this, to start from this single premisse, will make everything fall in place, little one. It will explain absolutely everything, a theory that has room for black holes and demons, for computers and souls."

"And for love, mahatma?" I motion her to silence, for something is going to happen. Meanwhile I do not have to lie. She is too beautiful to lie to, too innocent also.

A Ruum appears from nowhere into not-anywhere. The razor flashes an angry red; Miriël looks at the razor, at the Ruum, at me, frowns, but keeps silent.

The Ruum finds the Nirvana quite unsatisfactory to, and she has the means and knowledge to do something about that. We are about to witness the birth of the universe.

A single quantum distortion, bringing a single multidimensional point to a well-defined energy level above the level of the Nirvana, and then letting it slide back, just at the right speed. One half of an oscillation, that is all the Ruum needs to cause. Now, there is something to measure time by, and an oscillation to propagate in that time, and therefore in space. The Ruum did it just right, the oscillation is stable and periodic, and able to grow and absorb more energy. Growing, it splits of parts of itself, and that starts a chain reaction. In a sudden flash, a whole area of the Nirvana transforms almost the totality of its static load in a fluid of oscillating quanta. The Nirvana adjusts; the static charge is replenished, to no avail, as more is converted into quanta. But quanta have laws of their own, and make a space-time sphere of their own, as if burning a hole in the fabric of no-space and no-time. Another blinding flash, and the quantum sphere disappears from the Nirvana. With it goes the static charge that was still contained in the quantum sphere, the substance of naked awareness.

And the Ruum dives after the newly formed cosmic egg, overtakes it, enters into it.

We follow after her. We are inside the cosmic egg, where the quanta are now forming a dense fluid, each of them a tiny fraction of consciousness, but isolated now, no longer a part of a whole. Each quantum a heavily compressed package of that essential single substance, locked forever inside the tiny ergosphere that it created for itself. And the awareness is fragmented into infinitesimal small particles, each one limited to an event horizon of Planck scale. The whole is lost, but what remains may still be Nirvana.

Then the vision fades, and Miriël scrapes her throat. I turn my eyes away from the afterimage of the egg, letting her know that she may speak. "Yes, Miriël?"

"Why a Ruum, mahatma? The razor disapproves of it. "

"We need those Ruums, Miriël. Otherwise the Nirvana would remain as it is. No distortions. No cosmic eggs. That would be unsatisfactory. Ruums are good to have. "

Her brown eyes squeeze lightly. "But, mahatma, the razor did not approve of the Ruum."

"The razor is not the whole of the Law, Miriël. It is but a tool. A very efficient tool, dependable, but not perfect. It is wrong in this. It is better to have a Ruum to cause a cosmic egg than to have no eggs at all."

She smiles. She does not ask the obvious questions. Good. There are no answers I would like to give, and again, no lies I want to tell.

I nod to Embar, and the computer makes the view fade into grey mist. Miriël rises, bows graciously and leaves the room. When she is gone, I walk to the high window in the back and look out over the infinity of mist that stretches into the infinity outside of this palace.

And I think of the Ruum, and I wonder where my friends are. We chased the Ruum out of the universe, and they followed it, to learn more about it. Years ago, years of the Palace, ages outside, and no news. Soon maybe, Insh'Allah.

As I walk out of the room, into the elevator, I see my reflection in the mirror. I look at myself. Medium height, lean, middle aged. The army fatigues still suit me well, but there are clouds of grey in my short cut hair, and deep wrinkles besides dark eyes and on my front. That must be the result of a life filled with concentrated observation. Oh, if I put on the insignia I'd pass for a two-star general, if I put on a suit I could play a lawyer. I shake my head, and sigh. Strange thoughts, strange behaviour, looking at yourself, even in an elevator. Am I getting old, or just tired, bored even? Well, except for teaching Miriël, there is not much to be done anymore.

When the elevator stops on the apartment level, I make a decision, and I activate the computer again. "Prykazyavat Embar"

The system projects the curled-up dragon shape in mid-air, and the hissing voice of the dragon persona answers me: "At your command, Sir John."

No mahatma's here, Embar is old-fashioned, and besides, it knows me to well. "Embar, am I required here, in the near future?"

"Except for the education of Miriël, nothing foreseeable needs your attention, John. As I can project why you ask, others can take care of Miriël. Where are you going?"

I've gotten used to be predictable enough for that computer, I don't care anymore. As usual, it is right, I need a break from the routine.

"Hunting, Embar, somewhere where I haven't been before. Is there by any chance a place where a hunter would be welcomed?"

"Yes, Sir John, there happens to be such a place. Shuttle six is programmed and loaded for the occasion. "

I nod. "Ok. I'm on my way." I know I'll find the details in the shuttle, just like everything else I might need on that trip.

"Embar?"

"Yes, John?"

"Who would have gone if I hadn't asked, Embar?"

"A clone, John"

I nod, and sigh. On my way to the shuttle, I add self-aware computers and clones to my list of things that should not have been permitted by the Law. Quite a list, after four hundred and thirty years.

The mind in the razor grins. In vain, mahatma Sir John. Assuredly, making clones impossible would be an Exception, and Exceptions give rise to Paradoxes. The Law would not agree.

From the terrace, Miriël watches the shuttle leave into the darkening eastern sky. 'Prykazyavat Embar', she whispers to the lukewarm wind, and Embar appears. To her, he is not the S'ngac idol, but an ovoid of shining crystal. She wonders about that. Why would Embar take a form that is so far from his real being, when John calls him? And why a form that cannot show any emotion, any body language, with her?

'What can I do for you, Miriël?'

'Will he be gone a long time, Embar?'

'A few months outside, but only a few days here, milady. '

'I always wondered how this all started, Embar. While we have a little time, could you tell me? '

'I can show you, Miriël. In dreamtime, if you agree.'

She nods. 'Thank you, Embar'. The ovoid disappears, and she is again alone on the terrace.

She looks out over the empty sea and the mainland coast, waits till the last light is gone, and then turns around, and walks back to the palace, to her apartment, to prepare for the dream that Embar promised.