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.Whereas, on the other hand, the very reason why the manorial movement hadgotten started in the first place was that telepresentation was quicker andless expensive than lugging | a physical body around everywhere.A gesture at the communication icon was sufficient to make a connection.Amoment later he woke up in another scene.THE COFFINPhaethon found himself in a chair of pale wood, ornamented with scrollwork,next to a small table holding a lily vase, a pomander, and a figment-case madeof brass.A rug of white and pigeon-blue was underfoot.Before him, embracedby two funeral urns, was a doorway leading to a hall of dark green marble.This hall was filled with shadows, striped with bands of pale, soft light, sodetails were not clear.But he had the impression there were large squarestones, perhaps columns, to the right of the hall, reaching high to thecathedral ceiling.Mauve-tinted sunlight streaming in through tall stained-glass windows to hisleft fell across his face, producing a sensation of velvet warmth andmelancholy pleasure.When he stood, he could feel the muted sunlight slideacross his cheek like a caress.He stood, surprised to find himself represented as wearing his armor of blackand gold-admantium.His helmet and gauntlets were retracted, so that his faceand hands were exposed.The texture of the air as he breathed produced agentle and powerful delight, like wine, in his mouth, nose and lungs.Thesimple objects his eye fell upon, the chair, the white lilies, the dark marbleluster of the hall beyond the door, all these things seemed charged with awonder and sad beauty he could not name.The touch of the chair arms on his palms as he leanedforward to stand, the hint of fragrance from the lilies, sent a mild thrill ofecstasy through him, but the pleasure was fragile, and transitory.As hestood, in the distance, he heard or thought he heard the trembling, low echoesof a gong, which almost brought tears to his eyes, so plaintive and mournfulwas the note.Like a tingle on his skin (another transitory pleasure) he feltthe sound wave ripple over him.Phaethon was not unfamiliar with this style of dreamscape; it was typical ofthe Red Manorial group (to which Daphne had once belonged) to exaggerate thesensual sensations.Red protocols allowed the introduction of new senseimpressions (such as, for example, an ability to feel the texture of sunlight,or of gong notes) that had no counterpart in reality.He was not sure if he was in Surface Dreaming, in which case all the objectsaround him had real-world counterparts, or if he was partway into the MiddleDreaming, which allowed the thought-environment to project additionalinformation into his memory.Silver-Gray and White sense-filters were normallytuned to exclude anything other than information from being inserted throughMiddle Dreaming channels; but the Reds allowed emotions, conclusions, andstates of mind to be altered by information fields attached to sense-objects,like a type of psychic aura, as if hints and colors of childhood memories werebeing stirred deep within him, reminders of other lives, perhaps, or offorgotten dreams.The gong had summoned something.Phaethon could feel a Presence, a pressure onthe wine-sweet gloom of the air, a thrill in his nerves that sent his heartbeating in his throat.In the distance, down the hall, hovering above itsreflection in the dark green marble floor, came a figure of silver, brightwithin the gloom.She was something like a butterfly, or an angel, a shape of subtle lacylights.Like a queen she came foreword, with solemn music trembling in thePage 114 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlfloor before her as she came.Her face was grave and remote, solemn, sweet andsad, with ancient wisdom deep within her eyes.On her brow was bound a palestar.Phaethon stepped forward, one hand before his face toguard his eyes.It was not that the light was bright, it was that it was sobeautiful and holy that the sight was sending shivers of pleasure through him,as if each silver ray were a sword.He crossed the threshold, and heard hisgolden boots chime on the marble, a lovely sound.As he turned his head awayfrom that too-beautiful light, he saw that the columns to the right embraced amausoleum.Here were a dozen caskets of dark crystal, half-upright, projecting from thefar wall, like cocoons of living diamond set in marble housings.All but oneof the surface of the caskets were polarized against him; all but one werevelvet-black; but one was clear, the color of pellucid arctic water.Insidewas Daphne.A single ray of light touched her face and shoulders; the rest ofher body was obscured by gloom and filmy cloud trapped in the casket surface.The Presence approached; silver light caressed Phaethon even through hisarmor; a sense of awe and mystery and sorrow beat inside his body like asecond heart.The emotion was more than he could tolerate; he sank to oneknee, his hands still before his face, tears streaming.The kneecap of hisarmor chimed against the stone, a ghost of sound.He called out: "I am Phaethon, scion of Helion, of the House of Rhadamanth.Iam come to demand the restoration of my wife.Deny me at your peril! I wouldspeak with Ev-eningstar."The presence spoke in a voice like a harp: "Eveningstar is before you.We knowwho you are.Weep, Phaethon, for your wishes shall not prevail."A stab of melancholy lanced his heart at those words; he knew their certaintyand truth.Or did he? "You are manipulating my nervous system.Stop at once.I am of theSilver-Gray; politeness demands that you abide by my protocols."In the time it took for his heartbeat to slow, and for him to wipe his tearsand rise to his feet, the chamber around him faded in vividness.There wasstill a marble floor, and gloomy caskets of diamond, tall pillars, and mutedsunlight; but the textures no longer trembled with melancholy, the sunlightcould only be seen, not felt, and the angelic form dwindled, became a womandressed in silk evening gown the hue of deep twilight.A long train curvedbehind her in many satiny folds, and looped into her left hand.She still worea coronet, and this crown bore a star sapphire on her brow, which was one ofthe heraldic symbols of the Eveningstar Sophotech.But the rest of the scene remained the same.Daphne was indeed here, locked ina coffin of spun diamond, asleep, a look of peace on her face.The Sophotech image said in a soft voice: "Forgive any impoliteness; since youproject yourself here from an Eleemosynary public basic-casket, and do nothave Rhadamanthus with you, there was no one to translate our dreamscape toyour format.We are not required to reorganize to your preference.Nonetheless, we do so out of a sense of charity and good fellowship; theexpense, while small for us, is more than you can bear.You have troublesenough to endure."Phaethon was not listening.He stepped over to that casket, and stood with hishand on the glassy surface.There, two inches below his hand, was the quietface of his wife.He had seen that face so often, with so many moods andthoughts and emotions on her features.It seemed strange and impossible to seeher so still.It was only two inches, a few microns of diamond, an inch and ahalf of transparent nanomedical medium.Two inches."Wake her," said Phaethon.He was looking a Daphne's profile, at the way herlashes almost brushed her cheeks.He concentrated on the curve of her cheek,the delicacy of her nose, the sensitive fineness of her lips
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