Robert Shea & Robert Anton Wilson - The Illuminatus Trilogy

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Illuminatus!

Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson

ebook ver. 1.0

BOOK ONE

VERWIRRUNG

The history of the world is the history of the warfare between secret societies.

-Ishmael Reed, Mumbo-Jumbo

THE FIRST TRIP, OR KETHER

From Dealey Plaza To Watergate ...

The Purple Sage opened his mouth and moved his tongue and so spake to them and he

said:

The Earth quakes and the Heavens rattle; the beasts of nature flock together and the

nations of men flock apart; volcanoes usher up heat while elsewhere water becomes ice

and melts; and then on other days it just rains. Indeed do many things come to pass.

-Lord Omar Khayaam Ravenhurst, K.S.C., "The Book of Predications." The Honest

Book of Truth

It was the year when they finally immanentized the Eschaton. On April 1, the world's

great powers came closer to nuclear war than ever before, all because of an obscure

island named Fernando Poo. By the time international affairs returned to their normal

cold-war level, some wits were calling it the most tasteless April Fool's joke in history. I

happen to know all the details about what happened, but I have no idea how to recount

them in a manner that will make sense to most readers. For instance, I am not even sure

who' I am, and my embarrassment on that matter makes me wonder if you will believe

anything I reveal. Worse yet, I am at the moment very conscious of a squirrel-in Central

Park, just off Sixty-eighth Street, in New York City-that is leaping from one tree to

another, and I think that happens on the night of April 23 (or is it the morning of April

24?), but fitting the squirrel together with Fernando Poo is, for the present, beyond my

powers. I beg your tolerance. There is nothing I can do to make things any easier for

any of us, and you will have to accept being addressed by a disembodied voice just as I

accept the compulsion to speak out even though I am painfully aware that I am talking

to an invisible, perhaps nonexistent, audience. Wise men have regarded the earth as a

tragedy, a farce, even an illusionist's trick; but all, if they are truly wise and not merely

intellectual rapists, recognize that it is certainly some kind of stage in which we all play

roles, most of us being very poorly coached and totally unrehearsed before the curtain

rises. Is it too much if I ask, tentatively, that we agree to look upon it as a circus, a

touring carnival wandering about the sun for a record season of four billion years and

producing new monsters and miracles, hoaxes and bloody mishaps, wonders and

blunders, but never quite entertaining the customers well enough to prevent them from

leaving, one by one, and returning to their homes for a long and bored winter's sleep

under the dust? Then, say, for a while at least, that I have found an identity as

ringmaster; but that crown sits uneasily on my head (if I have a head) and I must warn

you that the troupe is small for a universe this size and many of us have to double or

triple our stints, so you can expect me back in many other guises. Indeed do many

things come to pass.

For instance, right now, I am not at all whimsical or humorous. I am angry. I am in

Nairobi, Kenya, and my name is, if you will pardon me, Nkrumah Fubar. My skin is

black (does that disturb you? it doesn't me), and I am, like most of you, midway

between tribalism and technology; to be more blunt, as a Kikuyu shaman moderately

adjusted to city life, I still believe in witchcraft-I haven't, yet, the folly to deny the

evidence of my own senses. It is April 3 and Fernando Poo has ruined my sleep for

several nights running, so I hope you will forgive me when I admit that my business at

the moment is far from edifying and is nothing less than constructing dolls of the rulers

of America, Russia, and China. You guessed it: I am going to stick pins in their heads

every day for a month; if they won't let me sleep, I won't let them sleep. That is Justice,

in a sense.

In fact, the President of the United States had several severe migraines during the

following weeks; but the atheistic rulers of Moscow and Peking were less susceptible to

magic. They never reported a twinge. But, wait, here is another performer in our circus,

and one of the most intelligent and decent in the lot-his name is unpronounceable, but

you can call him Howard and he happens to have been born a dolphin. He's swimming

through the ruins of Atlantis and it's April 10 already-time is moving; I'm not sure what

Howard sees but it bothers him, and he decides to tell Hagbard Celine all about it. Not

that I know, at this point, who Hagbard Celine is. Never mind; watch the waves roll and

be glad there isn't much pollution out here yet. Look at the way the golden sun lights

each wave with a glint that, curiously, sparkles into a silver sheen; and watch, watch the

waves as they roll, so that it is easy to cross five hours of time in one second and find

ourselves amid trees and earth, with even a few falling leaves for a touch of poetry

before the horror. Where are we? Five hours away, I told you-five hours due west, to be

precise, so at the same instant that Howard turns a somersault in Atlantis, Sasparilla

Godzilla, a tourist from Simcoe, Ontario (she had the misfortune to be born a human

being) turns a neat nosedive right here and lands unconscious on the ground. This is the

outdoor extension of the Museum of Anthropology in Chapultepec Park, Mexico, D.F.,

and the other tourists are rather upset about the poor lady's collapse. She later said it was

the heat. Much less sophisticated in important matters than Nkrumah Fubar, she didn't

care to tell anybody, or even to remind herself, what had really knocked her over. Back

in Simcoe, the folks always said Harry Godzilla got a sensible woman when he married

Sasparilla, and it is sensible in Canada (or the United States) to hide certain truths. No,

at this point I had better not call them truths. Let it stand that she either saw, or

imagined she saw, a certain sinister kind of tight grin, or grimace, cross the face of the

gigantic statue of Tlaloc, the rain god. Nobody from Simcoe had ever seen anything like

that before; indeed do many things come to pass.

And, if you think the poor lady was an unusual case, you should examine the records of

psychiatrists, both institutional and private, for the rest of the month. Reports of unusual

anxieties and religious manias among schizophrenics in mental hospitals skyrocketed;

and ordinary men and women walked in off the street to complain about eyes watching

them, hooded beings passing through locked rooms, crowned figures giving

unintelligible commands, voices that claimed to be God or the Devil, a real witch's brew

for sure. But the sane verdict was to attribute all this to the aftermath of the Fernando

Poo tragedy.

The phone rang at 2:30 A.M. the morning of April 24. Numbly, dumbly, mopingly,

gropingly, out of the dark, I find and identify a body, a self, a task. "Goodman," I say

into the receiver, propped up on one arm, still coming a long way back.

"Bombing and homicide," he electrically eunuchoid voice in the transmitter tells me. I

sleep naked (sorry about that), and I'm putting on my drawers and trousers as I copy the

address. East Sixty-eighth Street, near the Council on Foreign Relations. "Moving," I

say, hanging up.

"What? Is?" Rebecca mumbles from the bed. She's naked, too, and that recalls very

pleasant memories of a few hours earlier. I suppose some of you will be shocked when I

tell you I'm past sixty and she's only twenty-five. It doesn't make it any better that we're

married, I know.

This isn't a bad body, for its age, and seeing Rebecca, most of the sheets thrown aside,

reminds me just how good it is. In fact, at this point I don't even remember having been

the ringmaster, or what echo I retain is confused with sleep and dream. I kiss her neck,

unself-con-sciously, for she is my wife and I am her husband, and even if I am an

inspector on the Homicide Squad-Homicide North, to be exact-any notions about being

a stranger in this body have vanished with my dreams into air. Into thin air.

"What?" Rebecca repeats, still more asleep than awake.

"Damned fool radicals again," I say, pulling on my shirt, knowing any answer is as good

as another in her half-conscious state.

"Um," she says, satisfied, and turns over into deep sleep again.

I washed my face somewhat, tired old man watching me from the mirror, and ran a

brush through my hair. Just time enough to think that retirement was only a few years

away and to remember a certain hypodermic needle and a day in the Catskills with my

first wife, Sandra, back when they at least had clean air up there . . . socks, shoes, tie,

fedora . . . and you never stop mourning, as much as I loved Rebecca I never stopped

mourning Sandra. Bombing and homicide. What a meshuganah world. Do you

remember when you could at least drive in New York at three in the morning without

traffic jams? Those days were gone; the trucks that were banned in the daytime were all

making their deliveries now. Everybody was supposed to pretend the pollution went

away before dawn. Papa used to say, "Saul, Saul, they did it to the Indians and now

they're doing it to themselves. Goyische narrs." He left Russia to escape the pogrom of

1905, but I guess he saw a lot before he got out. He seemed like a cynical old man to me

then, and I seem like a cynical old man to others now. Is there any pattern or sense in

any of it?

The scene of the blast was one of those old office buildings with Gothic-and-

gingerbread styling all over the lobby floor. In the dim light of the hour, it reminded me

of the shadowy atmosphere of Charlie Chan in the Wax Museum. And a smell hit my

nostrils as soon as I walked in.

A patrolman lounging inside the door snapped to attention when he recognized me.

"Took out the seventeenth floor and part of the eighteenth," he said. "Also a pet shop

here on the ground level. Some freak of dynamics. Nothing else is damaged down here,

but every fish tank went. That's the smell."

Barney Muldoon, an old friend with the look and mannerisms of a Hollywood cop,

appeared out of the shadows. A tough man, and nowhere as dumb as he liked to pretend,

which was why he was head of the Bomb Squad.

"Your baby, Barney?" I asked casually.

"Looks that way. Nobody killed. The call went out to you because a clothier's dummy

was burned on the eighteenth floor and the first car here thought it was a human body."

(Wait: George Dorn is screaming....)

Saul's face showed no reaction to the answer-but poker players at the Fraternal Order of

Police had long ago given up trying to read that inscrutible Talmudic countenance. As

Barney Muldoon, I knew how I would feel if I had the chance to drop this case on

another department and hurry home to a beautiful bride like Rebecca Goodman. I

smiled down at Saul-his height would keep him from appointment to the Force now, but

the rules were different when he was young-and I added quietly, "There might be

something in it for you, though."

The fedora ducked as Saul took out his pipe and started to fill it. All he said was, "Oh?"

"Right now," I went on, "we're just notifying Missing Persons, but if what I'm afraid of

is right, it'll end up on your desk after all."

He struck a match and started puffing. "Somebody missing at this hour . . . might be

found among the living ... in the morning," he said between drags. The match went out,

and shadows moved where nobody stirred.

"And he might not, in this case," Muldoon said. "He's been gone three days now."

"An Irishman your size can't be any more subtle than an elephant," Saul said wearily.

"Stop tantalizing me. What have you got?"

"The office that was hit," Muldoon explained, obviously happy to share the misery,

"was a magazine called Confrontation. It's kind of left-of-center, so this was probably a

right-wing job and not a left-wing one. But the interesting thing is that we couldn't reach

the editor, Joseph Malik, at his home, and when we called one of the associate editors,

what do you think he told us? Malik disappeared three days ago. His landlord confirms

it. He's been trying to get hold of Malik himself because there's a no-pets rule there and

the other tenants are complaining about his dogs. So, if a man drops out of sight and

then his office gets bombed, I kind of think the matter might come to the attention of the

Homicide Department eventually, don't you?"

Saul grunted. "Might and might not," he said. "I'm going home. I’ll check with Missing

Persons in the morning, to see what they've got."

The patrolman spoke up. "You know what bothers me most about this? The Egyptian

mouth-breeders."

"The what?" Saul asked.

"That pet shop," the patrolman explained, pointing to the other end of the lobby. "I

looked over the damage, and they had one of the best collections of rare tropical fish in

New York City. Even Egyptian mouth-breeders." He noticed the expressions on the

faces of the two detectives and added lamely, "If you don't collect fish, you wouldn't

understand. But, believe me, an Egyptian mouth-breeder is pretty hard to get these days,

and they're all dead in there."

"Mouth-breeder?" Muldoon asked incredulously.

"Yes, you see they keep their young in their mouths for a couple days after birth and

they never, never swallow them. That's one of the great things about collecting fish: you

get to appreciate the wonders of nature."

Muldoon and Saul looked at each other. "It's inspiring," Muldoon said finally, "to have

so many college graduates on the Force these days."

The elevator door opened, and Dan Pricefixer, a redheaded young detective on

Muldoon's staff, emerged, carrying a metal box.

"I think this is important, Barney," he began immediately, with just a nod to Saul.

"Damned important. I found it in the rubble, and it had been blown partly open, so I

looked inside."

"And?" Muldoon prompted.

"It's the freakiest bunch of interoffice memos I ever set eyes on. Weird as tits on a

bishop."

This is going to be a long night, Saul thought suddenly, with a sinking feeling. A long

night, and a heavy case.

"Want to peek?" Muldoon asked him maliciously.

"You better find a place to sit down," Pricefixer volunteered. "It'll take you awhile to go

through them."

"Let's use the cafeteria," Saul suggested.

"You just have no idea," the patrolman repeated. "The value of an Egyptian mouth-

breeder."

"It's rough for all nationalities, man or fish," Muldoon said in one of his rare attempts to

emulate Saul's mode of speech. He and Saul turned to the cafeteria, leaving the

patrolman looking vaguely distressed.

His name is James Patrick Hennessy and he's been on the Force three years. He doesn't

come back into this story at all. He had a five-year-old retarded son whom he loved

helplessly; you see a thousand faces like his on the street every day and never guess

how well they are carrying their tragedies . . . and George Dorn, who once wanted to

shoot him, is still screaming. . . . But Barney and Saul are in the cafeteria. Look around.

The transition from the Gothic lobby to this room of laminated functional and glittering

plastic colors is, one might say, trippy. Never mind the smell; we're closer to the pet

shop here.

Saul removed his hat and ran a hand through his gray hair pensively, as Muldoon read

the first two memos in one quick scan. When they were passed over, he put on

his glasses and read more slowly, in his own methodical and thoughtful way. Hold onto

your hats. This is what they said:

ILLUMINATI PROJECT: MEMO #1

7/23

J.M.:

The first reference I've found is in Violence by Jacques Ellul (Seabury Press, New York,

1969). He says (pages 18-19) that the Illuminated Ones were founded by Joachim of

Floris in the llth century and originally taught a primitive Christian doctrine of poverty

and equality, but later under the leadership of Fra Dolcino in the 15th century they

became violent, plundered the rich and announced the imminent reign of the Spirit. "In

1507," he concludes, "they were vanquished by the 'forces of order'-that is, an army

commanded by the Bishop of Vercueil." He makes no mention of any Illuminati

movement in earlier centuries or in more recent times. I'll have more later today.

Pat

P.S. I found a little more about Joachim of Floris in the back files of the National

Review, William Buckley and his cronies think Joachim is responsible for modern

liberalism, socialism and communism; they've condemned him in fine theological

language. He committed the heresy, they say, of "immanentizing the Christian

Eschaton." Do you want me to look that up in a technical treatise on Thomism? I think

it means bringing the end of the world closer, sort of.

ILLUMINATI PROJECT: MEMO #2

7/23

J.M.:

My second source was more helpful: Akron Daraul, A History of Secret Societies

(Citadel Press, New York, 1961).

Daraul traces the Illuminati back to the 11th century also, but not to Joachim of Floris.

He sees the origin in the Ishmaelian sect of Islam, also known as the Order of Assassins.

They were vanquished in the 13th century, but later made a comeback with a new, less-

violent philosophy

and eventually became the Ishmaelian sect of today, led by the Aga Khan. However, in

the 16th century, in Afghanistan, the Illuminated Ones (Roshinaya) picked up the

original tactics of the Order of Assassins. They were wiped out by an alliance of the

Moguls and Persians (pages 220-223). But, "The beginning of the seventeenth century

saw the foundation of the Illuminated Ones of Spain-the Allumbrados, condemned by

an edict of the Grand Inquisition in 1623. In 1654, the 'illuminated' Guerinets came into

public notice in France." And, finally-the part you're most interested in- the Bavarian II-

luminati was founded on May Day, 1776, in Ingolstadt, Bavaria, by Adam Weishaupt, a

former Jesuit. "Documents still extant show several points of resemblance between the

German and Central Asian I'himi-nists: points that are hard to account for on grounds of

pure coincidence" (page 255). Weishaupt's Illuminati were suppressed by the Bavarian

government in 1785; Daraul also mentions the Illuminati of Paris in the 1880s, but

suggests it was simply a passing fad. He does not accept the notion that the Illuminati

still exist today.

This is beginning to look big. Why are we keeping the details from George?

Pat

Saul and Muldoon exchanged glances. "Let's see the next one," Saul said. He and

Muldoon read together:

ILLUMINATI PROJECT: MEMO #3

7/24

J.M.:

The Encyclopedia Britannica has little to say on the subject (1966 edition, Volume 11,

"Halicar to Impala," page 1094):

Illuminati, a short-lived movement of republican free thought founded on May Day

1776 by Adam Weishaupt, professor of canon law at Ingolstadt and a former Jesuit. . . .

From 1778 onward they began to make contact with various Masonic lodges where,

under the impulse of A. Knigge (q.v.) one of their chief converts, they often managed to

gain a commanding position. . . .

The scheme itself had its attractions for literary men like Goethe and Herder, and even

for the reigning dukes of Gotha and Weimar....

The movement suffered from internal dissention and was ultimately banned by an edict

of the Bavarian government in 1785.

Pat

Saul paused. "I'll make you a bet, Barney," he said quietly. "The Joseph Malik who

vanished is the J.M. these memos were written for."

"Sure," Muldoon replied scornfully. "These Illuminati characters are still around, and

they got him. Honest to God, Saul," he added, "I appreciate the way your mind usually

pole-vaults ahead of the facts. But you can ride a hunch just so far when you're starting

from nothing."

"We're not starting from nothing," Saul said softly. "Here's what we've got to start with.

One"-he-held up a finger-"a building is bombed. Two"-another finger- "an important

executive disappeared three days before the bombing. Already, there's an inference, or

two inferences: something got him, or else he knew something was coming for him and

he ducked out. Now, look at the memos. Point three"-he held up another finger-"a

standard reference work, the Encyclopedia Britannica, seems to be wrong about when

the Illuminati came into existence. They say eighteenth-century Germany, but the other

memos trace it back to-let's see-Spain in the seventeenth century, France in the

seventeenth century, then in the eleventh century back to Italy and halfway across the

world to Afghanistan. So we've got a second inference: if the Britannica is wrong about

when the thing started, they may be wrong about when it ended. Now, put these three

points and two inferences together-"

"And the Illuminati got the editor and blew up his office. Nutz. I still say you're going

too fast."

"Maybe I'm not going fast enough," Saul said. "An organization that has existed for a

couple of centuries minimum and kept its secrets pretty well hidden most of that time

might be pretty strong by now." He trailed off into silence, and closed his eyes to

concentrate. After a moment, he looked at the younger man with a searching glance.

Muldoon had been thinking too. "I've seen men land on the moon," he said. "I've seen

students break into administration offices and shit in the dean's waste basket. I've even

seen nuns in mini-skirts. But this international conspiracy existing in secret for eight

hundred years, it's like opening a door in your own house and finding James Bond and

the President of the United States personally shooting it out with Fu Manchu and the

five original Marx Brothers."

"You're trying to convince yourself, not me. Barney, it sticks out so far that you could

break it into three pieces and each one would be long enough to goose somebody up in

the Bronx. There is a secret society that keeps screwing up international politics. Every

intelligent person has suspected that at one time or another. Nobody wants war any

more, but wars keep happening-why? Face it, Barney-this is the heavy case we've

always had nightmares about. It's cast iron. If it were a corpse, all six pallbearers would

get double hernias at the funeral. Well?" Saul prompted.

"Well, we're either going to have to do something or get off the pot, as my sainted

mother used to say."

It was the year when they finally immanentized the Eschaton. On April 1 the world's

great powers came closer to nuclear war than ever before, all because of an obscure

island named Fernando Poo. But, while all other eyes turned to the UN building in

apprehension and desperate hope, there lived in Las Vegas a unique person known as

Carmel. His house was on Date Street and had a magnificent view of the desert, which

he appreciated. He liked to spend long hours looking at the wild cactus wasteland

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