A fine mist hovers over the water, its vapours occasionally blurring the outlines of the mountains. Yet it is the heads that dominate the foreground, bobbing in the warm — sometimes even scalding — mountain lake of Kawabata, which the locals call an Onsen, a hot spring. But the water is of no concern to us, nor are the jagged peaks encircling it, which the effusive travel brochure simply labels „enchanting.“ No, what captivates our attention are the disembodied heads protruding above the steaming surface of the lake, the spirit hovering over the waters. Seven heads — true giants of their era, the greatest minds to grace the species that then inhabited the globe.
Nature on Honshu, however, remained utterly indifferent to the extraordinary fortune of hosting the planet’s concentrated intellectual brilliance for two consecutive days. The towering mountains around, still caped in white even in this waning spring, gaze down with serene detachment upon this youthful harvest of Homo sapiens. Only the eager, somewhat frail bath attendant over there, clad in his pale blue-striped kimono, appreciates the magnitude of the occasion: seven young people from distant Europe and America have reserved Kawabata’s Onsen exclusively for themselves. Only those blessed with either wealth or connections to the highest circles could afford such a luxury — this the old man grasped immediately. For him, it is the crowning event of his long tenure as bathmaster. Never before had he — or the volcanic mountain lake, with its scalding pockets—been graced with such an honor.
And so, the old guardian hatched an idea, one that certainly violated regulations and sprang solely from personal whim (unless, of course, the ever-inquisitive Japanese intelligence service had encouraged him — a question we can no longer answer and thus leave open). Without the seven young visitors suspecting a thing, let alone granting permission, the cunning old man concealed a small directional microphone beneath the wooden walkway that led from their noble Sugi-wood pavilion, where they would spend the night, to the steaming water.
What luck for us, the knowledge-hungry posterity! Without the attendant’s audacious microphone, the volcanic lake, in its sovereign indifference to intellectual excellency, would have swallowed even the most precious thoughts along with the drifting vapor, dissolving them into nothingness. Only thanks to this act of insubordination — and the fact that among the seven there happened to be a poet — do we latecomers know what inspiration a quietly steaming lake can spark in the minds of promising young minds. The poet, in his metaphorical fashion, spoke of „flashes of thought,“ „pearls of wisdom,“ „verbal diamonds,“ and the like — all of which would have sunk without a trace to the lake’s depths had the microphone not spared them such a fate.
Incidentally, our research has revealed that chance willed it so that this was the seventh year the seven had gathered, for they had long adhered to an agreement to meet once annually, usually at spring’s end, in some far-flung corner of the world — once on an island, once atop a television tower, once in a village of former cannibals, and now here, on Japan’s Honshu, by a volcanic lake — no, in that very lake, where they stand invisible beneath the water, only their heads floating above the steam, while small wooden trays bearing cups of sake drift between them, supplying them with spiritual fuel in the local fashion.
„Precognition,“ Helbert declares at this moment, enunciating the word with particular emphasis after fishing one of the cups from its floating vessel and taking a tentative sip. His head gives a slight shake after swallowing.
„An acquired taste, this,“ he murmurs. „But mark my words — precognition will soon be on everyone’s lips, for it holds the future of mankind. The aim is to use our ever-improving sensors, placed close to the skull or even at a distance, not merely to detect the thoughts swirling within at that particular moment but to predict what that very skull will think in one or two minutes, even one or two hours.“
„Marvelous, what you neurologists are achieving,“ interjects Max Sternreich, the quantum physicist. „But don’t forget the environment! If your head finds itself in different surroundings, naturally that will affect your thoughts. Here, in this silent lake at the world’s edge, your brain functions differently than in your Harvard lab.“
„Quite right,“ Helbert concedes. „Which is precisely why we first eliminate environmental variables by strictly conducting our experiments under identical conditions. Under these constraints, we can already forecast an individual’s thought flow for the next hour or two. Only once we achieve statistically significant results do we proceed to the next step: exposing the subject to varied environments and calculating their influence on cognition. Thus, we assign values to both internal and external factors — with astonishing results. Silicon Valley is ablaze with enthusiasm for the project.“
„You truly are the brightest minds there,“ chimes in another disembodied head above the water — a tanned, tousled one with a slightly rasping voice. „Pioneers of a better world! But don’t imagine you can change it without us. Only when we translate precognition into AI will robots emerge to relieve us of the toil of thought — perhaps even of research itself. You need us, so that these future artificial beings may one day wholly replace us mortal, imperfect humans.“
The tousled head has flushed crimson with zeal. „In case any of you haven’t grasped it yet — Helbert’s idea is sheer genius. He’s shown us the endpoint of history, the very destination humanity has always sought. No wonder he was named Scientist of the Year. But — not to boast — we AI pioneers haven’t been idle either. Remember: neurologists need us if their research is to tangibly change the world. You brain scientists depend on us to give your insights hands and feet.“
The speaker, so effusive in self-praise, is Kilian Strumpf, then a leading authority on artificial intelligence. Though barely into his third decade, he had already amassed his first billion, thanks to his company Dollarduck’s skyrocketing Wall Street shares.
At this, another floating head can no longer contain itself. Distinguished from the rest by a formidable topknot and a voice unmistakably female, it belongs to Adelheid Sempfkorn, the sole woman among the seven. A philosopher who initially caused little stir in Berlin, she later embarked on a remarkable career at a renowned American university. Our research reveals that her reputation stemmed from her outright rejection of the prevailing idealist „twaddle“ (her dismissive term for much of her homeland’s philosophy). From head to toe, she was empiricism incarnate. Tirelessly, with missionary fervour, she preached that science would attain both practical success and theoretical esteem only by anchoring itself in experience — by systematically, even mechanically, interrogating reality through yes/no alternatives. Clarity was her creed. Now, wrapped in the warm embrace of the bath, she speaks with characteristic enthusiasm.
„Helbert, Kilian — we’re really so incredibly proud of you! It’s sooo marvellous, how casually you present your ideas, as if they didn’t spring from a lifetime of toil and brilliance. When neurology and AI join forces — in close collaboration, of course, with the robotics industry — then we (she pointedly says we, boldly including herself and her philosophy among the revolutionary modernizers) will upend the world. Precognition — what a beautiful, profoundly philosophical word! Foresight, foreknowledge — the entire scientific future is encapsulated in that one magnificent term. Do you realize you’re on the verge of realizing humanity’s oldest dream? But unlike the fairy-tale peddlers of old, who invoked God or some metaphysical phantom, you’re the heroes of empiricism. You’re doing it the hard, reliable way — through direct experience, just as I demand of my students each day. Eight hours in a lab coat, analyzing a hundred samples — that’s how research advances. But of course that is no plaything for fragile souls or flighty minds — labs stink, sometimes they even explode. A far cry from the old days, when God and idealists frolicked in temples and sacred groves. And what did that yield? So-called holy texts, which to this day drive men to bash each other’s heads in.“
Bravo! When Adelheid opens her mouth, her words strike both head and heart.
„Wait,“ she adds, „I want a taste too.“ She reaches for a floating cup.
„Ugh—no, this tastes… odd. Must be a special variety. Anyway, my final point: we, the people of thought and action, mustn’t shrink from the grind of the lab. We must remember — the reward for this asceticism is regal in the end. Kilian’s already a Croesus, but he’s just one of many. The next generation will inherit a world a thousand times better. Empirical science —“
Max Sternreich, unenthused by grandiloquence, cuts in. Physics, the oldest and truly regal discipline, has no need for bombast. Men like Sternreich, so far beyond reproach that none dare contradict, can afford to speak softly, almost offhandedly. When one wins the Nobel at twenty-seven, hailed by Stockholm’s venerable scholars as a second Einstein, criticism falls silent. With Spime —a portmanteau of time and space — Sternreich had again revolutionized physics. He could call the moon a lantern, and all would nod in agreement.
„The cosmos,“ he murmurs, „is a grand thought, a tapestry of information woven into order within spime-structure revealing itself to our intellect layer by layer. Quantum leaps still elude our calculations, true, but as my illustrious predecessor Einstein said: God does not play dice! We are on the brink of computing the entire universe — and once computed, mastering it at the push of a button. Even quanta will pose no challenge. Nature is on the verge of final surrender. Only the theologians” (here, the great physicist casts a reproachful glance at Felix Donnerer’s white-maned head) „still cling to the old delusion that God knows all, while man, in their eyes, remains a pitiable failure.“
Needless to say, when your name is Max Sternreich, the foremost luminary present, you may freely disparage even a well-known — if comparatively insignificant — theologian. Silence falls. Only the heavens seem to protest: a great black cloud now looms over the eastern peaks, crowning them in gloom. The mood sours — precisely the effect of Sternreich’s calculated jab at the man of God. Physicists, it seems, cannot resist the temptation — for three centuries now, they have relished mocking theology and its practitioners. The rivalry is inevitable: men of God believe their intimate knowledge of the Almighty grants them a share of His omniscience — but that happens to be a claim physicists like to make for themselves. Did Sternreich not just declare nature on the brink of defeat? Small wonder the feud endures.
Under the circumstances, it was only to be expected that Felix, sanguine by nature, would eagerly seize the gauntlet. The others braced for the usual sermon: the lament of human frailty, the admission of ignorance before nature’s final mysteries. Socrates in theological garb — they knew the tune.
But Donnerer surprises. He seems unruffled by the attack, speaking instead of the sake in the bobbing cups. Is he dodging the issue?
„This is Juyondai”, he says, “the finest, costliest variety. I ordered it specially, though I took care to apologize to the Lord in advance. So long as we don’t become drunkards, sake is a venial sin — theologically defensible.“ He tilts his head theatrically, so that only his nose protrudes above the water, and rolls his eyes heavenward.
But what, one might ask, is a man of God doing in this company? Why is he one of the seven? What use have physicists, neurologists, and AI researchers for religion? The three gentlemen in question had pondered this question before. Two factors tempered their objections: first, Donnerer’s controversial book Does God Exist?, which earned him excommunication by the Church and martyr status in intellectual circles; second — and more crucially — the fact that all seven (save Adelheid) had attended the same Munich gymnasium. Though their paths had scattered them across the globe, once a year they reunited to honour their shared roots. It was memory that bound them together.
Donnerer does not merely sip the Juyondai — he takes a hearty, sanguine gulp, draining the cup in one. None are surprised; his passion for spirits is theologically justifiable. Fortified, he now speaks with sudden conviction.
“I do not merely understand the enthusiasm of neurology and AI, I — as a theologian — explicitly endorse it. Man is godlike — so says Scripture. We are formed in the Creator’s image, both physically and mentally. Now, since the Creator cannot be conceived as anything less than omniscient, it follows logically that man, too, possesses at least the capacity for omniscience. My friends, your pursuit of supreme knowledge doesn’t surprise me. As a critical theologian, I must rebuke my Church for centuries of fixating on man as sinner and failure while ignoring his divine likeness. To me, you — Kilian, Helbert, and Max — are the true Übermenschen of our age. You will unleash our species’ godlike potential — perhaps within half a century. For God desires to become Man among men, to manifest Himself in humanity. I shrink not from naming the future Homo sapiens a Homo Deus — a godlike man. Modern science, in my eyes, is nothing less than God’s deepest wisdom, poured from on high into our mortal minds.“
Helbert and Kilian exchange incredulous glances. Was this the same reactionary, conservative theologian they had barely tolerated? True, his book had estranged him from the Church, but until now, they had pegged him as medieval at heart. Yet here he was, singing paeans to the coming Homo Deus! All six raise their hands from the water in unrestrained applause. Seven heads and fourteen hands! This was what each had always believed — not in a sky-god beyond the clouds, but in themselves as gods incarnate.
Even Sternreich is stunned. Donnerer’s about-face has checkmated him — a defeat he struggles to swallow. He masks it with a smirk.
„Very well, Donnerer, you’ve convinced me. Now you’ll write your true masterpiece — and I’ve already got the title: God in Heaven Has Become Homo Deus. Hallelujah! They’ll excommunicate you a second time, but we physicists will erect a bronze statue in your honour.“
The barb hangs in the air. The seven heads gaze upward, where the sky itself seems to recoil — the encircling peaks now besieged by a ring of blackest clouds. Only directly above them does a patch of blue remain, the sun still glinting on the lake’s small waves. Not yet time to retreat to the pavilion, a mere twenty meters away.
In truth, their gathering has already proven a triumph. Even theology has yielded — no, that’s not quite right. It has discovered man’s divinity. Bravo!
At least so thinks and proclaims Stronsi, the eldest among them, whom they still address by his surname alone, despite his noble given name, August („the Exalted“). Stronsi, though part of another world — politics — belongs to their circle. Documents reveal he was then mayor of a major German city, a genial sort, popular beyond his constituency.
„I must say, I’m in awe of all your immense erudition. Compared to you, I’m a babbling infant. But I’ll risk speaking anyway. First, let me say how heartwarming it is to hear you all. At home, I deal mostly with complainers — wages too low, rents and prices too high, immigrants a plague, the weather never right. If you listened to them, life is hell, and we politicians are its princes. Here, among you scientists, I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a healing spring. You’ve even converted Donnerer — now we are all vessels of the Holy Spirit! This is the optimism we need. Science is our true and only salvation. With your help, a better world will finally arise. A toast!“
Alas, no clinking of cups ensues. Nature has had enough of this chatter. Who, after all, would willingly submit to being „mastered at the push of a button“? A gust — maliciously dubbed a „wind-bride“ by antifeminists — hammers down upon them. All vessels and cups are thrust into the water or shattered on the lake’s surface. They simply vanish. And the heads too are now scarcely visible. The water lashes the young faces, so that they can barely distinguish the shore and the pavilion awaiting them. But for the faintly glowing lamplight, like a beacon showing direction, they would not know where to flee.
In truth, the squall descends like a claw — no, a targeted strike, extinguishing the already dim light. Though the warm water spares them the cold, their footing falters. Adelheid screams as the gust transforms into a wall of water. A monstrous wave looms. Donnerer, the strongest, seizes her arm.
„To the pavilion — now!“ he thunders. „Steady! Only thirty meters!“
They huddle, arms linked, the men shielding Adelheid. Then it hits — the roaring wall of nature’s wrath. They release each other, flailing toward the surface lest the depths swallow them. Lightning flashes; thunder cracks. Survival is now each man’s — and woman’s — private struggle. The wave drives them shoreward, ten meters from the pavilion, where they are flung like driftwood onto the bank, crawling on all fours. A momentary lull — or is it paralysis? — a final shaft of light pierces the clouds, illuminating the peaks. Then the storm redoubles.
Nature cares nothing for titles or authority. Or perhaps it delights in mocking them. Max Sternreich, the Nobel laureate, crawls doglike through the grass; Helbert, the celebrated neurologist, gasps, his face blue and twitching; Kilian, the AI prodigy, whimpers like a child. Only Donnerer, muttering Pater Nosters, moves with grim determination.
As posterity now knows, Kawabata is an archaeological marvel, studied by scores of scholars. While the rest of the globe suffered nature’s convulsions, leaving scant record, the Onsen’s sheltered valley preserved not only well-mummified remains but also, thanks to that hidden microphone, the final moments of the Seven great ones.
The pavilion, crushed like a toy, slides into the hissing lake. Donnerer wrings his hands, murmuring prayers; Sternreich stammers equations — something involving the speed of light squared. But neither God nor science quells nature’s fury. First, hail batters their prone bodies; then, as if reconsidering, the air turns furnace-hot — the volcanic earth awakening in wrath. Adelheid, seized by madness, flings herself back into the boiling water. But it is already over: the mountain buries all seven beneath a mudslide of enraged debris.
Thus, half a millennium later, Kawabata’s relics show us what befell the planet Gaya. Its inhabitants, having lost all measure and humility, fancied they could whip Mother Nature like a stubborn mule and lead her by the nose. They imagined themselves creators, masters of the universe at the push of a button, mass-producing an omniscient God via AI. It never came to pass. The planet shook them off, burying them beneath desert sands, rubble, and ocean depths.