I don't know why. So I was knocking door-to-door this week to ask them all.
The fifth house I checked was surprising. It was like a greenhouse, but with huge factory clockwork gears built into the architecture and churning and creaking all over, and hundreds of baby animals frolicking about playing with brightly-colored toys. There were Greek pillars and alchemy tubes and ancient stone tablets littered around the place among all the indoor flowers and trees.
Now, I'm used to the scientists who make giant robots, or time machines, or AI computers that will turn against their creators, or that sort of thing. And I'm used to the armchair-philosopher mad scientists who just sit in a chair mulling over abstract principles until something terrible happens. I'm even pretty comfortable with those syncretic cyber-shamans, mostly. But this one? I had to ask.
And you know what you get when you ask a mad scientist about their work: Monologues.
"The Ancient Greeks believed there are are four types of love: Philios, Storge, Eros, and Agape. Philios is a friendly affection. Storge is a "natural" love of family. Eros is sexual love. And Agape is a divine, transcendant kind of love."
I nodded with polite detached comprehension, as my mother taught me to do when speaking with mad scientists.
"My goal is to create a fifth type of love, unlike those other four. I posit that it must exist, since five is such a nice number."
"And what will this 'fifth type of love' be like?" I asked.
The mad scientist scowled at me deeply, as if my ignorant question just lumped me into the same category as those short-sighted fools back at the university.
"I can't tell you that. I haven't invented it yet. But I'm pretty sure it'll be a Greek word, too."
Maybe it's the love of a mad scientist for a creation that doesn't exist yet. But I didn't say that.
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