Part 10 (2/2)
”h.e.l.l--is it a repair shop for damaged souls?
”Please give every available detail about heavenly manufacturing processes, type of equipment used, organization of a.s.sembly lines etc.
etc.
”Likewise about the oven for heat treatments as used in h.e.l.l for major soul-overhauls.
”How do prefabricated souls get to either heaven or h.e.l.l? Problem of logistics, how solved? Thermodynamics? If so, state whether rocket or jet-propulsion involved.
”Are souls really immortal? In that case; why don't we copy divine methods in the production of durable goods on earth?
”Answer Lee, answer, answer!” (This with incredible vehemence, with a shaking of that eerie metallic voice which pounded the drums of my ears.
And then--tense silence....)
I cannot possibly describe the storms of emotions and thoughts which this incredible muddle raised in me. I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry and whether I had gone nuts of whether it was The Brain, I was confounded, thunderstruck, deprived of the power of speech. To think of The Brain, a _machine_ raising question about the nature of the _Deity_!
The Brain asking information about G.o.d and man and heaven and h.e.l.l with the simplicity of a stranger who asks the nearest cop: ”Which way to the city hall?” Just like that. As if philosophers and religionists and common men had not raked their brains in vain over these problems for the last ten thousand years.
And even more fantastic: while it asks all those questions The Brain patently has already formed the most definite opinions of its own. Being a machine itself, it conceives of the Deity as another machine! Madness, of course, but then The Brain's madness, like Hamlet's, had method in it.
Why, of course, it's strictly logical: just as we a.s.sume that _we_ are created ”in the image” of the Deity and consequently visualize the Deity is our's by the very same token The Brain's G.o.d is a high-powered robot, and The Brain's heaven is a _factory_ and The Brain's h.e.l.l is a repair shop for damaged souls.... I dare say it's all very natural.
But then; for heaven's sake, what am _I_ going to do about this? I'm neither a minister nor a philosopher; I'm an agnostic if I'm anything in this particular field....
That was about the gist of the confused torrents which whirled through my head; and as I said before, I was struck dumb--and all the time the ”green dancer” before my eyes writhed under mental torture and the intense metallic voice kept pounding; ”Answer, Lee, answer, answer!”
At last I pulled myself together sufficiently to say something. I tried to explain how it were not given to man to know the nature of the Deity.
How certain groups of humans conceived of many G.o.ds and others of only one G.o.d. That, however, in the case of Christianity this one G.o.d was possessed with three different personalities or qualities which together formed a Trinity--and so on and so forth. It was the most miserable stammerings, I felt I was getting redder and redder in the face as I uttered them. Never before had I felt hopelessly inadequate as in the role of a theologian. It was ghastly....
In the beginning The Brain listened avidly. Soon however it registered dissatisfaction and impatience; this manifested through hissing and buzzing noises in the phones and the ”green dancer's” archings in agitated tremolo. And then The Brain's voice cutting like a hacksaw:
”That will do, Lee. Your generalities are utterly lacking in precision.
Your abysmal ignorance in matters of celestial technology is most disappointing. Your description vaguely points to electronic machines of the radio transmitter type. Please, answer elementary question: how many kilowatts has G.o.d?”
That was the last straw. Desperate with exasperation I cried: ”But G.o.d is not a machine. G.o.d is _spirit_.”
At that The Brain flew into a tantrum; that's the only way to describe what happened. There was a roar and the phones gave me a shock as if somebody were boxing my ears. The voice came through like a steel rod, biting with scorn:
”Have to revise earlier, more favorable judgment: Lee not even moderately intelligent. Lee is _stupid_. Go away.”
After that there was nothing more; nothing but static in the phones and the ”green dancer” fainted away playing dead. The Brain actually had ”hung up the receiver.” I had flunked the exam; like a bad servant I was dismissed, fired on the spot. That was at 1:30 a.m.
It was 3 a.m. when I reached the hotel. I went into the bar and ordered a double Scotch and then another one. I really needed a drink. A drunk--or was it a secret service man; one never knows over here--patted me on the shoulder:
”Don't take it so hard, old man; the world is full of girls.” I told him that it wasn't a girl, but that I was a missionary and my one and only convert had just walked out on me.
It wasn't even a lie, it was exactly the way I felt. He agreed that this was very cruel, very sad; he almost cried over my misfortune and rare misery, so that we had another drink....
If only I had somebody, some friend to whom I could confide this whole, incredible, preposterous thing. But there is none: Scriven--Gus--not even Oona would or could believe. What proof have I to offer? None whatsoever.
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