Part 14 (2/2)
Father Courtney reached for a cigarette, crumpled the empty pack, laced and unlaced his fingers.
He waited, remembering the times he had come to this house, all the fine evenings. Ending flow?
Yes, Whatever else he would learn, he knew that, suddenly: they were ending.
”What sort of a decision, George?”
”A theological sort.”
Father Courtney snorted and walked to a window. Outside, the sun was hidden behind a curtain of gray. Birds sat black and still on the telephone lines, like notes of music; and there was rain.
”Is there something you think you haven't told me?” he asked.
”Yes.”
”I don't think so, George.” Father Courtney turned. ”I've known about it for a long time.”
The old man tried to speak.
”I've known very well. And now I think I understand why you've refused to see anyone.”
”No,” Donovan said. ”You don't. Father, listen to me: it isn't what you think.”
”Nonsense.” The priest reverted to his usual gruffness. ”We've been friends for too many years for this kind of thing. It's _exactly_ what I think. You're an intelligent, well-read, mule-stubborn old man who's worried he won't get to Heaven because sometimes he has doubts.”
”That isn't--”
”Well, rubbis.h.!.+ Do you think I don't ask questions, myself, once in a while? Just because I'm a priest, do you think I go blindly on, never wondering, not even for a minute?”
The old man's eyes moved swiftly, up and down.
”Every intelligent person doubts, George, once in a while. And we all feel terrible about it, and we're terribly sorry. But I a.s.sure you, if this were enough to d.a.m.n us, Heaven would be a wilderness.”
Father Courtney reached again for a cigarette. ”So you've shut yourself up like a hermit and worried and stewed and endangered your life, and all for nothing.” He coughed. ”Well, that's it, isn't it?”
”I wish it were,” Donovan said, sadly. His eyes kept dancing. There was a long pause; then he said, ”Let me pose you a theoretical problem, Father. Something I've been thinking about lately.”
Father Courtney recalled the sentence, and how many times it had begun the evenings of talk--wonderful talk! These evenings, he realized, were part of his life now. An important part. For there was no one else, no one of Donovan's intelligence, with whom you could argue any subject under the sun--from Frescobaldi to baseball, from colonization on Mars to the early French symbolists, to agrarian reforms, to wines, to theology . . .
The old man s.h.i.+fted in the bed. As he did, the acrid odor diminished and swelled and pulsed.
”You once told me,” he said, ”that you read imaginative fiction, didn't you?”
”I suppose so.”
”And that there were certain concepts you could swallow--such as parallel worlds, mutated humans, and the like--, but that other concepts you couldn't swallow at all. Artificial life, I believe you mentioned, and time travel, and a few others.”
The priest nodded.
”Well, let's take one of these themes for our problem. Will you do that? Let's take the first idea.”
”All right. Then the doctor.”
”We have this man, Father,” Donovan said, gazing at the ceiling. ”He looks perfectly ordinary, you see, and it would occur to no one to doubt this; but he is not ordinary. Strictly speaking, he isn't even a man. For, though he lives, he isn't alive. You follow? He is a thing of wires and coils and magic, acreation of other men. He is a machine . . .”
”George!” The priest shook his head. ”We've gone through this before: it's foolish to waste time. I came here to help you, not to engage in a discussion of science fiction themes!”
”But that's how you _can_ help me,” Donovan said.
”Very well,” the priest sighed. ”But you know my views on this. Even if there were a logical purpose to which such a creature might be put--and I can't think of any--I still say they will never create a machine that is capable of abstract thought. Human intelligence is a spiritual thing--and spiritual things can't be duplicated by men.”
”You really believe that?”
”Of course I do. Extrapolation of known scientific advances is perfectly all right; but this is something else entirely.”
”Is it?” the old man said. ”What about Pasteur's discovery? Or the X-Ray? Did Roentgen correlate a lot of embryonic data, Father, or did he come upon something brand new? What do you think even the scientist themselves would have said to the idea of a machine that would see through human tissue? They would have said it's fantastic. And it was, too, and is. Nevertheless, it exists.”
”It's not the same thing.”
”No ... I suppose that's true. However, I'm not trying to convince you of my thesis. I ask merely that you accept it for the sake of the problem. Will you?”
”Go ahead, George.”
”We have this man, then. He's artificial, but he's perfect: great pains have been taken to see to this. Perfect, no detail spared, however small. He looks human, and he acts human, and for all the world knows, he is human. In fact, sometimes even he, our man, gets confused. When he feels a pain in his heart, for instance, it's difficult for him to remember that he has no heart. When he sleeps and awakes refreshed, he must remind himself that this is all controlled by an automatic switch somewhere inside his brain, and that he doesn't _actually_ feel refreshed. He must think, I'm not real, I'm not real, I'm not real!
”But this becomes impossible, after a while. Because he doesn't believe it. He begins to ask, Why? _Why_ am I not real? Where is the difference, when you come right down to it? Humans eat and sleep--as I do. They talk--as I do. They move and work and laugh--as I do. What they think, I think, and what they feel, I feel. Don't I?
”He wonders, the mechanical man does, Father, what would happen if all the people on earth were suddenly to discover they were mechanical also. Would they feel any the less human? Is it likely that they would rush off to woo typewriters and adding machines? Or would they think, perhaps, of revising their definition of the word, 'Life'?
”Well, our man thinks about it, and thinks about it, but he never reaches a conclusion. He doesn't believe he's nothing more than an advanced calculator, but he doesn't really believe he's human, either: not completely.
”All he knows is that the smell of wet gra.s.s is a fine smell to him, and that the sound of the wind blowing through the trees is very sad and beautiful, and that he loves the whole earth with an impossible pa.s.sion . . .”
Father Courtney s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in his chair. If only the telephone worked, he thought. Or if he could be sure it was safe to leave.
”. . . other men made the creature, as I've said; but many more like him were made. However, of them all, let's say only he was successful.”
”Why?” the priest asked, irritably. ”Why would this be done in the first place?”
Donovan smiled. ”Why did we send the first s.h.i.+p to the moon? Or bother to split the atom? For no good reason, Father. Except the reason behind all of science: Curiosity. My theoretical scientists were curious to see if it could be accomplished, that's all.”
The priest shrugged.
”But perhaps I'd better give our man a history. That would make it a bit more logical. All right, he was born a hundred years ago, roughly. A privately owned industrial monopoly was his mother, and a dozen or so a.s.sorted technicians his father. He sprang from his electric womb fully formed. But, as theresult of an accident--lack of knowledge, what have you--he came out rather different from his unsuccessful brothers. A mutant! A mutated robot, Father--now there's an idea that ought to appeal to you! Anyway, he knew who, or what, he was. He remembered. And so--to make it brief--when the war interrupted the experiment and threw things into a general uproar, our man decided to escape. He wanted his individuality. He wanted to get out of the zoo.
”It wasn't particularly easy, but he did this. Once free, of course, it was impossible to find him.
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