Part 15 (1/2)

For one thing, he had been constructed along almost painfully ordinary lines. And for another, they couldn't very well release the information that a mechanical man built by their laboratories was wandering the streets. It would cause a panic. And there was enough panic, what with the nerve gas and the bombs.”

”So they never found him, I gather.”

”No,” Donovan said, wistfully. ”They never found him. And they kept their secret well: it died when they died.”

”And what happened to the creature?”

”Very little, to tell the truth. They'd given him a decent intelligence, you see--far more decent, and complex, then they knew--so he didn't have much trouble finding small jobs. A rather old-looking man, fairly strong--he made out. Needless to say, he couldn't stay in the town for more than twenty years or so, because of his inability to age, but this was all right. Everyone makes friends and loses them. He got used to it.”

Father Courtney sat very still now. The birds had flown away from the telephone lines, and were at the window, beating their wings, and crying harshly.

”But all this time, he's been thinking, Father. Thinking and reading. He makes quite a study of philosophy, and for a time he favors a somewhat peculiar combination of Russell and Schopenhauer--unbitter bitterness, you might say. Then this phase pa.s.ses, and he begins to search through the vast theological and methaphysical literature. For what? He isn't sure. However, he is sure of one thing, now: He is, indubitably, human. Without breath, without heart, without blood or bone, artificially created, he thinks this and believes it, with a fair amount of firmness, too. Isn't that remarkable!”

”It is indeed,” the priest said, his throat oddly tight and dry. ”Go on.”

”Well,” Donovan chuckled, ”I've caught your interest, have I? All right, then. Let us imagine that one hundred years have pa.s.sed. The creature has been able to make minor repairs on himself, but--at last--he is dying. Like an ancient motor, he's gone on running year after year, until he's all paste and hairpins, and now, like the motor, he's falling apart. And nothing and no one can save him.”

The acrid aroma burned and fumed.

”Here's the real paradox, though. Our man has become religious. Father! He doesn't have a living cell within him, yet he's concerned about his soul!”

Donovan's eyes quieted, as the rest of him did. ”The problem,” he said, ”is this: Having lived creditably for over a century as a member of the human species, can this creature of ours hope for Heaven? Or will he 'die' and become only a heap of metal cogs?”

Father Courtney leapt from the chair, and moved to the bed. ”George, in Heaven's name, let me call Doctor Ferguson!”

”Answer the question first. Or haven't you decided?”

”There's nothing to decide,” the priest said, with impatience. ”It's a preposterous idea. No machine can have a soul.”

Donovan made the sighing sound, through closed lips. He said, ”You don't think it's conceivable, then, that G.o.d could have made an exception here?”

”What do you mean?”

”That He could have taken pity on this theoretical man of ours, and breathed a soul into him after all? Is that so impossible?”

Father Courtney shrugged. ”It's a poor word, impossible,” he said. ”But it's a poor problem, too.

Why not ask me whether pigs ought to be allowed to fly?””Then you admit it's conceivable?”

”I admit nothing of the kind. It simply isn't the sort of question any man can answer.”

”Not even a priest?”

”Especially not a priest. You know as much about Catholicism as I do, George; you ought to know how absurd the proposition is.”

”Yes,” Donovan said. His eyes were closed.

Father Courtney remembered the time they had argued furiously on what would happen if you went back in time and killed your own grandfather. This was like that argument. Exactly like it--exactly. It was no stranger than a dozen other discussions (What if Mozart had been a writer instead of a composer? If a person died and remained dead for an hour and were then revived, would he be haunted by his own ghost?) Plus, perhaps, the fact that Donovan might be in a fever. Perhaps and might and why do I sit here while his life may be draining away . . - The old man made a sharp noise. ”But you can tell me this much,” he said. ”If our theoretical man were dying, and you knew that he was dying, would you give him Extreme Unction?”

”George, you're delirious.”

”No, I'm not: please Father! Would you give this creature the Last Rites? If, say, you knew him?

If you'd known him for years, as a friend, as a member of the parish?”

The priest shook his head. ”It would be sacriligious.”

”But why? You said yourself that he might have a soul, that G.o.d might have granted him this.

Didn't you say that?”

”Father, remember, he's a friend of yours. You know him _well_. You and he, this creature, have worked together, side by side, for years. You've taken a thousand walks together, shared the same interests, the same love of art and knowledge. For the sake of the thesis, Father. Do you understand?”

”No,” the priest said, feeling a chill freeze into him. ”No, I don't.”

”Just answer this, then. If your friend were suddenly to reveal himself to you as a machine, and he was dying, and wanted very much to go to Heaven--what would you do?”

The priest picked up the wine gla.s.s and emptied it. He noticed that his hand was trembling.

”Why--” he began, and stopped, and looked at the silent old man in the bed, studying the face, searching for madness, for death.

”What would you do?”

An unsummoned image flashed through his mind. Donovan, kneeling at the altar for Communion, Sunday after Sunday; Donovan, with his mouth firmly shut, while the other's yawned; Donovan, waiting to the last moment, then s.n.a.t.c.hing the Host, quickly, dartingly, like a lizard gobbling a fly.

Had he ever seen Donovan eat?

Had he seen him take one gla.s.s of wine, ever?

Father Courtney shuddered slightly, brus.h.i.+ng away the images. He felt unwell. He wished the birds would go elsewhere.

_Well, answer him_, he thought. _Give him an answer. Then get in the helicar and fly to Milburn and pray it's not too late_ . . .

”I think,” the priest said, ”that in such a case, I would administer Extreme Unction.”

”Just as a precautionary measure?”

”It's all very ridiculous, but--I think that's what I'd do. Does that answer the question?”

”It does, Father. It does.” Donovan's voice came from nowhere. ”There is one last point, then I'm finished with my little thesis.”

”Yes?”

”Let us say the man dies and you give him Extreme Unction; he does or does not go to Heaven, provided there is a Heaven. What happens to the body? Do you tell the towns-people they have beenliving with a mechanical monster all these years?”