“Go ahead, Pete,” Dr. Abernathy’s voice sounded in his ear.
Pete said, “I’m pretty certain I’ve picked up his trail.” He told Dr. Abernathy about the SOWer children. “If they hadn’t seen him,” he pointed out, “then there would be nothing for them to protect. And they were protecting. I’m going to continue on this path.”
“Good luck to you,” Dr. Abernathy said, dryly. “Listen, Pete; if you do find him, don’t do anything to him.”
“Why not?” Pete said. “In our conversation a day or so ago, when you and I –”
“I never told you to follow McMasters. And I never told you to stop him or harm him.”
“No, you didn’t,” Pete admitted. “But you did say, ‘When the inc returns with a photograph of the Deus Irae and begins on his murch, it will constitute a decided gain for the SOWers and for Father Handy in particular.’ It’s not difficult to deduce from that what you really want, and what would be best for the Old Church.”
“It is the greatest sin,” Dr. Abernathy said, “to kill. The commandment reads, ‘Do not kill.’ ”
“It reads, ‘Do not murder,'” Pete answered. “There are three Hebrew verbs that mean kill or something like kill; in this case the word meaning murder is ’employed.’ I checked the Hebrew source myself. And I know what I’m talking about.”
“Nevertheless –”
Pete interrupted, “I won’t hurt him. I have no intention of doing him any harm.” But, he thought, if Tibor McMasters does lead me to the God of Wrath — so — called — I will. . . what will I do? he asked himself.
We’ll see, he decided. “How’s Lurine?” he said, changing the subject.
“Fine.”
“I know what it is I’m doing,” Pete said. “Just let me do what I have to, Father. It’s my own responsibility, not yours, if you don’t mind my speaking so directly.”
“And you,” Dr. Abernathy said, “are my responsibility.”
A short silence.
“I’ll report to you twice a day,” Pete said. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement. And of course Tibor McMasters may never find Carl Lufteufel, so probably what we’re saying is academic.”
“I will pray for you,” Dr. Abernathy said.
The circuit fell apart; Dr. Abernathy had hung up. Pete, shaking his head and grunting, placed the radio gear back in his shoulder-pack. He sat crouched down for a time, then got out a pack of Pall Malls and lit up one of his few precious cigarettes.
Why am I here? he asked himself. Have I been sent here by my superior? Was I supposed to derive this assertion from the conversation he and I had back in town. . . or did I read something into what the doctor was saying? Hard to be sure, he thought. If I do commit a crime, or a sin, Dr. Abernathy can disavow it. He “won’t know,” the way the old-time gangsters used to say about a rubout. Churches and the Cosa Nostra have something in common: a sort of pristine indifference at the very top levels. All the malignant chores fall to the smallfries down at the bottom.
Of which I am one, he informed himself.
He did not like such thoughts; he sought to thrust them away. However, they refused to go.
“Father in Heaven,” he prayed as he carefully smoked his cigarette, “let me know what to do. Should I continue to follow Tibor McMasters or should I give up on moral grounds? But there’s another point: I can help Tibor — he shouldn’t be going so far in his cow cart. I would of course help him, were he to get stuck or damaged or injured; that goes without saying. So my trip is not patently malign; it could be in a good cause, a humanitarian search to find an inc who, in point of fact, may be already dead. Aw, the hell with it.” He abandoned his prayer and sat brooding.
The day had become warm. In a thousand thickets around him, insects and birds scuttled, and on the ground itself several small animals could be seen, each following the sacred drive within that Jehovah had instilled in it to cherish and protect it. He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt into a tangled growth of bindweed and wild oats.
Now, where would he have gone from here? Pete asked himself. He got out his map and studied it. I’m about here, he told himself as he marked a spot. Close to the Great C. . . I don’t want to get near that damn thing. But suppose it snatched up Tibor McMasters? I may have to go there after all.
“Damn it,” he snarled, aloud. He did not feel very Christian, while meditating about that feral electronic entity left over from prewar days. Why didn’t it just wear out and die? he wondered. What is God’s purpose that He lets it continue, as it does? A menace to every organic creature in a five-mile radius.
I’ll be damned if I’m going that way, he informed himself. If Tiber’s in there, well, then I am just out of luck. And so is he — after all, I’m trying to help him. Or am I? He felt utterly confused. I won’t know either way until the time comes, he realized. Like an existentialist, I will infer my state from the actions I perform. Thought follows deed, as Mussolini taught. In Anfang war die Tat, as Goethe says in Faust. In the beginning was the deed, not the word, as John taught, John and his Logos doctrine. The Greekization of theology.
From his pack he got out a pair of binoculars; with them he scanned the horizon, trying to see what lay ahead for him. The world, a teeming zoo. Species here that don’t exist there. Creatures that everyone feared, and creatures no one even knew about. Human, supra-human, quasihuman, pseudohuman. . . every type imaginable and a few that were not.
There, to the right, lay the abode of the Great C. Well, he would damn well not go that way. Alternate routes? He peered about, enjoying the light-gathering properties of the binocular’s prisms. Fields, with human and robot farmers tramping the acrid earth. . . hard to tell the robots from the live ones. From dust to dust, he said to himself. Dann es gehet dem Menschen wie dam Vier; wie dies stirbt, so stirbt mer auch. As it goes with man, so goes it with the animals: as one dies so dies the other.
What does it mean, “to die”? he wondered. Uniqueness always perishes. Nature works by overproducing each species; uniqueness is a fault, a failure of nature. For survival there should be hundreds, thousands, even millions of one species, all interchangeable — if all but one dies, then nature has won. Generally it loses. But himself. I am unique, he realized. So I am doomed. Every man is unique and hence doomed.
A melancholy thought.
He looked at his wristwatch. Tiber had been gone sixty-two hours. How far could a cow cart travel in sixty-two hours? Damn far. The snail’s pace would be constant, chipping away, wearing away the miles. Probably he is forty or so miles from Charlottesville, Pete decided. Better to assume the worst.
I wonder if he senses me following him, he wondered.
What would the inc do? Apparently he was armed; Ely had said something about that. Tibor, of course, would act to protect himself; as would anyone else. In his pack Pete had four .38 cartridges and a police special revolver. I can blow him to bits with that, Pete observed. And I would if he fired on me first. We would both act to preserve our lives; that is God’s instinct. We have no choice.
Out here, away from town, both of them were waging a dying battle against the Antagonist. In the form of decay, the Antagonist fed on both of them; he fed on the bodies of the living, making them revert to their final earthly state. . . from which God would lift them when the time approached. Ressurrection of the body, of a perfect, uncorruptible ultimate body which could not decay or perish or be changed for better or worse. The blood and the body are not the flesh which hung on the cross. Et cetera. That, believed even by the heretics of the Wrath Church: a universal belief, now. With no question. Tibor, ahead of him, must have thought the same thoughts as he jogged along in his cow cart, bumped and rolled and wheezed over the arid terrain. We are united, he and I, by this one common thread of dogma. For an instant we are one person, McMasters and I. I feel it. But it never lasts. Like uniqueness, it perishes.
All the good things perish, Pete thought. Here, anyhow; in this world. But in the next they are like Plato’s matrix theory: they are beyond loss and destruction.