GODS OF RIVERWORLD by Philip Jose Farmer

“Nur would say that depends upon how they are now.”

“He’s right, of course. He’s always right. Nevertheless ., .”

He spoke to Nur.

“You’re an elitist. You believe, and you’re probably right, that very few have the inborn ability to become Sufi or its philosophical-ethical equivalent. You maintain that even fewer will Go On. The majority just don’t have it in them to attain the ethical level to do that. Too bad, but that’s the way it is. Nature is wasteful with bodies, and she is just as wasteful with souls. Nature has arranged that most flies will become food for birds and frogs, and she has also arranged that most souls will not achieve salvation but will, even though they don’t die like the flies, fail to reach the level set for them. A few Go On, but most are like the flies who become food.”

“The difference,” Nur said, “is that flies are brainless and soulless but human beings are sentient and are aware of what they must do. Should be aware, anyway.”

Burton said, “Would Nature, God, if you will, be that wasteful, that callous?”

“He gave mankind free will,” Nur said. “It is not God’s fault that there is such a waste.”

“Yes, but you yourself have said that genetic .defects, chemical imbalances, accidents to the brain, and social environment can influence a person’s behavior.”

“Influence, yes. Determine, no. No. I must qualify that. There are certain situations and conditions where a person cannot use his free will. But … that is not so here, not in the Riverworld.”

“What if the Ethicals had not given us a second chance?”

Nur smiled and held up his palms outward.

“Ah, but He did arrange it so that the Ethicals did give us another chance.”

“Which, according to you, most people are blowing.”

“You believe it, too, don’t you?”

Burton and Frigate felt uncomfortable. They usually did when they talked with Nur about serious subjects.

That was the last conversation he had in the apartment. As soon as the screens had faded, Burton went into the corridor. He thought for a moment of canceling the codeword so that someone else could use the rooms. However, he might need a place to run to, a place where no one could find him.

Carrying no possessions except the beamer, wearing only a towel-kilt and sandals, he passed through the doorway. Immediately, a screen appeared on the wall across the corridor. Ignoring the picture — his father approaching him threateningly, for what reason Burton did not remember — Burton started to get into the flying chair parked by the wall. Then he turned away from it to face the length of the hall. A roaring was coming from that direction. His hand started toward his beamer but stopped as he recognized the sound.

Presently, a huge black motorcycle zoomed around the corner of the hall several hundred yards away. Its driver was leaning the vehicle deeply to take the turn at high speed. Then the machine straightened up, and, accompanied by a wall-screen displaying an event in the driver’s past, headed toward Burton. The rider, a big black man wearing a visored helmet and a black leather outfit, flashed big white teeth at him.

Burton stood by the chair, refusing to move even though the handlebar of the cycle missed him by only an inch.

“Watch it, motherfucker!” the man shouted, and his laughter dopplered back to Burton.

Burton swore, and he had the Computer form a screen for him so that he could put in a call to Tom Turpin. He had to wait for several minutes before Turpin’s grinning face appeared. He was surrounded by his entourage, men and women flashily dressed, talking loudly and laughing shrilly. Tom was wearing an early twentieth-century suit with a bright and clashing checked design and a scarlet derby with a long white feather. A huge cigar was in his mouth. He had gained at least p

“How you doing, baby?”

“I’m not having as good a time as you,” Burton said sourly. “Tom, I have a complaint, a legitimate one.”

“We sure don’t want no illegitimate gripes, do we?” Torn said, and he puffed out thick green smoke.