“You did that, yes,” the computer said.
“Then let’s get on with this meeting that you’ve made ‘special arrangements’ for.”
“Someone will be around shortly, sir, to speak with you. In the meantime, perhaps you would like to watch some entertaining Tri-Dimensional shows.” A panel slid open in the left-hand wall, revealing a Tri-D set When it popped on, the computer said, “There are no controls in the room with you—in the past, some prisoners have broken them off either in anger or in an attempt to find something to use as a weapon—but I’ll tune in whatever you ask to see. Right now, the early evening Pritchard Robot Show is on. Would you like to watch that? Most everyone does.”
Jessie looked away from the light fixture and stared at the padded door. “How long until I can see someone?”
“Only a few minutes, sir. A quarter of an hour.”
“I demand a lawyer.”
“But you aren’t under arrest, sir. Therefore, we are under no obligation to secure your counsel.”
“I feel like I’m under arrest.”
A tone of exasperation crept into the computer’s voice. “No, sir, you are not, despite how you may feel. As I have already explained, you are in the protective-custody wing, not in the prison itself.”
“What am I being protected from?” he wanted to know. He saw there was no handle on the inside of the door, no way to open it except from the hall beyond.
“Yourself,” the computer said.
“I’m being protected from myself?”
“Yes, sir. It’s felt that you’ve generated an enormous amount of violence these last two days, most of it directed against yourself, in the end.”
“You have to let me out,” Jessie insisted, pushing uselessly at the door. “How can you protect me from myself if I’m in here with me?”
The computer was silent.
“Well?”
When it spoke, it chose to change the subject. “Would you like to watch some of the Pritchard Robot Show, sir?”
Sighing, the detective turned and faced the Tri-D set, saw the world-famous features of Pritchard Robot, studio lights gleaming dully on the burnished, metallic head as the simulacrum leaned across his desk and pointed a ball-jointed, five-inch finger at his guest. “Who’s he interviewing tonight?” Jessie asked.
“Right now, he’s talking with God,” the computer said. “From monitoring other cells and the reactions of the prisoners viewing the show, I’d say this is one of his most successful interviews.”
Jessie sat down on the edge of his bed and stared morosely at the bright Tri-D screen. “Bring up the sound,” he said.
“I know you’ll enjoy it, sir,” the computer said.
On the screen, Pritchard Robot looked at his guest with the same, flat, unchanging metallic expression he had been built with, and he said, “You do not purport to be the ultimate God, the all-powerful God, the number one world master, the big boy in the sky, the hot shot universe builder?”
The camera cut to a large, muscular man with rich white hair and an enormous, flowing beard. He was handsome in spite of his age, filled with an obvious vitality. “I’ve never claimed any such thing, as you must well be aware, Pritchard.”
“Call me Mr. Robot, please,” Pritchard said.
Oh boy, Jessie thought, it’s one of those confrontations, is it? He felt sorry for God, but he leaned forward, anxious to see what Pritchard would do to the old goat.
“Tell me, Mr. God, is it not true that you are both the god of the Jews and Christians alike?”
“I’m only a third of the Christian pantheon,” God said, obviously stung by the interviewer’s personal rebuke.
“But you do serve a purpose in both theologies?” The harsh, yet winning, voice of Pritchard Robot brooked no debate.
“Yes,” God said.
“How is it possible to be both a god of wrath and a god of mercy?”
“Now wait just a minute,” God said.
“Aren’t you deceiving either the Jews or the Christers?” Pritchard Robot wanted to know.
“It was human beings who wrote the Bible, flesh-and-blooders who said these things. They’re the ones who created the conflict, not me. I was an innocent party.” The old man brushed at his beard. “I had no say in what I was to be, as you know.”