At last, he shut up. Past his thumbs, he saw the sky. The sun stood straight overhead, beaming brilliantly.
“I prayed for rain,” Andrew said, “but perhaps they’re right: I don’t think He listened.”
Across the square a small hunched man in black robes, with a scarlet cowl, emerged from a battered red brick building. In one hand he held a burning torch. He crossed the square toward Julian and Andrew. Cautiously, the mob dropped their stones and went after him.
“That’s the head monk,” Andrew said.
The monk paused in front of Julian and Andrew, looking from one to the other. His cowl neatly shielded his face. Only his eyes showed: tiny white holes amid the shadows.
“You can’t do this,” Julian cried. “I’m a man.”
The monk murmured a prayer, crossed himself and said, “Gather sticks for the fire.”
Shouting gleefully, the children darted obediently away.
“Now look,” said Julian, lowering his voice into a tone of confidence. “All you have to do is untie me. Think of the horrible sin you are committing. In spite of a lifetime of devotion, you will fall straight into hell.”
“To destroy a robot is not a sin. I have slain many. Their melted remains form the foundation of our altar.”
“I understand,” Julian said, not looking at Andrew. “You catch them before they can reach their hellish shrine.”
“Yes,” said the monk, and for a moment Julian thought he had him convinced. Then the monk laughed. “And the same it will be with you.”
“No!” cried Julian. “I’m not going there. I’m going the other way. To visit the Chapel of Diego.”
“Blasphemers,” said the monk, with cold fury. “Heretics who toy with the sacred word of God to increase their own profit.”
“But that’s why I’m going there. Here—step forward. Look through the crack in my neck. Tell me what you see.”
Cautiously, the monk came forward, holding the torch over his head. Julian tried to tilt back, so that the sun would illuminate beneath his armor. The monk put his eye carefully against the narrow crack in the armor. Julian heard him gasp.
“You wear the cross,” said the monk.
“Doesn’t that prove I’m telling the truth? Look again. It’s made of pure silver. See how it glitters.”
“You stole it from an honest Christian.”
“No, no,” said Julian.
Abruptly, Andrew’s voice intruded: “He’s telling the truth, brother. He’s no kin of mine.”
The monk considered this. Finally, he whispered, “I don’t believe a word, but”—sighing—”I dare not risk the threat of hell.” He waved at two black-cowled assistants. “Untie this robot.”
When the crowd saw this, they howled with dismay. Andrew laughed and swore at them, which only stirred them up more. The crowd rushed toward the gallows, pelting Andrew and Julian with rocks.
The red monk inserted himself in front of the mob, explaining rapidly: “This robot has asked to confess. He wishes the Lord to carry his soul to heaven.”
“Robots don’t have souls,” said a member of the crowd. “You told us that yourself, brother.”
“But the robot doesn’t know it.” The monk lowered his voice to a murmur and tapped his forehead. “The thing is stupid. Not like a true man.”
The crowd relented, stepping back. Not until he passed through the monastery door and saw it closed and locked behind him did Don Julian believe that he was saved. In a matter of seconds, he stripped off his armor, exposing the pink flesh beneath.
Then he wept in utter relief.
But, even after that, he had to suffer several minutes of stabbing, poking and pinching. Two monks held him while a third pressed a burning match against his bare instep. Julian moaned, screamed, chewed his tongue. When a black circle formed, the chief monk said, “All right—release the man.”
Again, Julian wept.
The chief monk permitted him to finish, then said, “Now you must explain why you were accompanying that robot, for that in itself is a mortal crime.”
“I am a holy man,” Julian said. “The robot and some companions thought me an easy victim. I was attacked and forced to wear the suit. They hoped to desert me here, but the robot was captured as well. It was murder. Evil.”
From without came the rising cries of the angry mob. A clattering was heard. A fist pounded the door. A desperate monk fell inside. “They are running amok. They demand the other robot”—he looked around in surprise—”be brought to die.”
The chief monk scratched his chin, then turned to Julian. “You wouldn’t be willing to make a personal sacrifice? It would be a martyr’s death, you know. Surely, the Lord would reward—”
“My mission to Diego,” Julian said. “It is imperative. Perhaps a favored monk . . .”
“Ah,” said the chief, peering into the abruptly sagging ranks of his followers. He extended a finger, saying, “Francis, come forward.” The monks began to chant, their voices high and shrill. One stepped forward, trembling visibly. “To your knees, Francis. Confess your sins.” The howling of the mob had increased; a rock smacked against the door. “And be quick about it. You shouldn’t have much to say.”
As the monk began to murmur a listing of his major sins, Julian edged toward the back door. Regaining his feet, the chosen monk was directed by his chief to dress in Julian’s armor. Julian rested his hand upon the door. Suddenly, the chief monk wheeled on him. “We are devoted men here. Eight times daily we pray. Twice during the night we wake and pray again. For a forty-day period each year we go without solid food. Beneath these robes we wear long shirts made from the most ticklish animal hair. Several of my brothers, in the past, have chosen to reenact the death of Christ upon the cross. My own immediate predecessor burned out his eyes with hot irons and went to live in the desert upon a pillar of wood. The villagers follow our every command, knowing our voices to be touched by the hand of God. This year alone we have burned nine witches and melted twelve devils in the guise of robots. God loves us; we adore him.”
“Of course,” said Julian, pressing himself against the door. He prayed the mob had not come this way. “You have done well, brother.” Wheeling, he threw open the door and dashed into the light of day. He heard the mob pounding at the front door. He ran for the stable.
While saddling the mare, a massive shout reached his ears, coming from the square; he guessed the second robot had appeared to join Andrew. Shuddering with a sudden fear, he lifted Donna Maria’s body and threw it over the back of the horse. Mounting quickly, he galloped away. As he left the edge of the village, he turned and saw a thick trail of gray smoke licking toward the clouds.
Now he was alone. And lost. Without Andrew, he could never find the shrine or expect to reach home again. He rode on. Not until he had placed two fat hills between himself and the village did he pause. Then, dismounting, he crawled into a dry creek bed and lay there motionlessly, his eyes shaded from the harsh sun by the overhanging bank. He held Donna Maria in his arms, hugging her close to his chest, as though she might somehow protect him from the dreadful chasm of the unknown. Softly, he prayed, his voice growing higher and higher, till he was screaming. He made himself stop. He wanted guidance. He prayed softly for forgiveness. He had lied, cheated, forsaken a friend. He asked the Blessed Virgin to come and guide him home.
The wind whipped over him; the clouds fluttered past; the sky was painted a fiery red.
He fell asleep.
The sun dropped below the horizon.
Julian slept, breathing shallowly, bathed in the totality of utter darkness.
Andrew speaking:
It would seem these idiot monks residing in this nameless village—a blot upon the map—were accustomed to dealing with robots of a relatively boyish age, mere children partaking of a first or second pilgrimage to the sacred shrine. Never before had they encountered a crusty vintage hunk of steel and glass such as myself. I had been
turned out centuries before the level of craftsmanship practiced in the hutches began its final decline. As their paltry fire whipped at my ankles, I calmly laughed at the intensity of their emotions. To keep them from getting complacent, I began to shout, alluding frequently to the figure of 441 degrees centigrade, the temperature necessary to melt a robot of my type. Needless to say, the monks had a long way to go before they’d see me dripping wet.
The sight of me standing there and calmly shouting out numbers stirred the mob past the edge of hysteria. I gathered there was some disappointment here. The first robot had gone simply poof- up like a torch. And now here was I, who wouldn’t even smolder.
The head monk scrambled around, trying to get everyone to fall on their knees. His idea was to bring God into the act with a measure of divine intervention.
I started shouting in the old language. I tossed several foul phrases at them, but one might have thought they were hearing the voice of Sebastian himself. The whole lot jumped off the ground and turned to run. The monks dashed into the monastery, slamming and bolting the door. The townspeople went every which way.
By this time the fire had spread high enough to bum the rope holding my thumbs. I stepped easily free, stomping my feet where a few stray twigs were burning.
Shouting out, I asked the monks to come out and fight. I asserted the devil was presently ascending from his black pit—I alluded to a casual friendship—and added that he was mighty angry. Then I laughed (softly).
I had succeeded in my primary desire of separating Julian from me. Now that he was alone, he would be free to go on and learn the truth by himself. I had merely to wait for his eventual enlightened return.
Still, it seemed a pity to leave this nasty flock of black-robed, scarlet-cowled vultures fluttering freely. I considered a measure of wing clipping surely to be in order. The boss monk’s boasting of the composition of his altar still rattled in my memory.
I picked up a torch.
Robots are very strong. With a fist, I battered the monastery door. The wood splintered, collapsed. Going in, I caught the head monk by an ankle and set my torch to the hem of his robe. He burned. I watched, studying his eyes, waiting for a glimpse of the ecstatic pain of the martyr. I saw the pain. The ecstasy never came.
The other monks ran around, too frightened and stupid to flee. I pointed at the door and waited for them to get away before setting their house aflame. From there, I crossed the square and ignited a large saloon. My next target was a grain mill two blocks away. Three more buildings and I thought I had a sufficient blaze. A few villagers running around managed to shout, “Water!” But no one did anything.
I guessed my fellow robots would be safe from now on.
I hastened to the stable before it, too, was gone, and saddled the stallion. Pulling the mule, I rode out. At the edge of town, I turned and surveyed my handiwork, smiling as I saw the licking orange flames rising to clash with the yellow sun. The smoke was pretty, too.
Of course, I haven’t told everything. It’s an old robot trick. We were never programmed to lie, so we just shut up at the right time. The Book of Man is similarly structured. But it’s more than a cheap literary device. Life is the same way.
A man’s whole life, he either believes or he doesn’t Then he dies. Suddenly, everything is dark. The big question is: what then? Does the darkness continue on into eternity, or does a white light suddenly burst forth like a thousand suns? Believing and disbelieving are made irrelevant by the moment itself. The whole question hangs upon the exposure of truth.
It’s a snap ending. It’s one or the other. And you never know till it happens.
I sat upon a big boulder a few miles from the village and proceeded to wait for the end. Above in the sky, rain clouds were gathering.
Once again, Julian was dreaming.
Strangely, this dream seemed at first to be a mere repetition of the last, for again the Blessed Virgin appeared and together they ascended the twisting staircase to the gates of heaven. Once more Julian was offered his choice among the three ways of dying.
He answered, “Fire,” and held out his hands.
But the Blessed Virgin made no move to take him.
She said, “Thy deed has been done. Thou need only choose, and then heaven is open to thee.”
Julian thanked her graciously. Then she took his hands and they passed through the silver gates. Beyond, green wavering fields stretched to the horizon, and sparkling rivers, teeming with life, sliced through the pastures. Overhead, the sky was half light and half dark, the sun glowing on one side, a crisscross of stars and a brilliant moon filling the other. Miniature angels, as small as honeybees, whizzed around him. Away in the distance, he glimpsed tall figures dressed in pure white, but when he approached, the figures were gone. The smell of incense was thick in the air. The breeze was gentle and warm.
The Blessed Virgin gestured at him to sit. Though wet, the grass was not cold.
“And now thou must choose again,” she said. “The Lord our God awaits to receive thee unto his bosom, but first thou must gaze upon the brilliance of his aspect, for it is written that no man shall pass the gates of heaven who cannot stare fearlessly upon the features of the Lord.”
“I will do that,” Julian said, standing and extending his hands. “Take me.”
But the Virgin was gone.
Instead, Julian stood alone. Far away, at the edge of his vision, he saw a fierce golden fight, which hurt his eyes even at such a great distance. He knew what this had to be, and moved forward.
A furious wind rose suddenly, howling around him. Leaves and twigs swept past, floating through the air like fish in a rushing brook. He pressed ahead, lowering his face against the onslaught. Above, thunder cracked in great waves. Rain poured from the sky, soaking his back and shoulders. He shut his eyes to keep the water out.
Now the golden light burned so brightly that it penetrated beneath his closed fids. He stopped, his head still lowered.
The rain ceased.
The wind died.
A voice said, “Arise.”
Trembling, his hands locked in front of him in a gesture of obeisance, Julian opened his eyes and lifted his head. God sat upon a huge golden throne suspended in the air. His long yellow gown, made from the fight of the stars, twinkled and burned.
Julian gazed upon the visage of the Lord.
And could not see Him.
Where the face of God ought to have been was only a thick, swirling, insubstantial mist. He squinted, stared, leaned forward, shouted, cried, glared.
But he saw nothing.
“Oh, Lord,” he cried. “I am thy devoted servant upon the Earth. You must permit me to gaze upon thy aspect.”
But the Lord would not answer and Julian could not see, so now he cursed the Lord for concealing himself from one whose soul was utterly pure. But then the mist changed, taking on a darker shade, and a shape began to form within the cloud. Seeing it, knowing it, Julian cried and stepped back.
For it was the face of Satan that now appeared before him, standing upon the shoulders of the Lord.
Julian ran, wailing. At his feet, the heavens opened and he fell, turning, spinning, falling into utter nothingness.
Gurgling, he spit. Water streamed through his nostrils, flooding his mouth and throat like a river pouring into the sea. He gagged, sputtering, and forced open his eyes.
“Good Lord!” he cried, leaping up.
It was raining. Already, the water stood six inches deep around him. It was dark. The black sky rocked constantly with blasts of heaving thunder. He ran to the mare and tried to hold the horse from bolting, gripping the reins tightly in one hand.
The rain sliced through his thin garments, numbing the flesh, making work impossible. Dropping the reins, he reached down for the saddle, hefting it in his arms. He threw the saddle over the mare, but it slipped off easily, plopping into the mud. He cursed the horse, shook his fists at the sky, cursed the rain
.
Then, suddenly, he remembered: Donna Maria.
He had left her body in the creek bed. He ran desperately back, but she wasn’t there—not unless she was still on the bottom, buried beneath a foot of water and mud. Staring away into the thick rain, he thought he saw something far away: it floated in the center of the newly born river, a dark, heavy log. And it was moving- rushing downhill.
“That’s her!” he cried, certain it was. Already, he was running. He tripped, fell, slid through the mud on his face. He spit, cried, battled back to his feet. A bolt of lightning sliced through the sky, igniting the landscape like a blink of the sun.
“There!” He saw the black log. Again he was running, pacing his steps more cautiously this time, knowing if he fell he might lose her entirely and then he would be completely alone, and he knew he could never bear that. As the creek poured down the slopes of the hill, it got wider and wider, bursting into a true river rippling with white rushing water. Every few seconds, the lightning came. A bolt flared behind—very close—making him jump. Straight ahead, he thought . . . yes, there she was. The creek ran slowly here, forcing its way up a brief incline. A few yards farther, it turned a comer and ran unhindered toward the deep valley below.
If he didn’t save her now, he never would.
He noticed the sharp point of a tree branch protruding from the shallows. Reaching down, he grabbed the stick, barely pausing in his pursuit. Finally, he reached a point where the log was exactly parallel to him, and now he was positive it was Donna Maria out there: he could see the paleness of her face clearly whenever the lightning flashed.
Holding the branch straight in front of him like a lance, he reached out over the water. He moaned. The body swept under the stick, missing rescue by inches. Then the body jumped ahead, swept forward by the current. In a second, Donna Maria would slip around the turn and disappear.
He could barely see anything now, not even when the lightning flashed. His face streamed with water, his eyes stung awfully from the merciless wind. He ran ahead, his heart bursting in his chest.