The Pope made a noise that sounded like a chuckle. “No, certainly I am not. Would you expect me to be? Did you think that you could cast my pattern and that it would not deviate? That in the light of new fact and new thought, the pattern still would persist as the image of what you and your fellows thought a thousand years ago? You are right; I am no longer pure robot; I have lost much of the humanity that you put into me. I have grown—well, let us say more alien, as the centuries have crept along. I have so much alienness fed into me—some of it, in part, pure garbage—that I have become, in some aspects, alien. This could have been expected even by you, John. It was necessary. I had to develop certain alien faculties to handle all the alien concepts that are dumped into me. I have changed. Certainly I have changed. I am no longer the instrument that you robots made. I am amazed that you are not aware of that. I have a backlog of data that is catalogued and waiting to be fitted into whatever matrix that conceivably could make use of it. I can tell you from sad experience that my trillions of little jigsaw pieces often do not fit, even when they appear to be a perfect fit, but have to be taken out and put back on the shelf until another pattern shows up where one or two, or a dozen, or a hundred of them, might appear to be of value. I don’t mind telling you that I am crammed with half-finished puzzles, some of which may need only a few more pieces to make them come together, but others, many others, that may never come together, that will never come to anything at all. That’s the trouble with you robots. You want answers and I haven’t any answers. As I told you, the universe is not so simple as it once appeared. I am a long-range project and you people are expecting short-range results from me.…”
“Your Holiness, a thousand years is not short-range.”
The Pope made the chuckling noise again. “In my kind of business, it is. If I last a million years—”
“You will last a million years. We will see you do.”
“Well, then,” said the Pope, “there is some hope that we will attain your goal.”
“My goal. Your Holiness, you speak as if it isn’t yours.”
“Oh, it’s mine, all right. But the other aspects of our research cannot be ignored. There is no way of knowing in what direction any segment of research will lead—many times in unsuspected directions.”
“Your Holiness, you have allowed Vatican to become sidetracked, you have encouraged it to go baying off in all these other directions that you speak of. The cardinals are grabbing for power—”
“I do not deny,” said His Holiness, “that some of my cardinals have turned out to be a poor lot, but they’re not entirely bad. Administratively, some of them are sound. For example, the pilgrim program has been handled rather neatly.”
“I am amazed you’re so cynical, Your Holiness, as to mention the pilgrim program. We keep it going only for the revenue it brings. We feed these poor pilgrims a sordid mish-mash of religious concepts that they cannot understand, but that have a pleasant sound, although very little truth and less sincerity. The worst of it is that because they cannot understand the concepts, they believe in them.”
“Very little truth, you say. I could ask you what is truth, but I won’t, for you’d try to answer and confuse me all the more. I’m not sure but that I agree with you about the pilgrims, but the program does bring in a handsome revenue of which we stand in need and it furnished us an excellent cover as a crackpot cult—in case anyone ever thinks of us, which I doubt they do.”
“I deplore that attitude,” said the gardener. “In the pilgrim program we are only going through the motions and we should do more than that, we could do more than that. We should touch every soul we can.”
“That’s what I like so much about you, John. Your concern with soul even when you must know you do not have a soul.”
“I do not know I have no soul. I rather think I have. It makes sense to say that every intelligence has a soul.”
“Whatever a soul may be,” said the Pope.
“Yes, whatever a soul may be.”
“No one else could say such things to me,” said His Holiness, “nor I such things to them. That is why you’re so valuable to me, so much a friend, although the way we talk does not seem to indicate we’re friends. There was one time I thought of you as a cardinal, but you were of infinitely greater help as a gardener. Would you like to be a cardinal?”
The gardener made an obscene sound.
“I supose it’s just as well,” said the Pope. “You are dangerous as a gardener; you’d be even more dangerous as a cardinal. Tell me now and don’t stammer to give you time to make up a lie. You were the one, were you not, who set off this business of canonizing Mary?”
“Yes, I was. I do not apologize for it. The people need a saint—the devout robots in Vatican and the humans in the village. Their faith grows weak; it needs some reinforcement. There must be something soon to reaffirm the purpose that we held when we first came here. But if Mary was booted out of Heaven …”
“John, do you know that as a fact?”
“No, I don’t. I told you it was but a rumor. Mary did go somewhere and was traumatized—how, I am not sure. Ecuyer has dug in his heels and refused to turn the crystal over to Vatican. That prissy little doctor of ours evades my questions. He knows whatever Ecuyer knows. The two of them are buddies.”
“I’m not comfortable with the procedure of hauling forth a saint,” said the Pope. “It’s a throwback to the Christianity of Earth. Not that Christianity was a bad thing—it was not—but it was far from what it pretended to be. I use the past tense, knowing full well Christianity still survives, but speaking in the past because I have no idea how it has developed, if it has developed.”
“You can be sure,” said John with some bitterness, “that it has changed. Not necessarily developed, but changed.”
“Back to the saint idea. Your proposal that Mary be made a saint is somewhat tainted now if the rumor you mention should be true. We cannot make a saint out of a woman who has been kicked out of Heaven.”
“That’s exactly what I am trying to explain to you,” said the gardener. “We need a saint or some other symbol that will serve to anchor our faith into the foreseeable future. I have watched and waited for a saint but none showed up—not even a marginal saint. Mary is the first one, and we must not allow her to slip through our fingers. Vatican must get hold of the Heaven cube—this last Heaven cube—and either destroy or suppress it. We must deny with all our strength and authority that she was booted out of Heaven—”
“First of all,” said the Pope, “you must know that it isn’t Heaven.”
“Of course it’s not,” said John.
“But you are willing to allow the lesser breeds to believe it is.”
“Your Holiness, we need a saint. We need a Heaven.”
“We talked a while ago about our search for a more honest religion and now—”
“But, Your Holiness—”
“If it’s a saint we need,” said His Holiness, “I can suggest a better candidate than Mary—an intelligent, deeply ambitious robot so selfless in his love of his people and his hope for their salvation that he gave up his chance to a high post in Vatican to work as a humble gardener communing with his roses.…”
The gardener made a disrespectful sound.
Chapter Thirty-one
The Old Ones of the Woods talked among themselves, the comfortable, neighborly talk of little consequence—from all around the planet they talked to one another, filled with respect for one another, easy with their relationships.
—There was a time, said one of them who dwelled on a verdant plain that stretched for hundreds of miles on the other side of the mountain range that towered over Vatican, there was a time when I was much concerned with the metal race that settled on our surface. I feared they would expand, reaching for our soil and trees, for our mineral treasures, wasting our water and our land. I was even more concerned when we learned that the metal race was the creation of an organic folk who designed them as their s
ervants. But after long years of keeping watch, there appears to be no danger.
—They are decent folk, said the Old One who lived in the hills above Decker’s cabin, from which point he kept close watch on Vatican. They use our resources, but they use them wisely, taking only as they need, careful to preserve the fertility of the soil.
—In the beginning, said another who dwelled among the high peaks to the west of Vatican, I was disturbed by their extensive use of trees. In the beginning, and even now, they have the need of vast amounts of wood. But they harvest wisely, they are not wasteful and they never overcut. At times they plant young saplings to replace the trees they’ve taken.
—They are most satisfactory neighbors, said still another one who lived beside an ocean halfway around the planet. If we were fated to have neighbors, we have been lucky in them.
—Yet, said the one living on the plain, a short time ago it became necessary to kill.…
—Not the metal ones, said the Old One who lived on Decker’s hill, but members of that organic race we have spoken of. There are others of them here, there have been others here ever since the coming of the metal ones. But those who live with us permanently must be a special breed. They have no designs on our planet or ourselves. Rather, they are afraid of us, a situation we do not wish, but an attitude of which it would be difficult to disabuse them. The ones we killed included an outsider newly come to us and a different folk entirely. He had a weapon which he felt certain could put an end to us, although why he should have wanted to put an end to us, I do not understand.
—Obviously, said another one, we could not put up with that.
—No, we could not, said the Decker Old One, although there was much regret at doing what we had to do. Especially we regretted the killing of the others who accompanied the one who sought an end of us. They were not so depraved as he, but they did go along with him.
—It was the only way we could have acted, said the Old One by the ocean. You pursued the proper course.
They ceased their talk for a moment, silent, but showing one another what they saw and sensed—the wide, flat prairie with its far horizons, grass blowing in long swaths before the wind, like waves upon a sea, the soft color here and there of prairie flowers, sisters to the grass; the wide sand beach that ran for miles along the foaming ocean, with birds that were something less and something more than birds running on the sands, not each one alone, but all of them together in formations that fell just short of a formal dance; the deep, hushed solemnity of a shadowed forest, the forest floor clean of undergrowth, the stark, dark trunks of trees forming, in whatever direction one might look, long blue-misty aisles that led into foreverness; a deep tree-and-brush-shrouded ravine, with great out-thrusts of naked rock along both of the steep converging hillsides that formed the ravine, a place alive with tiny, skittering, friendly life that ran and squeaked among the outthrust rocks and the fallen rotting tree trunks, with the crystal singing of a hidden brook that dashed and foamed along the rocky bed where the hillsides came together.
—We have been lucky, said the one who crouched above the singing ravine. We have been able, with no great labor on our part, to preserve the planet as it was created. As wardens, we have done little more than watch over it, checking from time to time to see that all is well. There have been no invaders who held intent to misuse the planet or do it harm. Had we faced such a challenge there have been times when I’ve wondered how well we could have carried out our charge.
—We would have done well, I’m sure, said the One atop the mountain above Vatican. Instinctively, we would have known how to act.
—We did fail in one regard, said the Decker Old One. We let the Dusters get away.
—There was nothing we could have done about it, said the Old One on the plain. We could not have stopped their leaving. I am not sure it would have been right for us to do so. They were intelligent creatures and should have been accorded free will.
—Which we accorded them, said the One beside the ocean.
—But they originated here and developed here, said an Old One who lived in a distant desert. They were part of the planet and we allowed them to depart. Their leaving subtracted something from the planet. I have often wondered what function they might have carried out if they had stayed.
—Old Ones, said the One within the forest, this is footless speculation. They left long ago. Whether they would, in time, have exercised some influence on the planet, we cannot know. The planet may not have suffered from their leaving. Their influence, if there had been any, might have been adverse. I find myself wondering why this matter was brought into our conversation.
—Because one of them remains, said the Decker Old One. It lives with one of the organic beings that created the metal ones. When the others left, it remained behind. I have puzzled over why it should have remained behind. More than likely it was simply left here when the others went away. They may, as a matter of fact, have left it intentionally. You see, it is a runt.…
Chapter Thirty-two
The glitter of diamond dust floated in the air just above the spindly, gilded chair that stood beside the table with the marble top.
—So you’re back, said Tennyson.
—Please, said Whisperer. Please!
—I am not about, said Tennyson, to cave in to your pleas. But I think it’s time for us to talk.
—I’ll talk, said Whisperer I’ll talk most willingly. I’ll tell you who and what I am, and no other knows who or what I am. I’ll answer all your questions.
—All right, then, tell me what you are.
—The Old Ones call me Duster and Decker calls me Whisperer and—
—It’s immaterial what you may be called, said Tennyson. Tell me what you are.
—I am an unsubstantial conglomerate of molecules, all the molecules disassociated and yet making up myself. Every molecule of me, perhaps every atom of me, is intelligent. I am a native of this planet, although I can remember no beginning and I anticipate no end. I may, in fact, be immortal, although I’ve never thought upon it. Although, come to think of it, I am sure I am. There is no killing me. Even were I scattered, so thoroughly scattered that no atom of my being ever found another atom of my being through all eternity, yet I know each atom would be a life within itself, still sentient, still intelligent.
—It would seem to me, said Tennyson, that you are an efficient fellow. You’re immortal and intelligent and no one can so much as lay a hand on you. You’ve got it made.
—But I have not got it made. True, I have intelligence and, as an intelligent being, I have the drive to learn and know, but I lack the tools to learn and know.
—So you seek a tool.
—You put it very crudely.
—You want to use me as a tool. A tool to help you learn and know. What is it that you want to know?
—I need to know of Vatican and of the work that’s done here. I need to enter into the worlds the Listeners are finding. For long and long I’ve tried, and I have learned a little, but so very little. One does not enter into the thought processes of machines. They’ve not that kind of mind. My probing of them, or my attempts to probe them through the years, has made Vatican suspicious. They know there is someone probing, but they don’t know who it is. They try to seek me out but they do not find me. They probably are unaware that I exist.
—You think that I can help you? That I’d be willing to?
—You can help me. Of that there is no question. You can view the cubes. If you only let me in your mind so I can share what you see within the cubes, then the two of us together …
—But, Whisperer, why me? There is Ecuyer.
—I have tried with Ecuyer. He is insensitive to me. No more sensitive than the robots; he does not know I am there, does not even see the glitter of me. Decker sees the glitter and I can talk with him, but he cannot view the cubes and his mind is closed to me. That leaves only you, and perhaps one other.
—One other?
—The
one that you call Jill.
—You have talked with her?
—No, I have not talked with her. But I think I could; also her mind is not closed to me.
—Let’s leave her out of it, said Tennyson. For the moment, leave her out of this. Is that understood?
—It is understood. We’ll leave her out of it.
—You want to view the cubes with me. To get inside my mind and view the cubes with me. Is that all you want?
—Perhaps not all. But the most important.
—Now tell me why. Why is it so important that you view the cubes?
—To regain my heritage.
—Now, back up a minute there, said Tennyson. What has your heritage got to do with it?
—I was, so long ago that time grows dim in the thinking of it, only one small part of a cloud of me—a cloud of other Dusters, or if you wish, of other Whisperers. I say a cloud of me, for I do not know if the cloud was one, if I was a minor part of a larger entity, or if the cloud was made up of very many single entities like me. The cloud had a heritage, it had a destiny—perhaps you could say that it had a task. That task was to know the universe.
—You don’t say, said Tennyson.
—But I do say. Would I deceive you, running the chance that you should learn of my deceit, thus losing any hope of the cooperation that I seek of you?
—That makes sense. I don’t suppose you would. But what happened to the cloud?
—It went away and left me, said Whisperer. Why I do not know. Nor do I know where it went except that I know it went to seek out the universe. In bitter hours I’ve pondered why it went and left me. But leaving me, it did not take away my heritage. By every means I still seek out the universe.
—Of course you do, said Tennyson.
—You mock me. You lack belief in me?
—Let’s put it this way, said Tennyson. I am not overwhelmed by belief in you. All you’ve told me so far is what you want to do and how you need my help. I ask you now—what is there in it for me? What do I get out of it? Something more, I hope, than the pleasure of your company.