That which I will find in the cathedral, Joe said to himself. Down there, under the water. Already down beneath the sea. Waiting for me…
He thought, I had better get under the water as soon as I can. Will Glimmung let me? he wondered. Especially after he has read this—and he is probably reading it right now, as I stand here; certainly he follows every alteration of the text as it grows, changes, corrects itself day after day. Hour by hour.
If he is smart, Joe thought, he will kill me first. Before I go under water. Kill me, in fact, now.
He stood there, waiting for Glimmung’s violence to come onto him.
It did not come. That’s right, he remembered. Glimmung is asleep.
On the other hand, he meditated, maybe I should not go down there. What would Glimmung recommend? Perhaps that should decide it; if Glimmung wanted him to go under water and inspect the sunken cathedral then he would … if not, then not. Odd, he thought, that my first reaction would be to want to go under water. As if I can’t wait to make my discovery—a discovery which will destroy Glimmung and with him the project of raising the cathedral. A perverse response, he decided. A slip on the part of unconscious inhibitions. Maybe this told him something about himself, something which he had not known. Something evoked by the Kalend and its Book. The Kalends woke this in me, he realized; this is the principle on which they operate. By this, they make their prophecy come true.
“Willis,” he said, “how does one get down to Heldscalla?”
“One descends via suit and mask or via a prolepsis chamber,” the robot said.
“Can you take me there?” Joe asked. “I mean, Willis—”
“Just a moment,” the robot said. “There’s a call coming through to you. An official call.” The robot was silent for a moment. Then it said, “Miss Hilda Reiss, Glimmung’s personal secretary. She wants to talk to you.” A door in the robot’s chest popped open and, out on a tray, came an audio telephone. “Pick up the receiver,” Willis said.
Joe picked up the receiver.
“Mr. Fernwright?” a practiced, competent, female voice said, “I have an urgent request for you from Mr. Glimmung, who is now sleeping. He would prefer it if you did not go down to the cathedral right now. He wants you to wait until someone can go with you.”
“You say ‘request,’” Joe said. “Am I to assume that that’s actually an order? That he’s ordering me not to go below water?”
“All Mr. Glimmung’s instructions,” Miss Reiss said, “come in the form of requests. He does not order; he always merely requests.”
“So this is, actually, an order,” Joe said.
Miss Reiss said, “I think you understand, Mr. Fernwright. Sometime tomorrow, Mr. Glimmung will contact you. Goodby.” The phone clicked, became dead.
“It’s an order,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” Willis the robot agreed. “That’s the way he handles everything, as she cleverly pointed out.”
“But if I tried to go below water—”
“Well, you can’t,” the robot said flatly.
“I can,” Joe said. “I can do it and get fired.”
“You can do it,” the robot said, “and become killed.”
“‘Killed,’ Willis? Killed how and who by?” He felt frightened and angry, a peculiar mixture of emotions that started his vagus nerve into spasms; his breathing, his peristalsis, and his heart rate—all changed radically. “Killed by who?” he demanded.
“You first have to say—aw, the hell with it,” the robot said. “Yes, many feral life-forms. Many hazards.”
“But normal for a task of this kind,” Joe said.
“I suppose you could say that. But a request like this—”
“I’m going under water,” Joe said.
“You will find terrible decay down there. Decay which you cannot imagine. The underwater world in which Heldscalla lies is a place of dead things, a place where everything rots and falls into despair and ruin. That is why Glimmung intends to raise the cathedral. He is unable to endure it down there; neither will you be able to. Wait until he goes under water with you. Wait a few days; heal the pots in your workshop and forget about going below. Glimmung calls it the ‘Aquatic Sub-World.’ He is right; it’s a world made up of its own self, entirely separate from ours. With its own wretched laws, under which everything must decline into rubbish. A world dominated by the force of unyielding entropy and nothing else. Where even those with enormous strength, such as Glimmung, become vitiated and lose their power in the end. It is an oceanic grave, and it will kill all of us unless the cathedral can be raised.”
“It can’t be all that bad,” Joe said, but, as he spoke, he felt fear rustle through him and lodge inside his heart, fear generated in part by the vacuity of his own remark.
The robot looked at him enigmatically, a complex look that gradually became that of scorn.
“Considering you’re a robot,” Joe said, “I don’t see what you have emotionally involved in this; you have no life.”
The robot said, “No structure, even an artificial one, enjoys the process of entropy. It is the ultimate fate of everything, and everything resists it.”
Joe said, “And Glimmung expects to halt this process? If it’s the ultimate fate of everything, then Glimmung can’t halt it; he’s doomed. He’ll fail and the process will go on.”
“Down below the water,” Willis said, “the decay process is the only force at work. But up here—the cathedral raised—there will be other forces which do not move in a retrograde manner. Forces of sanction and repair. Of building and making and form-creating—and, in your case, healing. That is why you are so needed. It is you and the others like you who will forestall the decay process by your abilities and work. Do you see?”
“I want to go down there,” Joe said.
“Suit yourself. I mean that literally; put on diving gear and descend into Mare Nostrum, alone, in the night. Descend into the subworld of decay and see it for yourself. I’ll take you to one of the staging centers floating on Mare Nostrum; you can descend from there—without me.”
“Thanks,” Joe said. He uttered the word with what he intended to be irony; however, it emerged in a weak wheeze, and the robot did not seem to catch his tone.
The staging center consisted of a platform within hermetically sealed domes, three of them, each large enough for life-forms to gather, with their equipment. Joe gazed about him in expert appreciation at the size of the construct. Built with robot labor, he decided. And recently; the domes seemed new, and probably were so. This installation had been created for him and the others, and would not be used until he and they began to operate out of them. Space, he reflected, is not at a premium, here, as it is on Earth. These domes can be as large as they want…and Glimmung, of course, had wanted them large indeed.
“And you still won’t descend with me,” he said to the robot Willis.
“Never.”
“Show me the diving gear,” Joe said. “And show me how to use it. Show me everything I need to know.”
“I will show you the minimal—” the robot began, and then broke off. On the roof field of the greatest dome a small airship was landing. Willis scrutinized it intently. “Too small for Glimmung,” he murmured. “It must be a more meager and hence lesser life-form.”
The airship came to a stop; it remained immobile and then its hatch slid back. Taxi, it proclaimed from its stem to its stern. And out of the taxi stepped Mali Yojez.
She descended via the elevator and came directly toward Joe and the robot Willis. “Glimmung spoke to me,” she said. “He told me what you’re doing here. He wanted me to go along with you. There was some doubt in his mind as to whether you could make it alone—I mean physically survive the experience of the Sub-World down there.”
“And he thinks you can,” Joe said.
“He thinks that two of us going together and having each other to rely on—he thinks that that would probably work. And I’m more experienced than you. Vastly mor
e.”
“Mrs. Lady,” Willis said to her, “did Glimmung want me to go undersea, too?”
“He didn’t mention you,” Mali said tartly.
“It’s just as well.” The robot scowled in heavy gloom. “I dislike it down there.”
“But soon,” Mali said, “it will all be changed. There will be no ‘down there.’ Only up here, in this world, where other laws operate.”
“The best-laid plans of mice and men,” the robot said, with frigid skepticism.
“Help us into our gear,” Joe said.
The robot said, “Down there in the Aquatic Sub-World, you will be in a place that Amalita has forgotten.”
“Who is ‘Amalita’?” Joe asked.
Mali said, “The god for whom the cathedral was built. The god who was worshiped in Heldscalla. When the cathedral is restored, then Glimmung can call upon Amalita, as in earlier times, before the Catastrophe in which the cathedral sank. The defeat of Amalita by Borel—a temporary defeat, but a major one. I am reminded of a Terran poem by Bert Brecht called, ‘The Drowned Girl.’ Let’s see; if memory serves… ‘And gradually God forgot her, first her arms, then her legs and body until she was—’”
Joe said, “What sort of deities are these?” There had been no mention of this before, but of course it was obvious and logical; a cathedral was a place in which to worship, and someone or something had to be the object of the worship. To Mali, he said, “Do you know anything more about this angle?”
“I can fully inform you,” the robot said, annoyed.
To it, Mali said, “Had it ever occurred to you that it might be Amalita, working through Glimmung, who is raising the cathedral? So that worship of him here on this planet can resume?”
“Hmm,” the robot said, in a nettled fashion; Joe could almost hear it whir and click as it cogitated. “Well,” it said all at once, “anyhow you asked about the two deities, Mr. Sir. However, you once again neglected to say—”
“Willis,” Joe said, “tell me about Amalita and Borel. How long have they been worshiped, and on how many planets? And where did the cult begin?”
“I have a brochure,” the robot said, “which will exhaustively cover these matters.” It slid its hand into its thorax pocket; from the pocket it lifted out a mimeographed pamphlet. “I wrote this in my spare time,” the robot said. “With your permission I will refer to it. That way I don’t have to overtax so much in my memory spools. To begin with, Amalita existed alone. That was roughly fifty thousand Terran years in the past. Then, in a spasm of apotheosis, Amalita felt sexual desire. But there was nothing to feel sexual desire toward. He felt love, and there was nothing to love. He felt hate, and there was nothing to hate.”
“He felt apathy. And there was nothing to feel apathetic about.” Mali spoke without emotion; it did not involve her.
“Let’s tackle sexual desire first,” the robot said. “As is well known, the most enjoyable form of sexual love is that which pertains to incest, inasmuch as incest is the fundamental taboo throughout the universe. The greater the taboo, the more sheer excitement. Hence, Amalita created his sister, Borel. The next most exciting aspect of sexual love is love for someone evil, someone who, if you didn’t love them, you would abominate them. So Amalita caused his sister to be evil; she began at once to tear down everything which he had, over the centuries, built.”
Mali murmured, “Such as Heldscalla.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lady,” the robot agreed. “Now, the next most powerful stimulant to sexual love is to be in love with someone stronger than you. So Amalita caused his sister to be capable of destroying his edifices one by one; he tried to intervene, but she was by now too strong. As he had intended. Finally, the last element: the love object forces one to descend to its level, where its laws, unethical and violent, obtain. This is what we have here in the Raising of Heldscalla. Every one of you will have to descend into the Aquatic Sub-World in which Amalita’s laws do not operate. Even Glimmung himself will inevitably sink into the Sub-World where Borel’s travesty of reality cloaks everything and is everywhere.”
“I thought of Glimmung as a deity,” Joe said. “Because of his immense power.”
The robot said, “Deities do not fall ten floors to the basement.”
“That seems reasonable,” Joe admitted.
“The criteria involved,” the robot said, “start with immortality. Amalita and Borel have that; Glimmung has not. The second criterion deals with—”
“We are aware of the two other criteria,” Mali interrupted. “Unlimited power and unlimited knowledge.”
“Then you’ve read my pamphlet,” the robot said.
“Christ,” Mali said with withering disdain.
“You mention Christ,” the robot said. “He is an interesting deity because he has only limited power; he has only partial knowledge; and he could die. He fulfills none of the criteria.”
“Then how did Christianity come into being?” Joe said.
“It came into being,” the robot said, “because this is what Christ did: he worried about other people. ‘Worry’ is the true translation of the Greek agape and the Latin caritas. Christ stands empty handed; he can save no one, not even himself. And yet, by his concern, his esteem, for others, he transcends—”
“Just give us the pamphlet,” Mali said wearily. “We’ll read it in our spare time. As of now, we’re going under the water. Get our diving gear ready, as Mr. Fernwright asked.”
“There is a somewhat similar deity,” the robot said, “on Beta twelve. This deity learned how to die whenever another creature on his planet died. He could not die in place of them, but he could die with them. And then, as each new creature was born, he was restored. So he has endured countless deaths and rebirths. As compared with Christ, who died only once. This, too, is dealt with in my pamphlet. Everything is in my pamphlet.”
“Then you’re a Kalend,” Joe said.
The robot eyed him. Long and carefully. And silently.
“And your pamphlet,” Joe said, “is the Book of the Kalends.”
“Not exactly,” the robot said, at last.
“Meaning what?” Mali demanded sharply.
“Meaning that I have based my various pamphlets on the Book of the Kalends.”
“Why?” Joe said.
The robot hesitated and then said, “I hope to be a freelance writer someday.”
“Get our gear,” Mali said, with overwhelming weariness.
An odd, random thought entered Joe’s mind. Possibly it had emerged because of the discussion about Christ. “‘Worry,’” he said aloud, echoing the robot’s term. “I think I know what you mean. A strange thing happened to me, once, back on Earth. A very small thing. I got down a cup from the cupboard, a cup I hardly ever used. In it I found a spider, a dead spider; it had died because there was nothing for it to eat. Obviously it had fallen into the cup and couldn’t get out. But here’s the point. It had woven a web, at the bottom of the cup. As good a web as it could weave under the circumstances. When I found it—saw it dead in the cup, with its meager, hopeless web—I thought, It never had a chance. No flies would ever have come along, even if it had waited forever. It waited until it died. It tried to make the best of the circumstances, but it was hopeless. I always wondered, Did it know it was hopeless? Did it weave the web knowing it was no use?”
“Little tragedy of life,” the robot said. “Billions of them, unnoticed, every day. Except that God notices, at least according to my pamphlet.”
“But I see what you mean,” Joe said. “About worry. Concern; that’s closer to it. I felt it concerned me. It did concern me. Caritas. Or in the Greek—” He could not remember the word.
“Can we go below, now?” Mali asked.
“Yes,” Joe said. Obviously she did not understand. But, oddly, the robot did. Strange, Joe thought. Why does it understand when she doesn’t? Maybe caritas is a factor of intelligence, he reflected. Maybe we’ve always been wrong: caritas is not a feeling but a high form of cere
bral activity, an ability to perceive something in the environment—to notice and, as the robot had put it, to worry. Cognition, he realized; that’s what it is. It isn’t a case of feeling versus thinking: cognition is cognition.
Aloud he said, “Can I have a copy of your pamphlet?”
“Ten cents, please,” the robot said, holding out the pamphlet.
Joe fished out a cardboard dime and handed it to the robot. To Mali he said, “Now let’s go below.”
11
The robot touched a switch; a wall locker opened its sliding door and Joe saw, within, complete sets of diving gear: oxygen masks, pedal flippers, plastic skinsuits, waterproof light sources, weights, pry bars, crossbows, oxygen and helium tanks—everything. Including many assorted items of equipment which he could not identify.
“In view of your lack of experience in deep-sea diving,” the robot said, “I would suggest you descend by spherical prolepsis chamber. But, if you want to suit up—” It shrugged. “I have no control over that; the decision is yours.”
“I’ve had sufficient experience,” Mali said briskly. She began bringing equipment out of the locker; presently she had a formidable heap stacked neatly before her. “Get out what I got out,” she instructed Joe. “Put the segments of the suit on in the order I’m putting them on, and in the same way.”
They suited up and then, led by Willis, they made their way to the staging chamber proper.
“Some time,” the robot said as it unscrewed the great plug-valve in the floor of the chamber, “I intend to write a pamphlet on deep-sea diving. There is a basic assumption that the chthonic world is in the ground—you find this in every religion. But in actuality it’s in the ocean. The ocean—” It dragged the huge plug away. “—is the actual primordial world, out of which every living thing came a billion years ago. On your planet, Mr. Fernwright, this error is found in many religions—for instance, the Greek goddess Demeter and her daughter Kore—they come up from the earth.”
Mali said to Joe, “There is attached to your belt an emergency device in case of failure in the oxygen circuit of your rig. If you lose your air, if the conduit loosens or bursts or the tanks run dry, activate the hypo plunger of the belt unit.” She pointed to the one mounted on her own belt. “It swiftly drops metabolic processes so that your need for oxygen is minimal; little enough so that you can easily float to the surface before you suffer any brain damage or experience any other lasting physiological effect from the curtailed oxygen supply. When you float to the surface you will of course be unconscious, but your mask is designed to let in air automatically; it will respond to the altered condition, the presence of outside air. And then I’ll be up to steer you back here.”