“Perhaps someday I will,” said Tennyson.
He did not view the lizard cube. There were too many others. Ecuyer had no objection to his seeing them. He gave the robot custodian of the Listening files instructions to show Tennyson any that he wished, suggested a long list that he should see.
It was puzzling, Tennyson told himself. Here he was, a stranger, and still the files were being opened to him. As if, in all fact, he was a member of the project. And in the Vatican library, the historical record had been made available to Jill. None of it squared with what the cardinal had told Jill when she had her interview with him—that Vatican was adamant in its refusal to allow any public exposure. The answer must be, he told himself, that Vatican was confident it could guard against public exposure by refusing to allow anyone with knowledge of its operations to leave the planet.
Or it might be that by revealing its operations to Jill and him, both of them would be won over to the cause. Vatican was made up of a band of dedicated fanatics isolated from the nearby galaxy—the only part of the galaxy that counted, the only part of it that was close enough to be tempted to move in—and out of this dedication and isolation the fact of Vatican and its purpose would loom larger in their eyes than it really was. Thus Vatican would fall victim to its egocentrism, and the cause would seem so grand, so sacred and so clearly reasonable that no one, adequately informed, could do anything but align himself with it. All that needed to be done was to explain and everyone would fall in line.
Tennyson shook his head over the puzzle. The line taken by Vatican was illogical. They could, if they had wished, have sent both him and Jill packing when Wayfarer lifted off to return to Gutshot. Certainly both of them would have known something of Vatican, but very little of what was actually going on. Jill could write her article detailing how she had been thrown off the planet. But in the midst of all the causes, all the crusades, all the quarrels, all the problems of the galaxy—such an article would have made no more impression than the slightest ripple occasioned by a thrown stone in a storm-tossed ocean.
The simplest answer, and the one that he was most reluctant to accept, was that both of them were needed here. Certainly there was need of a doctor to care for the human population; it might be true that Vatican felt a real need for the writing of its history. And it was true, as well, that it was difficult for such an out-of-the-way place to attract outside professionals, so difficult that when a couple of them dropped unannounced onto the planet, Vatican would latch onto them. But, for some reason that he was not able to understand, Tennyson was reluctant to accept such a thesis. He could not, for one thing, accept the thought that Jill and he could be so important to them. Unless, and this he kept coming back to, Vatican had no intention of allowing them to leave.
One of the cubes he viewed was highly disturbing. Even inside the mind of one of its inhabitants, which he assumed was where he was, it was a sort of place that made no human sense, was entirely incomprehensible. What he saw, although he realized later that it was not really seeing, was a world of diagrams and equations, or what he took to be diagrams and equations, although he saw no conventional signs or symbols even vaguely comparable to human ones. It was as if he existed somewhere inside a huge three-dimensional blackboard, with the signs and symbols, the diagrams and equations grouped about him and, on all sides, receding far into the distance. And it seemed at times, although how he sensed this he did not know, that he himself, or the entity whose mind he shared, was itself an equation.
He sought vainly for an answer, for an explanation, feebly probing the mind of his host, but getting no reaction. The creature, he thought, more than likely didn’t know he was there. It itself needed no answer or explanation; it understood what it was seeing. Perhaps interpreting what it was seeing, sharing in the experience of its interactions with all the other diagrams and equations. But if so, all this escaped Tennyson. He was lost in a sea of unknowing.
He did not give up; he stayed in there and fought for some sort of understanding, trying to seize just one thing, one small bit of relevance that he could tuck away as a start toward an understanding. That one bit of relevance never came. When the cube came to an end and he found himself back in the human world, he knew as little as he did when popped into that other mind.
He sat, stricken, in the chair.
“That was quite something, was it not, sir?” asked the custodian, chirping blithely.
Tennyson rubbed his hand across his face, trying to clear away the fog.
“Yes,” he said. “What was it?”
“Sir, we do not know.”
“What good, then,” he asked, “of finding it, of seeing it?”
“Vatican may know,” said the custodian. “Vatican has ways of knowing.”
“Well, I sincerely hope so,” said Tennyson, rising from the chair. “That’s all I can stand today. How about tomorrow?”
“Certainly, sir. Tomorrow. Any time you wish.”
Tomorrow turned out to be the autumn land.
It was really nothing; it was just a place. This time, he was sure, he did not exist inside an intelligence. He was simply there. Thinking back on it, he could not be sure he had been anyplace at all, although certainly he had had a sense of being in an actual place. He could swear that he had heard the crackle and rustle of fallen autumn leaves beneath his feet, that he had breathed a sharp, crisp, wine-like air redolent of leaf bonfires, of ripened apples hanging on a laden bough, the faint scent of late-blooming flowers and a touch of frost on withering vegetation. He had heard, or thought he heard, the rustle of a field-dried patch of corn, the patter of hickory nuts falling from a tree, the sudden, far-off whir of partridge wings, the soft, liquid singing of a placid brook carrying on its surface a freight of fallen autumn leaves. And there had been color—he was sure of that—the coin-golden color of a walnut tree, the purple of an ash, the shouting sun-bright yellow of an aspen, the bright-blood of a sugar maple, and rich red and brown of oak. And over and above it all that bittersweet feel of autumn, the glory of the dying year when work was done and a quiet season of rest had been proclaimed.
The sense of it, the feel of it, almost the surety, yet not quite the surety of it, had all been there. He had felt at ease with it, had entered wholeheartedly into it. He had tramped the hills and gone along the winding brook, he had stood and stared across the brown and gold of an autumn-haunted marsh, he had heard the shouting of the gold and red and yellow of the painted trees against the sky and he had felt a strange abiding peace within him. The peace that comes at the long end of summer, the peace and quiet before the chill winter of the soul comes howling down. The little time of respite, the time for resting and for thought, the time for binding up the ancient wounds and forgetting them and all the vagaries of life that had inflicted them.
Later, thinking on it, he told himself that this had been Heaven, his own personal Heaven. Not the high shining towers, the great broad golden staircase, the winding of celestial trumpets that was Mary’s Heaven—this was the real Heaven, this, the quiet autumn afternoon that fell upon the land after the blazing summer sun and the long and dusty roads.
He went away, reflective, after only a courteous exchange with the blithe custodian. Walking back to his suite, he had tried to catch it all again, to see it and experience it all again, only to become aware of its insubstantiality, the ephemeral quality of this autumn land, somewhere deep in space.
He told Jill that evening, “It was as if I’d gone back to my home planet, the days of boyhood and early manhood before I left to enter medical school. My home was an Earthlike planet, an astonishingly Earthlike planet. I can’t really judge, for I’ve never been on Earth, but I was told that my home planet was Earthlike. British settled. It was called Paddington—a planet named for a town, if ‘ton’ means ‘town’ and I think it does. The inhabitants never saw anything wrong with that. The British have no sense of humor. I judge we were very English, very British, whichever is the right term. There was a lot o
f talk of Old Earth, Old Earth being England, although that was strange, for in my later reading I became convinced the planet tallied more with North America. In my boyhood I was obsessed with England, or with the legend of England. I read a lot of English history. The library in our town had a large section—”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” said Jill, “but it always slips my mind. Vatican library has a lot of Old Earth books—I mean books brought from Old Earth. Books, not tapes. Pages between covers. Anyone is welcome to come in and browse. I think, too, you can manage a loan if you find something that you want.”
“One of these days,” said Tennyson, “I’ll come in and browse. I was telling you about Paddington. The land, I was told, was almost a duplicate of Old Earth. The people there were always saying how lucky they had been to find it. There are livable planets, sure, but not many of them that are like Old Earth. Many of the trees and plants were much like those found on Earth—but, mind you, the kind that were found in North America rather than in England, although North America and England do have some trees and plants in common. And the seasons were the same as they were on Earth. In my hometown, we had a glorious autumn—Indian-summer days, trees aflame with color, the distances smoky with an autumn haze. I’d almost forgotten it, but today I saw it all again. Or I think I saw it. I smelled the autumn and heard it and walked in it again.…”
“Jason, you’re all upset. Try to forget. Let’s go to bed.”
He questioned Ecuyer. “This world of equations,” he said. “It makes no sense. Was your Listener able to go back again?”
“Several times,” said Ecuyer.
“And?”
“It still made no sense. No sense at all.”
“Does this sort of thing happen often?”
“Well, not places with equations. You seldom repeat a specific sighting. In a universe where anything, anything at all, statistically will happen at least once—where everything possible will happen at least once—there’s not much chance of repetition. It does happen, but not often. But, yes, these kinds of things do happen, the inexplicable situations that have neither head nor tail to them.”
“Then what’s the use? What profit is there in it?”
“Perhaps profit for Vatican.”
“You mean you just hand this stuff over to Vatican?”
“Certainly. That’s why we do it. For Vatican. They have the right, the chance, to review everything. They review it and evaluate it and then send back the cubes to us for storage. Sometimes they may follow up the leads, sometimes not. They have ways of doing things.”
“But to follow up on this equation place, someone would have to go there. Actually go there physically, in person. Viewing it from one’s own viewpoint, not seeing it through the eyes of an inhabitant. I’m convinced of that.”
“Well, there are times that Vatican can go to places that we find.”
“You mean actually go there? Travel to those places?”
“That is correct,” said Ecuyer. “I thought you understood that.”
“No, I hadn’t,” said Tennyson. “No one ever told me. So it’s not always just a matter of peeking through a keyhole?”
“Sometimes it’s more than that. Sometimes not. Sometimes we have to be content with our keyhole peek.”
“Then why doesn’t Vatican go out and pin down the Heaven sighting? I would think—”
“Perhaps they can’t,” said Ecuyer. “They may not know where it is. They may have no coordinates.”
“I don’t understand. Can the Listeners at times pick up coordinates?”
“No, they can’t. But there are other ways to go about it. Vatican people, in things like this, can be very tricky. One of the simpler ways is to pick up star patterns.”
“There are no star patterns in the Heaven cube? I suppose there wouldn’t be if it were really Heaven. Heaven probably would have nothing to do with either time or space. But if Vatican did locate it, what would they do? Send someone out to Heaven?”
“I really do not know,” said Ecuyer. “I cannot speak for Vatican.”
It was a dead end, Tennyson thought. The Heaven sighting was so tied with gut philosophy, the touchiness of theology, the awesome wonder of it that everyone in authority would be scared to death. He remembered what Jill had said about the deep rift of opinion it had brought about among the robots of Vatican.
“Heaven,” said Tennyson, “would presume an afterlife, a life after death. Can you tell me—have the Listeners found any clues that would point to such an afterlife, even the outside possibility of an afterlife?”
“Jason, I don’t know. I honestly can’t be sure. There’s no way—”
“What do you mean, you can’t be sure?”
“Look, there are so many kinds of life. The universe, it seems, seethes with life, both biological and nonbiological, and the nonbiological, in turn, may be divided into several classifications. We can’t be sure.”
“Well, yes, of course,” said Tennyson. “There are the robots.”
“Dammit, I’m not talking about the robots. They are nonbiological, certainly. Manufactured nonbiological. But there is natural life, or what seems to be life, that is nonbiological as well. There is a cloud of dust and gas out in the Orion region, or what on Earth would be designated as the Orion region. A small speck of dust and gas. From here even the largest telescope would fail to pick it up. A welter of magnetic fields, high gas density, massive ionization, heavy drifts of cosmic dust. And there’s something alive in there. Perhaps the gas and dust itself. Or maybe something else. But whatever it is, it’s alive. You can feel the pulse of life, the rhythm of living—and it talks. Maybe talks is not the right word. Communicates would be the better term. It can be heard, or sensed, but it can’t be understood. There is no way to know what it is saying. The life forms within it may be talking back and forth or all of them may be talking to themselves.…”
“But what has this got to do with afterlife?”
“Did I say it had something to do with afterlife?”
Tennyson said, “No, I guess you didn’t.”
At times, Tennyson prowled the countryside, following faint trails, trudging along narrow, green valleys, climbing steep hillsides, with lunch and a bottle of wine in his knapsack, a canteen over his shoulder. Always the mountains were in view, looming over him, blue and purple, majestic and always fascinating, with shadows drifting along their spurs, the sunlight glinting off the icy peaks. He spent long hours sitting atop the rugged hills, staring at the mountains, never seeing quite enough of them, the mystery and the wonder of them persisting no matter how long he might look at them.
Then, turning back toward Vatican, he’d finally find one of the few roads, little more than a broader trail, to lead him home. He’d trudge along it happily, his feet raising little puffs of dust, the warmth of the sun upon his back, the peace of the mountain on his mind. And a few days later, he would go out again, perhaps in a different direction this time, to prowl up and down the land while the mountains watched.
One afternoon, heading back toward Vatican along one of the narrow roads, he heard something approaching from behind. Looking back, he saw a beat-up surface vehicle, with a man sitting at its wheel. Tennyson was surprised, for this was the first time on any of his hikes that he had seen another person, let alone a car. He stepped well out of the road to give it room to pass, but it did not pass. When the car drew up to him, it stopped and the man said to him, “Are you so dedicated to your walking that you would refuse a lift?”
The man had an honest, open face, with searching blue eyes.
“I would appreciate a lift,” said Tennyson.
“I take it,” said the man as Tennyson climbed into the seat beside him, “that you are the new doctor over at Vatican. Tennyson, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. And you?”
“I’m Decker. Thomas Decker, at your service, sir.”
“I’ve been roaming around out here off and on for several weeks,?
?? said Tennyson. “You’re the first man I’ve seen in all my rambles.”
“And the only one you are likely to see,” said Decker. “All the rest of them stick close to home and fireside. They have no curiosity or appreciation for what lies all about them. They look at the mountains every day of their lives and all they see are mountains. You see more than mountains, don’t you, Doctor?”
“A great deal more,” said Tennyson.
“How about seeing even more? I’m in a mood, if you wish, to conduct a guided tour.”
“You have a customer,” said Tennyson.
“Well, then, the battery’s up,” said Decker, “and we have hours of operation. First, let us see the farms.”
“The farms?”
“Yes, of course, the farms. You eat bread, do you not? And meat and milk and eggs?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Where, then, did you think it all came from, other than from farms?”
“I suppose I never thought about it.”
“These robots think of everything,” said Decker. “They must feed their humans, so some of them are farmers. Electricity is needed, so they built a dam and set up a power facility. Some solar power as well, but they’ve not pushed the solar power. However, they have the capability and can expand it any time it’s needed. They also have a sawmill, but it runs only part-time, for now there’s no great demand for lumber. Some centuries ago, when the building was going on, there was a great need of it.” He chuckled. “You can’t beat the robots for efficiency. They use a primitive steam engine to operate the sawmill, using slabs and sawdust produced by the mill to drive the engine.”