“I can’t make any more sense out of what you say than what I said,” I replied.
She only said, “You may be approaching The One. But it is not with the help of that machine. Do not confuse it with The Way.”
That night, while my companions slept, I sac on the rim and watched the bonfires far below. They were sitting or dancing around the flames or falling drunkenly on the ground. And then I thought of my years on Earth and here, and I felt pity mingled with despair for them. For myself and for my Self, too.
I had written many plays, stories, and poems about the stupid, the hypocritical, the savage, the unfeeling, and the exploiters of the wretched and doomed masses. I had jeered at all of them, the masters and the masses, for their failings and their low intelligence. Yet was it their fault? Were they not born to be what they became? Was not each one acting in accordance with what he could not surmount? Or, if a few did have perception and insight and the courage to act on these, were these not born to do that?
So how could anyone justly be praised or condemned? Those who seemed to lift themselves by their bootstraps to a higher plane were only doing so because their natal characters created their destinies. They deserved neither blame nor praise.
It seemed to me that there was no such thing as genuine free will.
Thus, if I, too, attained the ecstasy and the bliss of Rabi’a, it was because I was set on my course by my fleshly inheritance. And because I had lived so long. Why should Rabi’a or I be rewarded because God, in a manner of speaking, had willed it?
Where was the fairness or justice in this?
Those boobs and yahoos cavorting down below could not help being such. Nor could I or Rabi’a claim a superior virtue.
Where was the fairness and justice?
Rabi’a would have told me that it was all God’s will. Someday, if I reached a certain plane of spiritual development, I would understand His will. If I did not, I was elected to be one of those doomed wretches who had filled the Earth and now filled the Riverworld.
On the other hand, she would say, all of us are capable of attaining union with God. If He so wills it.
At that moment, my restless gropings along the device seemed to have activated it. A green ray sprang from both bulbs, curved—it could nor be true light—and met twelve feet beyond me. At the junction appeared a man’s face. It was huge and scowling, and his words seemed to be threatening. After several minutes, while I sat motionless as if hypnotized by Doctor Mesmer, a woman’s voice interrupted the tirade. It was very pleasant and soothing, yet somehow forceful. After another few minutes, the wrathful face relaxed. Presently, it was smiling. And then the emanations ceased.
I sighed. I thought, What did that mean? Does it have any special meaning for me? How could it?
Rabi’a’s voice startled me. I turned and rose to face her. Her face looked stern in the bright light of the stars. Havornik was behind her.
“I saw; I heard,” she said. “I can see where this is taking you. You are considering following the mystery posed by this machine instead of The Mystery posed by God. That will not do. It is time for you to choose between the Artifact and The Artificer. Now!”
I hesitated for a long time while she stood unmoving in body or face. Then I held the device out to her. She took it and gave it to Havornik.
“Take this and bury it where he will not find it,” she said. “It is of no value to us.”
“I will do so at once, mistress,” the Bohemian said.
He disappeared into the bushes. But that dawn, as I was walking along the rim, weary from sleeplessness and wondering if I had decidedly rightly, I saw Havornik. He was climbing down through the gap in the stone through which we had entered this little world above the world. His grail was strapped to his back. The Artifact dangled on his chest at the end of a hair rope hung around his neck.
“Havornik!” I cried. I ran to the edge of the rim and looked down. He was not very far from me. He looked upward, his eyes huge and wild, and he grinned.
“Come back up,” I shouted, “or I’ll drop a rock on you!”
“No, you won’t!” he shouted. “You have chosen God! I have chosen this machine! It’s real! It’s hard and practical—and is the means to getting answers to my questions, not the imaginary being Rabi’a convinced me for a while actually existed! It is of no value to you, no consequence! Or have you changed your mind?”
I hesitated. I could follow him down to the ground and wrest it from him there. I longed for it; I felt crushed with a sense of loss. I’d been too hasty, too awed by Rabi’a’s presence, to think clearly.
I stood there, looking down on him and at The Artifact, for a long time. If I tried to take the machine from him, I might have to kill him. Then I would be among many who would desire the machine and would kill me to get it, if they could.
Several times, Rabi’a had said, “Killing for the sake of material things or for an idea is evil. It is not The Way.”
I struggled with myself as Jacob struggled with the angel at the foot of the ladder. It was no fixed match; it was hard and desperate.
And then I shouted down at Havornik, “You will regret that choice. But I wish you good luck in finding the answers to your questions! They are not my questions!”
I turned, and I started. Rabi’a was ten feet behind me. She had not said a word because she did not want to influence me. I, I alone, must make the choice.
I had expected a compliment from her. But she said, “We have much work to do.” and she turned and walked toward our camp.
I followed her.
Philip Jose Farmer, Riverworld Short Stories
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