“You don't accept the authority of God?"
“Josh, I've told you this before: as far as I'm concerned, humanbeings wrote the Bible, even the Old Testament. I like to think God was speaking through those writers, but can't imagine the information coming through ... unfiltered. Not to mention translation issues and how something as vast as God could express Himself fully through a gateway as narrow as any human language."
A strange thing happened. Suddenly, the argument seemed intensely relevant to me and I strained to absorb every nuance.
“I believe you are more lost than I'd realized, Moshe!"
“And I believe that you, my friend, have been disobeying the second Commandment of the Decalogue."
“What? How so?"
“Haven't you been worshiping the Bible itself, a graven image in its fashion, rather than God?"
“Nonsense! The Bible is God's word."
“Perhaps, but if God's word is written anywhere, surely it's written in nature. And if taking the Bible literally, as you've urged me to do for the last decade, means trying to believe the universe is only thousands of years old—"
“It is! Hundreds of good scientists have proved it! If you look at the gaps in the fossil records—"
“And my own observations and those of thousands of scientists working in a dozen different fields indicate the passage of years in the billions when you study the interdisciplinary evidence. So for me, taking the Bible literally would be denying God."
A long moment of silence. “You think what God has written in nature isn't filtered by your so-called scientists?"
“I'm sure it is. But they tend to compete to find the truth and the good ones avoid beginning from the standpoint of proving any specific case."
The dispute rattled on for another fifteen minutes and twelve seconds, but Hewitt sounded increasingly distracted and whatever I was listening for so closely never emerged. When the door closed behind the evangelist, not quite slamming, I rejoined the remaining group. Neither Norhaart had said a word for the last twenty-four minutes although the professor's response when religious issues arose had previously always been: “We Unitarians believe in one God. At the most."
Still, for some reason I didn't understand, Hewitt's visit or perhaps his departure had done some good. Jon was sitting less stiffly and would occasionally peek sideways at his daughter as if considering opening a dialog. Alison was pretending not to notice, but traces of color had returned to her face. As to the Guru, an extra hint of smile played with his lips. His eyes were closed, moving beneath their lids. Since it was unlikely he was engaged in REM sleep, I deduced he was probably watching celivision.
“I've been thinking,” I said right away. “Won't the authorities find me here before long?"
Besden opened his eyes and his smile widened. “I daresay they'd be here now if they weren't convinced they had you trapped somewhere within your apartment building. You were observed and recording entering; I've just seen the feeds. You definitely went in, and as far as the experts are concerned, you couldn't have gotten out."
“I don't follow the reasoning. Surely they would've found me by now if I were still there?"
Jon finally cracked his long silence, beginning with a sigh. “A forty-plus-story building, Dan, offers an abundance of hiding places, particularly for a hider who can move around as quick as you. And they may suspect you have other ... hidden resources."
“I see.” But I wasn't wholly convinced.
* * * *
A strange late afternoon and evening, even stranger than my usual. Through much trial and error, the Guru found discussion topics that drew out both Jon and Alison. They never addressed each other directly, but used Besden as a conversational reflector, bouncing ideas obliquely back and forth. I was surprised by how I felt about this. A new sentiment had entered my emotional repertoire: hope.
After serving his eating guests a thick lentil stew for supper—Alison had a teaspoon's worth at the most—Besden offered up a dessert that he promised contained enough heavy cream to burst a major artery. Despite this inducement, both Norhaarts insisted on making it an early night and went off to guest bedrooms on opposite sides of the house. The Guru waddled away to fetch sundries such as extra towels, and when he returned we were alone.
He perched himself across the table from me in a heavily cushioned chair while I slanted my legs to give him room. He studied me, subtly beaming as usual, and raised his bushy eyebrows as if offering me the chance to speak first. I took him up on it.
“Overheard your argument with Dr. Hewitt."
“A good day for one of our extended debates this wasn't and I fear I was rude."
“But why argue about religious matters at all?"
He tilted his head slightly. “I'd say we both get something out of it. It strengthens his faith to tussle with me; right now, I'm sure he's at home finding flaws in my latest arguments. And I find it useful to have someone around to remind me that not everyone thinks as I do or believes what I believe."
“What do you believe?"
“Concerning Truth with a capital T? We Jews had a single major insight several millennia back, that there was only one Deity,” he chuckled, “something of a Unified God Theory. But since then we've, um, reached no consensus on God's precise nature. Many of us feel human limitations make such questions unanswerable. Tell me, Dan. Do you believe in God?"
“Me? Haven't really thought about it. But no, if what you mean by ‘God’ is some person standing outside or beyond this universe and controlling its ... its every—"
“Pulling its strings?” he suggested with another chuckle. “Excuse me. A physics joke, to my shame. You don't buy into the white-bearded grandfather hypothesis?"
“The idea seems pitifully anthropomorphic. As does any claim that God created man in His own image."
He leaned forward. “You sound almost angry, my friend."
“That's not—well, I am feeling something strange. But don't forget that beings more advanced than your species definitely created me and they definitely weren't human."
His eyes practically glowed with curiosity. “Interesting point! And I find it equally interesting we're having this discussion rather than the one I've been expecting. All day, you haven't asked a single question concerning how we're going to handle your situation!"
“Oh. Well, I've always trusted Professor Norhaart's guidance. And yours. I'm sure between the two of you, you'll steer me wisely.” This explanation for my unconcern sounded feeble even to me, but I still couldn't bring myself to focus on the future. “Maybe it's because I've got something else on my mind."
“Nu?"
I hesitated. “It seems ... disloyal to talk about this, but I need your advice."
He just nodded encouragingly.
“Jon has been my teacher and friend ever since the army released me. I've never doubted his intelligence or wisdom before."
“But now you do?"
Again, I paused. “Do you know why he's so angry with his daughter?"
“I've some idea. The, um, circumstances of his wife's death got enough local publicity. And I know he expected to have a grandchild at one point."
“That's helpful; I wouldn't have felt right revealing Jon's secrets. So he's been badly hurt; that much is clear even to a robot. But why would someone so clever allow the past to ruin the present?"
The Guru's eyes widened a bit. “Such questions you ask! Are you turning into a real boy, Pinocchio?"
I didn't answer. What was happening to me?
He flipped one palm upwards. “I will tell you another kind of secret, my friend. In human families, irrespective of race or status or brains, dysfunction is the rule, not the exception."
“Really? Why?"
“I can't flatter myself into certainty, but would you care to hear my theory?"
“Please. Tell me."
“I think perhaps it's because as a species, mine is still very young. And the human mind, like so many immature and
growing things, is so, um, reactive.” He leaned back, interlacing his hands over his stomach. “The consequences of mistakes our ancestors made remain with us, reverberating through the generations. And who suffers the wake or maybe the bow-wave of our ignorance, Dan? Our children. Who grow up to inflict ignorance on their children."
Something powerful moved inside me. “Do you think the human race will eventually—eventually mature?"
He was silent a moment. “Truly, I do. In fact, seems to me that Homo sapiens, all over our world, already exists simultaneously at a thousand different steps in evolution. It's as if some of us have been here for a million years, and time has chipped away our sharp corners and softened our brutal bones. While others have just showed up, still greedy, selfish, and violent. How else can you explain how, in any given hour, individuals from a single species can sink to such destructive depths or rise to such heights of compassion and self-sacrifice?"
“I don't know. But getting specific, what about Jon? Do you think he's too immature to forgive Alison?"
The Guru smiled at me and stood up. “Faith I also have in Jon. And I think the circumstances of his life are conspiring to force him to, let's say, evolve quickly. Enough. On a practical note, Dan, tomorrow morning we're going to smuggle you up to a friend of mine in Connecticut. So I must bid you a fond good night. Unlike a certain wonderful machine with a golden heart, aging physicists need their beauty sleep."
* * * *
I didn't feel like sitting in the dining room alone, so I emigrated to the living room and lowered myself slowly onto a large leather couch, listening for warning creaks. The couch was as sturdy as the Guru himself and it accepted my full weight without complaints.
But I had complaints. Suddenly, the idea of doing something so human and ordinary as nursing a cup of hot coffee or cocoa was powerfully appealing, but I lacked any sense of taste and had nowhere internal to store beverages. Dan the Can was a perpetual outsider staring in through the windows where humanity lived, longing for a touch of that coziness. On the bright side, apparently I'd finally become human enough to feel sorry for myself.
I didn't question Besden's assessment that people occupy differing stages of ethical development, but unlike me, humans were so connected....
“What do you mean,” asked a voice at my side, “by ‘connected'?"
Startled, I turned and saw a duplicate me sitting next to me; this sort of thing is how I dream, but being twinned was a new twist.
“People,” I explained as if there was a point in telling myself anything, “have so many similar experiences. And they're also connected by the way they constantly watch and learn from each other. Among humans, ideas spread faster than—"
“What sort of ideas?” Dan Two interrupted.
“What is this? A fresh way to think out loud?"
“Trust yourself. What sort of ideas?"
I wondered if warping my mouth into a frown would be the height of absurdity or merely near the summit. “All sorts. Do we really need an example?"
“Can you offer one?"
Was that an edge of contempt in my voice? I was beginning to dislike my attitude. “Fine. Two months ago, a celebrity chef named Brian Bain opened Focus, a novel form of restaurant featuring long griddles on which various soups or gravies are reduced to thick pastes, spread on various breads, and served. Bain called his concept a ‘fond bar.’ Since then, fourteen such restaurants have sprung up in Manhattan. In two months!” I watched myself for a moment. “But we both know all that. So where is this leading?"
“What made you choose that particular example?"
“I don't know. Why should—"
My other self was gone. Well. The question remained behind. Something in the example had struck me as personally relevant, aside from the point I'd been supporting. Surely it couldn't have anything to do with concentrating flavors by condensing goop? Or could it?
Come to think of it, almost everything I'd experienced recently had carried a private impact: Alison's situation, Jon's reluctance to shed a past that weighed him down so, the jammed-up trucks, the Bible argument....
Today, significance seemed to be raining on me everywhere I turned. Was it all some incredible chain of coincidences? I didn't believe it. But it sure had been one hell of a day, beginning with a literal sort of bang.
I replayed the morning events at Lincoln Center with unpleasantly perfect fidelity, including my thoughts at the time, and stopped on a specific thought: Perhaps Professor Norhaart is right about me having a subconscious because the exact telemetric etiquette was already waiting for me as I reached for it.
Of course I had a subconscious! Hadn't I been talking with the damn thing a few seconds ago? And it sure seemed to be pushing me towards ... something. Why? What did it know that I didn't? Was it possible this usually buried part of my mind had jumped to some new conclusions and would've jammed significance into any experience that might've come my way?
I let the day's events roll by at high speed, then put the brakes on the final scene in my apartment and some important information I hadn't had the leisure to fully absorb. I'd found I could still function with my head—or would sensorium be a better term?—attached to a part of my body aside from the neck. And when it had been stuck to my chest, a lost memory had returned.
This could be the key! Right now, with my head on properly, I could recall remembering first rolling on to the lunar surface, but could no longer access the memory directly. So I had to ask two questions: could my cranium attach anywhere on my body? And would different locations retrieve different memories?
This morning, had my subconscious knocked my block off, so to speak, as a hint? If so, it seemed my intuition was capable of starting the ball rolling, again so to speak, but needed my conscious cooperation to achieve its aims. And it wasn't hard to guess those aims involved retrieving lost memories. So where, exactly, did the inner Dan want my head attached? I didn't expect an answer to that question, but I got one.
Without my permission, the arms I keep clamped at my side held themselves out, the end-grips unfurling into humanoid hands, their palms turning upwards. I knew they were waiting to catch my head and I felt something else I'd never felt before: terror. Of the unknown.
* * * *
Even before the first shreds of dawn had outlined the living room curtains, I heard rumbling coming up the street outside. My guiding professors had underestimated the military, but it no longer mattered. I put myself back together and invaded Jon's bedroom-in-exile.
Initially, my mentor acted groggy and disoriented, but one minute and four seconds of me expounding seemed to cure him of all sleepiness, although his skin became paler the more I talked. At his insistence, we roused Besden, whose most noticeable response to my little speech was to stop smiling. While I spilled the beans to the Guru, Jon stood shivering although the room was, if anything, a trifle warm for human comfort.
Then Besden tilted his head and cupped one ear. “Dan, am I hearing voices outside?"
“That's possible, although you could also be hearing the sound of fifteen different large engines idling and troops hurrying to set up heavy equipment in the alley behind us. The sonic landscape is rich this morning."
“For God'ssake!” Jon groaned. “Are you telling us the army's already here?"
“Some of it, at any rate. I imagine the scene outside the front door would appear somewhat intimidating."
He stared at me for a moment. “In the light of what you've ... revealed, wouldn't you say we're pretty well—"
“Screwed,” Besden finished. “Unless we can get the brass to understand the danger before it's too late. Or is it already too late, Dan?"
“Don't know, but wouldn't it be most practical to assume we still have enough time to fix this?"
“I'll go out there and talk to them,” Jon offered. “Somehow, I'll make them believe—"
“Not you, bubeleh,” Besden said firmly, launching out of bed and into a terrycloth bathrobe describable a
s “ratty” if the describer had no respect for the grooming ability of rats. “And not our friend here either. You couldn't sell cream cheese at a bagels-and-lox convention, and Dan they might attack. We know I'm good with people because Time said so."
While Besden headed out his front door, Jon and I occupied the living room. I cracked the curtains open a few inches and cranked up my hearing. Alison, wearing rumpled clothes from yesterday, joined us with frightened eyes but no immediate questions. As we all stared outside, the Norhaarts drifted closer as if drawn by gravity and I wondered if Jon was even aware of pulling his arm protectively around his daughter. His action, conscious or not, warmed me.
And the Guru impressed me. There was a nobility in the way he faced the wide arc of soldiers, heavy weapons, and armored vehicles, only enhanced by his tatty robe and bare, hairy calves. A true act of courage—but then, and I suppose this is often the case, the alternative seemed worse. He held his arms high and spoke slowly, clearly, and without quite shouting.
“Can you hear him, Dan?” Jon murmured, leaning away from me as far as he could without losing his view. “What's he saying?"
I was saddened that Jon had come to fear me. “My name,” I said in the Guru's voice, “is Professor Moshe Besden and I have vital information for whoever is in charge. Believe me, this information you need to hear."
While soldiers kept weapons trained on Besden, and other soldiers kept weapons aimed at the house, a large man bearing a silver eagle on one collar emerged through the ranks and stood facing the Guru, towering over him.
“Colonel Ayers here,” I repeated, switching to Ayers's vocal attributes. “You can lower your arms. What's this information?"
“Colonel, please listen carefully! We've just now learned the so-called Moon Robot is no mechanical servant. It's closer to being—well, Dan used the term ‘remote initiation system.’”
Ayers glanced toward the house before responding in a hoarse voice that was harder to duplicate. “You're claiming the robot is some kind of detonator?"
Analog SFF, September 2006 Page 14