Dimension of Miracles

by Robert Sheckley

  ‘There’s no arguing that,’ Carmody said.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Melichrone asked.

  ‘I honestly do mean it in all sincerity,’ Carmody said.

  Melichrone brooded for a while over that, then said abruptly, ‘Thank you. I like you. You are an intelligent, sensitive creature and you are not afraid to say what you mean.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Carmody said.

  ‘No, I really mean it.’

  ‘Well then, I really thank you,’ Carmody said, trying to keep a faint note of desperation out of his voice.

  ‘And I’m glad you came,’ Melichrone said. ‘Do you know, I am a very intuitive creature (I pride myself on that) and I think that you can help me.’

  It was on the tip of Carmody’s tongue to say that he had come to ask help rather than to give it, and that furthermore, he was in no position to help anyone, being unable to assist himself in so fundamental a task as finding his way home. But he decided against saying anything at the moment for fear of offending Melichrone.

  ‘My problem,’ Melichrone said, ‘is inherent in my situation. And my situation is unique, awesome, strange, and meaningful. You have heard, perhaps, that this entire planet is mine; but it goes much further than that. I am the only living thing which can live here. Others have tried, settlements have been formed, animals have been turned loose and plants have been planted. All with my approval, of course, and all in vain. Without exception, all matter alien to this planet has fallen to a thin dust which my winds eventually blow out to deep space. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Strange,’ Carmody said.

  ‘Yes, well put!’ Melichrone said. ‘Strange indeed! But there it is. No life is viable here except me and my extensions. It gave me quite a turn when I realized that.’

  ‘I imagine it did,’ Carmody said.

  ‘I have been here as long as I or anyone else can remember,’ Melichrone said. ‘For ages I was content to live simply, as amoebae, as lichen, as ferns. Everything was fine and straightforward in those days. I lived in a sort of Garden of Eden.’

  ‘It must have been marvellous,’ Carmody said.

  ‘I liked it,’ Melichrone said quietly. ‘But it couldn’t last, of course. I discovered evolution and evolved myself, altering my planet to accommodate my new personae. I became many creatures, some not nice. I took cognizance of worlds exterior to my own and experimented with the forms I observed there. I lived out long lifetimes as various of the galaxy’s higher forms – humanoid, Chtherizoid, Olichord, and others. I became aware of my singularity, and this knowledge brought me a loneliness which I found unacceptable. So I did not accept it. Instead, I entered a manic phase which lasted for some millions of years. I transformed myself into entire races, and I permitted – no, encouraged – my races to war against each other. I learned about sex and art at almost the same time. I introduced both to my races, and for a while I had a very enjoyable time. I divided myself into masculine and feminine components, each component a discrete unit, though still a part of me; and I procreated, indulged in perversions, burned myself at the stake, ambushed myself, made peace treaties with myself, married and divorced myself, went through countless miniature self-deaths and auto-births. And my components indulged in art, some of it very pretty, and in religion. They worshipped me, of course; this was only proper, since I was the efficient cause of all things for them. But I even permitted them to postulate and to glorify superior beings which were not me. For in those days, I was extremely liberal.’

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ Carmody said.

  ‘Well, I try to be thoughtful,’ Melichrone said. ‘I could afford to be thoughtful. As far as this planet was concerned, I was God, There’s no sense beating around the bush about it: I was supernal, immortal, omnipotent and omniscient. All things Were resident in me – even dissident opinions about myself. Not a blade of grass grew that was not some infinitesimal portion of my being. The very mountains and rivers were shaped by me. I caused the harvest, and the famine as well; I was the life in the sperm cells, and I was the death in the plague bacillus. Not a sparrow could fall without my knowledge, for I was the Binder and the Unbinder, the All and the Many, That Which Always Was and That Which Always Will Be.’

  ‘That’s really something,’ Carmody said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Melichrone said with a self-conscious smile, ‘I was the Big Wheel in the Heavenly Bicycle Factory, as one of my poets expressed it. It was all very splendid. My races made paintings; I made sunsets. My people wrote about love; I invented love. Ah, wonderful days! If it only could have gone on!’

  ‘Why didn’t it?’ Carmody asked.

  ‘Because I grew up,’ Melichrone said sadly. ‘For untold aeons I had revelled in creation; now I began to question my creations and myself. My priests were always asking about me, you see, and disputing among themselves as to my nature and qualities. Like a fool, I listened to them. It is always flattering to hear one’s priests discuss one; but it can be dangerous. I began to wonder about my own nature and qualities. I brooded, I introspected. The more I thought about it, the more difficult it seemed.’

  ‘But why did you have to question yourself?’ Carmody asked. ‘After all, you were God.’

  ‘That was the crux of the problem,’ Melichrone said. ‘From the viewpoint of my creations, there was no problem. I was God, I moved in mysterious ways, but my function was to nurture and chastise a race of beings who would have free will while still being of my essence. As far as they were concerned, what I did was pretty much all right since it was Me that was doing it. That is to say, my actions were in the final analysis inexplicable, even the simplest and most obvious of them, because I Myself was inexplicable. Or, to put it another way, my actions were enigmatic explanations of a total reality which only I, by virtue of my Godhead, could perceive. That is how several of my outstanding thinkers put it; and they added that a more complete understanding would be vouchsafed them in heaven.’

  ‘Did you also create a heaven?’ Carmody asked.

  ‘Certainly. Also a hell.’ Melichrone smiled. ‘You should have seen their faces when I resurrected them to one place or the other! Not even the most devout had really believed in a Hereafter!’

  ‘I suppose it was very gratifying,’ Carmody said.

  ‘It was nice for a while,’ Melichrone said. ‘But after a time, it bored me. I am doubtless as vain as the next God; but the endless fulsome praise finally bored me to distraction. Why in God’s name should a God be praised if he is only performing his Godly function? You might as well praise an ant for doing his blind antly duties. This state of affairs struck me as unsatisfactory. And I was still lacking in self-knowledge except through the biased eyes of my creations.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ Carmody asked.

  ‘I abolished them,’ Melichrone said. ‘I did away with all life on my planet, living and otherwise, and I also deleted the Hereafter. Frankly, I needed time to think.’

  ‘Huh,’ Carmody said, shocked.

  ‘In another sense, though, I didn’t destroy anything or anyone,’ Melichrone said hastily. ‘I simply gathered the fragments of myself back into myself.’ Melichrone grinned suddenly. ‘I had quite a number of wild-eyed fellows who were always talking about attaining a oneness with Me. They’ve attained it now, that’s for sure!’

  ‘Perhaps they like it that way,’ Carmody suggested.

  ‘How can they know?’ Melichrone said. ‘Oneness with Me means Me; it necessarily involves loss of the consciousness which examines one’s oneness. It is exactly the same as death, though it sounds much nicer.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ Carmody said. ‘But I believe you wished to speak to me about a problem?’

  ‘Yes, precisely! I was just coming to that. You see, I put away my peoples much as a child puts away a doll’s house. And then I sat down – metaphorically – to think things over. The only thing to think over was Me, of course. And the real problem about Me was, What was I supposed t
o do? Was I meant to be nothing but God? I had tried the God business and found it too limited. It was a job for a simple-minded egomaniac. There had to be something else for me to do – something more meaningful, more expressive of my true self. I am convinced of it! That is my problem, and that is the question I ask of you: What am I to do with myself?’

  ‘Well,’ said Carmody. ‘Well, well. Yes, I see your problem.’ He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘A problem like that requires a great deal of thought.’

  ‘Time is unimportant to me,’ Melichrone said. ‘I have limitless quantities of it. Though you, I am sorry to say, do not.’

  ‘I don’t? How much time do I have?’

  ‘About ten minutes, as you would reckon it. Shortly thereafter, something rather unfortunate is likely to happen to you.’

  ‘What is going to happen to me? What can I do about it?’

  ‘Come, now, fair’s fair,’ Melichrone said. ‘First you answer my question and then I’ll answer yours.’

  ‘But if I have only ten minutes –’

  ‘The limitation will aid your concentration,’ Melichrone said. ‘And anyhow, since it’s my planet, we do things by my rules. I can assure you, if it were your planet, I would do things by your rules. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ Carmody said unhappily.

  ‘Nine minutes,’ Melichrone said.

  How do you tell a God what his function should be? Especially if, like Carmody, you are an atheist? How do you find something meaningful to say, especially when you are aware that the God’s priests and philosophers have spent centuries on this ground?

  ‘Eight minutes,’ Melichrone said.

  Carmody opened his mouth and began to speak.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘It seems to me,’ Carmody said, ‘that the solution to your problem – is – is possibly –’

  ‘Yes?’ said Melichrone eagerly.

  Carmody had no idea of what he was going to say. He was speaking in the desperate hope that the act of speaking would of itself produce meaning, since words do have meanings, and sentences have even more meanings than words.

  ‘Your problem,’ Carmody continued, ‘is to find within yourself an indwelling functionalism which will have reference to an exterior reality. But this may be an impossible quest, since you yourself are reality, and therefore you cannot posit yourself exterior to yourself.’

  ‘I can if I want to,’ Melichrone said sulkily. ‘I can posit any damned thing I please since I’m in charge around here. Being a God, you know, doesn’t mean that One must be a solipsist.’

  ‘True, true, true,’ Carmody said rapidly. (Did he have seven minutes left? Or six? And what was going to happen at the end of that time?) ‘So it is clear, your Immanence and Indwellingness are insufficient to your view of yourself, and therefore are factually insufficient since you yourself, in your form of Definer, consider these qualities to be insufficient.’

  ‘Nicely reasoned,’ Melichrone said. ‘You should have been a theologian.’

  ‘At the moment I am a theologian,’ Carmody said., (Six minutes, five minutes?) ‘Very well, then, what are you to do? … Have you ever considered making all knowledge both internal and external (assuming that there is any such thing as external knowledge), of making knowledge your quest?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did think of that,’ Melichrone said. ‘Among other things, I read every book in the galaxy, plumbed the secrets of Nature and of Man, explored the macrocosm and the microcosm, and so forth. I had quite an aptitude for learning, by the way, though I have subsequently forgotten a few things, like the secret of life and the ulterior motive of death. But I can learn them again whenever I please. I did learn that learning is a dry, passive business, though filled with some pleasant surprises; and I also learned that learning has no particular and peculiar importance for me. As a matter of fact, I find unlearning almost as interesting.’

  ‘Maybe you were meant to be an artist,’ Carmody suggested.

  ‘I went through that phase,’ Melichrone said. ‘I sculpted in flesh and in clay, I painted sunsets on canvas and on the sky, I wrote books in words and other books in events, I made music on instruments, and composed symphonies for wind and rain. My work was good enough, I believe; but I knew somehow that I would always be a dilettante. My omnipotence does not allow me enough room for error, you see; and my grasp of the actual is too complete to allow me to bother seriously with the representational.’

  ‘Hmm, I see,’ Carmody said. (Surely no more than three minutes left!) ‘Why not become a conqueror?’

  ‘I do not need to conquer what I already possess,’ Melichrone said. ‘And as for other worlds, I do not desire them. My qualities are peculiar to my milieu, which consists of this single planet. Possession of other worlds would involve me in unnatural actions. And besides – what use do I have for other worlds when I don’t even know what to do with this one?’

  ‘I see that you’ve given the matter a great deal of thought,’ Carmody said, his desperation merging into despair.

  ‘Of course I have. I have thought of little else for some millions of years. I have looked for a purpose exterior to myself yet essential to the nature of my being. I have looked for a directive; but I have found only myself.’

  Carmody could have felt sorry for the God Melichrone if his own situation had not been so desperate. He was confused now; he could feel his time dwindling, and his fears were absurdly mingled with concern for the unfulfilled God.

  Then he had an inspiration. It was simple, straightforward, and solved both Melichrone’s problem and his own – which is the test of a good inspiration. Whether Melichrone would accept it was another matter. But Carmody could only try.

  ‘Melichrone,’ he said boldly, ‘I have solved your problem.’

  ‘Oh, have you really?’ Melichrone said eagerly. ‘I mean really really, I mean you’re not just saying that because, unless you do solve it to my satisfaction, you’re fated to die in seventy-three seconds? I mean, you haven’t let that influence you unduly, have you?’

  ‘I have allowed my impending fate to influence me,’ Carmody said majestically, ‘only to the extent that such an influence is needed to solve your problem.’

  ‘Oh. All right. Please hurry up and tell me, I’m so excited!’

  ‘I wish to do so,’ Carmody said. ‘But I can’t – it is physically impossible to explain everything – if you are going to kill me in sixty or seventy seconds.’

  ‘I? I am not going to kill you! Good heavens, do you really think me as bloody-minded as all that? No, your impending death is an exterior event quite without reference to me. By the way, you have twelve seconds left.’

  ‘It isn’t long enough,’ Carmody said.

  ‘Of course it’s long enough! This is my world, you know, and I control everything in it, including the duration of time. I have just altered the local space-time continuum at the ten-second mark. It’s an easy enough operation for a God, though it requires a lot of cleaning up afterwards. Accordingly, your ten seconds will consume approximately twenty-five years of my local time. Is that long enough?’

  ‘It’s more than ample,’ Carmody said. ‘And it’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Melichrone said. ‘Now, please, let me hear your solution.’

  ‘Very well,’ Carmody said, and took a deep breath. ‘The solution to your problem is inherent in the terms in which you view the problem. It could be no other way; every problem must contain within it the seeds of its own solution.’

  ‘Must it?’Melichrone asked.

  ‘Yes, it must,’ Carmody said firmly.

  ‘All right. For the moment I’ll accept that premise. Go on.’

  ‘Consider your situation,’ Carmody said. ‘Consider both its interior and exterior aspects. You are the God of this planet; but only of this planet. You are omnipotent and omniscient; but only here. You have impressive intellectual attainments, and you feel
a call to serve something outside of yourself. But your gifts would be wasted any place but here, and here there is no one but you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that is exactly my situation!’ Melichrone cried. ‘But you still haven’t told me what to do about it!’

  Carmody took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘What you must do,’ he said, ‘is to use all of your great gifts, and to use them here, on your own planet, where they will be of maximum effect; and use them in the service of others, since this is your deepest desire.’

  ‘In the service of others?’ Melichrone asked.

  ‘It is so indicated,’ Carmody said. ‘The most superficial consideration of your situation points the verdict. You are alone in a multiplex universe; but in order for you to perform exterior deeds, there must be an exterior. However, you are barred by your very essence from going to that exterior. Therefore the exterior must come to you. When it comes, what will be your relationship to it? That also is clear. Since you are omnipotent in your own world, you cannot be aided or assisted; but you can aid and assist others. This is the only natural relationship between you and the outside universe.’

  Melichrone thought about it, then said, ‘Your argument has force; that much I freely admit. But there are difficulties. For example, the outside world rarely comes this way. You are the first visitor I have had in two and a quarter galactic revolutions.’

  ‘The job does require patience,’ Carmody admitted. ‘But patience is a quality you must strive for. It will be easier for you since time is a variable. And as for the number of your visitors – first of all, quantity does not affect quality. There is no value in mere enumeration. A man or a God does his job; that is what counts. Whether that job requires one or a million transactions makes no difference.’

  ‘But I am as badly off as before if I have a job to perform and no one to perform it on.’