"Examine her if you want," Herb Asher said. "It's at least six. Make your own determination."
"I—" The doctor rubbed her forehead, wincing; she shut her eyes and grimaced, as in pain. "I see no reason to—" She broke off, as if unable to remember what she intended to say. "I see no reason," she resumed after a moment, "to dispute this." She pressed a button on her desk intercom.
The door opened and a uniformed Immigration official stood there. A moment later he was joined by a uniformed Customs agent.
"The matter is settled," the doctor said to the Immigration official. "We can't force her to abort; she's too far along."
The Immigration official gazed down at her fixedly.
"It's the law," the doctor said.
"Mr. Asher," the Customs agent said, "let me ask you something. In your wife's declaration prepared for Customs clearance she lists two phylacteries. What is a phylactery?"
"I don't know," Herb Asher said.
"Aren't you Jewish?" the Customs agent said. "Every Jew knows what a phylactery is. Your wife, then, is Jewish and you are not?"
"Well," Herb Asher said, "she is C.I.C. but—" He paused. He sensed himself moving step by step into a trap. It was patently impossible that a husband would not know his wife's religion. They are getting into an area I do not want to discuss, he said to himself. "I'm a Christian," he said, then. "Although I was raised Scientific Legate. I belonged to the Party's Youth Corps. But now—"
"But Mrs. Asher is Jewish. Hence the phylacteries. You've never seen her put them on? One goes on the head; one goes on the left arm. They're small square leathern boxes containing sections of Hebrew scripture. It strikes me as odd that you don't know anything about this. How long have you known each other?"
"A long time," Herb Asher said.
"Is she really your wife?" the Immigration official said. "If she is six months along in her pregnancy—" He consulted with some of the documents lying on the doctor's desk. "She was pregnant when you married her. Are you the father of the child?"
"Of course," he said.
"What blood type are you? Well, I have it here." The Immigration official began going through the filled-out legal and medical forms. "It's somewhere ..."
The fone on the desk rang; the lady doctor picked it up and identified herself. "For you." She handed the receiver to the Immigration official.
The Immigration official, raptly attentive, listened in silence; then, putting his hand over the audio sender, he said irritably to Herb Asher, "The blood type checks out. You two are cleared. But we want to talk to Tate, the older man who—" He broke off and again listened to his fone.
"You can call a cab from the payfone in the lounge," the Customs agent said.
"We're free to go?" Herb Asher said.
The Customs agent nodded.
"Something is wrong," the doctor said; again she had removed her glasses and sat rubbing her eyes.
"There's this other matter," the Customs agent said to her, and bent down to present her with a stack of documents.
"Do you know where Tate is?" the Immigration official called after Herb Asher as he and Rybys made their way from the examination room.
"No, I don't," Herb said, and found himself in the corridor; supporting Rybys he walked step by step back down the corridor to the lounge. "Sit down," he said to her, depositing her in a heap on a couch. Several waiting people gazed at them dully. "I'll fone. I'll be right back. Do you have any change? I need a five-dollar piece."
"Christ," Rybys murmured. "No, I don't have."
"We got through," he said to her in a low voice.
"OK!" she said angrily.
"I'll fone for a cab." Going through his pockets, searching for a five-dollar piece, he felt elated. Yah had intervened, distantly and feebly, but it had been enough.
Ten minutes later they and their luggage were aboard a Yellow flycab, rising up from the Washington, D.C., spaceport, heading in the direction of Bethesda-Chevy Chase.
"Where the hell is Elias?" Rybys managed to say.
"He drew their attention," Herb said. "He diverted them. Away from us."
"Great," she said. "So now he could be anywhere."
All at once a large commercial flycar came hurtling toward them at reckless speed.
The robot driver of the cab cried out in dismay. And then the massive flycar sideswiped them; it happened in an instant. Violent waves of concussion hurled the cab in a downward spiral; Herb Asher clutched his wife against him—buildings bloomed into hugeness, and he knew, he knew absolutely and utterly, what had happened. The bastards, he thought in pain; he hurt physically; he ached from the realization. Warning beepers in the cab had gone off—
Yah's protection wasn't enough, he realized as the cab spun lower and lower like a falling, withered leaf.
It's too weak. Too weak here.
The cab struck the edge of a high-rise building.
Darkness came and Herb Asher knew no more.
He lay in a hospital bed, wired up and tubed up to countless devices like a cyborg entity.
"Mr. Asher?" a voice was saying, a male voice. "Mr. Asher, can you hear me?"
He tried to nod but could not.
"You have suffered serious internal damage," the male voice said. "I am Dr. Pope. You've been unconscious for five days. Surgery was performed on you but your ruptured spleen had to be removed. That's only a part of it. You are going to be put into cryonic suspension until replacement organs—Can you hear me?"
"Yes," he said.
"—Until replacement organs, available from donors, can be procured. The waiting list isn't very long; you should be in suspension for only a few weeks. How long, specifically—"
"My wife."
"Your wife is dead. She lost brain function for too long a time. We had to rule out cryonic suspension for her. It wouldn't have been of any use."
"The baby."
"The fetus is alive," Dr. Pope said. "Your wife's uncle, Mr. Tate, has arrived and has taken legal responsibility. We've removed the fetus from her body and placed it in a synthowomb. According to all our tests it was not damaged by the trauma, which is something of a miracle."
Grimly, Herb Asher thought, Exactly.
"Your wife asked that he be called Emmanuel," Dr. Pope said.
"I know."
As he lost consciousness Herb Asher said to himself, Yah's plans have not been completely wrecked. Yah has not been defeated entirely. There is still hope.
But not very much.
"Belial," he whispered.
"Pardon me?" Dr. Pope leaned close to hear. "Belial? Is that someone you want us to contact? Someone who should know?"
Herb Asher said, "He knows."
The chief prelate of the Christian-Islamic Church said to the procurator maximus of the Scientific Legate, "Something went wrong. They got past Immigration."
"Where did they go? They have to have gone somewhere."
"Elias Tate disappeared even before the Customs inspection. We have no idea where he is. As for the Ashers—" The cardinal hesitated. "They were last seen leaving in a cab. I'm sorry."
Bulkowsky said, "We will find them."
"With God's help," the cardinal said, and crossed himself. Bulkowsky, seeing that, did likewise.
"The power of evil," Bulkowsky said.
"Yes," the cardinal said. "That is what we are up against."
"But it loses in the end."
"Yes, absolutely. I am going to the chapel, now. To pray. I advise you to do the same."
Raising an eyebrow, Bulkowsky regarded him. His expression could not be read; it was intricate.
10
WHEN HERB ASHER awoke he was told perplexing facts. He had spent—not weeks—but years in cryonic suspension. The doctors could not explain why it had taken so long to obtain replacement organs. Circumstances, they told him, beyond our control. Procedural problems.
He said, "What about Emmanuel?"
Dr. Pope, who looked older and grayer and more distin
guished than before, said, "Someone broke into the hospital and removed your son from the synthowomb."
"When?"
"Almost at once. The fetus was in the synthowomb for only a day, according to our records."
"Do you know who did it?"
"According to our video tapes—we monitor our syntho-wombs constantly—it was an elderly bearded man." After a pause Dr. Pope added, "Deranged in appearance. You must face the very high probability factor that your son is dead, has in fact been dead for ten years, either from natural causes, which is to say from being taken out of his synthowomb ... or due to the actions of the elderly bearded man. Either deliberate or accidental. The police could not locate either of them. I'm sorry."
Elias Tate, Herb said to himself. Spiriting Emmanuel away, to safety. He shut his eyes and felt overwhelming gratitude.
"How do you feel?" Dr. Pope inquired.
"I dreamed. I didn't know that people in cryonic suspension were conscious."
"You weren't."
"I dreamed again and again about my wife." He felt bitter grief hover over him and then descend on him, filling him; the grief was too much. "Always I found myself back there with her. When we met, before we met. The trip to Earth. Little things. Dishes of spoiled food ... she was sloppy."
"But you do have your son."
"Yes," he said. He wondered how he would be able to find Elias and Emmanuel. They will have to find me, he realized.
For a month he remained at the hospital, undergoing remedial therapy to build up his strength, and then, on a cool morning in mid-March, the hospital discharged him. Suitcase in hand he walked down the front steps, shaky and afraid but happy to be free. Every day during his therapy he had expected the authorities to come swooping down on him. They did not. He wondered why.
As he stood with a throng of people trying to flag down a flycar Yellow cab he noticed a blind beggar standing off to one side, an ancient, white-haired, very large man wearing soiled clothing; the old man held a cup.
"Elias," Herb Asher said.
Going over to him he regarded his old friend. Neither of them spoke for a time and then Elias Tate said, "Hello, Her- bert."
"Rybys told me you often take the form of a beggar," Herb Asher said. He reached out to put his arms around the old man, but Elias shook his head.
"It is Passover," Elias said. "And I am here. The power of my spirit is too great; you should not touch me. It is all my spirit, now, at this moment."
"You are not a man," Herb Asher said, awed.
"I am many men," Elias said. "It's good to see you again. Emmanuel said you would be released today."
"The boy is all right?"
"He is beautiful."
"I saw him," Herb Asher said. "Once, a while ago. In a vision that—" He paused. "Jehovah sent to me. To help me."
"Did you dream?" Elias asked.
"About Rybys. And about you as well. About everything that happened. I lived it over and over again."
"But now you are alive again," Elias said. "Welcome back, Herbert Asher. We have much to do."
"Do we have a chance? Do we have any real chance?"
"The boy is ten years old," Elias said. "He has confused their wits, scrambled up their thinking. He has made them forget. But—" Elias was silent a moment. "He, too, has forgotten. You will see. A few years ago he began to remember; he heard a song and some of his memories came back. Enough, perhaps, or maybe not enough. You may bring back more. He programmed himself, originally, before the accident."
With extreme difficulty Herb Asher said, "He was injured, then? In the accident?"
Elias nodded. Somberly.
"Brain damage," Herb Asher said; he saw the expression on his friend's face.
Again the old man nodded, the elderly beggar with the cup. The immortal Elijah, here at Passover. As always. The eternal, helping friend of man. Tattered and shabby, and very wise.
Zina said, "Your father is coming, isn't he?"
Together they sat on a bench in Rock Creek Park, near the frozen-over water. Trees shaded them with bare, stark branches. The air had turned cold, and both children wore heavy clothing. But the sky overhead was clear. Emmanuel gazed up for a time.
"What does your slate say?" Zina asked.
"I don't have to consult my slate."
"He isn't your father."
Emmanuel said, "He's a good person. It's not his fault that my mother died. I'll be happy to see him once more. I've missed him." He thought, It's been a long time. According to the scale by which they reckon here in the Lower Realm.
What a tragic realm this is, he reflected. Those down here are prisoners, and the ultimate tragedy is that they don't know it; they think they are free because they have never been free, and do not understand what it means. This is a prison, and few men have guessed. But I know, he said to himself. Because that is why I am here. To burst the walls, to tear down the metal gates, to break each chain. Thou shall not muzzle the ox as he treadeth out the corn, he thought, remembering the Torah. You will not imprison a free creature; you will not bind it. Thus says the Lord your God. Thus I say.
They do not know whom they serve. This is the heart of their misfortune: service in error, to a wrong thing. They are poisoned as if with metal, he thought. Metal confining them and metal in their blood; this is a metal world. Driven by cogs, a machine that grinds along, dealing out suffering and death ... They are so accustomed to death, he realized, as if death, too, were natural. How long it has been since they knew the Garden. The place of resting animals and flowers. When can I find for them that place again?
There are two realities, he said to himself. The Black Iron Prison, which is called the Cave of Treasures, in which they now live, and the Palm Tree Garden with its enormous spaces, its light, where they originally dwelt. Now they are literally blind, he thought. Literally unable to see more than a short distance; faraway objects are invisible to them now. Once in a while one of them guesses that formerly they had faculties now gone; once in a while one of them discerns the truth, that they are not now what they were and not now where they were. But they forget again, exactly as I forgot. And I still forget somewhat, he realized. I still have only a partial vision. I am occluded, too.
But I will not be, soon.
"You want a Pepsi?" Zina said.
"It's too cold. I just want to sit."
"Don't be unhappy." She put her mittened hand on his arm. "Be joyful."
Emmanuel said, "I'm tired. I'll be okay. There's a lot that has to be done. I'm sorry. It weighs on me."
"You're not afraid, are you?"
"Not any more," Emmanuel said.
"You are sad."
He nodded.
Zina said, "You'll feel better when you see Mr. Asher again."
"I see him now," Emmanuel said.
"Very good," she said, pleased. "And even without your slate."
"I use it less and less," he said, "because the knowledge is progressively more and more in me. As you know. And you know why."
To that, Zina said nothing.
"We are close, you and I," Emmanuel said. "I have always loved you the most. I always will. You are going to stay on with me and advise me, aren't you?" He knew the answer; he knew that she would. She had been with him from the beginning—as she said, his darling and delight. And her delight, as Scripture said, was in mankind. So, through her, he himself loved mankind: it was his delight as well.
"We could get something hot to drink," Zina said.
He murmured, "I just want to sit." I shall sit here until it is time to go to meet Herb Asher, he said to himself. He can tell me about Rybys; his many memories of her will give me joy. The joy that, right now, I lack.
I love him, he realized. I love my mother's husband, my legal father. Like other men he is a good human being. He is a man of merit, and to be cherished.
But, unlike other men, Herb Asher knows who I am. Thus I can talk openly with him. as I do with Elias. And with Zina. It will help, he thought.
I will be less weary. No longer as I am now, pinned by my cares: weighed down. The burden, to some extent, will lift. Because it will be shared.
And, he thought, there is still so much that I do not remember. I am not as I was. Like them, like the people. I have fallen. The bright morning star which fell did not fall alone, it tore down everything else with it, including me. Part of my own being fell with it. And I am that fallen being now.
But then, as he sat there on the bench with Zina, in the park, on this cold day so near the vernal equinox, he thought, But Herbert Asher lay dreaming in his bunk, dreaming of a phantom life with Linda Fox, while my mother struggled to survive. Not once did he try to help her; not once did he inquire into her trouble and seek remedy. Not until I, I myself, forced him to go to her, not until then did he do anything. I do not love the man, he said to himself. I know the man and he forfeited his right to my love—he lost my love because he did not care.
I cannot, thereupon, care about him. In response.
Why should I help any of them? he asked himself. They do what is right only when forced to, when there is no alternative. They fell of their own accord and are fallen now, of their own accord, by what they have voluntarily done. My mother is dead because of them; they murdered her. They would murder me if they could figure out where I am; only because I have confused their wits do they leave me alone. High and low they seek my life, just as Ahab sought Elijah's life, so long ago. They are a worthless race, and I do not care if they fall. I do not care at all. To save them I must fight what they themselves are. And have always been.
"You look so downcast," Zina said.
"What is this for?" he said. "They are what they are. I grow more and more weary. And I care less and less, as I begin to remember. For ten years I have lived on this world, now, and for ten years they have hunted me. Let them die. Did I not say to them the talion law: 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth'? Is that not in the Torah? They drove me off this world two thousand years ago; I return; they wish me dead. Under the talion law I should wish them dead. It is the sacred law of Israel. It is my law, my word."
The VALIS Trilogy Page 36