The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume 3: Something Wild Is Loose: 1969-72

by Robert Silverberg

  I think I remain quite calm at most times considering the extraordinary nature of the stress that this experience has imposed on me. I am still self-conscious about my appearance but I pretend otherwise. Often I go naked just as they do. If they dislike bodily hair or disproportionate limbs, let them look away.

  Occasionally I belch or scratch under my arms or do other primitive things to remind them that I am the authentic man from antiquity. For now there can be no doubt that I have my imitators. There are at least five. Calpurnia denies this but I am no fool.

  Dr. Habakkuk revealed that he was going to take a holiday in the Carpathians and would not return until the 14th of June-surrogate. In the meantime Dr. Clasp would minister to my needs. Dr. Clasp entered my suite and I remarked on his startling resemblance to Dr. Habakkuk. He asked, What would you like? and I told him I wanted him to operate on me so that I looked like everybody else. I am tired of appearing bestial and primordial, I said. To my surprise Dr. Clasp smiled warmly and told me that he’d arrange for the transformation at once, since it violated his principles to allow any organism needlessly to suffer. I was taken to the operating room and given a sour-tasting anesthetic. Seemingly without the passing of time I awakened and was wheeled into a dome of mirrors to behold myself. Even as I had requested they had redone me into one of them, blond-haired, blue-eyed, with a slim agile body and a splendidly symmetrical face. Dr. Clasp came in after a while and we stood side by side: we might have been twins. How do you like it? he asked. Tears brimmed in my eyes and I said that this was the most wonderful moment of my life. Dr. Clasp pummeled my shoulder jovially and said, You know, I am not Dr. Clasp at all, I am really Dr. Habakkuk and I never went to the Carpathians. This entire episode has been a facet of our analysis of your pattern of responses.

  Louisiana was astonished by my changed appearance. Are you truly he? she kept asking. Are you truly he? I’ll prove it I said and mounted her with my old prehistoric zeal, snorting and gnawing her breasts. But she shook me free with a deft flip of her pelvis and rushed from the chamber. You’ll never see me again she shouted but I merely shrugged and called after her, So what I can see lots of others just like you. I never saw her again.

  Table 1. Composition of isocaloric diet.

  Substance

  Composition (%)

  Barley meal

  70.0

  Fine Millars Offal

  20.0

  Extracted soya bean meal

  7.5

  Salt

  0.5

  Ground limestone

  0.5

  Sterilized bone meal

  1.0

  “Eves” No. 32 (totally digestible)

  0.25

  Plausible attitudes upon discovering that one has been ripped from one’s proper cultural matrix:

  a) Fear

  b) Indignation

  c) Incredulity

  d) Uncertainty

  e) Aggressive hostility

  f) Withdrawal

  g) Compulsive masturbation

  h) Cool acceptance

  i) Suspicion

  j) None of these

  So now they have all changed themselves again to the new standard model. It happened gradually over a period of months but the transition is at last complete. Their heavy brows, their pockmarked cheeks, their hairy chests. It is the latest thing. I make my way through the crowded streets and wherever I turn I see faces that mirror my own lopsidedness. Only I am not lopsided myself any more, of course. I am symmetrical and flawless, and I am the only one. I cannot find Dr. Habakkuk and Dr. Clasp is in the Pyrenees; Senator Mandragore was defeated in the primary. So I must remain beautiful. Walking among them. They are all alike. Thick lips uneven teeth noses like blobs. How I despise them! I the only golden one. And all of them mocking me by their metamorphosis. All of them. Mocking me. Meee.

  GOOD NEWS FROM THE VATICAN

  Ever since I read Baron Corvo’s remarkable novel Hadrian the Seventh in 1955 I have amused myself with the fantasy of being elected Pope—an ambition complicated to some degree by the fact that I am not in holy orders, nor a Roman Catholic, nor, indeed, any kind of Christian at all. As my friends know, I duly submit an application whenever a vacancy occurs at the Vatican, but as of this date the Church has not yet seen fit to make use of my services.

  All the same, I keep close watch over events in the Holy City as I bide my time, and in the pursuit of this not entirely serious career plan I’ve learned a good deal about the rituals and tensions surrounding the elections of a pontiff. This led me, one chilly but cheery day in February, 1971, to produce this sly, playful story of the accession of the first robot to the Holy See. (The robot is, in fact, meant to be my own successor, though the point is made only through an oblique private reference in the final paragraph.)

  At the time I wrote this story a year and a half had passed since the completion of rebuilding work on my New York house, and it was even more handsome than it had been before the fire. I assumed I would live there for the rest of my life. But some sort of uneasiness was stirring in my soul even then, for the winter of 1970-71 was unusually snowy in New York, and as the white drifts piled up outside the door I began to tell people that I yearned for some warmer climate. On the February day when Terry Carr called to ask me to write a story for Universe, his new anthology of previously unpublished short stories, I was, as a matter of fact, at work on The Book of Skulls, a novel set in the torrid Arizona desert.

  Carr, then at the peak of his distinguished career as a science-fiction editor for Ace Books, told me that he was approaching the deadline for delivery of the first volume of Universe and was badly in need of fiction by authors with recognizable names. He had been asking me for a story for weeks, but I was busy with my novel, and I put him off; now, though, he appealed bluntly to me to help him out. Since Terry was a persuasive man and a close friend besides, I agreed to interrupt the novel and do a quick short story for him.

  What to write about? Well, I thought, hastily casting about for an idea, suppose they elect a robot as Pope? That ought to be worth 3000 words or so of amiable foolery, right? My own pretense of interest in attaining the Papacy and my knowledge of the mechanics of Papal elections would help me make the story reasonably convincing. A couple of hours’ work and Terry and his new anthology would be off my conscience.

  So I sat down and wrote “Good News from the Vatican” just about as fast as I could type it out. Terry was amused by its cool, detached, tongue-in-cheek mode of irony (which I was beginning to employ more and more, as I entered my third decade as a writer) and published it in the first issue of Universe with a brief introduction noting that although my stories were usually quite serious in tone, this one was a bit on the silly side, although nevertheless quite thoughtful and ingenious, et cetera, et cetera.

  A couple of unexpected ironies proceeded from this enterprise. The little story I had written so quickly that snowy February day caught everybody’s attention, was nominated for a Nebula award, and won the trophy for me—the second of, ultimately, five Nebulas—the following spring. (I won my third the same night, for the novel A Time of Changes.) I collected my awards not in New York but at a ceremony held in California, for, much to my astonishment, the inner uneasiness of February had culminated by late summer in a series of explosive personal upheavals that had caused me to sell my New York house and move westward, a few months after Terry Carr himself had done the very same thing.

  And also—rather sadly, actually—a decade and a half after I had helped Terry get Universe started by hastily writing an award-winning story for his first issue, I found myself taking his place as its editor, when his publisher decided to continue the anthology as a memorial to him following his untimely death in 1987.

  ——————

  This is the morning everyone has waited for, when at last the robot cardinal is to be elected Pope. There can no longer be any doubt of the outcome. The conclave has been deadlocked for many days between the obstinate advoc
ates of Cardinal Asciuga of Milan and Cardinal Carciofo of Genoa, and word has gone out that a compromise is in the making. All factions now are agreed on the selection of the robot. This morning I read in Osservatore Romano that the Vatican computer itself has taken a hand in the deliberations. The computer has been strongly urging the candidacy of the robot. I suppose we should not be surprised by this loyalty among machines. Nor should we let it distress us. We absolutely must not let it distress us.

  “Every era gets the Pope it deserves,” Bishop FitzPatrick observed somewhat gloomily today at breakfast. “The proper Pope for our times is a robot, certainly. At some future date it may be desirable for the Pope to be a whale, an automobile, a cat, a mountain.” Bishop FitzPatrick stands well over two meters in height and his normal facial expression is a morbid, mournful one. Thus it is impossible for us to determine whether any particular pronouncement of his reflects existential despair or placid acceptance. Many years ago he was a star player for the Holy Cross championship basketball team. He has come to Rome to do research for a biography of St. Marcellus the Righteous.

  We have been watching the unfolding drama of the papal election from an outdoor café several blocks from the Square of St. Peter’s. For all of us, this has been an unexpected dividend of our holiday in Rome; the previous Pope was reputed to be in good health and there was no reason to suspect that a successor would have to be chosen for him this summer.

  Each morning we drive across by taxi from our hotel near the Via Veneto and take up our regular positions around “our” table. From where we sit, we all have a clear view of the Vatican chimney through which the smoke of the burning ballots rises: black smoke if no Pope has been elected, white if the conclave has been successful. Luigi, the owner and head waiter, automatically brings us our preferred beverages: fernet branca for Bishop FitzPatrick, campari and soda for Rabbi Mueller, Turkish coffee for Miss Harshaw, lemon squash for Kenneth and Beverly, and pernod on the rocks for me. We take turns paying the check, although Kenneth has not paid it even once since our vigil began. Yesterday, when Miss Harshaw paid, she emptied her purse and found herself 350 lire short; she had nothing else except hundred-dollar travelers’ checks. The rest of us looked pointedly at Kenneth but he went on calmly sipping his lemon squash. After a brief period of tension Rabbi Mueller produced a 500-lire coin and rather irascibly slapped the heavy silver piece against the table. The rabbi is known for his short temper and vehement style. He is twenty-eight years old, customarily dresses in a fashionable plaid cassock and silvered sunglasses, and frequently boasts that he has never performed a bar mitzvah ceremony for his congregation, which is in Wicomico County, Maryland. He believes that the rite is vulgar and obsolete, and invariably farms out all his bar mitzvahs to a franchised organization of itinerant clergymen who handle such affairs on a commission basis. Rabbi Mueller is an authority on angels.

  Our group is divided over the merits of electing a robot as the new Pope. Bishop FitzPatrick, Rabbi Mueller, and I are in favor of the idea. Miss Harshaw, Kenneth and Beverly are opposed. It is interesting to note that both of our gentlemen of the cloth, one quite elderly and one fairly young, support this remarkable departure from tradition. Yet the three “swingers” among us do not.

  I am not sure why I align myself with the progressives. I am a man of mature years and fairly sedate ways. Nor have I ever concerned myself with the doings of the Church of Rome. I am unfamiliar with Catholic dogma and unaware of recent currents of thought within the Church. Still, I have been hoping for the election of the robot since the start of the conclave.

  Why, I wonder? Is it because the image of a metal creature upon the Throne of St. Peter’s stimulates my imagination and tickles my sense of the incongruous? That is, is my support of the robot purely an aesthetic matter? Or is it, rather, a function of my moral cowardice? Do I secretly think that this gesture will buy the robots off? Am I privately saying, Give them the papacy and maybe they won’t want other things for a while? No. I can’t believe anything so unworthy of myself. Possibly I am for the robot because I am a person of unusual sensitivity to the needs of others.

  “If he’s elected,” says Rabbi Mueller, “he plans an immediate time-sharing agreement with the Dalai Lama and a reciprocal plug-in with the head programmer of the Greek Orthodox Church, just for starters. I’m told he’ll make ecumenical overtures to the Rabbinate as well, which is certainly something for all of us to look forward to.”

  “I don’t doubt that there’ll be many corrections in the customs and practices of the hierarchy,” Bishop FitzPatrick declares. “For example we can look forward to superior information-gathering techniques as the Vatican computer is given a greater role in the operations of the Curia. Let me illustrate by—”

  “What an utterly ghastly notion,” Kenneth says. He is a gaudy young man with white hair and pink eyes. Beverly is either his wife or his sister. She rarely speaks. Kenneth makes the sign of the Cross with offensive brusqueness and murmurs, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Automaton.” Miss Harshaw giggles but chokes the giggle off when she sees my disapproving face.

  Dejectedly, but not responding at all to the interruption, Bishop FitzPatrick continues, “Let me illustrate by giving you some figures I obtained yesterday afternoon. I read in the newspaper Oggi that during the last five years, according to a spokesman for the Missiones Catholicae, the Church has increased its membership in Yugoslavia from 19,381,403 to 23,501,062. But the government census taken last year gives the total population of Yugoslavia at 23,575,194. That leaves only 74,132 for the other religious and irreligious bodies. Aware of the large Moslem population of Yugoslavia, I suspected an inaccuracy in the published statistics and consulted the computer in St. Peter’s, which informed me”—the bishop, pausing, produces a lengthy print-out and unfolds it across much of the table—“that the last count of the Faithful in Yugoslavia, made a year and a half ago, places our numbers at 14,206,198. Therefore an overstatement of 9,294,864 has been made. Which is absurd. And perpetuated. Which is damnable.”

  “What does he look like?” Miss Harshaw asks. “Does anyone have any idea?”

  “He’s like all the rest,” says Kenneth. “A shiny metal box with wheels below and eyes on top.”

  “You haven’t seen him,” Bishop FitzPatrick interjects. “I don’t think it’s proper for you to assume that—”

  “They’re all alike,” Kenneth says. “Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen all of them. Shiny boxes. Wheels. Eyes. And voices coming out of their bellies like mechanized belches. Inside, they’re all cogs and gears.” Kenneth shudders delicately. “It’s too much for me to accept. Let’s have another round of drinks, shall we?”

  Rabbi Mueller says, “It so happens that I’ve seen him with my own eyes.”

  “You have?” Beverly exclaims.

  Kenneth scowls at her. Luigi, approaching, brings a tray of new drinks for everyone. I hand him a 5,000-lire note. Rabbi Mueller removes his sunglasses and breathes on their brilliantly reflective surfaces. He has small, watery gray eyes and a bad squint. He says, “The cardinal was the keynote speaker at the Congress of World Jewry that was held last fall in Beirut. His theme was ‘Cybernetic Ecumenicism for Contemporary Man’. I was there. I can tell you that His Eminency is tall and distinguished, with a fine voice and a gentle smile. There’s something inherently melancholy about his manner that reminds me greatly of our friend the bishop, here. His movements are graceful and his wit is keen.”

  “But he’s mounted on wheels, isn’t he?” Kenneth persists.

  “On treads,” replies the rabbi, giving Kenneth a fiery, devastating look and resuming his sunglasses. “Treads, like a tractor has. But I don’t think that treads are spiritually inferior to feet, or, for that matter, to wheels. If I were a Catholic I’d be proud to have a man like that as my Pope.”

  “Not a man,” Miss Harshaw puts in. A giddy edge enters her voice whenever she addresses Rabbi Mueller. “A robot,” she says. “He’s not a
man, remember?”

  “A robot like that as my Pope, then,” Rabbi Mueller says, shrugging at the correction. He raises his glass. “To the new Pope!”

  “To the new Pope!” cries Bishop FitzPatrick.

  Luigi comes rushing from his cafe. Kenneth waves him away. “Wait a second,” Kenneth says. “The election isn’t over yet. How can you be so sure?”

  “The Osservatore Romano,” I say, “indicates in this morning’s edition that everything will be decided today. Cardinal Carciofo has agreed to withdraw in his favor, in return for a larger real-time allotment when the new computer hours are decreed at next year’s consistory.”

  “In other words, the fix is in,” Kenneth says.

  Bishop FitzPatrick sadly shakes his head. “You state things much too harshly, my son. For three weeks now we have been without a Holy Father. It is God’s Will that we shall have a Pope; the conclave, unable to choose between the candidacies of Cardinal Carciofo and Cardinal Asciuga, thwarts that Will; if necessary, therefore, we must make certain accommodations with the realities of the times so that His Will shall not be further frustrated. Prolonged politicking within the conclave now becomes sinful. Cardinal Carciofo’s sacrifice of his personal ambitions is not as self-seeking an act as you would claim.”