Case of Conscience

I

The stone door slammed. It was Cleaver’s trade-mark: there had never been a door too heavy, complex, or cleverly tracked to prevent him from closing it with a sound like a clap of doom. And no planet in the universe could possess an air sufficiently thick and curtained with damp to muffle that sound—not even Lithia.

Father Ramon Ruiz-Sanchez, late of Peru, and always Clerk Regular of the Society of Jesus, professed father of the four vows, continued to read. It would take Paul Cleaver’s impatient fingers quite a while to free him from his jungle suit, and in the meantime the problem remained. It was a century-old problem, first propounded in 1939, but the Church had never cracked it And it was diabolically complex (that adverb was official, precisely chosen, and intended to be taken literally.) Even the novel which had proposed the case was on the Index Expurgatorius, and Father Ruiz-Sanchez had spiritual access to it only by virtue of his Order.

He turned the page, scarcely hearing the stamping and muttering in the hall. On and on the text ran, becoming more tangled, more evil, more insoluble with every word:

“…Magravius threatens to have Anita molested by Sulla, an orthodox savage (and leader of a band of twelve mercenaries, the Sullivani,) who desires to procure Felicia for Gregorius, Leo Vitellius and Macdugalius, four excavators, if she will not yield to him and also deceive Honuphrius by rendering conjugal duty when demanded. Anita who claims to have discovered incestuous temptations from Jeremias and Eugenius- There now, he was lost again. Jeremias and Eugenius were-? Oh, yes, the “philadelphians” or, brotherly lovers (another crime hidden there, no doubt) at the beginning of the case, consanguineous to the lowest degree with both Felicia and Honuphrius-the latter the apparent prime villain and husband of Anita. It was Magravius, who seemed to admire Honuphrius, who had been urged by the slave Mauritius to solicit Anita, seemingly under the aegis of Honuphrius himself. This, however, had come to Anita through her tirewoman Fortissa, who was or at one time had been the common-law wife of Mauritius and had borne him children-so that the whole story had to be weighed with the utmost caution. And that entire initial confession of Honuphrius had come out under torture-voluntarily consented to, to be sure, but still torture. The Fortissa-Mauritius relationship was even more dubious, really only a supposition of the commentator Father Ware—

“Ramon, give me a hand, will you?” Cleaver shouted suddenly. “I’m stuck, and-and I don’t feel well.”

The Jesuit biologist arose in alarm, putting the novel aside. Such an admission from Cleaver was unprecedented.

The physicist was sitting on a pouf of woven rushes, stuffed with a sphagnumlike moss, which was bulging at the equator under his weight. He was half-way out of his glass-fiber jungle suit, and his face was white and beaded with sweat, although his helmet was already off. His uncertain, stubby fingers tore at a jammed zipper.

“Paul! Why didn’t you say you were ill in the first place? Here, let go of that; you’re only making things worse. What happened?”

“Don’t know exactly,” Cleaver said, breathing heavily but relinquishing the zipper. Ruiz-Sanchez knelt beside him and began to work it carefully back onto its tracks. “Went a ways into the jungle to see if I could spot more pegmatite lies. It’s been in the back of my mind that a pilot-plant for turning out tritium might locate here eventually—ought to be able to produce on a prodigious scale.”

“God forbid,” Ruiz-Sanchez said under his breath.

“Hm? Anyhow, I didn’t see anything. A few lizards, hoppers, the usual thing. Then I ran up against a plant that looked a little like a pineapple, and one of the spines jabbed right through my suit and nicked me. Didn’t seem serious, but—”

“But we don’t have the suits for nothing. Let’s look at it. Here, put up your feet and we’ll haul those boots off. Where did you get the—oh. Well, it’s angry-looking, I’ll give it that. Any other symptoms?”

“My mouth feels raw,” Cleaver complained.

“Open up,” the Jesuit commanded. When Cleaver complied, it became evident that his complaint had been the understatement of the year. The mucosa inside his mouth was nearly covered with ugly and undoubtedly painful ulcers, their edges as sharply defined as though they had been cut with a cookie punch.

Ruiz-Sanchez made no comment, however, and deliberately changed his expression to one of carefully calculated dismissal. If the physicist needed to minimize his ailments, that was all right with Ruiz-Sanchez. An alien planet is not a good place to strip a man of his inner defenses.

“Come into the lab,” he said. “You’ve got some inflammation in there.”

Cleaver arose, a little unsteadily, and followed the Jesuit into the laboratory. There Ruiz-Sanchez took smears from several of the ulcers onto microscope slides, and Gram-stained them. He filled the time consumed by the staining process with the ritual of aiming the microscope’s substage mirror out the window at a brilliant white cloud. When the timer’s alarm went off, he rinsed and flame-dried the first slide and slipped it under the clips.

As he had half-feared, he saw few of the mixed bacilli and spirochetes which would have indicated a case of ordinary, Earthly, Vincent’s angina—"trench mouth,” which the clinical picture certainly suggested, and which he could have cured overnight with a spectrosigmin pastille. Cleaver’s oral flora were normal, though on the increase because of all the exposed tissue.

“I’m going to give you a shot,” Ruiz-Sanchez said gently. “And then I think you’d better go to bed.”

“The hell with that,” Cleaver said. “I’ve got nine times as much work to do as I can hope to clean up now, without any additional handicaps.”

“Illness is never convenient,” Ruiz-Sanchez agreed. “But why worry about losing a day or so, since you’re in over your head anyhow?”

“What have I got?” Cleaver asked suspiciously.

“You haven’t got anything,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, almost regretfully. “That is, you aren’t infected. But your ‘pineapple’ did you a bad turn. Most plants of that family on Lithia bear thorns or leaves coated with polysaccharides that are poisonous to us. The particular glucoside you ran up against today was evidently squill, or something closely related to it. It produces symptoms like those of trench mouth, but a lot harder to clear up.”

“How long will that take?” Cleaver said. He was still balking, but he was on the defensive now.

“Several days at least—until you’ve built up an immunity. The shot I’m going to give you is a gamma globulin specific against squill, and it ought to moderate the symptoms until you’ve developed a high antibody titer of your own. But in the process you’re going to run quite a fever, Paul; and I’ll have to keep you well stuffed with antipyretics, because even a little fever is dangerous in this climate.”

“I know it,” Cleaver said, mollified. “The more I learn about this place, the less disposed I am to vote ‘aye’ when the time comes. Well, bring on your shot—and your aspirin. I suppose I ought to be glad it isn’t a bacterial infection, or the Snakes would be jabbing me full of antibiotics.”

“Small chance of that,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “I don’t doubt that the Lithians have at least a hundred different drugs we’ll be able to use eventually, but—there, that’s all there is to it; you can relax now-but we’ll have to study their pharmacology from the ground up, first. All right, Paul, hit the hammock. In about ten minutes you’re going to be wishing you’d been born dead, that I promise you;”

Cleaver grinned. His sweaty face under its thatch of dirty blond hair was craggy and powerful even in illness. He stood up and deliberately rolled down his sleeve.

“Not much doubt about how you’ll vote, either,” he said. “You like this planet, don’t you, Ramon? It’s a biologist’s paradise, as far as I can see.”

“I do like it,” the priest said, smiling back. He followed Cleaver into the small room which served them both as sleeping quarters. Except for the window, it strongly resembled the inside of a jug. The walls were curving and continuous, and were made of some ceramic material which never beaded or felt wet, but never seemed to be quite dry, either. The hammocks were slung from hooks which projected smoothly from the walls, as though they had been baked from clay along with the rest of the house. “I wish my colleague Dr. Meid were able to see it. She would be even more delighted with it than I am.”

“I don’t hold with women in the sciences,” Cleaver said, with abstract, irrelevant irritation. “Get their emotions all mixed up with their hypotheses. Meid-what kind of name is that, anyhow?”

“Japanese,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Her first name is Liu-the family follows the Western custom of putting the family name last.”

“Oh,” Cleaver said, losing interest. “We were talking about Lithia.”

“Well, don’t forget that Lithia is my first extrasolar planet,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “I think I’d find any new, habitable world fascinating. The infinite mutability of life forms, and the cunning inherent in each of them… It’s all amazing, and quite delightful.”

“Why shouldn’t that be sufficient?” Cleaver said. “Why do you have to have the God bit too? It doesn’t make sense.”

“On the contrary, it’s what gives everything else meaning.”

Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Belief and science aren’t mutually exclusive—quite the contrary. But if you place scientific standards first, and exclude belief, admit nothing that’s not proven, then what you have is a series of empty gestures. For me, biology is an act of religion, because I know that all creatures are God’s—each new planet, with all its manifestations, is an affirmation of God’s power.”

“A dedicated man,” Cleaver said. “All right. So am I. To the greater glory of man, that’s what I say.”

He sprawled heavily in his hammock. After a decent interval, Ruiz-Sanchez took the liberty of heaving up after him the foot he seemed to have forgotten. Cleaver didn’t notice. The reaction was setting in.

“Exactly so,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “But that’s only half the story. The other half reads, ‘…and to the greater glory of God.’”

“Read me no tracts, Father,” Cleaver said. Then: “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry… But for a physicist, this place is hell… You’d better get me that aspirin. I’m cold.”

“Surely, Paul.”

Ruiz-Sanchez went quickly back into the lab, made up a salicylate-barbiturate paste in one of the Lithians’ superb mortars, and pressed it into a set of pills. (Storing such pills was impossible in Lithia’s humid atmosphere; they were too hygroscopic.) He wished he could stamp each pill “Bayer” before it set—if Cleaver’s personal cure-all was aspirin, it would have been just as well to let him think he was taking aspirin—but of course he had no dies for the purpose. He took two of the pills back to Cleaver, with a mug and a carafe of Berkefeld-filtered water.

The big man was already asleep; Ruiz-Sanchez woke him, more or less.

Cleaver would sleep longer, and awaken farther along the road to recovery, for having been done that small unkindness now. As it was, he hardly noticed when the pills were put down him, and soon resumed his heavy, troubled breathing.

That done, Ruiz-Sanchez returned to the front room of the house, sat down, and began to inspect the jungle suit The tear which the plant spine had made was not difficult to find, and would be easy to repair. It would be much harder to repair Cleaver’s notion that the defenses of Earthmen on Lithia were invulnerable, and that plant-spines could be blundered against with impunity. Ruiz-Sanchez wondered whether either of the other two members of the Lithian Review Commission still shared that notion.

Cleaver had called the thing which had brought him low a “pineapple.” Any biologist could have told Cleaver that even on Earth the pineapple is a prolific and dangerous weed, edible only by a happy and irrelevant accident. In Hawaii, as Ruiz-Sanchez remembered, the tropical forest was quite impassable to anyone not wearing heavy boots and tough trousers. Even inside the Dole plantations, the close-packed irrepressible pineapples could tear unprotected legs to ribbons.

The Jesuit turned the suit over. The zipper that Cleaver had jammed, was made of a plastic into the molecule of which bad been incorporated radicals from various terrestrial radio-frequency induction, he felt more in the dark than ever.

They had a completely marvelous radio network, which among other things provided a “live” navigational grid for the whole planet, zeroed on (and here perhaps was the epitome of the Lithian genius for paradox) a tree. Yet they had never produced a standardized vacuum tube, and their atomic theory was not much more sophisticated than Democritus’ had been!

These paradoxes, of course, could be explained in part by the things that Lithia lacked. Like any large rotating mass, Lithia had a magnetic field of its own, but a planet which almost entirely lacks iron provides its people with no easy way. to discover magnetism. Radioactivity had been entirely unknown on the surface of Lithia, at least until the Earthmen had arrived, which explained the hazy atomic theory. Like the Greeks, the Lithians had discovered that friction between silk and glass produces one kind of energy or charge, and between silk and amber another; they had gone on from there to van de Graaf generators, electrochemistry, and the static jet—but without suitable metals they were unable to make heavy-duty batteries, or to do more than begin to study electricity in motion.

In the fields where they had been given fair clues, they had made enormous progress. Despite the constant cloudiness and endemic drizzle, their descriptive astronomy was excellent, thanks to the fortunate presence of a small moon which had drawn their attention outward early. This in turn made for basic advances in optics, and thence for a downright staggering versatility in the working of glass. Their chemistry took full advantage of both the seas and the jungles. From the one they took such vital and diversified products as agar, iodine, salt, trace metals, and foods of many kinds. The other provided nearly everything else that they needed: resins, rubbers, woods of all degrees of hardness, edible and essential oils, vegetable “butters,” rope and other fibers, fruits and nuts, tannins, dyes, drugs, cork, paper. Indeed, the sole forest product which they did not take was game, and the reason for this neglect was hard to find. It seemed to the Jesuit to be religious—yet the Lithians had no religion, and they certainly ate many of the creatures of the sea without qualms of conscience.

He dropped the jungle suit into his lap with a sigh, though the popcorned tooth still was not completely trimmed hack into shape. Outside, in the humid darkness, Lithia was in full concert. It was a vital, somehow fresh, new-sounding drone, covering most of the sound spectrum audible to an Earthman. It came from the myriad insects of Lithia. Many of these had wiry, trilling songs, almost like birds, in addition to the scrapes and chirrups and wing-case buzzes of the insects of Earth. In a way this was lucky, for there were no birds on Lithia. Had Eden sounded like that, before evil had come into the world? Ruiz-Sanchez wondered. Certainly his native Peru sang no such song…

Qualms of conscience—these were, in the long run, his essential business, rather than the taxonomical mazes of biology, which had already become tangled into near-hopelessness on Earth before space flight had come along to add whole new layers of labyrinths for each planet, new dimensions of labyrinths for each star. It was only interesting that the Lithians were bipedal, evolved from reptiles, with marsupial-like pouches and pteropsid circulatory systems. But it was vital that they had qualms of conscience—if they did.

The calendar caught his eye. It was an “art” calendar Cleaver had produced from his luggage back in the beginning; the girl on it was now unintentionally modest beneath large patches of brilliant orange mold. The date was April 19, 2049. Almost Easter—the most pointed of reminders that to the inner life, the body was only a garment. To Ruiz-Sanchez personally, however, the year date was almost equally significant, for 2050 was to be a Holy Year.

The Church had returned to the ancient custom, first recognized officially in 1300 by Boniface VIII, of proclaiming the great pardon only once every half-century. If Ruiz-Sanchez was not in Rome next year when the Holy Door was opened, it would never be opened again in his lifetime.

Hurry, hurry! some personal demon whispered inside his brain. Or was it the voice of his own conscience? Were his sins already so burdensome—unknown to himself—as to put him in mortal need of the pilgrimage? Or was that, in turn, only a minor temptation, to the sin of pride?

In any event, the work could not be hurried. He and the other three men were on Lithia to decide whether or not the planet would be suitable as a port of call for Earth, without risk of damage either to Earthmen or to Lithians. The other three men on the commission were primarily scientists, as was Ruiz-Sanchez; but he knew that his own recommendation would in the long run depend upon conscience, not upon taxonomy.

And conscience, like creation, cannot be hurried. It cannot even be scheduled.

He looked down at the still-imperfect jungle suit with a troubled face until he heard Cleaver moan. Then he arose and left the room to the softly hissing flames.

II

From the oval front window of the house to which Qeaver and Ruiz-Sanchez had been assigned, the land slanted away with insidious gentleness toward the ill-defined south edge of Lower Bay, a part of the Gulf of Sfath. Most of the area was salt marsh, as was the seaside nearly everywhere on Lithia. When the tide was in, the flats were covered to a depth of a yard or so almost half the way to the house. When it was out, as it was tonight, the jungle symphony was augmented by the agonized barking of a species of lungfish, sometimes as many as a score of them at once. Occasionally, when the small moon was unoccluded and the light from the city was unusually bright, one could see the leaping shadow of some amphibian, or the sinuously advancing sigmoid track of the Lithian crocodile, in pursuit of some prey faster than itself but which it would nonetheless capture in its own geological good time.

Still farther—and usually invisible even in daytime because of the pervasive mists—was the opposite shore of Lower Bay, beginning with tidal flats again, and then more jungle, which ran unbroken thereafter for hundreds of miles north to the equatorial sea.

Behind the house, visible from the sleeping room, was the rest of the city, Xoredeshch Sfath, capital of the great southern continent. As was the case in all the cities the Lithians built, its most striking characteristic to an Earthman was that it hardly seemed to be there at all. The Lithian houses were low, and made of the earth which had been dug from their foundations, so that they tended to fade into the soil even to a trained observer.

Most of the older buildings were rectangular, put together without mortar or rammed-earth blocks. Over the course of decades the blocks continued to pack and settle themselves until it became easier to abandon an unwanted building than to tear it down. One of the first setbacks the Earthmen had suffered on Lithia had come about through Agronski’s ill-advised offer to raze one such structure with TDX; this was a gravity-polarized explosive, unknown to the Lithians, which had the property of exploding in a flat plane which could cut through steel girders as if they were cheese. The warehouse in question, however, was large, thick-walled, and three Lithian centuries old—312 years by Earth time. The explosion created an uproar which greatly distressed the Lithians, but when it was over, the storehouse still stood, unshaken.

Newer structures were more conspicuous when the sun was out, for just during the past half-century the Lithians had begun to apply their enormous knowledge of ceramics to house construction. The new houses assumed thousands of fantastic, quasi-biological shapes, not quite amorphous but not quite resembling any form in experience, either; they looked a little like the dream constructions once made by an Earth painter named Dali out of such materials as boiled beans. Each one was unique and to the choice of its owner, yet all markedly shared the character of the community and the earth from which they sprang. These houses, too, would have blended well with the background of soil and jungle, except that most of them were glazed and so shone blindingly for brief moments on sunny days, when the light and the angle of observation were just right. These shifting coruscations, seen from the air, had been the Earthmen’s first clue as to where the intelligent life was hiding in the ubiquitous Lithian jungle. (There had never been any doubt that there was intelligent life there; the tremendous radio pulses emanating from the planet had made that much plain from afar.)

Ruiz-Sanchez looked out through the sleeping-room window at the city, for at least the ten thousandth time, on his way to Cleaver’s hammock. Xoredeshch Sfath was alive to him; it never looked the same twice. He found it singularly beautiful. And singularly strange: though the cities of Earth were very various, none was like this.

He checked Cleaver’s pulse and respiration. Both were fast, even for Lithia, where a high partial pressure of carbon dioxide raised the pH of the blood of Earthmen and stimulated the breathing reflex. The priest judged, however, that Cleaver was in little danger as long as his actual oxygen utilization was not increased. At the moment he was certainly sleeping deeply—if not very restfully—and it would do no harm to leave him alone for a little while.

Of course, if a wild allosaur blundered into the city… But that was just about as likely as the blundering of an untended elephant into the heart of New Delhi. It could happen, but it almost never did. And no other dangerous Lithian animal could break into the house if it was closed. Even the rats—of the abundant monotreme creatures which were Lithia’s equivalent—found it impossible to infest a pottery house.

Ruiz-Sanchez changed the carafe of fresh water in the niche beside the hammock, went into the hall, and donned boots, mackintosh and waterproof hat. The night sounds of Lithia burst in upon him as he opened the stone door, along with a gust of sea air bearing the characteristic halogen odor always called “salty.” There was a thin drizzle falling, making halos around the lights of Xoredeshch Sfath. Far out, on the water, another light moved. That was probably the coastal side-wheeler to Yllith, the enormous island which stood a-thwart the Upper Bay, barring the Gulf of Sfath as a whole from the equatorial sea.

Outside, Ruiz-Sanchez turned the wheel which extended bolts on every margin of the door. Drawing from his mackintosh a piece of soft chalk, he marked on the sheltered tablet designed for such uses the Lithian symbols which meant “Illness is here.” That would be sufficient. Anybody who chose to could open the door simply by turning the wheel-the Lithians had never heard of locks-but the Lithians, too, were overridingly social beings, who respected their own conventions as they respected natural law.

That done, Ruiz-Sanchez set out for the center of the city and the Message Tree. The asphalt streets shone in the yellow lights cast from windows, and in the white light of the mantled, wide-spaced street lanterns. Occasionally he passed the twelve-foot, kangaroo-like shape of a Lithian, and the two exchanged glances of frank curiosity, but there were not many Lithians abroad now. They kept to their houses at night, doing Ruiz-Sanchez knew not what. He could see them frequently, alone or by twos or threes, moving behind the oval windows of the houses he passed. Sometimes they seemed to be talking.

What about?

It was a nice question. The Lithians had no crime, no newspapers, no house-to-house communications systems, no arts that could be differentiated clearly from their crafts, no political parties, no public amusements, no nations, no games, no religions, no sports, no cults, no celebrations. Surely they didn’t spend every waking minute of their lives exchanging knowledge, making things go, discussing philosophy or history, or planning for tomorrow! Or did they? Perhaps, Ruiz-Sanchez thought suddenly, they simply went inert once they were inside their jugs, like so many pickles! But even as the thought came, the priest passed another house, and saw their silhouettes moving to and fro…

A puff of wind scattered cool droplets in his face. Automatically, he quickened his step. If the night were to turn out to be especially windy, there would doubtless be many voices coming and going in the Message Tree. It loomed ahead of him now, a sequoialike giant, standing at the mouth of the valley of the River Sfath-the valley which led in great serpentine folds into the heart of the continent, where Gleshchtehk Sfath, or Blood Lake in English, poured out its massive torrents.

As the winds came and went along the valley, the tree nodded and swayed-only a little, but that little was enough. With every movement, the tree’s root system, which underlay the entire city, tugged and distorted the buried crystalline cliff upon which the city had been founded, as long ago in Lithian pre-history as was the founding of Rome on Earth. At every such pressure, the buried cliff responded with a vast heart-pulse of radio waves-a pulse detectable not only all over Lithia, but far out in space as well. The four Commission members had heard those pulses first on shipboard, when Alpha Arietis, Lithia’s sun, was still only a point of light ahead of them, and had looked into each other’s faces with eyes gleaming with conjecture.

The bursts, however, were sheer noise. How the Lithians modulated them to carry information-not only messages, but the amazing navigational grid, the planet-wide time-signal system, and much more—was something as remote from Ruiz-Sanchez’ understanding as affine theory, although Cleaver said it was all perfectly simple once you understood it. It had something to do with semi-conduction and solid-state physics, which (again according to Cleaver) the Lithians understood better than any Earthman.

A free-association jump which startled him momentarily reminded him of the current doyen of Earthly affine theory, a man who signed his papers “H. O. Petard,” though his real (if scarcely more likely) name was Lucien le Comte des Bois-d’Averoigne. Nor was the association as free as it appeared on the surface, Ruiz-Sanchez realized, for the count was a striking example of the now almost total alienation of modern physics from the common physical experiences of mankind. His title was not a patent of nobility, but merely a part of his name which had been maintained in his family long after the political system which had granted the patent had vanished away, a victim of the dividing up of Earth under the Shelter economy. There was more honor appertaining to the name itself than to the title, for the count had pretensions to hereditary grandeur which reached all the way back into thirteenth-century England, to the author of Lucien Wycham His Boke of Magick.

A high ecclesiastic heritage to be sure, but the latter-day Lucien, a lapsed Catholic, was a political figure, insofar as the Shelter economy sheltered any such thing: he carried the additional title of Procurator of Canarsie—a title which a moment’s examination would also show to be nonsense, but which paid a small honorarium in exemptions from weekly labor. The subdivided and deeply buried world of Earth was full of such labels, all of them pasted on top of large sums of money which had no place to go now that speculation was dead and shareholding had become the only way by which an ordinary citizen could exercise any control over the keeps in which he lived. The remaining fortune-holders had no outlet left but that of conspicuous consumption, on a scale which would have made Veblen doubt that there had ever been such a thing in the world before. Had they attempted to assert any control over the economy they would have been toppled, if not by the shareholders, then by the grim defenders of the by now indefensible Shelter cities.

Not that the count was a drone. At last reports, he had been involved in some highly esoteric tampering with the Haertel equations-that description of the space-time continuum which, by swallowing up the Lorentz-Fitzgerald contraction exactly as Einstein had swallowed Newton (that is, alive) had made interstellar flight possible. Ruiz-Sanchez did not understand a word of it, but, he reflected with amusement, it was doubtless perfectly simple once you understood it.

Almost all knowledge, after all, fell into that category. It was either perfectly simple once you understood it, or else it fell apart into fiction. As a Jesuit-even here, fifty light-years from Rome-Ruiz-Sanchez knew something about knowledge that Lucien le Comte des Bois-d’Averoigne had forgotten, and that Cleaver would never learn: that all knowledge goes through both stages, the annunciation out of noise into fact, and the disintegration back into noise again. The process involved was the making of increasingly finer distinctions. The outcome was an endless series of theoretical catastrophes.

The residuum was faith.

The high, sharply vaulted chamber, like an egg stood on its large end, which had been burned out in the base of the Message Tree, was droning with life as Ruiz-Sanchez entered it. It would have been difficult to imagine anything less like an Earthly telegraph office or other message center, however.

Around the circumference of the lower end of the egg there was a continual whirling of tall figures, Lithians, entering and leaving through the many doorless entrances, and changing places in the swirl of movement like so many electrons passing from orbit to orbit. Despite their numbers, their voices were pitched so low that Ruiz-Sanchez could hear, blended in with their murmuring, the soughing of the wind through the enormous branches far above.

The inner side of this band of moving figures was bounded by a high railing of black, polished wood, evidently cut from the phloem of the Tree itself. On the other side of this token division, which reminded Ruiz-Sanchez irresistibly of the Encke division in the Saturnian rings, a thin circlet of Lithians took and passed out messages steadily and without a moment’s break, handling the total load faultlessly-if one were to judge by the way the outer band was kept in motion-and without apparent effort, by memory alone. Occasionally one of these specialists would leave the circlet and go to one of the desks which were scattered over most of the rest of the sloping floor, increasingly thinly, like a Crape ring, to confer there with the desk’s occupant. Then he went back to the black rail, or sometimes he took the desk, and its previous occupant went to the rail.

The bowl deepened, the desks thinned, and at the very center stood a single, aged Lithian, his hands clapped to the ear whorls behind his heavy jaws, his eyes covered by their nictitating membranes, only his nasal fossae and heat-receptive post-nasal pits uncovered. He spoke to no one, and no one consulted him-but the absolute stasis in which he stood was obviously the reason, the sole reason, for the torrents and counter-torrents of people which poured along the outermost ring. Ruiz-Sanchez stopped, astonished. He had never been to the Message Tree himself before-communicating with Michelis and Agronski, the other two Earthmen on Lithia, had until now been one of Cleaver’s tasks-and the priest found that he had no idea what to do. The scene before him was more suggestive of a bourse than of a message center in any ordinary sense. It seemed unlikely that so many Lithians could have urgent personal messages to send each time the winds were active; yet it seemed equally uncharacteristic that the Lithians, with their stable, abundance-based economy, should have any equivalent for stock or commodity brokerage.

There seemed to be no choice, however, but to plunge in, try to reach the polished black rail, and ask one of the Lithians who stood on the other side to try to raise Agronski or Michelis again. At worst, he supposed, he could only be refused, or fail to get a hearing at all. He took a deep breath.

Simultaneously his left arm was caught in a firm four-fingered grip which ran all the way from his elbow to his shoulder. Letting the stored breath out again in a snort of surprise, the priest looked around and up at the solicitously bent head of a Lithian. Under the long, trap-like mouth, the being’s wattles were a delicate, curious aquamarine, in contrast to its vestigial comb, which was a permanent and silvery sapphire, shot through with veins of fuchsia.

“You are Ruiz-Sanchez,” the Lithian said in his own language.

The priest’s name, unlike those of the other Earthmen, fell easily in that tongue: “I know you by your robe.”

That was pure accident. Any Earthman out in the rain in a mackintosh would have been identified as Ruiz-Sanchez, because the priest was the only Earthman who seemed to the Lithians to wear the same garment indoors and out.

“I am,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, a little apprehensively.

“I am Chtexa, the metallurgist, who consulted with you earlier on problems of chemistry and medicine and your mission here, and some other smaller matters.”

“Oh. Yes, of course; I should have remembered your comb.”

“You do me honor. We have not seen you here before. Do you wish to talk with the Tree?”

“I do,” Ruiz-Sanchez said gratefully. “It is true that I am new here. Can you explain to me what to do?”

“Yes, but not to any profit,” Chtexa said, tilting his head so that his completely inky pupils shone down into Ruiz-Sanchez’ eyes. “One must have observed the ritual, which is very complex, until it is habit. We have grown up with it, but I think you lack the coordination to follow it on the first attempt. If I may bear your message instead-”

“I would be most indebted. It is for our colleagues Agronski and Michelis; they are at Xoredeshch Gton on the northeast continent, at about thirty-two degrees east, thirty-two degrees north-”

“Yes, the second bench mark at the outlet of the Lesser Lakes; that is the city of the potters, I know it well. And you would say?”

“That they are to join us now, here, at Xoredeshch Sfath. And that our time on Lithia is almost up.”

“That me regards,” Chtexa said. “But I will bear it.”

The Lithian leapt into the whirling cloud, and Ruiz-Sanchez was left behind, considering again his thankfulness that he had been moved to study the painfully difficult Lithian language. Two of the four commission members had shown a regrettable lack of interest in that world-wide tongue: “Let ’em learn English” had been Cleaver’s unknowingly classic formulation. Ruiz-Sanchez had been all the less likely to view this notion sympathetically for the facts that his own native language was Spanish, and that, of the five foreign languages in which he was really fluent, the one he liked best was West High German.

Agronski had taken a slightly more sophisticated stand. It was not, he said, that Lithian was too difficult to pronounce-certainly it wasn’t any harder on the soft palate than Arabic or Russian-but, after all, “it’s hopeless to attempt to grasp the concepts that lie behind a really alien language, isn’t it? At least in the time we have to spend here?”

To both views, Michelis had said nothing; he had simply set out to learn to read the language first, and if he found his way from there into speaking it, he would not be surprised and neither would his confreres. That was Michelis’ way of doing things, thorough and untheoretical at the same time. As for the other two approaches, Ruiz-Sanchez thought privately that it was close to criminal to allow any contact man for a new planet ever to leave Earth with such parochial notions. In understanding a new culture, language is of the essence; if one doesn’t start there, where under God does one start?

Of Cleaver’s penchant for referring to the Lithians themselves as “the Snakes,” Ruiz-Sanchez’ opinion was of a color admissible only to his remote confessor.

And in view of what lay before him now in this egg-shaped hollow, what was Ruiz-Sanchez to think of Cleaver’s conduct as communications officer for the commission? Surely he could never have transmitted or received a single message through the Tree, as he had claimed to have done. Probably he had never been closer to the Tree than Ruiz-Sanchez was now.

Of course, it went without saying that he had been in contact with Agronski and Michelis by some method, but that method had evidently been something private-a transmitter concealed in his luggage, or… No, that wouldn’t do. Physicist though he most definitely was not, Ruiz-Sanchez rejected that solution on the spot; he had some idea of the practical difficulties of operating a ham radio on a world like Lithia, swamped as that world was on all wave-lengths by the tremendous pulses which the Tree wrung from the buried crystalline cliff. The problem was beginning to make him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

Then Chtexa was back, recognizable not so much by any physical detail-for his wattles were now the same ambiguous royal purple as those of most of the other Lithians in the crowd-as by the fact that he was bearing down upon the Earthman.

“I have sent your message,” he said at once. “It is recorded at Xoredeshch Gton. But the other Earthmen are not there. They have not been in the city for some days.”

That was impossible. Cleaver had said he had spoken to Michelis only a day ago. “Are you sure?” Ruiz-Sanchez said cautiously.

“It admits of no uncertainty. The house which we gave them stands empty. The many things which they brought with them to the house are gone.” The tall shape raised its four-fingered hands in a gesture which might have been solicitous. “I think this is an ill word. I dislike to bring it you. The words you brought me when first we met were full of good.”

“Thank you. Don’t worry,” Ruiz-Sanchez said distractedly. “No man could hold the bearer responsible for the word, surely.”

“The bearer also has responsibilities; at least, that is our custom,” Chtexa said. “No act is wholly free. And as we see it, you have lost by our exchange. Your words on iron have been shown to contain great good. I would take pleasure in showing you how we have used them, especially since I have brought you in return an ill message. If you could share my house tonight, without prejudice to your work, I could expose this matter. Is that possible?”

Sternly Ruiz-Sanchez stifled his sudden excitement. Here was the first chance, at long last, to see something of the private life of Lithia, and through that, perhaps, to gain some inkling of the moral life, the role in which God had cast the Lithians in the ancient drama of good and evil, in the past and in the times to come. Until that was known, the Lithians in their Eden might be only spuriously good: all reason, all organic thinking machines, ULTIMACs with tails-and without souls.

But there remained the hard fact that he had left behind in his house a sick man. There was not much chance that Cleaver would awaken before morning. He had been given nearly fifteen milligrams of sedative per kilogram of body weight. But sick men are like children, whose schedules persistently defy all rules. If Cleaver’s burly frame should somehow throw that dose off, driven perhaps by some anaphylactic crisis impossible to rule out this early in his illness, he would need prompt attention. At the very least, he would want badly for the sound of a human voice on this planet which he hated, and which had struck him down almost without noticing that he existed.

Still, the danger to Cleaver was not great. He most certainly did not require a minute-by-minute vigil; he was, after all, not a child, but an almost ostentatiously strong man.

And there was such a thing as an excess of devotion, a form of pride among the pious which the Church had long found peculiarly difficult to make clear to them. At its worst, it produced the hospital saints, whose attraction to noisome-ness so peculiarly resembled the vermin-worship of the Hindi sects-or a St. Simon Stylites, who though undoubtedly acceptable to God had been for centuries very bad public relations for the Church. And had Cleaver really earned the kind of devotion Ruiz-Sanchez had been proposing, up to now, to tender him as a creature of God-or, to come closer to the mark, a godly creature?

And with a whole planet at stake, a whole people-no, more than that, a whole problem in theology, an imminent solution to the vast, tragic riddle of original sin… What a gift to bring to the Holy Father in a jubilee year-a grander and more solemn thing than the proclamation of the conquest of Everest had been at the coronation of Elizabeth II of England! Always providing, of course, that this would be the ultimate outcome of the study of Lithia. The planet was not lacking in hints that something quite different, and fearful beyond all else, might emerge under Ruiz-Sanchez’ prolonged attention. Not even prayer had yet resolved that doubt. But should he sacrifice even the possibility of this, for Cleaver?

A lifetime of meditation over just such cases of conscience had made Ruiz-Sanchez, like most other gifted members of his order, quick to find his way to a decision through all but the most complicated of ethical labyrinths. All Catholics must be devout; but a Jesuit must be, in addition, agile.

“Thank you,” he said to Chtexa, a little shakily. “I will share your house very gladly.”

III

(A voice): “Cleaver? Cleaver! Wake up, you big slob. Cleaver! Where the hell have you been?”

Cleaver groaned and tried to turn over. At his first motion, the world began to rock, gently, sickeningly. He was awash in fever. His mouth, seemed to be filled with burning pitch.

“Cleaver, turn out. It’s me-Agronski. Where’s the Father? What’s wrong? Why didn’t we ever hear from you? Look out, you’ll-”

The warning came too late, and Cleaver could not have understood it anyhow. He had been profoundly asleep, and had no notion of his situation in space or time. At his convulsive twist away from the nagging voice, the hammock rotated on its hooks and dumped him.

He struck the floor stunningly, taking the main blow across his right shoulder, though he hardly felt it yet. His feet, not yet part of him at all, still remained far aloft, twisted in the hammock webbing.

“What the hell-”

There was a brief chain of footsteps, like chestnuts dropping on a roof, and then a hollow noise of something hitting the floor near his head.

“Cleaver, are you sick? Here, lie still a minute and let me get your feet free. Mike-Mike, can’t you turn the gas up in this jug? Something’s wrong back here.”

After a moment, yellow light began to pour from the glistening walls, and then the white glare of the mantles. Cleaver dragged an arm across his eyes, but it did him no good; it tired too quickly. Agronski’s mild face, plump and anxious, floated directly above him like a captive balloon. He could not see Michelis anywhere, and at the moment he was just as glad he couldn’t. Agronski’s presence was hard enough to understand.

“How… the hell…” he said. At the words, his lips split painfully at both corners. He realized for the first time that they had become gummed together, somehow, while he was asleep. He had no idea how long he had been out of the picture.

Agronski seemed to understand the aborted question. “We came in from the Lakes in the ’copter,” he said. “We didn’t like the silence down here, and we figured we’d better come in under our own power, instead of registering in on the regular jet liner and tipping the Lithians off-just in case there’d been any dirty work afloat-”

“Stop jawing him,” Michelis said, appearing suddenly, magically in the doorway. “He’s got a bug, that’s obvious. I don’t like to feel pleased about misery, but I’m glad it’s that instead of the Lithians.”

The rangy, long-jawed chemist helped Agronski lift Cleaver to his feet. Tentatively, despite the pain, Cleaver got his mouth open again. Nothing came out but a hoarse croak.

“Shut up,” Michelis said, not unkindly. “Let’s get him back into the hammock. Where’s the Father, I wonder? He’s the only one capable of dealing with sickness here.”

“I’ll bet he’s dead,” Agronski burst out suddenly, his face glistening with alarm. “He’d be here if he could. It must be catching, Mike.”

“I didn’t bring my mitt,” Michelis said drily. “Cleaver, lie still or I’ll have to clobber you. Agronski, you seem to have dumped his water bottle; better go get him some more, he needs it. And see if the Father left anything in the lab that looks like medicine.”

Agronski went out, and, maddeningly, so did Michelis- at least out of Cleaver’s field of vision. Setting his every muscle against the pain, Cleaver pulled his lips apart once more.

“Mike.”

Instantly, Michelis was there. He had a pad of cotton between thumb and forefinger, wet with some solution, with which he gently cleaned Cleaver’s lips and chin.

“Easy. Agronski’s getting you a drink. We’ll let you talk in a little while, Paul. Don’t rush it.”

Cleaver relaxed a little. He could trust Michelis. Nevertheless, the vivid and absurd insult of having to be swabbed like a baby was more than he could bear; he felt tears of helpless rage swelling on either side of his nose. With two deft, non-committal swipes, Michelis removed them.

Agronski came back, holding out one hand tentatively, palm up.

“I found these,” he said. “There’s more in the lab, and the Father’s pill press is still out. So are his mortar and pestle, though they’ve been cleaned.”

“All right, let’s have ’em,” Michelis said. “Anything else?”

“No. Well, there’s a syringe cooking in the sterilizer, if that means anything.”

Michelis swore briefly and to the point.

“It means that there’s a pertinent antitoxin in the shop someplace,” he added. “But unless Ramon left notes, we’ll not have a prayer of figuring out which one it is.”

As he spoke, he lifted Cleaver’s head and tipped the pills into his mouth, onto his tongue. The water which followed was cold at the first contact, but a split second later it was liquid fire. Cleaver choked, and at that precise instant Michelis pinched his nostrils shut. The pills went down with a gulp.

“There’s no sign of the Father?” Michelis said.

“Not a one, Mike. Everything’s in good order, and his gear’s still here. Both jungle suits are in the locker.”

“Maybe he went visiting,” Michelis said thoughtfully. “He must have gotten to know quite a few of the Lithians by now. He liked them.”

“With a sick man on his hands? That’s not like him, Mike. Not unless there was some kind of emergency. Or maybe he went on a routine errand, expected to be back in just a few minutes, and-”

“And was set upon by trolls, for forgetting to stamp his foot three times before crossing a bridge.”

“All right, laugh.”

“I’m not laughing, believe me. That’s just the kind of damn fool thing that can kill a man in a strange culture. But somehow I can’t see it happening to Ramon.”

“Mike…”

Michelis took a step and looked down at Cleaver. His face was drifting as if detached through a haze of tears. He said: “All right, Paul. Tell us what it is. We’re listening.”

But it was too late. The doubled sedative dose had gotten to Cleaver first. He could only shake his head, and with the motion Michelis seemed to go reeling away into a whirlpool of fuzzy rainbows.

Curiously, he did not quite go to sleep. He had had nearly a normal night’s sleep, and he had started out his enormously long day a powerful and healthy man. The conversation of the two commissioners, and an obsessive consciousness of his need to speak to them before Ruiz-Sanchez returned, helped to keep him, if not totally awake, at least not far below a state of light trance. In addition, the presence in his system of thirty grains of acetylsalicylic acid had seriously raised his oxygen consumption, bringing with it not only dizziness but also a precarious, emotionally untethered alertness. That the fuel which was being burned to maintain it was in part the protein substrate of his own cells he did not know, and it could not have alarmed him had he known it. The voices continued to reach him, and to convey a little meaning. With them were mixed fleeting, fragmentary dreams, so slightly removed from the surface of his waking life as to seem peculiarly real, yet at the same time peculiarly pointless and depressing. In the semiconscious intervals there came plans, a whole succession of them, all simple and grandiose at once, for taking command of the expedition, for communicating with the authorities on Earth, for bringing forward secret papers proving that Lithia was uninhabitable, for digging a tunnel under Mexico to Peru, for detonating Lithia in one single mighty fusion of all its lightweight atoms into one single atom of cleaverium, the element of which the monobloc had been made, whose cardinal number was Aleph-Null…

AGRONSKI: Mike, come here and look at this; you read Lithian.

There’s a mark on the front door, on the message tablet.

(Footsteps.)

MICHELIS: It says “Sickness inside.” The strokes aren’t casual or deft enough to be the work of the natives. Ideograms are hard to write rapidly without long practice. Ramon must have written it there.

AGRONSKI: I wish we knew where he went afterwards. Funny we didn’t see it when we came in.

MICHELIS: I don’t think so. It was dark, and we weren’t looking for it.

(Footsteps. Door shutting, not loudly. Footsteps. Hassock creaking.)

AGRONSKI: Well, we’d better start thinking about getting up a report. Unless this damn twenty-hour day has me thrown completely off, our time’s just about up. Are you still set on opening up the planet?

MICHELIS: Yes. I’ve seen nothing to convince me that there’s anything on Lithia that’s dangerous to us. Except maybe Cleaver in there, and I’m not prepared to say that the Father would have left him if he were in any serious danger. And I don’t see how Earthmen could harm this society; it’s too stable emotionally, economically, in every other way.

(Danger, danger, said somebody in Cleaver’s dream. It will explode. It’s all a popish plot. Then he was marginally awake again, and conscious of how much his mouth hurt.)

AGRONSKI: Why do you suppose those two jokers never called us after we went north?

MICHELIS: I don’t have any answer. I won’t even guess until I talk to Ramon. Or until Paul’s able to sit up and take notice.

AGRONSKI: I don’t like it, Mike. It smells bad to me. This town’s right at the heart of the communications system of the planet-that’s why we picked it, for Crisake! And yet-no messages, Cleaver sick, the Father not here… There’s a hell of a lot we don’t know about Lithia, that’s for damn sure.

MICHELIS: There’s a hell of a lot we don’t know about central Brazil-let alone Mars, or the Moon.

AORONSKI: Nothing essential, Mike. What we know about the periphery of Brazil gives us all the clues we need about the interior-even to those fish that eat people, the what-are-they, the piranhas. That’s not true on Lithia. We don’t know whether our peripheral clues about Lithia are germane or just incidental. Something enormous could be hidden under the surface without our being able to detect it.

MICHELIS: Agronski, stop sounding like a Sunday supplement. You underestimate your own intelligence. What kind of enormous secret could that be? That the Lithians eat people? That they’re cattle for unknown gods that live in the jungle? That they’re actually mind-wrenching, soul-twisting, heart-stopping, blood-freezing, bowel-moving superbeings in disguise? The moment you state any such proposition, you’ll deflate it yourself; it’s only in the abstract that it’s able to scare you. I wouldn’t even take the trouble of examining it, or discussing how we might meet it if it were true.

AORONSKI: All right, all right. I’ll reserve judgment for the time being, anyhow. If everything turns out to be all right here, with the Father and Cleaver I mean, I’ll probably go along with you. I don’t have any reason I could defend for voting against the planet, I admit that.

MICHELIS: Good for you. I’m sure Ramon is for opening it up, so that should make it unanimous. I can’t see why Cleaver would object.

(Cleaver was testifying before a packed court convened in the UN General Assembly chambers in New York, with one finger pointed dramatically, but less in triumph than in sorrow, at Ramon Ruiz-Sanchez, S. J. At the sound of his name the dream collapsed, and he realized that the room had grown a little lighter. Dawn-or the dripping, wool-gray travesty of it which prevailed on Lithia-was on its way. He wondered what he had just said to the court. It had been conclusive, damning, good enough to be used when he awoke; but he could not remember a word of it. All that remained of it was a sensation, almost the taste of the words, but nothing of their substance.)

AGRONSKI: It’s getting light. I suppose we’d better knock off.

MICHELIS: Did you stake down the ’copter? The winds down here are higher than they are up north, I seem to remember.

AGRONSKI: Yes. And covered it with the tarp. Nothing left to do now but sling our hammocks-

(A sound)

MICHELIS: Shhh. What’s that?

AGRONSKI: Eh?

MICHELIS: Listen.

(Footsteps. Faint ones, but Cleaver knew them. He forced his eyes to open a little, but there was nothing to see but the ceiling. Its even color, and its smooth, ever-changing slope into a dome of nowhereness, drew him almost immediately upward into the mists of trance once more.)

AGRONSKI: Somebody’s coming.

(Footsteps.)

AGRONSKI: It’s the Father, Mike-look out here and you can see him. He seems to be all right. Dragging his feet a bit, but who wouldn’t after being out helling all night?

MICHELIS: Maybe you’d better meet him at the door. It’d probably be better than our springing out at him after he gets inside. After all he doesn’t expect us. I’ll get to unpacking the hammocks.

AGRONSKI: Sure thing, Mike.

(Footsteps, going away from Cleaver. A grating sound of stone on stone: the door wheel being turned.)

AGRONSKI: Welcome home, Father! We just got in a little while ago and-My God, what’s wrong? Are you ill too? Is there something that-Mike! Mike!

(Somebody was running. Cleaver willed his neck muscles to lift his head, but they refused to obey. Instead, the back of his head seemed to force itself deeper into the stiff pillow of the hammock. After a momentary and endless agony, he cried out)

CLEAVER: Mike!

AGRONSKI: Mike!

(With a gasp, Cleaver lost the long battle at last. He was asleep.)

IV

As the door of Chtexa’s house closed behind him, Ruiz-Sanchez looked about the gently glowing foyer with a feeling of almost unbearable anticipation, although he could hardly have said what it was that he hoped to see. Actually, it looked exactly like his own quarters, which was all he could in justice have expected-all the furniture at “home” Was Lithian, except of course for the lab equipment and a few other terrestrial trappings.

“We have cut up several of the metal meteors from our museums, and hammered them as you suggested,” Chtexa was saying behind him, while he struggled out of his raincoat and boots. “They show very definite, very strong magnetism, as you predicted. We now have the whole of our world alerted to pick up these nickel-iron meteorites and send them to our electrical laboratory here, regardless of where they are found. The staff of the observatory is attempting to predict possible falls. Unhappily, meteors are rare here. Our astronomers say that we have never had a’shower’ such as you describe as frequent on your native planet.”

“No; I should have thought of that,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, following the Lithian into the front room. This, too, was quite ordinary by Lithian standards, and empty except for the two of them.

“Ah, that is interesting. Why?”

“Because in our system we have a sort of giant grinding-wheel-a whole ring of little planets, many thousands of them, distributed around an orbit where we had expected to find only one normal-sized world.”

“Expected? By the harmonic rule?” Chtexa said, sitting down and pointing out another hassock to his guest. “We have often wondered whether that relationship was real.”

“So have we. It broke down in this instance. Collisions between all those small bodies are incessant, and our plague of meteors is the result.”

“It is hard to understand how so unstable an arrangement could have come about,” Chtexa said. “Have you any explanation?”

“Not a good one,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Some of us think that there really was a respectable planet in that orbit ages ago, which exploded somehow. A similar accident happened to a satellite in our system, creating a great flat ring of debris around its primary. Others think that at the formation of our solar system the raw materials of what might have been a planet just never succeeded in coalescing. Both ideas have many flaws, but each satisfies certain objections to the other, so perhaps there is some truth in both.”

Chtexa’s eyes filmed with the mildly disquieting “inner blink” characteristic of Lithians at their most thoughtful.

“There would seem to be no way to test either answer,” he said at length.

“By our logic, the lack of such tests makes the original question meaningless.”

“That rule of logic has many adherents on Earth. My colleague Dr. Cleaver would certainly agree with it.”

Ruiz-Sanchez smiled suddenly. He had labored long and hard to master the Lithian language, and to have recognized and understood so completely abstract a point as the one just made by Chtexa was a bigger victory than any quantitative gains in vocabulary alone could have been.

“But I can see that you are going to have difficulties in collecting these meteorites,” he said. “Have you offered incentives?”

“Oh, certainly. Everyone understands the importance of the program. We are all eager to advance it.”

This was not quite what the priest had meant by his question. He searched his memory for some Lithian equivalent for “reward,” but found nothing but the word he had already used, “incentive.” He realized that he knew no Lithian word for “greed,” either. Evidently offering Lithians a hundred dollars for every meteorite they found would simply baffle them. He had to abandon that fact.

“Since the potential meteor fall is so small,” he said instead, “you’re not likely to get anything like the supply of metal that you need for a real study-no matter how thoroughly you co-operate on the search. A high percentage of the finds will be stony rather than metallic, too. What you need is another, supplementary iron-finding program.”

“We know that,” Chtexa said ruefully. “But we have been able to think of none.”

“If only you had some way of concentrating the traces of the metal you actually have on the planet now… Our smelting methods would be useless to you, since you have no ore beds. Hmm… Chtexa, what about the iron-fixing bacteria?”

“Are there such?” Chtexa said, cocking his head dubiously.

“I don’t know. Ask your bacteriologists. If you have any bacteria here that belong to the genus we call Leptothrix, one of them should be an iron-fixing species. In all the millions of years that this planet has had life on it, that mutation must have occurred, and probably very early.”

“But why have we never seen it before? We have done perhaps more research in bacteriology than we have in any other field.”

“Because,” Ruiz-Sanchez said earnestly, “you don’t know what to look for, and because such a species would be as rare on Lithia as iron itself. On Earth, because we have iron in abundance, our Leptothrix ochracea has found plenty of opportunity to grow. We find their fossil sheaths by uncountable billions in our great ore beds. It used to be thought, as a matter of fact, that the bacteria produced the ore beds, but I’ve always doubted that. They get their energy by oxidizing ferrous iron into ferric-but that’s a change that can happen spontaneously if the oxidation-reduction potential and the pH of the solution are right, and both of those conditions can be affected by ordinary decay bacteria. On our planet the bacteria grew in the ore beds because the iron was there, not the other way around-but on Lithia the process will have to be worked in reverse.”

“We will start a soil-sampling program at once,” Chtexa said, his wattles flaring a subdued orchid. “Our antibiotics research centers screen soil samples by the thousands each month, in search of new microflora of therapeutic importance. If these iron-fixing bacteria exist, we are certain to find them eventually.”

“They must exist. Do you have a bacterium that is a sulphur-concentrating obligate anaerobe?”

“Yes-yes, certainly!”

“There you are,” the Jesuit said, leaning back contentedly and clasping his hands across one knee. “You have plenty of sulphur, and so you have the bacterium. Please let me know when you find the iron-fixing species. I’d like to make a subculture and take it home with me when I leave. There are two Earth scientists whose noses I’d like to rub in it.”

The Lithian stiffened and thrust his head forward a little, as if puzzled.

“Pardon me,” Ruiz-Sanchez said hastily. “I was translating literally an aggressive idiom of my own tongue. It was not meant to describe an actual plan of action.”

“I think I understand,” Chtexa said. Ruiz-Sanchez wondered if he did. In the rich storehouse of the Lithian language he had yet to discover any metaphors, either living or dead. Neither did the Lithians have any poetry or other creative arts. “You are of course welcome to any of the results of this program, which you would honor us by accepting. One problem in the social sciences which has long puzzled us is just how one may adequately honor the innovator. When we consider how new ideas change our lives, we despair of giving in kind, and it is helpful when the innovator himself has wishes which society can gratify.”

Ruiz-Sanchez was at first not quite sure that he had understood the formulation. After he had gone over it once more in his mind, he was not sure that he could bring himself to like it, although it was admirable enough. From an Earthman it would have sounded intolerably pompous, but it was evident that Chtexa meant it.

It was probably just as well that the commission’s report on Lithia was about to fall due. Ruiz-Sanchez had begun to think that he could absorb only a little more of this kind of calm sanity. And all of it-a disquieting thought from somewhere near his heart reminded him-all of it derived from reason, none from precept, none from faith. The Lithians did not know God. They did things rightly, and thought righteously, because it was reasonable and efficient and natural to do and to think that way. They seemed to need nothing else.

Did they never have night thoughts? Was it possible that there could exist in the universe a reasoning being of a high order, which was never for an instant paralyzed by the sudden question, the terror of seeing through to the meaninglessness of action, the blindness of knowledge, the barrenness of having been born at all? “Only upon this firm foundation of unyielding despair,” a famous atheist once had written, “may the soul’s habitation henceforth be safely built.”

Or could it be that the Lithians thought and acted as they did because, not being born of man, and never in effect having left the Garden in which they lived, they did not share the terrible burden of original sin? The fact that Lithia had never once had a glacial epoch, that its climate had been left unchanged for seven hundred million years, was a geological fact that an alert theologian could scarcely afford to ignore. Could it be that, free from the burden, they were also free from the curse of Adam? And if they were-could men bear to live among them?

“I have some questions to ask you, Chtexa,” the priest said after a moment. “You owe me no debt whatsoever-it is our custom to regard all knowledge as community property-but we four Earthmen have a hard decision to make shortly. You know what it is. And I don’t believe that we know enough yet about your planet to make that decision properly.”

“Then of course you must ask questions,” Chtexa said immediately. “I will answer, wherever I can.”

“Well then-do your people die? I see you have the word, but perhaps it isn’t the same in meaning as our word.”

“It means to stop changing and to go back to existing,” Chtexa said. “A machine exists, but only a living thing, like a tree, progresses along a line of changing equilibriums. When that progress stops, the entity is dead.”

“And that happens to you?”

“It always happens. Even the great trees, like the Message Tree, die sooner or later. Is that not true on Earth?”

“Yes,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, “yes, it is. For reasons which it would take me a long time to explain, it occurred to me that you might have escaped this evil.”

“It is not evil as we look at it,” Chtexa said. “Lithia lives because of death. The death of plants supplies our oil and gas. The death of some creatures is always necessary to feed the lives of others. Bacteria must die, and viruses be prevented from living, if illness is to be cured. We ourselves must die simply to make room for others, at least, until we can slow the rate at which our people arrive in the world-a thing impossible to us at present.”

“But desirable, in your eyes?”

“Surely desirable,” Chtexa said. “Our world is rich, but not inexhaustible. And other planets, you have taught us, have peoples of their own. Thus we cannot hope to spread to other planets when we have overpopulated this one.”

“No real thing is ever exhaustible,” Ruiz-Sanchez said abruptly, frowning at the iridescent floor. “That we have found to be true over many thousands of years of our history.”

“But exhaustible in what way?” Chtexa said. “I grant you that any small object, any stone, any drop of water, any bit of soil can be explored without end. The amount of information, which can be gotten from it is quite literally infinite. But a given soil can be exhausted of nitrates. It is difficult, but with bad cultivation it can be done. Or take iron, about which we have been talking. To allow our economy to develop a demand for iron which exceeds the total known supply of Lithia-and exceeds it beyond any possibility of supplementation by meteorites or by import-would be folly. This is not a question of information. It is a question of whether or not the information can be used. If it cannot, then limitless information is of no help.”

“You could certainly get along without more iron if you had to,” Ruiz-Sanchez admitted. “Your wooden machinery is precise enough to satisfy any engineer. Most of them, I think, don’t remember that we used to have something similar: I’ve a sample in my own home. It’s a kind of timer called a cuckoo clock, nearly two of our centuries old, made entirely of wood except for the weights, and still nearly a hundred per cent accurate. For that matter, long after we began to build seagoing vessels of metal, we continued to use lignum vitae for ships’ bearings.”

“Wood is an excellent material for most uses,” Chtexa agreed. “Its only deficiency, compared to ceramic materials or perhaps metal, is that it is variable. One must know it quite well to be able to assess its qualities from one tree to the next And of course complicated parts can always be grown inside suitable ceramic molds; the growth pressure inside the mold rises so high that the resulting part is very dense. Larger parts can be ground direct from the plank with soft sandstone and polished with slate. It is a gratifying material to work, we find.”

Ruiz-Sanchez felt, for some reason, a little ashamed. It was a magnified version of the same shame he had always felt back home toward that old Black Forest cuckoo clock. The electric clocks elsewhere in his hacienda outside Lima all should have been capable of performing silently, accurately, and in less space-but the considerations which had gone into the making of them had been commercial as well as purely technical. As a result, most of them operated with a thin, asthmatic whir, or groaned softly but dismally at irregular hours. All of them were “streamlined,” oversized and ugly. None of them kept good time, and several of them, since they were powered by constant-speed motors driving very simple gearboxes, could not be adjusted, but had been sent out from the factory with built-in, ineluctable inaccuracies.

The wooden cuckoo clock, meanwhile, ticked evenly away. A quail emerged from one of two wooden doors every quarter of an hour and let you know about it, and on the hour first the quail came out, then the cuckoo, and there was a soft bell that rang just ahead of each cuckoo call. Midnight and noon were not just times of the day for that clock; they were productions. It was accurate to a minute a month, all for the price of running up the three weights which drove it, each night before bedtime. The clock’s maker had been dead before Ruiz-Sanchez was born. In contrast, the priest would probably buy and jettison at least a dozen cheap electric clocks in the course of one lifetime, as their makers had intended he should; they were linearly descended from “planned obsolescence,” the craze for waste which had hit the Americas during the last half of the previous century.

“I’m sure it is,” he said humbly. “I have one more question, if I may. It is really part of the same question. I have asked you if you die; now I should like to ask how you are born. I see many adults on your streets and sometimes in your houses-though I gather you yourself are alone-but never any children. Can you explain this to me? Or if the subject is not allowed to be discussed-”

“But why should it not be? There can never be any closed subjects,” Chtexa said. “Our women, as I’m sure you know, have abdominal pouches where the eggs are carried. It was a lucky mutation for us, for there are a number of nest-robbing species on this planet.”

“Yes, we have a few animals with a somewhat similar arrangement on Earth, although they are viviparous.”

“Our eggs are laid in these pouches once a year,” Chtexa said. “It is then that the women leave their own houses and seek out the man of their choice to fertilize the eggs. I am alone because, thus far, I am no woman’s first choice this season; I will be elected in the Second Marriage, which is tomorrow.”

“I see,” Ruiz-Sanchez said” carefully. “And how is the choice determined? Is it by emotion, or by reason alone?”

“The two are in the long run the same,” Chtexa said. “Our ancestors did not leave our genetic needs to chance. Emotion with us no longer runs counter to our eugenic knowledge. It cannot, since it was itself modified to follow that knowledge by selective breeding for such behavior.”

“At the end of the season, then, comes Migration Day. At that time all the eggs are fertilized, and ready to hatch. On that day-you will not be here to see it, I am afraid, for your scheduled date of departure precedes it by a short time-our whole people goes to the seashores. There, with the men to protect them from predators, the women wade out to swimming depth, and the children are born.”

“In the sea?” Ruiz-Sanchez said faintly.

“Yes, in the sea. Then we all return, and resume our other affairs until the next mating season.”

“But-but what happens to the children?”

“Why, they take care of themselves, if they can. Of course many perish, particularly to our voracious brother the great fish-lizard, whom for that reason we kill when we can. But a majority return home when the time comes.”

“Return? Chtexa, I don’t understand. Why don’t they drown when they are born? And if they return, why have we never seen one?”

“But you have,” Chtexa said. “And you have heard them often. Can it be that you yourselves do not—ah, of course, you are mammals; that is doubtless the difficulty. You keep your children in the nest with you; you know who they are, and they know their parents.”

“Yes,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “We know who they are, and they know us.”

“That is not possible with us,” Chtexa said. “Here, come with me; I will show you.”

He arose and led the way out into the foyer. Ruiz-Sanchez followed, his head whirling with surmises.

Chtexa opened the door. The night, the priest saw with a subdued shock, was on the wane; there was the faintest of pearly glimmers in the cloudy sky to the east. The multifarious humming and singing of the jungle continued unabated. There was a high, hissing whistle, and the shadow of a pterodon drifted over the city toward the sea. Out on the water, an indistinct blob that could only be one of Lithia’s sailplaning squid broke the surface and glided low over the oily swell for nearly sixty yards before it hit the waves again. From the mud flats came a hoarse barking.

“There,” Chtexa said softly. “Did you hear it?”

The stranded creature, or another of its kind—it was impossible to tell which—croaked protestingly again.

“It is hard for them at first,” Chtexa said. “But actually the worst of their dangers are over. They have come ashore.”

“Chtexa,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Your children—the lung-fish?”

“Yes,” Chtexa said. “Those are our children.”

V

In the last analysis it was the incessant barking of the lung-fish which caused Ruiz-Sanchez to stumble when Agronski opened the door for him. The late hour, and the dual strains of Cleaver’s illness and the subsequent discovery of Cleaver’s direct lying, contributed. So did the increasing sense of guilt toward Cleaver which the priest had felt while walking home under the gradually brightening, weeping sky; and so, of course, did the shock of discovering that Agronski and Michelis had arrived some time during the night while he had been neglecting his charge to satisfy his curiosity.

But primarily it was the diminishing, gasping clamor of the children of Lithia, battering at his every mental citadel, all the way from Chtexa’s house to his own.

The sudden fugue lasted only a few moments. He fought his way back to self-control to find that Agronski and Michelis had propped him up on a stool in the lab and were trying to remove his mackintosh without unbalancing him or awakening him—as difficult a problem in topology as removing a man’s vest without taking off his jacket. Wearily, the priest pulled his own arm out of a mackintosh sleeve and looked up at Michelis.

“Good morning, Mike. Please excuse my bad manners.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Michelis said evenly. “You don’t have to talk now, anyhow. I’ve already spent much of tonight trying to keep Cleaver quiet until he’s better. Don’t put me through it again, please, Ramon.”

“I won’t. I’m not ill; I’m just tired and a little overwrought.”

“What’s the matter with Cleaver?” Agronski demanded. Michelis made as if to shoo him off.

“No, no, Mike, it’s a fair question. I’m all right, I assure you. As for Paul, he got a dose of glucoside poisoning when a plant spine stabbed him this afternoon. No, it’s yesterday afternoon now. How has he been since you arrived?”

“He’s sick,” Michelis said. “Since you weren’t here, we didn’t know what to do for him. We settled for two of the pills you’d left out.”

“You did?” Ruiz-Sanchez slid his feet heavily to the floor and tried to stand up. “As you say, you couldn’t have known what else to doubt you did overdose him. I think I’d better look in on him—”

“Sit down, please, Ramon.” Michelis spoke gently, but his tone showed that he meant the request to be honored. Obscurely glad to be forced to yield to the big man’s well-meant implacability, the priest let himself be propped back on the stool. His boots fell off his feet to the floor.

“Mike, who’s the Father here?” he asked tiredly. “Still, I’m sure you’ve done a good job. He’s in no apparent danger?”

“Well, he seems pretty sick. But he had energy enough to keep himself awake most of the night. He only passed out a short while ago.”

“Good. Let him stay out. Tomorrow we’ll probably have to begin intravenous feeding, though. In this atmosphere one doesn’t give a salicylate overdose without penalties.” He sighed.

“Since I’ll be sleeping in the same room, I’ll be on hand if there’s a crisis. So. Can we put off further questions?”

“If there’s nothing else wrong here, of course we can.”

“Oh,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, “there’s a great deal wrong, I’m afraid.”

“I knew it!” Agronski said. “I knew damn well there was. I told you so, Mike, didn’t I?”

“Is it urgent?”

“No, Mike—there’s no danger to us, of that I’m positive. It’s nothing that won’t keep until we’ve all had a rest. You two look as though you need one as badly as I.”

“We’re tired,” Michelis agreed.

“But why didn’t you ever call us?” Agronski burst in aggrievedly. “You had us scared half to death, Father. If there’s really something wrong here, you should have—”

“There’s no immediate danger,” Ruiz-Sanchez repeated patiently. “As for why we didn’t call you, I don’t understand that any more than you do. Up to last night, I thought we were in regular contact with you both. That was Paul’s job and he seemed to be carrying it out. I didn’t discover that he hadn’t been doing it until after he became ill.”

“Then obviously we’ll have to wait for him,” Michelis said.

“Let’s hit the hammock, in God’s name. Flying that whirlybird through twenty-five hundred miles of fog banks wasn’t exactly restful, either; I’ll be glad to turn in… But, Ramon—”

“Yes, Mike?”

“I have to say that I don’t like this any better than Agronski does. Tomorrow we’ve got to clear it up, and get our commission business done. We’ve only a day or so to make our decision before the ship comes and takes us off Lithia for good, and by that time we must know everything there is to know, and just what we’re going to tell the Earth about it.”

“Yes,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Just as you say, Mike—in God’s name.”

The Peruvian priest-biologist awoke before the others; actually, he had undergone far less purely physical strain than had the other three. It was just beginning to be cloudy dusk when he rolled out of his hammock and padded over to look at Cleaver.

The physicist was in coma. His face was a dirty gray, and looked oddly shrunken. It was high time that the neglect and inadvertent abuse to which he had been subjected was rectified. Happily, his pulse and respiration were close to normal now.

Ruiz-Sanchez went quietly into the lab and made up a fructose intravenous feeding. At the same time he reconstituted a can of powdered eggs into a sort of souffl?setting it in a covered crucible to bake at the back of the little oven; that was for the rest of them.

In the sleeping chamber, the priest set up his I-V stand. Cleaver did not stir when the needle entered the big vein just above the inside of his elbow. Ruiz-Sanchez taped the tubing in place, checked the drip from the inverted bottle, and went back into the lab.

There he sat, on the stool before the microscope, in a sort of suspension of feeling while the new night drew on. He was still poisoned—tired, but at least now he could stay awake without constantly fighting himself. The slowly rising souffle in the oven went plup-plup, plup-plup, and after a while a thin tendril of ardma suggested that it was beginning to brown on top, or at least thinking about it.

Outside, it abruptly rained buckets. Just as abruptly, it stopped. Lithia’s short, hot summer was drawing to a close; its winter would be long and mild, the temperature never dropping below 20?centigrade in this latitude. Even at the poles the winter temperature stayed throughout well above freezing, usually averaging about 15?C.

“Is that breakfast I smell, Ramon?”

“Yes, Mike, in the oven. In a few minutes now.”

“Right.”

Michelis went away again. On the back of the workbench, Ruiz-Sanchez saw the dark blue book with the gold stamping which he had brought with him all the way from Earth. Almost automatically he pulled it to him, and almost automatically it fell open at page 573. It would at least give him something to think about with which he was not personally involved. He had last quitted the text with Anita, who

“…would yield to the lewdness of Honuphrius to appease the savagery of Sulla and the mercenariness of the twelve Sullivani, and (as Gilbert at first suggested) to save the virginity of Felicia for Magravius"—now hold on a moment, how could Felicia still be considered a virgin at this point? Ah “… when converted by Michael after the death of Gillia;” that covered it, since Felicia had been guilty only of simple infidelities in the first place. “…but she fears that, by allowing his marital rights, she may cause reprehensible conduct between Eugenius and Jeremias. Michael, who has formerly debauched Anita, dispenses her from yielding to Honuphrius"—yes, that made sense, since Michael also had had designs on Eugenius. “Anita is disturbed, but Michael comminates that he will reserve her case tomorrow for the ordinary Guglielmus even if she should practice a pious fraud during affrication, which, from experience, she knows (according to Wadding) to be leading to nullity.”

Well. This was all very well. The novel even seemed to be shaping up into sense, for the first time; evidently the author had known exactly what he was doing, every step of the way. Still, Ruiz-Sanchez reflected, he would not like to have known the imaginary family hidden behind the conventional Latin aliases, or to have been the confessor to any member of it.

Yes, it added up, when one tried to view it without outrage either at the persons involved—they were, after all, fictitious, only characters in a novel—or at the author, who for all his mighty intellect, easily the greatest ever devoted to fiction in English and perhaps in any language, had still to be pitied as much as the meanest victim of the Evil One. To view it, as it were, in a sort of gray twilight of emotion, wherein everything, even the barnacle-like commentaries the text had accumulated since it had been begun in the 1920’s, could be seen in the same light.

“Is it done, Father?”

“Smells like it, Agronski. Take it out and help yourself, why don’t you?”

“Thanks. Can I bring Cleaver—”

“No, he’s getting an I-V.”

“Check.”

Unless his impression that he understood the problem at last was once more going to turn out to be an illusion, he was now ready for the basic question, the stumper that had deeply disturbed both the Order and the Church for so many decades now. He reread it carefully. It asked:

“Has he hegemony and shall she submit?”

To his astonishment, he saw as if for the first time that it was two questions, despite the omission of a comma between the two. And so it demanded two answers. Did Honuphrius have hegemony? Yes, he did, because Michael, the only member of the whole complex who had been gifted from the beginning with the power of grace, had been egregiously compromised. Therefore, Honuphrius, regardless of whether all his sins were to be laid at his door or were real only in rumor, could not be divested of his privileges by anyone.

But should Anita submit? No, she should not. Michael had forfeited his right to dispense or to reserve her in any way, and so she could not be guided by the curate or by anyone else in the long run but her own conscience—which in view of the grave accusations against Honuphrius could lead her to no recourse but to deny him. As for Sulla’s repentance, and Felicia’s conversion, they meant nothing, since the defection of Michael had deprived both of them—and everyone else—of spiritual guidance. The answer, then, had been obvious all the time. It was:

Yes, and No.

And it had hung throughout upon putting a comma in the right place. A writer’s joke. A demonstration that it could take one of the greatest novelists of all time seventeen years to write a book the central problem of which is exactly where to put one comma; thus does the Adversary cloak his emptiness, and empty his votaries.

Ruiz-Sanchez closed the book with a shudder and looked up across the bench, feeling neither more nor less dazed than he had before, but with a small stirring of elation deep inside him which he could not suppress. In the eternal wrestling, the Adversary had taken another fall.

As he looked dazedly out of the window into the dripping darkness, a familiar, sculpturesque head and shoulders moved into the truncated tetrahedron of yellow light being cast out through the fine glass into the rain. Ruiz-Sanchez awoke with a start. The head was Chtexa’s, moving away from the house. Suddenly Ruiz-Sanchez realized that nobody had bothered to rub away the sickness ideograms on the door tablet. If Chtexa had come here on some errand, he had been turned back unnecessarily. The priest leaned forward, snatched up an empty slide box, and rapped with a corner of it against the inside of the glass.

Chtexa turned and looked in through the streaming curtains of rain, his eyes completely filmed against the downpour. Ruiz-Sanchez beckoned to him, and got stiffly off the stool to open the door.

In the oven the priest’s share of breakfast dried slowly and began to burn.

The rapping on the window had summoned forth Agronski and Michelis as well. Chtexa looked down at the three of them with easy gravity, while drops of water ran like oil down the minute, prismatic scales of his supple skin.

“I did not know that there was sickness here,” the Lithian said. “I called because your brother Ruiz-Sanchez left my house this morning without the gift I had hoped to give him. I will leave if I am invading your privacy in any way.”

“You are not,” Ruiz-Sanchez assured him. “And the sickness is only a poisoning, not communicable and we think not likely to end badly for our colleague. These are my friends from the north, Agronski and Michelis.”

“I am happy to see them. The message was not in vain, then?”

“What message is this?” Michelis said, in his pure but hesitant Lithian.

“I sent a message, as your colleague Ruiz-Sanchez asked me to do, last night. I was told by Xoredeshch Gton that you had already departed.”

“As we had,” Michelis said. “Ramon, what’s this? I thought you told us that sending messages was Paul’s job. And you certainly implied that you didn’t know how to do it yourself, after Paul took sick.”

“I didn’t. I don’t. I asked Chtexa to send it for me; he just finished telling you that, Mike.”

Michelis looked up at the Lithian.

“What did the message say?” he asked.

“That you were to join them now, here, at Xoredeshch Sfath. And that your time on our world was almost up.”

“What does that mean?” Agronski said. He had been trying to follow the conversation, but he was not much of a linguist, and evidently the few words he had been able to pick up had served only to inflame his ready fears. “Mike, translate, please.”

Michelis did so, briefly. Then he said:

“Ramon, was that really all you had to say to us, especially after what you had found out? We knew that departure time was coming, too, after all. We can keep a calendar as well as the next man, I hope.”

“I know that, Mike. But I had no idea what previous messages you’d received, if indeed you’d received any. For all I knew, Cleaver might have been in touch with you some other way, privately. I thought first of a transmitter in his personal luggage, but later it occurred to me that he might have been sending dispatches over the regular jet liners; that would have been easier. He might have told you that we were going to stay on beyond the official departure time. Or he might have told you that I had been killed and that he was looking for the murderer. He might have told you anything. I had to make sure, as well as I could, that you’d arrive here regardless of what he had or had not said.

“And when I got to the local message center, I had to do all this message-revision on the spot, because I found that I couldn’t communicate with you directly, or send anything that was at all detailed, anything that might have been garbled through being translated and passed through alien minds. Everything that goes out from Xoredeshch Sfath by radio goes out through the Tree, and until you’ve seen it you haven’t any idea what an Earthman is up against there in sending even the simplest message.”

“Is this true?” Michelis asked Chtexa.

“True?” Chtexa repeated. His wattles were stippled with confusion; though Ruiz-Sanchez and Michelis had both reverted to Lithian, there were a number of words they had used, such as “murderer,” which simply did not exist in the Lithian language, and so had been thrown out hastily in English. “True? I do not know. Do you mean, is it valid? You must be the judge of that.”

“But is it accurate, sir?”

“It is accurate,” Chtexa said, “insofar as I understand it.”

“Well, then,” Ruiz-Sanchez, a little nettled despite himself, went on, “you can see why, when Chtexa appeared providentially in the Tree, recognized me, and offered to act as an intermediary, I had to give him only the gist of what I had to say. I couldn’t hope to explain all the details to him, and I couldn’t hope that any of those details would get to you undistorted after they’d passed through at least two Lithian intermediaries. All I could do was shout at the top of my voice for you two to get down here on the proper date—and hope that you’d hear me.”

“This is a time of trouble, which is like a sickness in the house,” Chtexa said. “I must not remain. I will wish to be left alone when I am troubled, and I cannot ask that, if I now force my presence on others who are troubled. I will bring my gift at a better time.” He ducked out through the door, without any formal gesture of farewell, but nevertheless leaving behind an overwhelming impression of graciousness. Ruiz-Sanchez watched him go helplessly, and a little forlornly. The Lithians always seemed to understand the essences of situations; they were never, unlike even the most cocksure of Earthmen, beset by the least apparent doubt. They had no night thoughts.

And why should they have? They were backed—if Ruiz-Sanchez was right—by the second-best Authority in the universe, and backed directly, without intermediary churches or conflicts of interpretations. The very fact that they were never tormented by indecision identified them as creatures of that Authority. Only the children of God had been given free will, and hence were often doubtful.

Nevertheless, Ruiz-Sanchez would have delayed Chtexa’s departure had he been able. In a short-term argument it is helpful to have pure reason on your side—even though such an ally could be depended upon to stab you to the heart if you depended upon him too long.

“Let’s go inside and thrash this thing out,” Michelis said, shutting the door and turning back toward the front room. He spoke in Lithian still, and acknowledged it with a wry grimace over his shoulder after the departed Chtexa before switching to English. “It’s a good thing we got some sleep, but we have so little time left now that it’s going to be touch-and-go to have a formal decision ready when the ship comes.”

“We can’t go ahead yet,” Agronski objected, although along with Ruiz-Sanchez, he followed Michelis obediently enough. “How can we do anything sensible without having heard what Cleaver has to say? Every man’s voice counts on a job of this sort."’

“That’s very true,” Michelis said. “And I don’t like the present situation any better than you do—I’ve already said that. But I don’t see that we have any choice. What do you think, Ramon?”

“I’d like to hold out for waiting,” Ruiz-Sanchez said frankly.

“Anything I may say now is, to put it realistically, somewhat compromised with you two. And don’t tell me that you have every confidence in my integrity, because we had every confidence in Cleaver’s, too. Right now, trying to maintain both confidences just cancels out both.”

“You have a nasty way, Ramon, of saying aloud what everybody else is thinking,” Michelis said, grinning bleakly. “What alternatives do you see, then?”

“None,” Ruiz-Sanchez admitted. “Time is against us, as you said. We’ll just have to go ahead without Cleaver.”

“No you won’t,” the voice, from the doorway to the sleeping chamber, was at once both uncertain and much harshened by weakness.

The others sprang up. Cleaver, clad only in his shorts, stood in the doorway, clinging to both sides of it. On one of his forearms Ruiz-Sanchez could see the marks where the adhesive tape which had held the I-V needle had been ripped away. Where the needle itself had been inserted, an ugly haematoma swelled bluely under the gray skin of Cleaver’s upper arm.

VI

(A silence.)

“Paul, you must be crazy,” Michelis said suddenly, almost angrily. “Get back into your hammock before you make things twice as bad for yourself. You’re a sick man, can’t you realize that?”

“Not as sick as I look,” Cleaver said, with a ghastly grin.

“Actually I feel pretty fair. My mouth is almost all cleared up, and I don’t think I’ve got any fever. And I’ll be damned if this commission is going to proceed one single damned inch without me. It isn’t empowered to do it, and I’ll appeal any decision—any decision, I hope you guys are listening—that it makes without me.”

The commission was listening; the recorder had already been started, and the unalterable tapes were running into their sealed cans. The other two men turned dubiously to Ruiz-Sanchez.

“How about it, Ramon?” Michelis said, frowning. He shut off the recorder with his key. “Is it safe for him to be up like this?”

Ruiz-Sanchez was already at the physicist’s side, peering into his mouth. The ulcers were indeed almost gone, with granulation tissue forming nicely over the few that still remained. Cleaver’s eyes were still slightly suffused, indicating that the toxemia was not completely defeated, but except for these two signs the effect of the accidental squill inoculation was no longer visible. It was true that Cleaver looked awful, but that was inevitable in a man quite recently sick, and in one who had been burning his own body proteins for fuel to boot. As for the haematoma, a cold compress would fix that.

“If he wants to endanger himself, I guess he’s got a right to do so, at least by indirection,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Paul, the first thing you’ll have to do is get off your feet, and get into a robe, and put a blanket around your legs. Then you’ll have to eat something; I’ll fix it for you. You’ve staged a wonderful recovery, but you’re a sitting duck for a real infection if you abuse your time during convalescence.”

“I’ll compromise,” Cleaver said immediately. “I don’t want to be a hero, I just want to be heard. Give me a hand over to that hammock. I still don’t walk very straight.”

It took the better part of half an hour to get Cleaver settled to Ruiz-Sanchez’ satisfaction. The physicist seemed in a wry way to be enjoying every minute of it. At last he had in his hand a mug of gchteht, a local herb tea so delicious that it would probably become a major article of export before long, and he said:

“All right, Mike, turn on the recorder and let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” Michelis said.

“One hundred per cent. Turn the goddam key.”

Michelis turned the key, took it out and put it in his pocket. From now on, they were on the record.

“All right, Paul,” Michelis said. “You’ve gone out of your way to put yourself on the spot. Evidently that’s where you want to be. So let’s have the answer: Why didn’t you communicate with us?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Now wait a minute,” Agronski said. “Paul, you’re going on record; don’t break your neck to say the first damn thing that comes into your head. Your judgment may not be well yet, even if your talking apparatus is. Wasn’t your silence just a matter of your being unable to work the local message system—the Tree or whatever it is?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Cleaver insisted. “Thanks, Agronski, but I don’t need to be shepherded down the safe and easy road, or have any alibis set up for me. I know exactly what I did that was ticklish, and I know that it’s going to be impossible for me to set up consistent alibis for it now. My chances for keeping anything under my hat depended upon my staying in complete control of everything I did. Naturally those chances went out the window when I got stuck by that damned pineapple. I realized that last night, when I fought like a demon to get through to you before the Father could get back, and found that I couldn’t make it.”

“You seem to take it calmly enough now,” Michelis observed.

“Well, I’m feeling a little washed out. But I’m a realist. And I also know, Mike, that I had damned good reasons for what I did. I’m counting on the chance that you’ll agree with me wholeheartedly, when I tell you why I did it.”

“All right,” Michelis said, “begin.”

Cleaver sat back, folding his hands quietly in the lap of his robe. He looked almost ecclesiastical. He was obviously still enjoying the situation. He said:

“First of all, I didn’t call you because I didn’t want to, as I said. I could have mastered the problem of the Tree easily enough by doing what the Father did—that is, by getting a Snake to ferry my messages. Of course I don’t speak Snake, but the Father does, so all I had to do was to take him into my confidence. Barring that, I could have mastered the Tree itself. I already know all the technical problems involved. Mike, wait till you see that Tree. Essentially it’s a single-junction transistor, with the semi-conductor supplied by a huge lump of crystal buried under it; the crystal is piezoelectric and emits in the RF spectrum every time the Tree’s roots stress it. It’s fantastic—nothing like it anywhere else in this galaxy, I’d lay money on that.”

“But I wanted a gap to spring up between our party and yours. I wanted both of you to be completely in the dark about what was going on, down here on this continent. I wanted you to imagine the worst, and blame it on the Snakes, too, if that could be managed. After you got here—if you did—I was going to be able to show you that I hadn’t sent any messages because the Snakes wouldn’t let me. I’ve got more plants to that effect squirreled away around here than I’ll bother to list now; besides, there’d be no point in it, since it’s all come to nothing. But I’m sure that it would have looked conclusive, regardless of anything the Father would have been able to offer to the contrary.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to turn off the machine?” Michelis said quietly.

“Oh, throw away your damned key, will you, and listen. From my point of view it was just a bloody shame that I had to run up against a pineapple at the last minute. It gave the Father a chance to find out something about what was up. I’ll swear that if that hadn’t happened, he wouldn’t have smelt anything until you actually got here—and by then it would have been too late.”

“I probably wouldn’t have, that’s true,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, watching Cleaver steadily. “But your running up against that ‘pineapple’ was no accident. If you’d been observing Lithia as you were sent here to do, instead of spending all your time building up a fictitious Lithia for purposes of your own, you’d have known enough about the planet to have been more careful about ‘pineapples.’ You’d also have spoken at least as much Lithian as Agronski, by this time.”

“That,” Cleaver said, “is probably true, and again it doesn’t make any difference to me. I observed the one fact about Lithia that overrides all other facts, and that is going to turn out to be sufficient. Unlike you, Father, I have no respect for petty niceties in extreme situations, and I’m not the kind of man who thinks anyone learns anything from analysis after the fact.”

“Let’s not get to bickering this early,” Michelis said. “You’ve told us your story without any visible decoration, and it’s evident that you have a reason for confessing. You expect us to excuse you, or at least not to blame you too heavily, when you tell us what that reason is. Let’s hear it.”

“It’s this,” Cleaver said, and for the first time he seemed to become a little more animated. He leaned forward, the glowing gaslight bringing the bones of his face into sharp contrast with the sagging hollows of his cheeks, and pointed a not-quite-steady finger at Michelis. “Do you know, Mike, what it is that we’re sitting on here? Just to begin with, do you know how much rutile there is here?”

“Of course I know,” Michelis said. “Agronski told me, and since then I’ve been working on practicable methods of refining the ore. If we decide to vote for opening the planet up, our titanium problem will be solved for a century, maybe even longer. I’m saying as much in my personal report. But what of it? We anticipated that that would be true even before we first landed here, as soon as we got accurate figures on the mass of the planet.”

“And what about the pegmatite?” Cleaver demanded softly.

“Well, what about it?” Michelis said, looking more puzzled than before.

“I suppose it’s abundant—I really didn’t bother to check. Titanium’s important to us, but I don’t quite see why lithium should be. The days when the metal was used as a rocket fuel are fifty years behind us.”

“And a good thing, too,” Agronski said. “Those old Li-Fluor engines used to go off like warheads. One little leak in the feed lines, and blooey!”

“And yet the metal’s still worth about twenty thousand dollars an English ton back home, Mike, and that’s exactly the same price it was drawing in the nineteen-sixties, allowing for currency changes since then. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“I’m more interested in knowing what it means to you,” Michelis said. “None of us can make a personal penny out of this trip, even if we find the planet solid platinum inside—which is hardly likely. And if price is the only consideration, surely the fact that lithium ore is common here will break the market for it. What’s it good for, after all, on a large scale?”

“Bombs,” Cleaver said. “Real bombs. Fusion bombs. It’s no good for controlled fusion, for power, but the deuterium salt makes the prettiest multimegaton explosion you ever saw.”

Ruiz-Sanchez suddenly felt sick and tired all over again. It was exactly what he had feared had been on Cleaver’s mind; given a planet named Lithia only because it appeared to be mostly rock, and a certain kind of mind will abandon every other concern to find a metal called lithium on it. But he had not wanted to find himself right.

“Paul,” he said, “I’ve changed my mind. I would have caught you out, even if you had never blundered against your ‘pineapple.’ That same day you mentioned to me that you were looking for pegmatite when you had your accident, and that you thought Lithia might be a good place for tritium production on a large scale. Evidently you thought that I wouldn’t know what you were talking about. If you hadn’t hit the ‘pineapple,’ you would have given yourself away to me before now by talk like that. Your estimate of me was based on as little observation as is your estimate of Lithia.”

“It’s easy,” Cleaver observed indulgently, “to say ‘I knew it all the time’—especially on a tape.”

“Of course it’s easy, when the other man is helping you,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “But I think that your view of Lithia as a potential cornucopia of hydrogen bombs is only the beginning of what you have in mind. I don’t believe that it’s even your real objective. What you would like most is to see Lithia removed from the universe as far as you’re concerned. You hate the place. It’s injured you. You’d like to think that it doesn’t really exist. Hence the emphasis on Lithia as a source of munitions, to the exclusion of every other fact about the planet; for if that emphasis wins out, Lithia will be placed under security seal. Isn’t that right?”

“Of course it’s right, except for the phony mind reading,” Cleaver said contemptuously. “When even a priest can see it, it’s got to be obvious—and it’s got to be written off by impugning the motives of the man who saw it first. To hell with that. Mike, listen to me. This is the most tremendous opportunity that any commission has ever had. This planet is made to order to be converted, root and branch, into a thermonuclear laboratory and production center. It has indefinitely large supplies of the most important raw materials. What’s even more important, it has no nuclear knowledge of its own for us to worry about. All the clue materials, the radioactive elements and so on, which you need to work out real knowledge of the atom, we’ll have to import; the Snakes don’t know a thing about them. Furthermore, the instruments involved, the counters and particle-accelerators and so on, all depend on materials like iron that the Snakes don’t have, and on principles that they don’t know, ranging all the way from magnetism to quantum mechanics. We’ll be able to stock our plants here with an immense reservoir of cheap labor which doesn’t know, and—if we take proper precautions—never will have a prayer of learning enough to snitch classified techniques.

“All we need to do is to turn in a triple-E Unfavorable on the planet, to shut off any use of Lithia as a way station or any other kind of general base for a whole century. At the same time, we can report separately to the UN Review Committee exactly what we do have in Lithia: a triple-A arsenal for the whole of Earth, for the whole commonwealth of planets we control! Only the decision becomes general administrative property back home; the tape is protected; it’s an opportunity it’d be a crime to flub!”

“Against whom?” Ruiz-Sanchez said.

“Eh? You’ve lost me.”

“Against whom are you stocking this arsenal? Why do we need a whole planet devoted to nothing but making fusion bombs?”

“The UN can use weapons,” Cleaver said drily. “The time isn’t very far gone since there were still a few restive nations on Earth, and it could come around again. Don’t forget also that thermonuclear weapons last only a few years—they can’t be stock-piled indefinitely, like fission bombs. The half-life of tritium is very short, and lithium-6 isn’t very long-lived either. I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that. But take my word for it, the UN police would be glad to know that they could have access to a virtually inexhaustible stock of fusion bombs, and to hell with the shelf-life problem!

“Besides, if you’ve thought about it at all, you know as well as I do that this endless consolidation of peaceful planets can’t go on forever. Sooner or later—well, what happens if the next planet we touch down on is a place like Earth? If it is, its inhabitants may fight, and fight like a planetful of madmen, to stay out of our frame of influence. Or what happens if the next planet we hit is an outpost for a whole federation, maybe bigger than ours? When that day comes—and it will, it’s in the cards—we’ll be damned glad if we’re able to plaster the enemy from pole to pole with fusion bombs, and clean up the matter with as little loss of life as possible.”

“On our side,” Ruiz-Sanchez added.

“Is there any other side?”

“By golly, that makes sense to me,” Agronski said. “Mike, what do you think?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Michelis said. “Paul, I still don’t understand why you thought it necessary to go through all the cloak-and-dagger maneuvers. You tell your story fairly enough now, and it has its merits, but you also admit you were going to trick the three of us into going along with you, if you could. Why? Couldn’t you trust the force of your argument alone?”

“No,” Cleaver said bluntly. “I’ve never been on a commission like this before, where there was no single, definite chairman, where there was deliberately an even number of members so that a split opinion couldn’t be settled if it occurred-and where the voice of a man whose head is filled with Pecksniffian, irrelevant moral distinctions and three-thousand-year old metaphysics carries the same weight as the voice of a scientist.”

“That’s mighty loaded language, Paul,” Michelis said.

“I know it. If it comes to that, I’ll say here or anywhere that I think the Father is a hell of a fine biologist. I’ve seen him in operation, and they don’t come any better—and for that matter he may have just finished saving my life, for all any of the rest of us can tell. That makes him a scientist like the rest of us—insofar as biology’s a science.”

“Thank you,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “With a little history in your education, Paul, you would also have known that the Jesuits were among the first explorers to enter China, and Paraguay, and the North American wilderness. Then it would have been no surprise to you to find me here.”

“That may well be. However, it has nothing to do with the paradox as I see it. I remember once visiting the labs at Notre Dame, where they have a complete little world of germ-free animals and plants and have pulled I don’t know how many physiological miracles out of the hat. I wondered then how a man goes about being as good a scientist as that, and a good Catholic at the same time—or any other kind of churchman. I wondered in which compartment in their brains they filed their religion, and in which their science. I’m still wondering.”

“They’re not compartmented,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “They are a single whole.”

“So you said, when I brought this up before. That answers nothing; in fact, it convinced me that what I was planning to do was absolutely necessary. I didn’t propose to take any chances on the compartments getting interconnected on Lithia. I had every intention of cutting the Father down to a point where his voice would be nearly ignored by the rest of you. That’s why I undertook the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Maybe it was stupidly done—I suppose that it takes training to be a successful agent-provocateur and that I should have realized that.”

Ruiz-Sanchez wondered what Cleaver’s reaction would be when he found, as he would very shortly now, that his purpose would have been accomplished without his having to lift a finger. Of course the dedicated man of science, working for the greater glory of man, could anticipate nothing but failure; that was the fallibility of man. But would Cleaver be able to understand, through his ordeal, what had happened to Ruiz-Sanchez when he had discovered the fallibility of God? It seemed unlikely.

“But I’m not sorry I tried,” Cleaver was saying. “I’m only sorry I failed.”

VII

There was a short, painful hiatus.

“Is that it, then?” Michelis said.

“That’s it, Mike. Oh—one more thing. My vote, if anybody is still in any doubt about it, is to keep the planet closed. Take it from there.”

“Ramon,” Michelis said, “do you want to speak next? You’re certainly entitled to it, on a point of personal privilege. The air’s a mite murky at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“No, Mike. Let’s hear from you.”

“I’m not ready to speak yet either, unless the majority wants me to. Agronski, how about you?”

“Sure,” Agronski said. “Speaking as a geologist, and also as an ordinary slob that doesn’t follow rarefied reasoning very well, I’m on Cleaver’s side. I don’t see anything either for or against the planet on any other grounds but Cleaver’s. It’s a fair planet as planets go, very quiet, not very rich in anything else we need—sure, that gchteht is marvelous stuff, but it’s strictly for the luxury trade—and not subject to any kind of trouble that I’ve been able to detect. It’d make a good way station, but so would lots of other worlds hereabouts.

“It’d also make a good arsenal, the way Cleaver defines the term. In every other category it’s as dull as ditch water, and it’s got plenty of that. The only other thing it can have to offer is titanium, which isn’t quite as scarce back home these days as Mike seems to think; and gem stones, particularly the semiprecious ones, which we can make at home without traveling fifty light-years to get them. I’d say, either set up a way station here and forget about the planet otherwise, or else handle the place as Cleaver suggested.”

“But which?” Ruiz-Sanchez asked.

“Well, which is more important, Father? Aren’t way stations a dime a dozen? Planets that can be used as thermonuclear labs, on the other hand, are rare—Lithia is the first one that can be used that way, at least in my experience. Why use a planet for a routine purpose if it’s unique? Why not apply Occam’s Razor—the law of parsimony? It works on every other scientific problem anybody’s ever tackled. It’s my bet that it’s the best tool to use on this one.”

“Occam’s Razor isn’t a natural law,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “It’s only a heuristic convenience—in short, a learning gimmick. And besides, Agronski, it calls for the simplest solution of the problem that will fit all the facts. You don’t have all the facts, not by a long shot.”

“All right, show me,” Agronski said piously. “I’ve got an open mind.”

“You vote to close the planet, then,” Michelis said.

“Sure. That’s what I was saying, wasn’t it, Mike?”

“I wanted to have it Yes or No for the tape,” Michelis said.

“Ramon, I guess it’s up to us. Shall I speak first? I think I’m ready.”

“Of course, Mike.”

“Then,” Michelis said evenly, and without changing in the slightest his accustomed tone of grave impartiality, “I’ll say that I think both of these gentlemen are fools, and calamitous fools at that because they’re supposed to be scientists. Paul, your maneuvers to set up a phony situation are perfectly beneath contempt, and I shan’t mention them again. I shan’t even appeal to have them cut from the tape, so you needn’t feel that you have to mend any fences with me. I’m looking solely at the purpose those maneuvers were supposed to serve, just as you asked me to do.”

Cleaver’s obvious self-satisfaction began to dim a little around the edges. He said, “Go ahead,” and wound the blanket a little bit tighter around his legs.

“Lithia is not even the beginning of an arsenal,” Michelis said. “Every piece of evidence you offered to prove that it might be is either a half-truth or the purest trash. Take cheap labor, for instance. With what will you pay the Lithians? They have no money, and they can’t be rewarded with goods. They have almost everything that they need, and they like the way they’re living right now—God knows they’re not even slightly jealous of the achievements we think make Earth great. They’d like to have space flight but, given a little time, they’ll get it by themselves; they have the Coupling ion-jet right now, and they won’t be needing the Haertel overdrive for another century.”

He looked around the gently rounded room, which was shining softly in the gaslight.

“And I don’t seem to see any place in here,” he said, “where a vacuum cleaner with forty-five patented attachments would find any work to do. How will you pay the Lithians to work in your thermonuclear plants?”

“With knowledge,” Cleaver said gruffly. “There’s a lot they’d like to know.”

“But what knowledge, Paul? The things they’d like to know are specifically the things you can’t tell them, if they’re to be valuable to you as a labor force. Are you going to teach them quantum mechanics? You can’t; that would be dangerous. Are you going to teach them nucleonics, or Hilbert space, or the Haertel scholium? Again, any one of those would enable them to learn other things you think dangerous. Are you going to teach them how to extract titanium from rutile, or how to accumulate enough iron to develop a science of electrodynamics, or how to pass from this Stone Age they’re living in now—this Pottery Age, I should say—into an Age of Plastics? Of course you aren’t. As a matter of fact, we don’t have a thing to offer them in that sense. It’d all be classified under the arrangement you propose—and they just wouldn’t work for us under those terms.”

“Offer them other terms,” Cleaver said shortly. “If necessary, tell them what they’re going to do, like it or lump it. It’d be easy enough to introduce a money system on this planet. You give a Snake a piece of paper that says it’s worth a dollar, and if he asks you just what makes it worth a dollar—well, the answer is, an honest day’s work.”

“And we put a machine pistol to his belly to emphasize the point,” Ruiz-Sanchez interjected.

“Do we make machine pistols for nothing? I never figured out what else they were good for. Either you point them at someone or you throw them away.”

“Item: slavery,” Michelis said. “That disposes, I think, of the argument of cheap labor. I won’t vote for slavery. Ramon won’t. Agronski?”

“No,” Agronski said uneasily. “But isn’t it a minor point?”

“The hell it is! It’s the reason why we’re here. We’re supposed to think of the welfare of the Lithians as well as of ourselves—otherwise this commission procedure would be a waste of time, of thought, of energy. If we want cheap labor, we can enslave any planet.”

“How do we do that?” Agronski said. “There aren’t any other planets. I mean, none with intelligent life on them that we’ve hit so far. You can’t enslave a Martian sand crab.”

“Which brings up the point of our own welfare,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “We’re supposed to be considering that, too. Do you know what it does to a people to be slave-owners? It kills them.”

“Lots of people have worked for money without calling it slavery,” Agronski said. “I don’t mind getting a pay check for what I do.”

“There is no money on Lithia,” Michelis said stonily. “It we introduce it here, we do so only by force. Forced labor is slavery. Q. E. D.”

Agronski was silent.

“Speak up,” Michelis said. “Is that true, or isn’t it?” Agronski said, “I guess it is. Take it easy, Mike. There’s nothing to get mad about.”

“Cleaver?”

“Slavery’s just a swearword,” Cleaver said sullenly. “You’re deliberately clouding the issue.”

“Say that again.”

“Oh, hell. All right, Mike, I know you wouldn’t. But we could work out a fair pay scale somehow.”

“I’ll admit that the instant that you can demonstrate it to me,” Michelis said. He got up abruptly from his hassock, walked over to the sloping window sill, and sat down again, looking out into the rain-stippled darkness. He seemed to be more deeply troubled than Ruiz-Sanchez had ever before thought possible for him. The priest was astonished, as much at himself as at Michelis; the argument from money had never occurred to him, and Michelis had unknowingly put his finger on a doctrinal sore spot which Ruiz-Sanchez had never been able to reconcile with his own beliefs. He remembered the lines of poetry that had summed it up for him—lines written way back in the 1950’s: The groggy old Church has gone toothless, No longer holds against neshek; the fat has covered their croziers…

Neshek was the lending of money at interest, once a sin called usury, for which Dante had put men into Hell. And now here was Mike, not a Christian at all, arguing that money itself was a form of slavery. It was, Ruiz-Sanchez discovered upon fingering it mentally once more, a very sore spot.

“In the meantime,” Michelis had resumed, “I’ll prosecute my own demonstration. What’s to be said, now, about this theory of automatic security that you’ve propounded, Paul? You think that the Lithians can’t learn the techniques they would need to be able to understand secret information and pass it on, and so they won’t have to be screened. There again, you’re wrong, as you’d have known if you’d bothered to study the Lithians even perfunctorily. The Lithians are highly intelligent, and they already have many of the clues they need. I’ve given them a hand toward pinning down magnetism, and they absorbed the material like magic and put it to work with enormous ingenuity.”

“So did I,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “And I’ve suggested to them a technique for accumulating iron that should prove to be pretty powerful. I had only to suggest it, and they were already halfway down to the bottom of it and traveling fast. They can make the most of the smallest of clues.”

“If I were the UN I’d regard both actions as the plainest kind of treason,” Cleaver said harshly. “You’d better think again about using that key, Mike, on your own behalf—if it isn’t already too late. Isn’t it possible that the Snakes found out both items by themselves, and were only being polite to you?”

“Set me no traps,” Michelis said. “The tape is on and it stays on, by your own request. If you have any second thoughts, file them in your individual report, but don’t try to stampede me into hiding anything under the rug now, Paul. It won’t work.”

“That,” Cleaver said, “is what I get for trying to help.”

“If that’s what you were trying to do, thanks. I’m not through, however. So far as the practical objective that you want to achieve is concerned, Paul, I think it’s just as useless as it is impossible. The fact that we have here a planet that’s especially rich in lithium doesn’t mean that we’re sitting on a bonanza, no matter what price per ton the metal commands back home.

“The fact of the matter is that you can’t ship lithium home. Its density is so low that you couldn’t send away more than a ton of it per shipload; by the time you got it to Earth, the shipping charges on it would more than outweigh the price you’d get for it on arrival. I should have thought that you’d know there’s lots of lithium on Earth’s own moon, too—and it isn’t economical to fly it back to Earth even over that short a distance, less than a quarter of a million miles. Lithia is three hundred and fourteen trillion miles from Earth; that’s what fifty light-years comes to. Not even radium is worth carrying over a gap that great!

“No more would it be economical to ship from Earth to Lithia all the heavy equipment that would be needed to make use of lithium here. There’s no iron here for massive magnets. By the time you got your particle-accelerators and mass chromatographs and the rest of your needs to Lithia, you’d have cost the UN so much that no amount of locally available pegmatite could compensate for it. Isn’t that so, Agronski?”

“I’m no physicist,” Agronski said, frowning slightly. “But just getting the metal out of the ore and storing it would cost a fair sum, that’s a cinch. Raw lithium would burn like phosphorus in this atmosphere; you’d have to store it and work it under oil. That’s costly no matter how you look at it.”

Michelis looked from Cleaver to Agronski and back again.

“Exactly so,” he said. “And that’s only the beginning. In fact, the whole scheme is just a chimera.”

“Have you got a better one, Mike?” Cleaver said, very quietly.

“I hope so. It seems to me that we have a lot to learn from the Lithians, as well as they from us. Their social system works like the most perfect of our physical mechanisms, and it does so without any apparent repression of the individual. It’s a thoroughly liberal society in terms of guarantees, yet all the same it never even begins to tip over toward the side of total disorganization, toward the kind of Gandhüsm that keeps a people tied to the momma-and-poppa farm and the roving-brigand distribution system. It’s in balance, and not in precarious balance either—it’s in perfect chemical equilibrium.

“The notion of using Lithia as a fusion-bomb plant is easily the strangest anachronism I’ve ever encountered—it’s as crude as proposing to equip an interstellar ship with galley slaves, oars and all. Right here on Lithia is the real secret, the secret that’s going to make bombs of all kinds, and all the rest of the antisocial armament, as useless, unnecessary, obsolete as the iron boot.

“And on top of all of that—no, please, I’m not quite finished, Paul—on top of all that, the Lithians are decades ahead of us in some purely technical matters, just as we’re ahead of them in others. You should see what they can do with mixed disciplines—scholia like histochemistry, immunodynamics, biophysics, terataxonomy, osmotic genetics, electrolimnology, and half a hundred more. If you’d been looking, you would have seen.

“We have much more to do, it seems to me, than just to vote to open the planet That’s only a passive move. We have to realize that being able to use Lithia is only the beginning. The fact of the matter is that we actively need Lithia. We should say so in our recommendation.” Michelis unfolded himself from the window sill and stood up, looking down on all of them, but most especially at Ruiz-Sanchez. The priest smiled at him, but as much in anguish regardless of the way time had of turning any blade. The decision had already cost him many hours of concentrated, agonized doubt. But he believed that it had to be done.

“I disagree with all of you,” he said, “except Cleaver. I believe, as he does, that Lithia should be reported triple-E Unfavorable. But I think also that it should be given a special classification: X-One.”

Michelis’ eyes were glazed with shock. Even Cleaver seemed unable to credit what he had heard.

“X-One—but that’s a quarantine label,” Michelis said huskily.

“As a matter of fact—”

“Yes, Mike, that’s right,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “I vote to seal Lithia off from all contact with the human race. Not only now, or for the next century—but forever.”

VIII

Forever.

The word did not produce the consternation that he had been dreading—or, perhaps, hoping for, somewhere in the back of his mind. Evidently they were all too tired for that. They took his announcement with a kind of stunned emptiness, as though it were so far out of the expected order of events as to be quite meaningless.

It was hard to say whether Cleaver or Michelis was the more overwhelmed. All that could be seen for certain was that Agronski recovered first, and was now ostentatiously reaming out his ears, as if in signal that he would be ready to listen again when Ruiz-Sanchez changed his mind.

“Well,” Cleaver began. And then again, shaking his head amazedly, like an old man: “Well…”

“Tell us why, Ramon,” Michelis said, clenching and unclenching his fists. His voice was quite flat, but Ruiz-Sanchez thought he could feel the pain under it.

“Of course. But I warn you, I’m going to be very roundabout What I have to say seems to me to be of the utmost importance. I don’t want to see it rejected out of hand as just the product of my peculiar training and prejudices—interesting perhaps as a study in aberration, but not germane to the problem. The evidence for my view of Lithia is overwhelming. It overwhelmed me quite against my natural hopes and inclinations. I want you to hear that evidence.” The preamble, with its dry scholiast’s tone and its buried suggestion, did its work well.

“He also wants us to understand,” Cleaver said, recovering a little of his natural impatience, “that his reasons are religious and won’t hold water if he states them right out.”

“Hush,” Michelis said intently. “Listen.”

“Thank you, Mike. All right, here we go. This planet is what I think is called in English ‘a set-up.’ Let me describe it for you briefly as I see it, or rather as I’ve come to see it.

“Lithia is a paradise. It has resemblances to a number of other planets, but the closest correspondence is to the Earth in its pre-Adamic period, before the coming of the first glaciers. The resemblance ends there, because on Lithia the glaciers never came, and life continued to be spent in the paradise, as it was not allowed to do on Earth.”

“Myths,” Cleaver said sourly.

“I use the terms with which I’m most familiar; strip off those terms and what I am saying is still a fact that all of you know to be true. We find here a completely mixed forest, with plants that fall from one end of the creative spectrum to the other living side by side in perfect amity, cycad with cycladella, giant horsetail with flowering; trees. To a great extent that’s also true of the animals. The lion doesn’t lie down with the lamb here because Lithia has neither animal, but as an allegory the phrase is apt. Parasitism occurs rather less often on Lithia than it does on Earth, and there are very few carnivores of any sort except in the sea. Almost all of the surviving land animals eat plants only, and by a neat arrangement which is typically Lithian, the plants are admirably set up to attack animals rather than each other.

“It’s an unusual ecology, and one of the strangest things about it is its rationality, its extreme, almost single-minded insistence upon one-for-one relationships. In one respect it looks almost as though somebody had arranged the whole planet as a ballet about Mengenlehre—the theory of aggregates.

“Now, in this paradise we have a dominant creature, the Lithian, the man of Lithia. This creature is rational. It conforms, as if naturally and without constraint or guidance, to the highest ethical code we have evolved on Earth. It needs no laws to enforce this code. Somehow, everyone obeys it as a matter of course, although it has never even been written down. There are no criminals, no deviates, no aberrations of any kind. The people are not standardized—our own very bad and partial answer to the ethical dilemma—but instead are highly individual. They choose their own life courses without constraint—yet somehow no antisocial act of any kind is ever committed. There isn’t even any word for such an act in the Lithian language.”

The recorder made a soft, piercing pip of sound, announcing that it was threading a new tape. The enforced pause would last about eight seconds, and on a sudden inspiration, Ruiz-Sanchez put it to use. On the next pip, he said:

“Mike, let me stop here and ask you a question. What does this suggest to you, thus far?”

“Why, just what I’ve said before that it suggested,” Michelis said slowly. “An enormously superior social science, evidently founded in a precise system of psychogenetics. I should think that would be more than enough.”

“Very well, I’ll go on. I felt as you did, at first. Then I came to ask myself some correlative questions. For instance: How does it happen that the Lithians not only have no deviates—think of that, no deviates!—but that the code by which they live so perfectly is, point for point, the code we strive to obey? If that just happened, it was by the uttermost of all coincidences. Consider, please, the imponderables involved. Even on Earth we have never known a society which evolved independently exactly the same precepts as the Christian precepts—by which I mean to include the Mosaic. Oh, there were some duplications of doctrine, enough to encourage the twentieth century’s partiality toward synthetic religions like theosophism and Hollywood Vedanta, but no ethical system on Earth that grew up independently of Christianity agreed with it point for point. Not Mithraism, not Islam, not the Essenes—not even these, which influenced or were influenced by Christianity, were in good agreement with it in the matter of ethics.

“And yet here on Lithia, fifty light-years away from Earth and among a race as unlike man as man is unlike the kangaroos, what do we find? A Christian people, lacking nothing but the specific proper names and the symbolic appurtenances of Christianity. I don’t know how you three react to this, but I found it extraordinary and indeed completely impossible—mathematically impossible—under any assumption but one. I’ll get to that assumption in a moment.”

“You can’t get there any too soon for me,” Cleaver said morosely. “How a man can stand fifty light-years from home in deep space and talk such parochial nonsense is beyond my comprehension.”

“Parochial?” Ruiz-Sanchez said, more angrily than he had intended. “Do you mean that what we think true on Earth is automatically made suspect just by the fact of its removal into deep space? I beg to remind you, Paul, that quantum mechanics seem to hold good on Lithia, and that you see nothing parochial about behaving as if it does. If I believe in Peru that God created and still rules the universe, I see nothing parochial in my continuing to believe it on Lithia. You brought your parish with you; so did I. This has been willed where what is willed must be.” As always, the great phrase shook him to the heart. But it was obvious that it meant nothing to anyone else in the room; were such men hopeless? No, no. That Gate could never slam behind them while they lived, no matter how the hornets buzzed for them behind the deviceless banner. Hope was with them yet.

“A while back I thought I had been provided an escape hatch, incidentally,” he said. “Chtexa told me that the Lithians would like to modify the growth of their population, and he implied that they would welcome some form of birth control. But, as it turns out, birth control in the sense that the Church interdicts it is impossible to Lithia, and what Chtexa had in mind was obviously some form of fertility control, a proposition to which the Church gave its qualified assent many decades ago. So there I was, even on this small point forced again to realize that we had found on Lithia the most colossal rebuke to our aspirations that we had ever encountered: a people that seems to live with ease the kind of life which we associate with saints alone.

“Bear in mind that a Muslim who visited Lithia would find no such thing; though he would find a form of polygamy here, its purposes and methods would revolt him. Neither would a Taoist. Neither would a Zoroastrian, presuming that there were still such, or a classical Greek. But for the four of us—and I include you, Paul, for despite your tricks and your agnosticism you still subscribe to the Christian ethical doctrines enough to be put on the defensive when you flout them—what we four have here on Lithia is a coincidence which beggars description. It is more than an astronomical coincidence—that tired old metaphor for numbers that don’t seem very large any more—it is a transfinite coincidence. It would take the shade of Cantor himself to do justice to the odds against it.”

“Wait a minute,” Agronski said. “Holy smoke. I don’t know any anthropology, Mike, I’m lost here. I was with the Father up to the part about the mixed forest, but I don’t have any standards to judge the rest. Is it so, what he says?”

“Yes, I think it’s so,” Michelis said slowly. “But there could be differences of opinion as to what it means, if anything. Ramon, go on.”

“I will. There’s still a good deal more to say. I’m still describing the planet, and more particularly the Lithians. The Lithians take a lot of explaining. What I’ve said about them thus far states only the most obvious fact. I could go on to point out many more, equally obvious facts. They have no nations and no regional rivalries, yet if you look at the map of Lithia—all those small continents and archipelagoes separated by thousands of miles of seas—you’ll see every reason why they should have developed such rivalries. They have emotions and passions, but are never moved by them to irrational acts. They have only one language, and have never had more than this same one—which again should have been made impossible by the geography of Lithia. They exist in complete harmony with everything, large and small, that they find in their world. In short, they’re a people that couldn’t exist—and yet does.

“Mike, I’ll go beyond your view to say that the Lithians are the most perfect example of how human beings ought to behave that we’re ever likely to find, for the very simple reason that they behave now the way human beings once once behaved before we fell in our own Garden I’d go even farther: as an example, the Lithians are useless to us, because until the coming of the Kingdom of God no substantial number of human beings will ever be able to imitate Lithian conduct. Human beings seem to have built-in imperfections that the Lithians lack—original sin, if you like—so that after thousands of years of trying, we are farther away than ever from our original emblems of conduct, while the Lithians have never departed from theirs.

“And don’t allow yourselves to forget for an instant that these emblems of conduct are the same on both planets. That couldn’t ever have happened, either—but it did.

“I’m now going to adduce another interesting fact about Lithian civilization. It is a fact, whatever you may think of its merits as evidence. It is this: that your Lithian is a creature of logic. Unlike Earthmen of all stripes, he has no gods, no myths, no legends. He has no belief in the supernatural—or, as we’re calling it in our barbarous jargon these days, the ‘paranormal.’ He has no traditions. He has no tabus. He has no faiths, except for an impersonal belief that he and his lot are indefinitely improvable. He is as rational as a machine. Indeed, the only way in which we can distinguish the Lithian from an organic computer is his possession and use of a moral code.

“And that, I beg you to observe, is completely irrational. It is based upon a set of axioms, a set of propositions which were ‘given’ from the beginning—though your Lithian sees no need to postulate any Giver. The Lithian, for instance Chtexa, believes in the sanctity of the individual. Why? Not by reason, surely, for there is no way to reason to that proposition. It is an axiom. Or: Chtexa believes in the right of juridical defense, in the equality of all before the code. Why? It’s possible to behave rationally from the proposition, but it’s impossible to reason one’s way to it. It’s given. If you assume that the responsibility to the code varies with the individual’s age, or with what family he happens to belong to, logical behavior can follow from one of these assumptions, but there again One can’t arrive at the principle by reason alone.

“One begins with belief: ‘I think that all people ought to be equal before the law.’ That is a statement of faith, nothing more. Yet Lithian civilization is so set up as to suggest that one can arrive at such basic axioms of Christianity, and of Western civilization on Earth as a whole, by reason alone—in the plain face of the fact that one cannot. One rationalist’s axiom is another one’s madness.”

“Those are axioms,” Cleaver growled. “You don’t arrive at them by faith, either. You don’t arrive at them at all. They’re self-evident, that’s the definition of an axiom.”

“It was until the physicists kicked that definition to pieces,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, with a certain grim relish. “There’s the axiom that only one parallel can be drawn to a given line. It may be self-evident, but it’s also untrue, isn’t it? And it’s self-evident that matter is solid. Go on, Paul, you’re a physicist yourself. Kick a stone for me, and say, “Thus I refute Bishop Berkeley.’”

“It’s peculiar,” Michelis said in a low voice, “that Lithian culture should be so axiom-ridden, without the Lithians being aware of it. I hadn’t formulated it in quite these terms before, Paul, but I’ve been disturbed myself at the bottomless assumptions that lie behind Lithian reasoning—all utterly unprobed, although in other respects the Lithians are very subtle. Look at what they’ve done in solid-state chemistry, for instance. It’s a structure of the purest kind of reason, and yet when you get down to its fundamental assumptions you discover the axiom: ‘Matter is real.’ How can they know that? How did logic lead them to it? It’s a very shaky notion, in my opinion. If I say that the atom is just a-hole-inside-a-hole-through-a-hole, how can they controvert me?”

“But their system works,” Cleaver said.

“So does our solid-state theory—but we work from opposite axioms,” Michelis said. “Whether it works or not isn’t the issue. The question is, what is it that’s working? I don’t myself see how this immense structure of reason which the Lithians have evolved can stand for an instant. It doesn’t seem to rest on anything. ‘Matter is real’ is a crazy proposition, when you come right down to it; all the evidence points in exactly the opposite direction.”

“I’m going to tell you,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “You won’t believe me, but I’m going to tell you anyhow, because I have to. It stands because it’s being propped up. That’s the simple answer and the whole answer. But first I want to add one more fact about the Lithians:

“They have complete physical recapitulation outside the body.”

“What does that mean?” Agronski said.

“You know how a human child grows inside its mother’s body. It is a one-celled animal to begin with, and then a simple metazoan resembling the fresh-water hydra or a simple jellyfish. Then, very rapidly, it goes through many other animal forms, including the fish, the amphibian, the reptile, the lower mammal, and finally becomes enough like a man to be born. I don’t know how this was taught to you as a geologist, but biologists call the process recapitulation.

“The term assumes that the embryo is passing through the various stages of evolution which brought life from the single-celled organism to man, but on a contracted time scale. There is a point, for instance, in the development of the fetus when it has gills, though it never uses them. It has a tail almost to the very end of its time in the womb, and rarely it still has it when it is born; and the tail-wagging muscle, the pubococcygeus, persists in the adult—in women it becomes transformed into the contractile ring around the vestibule. The circulatory system of the fetus in the last month is still reptilian, and if it fails to be completely transformed before birth, the infant emerges as a ‘blue baby’ with patent ductus arteriosus, the tetralogy of Fallot, or a similar heart defect which allows venous blood to mix with arterial—which is the rule with terrestrial reptiles. And so on.”

“I see,” Agronski said. “It’s a familiar idea; I just didn’t recognize the term. I had no idea that the correspondence was that close either, come to think of it.”

“Well, the Lithians, too, go through this series of metamorphoses as they grow up, but they go through it outside the bodies of their mothers. This whole planet is one huge womb. The Lithian female lays her eggs in her abdominal pouch, the eggs are fertilized, and then she goes to the sea to give birth to her children. What she bears is not a miniature of the marvelously evolved reptile which is the adult Lithian; far from it: instead, she hatches a fish, rather like a lamprey. The fish lives in the sea a while, and then develops rudimentary lungs and comes to live along the shore lines. Once it’s stranded on the flats by the tides, the lungfish’s pectoral fins become simple legs, and it squirms away through the mud, changing into an amphibian and learning to endure the rigors of living away from the sea. Gradually their limbs become stronger, and better set on their bodies, and they become the big froglike things we sometimes see down the hill, leaping in the moonlight, trying to get away from the crocodiles.

“Many of them do get away. They carry their habit of leaping with them into the jungle, and there they change once again, into the small, kangaroo-like reptiles we’ve all seen, fleeing from us among the trees—the things we called the ‘hoppers.’ The last change is circulatory—from the sauropsid blood system which still permits some mixing of venous and arterial blood, to the pteropsid system we see in Earthly birds, which supplies nothing to the brain but oxygenated arterial blood. At about the same time, they become homeostatic and homeothermic, as mammals are. Eventually, they emerge, fully grown, from the jungles, and take their places among the folk of the cities as young Lithians, ready for education.

“But they have already learned every trick of every environment that their world has to offer. Nothing is left them to learn but their own civilization; their instincts are fully matured, fully under control; their rapport with nature on Lithia is absolute; their adolescence is passed and can’t distract their intellects—they are ready to become social beings in every possible sense.” Michelis locked his hands together again in an agony of quiet excitement, and looked up at Ruiz-Sanchez.

“But that-that’s a discovery beyond price!” he whispered.

“Ramon, that alone is worth our trip to Lithia. What a stunning, elegant—what a beautiful sequence—and what a brilliant piece of analysis!”

“It is very elegant,” Ruiz-Sanchez said dispiritedly. “He who would damn us often gives us gracefulness. It is not the same thing as Grace.”

“But is it as serious as all that?” Michelis said, his voice charged with urgency. “Ramon, surely your Church can’t object to it in any way. Your theorists accepted recapitulation in the human embryo, and also the geological record that showed the same process in action over longer spans of time. Why not this?”

“The Church accepts facts, as it always accepts facts,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “But—as you yourself suggested hardly ten minutes ago—facts have a way of pointing in several different directions at once. The Church is as hostile to the doctrine of evolution—particularly to that part of it which deals with the descent of man—as it ever was, and with good reason.”

“Or with obdurate stupidity,” Cleaver said.

“I confess that I haven’t followed the ins and outs of all this,” Michelis said. “What is the present position?”

“There are really two positions. You may assume that man evolved as the evidence attempts to suggest that he did, and that somewhere along the line God intervened and infused a soul; this the Church regards as a tenable position, but does not endorse it, because historically it has led to cruelty to animals, who are also creations of God. Or, you may assume that the soul evolved along with the body; this view the Church entirely condemns. But these positions are not important, at least not in this company, compared with the fact that the Church thinks the evidence itself to be highly dubious.”

“Why?” Michelis said.

“Well, the Diet of Basra is hard to summarize in a few words, Mike; I hope you’ll look it up when you get home. It’s not exactly recent—it met in 1995, as I recall. In the meantime, look at the question very simply, with the original premises of the Scriptures in mind. If we assume that God created man, just for the sake of argument, did He create him perfect? I see no reason to suppose that He would have bothered with any lesser work. Is a man perfect without a navel? I don’t know, but I’d be inclined to say that he isn’t. Yet the first man—Adam, again for the sake of argument—wasn’t born of woman, and so didn’t really need to have a navel. Did he have one? All the great painters of the Creation show him with one: I’d say that their theology was surely as sound as their aesthetics.”

“What does that prove?” Cleaver said.

“That the geological record, and recapitulation too, do not necessarily prove the doctrine of the descent of man. Given my initial axiom, which is that God created everything from scratch, it’s perfectly logical that he should have given Adam a navel, Earth a geological record, and the embryo the process of recapitulation. None of these need indicate a real past; all might be there because the creations involved would have been imperfect otherwise.”

“Wow,” Cleaver said. “And I used to think that Haertel relativity was abstruse.”

“Oh, that’s not a new argument by any means, Paul; it dates back nearly two centuries—a man named Gosse invented it, not the Diet of Basra. Anyhow, any system of thought becomes abstruse if it’s examined long enough. I don’t see why my belief in a God you can’t accept is any more rarefied than Mike’s vision of the atom as a-hole-inside-a-hole-through-a-hole. I expect that in the long run, when we get right down to the fundamental stuff of the universe, we’ll find that there’s nothing there at all, just no-things moving no-place through no-time. On the day that that happens, I’ll have God and you will not, otherwise there’ll be no difference between us.

“But in the meantime, what we have here on Lithia is very clear indeed. We have—and now I’m prepared to be blunt—a planet and a people propped up by the Ultimate Enemy. It is a gigantic trap prepared for all of us—for every man on Earth and off it. We can do nothing with it but reject it, nothing but say to it, Retro me, Sathanas. If we compromise with it in any way, we are damned.”

“Why, Father?” Michelis said quietly.

“Look at the premises, Mike. One: Reason is always a sufficient guide. Two; The self-evident is always the real. Three: Good works are an end in themselves. Four: Faith is irrelevant to right action. Five: Right action can exist without love. Six: Peace need not pass understanding. Seven: Ethics can exist without evil alternatives. Eight: Morals can exist without conscience. Nine: Goodness can exist without God. Ten—but do I really need to go on? We have heard all these propositions before, and we know What proposes them.”

“A question,” Michelis said, and his voice was painfully gentle. “To set such a trap, you must allow your Adversary to be creative. Isn’t that, a heresy, Ramon? Aren’t you now subscribing to a heretical belief? Or did the Diet of Basra—” For a moment, Ruiz-Sanchez could not answer. The question cut to the heart. Michelis had found the priest out in the full agony of his defection, his belief betrayed, and he in full betrayal of his Church. He had hoped that it would not happen so soon.

“It is a heresy,” he said at last, his voice like iron. “It is called Manichaeanism, and the Diet did not readmit it.” He swallowed.

“But since you ask, Mike, I do not see how we can avoid it now. I do not do this gladly, Mike, but we have seen these demonstrations before. The demonstration, for instance, in the rocks—the one that was supposed to show how the horse evolved from Eohippus, but which somehow never managed to convince the whole of mankind. If the Adversary is creative, there is at least some divine limitation that rules that Its creations be maimed. Then came the discovery of intra-uterine recapitulation, which was to have clinched the case for the descent of man. That one failed because the Adversary put it into the mouth of a man named Haeckel, who was so rabid an atheist that he took to faking the evidence to make the case still more convincing. Nevertheless, despite their flaws, these were both very subtle arguments, but the Church is not easily swayed; it is founded on a rock.

“But now we have, on Lithia, a new demonstration, both the subtlest and at the same time the crudest of all. It will sway many people who could have been swayed in no other way, and who lack the intelligence or the background to understand that it is a rigged demonstration. It seems to show us evolution in action on an inarguable scale. It is supposed to settle the question once and for all, to rule God out of the picture, to snap the chains that have held Peter’s rock together all these many centuries. Henceforth there is to be no more question; henceforth there is to be no more God, but only phenomenology—and, of course, behind the scenes, within the hole that’s inside the hole that’s through a hole, the Great Nothing itself, the Thing that has never learned any word but No since it was cast flaming from heaven. It has many other names, but we know the name that counts. That will be all that’s left us.

“Paul, Mike, Agronski, I have nothing more to say than this: We are all of us standing on the brink of Hell. By the grace of God, we may still turn back. We must turn back—for I at least think that this is our last chance.”

IX

The vote was cast, and that was that. The commission was tied, and the question would be thrown open again in higher echelons on Earth, which would mean tying Lithia up for years to come. Proscripted area pending further study. The planet was now, in effect, on the Index Expurgatorius.

The ship arrived the next day. The crew was not much surprised to find that the two opposing factions of the commission were hardly speaking to each other. It often happened that way. The four commission members cleaned up in almost complete silence the house in Xoredeshch Sfath that the Lithians had given them. Ruiz-Sanchez packed the dark blue book with the gold stamping without being able to look at it except out of the corner of his eye, but even obliquely he could not help seeing its long-familiar title:

FINNEGANS WAKE James Joyce

So much for his pride in his solution of the case of conscience the novel proposed. He felt as though he himself had been collated, bound and stamped, a tortured human text for future generations of Jesuits to explicate and argue.

He had rendered the verdict he had found it necessary for him to render. But he knew that it was not a final verdict, even for himself, and certainly not for the UN, let alone the Church. Instead, the verdict itself would be a knotty question for members of his Order yet unborn:

Did Father Ruiz-Sanchez correctly interpret the Divine case, and did this ruling, if so, follow from it?

Except, of course, that they would not use his name—but what good would it do them to use an alias? Surely there would never be any way to disguise the original of this problem. Or was that pride again—or misery? It had been Mephistopheles himself who had said, Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris…

“Let’s go, Father. It’ll be take-off time shortly.”

“All ready, Mike.”

It was only a short journey to the clearing, where the mighty spindle of the ship stood ready to weave its way back through the geodesies of deep space to the sun that shone on Peru. There was even some sunlight here, piercing now and then through low, scudding clouds; but it had been raining all morning, and would begin again soon enough.

The baggage went on board smoothly and without any fuss. So did the specimens, the films, the tapes, the special reports, the recordings, the sample cases, the slide boxes, the vivariums, the type cultures, the pressed plants, the animal cages, the tubes of soil, the chunks of ore, the Lithian manuscripts in their atmospheres of helium—everything was lifted decorously by the cranes and swung inside.

Agronski went up the cleats to the air lock first, with Michelis following him, a barracks bag slung over one shoulder. On the ground Cleaver was stowing some last-minute bit of gear, something that seemed to require delicate, almost reverent bedding down before the cranes could be allowed to take it in their indifferent grip; Cleaver Was fanatically motherly about his electronic apparatus. Ruiz-Sanchez took advantage of the delay to look around once more at the near margins of the forest. At once, he saw Chtexa. The Lithian was standing at the entrance to the path the Earthmen themselves had taken from the city to reach the ship. He was carrying something.

Cleaver swore under his breath and undid something he had just done to do it in another way. Ruiz-Sanchez raised his hand. Immediately Chtexa walked toward the ship, in great loping strides which nevertheless seemed almost leisurely.

“I wish you a good journey,” the Lithian said, “wherever you may go. I wish also that your road may lead back to this world at some future time. I have brought you the gift that I sought before to give you, if the moment is now appropriate.”

Cleaver had straightened and was now glaring up suspiciously at the Lithian. Since he did not understand the language, he was unable to find anything to which he could object. He simply stood there and radiated unwelcomeness.

“Thank you,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. This creature of Satan made him miserable all over again, made him feel intolerably in the wrong. Yet how could Chtexa know—?

The Lithian was holding out to him a small vase, sealed at the top and provided with two gently looping handles. The gleaming porcelain of which it had been made still carried inside it, under the glaze, the fire which had formed it; it was iridescent, alive with long quivering festoons and plumes of rainbows, and the form as a whole would have made any potter of Greece abandon his trade in shame. It was so beautiful that one could imagine no use for it at all. Certainly one could not make a lamp of it, or fill it with leftover beets and put it in the refrigerator. Besides, it would take up too much space.

“This is the gift,” Chtexa said. “It is the finest container yet to come out of Xoredeshch Gton. The material of which it is made includes traces of every element to be found on Lithia, even including iron, and thus, as you see, it shows the colors of every shade of emotion and of thought. On Earth, it will tell Earthmen much of Lithia.”

“We will be unable to analyze it,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “It is too perfect to destroy, too perfect even to open.”

“Ah, but we wish you to open it,” Chtexa said. “For it contains our other gift.”

“Another gift?”

“Yes, and a more important one. It is a fertilized, living egg of our species. Take it with you. By the time you reach Earth, it will have hatched, and will be ready to grow up with you in your strange and marvelous world. The container is the gift of all of us; but the child inside is my gift, for it is my child.”

Appalled, Ruiz-Sanchez took the vase in trembling hands, as though he expected it to explode—as indeed he did. It shook with subdued flame in his grip.

“Good-bye,” Chtexa said. He turned and walked away, back toward the entrance to the path. Cleaver watched him go, shading his eyes.

“Now what was that all about?” the physicist said. “The Snake couldn’t have made a bigger thing of it if he’d been handing you his own head on a platter. And all the time it was only a jug!”

Ruiz-Sanchez did not answer. He could not have spoken even to himself. He turned away and began to ascend the cleats, cradling the vase carefully in one elbow. It was not the gift he had hoped to bring to the holy city for the grand indulgence of all mankind, no; but it was all he had.

While he was still climbing, a shadow passed rapidly over the hull: Cleaver’s last crate, being borne aloft into the hold by a crane.

Then he was in the air lock, with the rising whine of the ship’s Nernst generators around him. A long shaft of sunlight was cast ahead of him, picking out his shadow on the deck. After a moment, a second shadow overlaid and blurred his own: Cleaver’s. Then the light dimmed and went out. The air lock door slammed.