Kronk

CHAPTER SEVEN

Although St. Paul’s Cathedral was dwarfed somewhat by the forty-storey Winston Churchill Retreat for Alcoholics and the fifty-storey Bertrand Russell Twilight Tower (Voluntary Euthanasia Ltd.), its dome still retained the proud patina and bird droppings of time, the dignity and flaked masonry of the centuries. Since Romaprot had put the guts back into religion — on a sound seven-per-cent annual growth basis — there had been changes.

Inevitable changes. But they had been carried out tastefully, with foresight, and as good investments.

The choir and high altar had had to go, naturally, to make way for a fragment of Comptroller’s Department and Computer Engineering Division; but Sir James Thornhill’s paintings still retained their lofty eminence, and there were plastic replicas of original Grinling Gibbons carvings adorning the discreetly styled executive cells.

In the centre of the nave a perpetual fountain of irridescent holy water gave movement and vitality to the very heart of the cathedral. The mineralogical content of the water met the exact specifications of the spring at Lourdes; and in the extended crypt one thousand bathing cubicles were available on a ten-minute or twenty-minute rental basis. On either side of the nave were the ranks of auto-confession booths, wired up to four God Machines appropriately located in the Whispering Gallery, and programmed to accept all major currencies. Due to the recent invention of Depthorama, the booths were also equipped to supply Instant Full Cathedral Services in American, Russian, Europarl, Afritawk and Chinese and (also by dial selection) in modern Romaprot style as well as ancient Greek Orthodox, Anglican and Catholic. The services were divided into First Class, Economy Class and Mini-shot, according to the means and time available to the worshipper. For ten pounds, up to six people could be uplifted for two hours by Depthorama recordings of Cardinal Archbishop Cyril Cantuar, the NaTel Black and White Choir, and musical dramatization of a choice of parables, miracles and assorted preachings — all shot on location with authorized Equity actors and nudes. With Nativity, Crucifixion and Resurrection, all seasonably popular items, there was a ten per cent surcharge.

Outside the cathedral, Romaprot had provided for the requirements of all intending worshippers. Cathedral Reception surrounded the ancient building like a vast steel and hiduminium torus. It contained a subterranean coffee-bar in the form of a creatively improved replica of a torture-chamber of the Spanish Inquisition; a compact Sistine Chapel restaurant; and the Holy Sepulchre intimate all-nite-spot for late and early visitors.

Ripple sky signs fixed on top of Cathedral Reception proclaimed simple exhortations, moving and self-evident truths: God Can Process You; Give Him the Data and Pick Up the Output; He Keeps You in His Memory Banks; You Too Will Come Clean in that Great Detergent in the Sky; God is Feedback; He has Computer Time For All.

It was already dusk when Camilla and Gabriel arrived at Reception. It was a busy time of day, since many students, prollies, prepubes and even procs and bounty hunters preferred to confess before the night’s work had really started, and the traffic boards indicated a twentyminute wait for booths. Camilla went to the rentals counter and paid for ten minutes advice/confession time for two. She received a numbered metal tab, upon which was stamped the date and time of application and the amount and classification of computer time paid for, then she and Gabriel went to take Irish coffee at the Spanish Inquisition.

Surprisingly, they managed to get a table to themselves. Gabriel was in a sombre mood, partly because he disapproved of confiding in a God Machine and partly because he was very very tired.

He slipped his coffee silently for a while then glanced at the wall score plate. It was changing numbers fairly rapidly, and was at present flipping through the eight thousand one hundreds.

“What number have we got?”

Camilla looked at the tab. “Eight thousand nine hundred and seven.”

“Not more than about ten minutes, I suppose. Unless a number of prosperous citizens can suddenly afford a lot of computer time… Don’t forget the deal, Camilla. False names. False everything.”

“False everything,” she agreed, smiling. “You are too cautious, Gabriel. I think I love you.”

“I love you, too… Suppose it tells us to go and confess all to Insect Race?”

“Then it will give us reasons. We may be dangerous people, hazards to society, and all that.

After all, unless we remain faithful to each other…”

“I’d like to be hazard to society,” said Gabriel with some feeling. “By the way, did Eustace ever say anything about antidotes, cures, that sort of thing?”

“He seemed fairly confident about the resistance of P 939. I think he was of the opinion that it would be a fairly hard beast to hammer… I suppose it also helps that no one yet knows of its existence.”

“They will,” said Gabriel gloomily. “They will.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter, really. We haven’t committed any crime.”

“Eustace has, and you and I are his accomphices. We are receivers of stolen bacteria. P 939

belongs to MicroWar. So do the animals that Eustace also stole.”

“Ah, yes. The animals. We will have to do something about them. Quite apart from being MicroWar property, they are exhausting to live with.”

Camilla glanced at the score plate and saw that her tab number would shortly come up.

“Finish your coffee. It’s almost time for Divine Guidance. If we miss our number, they can charge waiting time.”

They went to the cathedral’s main entrance, received a benign smile for the computercontrolled priest-automaton on duty, inserted the metal tab in the assignment slot and waited a moment while a God Machine told the priest which booth to send them to.

The priest-automaton had evidently been programmed to speak with an Irish accent. “Sure and it’s a foin avenin’ for liftin’ the weight from your souls, me darlin’s. His Eminence will received you in B 27. First left, second right, and go with God.”

The booth itself was totally enclosed, air-conditioned and tastefully furnished. Inside, six contour chairs faced the Depthorama screen that gave the occupants of the confession booth the illusion of being entirely alone in a vast uncluttered replica of the cathedral. As Camilla and Gabriel each sat in a contour chair, the light dimmed, the scent of summer woodland filled the air and there was the piped rustling of leaves in a light breeze. The Depthorama vision of the cathedral dissolved into a magnificent sunset.

There was a great cloud, fleeced in fire. Standing on the cloud, clothed in a robe of radiance and majesty, was a dramatic El Greco type figure. It seemed very far away and at the same time strangely near. Underneath the cloud, in violet letters etched into the sunset, were the words: Deus ex Machina.

Divinity spoke- in excellent middle middle-class English, the words echoing as if through long corridors of space and time.

“Greetings, my children,” said Divinity. “Give me your burdens and be at peace.”

J.S. Bach made a brief contribution to proceedings with a piped forty-five second clip from Toccata and Fugue in D.

Divinity became a shade more informal:” My children, it is fitting that we should know each other fully, that your troubles should be consigned to the great memory banks of eternity.

Namepads, please.”

“Marilyn Monroe,” said Camilla. “I live in Union Tower, Highgate.”

“Michael Angelo,” said Gabriel. “Barbican Seventeen.”

“Marilyn and Michael,” said Divinity softly. “Know that I hold you close. Which of you will speak to me first?”

“I will, Father,” said Camilla.

“Proceed, my daughter. Speak now of what is close to your heart.”

“Well, Father,” began Camilla, “the problem is not really ours. It concerns a friend of ours.

He thinks he has invented a contagious disease that will stop people wanting to hurt or kill each other. He wants to know what to do.”

“Child, this friend of yours should be with us now. Where is he?”

“He will not come, Father. He has not seen the light.”

Divinity sighed. “Alas, for those who have eyes and cannot see. Alas for those who choose to walk in darkness… What, then, is his namepad?”

“Father, I cannot say. He asked us not to reveal it.”

Divinity was saddened. “Daughter, there should be no secrets between us… Is your friend a scientist?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Is the disease transmitted by micro-organisms?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Has your friend proved his disease upon living creatures?”

“Yes, Father.”

Divinity changed position on his cloud, adopting a gently stern attitude.

“My daughter, your friend is in a state of mortal sin — unless his work has been sanctioned by authorized representatives of government and/or a responsible industrial research programme.”

Gabriel decided to speak. “Our friend works only for his own interest. He simply wishes to kow if it would be a good thing if men were unable to make war any more.”

“Disease is the scourge of God,” said Divinity severely. “Men shall not take it upon themselves to interfere with the laws of Nature — unless invested with the proper authority. It -

“ Divinity paused, then Depthorama zoomed him down from the cloud for a frowning closeup.

“My children, you yourselves have sinned greatly. Marilyn Monroe does not live in Union Tower, Highgate. There is no Union Tower, Highgate. Michael Angelo does not live in Barbican Seventeen… If you are not ill or high, my children, there can only be mischief in your hearts. Here in the House of God you are free to speak fully at all times. You are even free to withhold the truth. Such is the quality of infinite mercy… However, if you have faith, I recommend you to rest tranquilly while I summon priests of the Psychiatric and Social Order who will help—”

Gabriel did not wait for the rest. He jumped out of his contour seat as if stung. He groped for the master-switch and brought light back into the auto-confession booth. The Depthorama faded. It seemed highly probable that the P.S.O. priests were already on their way.

“Gabriel, what—”

“No time. Quick.” He grabbed Camilla’s hand and pulled her to the door. It seemed to be jammed.

Cursing dreadfully to himself, Gabriel darted to the master control console and pressed every button he could find. He ordered Greek Orthodox, Anglican and Catholic services, First Class, in Russina, Europarl and Afritawk. He ordered the Black and White Choir, three miracles and the Crucifixion.

Still cursing, and blessed apparently with superhuman strenght, he tore the console from the wall and hurled it at the Depthorama screen. And then he found what he had been looking for all the time — the red emergency exit and fire button installed under Romaprot Fire Regulation 92B. He hit it.

The door opened automatically, heavy rain seemed to be coming from somewhere, and a circular section of the ceiling fell in. From the direction of the Depthorama screen, a highspeed voice gabbled: “Go forth and multiply! Go forth and multiply! Go forth and multiply.”

Gabriel and Camilla fled.