Bible Stories for Adults (10 page)

“Darwin was not referring to robots,” said Marcus in the tone a ten-year-old girl uses to address her insufferable younger brother. “He was referring to living things,” he added, smiling indulgently.

“Revealed truth is a rare and blessed gift,” said Dr. Polycarp. “We are fortunate the testaments were handed down to us.”

Marcus's smile collapsed. “The raw fact, Dr. Polycarp, is that you are
not
the result of descent with modification.”

“Of course we are,” replied Dr. Ignatius, the university's hybridism expert. “It's in the
Origin

“And the
Descent
.” Hippolytus puffed on his pipe, sending a white magnesium flame toward the ceiling.

“You are the result of special creation,” I said. “Harvard University's sociobiology department made you. Each of you is a unique, separate, immutable product.”

“‘Natural selection will modify the structure of the young in relation to the parent, and of the parent in relation to the young,'” quoted Hippolytus. Puff, puff. “The
Origin:
fourth chapter, section one, paragraph eleven, verse one.”

“There!” said Marcus, instantaneously gaining his feet. “See what I mean? You don't
have
any young. You couldn't
possibly
be participating in natural selection.”

“The divine plan is ever-unfolding,” said Dean Tertullian. “We must have patience.”

“I've never taken a shower with any of you”—Marcus's grin broadened as he laid his Aristotelian snare—“but I'd still bet the farm you lack the prerequisites for breeding. Well . . . am I right? Am I?”

“Evolution takes time,” said Hippolytus. Puff. “Gobs of time. We'll get our prerequisites eventually.”

“The Great Genital Coining,” said Ignatius. “It's been foretold—read Darwin's word. ‘With animals which have their sexes separated,'” he quoted, “‘the males necessarily differ from the females in their organs of reproduction.' The
Descent:
eighth chapter, section one, paragraph one, verse one.”

“And until the Great Genital Coming occurs, we expect you to keep your theory of special creation out of our classrooms,” said Polycarp.

“It's a foolish idea,” said Tertullian.

“Immoral,” added Ignatius.

“Illegal,” concluded Hippolytus, his magnesium flame shifting toward yellow.

“Illegal?” I said.

“Illegal,” repeated Hippolytus. Puff. “Public Act Volume 37, Statute Number 31428, makes it a crime to teach any theory of android descent contrary to the account given in
The Origin of Species.”

“A crime?” I said. My jaw swung open. “What sort
of
crime?”

“A
serious
crime,” said Ignatius.

“This meeting is adjourned,” Polycarp declared.

 

13 J
ULY
2059

 

Sunday. No classes. Rained cats and dogs and kittens and pups. We decided to take Miss Blandina's advice and attend church. As we started down Gregor Mendel Avenue, Marcus suddenly seized the pocket of my raincoat and steered me into a teleportation office. Pulling a sealed envelope from his vest, he arranged for it to materialize posthaste at the Heuristic Institute.

I glanced at the mailing address. “What do you want from Archbishop Clement?” Marcus did not answer. “I assume you know better than to mess around with that law,” I said. “Public Act Volume . . . whatever.” I am my brother's keeper, and one place I aim to keep him is out of jail.

“Is it not our duty as science missionaries to counter ignorance with knowledge, Piers?” Marcus asked rhetorically.

“A crime,” I answered, nonrhetorically.
“Serious
crime—remember?”

Smiling, he guided me back to the soggy streets. I have always believed that, with his bravado and singlemindedness, my little brother will go far, though I am no longer sure in which direction.

Several hundred worshipers jammed the church to its steel walls. The front pew contained Miss Blandina, freshly polished and exuding a joie de vivre I had not realized her race could feel. The altar was a replica of HMS
Beagle
, and the chancel niches contained frowning marble statues of Alfred Wallace, Charles Lyell, Herbert Spencer, J. D. Hooker, T. H. Huxley, and, of course, Darwin the supreme prophet.

The pastor, a Model 415 whose voice seemed to reach us after first traveling through an elevator shaft, did a reading from the
Journal of the Voyage of the Bea
gle
, then raised his colossal head and shouted, “The one-celled animals begat. . .”

“The multi-celled animals!” the congregation shouted back.

The pastor continued, “And the multi-celled animals begat . . .”

“The worms!” responded the congregation.

“And the worms begat . . .”

“The fishes!”

“And the fishes begat . . .”

“The lizards!”

“And the lizards begat . . .”

“The birds of the air and the beasts of the field!”

“And the beasts of the field begat . . .”

“The people!”

“And the people begat . . .”

“The androids!”

The pew nipped at my posterior. “What was in that letter, Marcus?” I asked, shifting.

“You'll find out.”

“You're going to get us in trouble,” I informed him.

 

14 J
ULY
2059

 

Rain, rain, go away. After breakfast—Mistress Vetch can make eggs and cheese interact in surprising and sensual ways—a drippy messenger arrived from the téléportation office bearing a wooden crate the size of a footlocker.

To the collective horror of the messenger and Vetch, Marcus ripped an endpaper from our copy of the
Origin
and, after scrawling a note, affixed the sacred sheaf to the crate, which he then ordered delivered to Dr. Polycarp's apartment.

“What's in the crate, Marcus?” I asked, expecting an answer no better than the one I got.

“Antidotes for illusion.”

 

16 J
ULY
2059

 

Faculty meeting. Marcus's crate was the first item on the agenda.

“We've been studying these artifacts carefully,” said Dr. Polycarp to my brother.

“Very carefully,” said Dr. Ignatius.

Polycarp reached inside the crate, whose exalted position in the center of the table suggested it might contain some priceless archaeological find—a crown perhaps, or a canopic jar. When he withdrew his hand, however, it held nothing more impressive than a stack of blueprints and a few holograms.

“You have put together a compelling case for your theory of special creation,” said Professor Hippolytus.

“A most compelling case,” Ignatius added.

Marcus smirked like Houdon's statue of Voltaire.

“However,” said Polycarp, “the case is not good enough.”

Voltaire glowered.

“For example,” explained Dean Tertullian, “while these holograms might indeed serve to shore up your theory, there is every reason to assume the android assembly line they depict did
itself
evolve through natural selection.”

Voltaire groaned.

“And while there are blueprints here for the Model 517, the Model 411, and the Model 973,” noted Professor Hippolytus, “we can find nothing for the 604 or the 729. I, as it happens, am a 729.” He slapped his chest, producing a brassy bong.

“In short,” said Ignatius, “the blueprint record contains gaps.”

“Big gaps,” said Polycarp.

“Damning
gaps,” said Tertullian.

“When all is said and done,” concluded Hippolytus, “natural selection remains a far more plausible explanation of our origins than does special creation.”

“We appreciate your efforts, however.” Polycarp curled his tubular fingers around my brother's shoulder. “Feel free to submit a reimbursement slip for your téléportation costs.”

Marcus looked as if he were about to give birth to something large and malevolent. “I don't understand you creatures,” he rasped.

A seraphic smile appeared on Polycarp's face, accompanied by chortles from the corner of his mouth. “Reading Darwin's word, I am overcome with gratitude for the miracle of chance that brought me into being. The
Origin
teaches that life is a brotherhood
of
species, linked by wondrous genetic strings.”

“You science missionaries propose to deny us that sacred heritage.” With unmitigated contempt Hippolytus tossed the Model 346 blueprint back into the crate. “You say we exist at the behest of Harvard University, dreamed up by a bunch of sociobiologists for reasons known only to themselves.”

“When we hear this,” said Tertullian, “we feel all purpose and worth slip from our souls like the husk of a molting insect.”

“No, no, you're wrong,” said Marcus. “To be a child of Harvard is a glorious condition—”

“We've got a lot to cover this afternoon,” said Hippolytus, whistling through his empty pipe.

My twin failed to stifle a sneer.

“Item two.” Polycarp placed a check mark on his agenda. “Improvements in the faculty massage parlor.”

 

17 J
ULY
2059

 

In the middle of our living room sits the crate, which I have nailed shut as if it were a coffin. We use it as a tea table.

Marcus broods constantly. Instead of talking to me, he quotes Herbert Spencer: “There is no infidelity to compare with the fear that the truth will be bad.”

 

18 J
ULY
2059

 

I hate this planet.

 

21 J
ULY
2059

 

Coming down to breakfast, I noticed that the top of the crate had been pried up. Most of the blueprints and holograms were missing.

In the afternoon I lectured on supergravity, but my mind wandered . . . to Room 329, Marcus's class. What was going on there? Spasms of fear ticked off the passing minutes. My students—even Miss Blandina—looked hostile, predatory, like a phalanx of cats creeping toward an aviary.

It was well past midnight when my twin stumbled into the cottage, a ragged smile wandering across his face. His arms clutched the evidence for special creation. Liquor sweetened his breath and seeped through his brain.

“I reached them!” he said, fighting to keep his words from melting together. Lovingly he returned the evidence to its crate. “They listened! Asked questions! Understood! Rationality is a miraculous thing, Piers!”

 

22 J
ULY
2059

 

My sweaty fingers suck at the computer keys . . .

The mob appeared at dawn, two dozen androids wearing black sheets and leather masks. Hauling Marcus from his bed, they dragged him kicking and cursing to the orchard. I begged them to take me instead. A rope appeared. The tree to which they attached him looked like the inverted talon of a gigantic vulture.

Mistress Vetch splashed gasoline across my little brother's shivering form. Someone struck a match. A hooded android with an empty magnesium pipe jutting from his mouth made the X-gesture and read aloud Public Act Volume 37, Statute Number 31428, in its entirety. Marcus began shouting about the blueprint record. As the flames enclosed him, his screams ripped through the darkness and into my spinal cord. I rushed forward through the smoke-borne stench, amid a noise suggestive of jackboots stomping on rotten fruit; such is the sound of exploding organs.

What remained after an hour—a bag of wet, fleshy rubble that would never become Archbishop of Geophysics—did not invite burial, merely disposal.

 

30 J
ULY
2059

 

The natural state of the universe is darkness.

 

3 A
UGUST
2059

 

I entered Advanced Truth several minutes late, my briefcase swinging at the end of my arm like the bob of a pendulum. The assembled students were hushed, respectful.

Mr. Valentinus leaned forward. Mr. Callistus looked curious. Miss Basilides seemed eager to learn.

If there's one thing I love, it's teaching.

I opened the briefcase, spread the contents across the desk. My bloodshot eyes sought out Miss Blandina. We exchanged smiles.

“Today,” I said, “we'll be looking at some blueprints . . .”

W
ELCOME TO
the Kristin Alcott Society. No, that is premature. Congratulations on your nomination to the Kristin Alcott Society. Naturally we hope that you intend to join us. In the event of doubt, this rare and forbidden document should prove salutary.

To the outside world, it is inexplicable that a man who hates water would sacrifice a week of his summer vacation attempting to swim, that a woman who detests contemporary music would pass the same vacation week listening to the entire oeuvre of the rock group Tinker's Damn, or that—my own case—a fifth-grade mathematics teacher with a creativity quotient barely equal to his body temperature would squander seven precious days of August sunshine throwing clay pots. But
you
know why we do these things. You know that we're not out to improve our minds, raise our consciousnesses, or any such glup. We have a covenant with Kristin Alcott, and we intend to keep it.

By recounting the fate of ex-Kristinite Wesley Ransom, I hope to make a difficult decision easier for you. I hope to demonstrate that for every precious privilege of membership in the Kristin Alcott Society, there is an equally precious responsibility.

That particular summer, I was the last to arrive for Kristin Week. Stepping out of my glider, I looked toward the bluff and its solitary house, which Kristin had named Wet Heaven. Gnawed by salt air, lashed by breeze and spray, Wet Heaven occupied an enviable location. Its backyard was a pine barrens. Its front yard was the Atlantic Ocean. My nostrils expanded, eager for the Cape Cod air. The tangy molecules buffered my throat. Waves rolled in, breaking against the rocks with thick hard whispers.