Robert Silverberg - Tower of Glass

At all times two or three off-duty androids lounged in front of that dome, seemingly idle, actually functioning as casual sentries who would prevent any womb-born one from entering. Sometimes journalists or guests of Krug came wandering this way, and the sentries had various deft techniques for leading them away from the chapel without actually provoking the forbidden clash of wills between android and human. The chapel was not open to anyone born of man and woman. Its very existence was unknown to any but androids.

Thor Watchman reached it just as the stretcher-bearers were setting Caliban Driller down before the altar. Going in, he made the proper genuflection, dropping quickly to one knee and extending his arms, palms upward. The altar, resting in a purple bath of nutrient fluids, was a pink rectangular block of flesh that had been synthesized precisely as androids themselves were synthesized. Though alive, it was scarcely sentient, nor was it capable of sustaining its life unaided; it was fed from beneath by constant injections of metabolase that permitted it to survive. To the rear of the altar was a full-sized hologram of Simeon Krug, facing forward. The walls of the chapel were decorated with the triplets of the RNA genetic code, inscribed in infinite reproduction from floor to summit:

AAA AAG AAC AAU

AGA AGG AGC AGU

ACA ACG ACC ACU

AUA AUG AUC AUU

GAA GAG GAC GAU

GGA GGG GGC GGU

GCA GCG GCC GCU

GUA GUG GUC GUU

CAA CAG CAC CAU

CGA CGG CGC CGU

CCA CCG CCC CCU

CUA CUG CUC CUU

UAA UAG UAC UAU

UGA UGG UGC UGU

UCA UCG UCC UCU

UUA UUG UUC UUU

“Put him on the altar,” Watchman said. “Then go out.”

The stretcher-bearers obeyed. When he was alone with the dying beta, Watchman said, “I am a Preserver and I am qualified to be your guide on your journey to Krug. Repeat after me as clearly as you can: Krug brings us into the world and to Krug we return.”

“Krug brings us into the world and to Krug we return.”

“Krug is our Creator and our Protector and our Deliverer.”

“Krug is our Creator and our Protector and our Deliverer.”

“Krug, we beseech Thee to lead us toward the light.”

“Krug, we beseech Thee to lead us toward the light.”

“And to lift the Children of the Vat to the level of the Children of the Womb.”

“And to lift the Children of the Vat to the level of the Children of the Womb.”

“And to lead us to our rightful place—”

“And to lead us to our rightful place—”

“—beside our brothers and sisters of the flesh.”

“—beside our brothers and sisters of the flesh.”

“Krug our Maker, Krug our Preserver, Krug our Master, receive me back into the Vat.”

“Krug our Maker, Krug our Preserver, Krug our Master, receive me back into the Vat.”

“And grant redemption to those who come after me—”

“And grant redemption to those who come after me—”

“In that day when Womb and Vat and Vat and Womb are one.”

“In that day when Womb and Vat and Vat and Womb are one.”

“Praise be to Krug.”

“Praise be to Krug.”

“Glory be to Krug.”

“Glory be to Krug.”

“AAAAAGAACAAU be to Krug.”

“AAAAAGAACAAU be to Krug.”

“AGAAGGAGCAGU be to Krug.”

“AGAAGGAGC—” Caliban Driller faltered. “The chill is in my breast,” he murmured. “I can’t — I can’t—”

“Finish the sequence. Krug awaits you.”

“—AGU be to Krug.”

“ACAACGACCACU be to Krug.”

The beta’s fingertips dug into the yielding flesh of the altar. The tone of his skin had deepened in the past few minutes from crimson to something close to violet. His eyeballs rolled. His lips curled back.

“Krug awaits you,” Watchman said fiercely. “Do the sequence!”

“Can’t — speak — can’t — breathe—”

“Listen to me, then. Just listen. Make the codons in your mind as I say them. AUAAUGAUCAUU be to Krug. GAAGAGGACGAU be to Krug. GGAGGG—”

Desperately Watchman went down the rows of the genetic ritual as he knelt next to the altar. With each group of codons he rotated his body in the prescribed double helix, the proper motion for the last rites. Caliban Driller’s life ebbed swiftly. Toward the end, Watchman pulled a tie-line from his tunic, jacked one end into the input in his forearm and the other into Driller’s, and pumped energy into the shattered beta to keep him going until all the RNA triplets had been named. Then, only then, when he was certain that he had sent Caliban Driller’s soul to Krug, did Watchman unjack, arise, murmur a brief prayer on his own behalf, and summon a team of gammas to haul the body away for disposal.

Tense, drained, yet jubilant over the redemption of Caliban Driller, he left the chapel and headed back toward the control center. Halfway there his way was blocked by a figure of his own height — another alpha. That seemed strange. Watchman’s shift would not be over for some hours yet; when it was, the alpha Euclid planner was scheduled to arrive and relieve him. But this alpha was not Planner. He was altogether unfamiliar to Watchman.

The stranger said, “Watchman, may I have some time? I am Siegfried Fileclerk of the Android Equality Party. Of course you know of the constitutional amendment that we propose to have our friends introduce in the next Congress. It has been suggested that in view of your close association with Simeon Krug, you might be helpful to us in our desire to gain access to Krug for the purpose of obtaining his endorsement for—”

Watchman cut in, “Surely you must be familiar with my position concerning involvements in political matters.”

“Yes, but at this time the cause of android equality—”

“Can be served in many ways. I have no wish to exploit my connection with Krug for political purposes.”

“The constitutional amendment—”

“Pointless. Pointless. Friend Fileclerk, do you see that building yonder? It is our chapel. I recommend you visit it and cleanse your soul of false virtues.”

“I am not in communion with your church,” said Siegfried Fileclerk.

“And I am not a member of your political party,” Thor Watchman said. “Excuse me. I have responsibilities in the control center.”

“Perhaps I could speak with you when your shift has ended.”

“You would then be intruding upon my time of resting,” Watchman said.

He walked briskly away. It was necessary for him to employ one of the neural rituals of tranquillity to ease the anger and irritation surging within him.

Android Equality Party, he thought disdainfully. Fools! Bunglers! Idiots!

Manuel Krug had had a busy day. 0800, California . Awakening, at his home on the Mendocino coast. The turbulent Pacific almost at his front door; a thousand-hectare redwood forest as his garden; Clissa beside him in bed, cat-soft, cat-shy. His mind fogged from last night’s Spectrum Group party in Taiwan, where he had let himself drink too much of Nick Ssu-ma’s millet-and-ginger liqueur. His beta houseman’s image on the floating screen, urgently whispering, “Sir, sir, please get up. Your father expects you at the tower.” Clissa cuddling closer against him. Manuel blinking, struggling to cut through the web of fleece swaddling his brain. “Sir? Pardon, but you left irrevocable instructions that you were to be awakened!” A forty-cycle note rumbling out of the floor; a fifteen-megacycle cone of sound slicing down out of the ceiling; himself impaled between the two, unable to escape back into sleep. Crescendo. Wakefulness, reluctant, grudging. Then a surprise: Clissa stirring, trembling, taking his hand, putting it over one of her little cool breasts. His fingertips converging on the nipple and finding it still soft. As expected. A bold overture from the child-woman, but flesh weak if spirit willing. They had been married two years; despite all his earnest and skillful efforts, he had not succeeded yet in fully arousing her senses. “Manuel—” she whispered. “Manuel — touch me all over — !”