Robert Sawyer - Calculating God

“Good God. Why?”

“They have not made that clear, but I suspect they are being — what is that word again? Ironic. If we are willing to destroy those who have been, or might be, a threat to ourselves, then we are no better than the Groombridge natives.” Hollus paused. “But I did not mean to burden you with this. You wanted something from me?”

“Well, next to what you’ve just said, it seems pretty small potatoes.”

“Small potatoes?”

“Inconsequential. But, well, I’d like to talk to a Wreed. I’ve got a moral quandary, and I can’t solve it.”

Hollus’s crystal-covered eyes regarded me. “About whether you will come with us to Betelgeuse?”

I nodded.

“Our friend T’kna is currently involved with his daily attempt to contact God, but he should be available in about an hour. If you can take the holoform projector to a larger room then, I will ask him to join us.”

Others, of course, had reached the same conclusion I had: what Donald Chen had neutrally referred to as an “anomaly,” and Peter Mansbridge had discreetly dismissed as simple “luck,” was being heralded as proof of divine intervention by people all over the world. And of course those people put their own spin on it: what I’d called a smoking gun many were referring to as a miracle.

Still, that was a minority opinion: most people knew nothing about supernovae, and many, including a large contingent in the Muslim world, didn’t trust the images supposedly produced by the Merelcas’s telescopes. Others claimed that what we’d seen was the devil’s work: a fiery glimpse of hell, and then an all-encompassing darkness; some Satanists were now claiming vindication.

Meanwhile, Christian fundamentalists were scouring the Bible, looking for bits of scripture that could be bent to this occasion. Others were invoking predictions by Nostradamus. A Jewish mathematician at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem pointed out that the six-limbed entity was topologically equivalent to a six-pointed Star of David and suggested that what had been seen heralded the arrival of the Messiah. An organization called the Church of Betelgeuse had already set up an elaborate web site. And every bit of pseudoscientific crap about ancient Egyptians and Orion — the constellation in which the supernova happened to have occurred — was being given sensationalist play in the media.

But all that those other people could do was guess.

I had an opportunity to go and see — to find out for sure.

We were back in the conference room on the fifth floor of the Curatorial Centre, but there were no video cameras present this time. It was just me and a tiny alien dodecahedron — and the projections of two extraterrestrial beings.

Hollus stood quietly at one side of the room. T’kna was standing at the other side, the conference table between them. T’kna’s utility belt was green today, rather than yellow, but it still sported the same galaxy-of-blood icon.

“Greetings,” I said, once the Wreed’s projection had stabilized.

The sound of tumbling rocks, then the mechanical voice: “Greetings reciprocated. Of this one you desire something?”

I nodded. “Advice,” I said, tipping my head slightly. “Your counsel.”

The Wreed was motionless, listening.

“Hollus told you I have terminal cancer,” I said.

T’kna touched his belt buckle. “Sorrow expressed again.”

“Thanks. But, look, you guys have offered me a chance to go with you to Betelgeuse to meet whatever is out there.”

A pebble hitting the ground. “Yes.”

“I will be dead soon. I’m not certain precisely when, but — but surely within a couple of months. Now, should I spend those last few months with my family, or should I go with you? On the one hand, my family wants every minute they can have with me — and, well, I guess I understand that being with me when I . . . when I pass on is part of bringing closure to our relationships. And, of course, I love them greatly, and wish to be with them. But, on the other hand, my condition will deteriorate, becoming an increasing burden on them.” I paused. “If we lived in the States, maybe there would be a monetary issue — the last few weeks of one’s life, spent in a hospital, can run up enormous bills down there. But here, in Canada, that doesn’t figure into the equation; the only factors are the emotional toll, on me and on my family.”

I was conscious that I was expressing my problem in mathematical terms — factors, equations, monetary issues but that’s the way the words had come tumbling out, without any preplanning by me. I hoped I wasn’t completely baffling the Wreed.

“And of me you ask which choice you should make?” said the translator’s voice.

“Yes,” I said.

There was the sound of rocks grinding, followed by a brief silence, and then: “The moral choice is obvious,” said the Wreed. “It always is.”

“And?” I said. “What is the moral choice?”

More sounds of rocks, then: “Morality cannot be handed down from an external source.” And here all four of the Wreed’s hands touched the inverted pear that was its chest. “It must come from within.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

The Wreed wavered and vanished.

That night, while Ricky watched TV in the basement, Susan and I sat again on the couch.

And I told her what I’d decided.

“I’ll always love you,” I said to Susan.

She closed her eyes. “And I will always love you, too.”

No wonder I liked Casablanca so much. Would Ilsa Lund go with Victor Laszlo? Or would she stay with Rick Blaine? Would she follow her husband? Or would she follow her heart?

And were there things bigger than her? Bigger than Rick? Bigger than both of them? Were there other factors to consider, other terms in the equation?

But — let’s be honest — was there anything bigger involved in my case? Sure, God might be at the heart of the matter — but if I went, it wouldn’t change anything, I’m sure . . . whereas Victor’s continued resistance to the Nazis helped save the world.

Still, I’d made my decision.

As difficult as it was, I’d made my decision.

But I’d never know if it was the right one.

I leaned over and kissed Susan, kissed her as if it were the last time.

“Hi, sport,” I said as I came into Ricky’s room.

Ricky was sitting at his desk, which had a world map laminated into its surface. He was drawing something with pencil crayons, his tongue sticking out and up from the corner of his mouth in the quintessential childhood look of concentration. “Dad,” he said, acknowledging me.

I looked around. The room was messy but not a disaster. Some dirty clothes were on the floor; I usually remonstrated him for that, but would not do so today. He had several small plastic dinosaur skeletons that I’d bought for him, and a talking Qui-Gon Jinn action figure he’d received for Christmas. And books, lots of children’s books: our Ricky was going to grow up to be a reader.

“Son,” I said, and I waited patiently for him to give me his full attention. He was completing one of the elements of his drawing — it looked like an airplane. I let him do so; I knew how gnawing unfinished business could be. At last he looked up, seeming surprised that I was still there. He lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

“Son,” I said again, “you know Daddy’s been awfully sick.”

Ricky put down his pencil crayon, realizing we were moving onto serious ground. He nodded.

“And,” I said, “well, I think you know that I’m not going to get better.”

He pursed his lips and nodded bravely. My heart was breaking.

“I’m going to go away,” I said. “I’m going to go away with Hollus.”