Clifford Simak - A Choice of Gods

"What's wrong?" asked Evening Star.

"There is something suffering," he said. "Can't you feel the suffering? It's just there ahead of us."

"You can't feel suffering," she said.

He moved ahead slowly and the silence held and there the creature was—a terrible can of worms crouched against the nest of boulders that lay beneath the arching birch. But he did not see- the can of worms, he only heard the cry of need and something turned over in his mind and for a moment he held the need within his mental grip.

Evening Star recoiled and came up against the tough bark of an oak that stood beside the path. The can of worms kept changing, exactly as a can of worms would change, all the worms crawling over one another in the seething ferment of some nameless, senseless urge. And out of that seething mass came a cry of gladness and relief—a cry of gladness and relief that had no sound at all, and a cry that somehow was intertwined with a sense of compassion and of power that had nothing to do with the can of worms. And over all of this was spread, like a mantle of hope and understanding, what the great white oak had said, or tried to say, or failed to say, and within her mind the universe opened up like a flower awakened by the rising sun. For an instant she sensed and knew (not saw or heard or understood, for it all was beyond simple sight or understanding) the universe to its very core and out to its farthest edges—the mechanism of it and the purpose of its existence and the place that was held in it by everything that held the touch of life.

Only for an instant, a fractional second of realizing, of knowing, and then unknowing, then she was back again within herself, an incomplete, insignificant life form that crouched against the tree, feeling the rough bark of the massive oak against her shoulders and her back, with David Hunt standing in the path beside her and in the glen a squirming can of worms that seemed to shine with a holy light, so bright and glittering that it was beautiful as no can of worms could ever be, and crying over and over inside her brain, with a meaning in the cry she could not comprehend.

"David," she cried, "what have we done? What happened?"

For there had been a great happening, she knew, or perhaps great happenings and she was confused, although in the confusion there was something that was at once a happiness and wonder. She crouched against the tree and the universe seemed to lean down above her and she felt hands fastening upon her and lifting her and she was in David's arms, clinging to him as she had never clung to anyone before, glad that he was there in what she sensed must be the great moment of her life, secure within the strength of his lean, hard body.

"You and I," he was saying. "You and I together. Between the two of us…"

His voice faltered and she knew that he was frightened and she put her arms about him and held him with ail the comfort that she had.

They waited on the riverbank, with the canoes drawn up on the rocky beach. Some of the canoe-men were squatted about a tiny driftwood fire, broiling fish that they had caught, others were sitting about and talking, one of them lay fast asleep upon the river pebbles—which seemed to Jason, watching the sleeper, to be a most unsatisfactory bed.

The river was smaller here, much smaller than it was at the old camp from which they had started out. It was in a hurry here, its waters, sparkling in the sun of late afternoon, running between high bluffs that rose on either side, the stream sliding down an imperceptible chute.

Behind them rose the great flared structure of the Project, a black thin scroll of metal that seemed at once massive from its very size and yet so fragile that one wondered it did not flutter in the breeze.

"Did the same thought cross your mind," John asked Jason, "as occurred to me?"

"You mean whatever it might be the Project was talking with?"

"That's it," said John. "Do you think that it is possible? Could a superrobot, or a vastly sophisticated computer, or whatever that thing is up there, get in contact with the Principle?"

"It may only be listening to it, be aware of it, perhaps extracting some information from it. It may not actually be talking with it."

"It does not have to be the Principle," said John. "It could be another race or other races. We have found a few of them and of these there are very few with whom we can communicate because we have no common ground for understanding. But a biological-mechanical contraption, such as that up there, might make ground for understanding. It may have a mind, if what it has can be called a mind, that is more flexible than ours. There is no question that it is the equal of mankind in its background for understanding. For hundreds of years the robots have pumped into its memory cores as much of human knowledge as they have been able to lay their hands upon. It probably is the best educated entity that has ever existed on the Earth. It has the equivalent of several hundred university or college educations. The sheer impact of the knowledge—all of which it would keep intact, not being subject to the forgetfulness of human beings—might have given it a broader outlook than any man has yet achieved."

"Whatever it is talking with," said Jason, "it is one up on us. There are very few intelligences out there with which we have been able to set up any kind of communication, let alone a meaningful communication. And the communication this superrobot has set up, I gather, is very meaningful."

"Perhaps meaningful for two reasons," said John. "First, it might be able to decipher the symbols of the language…"

"The function of a good computer," Jason pointed out.

"And, secondly, a good computer might have, not only a better and a different understanding, but a wider understanding. It might have a wider spectrum of understanding than is possible in a human. Our failure to achieve communication is due, in many instances, to our inability to comprehend a way of thought and a schedule of values different from our own."

"It is taking a long time," said Red Cloud. "Do you think that monstrosity up there is having trouble making up its mind? Although I'm inclined to think it makes no difference what it says. I am doubtful it could be of help."

"It is not a monstrosity, sir," said Hezekiah. "It is a logical construction for such as I to make, although I must hasten to say that such as I would never make it. Logical though it may be, it is an abomination built of sinful pride. But even so, I am certain that if it so decides, it can be of help. For, logically built, it would deal in logic…"

"We'll soon know," said Jason, "for Stanley is coming down the path."

They got to their feet and waited for the glittering robot. He came down off the path and across the beach to stand in front of them. He looked from one to another of them. "For you," he finally said, "the news is bad."

"You won't help us, then," said Jason.

"I am truly sorry," the robot said. "My personal inclination would be to cooperate with you in any way we could. But we built the Project as another one of us, as a greater one of us—perhaps I should say," nodding to Horace Red Cloud, "as the chief of us and in consequence must go along with the Project's judgment. For what is the sense of creating a chief if you do not trust and follow him?"

"But on what basis was the judgment made?" Jason asked. "That you do not trust us, perhaps. Or that the problem, in your opinion, is somewhat less a problem than we had stated it?"

Stanley shook his head. "Neither of those," he said.

"You realize, of course, that if the People come they can take you over. And the Project, too."

Hezekiah said, "Surely you owe these gentlemen the courtesy..»

"You keep out of this," said Stanley, speaking sharply.