Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

So I explained why I was there, as best I could. As best I understood it myself. He listened and nodded and agreed that the decision was not an easy one. “I suspect,” he said, “that some of the protestors might take a different view if they were being offered a prolonged youth, instead of the next generation.” On the side away from the highway, the cemetery rose into low hills which in turn gave way to forest. He looked in that direction for a few moments. “Are you a Catholic?” he asked.

“I’m not even a believer, Father. Truth is, I don’t think there is a God.”

“I see.”

“I mean, if there really were somebody looking out for us, all these terrible things wouldn’t happen, would they?” I mentioned the accident I’d seen. And here was a young husband taken from his family. And every day the TV reported kids murdered by irritated boyfriends of the mother and sometimes by the mother herself. And all the tidal waves that were forever killing thousands in Bangladesh. And I threw in World War II and the Holocaust for good measure.

He turned his back to the wind. “So you’ve stumbled onto the great secret, have you?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Think you’ve got hold of something the rest of us have missed.”

“I don’t understand, Father.”

He folded his arms and looked at the sky. It was slate. “You’re probably right. There certainly doesn’t seem to be anyone out there taking care of us. But that’s really old news, isn’t it?”

I was aghast. “Father, are you telling me you don’t believe in God?”

He looked around to be sure we were alone. “I think His lack of engagement is self-evident, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand—.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t be saying this to you if you were a Catholic. As things are, though, I can’t see that it does any harm. It’s a relief, from time to time, to be able to tell someone what I really think.”

“But you’re a priest.”

He nodded and his eyes were bright with an emotion I couldn’t identify. “Whether He’s there or not, Mrs. Cumberland, people need God. And if you’re correct, I’m as close as many of them are ever going to come to finding Him.”

“Oh.”

We looked at one another for a long time, and he dropped his eyes like a kid caught stealing chocolate.

“So,” I said, “where would the Church stand in all this? With regard to Project Sunrise, I mean.”

“Oh, we’d be against it.”

“I see.”

“We’re always more or less against things. Safety lies in maintaining the status quo, you know.” His eyes sparkled and I realized he was enjoying himself.

“Seriously,” I asked, “what would you do if it were your decision?”

“That’s quite a different question.”

“And your answer—?”

“You’re talking about a body that stays young and healthy. What about the mind?”

“They tell me that the child would be quite stable.”

“But will its mind continue to accept new ideas? Will it be flexible at eighty? Or at two hundred?”

“I didn’t think to ask.”

“ Ask. It’s very important. I’d say this: if they can assure me that the child’s outlook would remain as young and energetic as its body, then I’d say yes without hesitation. Choose life .”

“You’re really certain, aren’t you?”

A frown worked its way into his eyes and he looked out toward the canopy, which was struggling against the wind. Cemetery workers had arrived and were preparing to lower the casket. “Mrs. Cumberland,” he said, “do you have any idea how many of these I’ve presided over? Or how many death beds I’ve visited? I’m tired of helping people leave this world. If there’s a way to bar the door, even temporarily, I’m for it.” And with that he touched his hat, told me he hoped he’d been of some help, wished me luck, and walked rapidly toward his car.

I was watching him drive away when I noticed a tall vaguely-familiar man in a dark suit studying a nearby tombstone. The method of the examination, the tilt of the body, the arms casually folded, the expression on the long face, told me his attention was really riveted elsewhere. When I started toward the Honda, his gaze followed me.

Plainfield.

He smiled, not unpleasantly. “Mrs. Marshall,” he said. “What a surprise to see you here.”

It was a bad moment. “I suspect the surprise is only on one side,” I said. I looked around to make sure the cemetery workers were within range.

He nodded and smiled. “You have found me out. I saw you at Biolab earlier this morning.”

And you followed me. My stomach began to churn.

“Please don’t be frightened,” he said. “I’m perfectly harmless. You can walk away any time you want, and you’ll never see me again. But I do wish you’d give me a minute.”

I started toward my car, which was parked about sixty yards away.

He made no move to follow.

So I stopped and turned back. “Mr. Plainfield,” I said, “I’m only one woman. Why bother me about this?”

“ Dr. Plainfield,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“ Dr. Plainfield. My specialty is evolutionary biology.”

I shrugged. “Why me?” I asked again.

“We have to start somewhere. Someone must make a stand. Why not you?”

“What can I do that you can’t?”

“You’ll have a forum,” he said. “You can tell them what they need to hear.” The good humor disappeared and I saw judgment in those eyes. “Have you any idea what would happen if everyone behaved as you’re proposing to do?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Have you made your decision?”

“What makes you think I was ever in doubt?”

“I’ve watched you for the last couple of hours. You are very much in doubt. May I ask why?”

I scrambled for a response. “They want too much—.” It was the wrong thing to say. It embarrassed me and I tried to call it back but once I’d started it was too late.

He appraised me and his eyes registered disapproval. “You’ve no philosophical position then, have you? Possibly a little later, when they run an end-of-year sale, you’ll be able to manage a better deal.”

“I think that’s uncalled for.”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re right.”

“Anyway, why do you need me to speak? You’re the expert. You tell them whatever the problem is.”

“They won’t listen to me. I’m just one more crank with a degree. But you . You’re in the position of having looked at their offer. You have much to gain. Yet you can see the dangers along that road. So you’ve turned back.

“Of course it does require you to turn back. The issue we need to put before the public, Mrs. Marshall, is quite simple: Sunrise is the end of human development. The end of progress. We are going to turn our world over to a few power brokers, those who know how to maintain and extend their influence. The only protection we’ve had against these kinds of people is the course of nature. In time they die , Mrs. Marshall. But that is going to stop. Now they will go on and on, accumulating wealth, oppressing those who are less ruthless, and there will be no end to their reigns. The flow of new human beings, of new ideas , will cease. Even art will die.

“Death, whether we like to admit it or not, serves a real purpose: it helps erase old hatreds, heal old wounds. It clears the board for progress. It gets rid of the debris. Imagine a world in which almost no one had been born since, say, the sixteenth century. And those people, the popes, Henry VIII, Philip of Spain, imagine they were all here, and still running things. That is the world you propose to create.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and glanced toward the cemetery workers. The coffin had now disappeared into the ground and they’d begun shovelling earth in on top of it.