Dark Benediction

by Walter M. Miller

  "Franklin's bound to find out anyway."

  "How?"

  "Do you imagine that Franklin would trust anybody?"

  "So?"

  "So, he's probably already got a list of all serial numbers from the District Anthropos Wholesalers. As a double check on us. And we'd better deliver."

  "I see. That leaves you in a pinch, doesn't it?"

  "Not if I do what I'm supposed to."

  "By whose law?"

  He tugged nervously at his collar, stared at the child-thing who was gazing at him fixedly. "Heh heh," he said weakly, waggled a finger at it, held out his hands invitingly. The child-thing inched away nervously.

  "Don't evade, Terry."

  "I wanna go home . . . I want Dadda."

  "I gotta think. Gotta have time to think."

  "Listen, Terry, you know what calling Franklin would be? It would be M, U, R, D, E, R."

  "She's just a newt."

  "She?"

  "Probably. Have to examine her to make sure."

  "Great. Intelligent, capable of reproduction. Just great."

  "Well, what they do with her after I'm finished with the normalcy tests is none of my affair."

  "It's not? Look at me, Terry . . . No, not with that patiently suffering. . . . Terry!"

  He stopped doing it and sat with his head in his hands, staring at the patterns in the rug, working his toes anxiously. "Think—gotta think."

  "While you're thinking, I'll feed the child," she said crisply. "Come on, Peony."

  "How'd you know her name?"

  "She told me, naturally."

  "Oh." He sat trying grimly to concentrate, but the house was infused with Anne-ness, and it influenced him. After a while, he got up and went out to the kennels where he could think objectively. But that was wrong too. The kennels were full of Franklin and the system he represented. Finally he went out into the back yard and lay on the cool grass to stare up at the twilight sky. The problem shaped up quite formidably. Either he turned her over to Franklin to be studied and ultimately destroyed, or he didn't. If he didn't, he was guilty of Delmont's crime. Either he lost Anne and maybe something of himself, or his job and maybe his freedom.

  A big silence filled the house during dinner. Only Peony spoke, demanding at irregular intervals to be taken home. Each time the child-thing spoke, Anne looked at him, and each time she looked at him, her eyes said "See?"—until finally he slammed down his fork and marched out to the porch to sulk in the gloom. He heard their voices faintly from the kitchen.

  "You've got a good appetite, Peony."

  "I like Dadda's cooking better."

  "Well, maybe mine'll do for awhile."

  "I wanna go home."

  "I know—but I think your dadda wants you to stay with us for awhile."

  "I don't want to."

  "Why don't you like it here?"

  "I want Dadda."

  "Well maybe we can call him on the phone, eh?"

  "Phone?"

  "After you get some sleep."

  The child-thing whimpered, began to cry. He heard Anne walking with it, murmuring softly. When he had heard as much as he could take, he trotted down the steps and went for a long walk in the night, stalking slowly along cracked sidewalks beneath overhanging trees, past houses and scattered lights of the suburbs. Suburbs hadn't changed much in a century, only grown more extensive. Some things underwent drastic revision with the passing years, other things—like walking sticks and garden hoes and carving knives and telephones and bicycles—stayed pretty much as they were. Why change something that worked well as it was? Why bother the established system?

  He eyed the lighted windows through the hedges as he wandered past. Fluorescent lights, not much different than those of a century ago. But once they had been campfires, the fires of shivering hunters in the forest, when man was young and the world was sparsely planted with his seed. Now the world was choked with his riotous growth, glittering with his lights and his flashing signs, full of the sound of his engines and the roar of his rockets. He had inherited it and filled it—filled it too full, perhaps.

  There was no escaping from the past. The last century had glutted the Earth with its children and grandchildren, had strained the Earth's capacity to feed, and the limit had been reached. It had to be guarded. There was no escape into space, either. Man's rockets had touched two planets, but they were sorry worlds, and even if he made them better, Earth could beget children—if allowed—faster than ships could haul them away. The only choice: increase the death rate, or decrease the birth rate—or, as a dismal third possibility—do nothing, and let Nature wield the scythe as she had once done in India and China. But letting-Nature-do-it was not in the nature of Man, for he could always do it better. If his choice robbed his wife of a biological need, then he would build her a disposable baby to pacify her. He would give it a tail and only half a mind, so that she would not confuse it with her own occasional children.

  Peony, however, was a grim mistake. The mistake had to be quickly corrected before anyone noticed.

  What was he, Norris, going to do about it, if anything? Defy the world? Outwit the world? The world was made in the shape of Franklin, and it snickered at him out of the shadows. He turned and walked back home.

  Anne was rocking on the porch with Peony in her arms when he came up the sidewalk. The small creature dozed fitfully, muttered in its sleep.

  "How old is she, Terry?" Anne asked.

  "About nine months, or about two years, depending on what you mean."

  "Born nine months ago?"

  "Mmmh. But two years by the development scale, human equivalent. Newts would be fully mature at nine or ten, if they didn't stop at an age-set. Fast maturation."

  "But she's brighter than most two year olds."

  "Maybe."

  "You've heard her talk."

  "You can't make degree-comparisons between two species, Anne. Not easily anyhow. 'Bright'?—signifying I.Q.?—by what yardstick."

  "Bright—signifying on-the-ball—by my yardstick. And if you turn her over to Franklin, I'll leave you."

  "Car coming," he grunted tonelessly. "Get in the house. It's slowing down."

  Anne slipped out of her chair and hurried inside. Norris lingered only a moment, then followed. The headlights paused in front of a house down the block, then inched ahead. He watched from deep in the hall.

  "Shall I take her out to the kennels right quick?" Anne called tensely.

  "Stick where you are," he muttered, and a moment later regretted it. The headlights stopped in front. The beam of a powerful flashlight played over the porch, found the house-number, winked out. The driver cut the engine. Norris strode to the living room.

  "Play bouncey!" he growled at Peony.

  "Don't want to," she grumbled back.

  "There's a man coming, and you'd better play bouncey if you ever want to see your Dadda again!" he hissed.

  Peony yeeped and backed away from him, whimpering. "Terry! What're you talking about? You should be ashamed!"

  "Shut up. . . . Peony, play bouncey."

  Peony chattered and leaped to the back of the sofa with monkey-like grace.

  "She's frightened! She's acting like a common newt!" "That's bouncey," he grunted. "That's good."

  The car door slammed. Norris went to put on the porch light and watch the visitor come up the steps—a husky, bald gentleman in a black suit and Roman collar. He blinked and shook his head. Clergyman? The fellow must have the wrong house.

  "Good evening."

  "Uh—yeah."

  "I'm Father Mulreany. Norris residence?" The priest had a slight brogue; it stirred a vague hunch in Norris' mind, but failed to clear it.

  "I'm Norris. What's up?"

  "Uh, well, one of my parishioners—I think you've met him—"

  "Countryman of yours?"

  "Mmm."

  "O'Reilley?"

  "Yes."

  "What'd he do, hang himself?"

  "Nothing that bad.
May I come in?"

  "I doubt it. What do you want?"

  "Information."

  "Personal or official?"

  The priest paused, studied Norris's silhouette through the screen. He seemed not taken aback by the inspector's brusqueness, perhaps accepting it as normal in an era that had little regard for the cloth.

  "O'Reilley's in bad shape, Inspector," Mulreany said quietly. "I don't know whether to call a doctor, a psychiatrist, or a cop." Norris stiffened. "A cop?"

  "May I come in?"

  Norris hesitated, feeling a vague hostility, and a less vague suspicion. He opened the screen, let the priest in, led him to the living room. Anne muttered half-politely, excused herself, snatched Peony, and headed for the rear of the house. The priest's eyes followed the neutroid intently.

  "So O'Reilley did something?"

  "Mmm."

  "What's it to you?"

  Mulreany frowned. "In addition to things you wouldn't understand—he was my sister's husband."

  Norris waved him into a chair. "Okay, so—?"

  "He called me tonight. He was loaded. Just a senseless babble, but I knew something was wrong. So I went over to the shop." Mulreany stopped to light a cigaret and frown at the floor. He looked up suddenly. "You see him today?"

  Norris could think of no reason not to admit it. He nodded irritably.

  Mulreany leaned forward curiously. "Was he sober?"

  "Yeah."

  "Sane?"

  "How should I know?"

  "Did he impress you as the sort of man who would suddenly decide to take a joint of pipe and a meat cleaver and mass-slaughter about sixty helpless animals?"

  Norris felt slightly dazed. He sank back, shaking his head and blinking. There was a long silence. Mulreany was watching him carefully.

  "I can't help you," Norris muttered. "I've got nothing to say." "Look, Inspector, forget this, will you?" He touched his collar. Norris shook his head, managed a sour smile. "I can't help you."

  "All right," Mulreany sighed, starting to his feet. "I'm just trying to find out if what he says . . ."

  "Men talking about Dadda?" came a piping voice from the kitchen.

  Mulreany shot a quick glance toward it. ". . . is true," he finished softly.

  There was a sudden hush. He could hear Anne whispering in the kitchen, saw her steal a glance through the door. "So it is true," Mulreany murmured.

  Face frozen, Norris came to his feet. "Anne," he called in a bitter voice. "Bouncey's off."

  She came in carrying Peony and looking murderous. "Why did you ask him in?" she demanded in a hiss.

  Mulreany stared at the small creature. Anne stared at the priest.

  "It's poison to you, isn't it!" she snapped, then held Peony up toward him. "Here! Look at your enemy. Offends your humanocentrism, doesn't she?"

  "Not at all," he said rather wistfully.

  "You condemn them."

  He shook his head. "Not them. Only what they're used for by society." He looked at Norris, a bit puzzled. "I'd better leave."

  "Maybe not. Better spill it. What do you want?"

  "I told you. O'Reilley went berserk, made a butcher shop out of his place. When I got there, he was babbling about a talking neutroid—'his baby'—said you took it to the pound to destroy it. Threatened to kill you. I got a friend to stay with him, came over to see if I could find out what it's all about."

  "The newt's a deviant. You've heard of the Delmont case?"

  "Rumors."

  "She's it."

  "I see." Mulreany looked glum, grim, gloomy. "Nothing more I need to know I guess. Well—"

  Norris grabbed his arm as he turned. "Sit a spell," he grunted ominously.

  The priest looked puzzled, let himself be guided back to the chair. Norris stood looking down at him.

  "What's the matter with Dadda?" Peony chirped. "I wanna go see Dadda."

  "Well?" Norris growled. "What about her?"

  "I don't understand."

  "You people are down on Anthropos, aren't you?"

  Mulreany kept patience with an effort. "To make nitroglycerin for curing heart trouble is good, to make it for blowing open safes is bad. The stuff itself is morally neutral. The same goes for mutant animals. As pets, okay; as replacements for humans, no."

  "Yeah, but you'd just as soon see them dead, eh?"

  Mulreany hesitated. "I admit a personal dislike for them."

  "This one?"

  "What about her?"

  "Better dead, eh?"

  "You couldn't admit she might be human?"

  "Don't know her that well. Human? How do you mean—biologically? Obviously not. Theologically? Why should you care?"

  "I'm interested in your particular attitude, buster."

  Mulreany gazed at him, gathering a glower. "I'm a little doubtful about my status here," he growled. "I came for information; the roles got switched somewhere. Okay, Norris, but I'm sick of neo-pagan innocents like you. Now sit down, or show me the door."

  Norris sat down slowly.

  The priest watched the small neutroid for a moment before speaking. "She's alive, performs the function of living, is evidently aware. Life—a kind of functioning. A specific life—an in-variant kind of functioning—with sameness-of-self about it. Invariance of functioning—a principle. Self, soul, call it what you like. Whatever's alive has it." He paused to watch Norris doubtfully.

  Norris nodded curtly. "Go on."

  "Doesn't have to be anything immortal about it. Not unless she were known to be human. Or intelligent."

  "You heard her," Anne snapped.

  "I've heard metal boxes speak with great wisdom," Mulreany said sourly. "And if I were a Hottentot, a vocalizing computer would . . ."

  "Skip the analogies. Go on."

  "What's intelligence? A function of Man, immortal. What's Man? An intelligent immortal creature, capable of choice."

  "Quit talking in circles."

  "That's the point. I can't—not where Peony's concerned. What do you want to know? If I think she's equal to Man? Give me all the intelligence test results, and all the data you can get—I still couldn't decide."

  "Whattaya need? Mystic writings in the sky?"

  "Precisely."

  "I feel a bush being beat about," Anne said suddenly. "Is this guy going to make things tough, or isn't he?"

  Mulreany looked puzzled again.

  "To the point, then," Norris said. "Would you applaud if she gets the gasser?"

  "Hardly."

  "If you had it to decide for yourself—"

  "What? Whether to destroy her or not?" Mulreany snorted irritably. "Not if there was the least doubt in my mind about her. She's a shadow in the brush. Maybe it's ten to one that the shadow's a bear and not a man—but on the one chance, don't shoot, son, don't shoot."

  "You think the authorities have a right to kill her, maybe?" Anne asked.

  "Who, him?" Mulreany jerked his head toward Norris.

  "Well, say him."

  "I'd have to think about it. But I don't think so."

  "Why? The government made her. Why can't it un-make her?"

  "Made her? Did it now?"

  "Delmont did," Norris corrected.

  "Did he now?" said Mulreany.

  "Why not?" Anne snorted.

  "I, the State, am Big Fertility," Norris said sourly; then baiting

  Mulreany: "Thou shalt accept no phallus but the evolvotron." Mulreany reddened, slapped his knee, and chortled. The Norrises exchanged puzzled glances.

  "I feel an affinity," Anne murmured suspiciously.

  Norris came slowly to his feet. "If you talk to anybody about Peony, you may be responsible for her death."

  "I don't quite see—"

  "You don't need to."

  Mulreany shrugged.

  "Tell O'Reilley the same."

  Mulreany nodded. "You've got my word."

  "Your which?"

  "Sorry, I forgot. Ancient usage. I won't mention Peony. I'll see that O'Reilley
doesn't."

  Norris led him to the door. The priest was obviously suppressing large quantities of curiosity, but contained it well. On the steps, he paused to look back, wearing a curious smirk.

  "It just occurred to me—if the child is 'human' in the broad sense, she's rather superior to you and I."

  "Why?"

  "Hasn't picked an apple yet."Norris shrugged slightly.

  "And Inspector—if Delmonte made her—ask yourself: Just what was it that he 'made'?" He nodded quickly. "Goodnight."

  "What do you make of him?" Anne hissed nervously.

  "Backworldsman. Can't say."

  "Fool, why'd you bring him in?"

  "I'm no good at conspiracies."

  "Then you will do it?"

  "What?"

  "Hide her, or something."

  He stared at her doubtfully. "The only thing I can hope to do is falsify the test reports and send her back to O'Reilley as a standard model."

  "That's better than nothing."

  "And then spend the rest of our days waiting for it to be uncovered," he added grimly.

  "You've got to, Terry."

  Maybe, he thought, maybe.

  If he gave her back to O'Reilley, there was a good chance she'd be discovered when the auditor came to microfilm the records and check inventory. He certainly couldn't keep her himself —not with other Bio-agents wandering in and out every few days. She could not be hidden.

  He sat down for a smoke and watched Anne tiptoe to the sofa with the sleeping Peony. It would be easy to obey the law, turn her over to Franklin, and tell Anne that he had done something else with her, something like ...

  He shuddered and chopped the thought off short. She glanced at him curiously.

  "I don't like the way you're looking at me," she muttered. "You imagine things."

  "Uh-uh. Listen to me, Terry, if you let that baby . . ."

  "I'm sick of your ifs!" he barked. "If I hear another goddam threat of your leaving if, then to hell with it, you can leave any time!"

  "Terry!"

  She puzzled in his direction for a moment, then slowly wandered out, still puzzling. He sank lower in the chair, brooding. Then it hit him. It wasn't Anne that worried him; it was a piece of himself. It was a piece of himself that threatened to go, and if he let Peony be packed off to Central Lab, it would go, and thereafter he would not be able to stomach anything, even himself.