"The Anarch," Giacometti said, "was illegally dug up before returning to life. The Flask of Hermes Vitarium committed a crime. Under civil law, the Flask of Hermes Vitarium does not in fact own the Anarch. Johnson versus Scruggs, the California Supreme Court, last year."
"Then who does own the Anarch?" the robot asked, puzzled. "You claimed," Giacometti said, and his eyes kindled, "that this is not a juridical matter but a spiritual one."
"Of course it's juridical! We need to establish legal ownership before either of us can buy."
"Then you concede," Giacometti said quietly, "that Scott versus Tyler is the precedent for this transaction."
The robot was silent. And then, when it resumed, there was a subtle but real difference in its voice. A deepening into greater power. His Mightiness Mr. Roberts, Sebastian decided, was now operating it; Carl Gantrix had been snared by the argument of the Rome party and hence had been retired. "If the Flask of Hermes Vitarium does not own the old-born Anarch Peak," it declared, "then according to law the Anarch is ownerless, and holds the same legal status as an old-born who, as occasionally happens, manages to open his own coffin, claw the dirt aside, and exhume himself without external aid. He is then considered the proprietor of himself, and his own opinion as to his disposition is the sole factor obtaining. So we Uditi still maintain that as an ownerless old-born the Anarch alone can legally sell himself, and we are now waiting for his decision."
"Are you certain you dug up the Anarch too soon?" Giacometti asked Sebastian, cautiously. "Do you actually stipulate that you acted illegally? It would mean a severe fine. I advise you to deny it. If you so stipulate, we'll refer this to the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office."
Sebastian said woodenly, "I--deny we dug up the Anarch prematurely. There's no proof that we did." He was positive of that; only his own crew had been involved, and they wouldn't testify.
"The real issue," the robot said, "is spiritual; we must determine and agree on the precise moment at which the soul enters the corpse in the ground. Is it the moment when it is dug up? When its voice is first heard from below, asking for aid? When the first heart beat is recorded? When all brain tissue has formed? In the opinion of Udi the soul enters the corpse when there has been total tissue regeneration, which would be just prior to the first heart action." To Sebastian he said, "Before you dug the Anarch up, sir, did you detect heart action?"
"Yes," Sebastian said. "Irregular. But it was there."
"Then when the Anarch was dug up," the robot said triumphantly, "he was a person, having a soul; hence--"
The vidphone rang.
"Goodbye," Sebastian said into the receiver.
This time Bob Lindy's leathery, tense features formed. "They got him," he said. He ran his fingers shakily through his hair. "Library agents. So that's that."
"You can end your theological argument," Sebastian said to the robot and Giacometti.
It was unnecessary; the argument had already ended.
The living room of his conapt, for the first time in quite a while, was silent.
13
Man is an animal, that is his genus, but man is a species, reasoning, that is the difference, capable of laughter, that is his property.
--Boethius
In the small hotel room, Officer Joe Tinbane lounged in such a fashion that he could see outside. In case anyone showed up. His wife Bethel, Sebastian Hermes, Library commandos--he had to be ready for any and all of them. No combination would have surprised him.
Meanwhile, he read the latest edition of the most lurid 'pape in North America, the Chicago _Monday-Herald_.
DRUNKEN FATHER EATS OWN BABY
"You never know how life is going to work out for you," he said to Lotta. "When you're either new-born or old-born--I'll bet this guy never expected he'd wind up this way, a headline in the _Monday-Herald_."
"I don't see how you can read that," Lotta said nervously; she sat combing her long dark hair, on a chair on the far side of the room.
"Well, as a peace officer I see a lot of this. Not exactly this bad--this one, where this father eats his own baby, is rare." He turned the page, inspected the headline on page two.
CALIFORNIA LIBRARY KILLS AND KIDNAPS:
A LAW UNTO ITSELF, SAFE FROM REPRISAL
"My god," Tinbane said. "This could be about us; here's an article on the People's Topical Library. About it doing what they tried with you--holding you hostage." He read the article, interested.
How many Los Angeles citizens have disappeared behind the grim gray walls of this forbidding structure? Public authorities make no official estimate, but privately, guesses are running as high as three unexplained disappearances each month. The motives of the Library are not well-understood and are believed to be complex. A desire to erad in advance writings which.
"I don't believe it," Tinbane said. "They couldn't get away with it. Take my case, for instance; if anything happened to me my boss George Gore would spring me. Or, if I was dead, he'd pay them back." Thinking about Gore he remembered that Ray Roberts was due any minute now; Gore was probably trying to get hold of him for the special bodyguard detail. "I better call in," he said to Lotta. "I forgot about all that."
Using the motel apartment's vidphone he called Gore.
"A message came in for you," the police switchboard operator told him, when he identified himself. "Anonymous. Library agents are out after you, he states. Does this mean anything to you?"
"Hell yes," Tinbane said. To Lotta he said, "Library agents are searching for us." To the police operator he said, "Let me talk to Mr. Gore."
"Mr. Gore is at the Los Angeles airport, supervising security precautions for Ray Roberts," the operator said.
"Tell Mr. Gore when he comes back that if anything happens to me," Tinbane said, "it was the Library that did it, and if I'm missing to look for me in the Library. And especially if I'm dead, they did it." He rang off, feeling depressed.
"Do you think they can find us here?" Lotta asked.
"No," he said. He pondered awhile, and then he rooted through the drawers of the motel room's dresser until he found the vidphone book; he leafed through it glumly until at last he found Douglas Appleford's home phone number; several times he had called it in the past, and had usually found Appleford in.
He called that number now.
"Goodbye," Appleford said presently, appearing on the screen.
"Sorry to bother you at home," Tinbane said, "but I need your immediate personal help. Can you get hold of your superior, Mrs. McGuire?"
"Possibly," Appleford said. "In an emergency."
"I consider this an emergency," Tinbane said. He explained the situation, as he knew it, to the librarian. "See?" he said in conclusion. "I'm really in a difficult spot; they really have reason to be hostile to me. If they do show up here where I am, somebody's going to get killed; probably them. I'm in touch with the L.A. police department; as soon as I'm in trouble I'll be reinforced. My superior, Gore, knows my situation and he's sympathetic. They have a prowl car--at least one--floating around in the neighborhood, at all times. I just don't want an incident; I have a lady with me, and on her account I'd prefer to see no violence--as far as I personally am concerned, I couldn't care less. After all, it's my job."
"Where exactly are you?" Appleford asked.
"Oh no," Tinbane said. "I'd be nuts to tell you that."
Appleford acknowledged, "I suppose you would." He, too, pondered; his face was vague. "There's not much I can do, Joe. I don't make Library policy; that's up to the Erads. I can put in a good word for you, tomorrow when I run into Mrs. McGuire."
"Tomorrow," Tinbane said, "is too late. In my professional opinion, this is going to come to a head tonight." After all, virtually every L.A. police officer was tied up guarding Ray Roberts; this would be the ideal time for the Library to pick him off. There most decidedly was _not_ a prowl car cruising about overhead, nor would there be one; at least not until he had hold of Gore.