"We are aware of the two other criteria," Mali interrupted. "Unlimited power and unlimited knowledge."
"Then you've read my pamphlet," the robot said.
"Christ," Mali said with withering disdain.
"You mention Christ," the robot said. "He is an interesting deity because he has only limited power; he has only partial knowledge; and he could die. He fulfills none of the criteria."
"Then how did Christianity come into being?" Joe said.
"It came into being," the robot said, "because this is what Christ did: he worried about other people. ‘Worry' is the true translation of the Greek agape and the Latin caritas. Christ stands empty handed; he can save no one, not even himself. And yet, by his concern, his esteem, for others, he transcends—"
"Just give us the pamphlet," Mali said wearily. "We'll read it in our spare time. As of now, we're going under the water. Get our diving gear ready, as Mr. Fernwright asked."
"There is a somewhat similar deity," the robot said, "on Beta twelve. This deity learned how to die whenever another creature on his planet died. He could not die in place of them, but he could die with them. And then, as each new creature was born, he was restored. So he has endured countless deaths and rebirths. As compared with Christ, who died only once. This, too, is dealt with in my pamphlet. Everything is in my pamphlet."
"Then you're a Kalend," Joe said.
The robot eyed him. Long and carefully. And silently.
"And your pamphlet," Joe said, "is the Book of the Kalends."
"Not exactly," the robot said, at last.
"Meaning what?" Mali demanded sharply.
"Meaning that I have based my various pamphlets on the Book of the Kalends."
"Why?" Joe said.
The robot hesitated and then said, "I hope to be a freelance writer someday."
"Get our gear," Mali said, with overwhelming weariness. An odd, random thought entered Joe's mind. Possibly it had emerged because of the discussion about Christ.
"'Worry,' "he said aloud, echoing the robot's term. "I think I know what you mean. A strange thing happened to me, once, back on Earth. A very small thing. I got down a cup from the cupboard, a cup I hardly ever used. In it I found a spider, a dead spider; it had died because there was nothing for it to eat. Obviously it had fallen into the cup and couldn't get out. But here's the point. It had woven a web, at the bottom of the cup. As good a web as it could weave under the circumstances. When I found it—saw it dead in the cup, with its meager, hopeless web—I thought, It never had a chance. No flies would ever have come along, even if it had waited forever. It waited until it died. It tried to make the best of the circumstances, but it was hopeless. I always wondered, Did it know it was hopeless? Did it weave the web knowing it was no use?"
"Little tragedy of life," the robot said. "Billions of them, unnoticed, every day. Except that God notices, at least according to my pamphlet."
"But I see what you mean," Joe said. "About worry. Concern; that's closer to it. I felt it concerned me. It did concern me. Caritas. Or in the Greek—" He could not remember the word.
"Can we go below, now?" Mali asked.
"Yes," Joe said. Obviously she did not understand. But, oddly, the robot did. Strange, Joe thought. Why does it understand when she doesn't? Maybe caritas is a factor of intelligence, he reflected. Maybe we've always been wrong: caritas is not a feeling but a high form of cerebral activity, an ability to perceive something in the environment—to notice and, as the robot had put it, to worry. Cognition, he realized; that's what it is. It isn't a case of feeling versus thinking: cognition is cognition.
Aloud he said, "Can I have a copy of your pamphlet?"
"Ten cents, please," the robot said, holding out the pamphlet.
Joe fished out a cardboard dime and handed it to the robot. To Mali he said, "Now let's go below."
11
The robot touched a switch; a wall locker opened its sliding door and Joe saw, within, complete sets of diving gear: oxygen masks, pedal flippers, plastic skinsuits, waterproof light sources, weights, pry bars, crossbows, oxygen and helium tanks—everything. Including many assorted items of equipment which he could not identify.
"In view of your lack of experience in deep-sea diving," the robot said, "I would suggest you descend by spherical prolepsis chamber. But, if you want to suit up—" It shrugged. "I have no control over that; the decision is yours."
"I've had sufficient experience," Mali said briskly. She began bringing equipment out of the locker; presently she had a formidable heap stacked neatly before her. "Get out what I got out," she instructed Joe. "Put the segments of the suit on in the order I'm putting them on, and in the same way."
They suited up and then, led by Willis, they made their way to the staging chamber proper.
"Some time," the robot said as it unscrewed the great plug-valve in the floor of the chamber, "I intend to write a pamphlet on deep-sea diving. There is a basic assumption that the chthonic world is in the ground—you find this in every religion. But in actuality it's in the ocean. The ocean—" It dragged the huge plug away. "—is the actual primordial world, out of which every living thing came a billion years ago. On your planet, Mr. Fernwright, this error is found in many religions—for instance, the Greek goddess Demeter and her daughter Kore—they come up from the earth."
Mali said to Joe, "There is attached to your belt an emergency device in case of failure in the oxygen circuit of your rig. If you lose your air, if the conduit loosens or bursts or the tanks run dry, activate the hypo plunger of the belt unit." She pointed to the one mounted on her own belt. "It swiftly drops metabolic processes so that your need for oxygen is minimal; little enough so that you can easily float to the surface before you suffer any brain damage or experience any other lasting physiological effect from the curtailed oxygen supply. When you float to the surface you will of course be unconscious, but your mask is designed to let in air automatically; it will respond to the altered condition, the presence of outside air. And then I'll be up to steer you back here."
"'I must be gone,' "Joe quoted, trying to remember how it went. " ‘There is a grave where daffodil and lily wave.'"
The robot said, " ‘And I would please the hapless faun, buried under the sleepy ground.' A favorite of mine. Yeats, I believe. Do you think, Mr. Sir, that you are descending into a grave? That what stands before you is death? That to descend is to die? Answer in twenty-five words or less."
"I know what the Kalend told me," Joe said somberly. "What I find in Heldscalla will cause me to kill Glimmung. So it is into death that I'm going; maybe not my death, but someone else's. To permanently halt the raising of Heldscalla." Grimly, the words flowed within his mind, always at the surface. Always available. They would not sink out of sight for a long, long time. Perhaps, he thought, never. The stigma is upon me and I will carry it the rest of my life.
"I will give you a lucky charm," the robot said; again it rummaged within its chest pocket. It presently brought out a tiny packet, which it handed to Joe. "A token which represents the purity and sublimity of Amalita. A symbol, so to speak."
"And it'll ward off evil influences?" Joe asked.
The robot said, "You must say, ‘Willis, will it ward—‘
"Willis," Joe said, "will this charm help us down there?"
After a pause the robot said, "No."
"Then why did you give it to him?" Mali asked caustically. "To—" The robot hesitated. "Never mind." It seemed, then, to retract into itself; it became silent. Distantly inert.