'Well, yes, of course, said.Tennyson. 'There are the robots.
'Dammit, I'm not talking about the robots. They are nonbiological, certainly. Manufactured nonbiological. But there is natural life, or what seems to be life, that is nonbiological as well. There is a cloud of dust and gas out in the Orion region, or what on Earth would be designated as the Orion region. A small speck of dust and gas. From here even the largest telescope would fail to pick it up. A welter of magnetic fields, high gas density, massive ionization, heavy drifts of cosmic dust. And there's something alive in there. Perhaps the gas and dust itself. Or maybe something else. But whatever it is, it's alive. You can feel the pulse of life, the rhythm of living — and it talks. Maybe talks is not the right word. Communicates would be the better term. It can be heard, or sensed, but it can't be understood. There is no way to know what it is saying. The life forms within it may be talking back and forth or all of them may be talking to themselves…
'But what has this got to do with afterlife?
'Did I say it had something to do with afterlife? Tennyson said, 'No, I guess you didn't.
At times, Tennyson prowled the countryside, following faint trails, trudging along narrow, green valleys, climbing steep hillsides, with lunch and a bottle of wine in his knapsack, a canteen over his shoulder. Always the mountains were in view, looming over him, blue and purple, majestic and always fascinating, with shadows drifting along their spurs, the sunlight glinting off the icy peaks. He spent long hours sitting atop the rugged hills, staring at the mountains, never seeing quite enough of them, the mystery and the wonder of them persisting no matter how long he might look at them.
Then, turning back toward Vatican, he'd finally find one of the few roads, little more than a broader trail, to lead him home. He'd trudge along it happily, his feet raising little puffs of dust, the warmth of the sun upon his back, the peace of the mountain on his mind. And a few days later, he would go out again, perhaps in a different direction this time, to prowl up and down the land while the mountains watched.
One afternoon, heading back toward Vatican along one of the narrow roads, he heard something approaching from behind. Looking back, he saw a beat-up surface vehicle, with a man sitting at its wheel. Tennyson was surprised, for this was the first time on any of his hikes that he had seen another person, let alone a car. He stepped well out of the road to give it room to pass, but it did not pass. When the car drew up to him, it stopped and the man said to him, 'Are you so dedicated to your walking that you would refuse a lift?
The man had an honest, open face, with searching blue eyes.
'I would appreciate a lift, said Tennyson.
'I take it, said the man as Tennyson climbed into the seat beside him, 'that you are the new doctor over at Vatican. Tennyson, isn't it?
'That's right. And you?
'I'm Decker. Thomas Decker, at your service, sir.
'I've been roaming around out here off and on for several weeks, said Tennyson. 'You're the first man I've seen in all my rambles.
'And the only one you are likely to see, said Decker. 'All the rest of them stick close to home and fireside. They have no curiosity or appreciation for what lies all about them. They look at the mountains every day of their lives and all they see are mountains. You see more than mountains, don't you, Doctor?
'A great deal more, said Tennyson.
'How about seeing even more? I'm in a mood, if you wish, to conduct a guided tour.
'You have a customer, said Tennyson.
'Well, then, the battery's up, said Decker, 'and we have hours of operation. First, let us see the farms.
'The farms?
'Yes, of course, the farms. You eat bread, do you not? And meat and milk and eggs?
'Certainly I do.
'Where, then, did you think it all came from, other than from farms?
'I suppose I never thought about it.
'These robots think of everything, said Decker. 'They must feed their humans, so some of them are farmers. Electricity is needed, so they built a dam and set up a power facility. Some solar power as well, but they've not pushed the solar power. However, they have the capability and can expand it any time it's needed. They also have a sawmill, but it runs only part-time, for now there's no great demand for lumber. Some centuries ago, when the building was going on, there was a great need of it. He chuckled. 'You can't beat the robots for efficiency. They use a primitive steam engine to operate the sawmill, using slabs and sawdust produced by the mill to drive the engine.
'They're a self-sufficient community, said Tennyson.
'They have to be. Out here they are on their own. There's no such thing as imports, except for small items they may need from time to time. The small items Wayfarer hauls in for them. The freight costs a pretty penny. The robots keep pace with the economy's demand by keeping the demands small and simple. If you don't need much, you don't need much cash, and the robots have very little cash. What they gouge out of the pilgrims just about keeps them going. They have a small woods crew that does nothing all the year around but cut logs for the fireplaces that are used by everyone. A steady demand, a steady supply, perfectly balanced. They have it figured out. They have a grist mill to grind their wheat and other grains into flour. Again, a steady demand and a steady supply, with a reserve stashed away against a bad year, although so far, I understand, there has never been a bad year. All primitive as hell, but it works and that's what counts.
They now were driving along a somewhat better road than the one from which Decker had picked up Tennyson, cut into level farming country. Acres of ripening grain stood blowing in the wind.
'Soon they'll be harvesting, said Decker. 'Even Vatican people will drop all their sanctified duties and go out into the fields to bring in the crops. Cardinals with their red and purple robes tucked up to guard them against being stained by dust. Brown-clad monks bobbing along, being useful for the only time in the year. They use cradles to cut and gather the grain, swarming about the field like so many ants. They've rigged up a threshing machine that works rather well, and it runs for weeks to get all the threshing done. Another steam engine to operate the thresher. For it they haul in and stack cords of wood well ahead of time.
Interspersed among the grain fields were pastures, lush with grass, roamed by cattle, horses, sheep and goats. Hog pens held thousands of grunting porkers. Hordes of chickens roamed a fenced-in hilly section.
Decker jerked his thumb toward the horizon. 'Fields of maize, he said, 'to fatten up the hogs. And that small field ahead of us is buckwheat. I told you; they think of everything. Back in the hills, they have an apiary with hundreds of stands of bees. Somewhere around here — yes, we're coming up on it now. See it? Cane, Sorghum cane. Sorghum for the buckwheat cakes you'll be eating later on.
'It takes me back to my home planet, Tennyson said. 'Ours was a farming planet. Solidly based on agriculture.
They came on orchards — apples, pears, apricots, peaches and other kinds of fruit.
'A cherry orchard, said Decker, jerking his thumb again. 'Cherries ripen early. All the crop's been picked.
You're right, said Tennyson. The robots have thought of everything.
Decker grunted. 'They've had a long time to think of it. Almost a thousand years — perhaps a little longer, I don't know. Wouldn't have needed any of this if they hadn't needed humans. But they needed humans. Your robot is a silly sort of chap; he has to have his humans. I don't know when the first humans were brought in. My impression is a century, or less, after the robots got their start.
The sun was close to setting when they turned back.
'I'm glad you showed it to me, said Tennyson. 'I had no idea.
'How you getting along at Vatican? asked Decker.