manuscript of it, or did you already turn it over to the Erad Council? I know that it never passed through my hands; I’d remember such fulsome platitudes as he used to cast before the swine.”
“I have four printed copies left,” Appleford said, calculating and remembering. “So it hasn’t reached the typescript stage, yet. And I’ve been told by one of my staff that several more book-forms of it are somewhere in circulation, probably in private libraries.”
“So to some extent it still circulates. It’s still theoretically possible for someone to come across it.”
“If they were lucky, yes. But four copies is not much, considering that at one time more than fifty thousand hardbound and three hundred thousand softbound copies were in circulation.”
Mavis said, “Have you read it?”
“I—glanced through it, briefly. It’s powerful, I think. And original. I don’t agree with you about ‘fulsome platitudes.’”
“When the Anarch is reborn,” Mavis said, “he will probably attempt to resume his religious career. If he can avoid assassination. And I have a feeling that he’s shrewd; there was a worldly, practical underpinning to his
God In a Box
— he didn’t have his head in the clouds. And he will have the benefit of his experience beyond the grave. I think he’ll remember it, compared with most old-borns; or anyhow he’ll
claim
he remembers it.” Her tone was scathingly cynical. “The Council is not too pleased at the idea of the Anarch resuming his career of religion-mongering; they’re quite skeptical. Just as we manage to erad the last copies of
God In a Box
he shows up again to write some more . . . and we have a feeling that his future work will be worse, more radical, more destructive.”
“Yes, I see,” Appleford said thoughtfully. “Having been dead he’ll be in a position to claim authentic visions of the hereafter; that he talked with God, saw the Day of Judgment—the usual material the old-born bring back . . . but his will have authority; people will listen.” He contemplated Ray Roberts, then, in that connection. “I know that you and the Council dislike Roberts,” he said. “But if you’re worried about the doctrines the Anarch will bring back—”
“Your logic is clear,” Mavis McGuire said. She pondered. “All right, then; we’ll keep after the Hermes woman until we have the name of the cemetery, and if we can get it we’ll turn it over to Roberts. At least—” She hesitated. “I’ll recommend that to the Council; the decision will be theirs, of course. And if his body has been taken from the cemetery we’ll concentrate on her husband’s vitarium.”
“It could be done legally,” Appleford said; he always took a stand in favor of moderation. “The Anarch can be bought, aboveboard, from the vitarium, by the bid.” He did not, of course, mention his connection with Anthony Giacometti; that was not the Library’s affair. Tony is going to have to work fast, he said to himself; once the Council of Erads moves in, things will progress rapidly. He wondered if the principal whom Giacometti represented could—or would— outbid the Library. An interesting thought: a showdown between the Erads and the most powerful religious syndicate in Europe.
Mavis McGuire rang off, and Appleford seated himself with the evening ’pape . . . to read, he discovered, about Ray Roberts’ pilg; that seemed to be all there was. Elaborate police precautions, all the rest; he felt bored, and he went into the kitchen to imbibe a trifle of sogum.
While he busied himself the vidphone rang again. He gave up on the sogum, plodded back to answer the ring.
It proved to be Mavis McGuire again. “An Erad is now with Mrs. Hermes,” Mavis said. “They’ll question her; it’s taken care of. It’s their theory that the vitarium probably took a calculated risk and dug up the Anarch, to avoid any chance of losing him; he’s too valuable commercially to lose. So it’s their
“I have four printed copies left,” Appleford said, calculating and remembering. “So it hasn’t reached the typescript stage, yet. And I’ve been told by one of my staff that several more book-forms of it are somewhere in circulation, probably in private libraries.”
“So to some extent it still circulates. It’s still theoretically possible for someone to come across it.”
“If they were lucky, yes. But four copies is not much, considering that at one time more than fifty thousand hardbound and three hundred thousand softbound copies were in circulation.”
Mavis said, “Have you read it?”
“I—glanced through it, briefly. It’s powerful, I think. And original. I don’t agree with you about ‘fulsome platitudes.’”
“When the Anarch is reborn,” Mavis said, “he will probably attempt to resume his religious career. If he can avoid assassination. And I have a feeling that he’s shrewd; there was a worldly, practical underpinning to his
God In a Box
— he didn’t have his head in the clouds. And he will have the benefit of his experience beyond the grave. I think he’ll remember it, compared with most old-borns; or anyhow he’ll
claim
he remembers it.” Her tone was scathingly cynical. “The Council is not too pleased at the idea of the Anarch resuming his career of religion-mongering; they’re quite skeptical. Just as we manage to erad the last copies of
God In a Box
he shows up again to write some more . . . and we have a feeling that his future work will be worse, more radical, more destructive.”
“Yes, I see,” Appleford said thoughtfully. “Having been dead he’ll be in a position to claim authentic visions of the hereafter; that he talked with God, saw the Day of Judgment—the usual material the old-born bring back . . . but his will have authority; people will listen.” He contemplated Ray Roberts, then, in that connection. “I know that you and the Council dislike Roberts,” he said. “But if you’re worried about the doctrines the Anarch will bring back—”
“Your logic is clear,” Mavis McGuire said. She pondered. “All right, then; we’ll keep after the Hermes woman until we have the name of the cemetery, and if we can get it we’ll turn it over to Roberts. At least—” She hesitated. “I’ll recommend that to the Council; the decision will be theirs, of course. And if his body has been taken from the cemetery we’ll concentrate on her husband’s vitarium.”
“It could be done legally,” Appleford said; he always took a stand in favor of moderation. “The Anarch can be bought, aboveboard, from the vitarium, by the bid.” He did not, of course, mention his connection with Anthony Giacometti; that was not the Library’s affair. Tony is going to have to work fast, he said to himself; once the Council of Erads moves in, things will progress rapidly. He wondered if the principal whom Giacometti represented could—or would— outbid the Library. An interesting thought: a showdown between the Erads and the most powerful religious syndicate in Europe.
Mavis McGuire rang off, and Appleford seated himself with the evening ’pape . . . to read, he discovered, about Ray Roberts’ pilg; that seemed to be all there was. Elaborate police precautions, all the rest; he felt bored, and he went into the kitchen to imbibe a trifle of sogum.
While he busied himself the vidphone rang again. He gave up on the sogum, plodded back to answer the ring.
It proved to be Mavis McGuire again. “An Erad is now with Mrs. Hermes,” Mavis said. “They’ll question her; it’s taken care of. It’s their theory that the vitarium probably took a calculated risk and dug up the Anarch, to avoid any chance of losing him; he’s too valuable commercially to lose. So it’s their
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