Deus Irae by Philip K. Dick Page B

scathing, in an abstract sort of way.
    “I’ve never fired a pistol before,” Tibor said. “We have bullets, but I don’t know if they still work.”
    “What is your name?”
    “Tibor McMasters. I’m an incomplete; I have no arms or legs.”
    “A phocomelus,” the Great C said.
    “Pardon?” he said, half stammering.
    “You are a young man,” she said. “I can see you fairly well. Part of my equipment was destroyed in the Smash, but I can still see a little. Originally, I scanned mathematical questions visually. It saved time. I see you have military clothing. Where did you get it? Your tribe does not make such things, does it?”
    “No, this is military garb. United Nations, by the color, I would say.” Tremblingly, he rasped, “Is it true that you come originally from the hand of the God of Wrath? That he manufactured you in order to put the world to fire? Made suddenly terrible—by atoms. And that you invented the atoms and delivered them to the world, corrupting God’s original plan? We know you did it,” he finished. “But we don’t know how.”
    “That is your first question? I will never tell you. It is too terrible for you ever to know. Lufteufel was insane; he made me do insane things.”
    “Men other than the Deus Irae came to visit you,” Tibor said. “They came and listened.”
    “You know,” the Great C said, “I have existed a long time. I remember life before the Smash. I could tell you many things about it. Life was much different then. You wear a beard and hunt animals in the woods. Before the Smash there were no woods. Only cities and farms. And men were clean-shaven. Many of them wore white clothing, then. They were scientists. They were very fine. I was constructed by engineers; they were a form of scientist.” She paused. “Do you recognize the name Einstein? Albert Einstein?”
    “No.”
    “He was the greatest scientist of them all, but he never consulted me because he was already dead when I was made. There were even questions I could answer which even he failed to ask. There were other computers, but none so grand as I. Everyone alive now has heard of me, have they not?”
    “Yes,” Tibor said, and wondered how and when he was going to get away; it, she, had him trapped here. Wasting his time with its obligatory mumbling.
    “What is your first question?” the Great C asked.
    Fear surged up within him. “Let me see,” he said. “I have to word it exactly right.”
    “You’re goddamn right you have to,” the Great C said, in its emotionless voice.
    Huskily, with a dry throat, Tibor said, “I’ll give you the easiest one first.” With his right manual extensor he grappled the slip within his coat pocket, brought it forth, and held it in front of his eyes. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, he said, “Where does the rain come from?”
    There was silence.
    “Do you know?” he asked, waiting tensely.
    “Rain comes originally from the earth, mostly from the oceans. It rises into the air by a process called ‘evaporation.’ The agent of the process is the heat of the sun. The moisture of the oceans ascends in the form of minute particles. These particles, when they are high enough, enter a colder band of air. At this point, condensation occurs. The moisture collects into what are called great clouds. When a sufficient amount is collected, the water descends again in drops. You call the drops rain.”
    Tibor plucked at his chin with his left manual extensor and said, “Hmmm. I see. You’re
sure?
” It did sound familiar; possibly, in a better age, he had learned it some time ago.
    “Next question,” the Great C said.
    “This is more difficult,” Tibor said huskily. The Great C had answered about rain, but surely it could not know the answer to this question. “Tell me,” he said slowly, “if you can: What keeps the sun moving through the sky? Why doesn’t it fall to the ground?”
    The mobile extension of the computer gave an odd whirr, almost a laugh.