Head Physician. You know my views. Resurrection is no evil. The evil lies in the fact that out of two men fit for reanimation we can bring only one back to life. And that no one will make the choice for us… But we're wasting time. Let's go. I want to get this over with."
"I have to change. Will you wait?"
"No, I'll go myself. Come when you're ready. Which deck?"
"The third, in the middle section. I'll be there in five minutes."
They left together but got into different elevators. Gerbert touched the appropriate numbers and sped off in an oval, silver interior. When the egg-shaped vehicle came to a gentle stop, the curved wall opened in a spiral, like a camera iris. Facing him, in light that had no source, ran rows of concave doors with high thresholds, as on an old-fashioned ship. He found the door with the number 84 and a small nameplate: "R. P. Arago, D.A." While he was wondering—stupidly—what the "D.A." stood for (Doctor Angelicus? District Attorney?), the door parted.
He entered a spacious cabin lined on all sides with glass-covered shelves of books. On two opposite walls were paintings in bright frames, reaching from ceiling to floor. On the right was Cranach's Tree of Knowledge, with Adam, the snake, and Eve; on the left, the Temptation of Saint Anthony by Bosch. Before he got a good look at the monsters floating in the sky of the Temptation, the Cranach was sucked in behind a bookcase, leaving an opening in which Arago appeared, in a white frock. Before the painting returned to its place as a door behind the Dominican, the physician got a glimpse of a black cross on a field of white. They greeted each other with a handshake and sat down at a low table piled chaotically with papers, graphs, and a multitude of open volumes that had colored ribbon bookmarks. Arago's face was lean, dusky, with gray, piercing eyes beneath brows that were almost white. The frock seemed too big for him. With the sinewy hands of a pianist he held an ordinary wooden yardstick. Gerbert found himself running his eyes over the backs of the old books. He did not want to be the first to speak.
The questions that he expected did not come.
"Dr. Gerbert, I am not your equal in knowledge. I can, however, converse with you in the language of Aesculapius. I was a psychiatrist before I chose this garb. The Head Physician made accessible to me the data concerning the … procedure. It speaks for itself. Due to the incompatibility of the blood groups, of the tissues, two people are at stake, but only one can be awakened."
"Not awakened," Gerbert said, almost against his will—because the monk had avoided the more direct words: "resurrected from the dead." The Dominican caught this at once.
"Distinctions important to me, of course, you cannot take into account. Any dispute on eschatology would be pointless. Someone like me, in my position, would say that true death means disintegration when irreversible changes have taken place in the body. And that we have seven such on the ship. I know that their remains must be disturbed and understand the necessity, though I am not permitted to sanction it. From you, Doctor, and from your friend—who will be here any moment—I would like an answer to one question only. You can refuse, of course."
"Go ahead," said Gerbert, feeling a shiver.
"You must have guessed. It concerns the criteria for the selection."
"Davis will say the same thing. We possess no objective criteria. And you, too, having seen the data, know this … Father Arago."
"I do. The calculation of the chances is beyond human ability. The medicoms, performing their x billion operations, give two out of the nine men a ninety-nine-percent chance, with a deviation within the bounds of theoretical error. For either alternative. There are no objective criteria, and for that very reason I take the liberty of asking you what yours will be."
"There are two matters before us," replied Gerbert with a kind of relief. "As physicians, along with the
"I have to change. Will you wait?"
"No, I'll go myself. Come when you're ready. Which deck?"
"The third, in the middle section. I'll be there in five minutes."
They left together but got into different elevators. Gerbert touched the appropriate numbers and sped off in an oval, silver interior. When the egg-shaped vehicle came to a gentle stop, the curved wall opened in a spiral, like a camera iris. Facing him, in light that had no source, ran rows of concave doors with high thresholds, as on an old-fashioned ship. He found the door with the number 84 and a small nameplate: "R. P. Arago, D.A." While he was wondering—stupidly—what the "D.A." stood for (Doctor Angelicus? District Attorney?), the door parted.
He entered a spacious cabin lined on all sides with glass-covered shelves of books. On two opposite walls were paintings in bright frames, reaching from ceiling to floor. On the right was Cranach's Tree of Knowledge, with Adam, the snake, and Eve; on the left, the Temptation of Saint Anthony by Bosch. Before he got a good look at the monsters floating in the sky of the Temptation, the Cranach was sucked in behind a bookcase, leaving an opening in which Arago appeared, in a white frock. Before the painting returned to its place as a door behind the Dominican, the physician got a glimpse of a black cross on a field of white. They greeted each other with a handshake and sat down at a low table piled chaotically with papers, graphs, and a multitude of open volumes that had colored ribbon bookmarks. Arago's face was lean, dusky, with gray, piercing eyes beneath brows that were almost white. The frock seemed too big for him. With the sinewy hands of a pianist he held an ordinary wooden yardstick. Gerbert found himself running his eyes over the backs of the old books. He did not want to be the first to speak.
The questions that he expected did not come.
"Dr. Gerbert, I am not your equal in knowledge. I can, however, converse with you in the language of Aesculapius. I was a psychiatrist before I chose this garb. The Head Physician made accessible to me the data concerning the … procedure. It speaks for itself. Due to the incompatibility of the blood groups, of the tissues, two people are at stake, but only one can be awakened."
"Not awakened," Gerbert said, almost against his will—because the monk had avoided the more direct words: "resurrected from the dead." The Dominican caught this at once.
"Distinctions important to me, of course, you cannot take into account. Any dispute on eschatology would be pointless. Someone like me, in my position, would say that true death means disintegration when irreversible changes have taken place in the body. And that we have seven such on the ship. I know that their remains must be disturbed and understand the necessity, though I am not permitted to sanction it. From you, Doctor, and from your friend—who will be here any moment—I would like an answer to one question only. You can refuse, of course."
"Go ahead," said Gerbert, feeling a shiver.
"You must have guessed. It concerns the criteria for the selection."
"Davis will say the same thing. We possess no objective criteria. And you, too, having seen the data, know this … Father Arago."
"I do. The calculation of the chances is beyond human ability. The medicoms, performing their x billion operations, give two out of the nine men a ninety-nine-percent chance, with a deviation within the bounds of theoretical error. For either alternative. There are no objective criteria, and for that very reason I take the liberty of asking you what yours will be."
"There are two matters before us," replied Gerbert with a kind of relief. "As physicians, along with the
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