Body of Glass (52 page)

“Hello, Josh. I’m pleased to see you,” she said cautiously.

“I doubt that,” he said. He nodded at Yod. “You should have instructed it to do a better job of killing me.”

“We still intend to proceed on assault charges,” the male attendant of Krupp announced. We want the cyborg delivered to us for justice.”

“Justice has nothing to do with the matter,” Malkah said. “Every female fights for her young. And will kill for her young. We’re still a part of nature, no matter how we’ve destroyed the world.”

“It is very simple,” the male attendant said. “If you do not turn over the cyborg, we will send assassins into your Base every week. We will make sure you cannot keep your Base active. You’ll have to put all your effort into defending, rebuilding. The Base is vital to your economy, I believe?”

Malkah smiled broadly. “What an excellent test for our defences. We couldn’t hire a better advertisement.”

Avram looked directly at Krupp. He did not bother addressing the mouthpiece. “Do you expect us to believe that if Yod is turned over to you, you won’t attempt to wipe us out? That’s unbelievable.”

“Not when you consider the cost of assassins,” Dr Vogt said. We want the cyborg. Once we have possession of it, we’re satisfied. You’re of no further interest to us and not worth the expense of tying you up further.”

“Cyborg,” Dr Yatsuko said in his deep commanding voice ― possibly augmented with resonances designed to impress? You are programmed to attack and defend, are you not?”

“I’m not programmed to answer questions I don’t choose to answer,” Yod said.

“Any machine can be reprogrammed,” Dr Yatsuko said. “But wouldn’t you rather be the progenitor of a race? You can be a leader among your own kind, in an army of cyborgs.”

“Your proposition is that we should turn the cyborg over to you — Yod in whom I’ve invested twenty years, the life of my worthy assistant, every bit of credit I could co-opt. Much of the surplus of Tikva is tied up in Yod. He’s the climax of my life’s research.”

Roger Krupp made a slight gesture with his left hand. Immediately Dr Upman said, “We’re authorized to offer a reasonable payment to your town. Are you prepared to negotiate in good faith?”

The female assistant spoke to Shira. “I’m sure you’re delighted to find that the robot did not kill your husband. We’re prepared to reunite you in full possession of a Status Eighteen. All the prerogatives of that rank for yourself, for your son. What other facility can offer such an education as a Status Eighteen receives from Y-S?”

“Come back, Shira. I should never have taken Ari from you. But I miss him.” The voice issuing from Josh quavered with feeling.

She found her eyes brimming tears, but of course crying was merely symbolic here. Her guilt was certainly being roused. He could not forgive her. That was not humanly possible.

“I miss you. Let’s try again. Let’s heal our wounds. Your work in Tikva is finished. At Y-S we can both work to full capacity.”

A strange icy feeling invaded her. “Our past history does mean a lot to me. Do you remember how your parents died, Josh?” First Riva was dead and then not dead. Next Josh was dead and now not dead. Resurrection was growing commonplace.

He blinked with surprise, a trait she remembered. No, she must be mistaken. “They died of botacellic plague.”

Shira sat back, and the welter of confused emotions subsided. This was not Josh. The answer the impersonator had given was what Josh always put down on personnel and official forms. In fact his parents had been killed in fighting in the Jewish quarter of Munich, to which so many Russian Jews and ex-Israelis had fled. If this were Josh, he would guess her intent and answer with some allusion to the truth.

“It’s the best thing for your son, Shira,” the female assistant said. “By far the best thing.”

“If you’ve produced this imitation of my dead husband for any purpose other than amusement, I can’t guess what it is.”

“Mrs Rogovin.” Dr Upman addressed her. “You’re obviously the handler of the cyborg. You have operated with it twice that we know of, once at the meet near Cybernaut, once by successfully penetrating our Nebraska compound. Although you didn’t program it, you handle it alone. Of course we want you. You’ve demonstrated unique abilities. Don’t you want to go on handling the cyborg under our direction? We’ll soon have not one but hundreds.”

“I’m utterly opposed to trafficking in people, and Yod is a person, albeit not a human person,” Malkah said. Whatever you bring to the attack against us, we can defend. We may also be able to engage some assistance, since other customers do use our wares.”

“I’m sure you can defend,” Dr Vogt said soothingly, “but think of the time and energy it will drain from your profitable work. You’ll bleed to death, slowly but quite steadily.”

Dr Yatsuko shook a huge finger at Malkah. “You’re growing senile. Any intelligent machine has a mind but no consciousness. You speak like a child who thinks the house is alive.”

“I have as much consciousness as you do,” Yod said. “Enough to know that is not the man I killed. If I were in the room with someone who tried to kill me, I would have feelings, reactions. He has none. He’s a fake.”

There was a little silence after Yod’s statement, as if they were so startled they could not produce a response. Malkah spoke quickly into the vacuum. Yod is a person. Persons cannot be sold. If you want him, you must hire him away of his own volition.”

“Machines do not have volition, Dr Shipman ― surely you have not entirely taken leave of your senses,” Dr Vogt said. “They have programming that defines goals. Since they are compelled to pursue those programmed ends, they may appear wilful, but we are dealing with the same projection of affect my little boy was guilty of when he used to say a chair hit him.”

Avram stood. “I believe we have reached the end of useful discussion.”

“Sit down,” Krupp bellowed, the first time he had spoken. “I will say when the meeting has ended. Do you accept our offer, or shall we commence our program of incursions into your Base?”

Avram remained standing but did not move towards the door. “We are not authorized to deal for Tikva. Only the Town Council can do that. You must send through the Net a precise offer, and we will present it. The Council will decide. Only they can do so. You haven’t made a concrete offer yet.”

“This cyborg is the property of the town?”

Avram wavered. Finally he simply nodded.

“He is not the property of anyone,” Malkah insisted. “But he’s a citizen of the town.”

“The town has as a matter of fact not yet ruled on that point,” Avram said. “If you send through the precise terms, I shall be glad to present them to the Council Monday night, when the whole matter of Yod’s status is on the agenda as item number one of a full town meeting.”

“One of those places that votes: how quaint,” Krupp said. Now he rose. He could not tolerate anyone standing over him. All of his party promptly jerked to their feet. “I don’t care if you consult the entrails of chickens to reach a decision. I want your answer by nine a.m. next Tuesday, three October. Otherwise we will launch our attack.”

They filed out one at a time, the Josh imitation last. He glared at Shira and at Yod and then scuttled after the others. Was he a creation of machine intelligence? Was he an actor skilled at projection of foreign personae? Seeing Josh even artificially had hit her hard. She could not yet respond to what had happened, but she would have time to think about it. She would have the rest of today and Monday until nineteen-thirty to fret and brood and make plans.

After they had unplugged, Yod went home with Malkah and her. They walked down the street, bright with sun mellowed by the wrap, the bustle of a Sunday morning in Tikva: the voices of children playing in the next street, the sound of a cello being practised, Danny the carpenter walking his dog, someone hammering. Yod said, “I’m going to write a speech to deliver tomorrow night. Will you both help me? We must persuade the Council to free me from Avram’s control. I suspect time is running out for me. Running out fast.”

forty-five

Malkah

This is the season we must forgive others and ask them to pardon us. I went to Yod this morning, and I asked him to forgive me for having taken part in his formation; more than ever, I have been thinking what overweening ambition and pride are involved in our creating of conscious life we plan to use and control, when we cannot even fully use our own minds and we blunder and thrash about vainly in our own lives. No life is for us but for itself.

Unlike a human, Yod is not apt to pretend he does not understand what you are saying when it is inconvenient or uncomfortable to understand. He has a kind of dignity all his own. He said, “What you gave me is the good part of my existence. But you must forgive me, too, as I try to find my own way out of the untenable position of being Avram’s wholly owned monster.”

Lying in bed now, weak with hunger, I must finish my story for Yod. I cannot work today, and I promised him.

That spring, dear Yod, the Maharal has a dream of Yom Kippur. He wakens that May morning in a grey chill just before dawn with a sense of foreboding, breaking from a vivid and monitory dream. In the dream he noticed a light burning in the middle of the night in the Altneushul. Who was in there? A servant of Thaddeus planting of evidence of imaginary wrongdoing? A thief about to make off with the fine silver candlesticks or the silver incense shovel? He let himself in and crept down the aisle. Under the eternal flame a being in blinding white robes was writing on a long parchment. The angel of death, Moloch ha maves; Judah recognized him at once. In the dream he realized it was the night before Yom Kippur. The angel was writing the names of those who were to die in the next year. Quietly Judah crept forward and then like a panther he leapt and ripped the parchment from the angel.

The angel smiled and opened his hand, showing him the stub of the list still clutched where Judah had torn it off. There remained only his name. Silently the angel of death offered him the stub of parchment in exchange for the return of the list, all those from his flock the angel had chosen to die in the next year. Judah paused only a moment. Then he tore up the list and ate it a piece at a time. It was bitter in his mouth and burned. The angel regarded him steadfastly and gestured to him to come forward. He turned from the angel and woke in his bed at dawn.

These days Judah sleeps little, but still he finds it hard to pry his sore bones from his bed in the morning. He feels his mind still keen and whetted, but he could be fooling himself. His intelligence could be easing into foolishness without his being aware. He could be making errors he can no longer comprehend. He can never be sure when Joseph might turn into a huge walking mistake, the strongest thing in human shape in the world with the understanding of perhaps a six year old child. The Maharal shakes his head. If he himself dies in his sleep tonight, Joseph will live on.

How long? A hundred years? Two hundred? Five hundred? What could kill a golem? Joseph has been stabbed, shot, attacked by ten men at a time. He bled his thick black blood and then he healed within the hour. If Judah dies this day, will Joseph continue meekly to obey whatever rabbi replaces him? Once he expected that rabbi to be his son, dead now before him. Death slipped into his son’s life in an instant. Judah is convinced that the dream means he will die following Yom Kippur. About five months he can count on to put his affairs in order; no more. The Talmud teaches that the dream follows its interpretation: as he believes the meaning to be, so shall it be.

The Maharal fasts that day, locking himself away from Perl’s protests. He must think. The Emperor has finally moved against Thaddeus. Rudolf hates confrontation, particularly in Prague itself, in his face. He has discovered that Thaddeus is planning a move against the Protestants. Now the Jews are useful to Rudolf, but the Protestants are vital. They are a majority of the country and include many nobles. Stirring them up is not something the Emperor is prepared to countenance. The Emperor put four high noblemen to work on the diplomatic dealing and now Thaddeus is being recalled to Rome. A few extreme Protestant preachers are arrested on various charges and disappear. Peace is restored. A more accommodating Dominican is promised to His Majesty.

As a consequence, the Maharal feels the dangerous time is passing. He still prays to understand whether creating Joseph is right or wrong, misguided pride or skill well used in the service of his people. The longer Joseph remains in the world, the more likely that the Maharal will come to regret his creation. He is a tired old man. His age has caught up with him at last.

What should he do? Should he entrust Joseph to someone else in the ghetto? He has no idea who will succeed him as chief rabbi. After all, the powerful men of the community passed over him for most of his life in favour of candidates with whom they felt more comfortable, rabbis who did not denounce their pride and power, who would defer to them in all truly important matters. Since he can not control his own successor, how can he entrust an unknown with a power as great as Joseph’s?

That night he returns to his bedroom and lies sleepless beside his wife. At dawn, when Perl wakes, she immediately begins berating him on his fast, and he promises her today he will eat. Unlike himself these creaky days, she still rises quickly. She goes from sleep to waking without an intermediate state of drowsiness. Five minutes after waking, she is on her way downstairs to see about his breakfast. She moves slowly, short of breath always, but she will trust this task to no one else.

At breakfast, Chava has a book propped behind her plate. Pesach is over. They eat hot gruel and a warm crusty loaf of rye with sour cherry jam put up last summer. She is reading a new treatise on astronomy that David Gans has lent her. David is always trying to interest Chava in the stars, but she prefers his geography and travel books. “I wish I had more mathematics,” she mumbles. “Kepler is doing all sorts of new things I can’t follow.”

“An abacus can do anything you need,” Perl says. “I’ve kept the books for years for our household and for the synagogue, for the poor relief, for the burial society. I keep everybody’s books. An abacus is all anyone needs to manage numbers.”

Chava nods politely, but her eyes never leave her book. What Judah particularly notices is that Joseph’s eyes stay on her, hoping she will look back at him. Chava is unaware of the Golem’s stare, struggling with the text, frowning. She likes to talk to David, and so she wants to master something he considers important, even though she finds it remote from her own intellectual passions. The Golem watches her without selfconsciousness, openly, expectantly. Judah does not like that expectation, not at all.

He sends a message to Yakov, busy these days on Maisl’s business, and one to Itzak, Chava’s father. He asks them to meet him that night after evening services at the Altneushul.

Yakov is obviously a little impatient. Itzak is simply tired. They both look at Judah with What Now expressions. Danger? Finances?

“Let’s hear the bad news.” Yakov asks, always the more impetuous. “The Emperor is levying yet another fine?”

The Maharal sighs. “We’ll raise the money he demands, somehow. I suspect we shall go along in peace a while now, with only the usual troubles.”

“If you need to raise money for repairs or the school, you’d go straight to my father-in-law, not to us,” Yakov says.

“Yakov ha-Levi ben Sassoon, what a mouth you have on you,” Itzak says. We’re all tired. Let’s sit down and put our feet up and hear our master.”

“The matter,” the Maharal says, “is Joseph.”

“Joseph.” Yakov scratches his head. “Is it true what they say, that he and Chava are talking marriage?”

“Wha?” Itzak is hearing this rumour for the first time and his mouth drops. He frowns, rising from the chair he has just taken.

“Pure silliness,” Judah says. “You of all men should know how little interest my granddaughter has in any man and in any marriage. She knows what Joseph is.”

“I never told her,” Itzak says quickly, defensively. “I never even hinted about it in her presence.”

“None of us told her. No one needed to. Joseph told her, not by his words but by his actions, what he is to the discerning eye.”

“I am relieved,” Yakov says gently. “It was a frightful idea.”

“You’re relieved? Nobody even dared tell me such… such dreck, excuse me. I’m angry enough to boil water on my head. How dare people talk about my daughter this way? Not a breath of scandal has ever touched her, ever.”

“This is irrelevant except to the larger question of Joseph. I created him in a time of danger. He has carried out his mission. I am coming to believe that it is time to return him to clay.”

“Agreed,” Itzak nods vehemently. “He is too strong and too stupid for his strength. He’s a danger to us all. You’re an old man ― may you live for a thousand years in good health, Maharal, but ―”

“But I won’t. Soon I’ll die. Who then will control Joseph?”

Yakov pulls on his beard. “It’s like the death of a man, Maharal. I like the big guy. He’s brave. So he shouldn’t marry Chava or anybody else. How can a golem marry? He can’t procreate. He isn’t human, but he thinks, he feels. He saved us. We all know it.”

“Do we?” Itzak pulls straight up in his chair. “I know you did as much to save us as Joseph and so did Bad Yefes the Gambler who is now Good Yefes of blessed memory. So did the Maharal by rousing us to resist. So did everyone who fought or built barricades or carried stones for the barricades. We all saved each other.”

“Joseph fought harder. He’s stronger. He was a real hero. Even a dog or a horse, people can be grateful when they save a life. Why not put him out to pasture, let him live out his life like a good old horse?”

“Because a horse can’t pull down the ghetto, but Joseph can.” The Maharal would like to sit but remains upright. He stands tall before the two men like a teacher before a small class.

“Why should he do that? He’s big and strong and not too smart, but he doesn’t go around looking for trouble.”

“Remember the watchmen, please. There have been other needless killings. Including a woman you don’t know about. And I control him. Can you?” The Maharal brings his face close to Yakov’s.

Yakov frowns for a moment. “No, Maharal. I can’t. I think he likes me, but you’re the only one he adores.”

“I made him. I must unmake him. But I will not destroy him. I will leave him intact. If anyone comes in future who has the mastery of the forces of life, they can wake him if the times are truly needful.”

“When do you want to do this thing?” Itzak asks.

“Tomorrow, please wash and purify yourselves and prepare, as you did for the creation. We meet here after evening services.”

As the Maharal leaves his little room, Joseph is just putting out the lamps, the hundreds of candles. Joseph looks at the three of them with open curiosity. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

The Maharal shakes his head. “Close up and come home now. Tomorrow after services, we have some work to do here.”

All day Judah spends preparing for his task. Mostly he stays alone in his study, but occasionally he looks out the window and sees Joseph hauling water or chopping wood or carrying a chest downstairs for a widow who is selling it to a dealer in secondhand furniture. Each time it is as if a hand is laid on Judah’s heart. So he used to feel when he had to punish his son. Twice Joseph feels his gaze and stops, gazing at the Rabbi’s window. Apprehension seems to tweak at him, for he hesitates and shakes his head as a dog will to dislodge some biting insect tormenting his ear. Judah puts the regret aside and considers instead the widow and her poverty, what can be done for her. She should not have to sell off her last stick of furniture to live. With Joseph, Judah must do what he must do.

Judah fasts that day. First Perl stops by to berate him, then Chava and lastly Joseph come by. “No,” he says to Joseph’s query, “I am not too ill to go to shul tonight. I’ll see you there.”

Joseph has a premonition that the Maharal is displeased with him; he has been waiting for a chance to speak to Chava, but every time he plans to catch her alone, the Maharal appears. Joseph wonders if Judah has guessed his desire. Chava is on call waiting for Barucha the seamstress to go into labour. Joseph hopes it happens tonight, so he can accompany her. Those are always good times for them to speak. In the meantime he has an urge to wander. He has never gone off on his own. Now he imagines leaving the ghetto and crossing the Karlmost not on the Rabbi’s business, but only because he wants to.

As soon as he passes out of the gates, set wide for the day’s traffic, a sudden uneasiness comes over him. He finds himself shuffling along like an old man. He feels weak. He has never before experienced weakness. By the time he has reached the midpoint of the bridge, by a tortured saint’s statue, he can barely push through the thick spongy air. Everything seems dim and foggy. Voices come from a distance, as if he stood in a deep well. With great effort, he turns and shambles back. At once he can move more freely. When he has passed through the gates of the ghetto, he is once again strong, vigorous. Joseph does not understand what has just happened to him, and he does not dare ask the Rabbi, who has always told him not to go anywhere unless he is told to go. Joseph feels downcast and afraid. If his strength leaves him, what will he have?

After services, once again Yakov and Itzak follow the Maharal into his study. The door opens, and Joseph plods in. He stops in surprise upon seeing the three men. The Maharal motions to the men to rise. “Joseph, we have a task to perform upstairs in the attic.”

“The attic?” Joseph follows them, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. He cleans and sweeps the synagogue, yet he has never been upstairs. When prayer books ― siddurs ― become too old and decrepit to use, they are stored up there. Torahs are buried like people, but the siddurs have some intermediate status. They cannot be discarded, for it seems too disrespectful, but they are not Torah. Therefore they fill the attic.

They climb the steep flight of steps, carrying lanterns and candles. Mice skitter away from them. The doves who roost in the eaves stir and mutter. The Maharal has taken a Torah scroll and carries it cradled in its velvet clothes upstairs.