The Outpost (17 page)

“Certainly,” he replied instantly. “To disprove it, one need merely show that not everything has a first cause.”

“Okay, you
can
disprove it,” I said, realizing that I had expressed myself improperly. “Now
will
you?”

“If you wish. Consider the set of all negative integers. The
last
cause, the highest number, is minus one. The next-to-last cause is minus two. And the first cause, minus infinity, cannot exist.”

“Excellent!” I exclaimed. But suddenly I was filled with doubt. “Could it be that that’s just a fluke?” I asked. “A single disproof to a theory that’s lasted thousands of years?”

“You want more, I got more,” replied TAM. “Consider next the set of all proper fractions. The last cause, the highest number, is one over one. The second highest is one over two, or one-half. Then one-third, and so on. And the first cause, one over infinity, cannot exist.”

“Thank you, TAM,” I said.

“That was almost too easy,” said TAM. “Ask me a tough one.”

“Well, the other proof of God that still seems to have widespread acceptance is Bishop Barkley’s—that of the unseen observer. Can you disprove it?”

This time it took TAM three nanoseconds to answer.

“No, but I can show you how trivial it is.”

“Trivial? In what way?”

“Wait until I access my rhyming dictionary,” said TAM. “Ah, here it is. All right: I can condense everything Bishop Barkley said, every argument he made, every word of his entire life’s work, into a single four-line stanza, to wit:

With
eyes
wide open and mouth shut tight,

I watch by day and I watch
by night.

And thought I’m sure you must find it odd,

I’m
always here
—
you may call me God.

I submit to you than anything that can be reduced to such a childish doggerel cannot possibly have any universal import or validity. Furthermore,” he added, “it kind of makes God into a Peeping Tom. Who wants to worship a Supreme Voyeur?”

“If you say so.”

“I just did,” answered TAM.

Well, the years passed by, and I thirsted for more knowledge, and finally I reached the point where I sought the Ultimate Answer to Existence.

The problem was, TAM didn’t have enough brainpower to handle the question. Oh, he could compute the diameter of an electron in half a nanosecond, and he was able to pinpoint the date of the Big Bang to within 17 minutes … but what I wanted to know was simply beyond him.

I knew the only way to get my answers was to increase TAM’s capacity by a multiple of thousands, maybe tens of thousands. And that would require money—more than I could earn in several lifetimes.

Still, I knew that if I
could
make TAM bright enough to answer my question, the entire galaxy would benefit. So one day I robbed the biggest bank on our planet. The plan was foolproof, of course: TAM, who was as eager to increase his intellect as I was, had come up with it. I must confess that even as I was filling my bags with loot, I was silently appealing for understanding to Morixomete, the God of Heinous Deeds Committed for Noble Purposes. I’m sure He heard and forgave me, and I was really sorry about the sixteen innocent bystanders.

I spent every credit on more intelligence for TAM, and when he was ready, I hit him with The Question.

“Are you ready?” I said.

“Roger!”

“Okay, here it comes,” I said. I paused just a moment for effect and then hit him with it: “
Why
?”

Usually TAM came up with an answer in less than a second. The really tough questions took him perhaps half a minute. But this time he thought and cogitated and considered, and after eleven minutes he finally gave me his answer:

“Why not?”

That was when I realized there wasn’t enough money on my planet to supply him with the intellect he needed to answer the Ultimate Question, so I came out to the Frontier and became a notorious outlaw, though no one knew that I was killing and raping and robbing and plundering for the noblest of causes.

After sixteen years I felt I’d accumulated enough money, and I poured every credit of it into TAM’s prodigious brain. By the time I was done, he was probably three times as smart as the Master Computer back on Deluros VIII.

I activated him, and asked the Ultimate Question again:

“
Why
?”

This time he began whirring and blinking in earnest—and he kept it up for three days and three nights, considering every possible answer, every alternative, every subtle nuance to the secret of creation. And finally came the moment that we’d both spent our whole lives leading up to—the Ultimate Answer:

“Because.”

“That’s
it
?” I said, surprised.

“That’s it,” replied TAM.

That’s when I realized that the Ultimate Question would remain unanswered for all eternity.

“Thanks,” I muttered unhappily.

“Any time,” replied TAM.

So I made a total break with my past, left TAM behind, and returned to the Frontier, this time to stay. The only question I ask these days is “Where’s the bar?”

I still like big-breasted women, though.

“So does TAM still exist?” asked O’Grady.

“Yes. Why?”

“Maybe he can’t answer the Ultimate Question, but I’ll bet he could dope out the odds on next week’s games.”

“Well, I think it’s noble that Argyle spent so long trying to find out the secret of existence,” said Sinderella. “Except for all the people he killed, that is.”

“It’s a chump’s game,” said Max. “The only thing we were put here for is to make lots of little replicas of ourselves before we totter off to the grave.”

“Then it’s damned lucky the Beldorians made it so much fun, isn’t it?” put in Nicodemus Mayflower.

“Well, I disagree,” said Big Red. “I think each of us has his own purpose. If you were to ask Magic Abdul-Jordan whether he wanted to sire a bunch of eighteen-foot-high children, I think he’d tell you that he’d rather shoot himself right now rather than lay a curse like that on his offspring.”

“Right,” chimed in Little Mike Picasso. “Reproducing the species is all well and good, but to what purpose? I’d rather create one work of lasting art than ten kids who go out and live dull, every day, unexceptional lives.”

“Nobody who comes to the Outpost is unexceptional,” said the Bard. “So why should you think their offspring will be?”

“You’ve heard of shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations?” replied Three-Gun Max. “Well, how about unexceptional to unexceptional in two generations? I don’t recall any of our parents ever traipsing out here to the Frontier and making the kind of reputations we’ve got. We’re a bunch of freaks. Great and heroic freaks to be sure, but freaks nonetheless.”

But Nicodemus Mayflower wasn’t buying it. “Are you telling me that, say, Einstein and Sinderella couldn’t produce a kid with his brains and her looks?”

“I’d say it’s a damned sight more likely that they’d produce one with
her
brains and
his
looks,” answered Max.

“Well, I like that!” snapped Sinderella, glaring at him.

“No insult intended,” continued Max. “But let’s be reasonable. Was there any reason to predict anyone in this tavern would turn out the way we did? Was your mother the sexiest woman in a whole sector of the galaxy? Do you suppose Catastrophe Baker’s father could wipe out entire regiments before going off to bed a sacrosanct high priestess? Did Little Mike have five brothers and sisters who could produce works of art that would pass for the great masters? I say we’re all unique, and I can’t see what’s wrong with that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” answered the Bard. “But it does tend to cast some serious doubt upon the entire science of genetics.”

“Big deal,” said Max. “Have you ever seen a gene?”

“I haven’t seen a supernova, either,” said the Bard. “But I have it on excellent authority that they exist.”

“Just keep arguing with me,” said Max pugnaciously, “and I won’t let you put me in your book.”

“Keep saying stupid things and I won’t want to.”

“Write me out of that book and I’ll blow your head off!” bellowed Max, who seemed to have less use for logic than most men.

“Blow my head off and the book will never get finished,” shot back the Bard.

“I hadn’t considered that,” said Max grumpily. “Okay, you can live.” He paused. “What were we talking about?”

“The cosmic verities and the meaning of life,” said Nicodemus Mayflower. “Stuff like that.”

“Only we decided that no one could ever know the answers,” added Little Mike Picasso.

“Someone knows,” said Catastrophe Baker, who’d been silent for a long time. (Well, for him, anyway.)

Argyle shook his head. “Even TAM didn’t know.”

Baker shook his head. “TAM was wrong. There’s one man who knows the secrets of the universe and the purpose of life.”

“And you just happen to know who it is, right?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Catastrophe Baker and the Mage of the Swirling Mists

I ain’t much of a philosopher (said Baker). Universal truths haven’t got all that much to do with the hero business. I mean, when you see a dyed-in-the-wool villain doing villain-type things, you don’t stop and wonder if society’s to blame, or whether his punishment should fit his crimes. No, you blow the son of a bitch away and worry about it later.

So I didn’t really have much initial interest in meeting up with the Mage of the Swirling Mists. The fact that people trusted him with their secrets and their hopes and their dreams didn’t mean a thing to me.

What I
was
interested in was the Star of Bethlehem, surely the most gorgeous blue-skinned girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. She was some kind of mutant, what with her blue skin and orange eyes, but other than that she could have been Sinderella’s better-looking twin sister, meaning no offense.

I first saw her out on Futzi Minoulli IV. She was just coming out of a hotel there, and it was love at first sight—at least on my part. I doubt that she even saw me at all. But that didn’t make no nevermind. My heart was pounding away in my chest, and my throat was getting dry, and my palms were starting to sweat, and I knew from previous experience that all of these were the symptoms of falling into eternal and undying love.

I hung around the hotel lobby for a couple of hours until she returned so I could declare my feelings and sweep her off her feet and maybe into the honeymoon suite—but when she finally came back it was in the company of a big, burly man wearing a turban and a robe with a bunch of stars and quarter-moons and stuff on it.

I walked right up and gave her one of my more chivalrous bows.

“Ma’am,” I said, “I been admiring you from afar, and the time has come to announce my everlasting devotion and start admiring you from close up.”

“Leave us alone!” said the man gruffly, pushing me on the shoulder, which was about as high up as he could reach.

I busted his ribs and knocked out nine of his teeth as a gentle reproof, but when I turned back to my blue-skinned ideal of pure womanhood she’d already made it onto the airlift. Now, the hotel had some fifteen hundred rooms, and I was perfectly willing to bust down the door of each and every one of ’em in search of her, but then it occurred to me that there might be a less strenuous way, so I moseyed over to where the guy with the turban had fallen after I bounced him off the far wall, and I squatted down next to him.

“Howdy, neighbor,” I said.

He took one look at me, uttered a shriek of terror, and curled up into a little ball.

“C’mon, friend,” I said, kind of forcefully straightening him out and trying not to pay no attention to all the creaking and cracking sounds. “I didn’t mean you no harm. I just happen to resent being pushed by little bitty guys with turbans—and besides, you were standing betwixt me and that which I want most in all the galaxy.”

“What I want most is a doctor!” he muttered.

“I never noticed it before, but you got a serious lisp there, friend,” I said.

“I didn’t have it until you knocked out all my teeth!” he shot back. (Actually, he
spat
back, but I didn’t hold it against him none, since he didn’t have anything in the front of his mouth to act as a barrier to all that saliva.)

“You do me a serious injustice,” I said, prying his jaws open. “You got lots of teeth left—hell, I can see at least a dozen from here, counting molars—and if you want to keep ’em, you’ll start answering my questions.”

He whimpered a bit at that, but didn’t enter into no arguments.

“That blue-skinned lady you was with,” I said. “By what name does she go?”

“She is the Star of Bethlehem,” he said.

“What is Bethlehem—some kind of a play or movie?” I asked, hoping against hope that it might even be a strip show.

“That’s her name!” he wailed. “Now let me go!”

“Real soon,” I said. “I ain’t a lot more comfortable sitting here on your chest like this than you are. But if I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with this lady, I gotta know a little more about her. Like, for starters, where does she work?”

“She and I both work on the same planet!” he said, and then he passed out, probably more from fear and shortage of air than anything more major.