finger.
“Nowadays rationalism is the fashion, not the method, and superficiality is always one of the characteristic features of fashion,” Sciss said coldly, ignoring the writer’s sarcasm. “At the end of the nineteenth century it was universally believed that we knew almost everything there was to know about the material world, that there was nothing left to do, except keep our eyes open and establish priorities. The stars moved in accordance with calculations not very different from those needed to run a steam engine; the atoms too, and so forth. A perfect society was attainable, and it could be constructed bit by bit according to a clear-cut plan. In the exact sciences these naively optimistic theories were abandoned long ago, but they are still alive in the thought processes of everyday life. So-called common sense relies on programmed nonperception, concealment, or ridicule of everything that doesn’t fit into the conventional nineteenth century vision of a world that can be explained down to the last detail. Meanwhile, in actuality you can’t take a step without encountering some phenomenon that you cannot understand and will never understand without the use of statistics. And thus we have, for example, the famous
“Fine, fine. You’re right as usual. But what about the cemetery incidents?” Black asked gently. “I’ve heard you out and table tipping will never be a problem for me again, but unfortunately I can’t say the same thing about your resurrections.”
Gregory twisted around in his chair, delighted by the writer’s comments. He glanced eagerly at Sciss. The scientist, having calmed down a bit, was watching the other men with a slight, almost phony smile; the corners of his small mouth turned downward: as always when he was about to say something momentous, his expression combined helplessness with triumph.
“Not long ago McCatt showed me a new electronic computer that uses human language. When he plugged it in, the speaker gave a few grunts and started babbling incoherently. It sounded like a phonograph record being played at the wrong speed, but with a record you can sometimes recognize snatches of music or words; the sounds the computer produced were all gibberish. It took me completely by surprise — I still remember the experience vividly. Incidentals like that sometimes prevent you from seeing the whole picture. In the case of the mortuaries, the corpses are only accessories, shocking perhaps, but…”
“So you still maintain that according to your formula the thing has been solved,” said Black slowly, watching through drooping eyes as Sciss emphatically denied the statement with his head.
“Let me finish. My mass-statistical approach concentrates on the phenomenon as a whole. I admit that we still need an analysis of the individual instances, and a study of the processes which generate the actual movements of the dead bodies, but such a particularized, specific treatment of the problem is outside my field of competence.”
“Now I understand. You’re saying that your theory explains the movement of a large number of bodies taken as a group, but that we still don’t know what makes any particular corpse move?”
Sciss compressed his lips, then pouted again. He answered in a quiet voice, but a slight grimace testified to the feeling of contempt behind his words.
“Any event can be understood on two levels, and this is a fact that you won’t change by ridiculing me. According to statistics, let’s say, a gun is fired once every five days in a big city. But if you’re sitting next to a window and a bullet smashes the pane over your head, you don’t reason this way: ‘A shot has just been fired, there won’t be another for five more days, therefore I’m safe.’ Instead, you assume that someone is after you with a gun, maybe a madman, and that it’s a good idea to take cover under the table. I have just given you an example of the difference between a prediction based on mass-statistics and an individual reaction to a single event; the individual reaction is relatively subordinate to the mass-statistical calculation.”
“What do you think about all this?” Black asked, turning to Gregory.
“Me? I’m looking for a human criminal,” the lieutenant replied quietly.
“Is that so? Yes, of course… naturally, as a specialist in individual occurrences, you wouldn’t believe in a virus.”
“But I do believe in it. It’s a remarkable virus. And fortunately it has many identifiable traits. For example, it likes darkness and solitude, that’s why it only operates at night in godforsaken out-of-the-way holes. It avoids policemen like the plague — evidently because they have some special immunity. Furthermore, it likes dead animals, especially cats. And it has literary interests also, although it limits itself to weather forecasts.”
The writer listened to Gregory with increasing amusement. His face changed, taking on a cheerful expression, and he began speaking quickly.
“You could get a warrant to arrest almost anyone with that description, Inspector. Whoever throws rocks at the Earth, for instance. After all, meteors usually strike the Earth at night, they come down in solitary places where there are no people or policemen to see them — in fact, they almost always hit a little before daybreak, which shows how tricky they are, since night watchmen usually fall asleep just before dawn. If you asked Sciss about this, he’d tell you that the areas most frequently bombarded by meteors lie in a zone of retreating night and thus constitute the forepart of Earth during its cosmic voyage through space — and, since it is a well-known fact that more falling leaves hit the front window of a moving car than the rear window, we have an analogy… et cetera. But you have to find a perpetrator soon, don’t you?”
“Falling meteors and viruses acting up don’t interest me — I’m concerned about the real person behind all this; I may be unimaginative but he’s the only perpetrator I want. I’m not worried about whoever’s responsible for meteors and stars…” Gregory answered, his tone sharper than he intended.
The writer watched him for a moment. “Oh, you’ll get your man all right. I guarantee it. Besides… you already have him.”
“Really?” The lieutenant raised his eyebrows.
“It may be that you aren’t going after him the right way — maybe you haven’t collected enough evidence to put the finger on him yet — but that’s not the real point. A culprit who isn’t caught is a defeat for you — it means still another folder in the unsolved cases file. But a culprit who doesn’t exist, who never existed, that’s something completely different, worse than all your records burning up, worse even than confused language in your official reports, it’s the end of the world! For you the existence of the perpetrator of a crime has nothing to do with victory or defeat — it’s a matter of the sense or absurdity of your profession and your daily activities. And because catching him means peace of mind, salvation, and relief, you’ll get him by hook or by crook, you’ll get the bastard even if he doesn’t exist!”
“In other words, I have a persecution mania, I’m obsessed, I’m proceeding in spite of the facts?” said Gregory, closing his eyes. The conversation had gone on long enough — he was ready to end it even if he had to be arrogant.
“The reporters are all eager to talk to that constable who ran away from the mortuary,” said Black. “Are you? Do you expect much from his story?”
“No.”
“I knew it,” the writer said coldly. “If he recovers and says he saw a resurrection with his own eyes, you’ll think he imagined it, you’ll tell yourself that you can’t depend on the testimony of a man who has a serious brain concussion, and all the doctors will say the same thing. Or maybe you’ll say that your perpetrator was even more clever than you assumed — that the constable couldn’t see him because he used some kind of invisible nylon thread or covered himself with a black substance. For you, Inspector, only Barabbas exists; if you had been a witness at that famous scene, and heard a voice saying ‘Lazarus, arise!’ — you’d remain yourself, you wouldn’t change at all. By yourself I mean a victim of hallucination or illusion, or a clever fraud. I say that you will never, never give up the idea that there is a perpetrator because your existence depends on his!”
Although he had told himself not to let Black’s remarks affect him, Gregory could feel his face turning pale. He tried to smile but couldn’t.
“In other words, I’m the kind of policeman who was assigned to guard the Holy Sepulcher,” he said. “Or I’m like Paul — before his conversion. You’re not going to give me a single break, are you?”
“No!” said the writer. “But it’s not me. You yourself won’t. This isn’t a question of methodology or statistics or even of systematic investigation — it’s a matter of faith. You believe in a perpetrator because you have to. We need policemen like you, but we also need Holy Sepulchers.”
“I’ll go you one better,” said Gregory, laughing unnaturally. “You could say that I’m not even doing what I want to do, just acting out a role in a tragedy, or a tragicomedy. Or something, you tell me, since you’re so eager to
